I remember when, while in my apartment in Montreal, the power was scheduled to go out one night for testing. There was a notice tacked on the glass doors out front stipulating that they would shut off the power precisely at midnight. So when the time came that no more words could be typed on the computer, no email could be read from the Internet and no shows could be watched on television, I decided that it was time to sleep -- not so much a matter of a will but more a matter of circumstance.
But I couldn't.
Something was different. Though I couldn't yet put my finger on it, sleep simply didn't come. It differed greatly from my usual wide-eyed attempts to sleep; whenever I closed my eyes there was something wholly unsettling.
Then I came to a shocking realization: I wasn't used to the quiet.
It wasn't until all the power in the apartment was out that I realized what silence really was. All this time I had been living with the subtle drone of kitchen appliances, the whirling fan of the computer, the ceaseless buzzing of the lamplight -- ultimately, it was just too hard for me to remember life without a constant running refrigerator motor. It occurred to me then that we can go through life not realizing disquieting hums that hamper true peace.
This experience came to mind recently, since I've had to make several decisions.
I remember one such fitful morning this week where I prayed restlessly for God's direction. I talked on and on about this and that, wondering how this would work out, which teacher would be best, why things were so expensive, should I really go to New York, will I get a decent apartment -- basically letting general confusion run amok for a good half hour. I remember telling God that this teacher was famous and it seems like he could teach me a lot -- how come I'm on the waitlist?
All at once, I thought back to that silent night I experienced. And the truth of the matter is, when I think back, people like Asaph in the Psalms, Daniel in the afternoon, David in the pasture, they were able to get insight, counsel and comfort from God only when they were still and quiet.
Slowly, I noticed that I had been filling up my supposed quiet time with my own thoughts, my own worries, my own agenda. Secretly, I was frustrated that there wasn't a direct line of communication, one clear bop on the head from God to show me which way.
It was while reading 1 Thessalonians 5, which has been one of my favourite passages for months now, that something again jumped out, as if it was fresh, despite such frequent reading.
Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.
The first three instructions are so simple, yet so comforting in a way. My dear and cherished friend Ivan has found a special liking to this passage as well, and the more I think about it, the more I feel it's because its content challenges us to be interactive, and the words are wiser than we know. Those three commands, as they stand, give us the grips to draw closer to God, to know our roles, to humble ourselves despite ourselves.
And the last bit is the part, the part b, as they say, I had overlooked until now: For this is God's will for you. I was looking for His will; I wanted a bop on the head, a direct line of communication -- and this was it. How can one look for God's will in his life if he doesn't actively follow the very guidelines that tune the ear to hear God's will?
I was frustrated because I thought that I was spending quiet time with the Lord; I hadn't even noticed that I wasn't really spending time being quiet. Real silence is pulling the plug on articulate doubt, loud emoting and chatty logic; it's the very act of listening when there's no clearly detailed answer.
And sometimes, an idyllic answer that stares us in the face is precisely where we begin.
I remember his hands; they were still warm. When I went to hug him, I could feel in him the last echo of life. It reminded me of Goldilocks, how the porridge was still hot.
The nurse, Roy, was usually of the jesting type. I remember looking into his dark face. How suddenly it was solemn; how grievously dry. He shook his stoney head as if it never bobbed up and down playfully.
Beside me I heard the quiet sob of my mother, who told me and my sister to hug Dad quick, one last time. I remember my eyes welling up with tears -- a reserve of tears I thought I had long cried out. I rubbed my eyes feverishly. He seemed so still. I stared at his chest as my sister went to hug him. I could swear it was still rising and falling in breath. But my eyes got blurry again.
I looked up, hoping to see maybe his soul floating towards the ceiling. I looked out the window and saw the lonely lamplight casting its gloomy gaze on the grass below, the awkward walking path meandering alongside it. It was dark out. I've never seen the sky so uncertain of what to do.
I looked around the room. The others had given us space. They were just beyond the door. I could see them: worried; sad; some dabbed their eyes with curiously pink facial tissue. The bedside table with its cheap plastic trim, synthetic wood pattern and squeaky wheels had been pushed aside absent-mindedly. The room itself had Get Well cards strewn all over it -- as if getting well depended chiefly upon whether or not my dad wanted to. The others finally decided to come in; I don't remember why. I don't remember anybody doing anything different: just standing.
Someone suggested we should leave, to rest. Mom agreed. It was altogether strange to me; to leave, I mean. The room still had so much life. Let's wait. When his hands get cold. But I guess it wasn't unlike seeing someone off at a train station: there was no point sticking around.
I remember all of us quietly filing out of the room. It didn't occur to me to look back. All I noticed was that I was shorter than both my mom and my sister. All I could think about was how that was going to change.
Nostalgia, in this case, a blend of night, a darkened room, and an empty me, is altogether a dangerous thing.
Nostalgia is dangerous precisely because it robs you of sleep, rationale and common sense.
I can very easily be ruled by nostalgia.
Ever since I was little I had been captivated by the sheer power of time and place. Through nostalgia, I end up begging for that moment once again. Currently, I find myself missing the church, with its ugly barf-orange carpetting and familiar walls. Something must be said for the power of familiarity; specifically when it’s rooted so deeply in a recurring event for over half my life. I find myself missing people from high school.
I miss the past.
Sometimes it becomes too much. I’m suddenly stricken with a deep sense of restlessness; I suddenly feel as though I must run. I’m wriggling in the very crush of something I cannot control, and my only instinct is to run. I must do something. My mind cannot accept the fact that it can do nothing.
Something is too finite about our lives.
I find myself saying this more and more often: we should take full advantage of our technology in terms of cameras and video. I cannot begin to explain to you the magic of seeing my father, long dead, moving and speaking with all the vitality of the present. It doesn’t matter that he is trapped in the confines of the television screen; it’s much better than the fuzzy confines of my memory. A moment will pass and it will never be again. Never. We should be taking pictures much more often. People will move, disappear, shift, change, die; environments will change, deteriorate, dry up ?and these two things will hardly be together in the same way ever again.
When you like the way things are, you will buy any contraption that can somehow allow your flesh, mind, and soul to absorb every single detail. Any contraption that will heighten the senses. Record everything in a place where you can always revisit. Any contraption that will stop time.
That is, once you realize that moment can never be the same again.
However, it strikes me, at this moment, that my leaning towards the past, something intrinsically unchangeable, my wanting and begging for it with every fibre of my clarity, cannot be a good thing. In reality, my behaviour shows that I’m looking for the moment, the memory, something altogether worldly to describe my joy, my happiness, my peaks in life. It reflects a heart that isn’t tuned towards the source of true happiness.
And now, I think I see. And maybe now I can sleep.
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