House of Spirits (Part IV) Heart of the Matter & What the eyes can't See.

The Heart of the Matter

“Peter, you can’t spend the rest of your life being angry with God and venting on society. You have a calling that’s never been revoked, and you still have a chance to fulfill your purpose.”
     I felt the rage coming on and raised my voice, “I don’t believe you!” Then slapped the table and exploded, “You’re just another drunk working an angle! But, if you were legit, and if I did believe you, I would say, “Forget the calling! Look where it got me!”
       I looked around the room and saw people were staring, even the bartender looked on while holding a drying cloth and shaking his head. I quickly considered my options, of which there were only two. Either I could walk away from the delusional misfit, or sit back down and continue the game of cat and mouse.
      I figured the night was shot, and there was nowhere I had to be, nor anyone to go home to, so I decided to continue with the cat and mouse and see how far he was willing to take it. I mean, how often you meet someone that was present at creation.

What the eyes can’t see.

 I sat back down and asked, “Are the drinks still on you?”  To which he responded, “Bartender!”  When the drinks were poured he continued, “Peter, this is a world where evil is present and active. It’s a place where bad things happen to good people and God gets blamed.”
      My mind begin to drift and I remembered in the book of Job, Gods integrity was called into question, and thought it quite a contrast that while Job defended himself, this man was sitting in a bar making a case for God. It was disarming and though I did not believe he was a celestial being, I no longer thought he was out to get anything from me.   
    I suddenly had a hunch that he may have been hooked up in a group that done bar room ministry, so I asked, “Methuselah, where do you attend church?”
 He didn’t miss a beat when he responded, “It depends on where I’m at the time. Last week I was with those who gather in China’s underground network. Before that I was in Iraq, hanging out in a house church. I go where I’m sent and pour myself out to the one in need, then move on to the next assignment. That’s why I’m called a ministering spirit. And, since you inquired, tonight I’m ministering to The Body of Christ, as we speak.”
     He raised one eyebrow, then leaned his chair back on two legs and crossed his arms. It felt as if we were sitting in a court room and I had just been called on to testify against myself. Though he did not say a word, there was some innate impression that told me what he was thinking.
     So, I dropped my head and said, “I’ve not been in a while. A very long while. In fact, I even wonder if God….well, I just wonder.”
       “I know—that’s why I’ve come.”
And just like that, he penetrated my exterior and broke through a defense mechanism that had been holding people at bay for years.
   “I still don’t believe you’re and angel, but I’m sure your intentions are good.”
    “Peter, you know what they say about the road to hell?”
  “Yes. I’ve heard it’s paved with good intentions.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
     “So, you think I’ve come to take you to hell?”
   “No, I just think you are a well-intentioned self-proclaimed street minister. I’m sure you have helped lots of people, but my story reads a little different. It’s not your typical church narrative.”
   “It may be more typical than you think.  Just look around the room.”
      “What?”
    “ Look around the room and tell me what you see.”
     “Is this some kind of exercise?”
     “Trust me. Look around the room and tell me what you see.”
I thought he was taking the cat and mouse thing a little far and wondered if it was time to bid my new acquaintance good night, but to appease him, I looked up and around the room.
     “Peter, you’re looking, but not seeing. Give it another shot, only this time, take it a little slower and pay attention to the details.”
     “What do you mean?”
   “Ever heard of Bob Timberlake?”
     “The artist?”
   “That’s right. And how about Norman Rockwell?”
     “What is this? What are you getting at?”
    “Details, Peter. Artist give attention to detail. Go ahead, try it. Look around again, see if
     you notice any of the details.”
I was growing frustrated with the back and forth, but conceded and reluctantly lifted my head and looked around the room.
     There was a man at the bar looking all business—dressed nice, sporting a button down collar and wearing a neck tie. He was sitting alone drinking from a long neck and watching a football game.
     There was a lady at the end of the bar smoking a cigarette and sipping whatever was in her glass, while looking into a smartphone.
    On the dance floor two couples were swaying to the music as The Juke box belted out the old Temptations classic, I Wish It Would Rain.
     Then I noticed a man and woman sitting at a table. They were obviously into each other’s company. He was leading the conversation while she laughed and occasionally leaned into him, running her hand up and down his arm.
     It was getting late, which explains why most of the regulars had already left. Those who remained were content until the place closed for the night. After which, some would move on to the Waffle House, or some other eating joint, while the rest retreated to the lonely corridors of an isolated existence.   
     After giving the patrons a second once over, I looked to Methuselah and asked, “Okay, was that good enough for you?”
     “It was better. Now let me show you what I see.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Take my hand and let me show you.”
     “Huh?”
      “Come on, reach under the table and take my hand.”
      “Uh, no. Don’t think so. I’m good and I think I’ve already seen plenty.”
 I placed my hands on the table to slide my chair back and excuse myself when Methuselah placed his left hand over my right said, “Please Peter, let me show you something.”
     I looked into the old man’s eyes and saw a look that could only be described as genuine concern. I felt the warmth of his touch and instinctively withdrew my hand.
     “Come on, let me show you a few more details.”
   On any other occasion, I would never have engaged in such a conversation. Especially for the length of time I had already invested in a man I did not know, not to mention coming back, after having walked out once, but Methuselah had magnetism.
     “Give me a chance, and if you’re not convinced, then you can leave. If you chose to do so, we’ll probably never see each other again, and you can move on with your life.” 
     I could not believe what I was doing as I placed my right hand back on the table. The old man smiled and placed his hand over mine and said, take a deep breath and hold it, then close your eyes.  I inhaled deeply as I closed both eyes. Then, Methuselah leaned forward and whispered, “Now exhale and open your eyes, but do not pull your hand away from mine and please don’t be afraid.”
    And with that, I exhaled then opened my eyes and was not prepared for the things I saw. When I gasped, and recoiled he responded with a firm grip and soft voice, “It’s okay, don’t be afraid. Nothing here is going to hurt you.”
     I saw shadow like figures—dark spiritual beings—levitating and drifting around the room. It was like something out of a horror movie, or John Hartness Novella, but only worse, because it was real.  When the spirits realized I was aware of their presence, they began to snarl, sigh and hiss.
      Methuselah leaned toward me and asked, “Are you okay?”
   I trembled, and grew sick to my stomach, then tried to withdraw my hand, but he held a firm grasp. I began to stutter, “Wha, wha, what is this? What am I seeing?
  “You’re looking into the spiritual realm. It’s another dimension.”
     “I thought you were going to say that.”
   “Peter, these are only a very few of those who rebelled and were cast out of Heaven.”
      “Were you there, did you see the rebellion?”
   “Yes, I watched as Lucifer deceived and manipulated a third of The Angelic Host.”
Looking around the room it felt like something out of the Twilight Zone. I was seeing, but not wanting to believe; hearing, but finding it hard to understand. And, unlike the Hartness novella’s I knew there would be no Bubba to save the day. The bartender shouted, “Last call for alcohol!” That meant it was 1:30 am and the bar would close in half an hour.  
     Methuselah said, “Brace yourself, what you’re about to see may be a bit unsettling.”

(House of Spirits Part III)

Second Chances

     It was only a short walk back and as I approached the Bar I heard the jukebox and recognized an old Bob Segar tune—Against the Wind. I closed my eyes and listened to the opening lines, “Seems like yesterday, but it was long ago……..” The song tells a story and that night it was speaking to my own narrative. Because it seemed like only yesterday, when I was happy and fulfilled; living with a sense of purpose. But, as the lyrics read, “It was long ago.” I felt the emotion welling up from somewhere deep and opened my eyes. Tears ran down both cheeks.
     Time had not healed the wound. The pain was just as real, and just as present, as it was on the day we laid them in the ground. The same day I retreated into a cave of disconnection, questioning everything I once believed and thought was true. Simply put, I was disappointed with God and no longer wanted to be around his people.
     Standing in front of the bar, on the corner of Elm and Main, I looked to a blue neon sign that read, House of Spirits, and walked through the door. A quick survey of the room revealed a few people had left, while others had come in. Two couples were on the dance floor swaying to the music, and Methuselah was still sitting at the same table in the corner; as if, he knew I would return.   
     When he looked my direction, a smile broke across face as he gestured an invitation with another wave of his hand. I hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what I was getting into, but fully aware this night, and our meeting had nothing to do with coincidence.
     Walking toward his table I noticed he had traded whiskey for what appeared to be water, which explained the second thing—he did not seem as boisterous.  As I pulled out a chair and sat down he said, “I’m glad you came back Peter. Sometimes I get a little belligerent. If I offended you, I apologize.”
     I responded, “It’s okay, but I’m a little surprised you’re still here.”
“The place doesn’t close until two. I was prepared to stay until then, but tell me, what brought you back?”
    “Something you said.”
“Which was?”
“That thing about story. You said everybody has one.”
     “That’s right, everyone does, and before you can know, or even attempt understand someone, you’ve got to read a few chapters from their life. There’s a reason people are the way they are. Some of it has to do with environmental grooming and some of it has to do with the hard wiring of DNA. Then, there’s individual choice that affects the quality of one’s life, and at times, the choices others make.”
    His response left me a little confused and wondering how the drunk had suddenly become an intellectual. Then I came a thought that triggered a question.
     “So, you said you’ve been around for a long time. I’m curious, how do the early chapters of your own story read?” You seem to have read a few chapters from my life, let’s hear a little of yours.”
  Like two poker players siting at a table, we held our cards close and looked into each other’s eyes. The momentary silence led me to believe I had called his bluff. I thought I had him on the ropes as he reached for his glass and turned it up. But then he sat it back on the table, nodded his head and said, “Fair enough.”
     “I have already told you, I’m not a stalker, or a scam. I did not come seeking you out in hopes of getting anything. I have come to help you find something.”
     I responded “Uh, it’s your life we’re talking about now.”
     “ I get it, but to prep you for what’s coming you need to understand that I’m here for your benefit, not mine, and what I am about to share is going to rock your world.”
     “Try me.”
          “Peter, I have no earthly father, or mother.”
      “So, you’re a figment of my imagination?”
          “No.”
        “You were artificially inseminated?”
            “No.”
          “You’ve escaped from Area 13 and the government is secretly looking for you?
            “No, I’m not a weird alien on the run.”
 I was growing frustrated because I thought he had something to share, but it seemed like, the more he talked the less he had to say. I was disappointed and starting to believe he was either half cracked, or else on something—beginning to wonder from which institution he had escaped.
     “I’m neither crazy, nor missing in action from any institution.”
 And just like that I was the one on the ropes. It was like he was reading my mind.
     “How did you do that?”
        “If you would let me finish….”
I had heard enough and was ready to leave again, but before I could push my chair back from the table he dropped the bomb, “Peter, I was present at the dawning of creation.”
     “What?”
       “Yes, and I listened as He spoke the words, ‘Let there be light’, and watched the stars explode into existence. I saw Him set the furnace of the Sun on fire, and place the moon in orbit. I was there when He scooped out the valleys and pulled up the mountains; and on the sixth day, when Elohim said, “Let us make man in Our Image,” I looked on as He reached into the dust of the earth and fashioned man in the likeness of Himself, then watched Him breath into that man the breath of life, and saw Adam become a living soul.”
    I looked into his eyes and he reciprocated with a piercing focus that penetrated the very core of my being and brought an awareness unlike anything I had ever experienced. Discernment informed me he was not inebriated, nor was he making vain gestures.
      It was a diatribe that paralyzed my thought process. I sat there speechless, as he leaned a little closer and whispered, “I told you I’ve been around for a while. Do you get what I’m saying, or do I need to spell it out a little more?”
     “Uh, uh…well, uh, wha, wha, what are you saying?”
         “I’m not of this world.”
    “Then you’re—?”
        “What does theology suggest?”
    “Forget theology. Psychology says you’re delusional.”
       “But, what is your heart telling you?”
  “Are you trying to tell me you’re an angel?”
        “Yes, that’s exactly what I telling you and as you know, we’re also called ministering spirits.”
   I wanted to believe he was just another drunk drinking his blues away, or some schizophrenic off his meds. However, the feeling in my gut, and the cold chills running down my arms informed me he was neither, so I leaned forward and whispered, “Suppose, just for a minute, that I believed you.”
    “Yes?”   
      “I would have to ask a question.”
He responded, “Sure. Ask me anything.”
       “Where have you been and what has taken Him so long!”
“Peter, the timing was not up to me. But, that’s not the only question you have.”
      I felt the anger begin to rise because he was right. I did have another question. In fact, I had been haunted by a question ever since I awoke in a hospital room to learn my wife and child were both dead. I had begged God for an answer, but one never came.
      Methuselah looked me in the eye and said, “You want to know why.”
    “Yes! I want to know why God forsook me and my family! I want to know why I was left and they were taken! We had given all we had and in the end, it meant nothing!”

(House of Spirits Part II)

Faded Memories

 Walking out of the bar, his words, "Everyone has a story..." echoed in my head and resonated with my heart and as much as I wanted to write the old guy off, had to agree, the last few chapters of my life had been a complete disaster. It was too painful to think about, much less discuss with a Barfly.
   I had left my car in a small parking lot a couple blocks off Elm Street, by the trainstation, near an old Barber Shop my father and I frequented when I was a still in single digits. The walk was giving me a chance to unwind from the previous scene, and time to process things. When I approached the Barber Shop I stopped and took a moment.
  I had not been there in years, so I stepped up to the window, pressed both hands against the glass, and leaned forward to look inside. The shop was lit by a small light mounted over a mirror that hung behind two Barber Chairs. When I looked through the window, a flood gate opened as I remembered walking into that same shop every other Saturday with my dad.
     I recalled climbing up into the chair and the sound of the Barber’s cutting cape popping in the air. I was always intrigued with how in one fluid motion, he could wrap it around my upper body as it fell across my lap and remembered the tickling sensation on the back of my neck when he clipped it together.
     I saw the chairs that lined the wall and from my mind’s eye could see my father sitting and reading from the latest issue of sports illustrated. I could smell the fragrance of different hair tonics from the Barber’s stash.  I heard the chatter of men talking about the weather and other things that didn’t matter, such as politics and small town gossip. My father was the local minister of a small country church, so the conversation was G rated, for the most part. Life was simple then and the memories left me longing for the innocence of youth again.
     But, the nostalgia quickly faded, with a haunting reality of yesterday being gone while the complications of my life were grew more difficult. And with that realization I heard the echo of Methuselah’s words, “Everyone has a story,” and understood the Barber Shop represented something more significant than a haircut. It was a rite of passage—written into the early chapters of my life. It was my dad’s way of bringing me into the fellowship of men.
     After the haircuts were finished and the gossip had run its course, my father and I would leave the shop and stop by Guilford Dairy for a Banana Split. He called it a “Sneaky,” and informed me I was to never tell my mother. It was his way of taking the ordinary and making it special. Creating memories that have lasted a life time.
     I had looked forward to a time when I would return the favor by doing the same kind of things with my own son, but that was no longer a possibility.  And with that understanding I stepped back from the window, and looked to the parking lot where I had left my car, then tuned my head toward bar, where I had left Methuselah and knew I had to go back and hoped he was still there.

House of Spirits

(Introduction)

Methuselah

 “I’m serving a life sentence with no chance of parole,” said the man next me. We were sitting at a bar with an empty stool between us. I was hesitant to respond because I did not want to get involved. Experience had already taught me, in this world there are only three kind of drunks—happy, crying and mean.
    Happy drunks are loud, uninhibited and the life of every party. Crying drunks are shedding tears in all the beers.  Mean drunks—well, they're looking for a fight. And, as far as drunks go, the alcohol doesn't make them what they are, it just emboldens and embellishes who they are. It has a way of breaking down walls of resistance and releasing the demons. Manifesting wounds through chaos and confusion, holding prisoners captive. Often, for generations.
   In all fairness, I did not know if he was a drunk and I did not care to find out. Believing a quick exit was the best strategy to avoid meaningless conversation, I tipped the Bar Tender, and stood to my feet, as he turned up a drink, and sat his glass back on the bar with a thump!
   I looked down on him about the time he looked up to me, and as our eyes met he smiled and said, "If you'll stick around, the next few are on me.”
   I was momentarily disarmed by the invitation and thought it another example of how people long for connection. It's like we're hard wired for fellowship. Some find it in church, many look to Social[CD1]  Media, and others seek it out in Bars & Honky Tonks. I realize this leaves me sounding like a preacher, but don't be alarmed, that was in a previous life. One where I thought I had it all together, until my world fell apart and everything I believed was seriously challenged.
    On any other day, I would have responded, "Thanks, but no thanks," then offered an excuse as to why I had to leave, but something about the look in his eyes resonated. So, I broke with habit and returned to my seat.
    He reciprocated by sliding over onto the empty stool and asked, “What’ll it be?” To which I responded, “I’m not too picky.” Then he raised his voice a couple of octaves, and said, "Bar Tender! Two more Seagram’s please!" I was already wrestling with regret and questioning, "Why am I doing this?”  But, that thought was interrupted when he reached forward to shake my hand and said, “Thanks for the company. My name is Methuselah.” Leaning in a little closer, he whispered, “I’ve been around for a long time,” then goosed me in the side with his elbow, as he threw back his head and broke into a belly laugh.
    And while he laughed, I was thinking, “His name may be Biblical, but this happy drunk is going to light the place up before the night is done and become everyone’s friend in the process.”
 I had seen it before. The bar scene seldom changes. I had sworn it off, but kept drifting back, though I wasn’t sure why. Probably out of sheer loneliness, or just for the atmosphere. In the background I noticed Hotel California playing on the  Jukebox.
   The Bartender sat two glasses in front of us and poured the drinks. Methuselah reached for one with his left hand while pushing the other to me with his right. I wondered if he was ambidextrous, or just really experienced. I was opting for the later when he said, “Here you go Pete. Bottoms up!”
    I looked into my glass, then slowly turned my head toward my new acquaintance and asked, “How did you know my name?”
    “Oh, just a lucky guess. And, you look like a guy I’ve known for ages.  He name is Peter also, and there was an occasion when he felt as low as your feeling tonight. And, like you, he spent a little time beating himself up. But, in the end, I was able to help him out. I could do the same for you, if you’d let me.”
 I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond, so I asked, “You helped him out with what?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Jail.”
     I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so I chuckled and asked, “What?”
He nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, that’s right. I busted him out,” then broke into another belly laugh.
     “No way!”
     “Oh, there was a way. In fact, chances are, you’ve probably read about it.”
     “I don’t think so, but what does your lie have to do with my life?”           
    “Well my new friend, you shall soon learn I’m not lying. A number of years ago, I did bust a       guy named Peter out of jail. Secondly, everyone has a story and the last few chapters of yours make for a rough read.”
    His demeanor was offensive, so I stood to my feet, then asked, “Who do you think you are, and again, what does my story have to do with anything!”
     “It has a lot to do with everything. I’m sorry if I offended you. Sometimes I come across a little brash. Sit down and let me buy another. What else is there to do, but go home, channel surf and hope the Detroit Lions make it to the playoffs again this year?”
     I stood over the old man bewildered, unsure if I was being manipulated, or if in some mysterious way, he actually knew me. So far he had me pegged. Because since the accident, I had spent most nights alone and at home, channel surfing; vegging out until sleep found me, usually in the wee hours of most mornings. And, for the record, the Detroit Lions had been disappointing me for years. The anger had not yet developed into full blown rage, so I held it together. 
    My assessment of the situation was interrupted when he asked, “Are you going to hit me and walk out, or sit back down and be a gentleman? I mean, after all, there’s no reason to be rude.”
     While I entertained no thoughts of getting physical, I did consider walking out. I looked around the bar, hoping I had not created a scene and was relieved to find no one was watching. Some were too inebriated to notice, while others were preoccupied with their own issues. So, I returned to my seat, looked him in the eye and asked, “What’s your dig?”
     He responded, “What do you mean?”
“How did you know my name, and what were you suggesting with all the innuendo about my siting home, channel surfing and pulling for the Lions? Have you been stalking me, or is there something you’re after?”
     “Pete, I’m not a stalker, and I’m not here do get anything from you. In fact, I’d like to help you find something.”
     I sarcastically asked, “What? A night in the drunk tank?”
“No. I was thinking a little peace of mind would be nice.”
    “Who’s to say I don’t already have it?”    
“Actions speak louder than words and you’re life is screaming, “I’m out of control! Someone tackle me!”
     “And how would you know that?”
He hesitated for a second, then said, “Bar Tender! We’re moving to that table in the corner.”  Then looked at me and said, “Follow me. This could get a little awkward.”
     I sat and watched him slide of the barstool and walk over to a table in the corner of the room and pull out two chairs, then sat down in one and wave me over. I stood up, looked in his direction, then headed for the door. I had heard enough, and thought the best thing to do was leave. For all I knew he was some sort of con man, or psycho path and I didn’t need any of that.  My life was already complicated enough.
   I was stuck in the anger phase of the mourning process— still avoiding family and friends, because I did not want to talk about things.

---

 [CD1]