Proof of God
Or something like that.
“And how do you feel about his ‘God stuff?’” Jenny, my therapist, asked.
I thought for a second and replied, “I believe in God, or a higher power or whatever.” I shifted in my seat. “I mean, I can’t quote the bible, but I grew up going to church and enjoy the idea of religion. I don’t believe one should be considered more important than another, but I have a relationship with God if that’s what you’re asking.“ Then I chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“I actually have my own proof of God.” I declared.
“Proof?”
“Well, my version of proof,” I admitted.
Jenny smiled, “Well, now this I can’t wait to hear.”
So during my next session, we took a break from focusing on the doctor and the kids, and I shared my Proof of God story with Jenny Pearl, which goes like this…
The summer I was 22, my brother was in a serious car accident.
Some guy with a suspended license ran a stop sign and hit my brother’s truck. He was thrown from his vehicle and landed on his head some thirty feet away. I was told his brain swelled so badly that his eyes almost popped out of his head. They had to helicopter him over to Washington Hospital Center, where they put a shunt in his head and placed him in a coma, hoping he would recover.
We were told when he woke that things could be very bad; in fact expect the worst, but pray for the best.
My mother stood vigil day and night. We tried to get her to rest, but she refused to leave his room even for one minute those first few days.
“Just watch the numbers,” she instructed, showing me some medical apparatus. “When the numbers go up, the pressure is high, and he loses brain cells. The more pressure, the more damage. We want the numbers to stay low.”
My mother always focuses on the problem in a crisis.
On the third day, she relented and finally left his side to go down to the cafeteria to get some coffee, and I was there alone with Johnny. I had brought in a tape of his favorite songs from our childhood, thinking the music would soothe him. I played it while I tried to talk to him.
First up was Don Mclean.
(music playing)
Starry Starry Night
paint your palette blue and gray
Look Out on a Summer Day…
“Hi Johnny, I thought this might help you feel better.”
Except for the wrap on his head and the wires, Johnny looked just fine. He didn’t have a scratch on him. I started crying as soon as I tried to talk as the music kept playing.
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy, linen land
“I guess I should have chosen some more upbeat songs, huh?” I moved closer to his bed and held his hand. “Mom has been sitting here day and night. Dad and Donna are here sometimes too. Karen’s out in the waiting room. Everyone’s just waiting for you to feel better.”
The numbers ticked up a little. Each time the numbers beeped, I held my breath.
“You’ll be happy to know that you’re all in one piece and your face is still perfect.”
The Smiths began playing Unhappy Birthday, and I started laughing nervously.
“You know, when you come home, we will work on finding you some more positive music choices.”
Just then, a nurse came in and tried to move him to check his vitals. His numbers started climbing exponentially, and she asked me to step outside. I squeezed his hand and walked into the hallway.
My mom returned and explained that his numbers had been up all day, and I needed to prepare myself for a very possible, unhappy outcome. The third day was crucial, and he wasn’t doing well.
This was something I just couldn’t accept. Not Johnny, not Johnny, not Johnny, my head kept swimming.
I grabbed my purse and bolted out of there. Karen, his girlfriend at the time, followed me down the hall, trying to ask me what was wrong.
“I need to go,” I said
“What happened? What’s wrong?” she was practically running to keep up with my strides.
“I need to go somewhere,” I said.
“I’ll go with you,” I think she was glad to get away from that place.
I drove like a mad woman. Some may say this isn’t so different than my regular driving, but I think the car literally flew through the streets of D.C. that day, all the way back to Sligo Avenue, where I pulled into the parking lot, screeching my wheels. I sprinted to the front double doors of the church. They were locked. I couldn’t believe it.
“Jackie! Wait for me. Are you OK?” Karen yelled from behind.
“They’re locked. I don’t think they’ve ever been locked. Why are they locked?” I mumbled as I ran along the side yard where the kids’ play structure still stood.
“I need to get in there,” I said not really to anyone.
“OK, but it’s locked, so…” Karen tried to keep up with me, but I grew up in this place and knew where I was headed next. I dashed to the back and off to the side to the small house where the Bishop or minister, or whatever he was called, lived. I knocked on the door like a crazy person, and some woman answered.
“Hello, child.”
“Hi,” I got right to the point, “Can you let me in the church?”
“I can. Do you need help or something?” she said, looking shocked.
“I used to go here. I grew up here. Please, there’s been an accident, and I just need to go inside. Please hurry.”
The poor woman grabbed some keys beside the front door and walked me back to the front double doors, with Karen following behind us.
“Is there anything you want to speak with me about? Can I help you with some burden?” she asked as she scurried alongside me.
“I just need to get inside; when I get inside, I will know,” I said, sidestepping her offer.
The doors opened, and I ran down the center aisle with the red carpet, and fell on the bottom stair in front of the altar. I’m sure Karen thought I was nuts, but I just needed to know.
The strange woman came rushing after and tried to help pray with me, but I paid her no mind. She was new, she didn’t understand.
I lay there and talked to God about the one thing I knew.
The one thing I knew was that Johnny was one of the innocents, one of the good guys, and he had no business trying to take him.
Johnny didn’t lie or steal or cheat anyone. Ever. He stood up for the little guy. He was sweet and generous, and it never even occurred to him to take advantage of others.
I knew God knew this. And I knew that maybe he wanted to take him because he was so good, but I was there to change his mind.
I had come there to tell God that it was not OK. And I wept at the foot of those stairs, praying and repeating. “It’s not OK; it’s not OK; it’s not OK.”
I could hear reason and logic trying to get a hold of me. The odd woman and Karen were trying to talk to me, but their sounds were muffled and seemed far off in the distance though they were right there beside me.
Now, this part will be hard to believe, but it’s the only truth I’ve got. In the next moment, it became very quiet, and God said, clear as a bell, “Jackie, sometimes it will not be OK, but you can sit up now and turn around.”
I lifted my head and wiped the snot and tears from my face. Everything seemed out of focus as the only sunlight coming into the chapel was a bright beam of light from the open double doors. As I turned around, I saw something in the back. I heard his voice before my eyes could focus on him.
“Jackie, it IS going to be OK,” he said.
All the way in the back of the church, sitting up on top of the backrest of the last pew, was Johnny.
I’m not kidding, and I was not hallucinating. He was just sitting up there in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, smiling and half laughing at me– like nothing at all.
“It’s going to be OK, but you’re going to have to do something,” Johnny said.
“I’m going to have to do something?” I said in my head.
“Yea, it’s going to take a while for me. But you’re going to have to forgive Howard Johnson.”
I sniffed, “And then you’re going to be OK?” again, asking in my head.
He laughed, “Yea, I’ll be OK, but don’t forget.”
As I stood up, I looked at Karen and the woman whose name I never did get and said, “It’s alright now. It’s going to be OK.”
When I looked back at the pews again, he was gone, but it didn’t matter. I had done what I needed to do, and knew what I needed to know. The women stared, looking truly concerned as if they needed to do something or call someone, but I was good. This was between me and God.
“Let’s go,” I motioned to Karen.
“Ha. I remember I scooped up my car keys, thanked the lady, and strutted right back up the aisle and out of that church like a devil in a blue dress.”
Jenny Pearl didn’t write anything down and looked a bit astonished herself.
“Sorry, it’s a long story,” I said, wondering if I just became too much for Jenny.
“Yes, but it’s quite a story.” she finally said.
“Hmmm, It’s not really a story; it happened exactly that way. I mean, maybe you will tell me it was my subconscious or something like that, but that’s how it went.” I assured her.
“Howard Johnson?” she asked.
“The man who hit my brother’s truck.”
© Jackie Dawes, June 30, 2023
Another excerpt from my memoir.
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