From Genesis to Revelation:
One Man's Journey Into Light

And so began the golden period of Gawd's existence. He became more than just a house guest, as he and Ruth, the grandmother, came to know one another on a more than casual basis and became intimate in their relationship. They were about the same age, and both had known loneliness in their lives. It was natural that they came together. She was a beautiful and loving woman, and Gawd revelled in the affection she constantly showered upon him. He had not imagined that life could be such as it was with her. He wanted to be with her always, but they hid it from the granddaughter for some time. He was forced to creep about the house in the dead of night to pursue the dear, sweet woman. Finally, when they thought they were being so clever in their subterfuge, it turned out the girl had been aware of their goings-on for a considerable time, and once the relationship did finally come out in the open, she supported it whole-heartedly.

Gawd spent some time living on Ruth's good graces, but, finally, even he realized that his life had begun again after so much time in the netherworld, where he was neither dead or alive. So, he called a lady lawyer he'd met in another life to help start getting his affairs in order. And he called a vice president in charge of finance at one of the larger investment houses in the city. His inheritance from Aunt Rose had grown into a considerable fortune, and it would have to be managed. Both of them were glad for the opportunity to renew his acquaintance, knowing him to be of good and noble character. He and Ruth met with them for dinner, and the four of them hit it off remarkably well and were soon conversing like the oldest of friends.

It was indeed Gawd's golden period. He settled in. The girl had the baby, and Gawd and Ruth resolved to give both she and the child the best of lives. Indeed, the tiny boy was a delight to have around the house, and he made it seem even more a home and even more a family. They lived in comfort and style and enjoyed life to the fullest. Gawd hated even to sleep, knowing that what he had today could be gone tomorrow, and he didn't want to let any of the precious time slip away or be wasted.

The years passed. The granddaughter met a fine young man, who worked at a bank and seemed to have a solid future, and got married. She and the child moved out to be with her new husband. Soon, she was pregnant again, only this time it was a more joyous occasion. Two other children followed, and Gawd and Ruth were grandparents to all of them, even though they had a special place in their hearts for the firstborn, who had in fact brought them together.

And Gawd buried Ruth when he was near to his ninetieth birthday. She had lived to a similar old age. They'd been talking about moving out of the big, old house for over ten years, knowing it was too large for them, and that they would have increasing difficulty managing in it on their own. One night, after they'd had one of their frequent discussions about moving into a retirement residence, Gawd thought Ruth looked unusually tired.

"I didn't sleep very well last night," she said, as they laid together in the same bed they'd shared for almost thirty years.

"Sexy dreams?" he said jokingly.

"Yeah, you old coot, I was dreaming about when we could still do it more than once a month," she said.

He snuggled up to her, felt her against him.

"I love you," he said softly into her ear, kissing her gently on the neck.

"Watch it, old fool," she said affectionately, twisting her neck around, until they could kiss.

"Just don't you forget it," he said.

"How could I?" she asked. "You've been showing me how much you love me for thirty years, and you've told me that very thing every night before bed for just as long."

They kissed again. Then, he laid back down, pulled himself up close to her, so he could feel her against him. And he went to sleep. He remembered waking up once in the night, and thinking something didn't seem quite right, but it didn't bother him enough to keep him awake and he quickly fell back asleep.

In the morning, she was dead. He wept tears of sadness for the first time in many years.

After her death, he knew finally that he was near his end. The scene had been acted out, and even the final curtain call had been given. The granddaughter invited him to come and live with her family, but he declined the offer, and went instead to the Spring Valley Retirement Home to live out what time remained to him. When he was first in the Home, he was sociable enough, playing checkers, the odd game of euchre and such, even attending the parties and other events the staff held to keep the old folks occupied while they waited to die. It was a curious sort of existence.

His family, the granddaughter and her offspring and banker husband, came to visit him often when he was first in the Home. But, as time passed, Gawd got older and more infirm, until he could no longer acknowledge each visitor, but only caught glimpses of memory that helped him identify just a lucky few. And he could no longer remember to go to the washroom, but he could clearly see back to when he and his mother had snuggled on the couch and read stories together. He saw his grandfather and Sid and Aunt Rose and Janet and Celeste. They came to him as often as any others. And when they left, he wept.

And, finally, all that remained was Gawd. As it had been in the beginning. He laid in his bed, moved only by the nurses, fed only by the nurses, cleaned only by the nurses. His physical self tired, broken, almost dead from its long journey. Still, he could see, but he could no longer distinguish between actual reality and what had become his own personal reality, where visions from past and present came and went and mixed and mingled freely together.

So it was that Gawd finally came to rest. He lay in his bed and only existed to exist. The world became his fiction, and he became the fact. And all that was left for him to do was to look within himself. To see if he had come this far with any purpose. And if he had not, why should any others? Why indeed?

And he found himself as a young child back with his mother. He sat upon her knee and was in awe of her great beauty and shining radiance. She no longer appeared to be the beaten, broken wretch of a woman he'd known in his youth. She seemed angelic in her countenance, as if by living a life of misery and suffering, she had indeed secured her place in the mythical heaven.

"Gawd, you have finally come home," the woman said to him.

Gawd said nothing.

"We have been worried about you," she said. "We were afraid that you had lost your way."

Still, he did not answer.

"Your grandfather wants to take you fishing," his mother said. "He said he knows a good spot."

"You're with grandfather?" Gawd asked, breaking his silence, speaking with a child's voice.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Grandfather and I have been waiting for you. We were all waiting for you."

"Aunt Rose?" he asked.

"She's here," was the answer. "She's got a batch of cookies baked for you."

Then it became dark. The woman, his mother, faded into the coming blackness, and he was left alone. There was only the pain of reality with him, and it was usually when the doctors and nurses came upon him with their poking and prodding that he came back to that reality. It was when he was in that state that he wondered why his life would not go away and leave him alone, for he was sure that he had had enough of it, and it had likely tired of him as well. But he could not find an eternal peace; his heart was troubled as it had almost always been.

He was with his grandfather. They were fishing.

"So, boy, you think you've been hard done by in life?" the old man asked, casting his line into a river that wasn't there.

"I'm not sure, grandfather," he answered. "I've seen the bad and the good, and I'd rather have the good than the bad. But I'm not sure you can have one without the other."

"There's always somebody worse off than you," the old man reflected.

"I'm not sure there's truth to that," Gawd answered. "Each person lives according to himself, and you can never truly know what another might be feeling. Hell is hell. Personal or otherwise."

"You did well with your life?" the old man questioned.

"I did as well as I could," Gawd answered. "And that's as well as you can ever do."

"Those are wise words," the grandfather said.

The vision departed, and he was again left alone and in the dark, blackness of reality. But he exerted huge energy to open his eyes and could see the grey, hazy shapes of people as they went about the room.

"I don't know why we have to be here," he heard a young woman say impatiently. "He doesn't even know we're here."

"It's his birthday," he heard another voice say.

"Oh, look, he's waking up," said still another, and suddenly he was aware of the shapes coming closer, so that he could eventually make out some of their features.

"Old Grandpa," said a young voice. "Are you awake?"

Gawd fought to try to wake up out of the slumber his body rested in, but he could not make himself stir, other than to partly lift a hand, and to open his toothless mouth gaping wide.

"Look, he is awake," squealed the youngster.

"Do you think he does know we're here?" he heard the young woman ask.

"Yes, he knows," said a voice.

"It can't be much of a life," said the young woman.

"Oh, I wish you could have known him," said an older woman's voice. "He was such a good and kind man. He was a loving husband, always looked out for his family, and he never had a bad word to say about anyone. I'd be happy to know most people if they were half the person he was."

And Gawd remembered, finally, a smile.

"Look, he's happy," the youngster said.

And Gawd found himself back on the church roof and was surprised to see his old friend, Sid, happened to also be there.

"Hey, man, did you ever get laid?" Sid asked.

"Once or twice," Gawd answered.

There was a moment of silence.

"Did you ever get closer to god?" Gawd asked.

"I don't know," Sid answered. "I think that maybe each of us has a bit of god in us and it may depend on how you live whether you're close to him or not."

"Good answer," Gawd said. "That's deep."

The two friends sat in silence on the edge of the roof.

"Did you learn anything else in life?" Gawd finally asked.

"It's either don't take it too serious, because you're here for a good time not a long time, or you better take it real serious, because it's the only shot you get," Sid answered.

"Maybe you could take it moderately seriously," Gawd answered.

"Doesn't seem to be the case," Sid answered thoughtfully.

"Strange," Gawd responded.

Gawd thought he could hear a fire siren, and as he started to look out to see if there was anything to see, he felt himself fall back into himself and lose the vision. He came crashing back to reality. Noise had come from the outside—the sound of people laughing and clapping—a television. He breathed as deeply as he could, exhaling from the bottoms of his feet, relaxing himself.

"Oh, Mrs. Johnson, how are you today?" boomed a loud female voice, causing him to start. "Are we watching some television? It's time for medication."

It was the duty nurse with the evening pill parade. Gawd would get his share, there was no doubt about that, for he had his share of bodily ailments, even with a tired, beaten old body like his.

The time passed slowly when he was in this state, conscious of the world, but not part of it, unable to come fully out from under the veil of inertia that seemed to weigh so heavily upon him. He had struggled with it, but it had not mattered, so that now he laid in quiet, as a silent stone statue in a graveyard. Except when he was turned to avoid bedsores—which he got anyway.

But he soon departed again, and he found himself on a bus. He looked beside him. It was the fair Julia, who had once saved him from humiliation at the hands of the dreaded Gerald. She looked back at him and smiled a soft, warm smile.

"Hi, there," he said.

"Hi," she answered.

"You look tired," he said.

She smiled, but said nothing. They rode for a moment in silence.

"You were sweet," she said.

"I was stupid," he answered.

"You tried to help," she said.

"I killed you," he said.

"You helped me," she answered.

There was silence after the brief exchange.

"Don't have any regrets," she said.

"I killed you," he said.

"You did what you thought was right," she said. "You were just a kid."

"I loved you," he said.

"I know," she answered.

"I wanted to protect you," he said.

"You did," she said.

"How?" he asked.

"You protected me from life," she said. "You were sweet."

"I was stupid," he repeated.

"Don't have any regrets," she said. "They'll poison you."

"I love you," he said.

There was silence. He held her hand and she laid her head on his shoulder, and it was a scene of peaceful bliss. He would stay forever with her. But already he could feel her fading, disappearing for his view, slipping from his grasp.

Farewell, fair Julia. That's what he thought he remembered thinking.

He came back into reality, but his stays in the world were becoming all the shorter with each visit. He struggled less to stay on the surface of his consciousness, instead, letting himself slide smoothly under its skin to where his past was, to the memories that brought him peace and perhaps even some understanding of what had been.

The characters from his past paraded before him. Some of the memories were terrible and awful and others were radiant and shining, but all brought the peace and understanding, so he looked forward to each excursion into the realm of what had been. Even though it would have been easy to imagine that some of the scenes would have been difficult for him to experience, he had no trepidation at feeling them come. In fact, he relished them.

And each time he transcended the reality, he seemed to have more difficulty finding it again. And one day he'd gone into his past, only to discover that it was now more the reality, and he no longer wanted to go back. So, he struggled to stay away. He had finally realized the futility of existence. He tried to die.

The doctors came. He was an old man, but they savaged him nonetheless, in an attempt to salvage him for one more hour upon the scrap heap of humanity. It was their duty to save life—all life is sacred— that's what they would have said. They couldn't understand that he had lived, but that was now past, and there was no future. Gawd knew that he would not have chosen life, even could they promise to make him young once more, because he had tired of life. He wanted to depart from it.

They hooked him to a machine. He lingered on, hoses and tubes and wires coming from him in every direction. He could not protest, and perhaps even if he could have, he'd have chosen not to, just so the doctors could have their way with him. And while he was so connected, he found he could not depart from the here and now but was always trapped in that space and time. It was like hell because he had no desire to be in that place.

He had not laid long before he became aware that someone other than one of the hospital staff had come into the room and was standing close by to him.

"I always called you Grandpa," a woman's voice said. "But you weren't really my Grandpa. You were just a person off the street when I met you. But I loved you like a Grandpa. And now I have to decide whether you live or die." She paused. "I don't think you'd consider this really living, anyway. I've signed the papers. I just wanted a moment alone with you.

"I wish I knew more about you," she continued. "I know you were a good and kind man, but you never talked about what you did or who you were before you came into my life all those years ago in the coffee shop. I don't know if you told Grandma that kind of stuff or not."

There was silence. He could hear weeping. He wanted to reach out, but could not because he had not enough life left in him. He felt her come close and offer him a soft, light kiss on his cheek. "I love you," she whispered to him. "You changed my life."

Then, she withdrew, and he was left alone to die. There was no ceremony. They just switched him off. There was no appointed time. The doctor and nurse talked about having a beer and pizza after shift. It was all rather casual.

He came this way only once, and he found it a difficult journey he had taken. He had perhaps not counted on the degree of difficulty it would offer. But it had come to this. He could not see them suffer so, unless he had knowledge of why they suffered. And he could not have that knowledge without life. So, life had come. And life had gone. And only he remained. The moment his heart stopped, there was only him—all other being throughout the universe stopped.

He stood, fully naked in the glare of a thousand galaxies, stretching out his arms, letting the stars sprinkle through his fingers as if they might be elfin dust. From his fingertips flashed bolts of jagged lightning, and he bore an awful countenance, and he was terrible to behold. He was the truth and the light. And he was no longer part of existence, but he also was existence.

And in that moment of his death, he stood as one with all being. He breathed in and out an atmosphere saturated with all life. He felt himself stretching out across the whole of reality, knowing that he was becoming part of every thing, and every thing was becoming part of him. His consciousness was being shared with the consciousness of the ages, and he was becoming an indistinguishable part of the whole. He could feel himself slipping away. He rose up out of his body, and watched it rot and decay and turn to dust, and soon there was none of him left—he was all used up.

He wanted to know if he had done well in his life. "Who can answer me that?" he asked.

"Only you can answer that," came the answer.

"There must be someone who can tell me if I was right," Gawd said.

"There is no one," came the answer.

"I did my best," Gawd said.

"What does it matter?" came the question.

"I tried to be good," Gawd said.

"What does it matter?" came the question.

"I am dead," Gawd said.

"What does it matter?" came the question.

And it didn't matter.

Gawd was buried with little fanfare. His tiny family from the last of his life stood about on the crest of a small hill in the secluded cemetery he and Ruth had chosen some years before as a final resting place. It was fall, and it was raining one of those rains that's actually more of an endless, soggy drizzle, a most unhappy occasion. A minister read from the good book, and he said it was really a most joyous occasion—that Gawd had now gone to live in glorious splendor with his heavenly father.

And there is no way of knowing whether Gawd actually achieved that residence, or whether he went fishing with his grandfather again, or tasted some of Aunt Rose's cookies. But it was certain that he had lived, and by living, he had been, and perhaps that is all we can hope for as we pass this way. For we are as creaturous as the lion and the wolf and the cunning fox, and to think that we could somehow be more is to mock the meanness of our spirit. Every street in the world is paved with gold, but there is serious misery in the houses along the way. And that is the way with us.

"For I have walked a thousand miles, and seen a thousand kindnesses, and felt a thousand deaths, yet I am," said the man.

And, somehow, it mattered.