I knelt in the dark.
Now, I know that's a dramatic way to start this off, or at least it sounds dramatic, but let me give you context. It wasn't that epic sort of kneeling in the movies. You know, the kind brought on by total despair of heartbreak or some impending doom. Nor was it the kneeling of a wounded, dying soldier. I was just... kneeling.
Kneeling on a kneeler.
The kneeler in a Church, naturally.
A Catholic Church, since most Protestant ones don't have kneelers, at least not the ones I've been to.
The dark? Well, I was just too lazy to run over and flip the switch. And I've always loved the thrill of pitch black. The uncertainty of it heightens the senses, like the thrill of watching the green sky before a tornado touches down. Of course, it wasn't totally dark. Catholic Churches always have a red candle lit to remind us that Jesus is there, the Eucharist in the Tabernacle. So, a lot of Catholic lingo. I know, I'm sorry. And all just to say, I knelt in the dark.
I closed my eyes. Not sure what for, actually. It didn't make much difference since I couldn't see anything anyways. But there's something psychologically effective about closing the eyes, about "veiling thine ocular flame" for the random poet out there. It disposes the heart and mind to take in a scene or sensation; to feel a moment. I guess I was letting the dark and silence sink in, and that moved my soul to a place of mystery and wonder. Not sure exactly why. Ask a psychologist or a priest. It's either chemical or spiritual (probably both), but I'd rather not get into that now since none of that was going through my head at the moment.
A silent moment. Kneeling in the dark.
I took a long, deep breath. Again, a subconscious thing, chemical and spiritual. The Zen Buddhists recommend total focus on the breath, so do the mindfulness meditation gurus. It must do something to soothe the body, soul, psyche, release endorphins... Anyways -- regardless -- I took a deep breath while kneeling in the dark with my eyes closed.
I was in the back of the Church, on the very last kneeler, nothing but empty space and the doors behind me. I could hear tiny ice crystals tinkling against the stained glass windows. The one nearest to my right, the Last Supper, and next to that, the Crucifixion. The images were dark and I could only make out color where the streetlights shone through. That's the thing about stained glass. They're bright and shiny on Easter morning, but black and dull on Christmas Eve. But I guess that holds up against what they told me as a kid. The windows are meant to teach us that our true beauty -- the true beauty in anything for that matter -- only shows because of God's beauty shining through. Whether or not the man who invented stained glass ever had that in mind, we'll never know. But it sounds nice. It's a valid reflection at the very least.
Wind and snowflakes on glass. A dark chapel in late December. And I had just met her. I had known about her and she knew me already. But I hadn't really had a good chat until a few days prior. A dead girl, not zombie-dead, but ghost-dead. I met a ghost. Not a Scooby-Doo ghost, nor a The Conjuring ghost, but more of a calm, spiritual type -- just a person. Some might say "soul" to make the distinction. But my next-door neighbor is a soul, and he's not dead. And "dead-soul" just doesn't have the right ring to it. (Sounds like zombie-dead.) Ghost, then. A disembodied spirit.
And when I say met, I don't mean that I saw her or heard a voice. It was just a subtle realization that she was there. It was in a different chapel that it had happened, a smaller one, and the lights were on. Christmas was nearing and I was imagining myself holding Baby Jesus and talking to his mother. A cool thing about being Catholic is that we believe that we can talk to those in Heaven and that they hear us. More Catholic lingo ahead: it's called Communion of the Saints. (I'm sure some other denominations also buy into this.) I knew, therefore, that the words and sentiments that I directed at Baby Jesus and his mother, Mary, weren't just imaginary interaction. They heard me. And I thought of the dead, one in particular, and knew she was there, knew she would hear me. The ghost-girl.
I really think it's impossible for me to convey how firmly I was convinced. I had known about her, as I mentioned before, but my family rarely mentioned her. There's a clue. Family. I'm starting to give it away. I'd known about her for the full 21 years of my life, or at least fifteen-ish; well, since I could talk and understand. She died young, but she would have been 23 years old, or maybe 24. We'll leave aside the when and how of her... disembodiment. She was a ghost now and had been one my whole life.
That day, in the small, bright chapel, I knew she was there and listening. I knew I had a sister. It broke and delighted me all at once, to the point where I wasn't sure if the tears were pain or joy. It was like the opposite of a stillbirth. Death-and-birth instead of birth-and-death. It was the confusing discovery that there was a life lost, but that it was still a life. I know I'm not explaining myself well at all. I don't care. Try to keep up.
But the moment I wanted to share was the evening in the dark chapel, the bigger one. Snowflakes tinkled off the dull stained glass. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I knelt in the dark. And now you get the context.
