(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!”