Monday 24 May 2010 - Filed under WAG
Til now, only family had talked with me after dying. I went cold when I realized who it was — our former church minister [imagine his surprise when he opened his eyes and was not standing at the Pearly Gates.] For a quick second, I wished I could see him. This one is hard to believe.
But, no — Hell, no! This business of spirits visiting long after their deaths is strange enough; sure don’t want to see them. [We've all seen what some of them do to Alison DuBois.] That was certainly his voice — maybe my brain provided the sound-track, but, no, he cleared his throat the way he used to do when building to a point or if he was uncomfortable. I could damn near see him.
Jeezus-aitch-ka-RIST. 1985, all over again when I’d decided God would just have to strike me dead for breaking loose. All the bullshit about an angry, vengeful God was too much–men get all the plum assignments and women get to be the Ladies Auxiliary. Enough crap that I decided he’d could make me do it if he liked, but I was no longer going to help brainwash myself. Sweaty palms; I was flooded with guilt for doing nothing, just like old times. Our pastor had promised me a long time ago–after a particularly grueling counselling session–if he was wrong, he’d apologize “When we get to Heaven.” His face told me then he didn’t expect to have to make good on it. But he did. No explanations. No comments. No, “sorry I fucked up 20 years of your life.” He said, “I’m sorry I was wrong.”
Even now, that’s all he was sorry about. This whole deal sure fucks with my theology. I turned up the volume on the TV, turned my head away from his voice, and changed channels.
2010-05-24 » Kate