Heaven

I remember stepping out the back door, onto the stone slabs, and just being overwhelmed. The sky, a heatbreakingly gorgeous blue, spotted with cotton clouds here and there. The greens of the grass, the pines on the perimeter of the property, even the rusted red shingles of the neglected wood shed - these colors jump out at me, alive. And as the result of some miracle of God, the air I walk through is that perfect temperature to almost be unnoticeable; there ain't a drop of humidity in it.

The sun's strong though not overpowering; its rays give pleasant warmth but not sweat. I meander about the side of the cabin, unconcerned about walking barefoot through the brush. A car or a van maybe drive past on the single-lane rural route a hundred yards away; I don't know, I'm not paying attention. I'm in the process of trying to grasp something ... important, something that needs to be apprehended.

I find myself on the front lawn, a small twenty by forty plot (small compared to the three acres behind the house), stroll under the shade of the old hickory that sits square in front of the screened-in porch. There's real beauty here, I now know. Beauty that I had never experienced before in all these lean years. Thinking of it, now, summoning all these transcendent memories, these sensations, I almost choke up.

The truck sits cold on the tar driveway, proud and clean, shining the most perfect of summer shines. It's expression lies somewhere between contentment and a hint of smug; a fat tomcat lazing in the sun. It hauled me up here safe and without incident, two hundred twenty-nine miles. I have absolutely no doubt it will get me back home at the end of the week.

Folding my hands up over my eyes to shield them from the bright day-light, I scan the rows of trees past the street. I almost hear the brook I know unfolds just beyond them, the water bubbling over the rocks, fish darting through the stream leaving a wave and a plop in its wake. A solitary bird flies God knows how many feet above the earth: a large, lazy ellipse that takes ages to complete.

I inhale deeply this cool, clean air, taking great lungfuls of purity in to myself. The breath of God. Inspire - breath; inspiration. I feel lighter than I had in a long time; I no longer have the desire for drink or smoke. Suddenly I realize my life up to this point was pointless, wasted. I knew I have to change; no! Rather, I knew I have to be changed. And I am a stone's throw away from taking that step -

This will be my favorite memory, I decide right there and then. It will always be. Like the batter in the movie Field of Dreams - "Is this heaven?" That I can't say; probably nothing in our experience is that heaven. But this spot on earth, at this exact time in the history of the universe, well, this is as close to heaven that I have ever experienced.

No drug, no sexual escapade, no thrill sport, not even being lauded on a stage by hundreds of people - simply nothing compares to this deep sense of serenity that comes upon me. To be honest, I came up here by myself for a week of heavy solitary drinking. So the fact these currents rush through my veins at light speed - no, forgive me, that is a false analogy. There are no currents flowing through my body. I am utterly motionless, and it's the universe that vibrates around me. Much better analogy, that.

I don't know how long I stand outside that day. It may only be ten minutes or so. It could be a couple of lifetimes, in a manner of speaking it is certainly two, in that one life immediately receives its death sentence. And the infinite sadness a part of me feels walking back in to the house - some small, atom-sized part of me no doubt the seat of my universe-sized soul, that part weeps when I enter in through the front door.

Something important happens to me that day. I'm in the crosshairs of forces much powerful than I had ever experienced - indeed, more than most experience most of their lives.

Too new-agey in my descriptions, you say with condemnation? I must agree; my words are making myself itch. All right, how about in these terms. God hears my prayers, especially those I had not yet made, and comes down to upstate Montana in August 1989. He walks up the dirt paths on the other side of Pontiac Mountain, comes to an opening in the tree line, walks up and looks down the hill, across those three acres, on to my sister's summer house. And He brings me out, and comes down and spends a few minutes with me, though I am too blind to see Him. We sit awhile, we may even have a lengthy conversation. There's probably no ultimate commandments given to me; no, I'm not that important in the grand scheme of things. But He most likely whispers a word in my ear, and now I spend my remaining years trying to remember what it was that He, in His complete goodness, says to me, His gift to me.