I was expecting to feel sixteen again.

I was expecting to feel sixteen again. After all, my chauffeur had been doing an exemplary job and there was really no need to be anxious to get behind the wheel except for the indefinable urge to take control of a 4,500 pound machine. The Doctor had explicitly prescribed no driving until we were done with the drugs. I don’t know what drugs he was on but I finished mine up and having passed that test, with a blatant disregard for my Doctor, decided to take up the challenge and drive again. Admittedly, there was a bit of excitement and more anticipation then I may want to confess but as I slid behind the wheel a strange feeling of transition shuttered through me very much like the feeling experience when clothing replaced pajamas. One more shift, not back to, but forward toward what some call normal but what I expect to be an abnormal life.

My friend Ralph sent me a letter. It was a delight on a number of levels, not the least of which was that it was hand written. There is something about putting pen to paper that reveals an almost lost intimacy. Ralph hasn’t been driving either. He’s been plodding along the valley path and, though separated by space not spirit, we’ve both enjoyed “spending time in the garden…where I’ve quieted myself enough to hear. G-d speaks, peace follows,” both anticipating getting behind the wheel again. And the “path”ology was as encouraging and worthy of thankfulness for Ralph as for me. Tied up neatly in the little phrase, “The Doctor…feels they were able to get all of it” is such an invitation to the abnormal life.

Life can no longer be normal when you have felt the touch of the healing hand. When you have been plunged beneath the black water of death seeing only the distorted forms of light above the surface and as the shadows of death close in on that light and fear threatens to overtake you there it is. The Healer’s hand. Not thrashing the water frantically searching for you but calmly, not pulling but pushing you from the water. He’s been there all the time holding us up. Maybe its circumstance, or lack of focus, or fear, or selfishness that keeps us from seeing but none-the-less He’s there anyway. So to expect that the One who would support and comfort in such times of need would disappear when situations improve, makes little sense. Therefore, a life lived with attentiveness to the presence and activity of the Comforter can in no way be considered normal. I think Ralph would agree that even though there is a rush about being behind the wheel it’s probably a lot better to just let the chauffeur do His job. I believe being abnormal should be quite normal.

JR