Memories are such strange, inexplicable things. Soft, ethereal, silent; arising like ghosts from places where we thought they were safely buried, they drift unbidden into our minds - suddenly appearing, floating just beyond our grasp, then just as suddenly disappearing - they leave us wondering if what we saw was real or only a dream.
One of my friends, a writer specializing in mystery and the supernatural, recently posted this: "The Veil between the Worlds begins to thin around October 15th, becoming its thinnest the eve of the 31st." Is she right? Well, in addition to her own research [which Edgar Allan Poe, in "The Raven", would describe as - pondering "weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore"] for her writing, my friend had the amazing opportunity some years ago to actually meet the great Anne Rice. Who knows what "insider information" was passed along in that encounter? Is it possible the "Veil between the Worlds" also explains why some memories come and go like ghosts?
Tomorrow is my birthday - number 66, for those of you keeping score. Tomorrow is also Halloween. And like a ghost, a memory from long ago, one I thought was forever buried, has been haunting my mind for the last few days.
The years run together, but I think it was the summer of 1989. After six years of happy marriage, Renee was pregnant with our first child. We had enjoyed our time in the DINKS ["Double Income No Kids"] demographic, but now we were ready for the next stage of growing up. In a memory that I will never bury, I can see her walking toward me in the airport in Baton Rouge as she came to pick me up after a business trip. She had a smile that covered her entire face, and all she had to say as I dropped my suitcase and swept her up in my arms was, "YES!" It had been confirmed - our baby was on the way!
Those were fun and exciting times as we prepared to actually become parents. A time of plans and dreams. A time of eager anticipation of what was coming soon, and also, some perhaps overly-excited looking into what we wanted for our child as the years would go on. We were already thinking about college for our baby! We were thinking about a spouse. We were thinking about grandchildren. It was a time of hope for a future filled with joy for our new little family to be.
Until that day in late October when something went terribly wrong. What happened? No one knew. It was just one of those things. The doctor said, "Your baby is no longer viable. Now we need to schedule the procedure to clean up the remains. Late Monday afternoon works for us."
And that was it. Our baby was gone, just gone. And so were all of our plans and hopes. How strange it is that a virtual lifetime of dreams can be dispatched by people dressed in white in a matter of minutes - all so clinical, all so quick, all so seemingly painless. All so devastatingly efficient.
In silence we made our way home. The house was cold and dark, and strangely empty. I remember that we sat at the kitchen table, pushing some kind of food around our plates. It was late. And the next day was Halloween.
All of that is a memory that I carry with me always. It's what happened next that is the memory which I thought was safely buried, but which is now haunting me again. Now, as I face another birthday without her. Now, as the "Veil between the Worlds" grows thin.
As we quietly sat in our kitchen that night, the night before All Hallows Eve, trying to make sense of the unimaginable, the phone rang. It was our good friends who had recently moved out of state, calling to say an early "Happy Birthday!" They didn't know what had happened. It was almost as if it was an encounter that had been orchestrated by The One who is always at work for the good of His children [Romans 8:28], if one were to believe in such things. Right there in my hands was the perfect opportunity for some good to happen out of something very bad. Right there was the perfect opportunity to let dear friends stand in the gap for us, to let them uphold us in our weakness, to let them share the burden of our grief - something which would have been a great blessing to us, and something they would gladly have attempted for our sake. All that was needed was a word from me.
As you can probably guess, the word was not given. The conversation was all just the usual - "Hey! We're doing great, hope you are too. Thanks for remembering my birthday!"
When I hung up, I couldn't say why I hadn't told them what had just happened to us; 34 years later, I still don't know the answer. Maybe I thought I could justify remaining silent about our tragedy by quoting Tolkien's words, spoken through Legolas, who, when asked to translate an Elvish song of lament sung in honor of Gandalf, said, "I have not the heart to tell you. For me, the grief is still too near." Or maybe I thought I needed to be strong in that moment for the sake of my wife. Or maybe I feared the vulnerability of revealing deep pain and sorrow to another man.
Yeah. Whatever,
But all I knew when I hung up the phone 34 years ago was that I had made a big mistake. We never spoke of this, so I can't say for sure, but I have always wondered how Renee felt about this failure. I don't think she was mad - anger doesn't seem to fit her spirit. She was probably just disappointed, which is even worse. Now that this memory has arisen, and now that the opportunity to tell her how sorry I was, and am, for letting her down in that moment when she needed me to stand up and do the right thing, I find myself wondering - was she ever able to move past this and find reason to believe in me again? Or was there always a seed of doubt - a seed I planted myself 34 years ago?
Maybe that is why I tried to bury that memory safely away long ago, in a place where it would be forgotten, in a place where it would leave me in peace. Disappointing her was always my greatest disappointment, and I couldn't bear to keep on thinking about this one.
But this spectre of my failure of the past has chosen to arise, unbidden, and to drift silently through the windmills of my mind now, 34 years later, just as "the Veil between the Worlds" thins. And now that it is here, will it ever return to that place where it lay for so long, and leave me, once again, in some sort of peace?
Halloween is actually now here as I type this, so I'm finding it easy to believe that Edgar Allan Poe has already written the answer - "Nevermore".
Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor & Shepherd
