The One You Seek...

...is just across the aisle...if but a little bit ahead of you. (Part II of II)

Have you read part one of this story? It’ll help set things up!

---

No one knows how to behave at the moment of death. We’re all chaos. But God is all order. So I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.

I returned from my “summer vacation” – now the summer vacation when Dad died to a bizarre continuation of a summer that began with a role in the musical Grease. I suppose I was only supposed to be gone a week or so. There was no communication to this company made up of teenage youth, so I again I suppose that I could not blame them for saying things to me upon my return, after learning of my father’s death, like, “you almost lost your role” and “we almost gave your role away.”

The show must go on after all.

I re-entered life in that show as if, according to those surrounding me, nothing out of the ordinary had happened and we were biding our time doing the Hand Jive until school resumed in the fall.

Somewhere in the haze of this re-entry I had a sleepover with one of my (many) Catholic friends. My friend wasn’t allowed to have her friend, me, sleepover on a Saturday night unless said friend, me, went to Mass with the family the next morning. So said friend, me, went.

And that’s when the unexpected and wild happening…happened.

Knowing what I know now about happenings happening during Mass (ie messages, images, visitations, reckonings, breakthroughs and more), today what happened then would have in some way made sense, even not having full understanding of it.

But this was then. I was young and unaccustomed to this kind of, shall I say, synchronicity, much less the Mass itself. For the most part I was chiefly concerned with sitting down, standing up and kneeling at the right time without notice.

I do remember with crystal clarity sitting on the aisle in the pew with my friend sitting next to me. For the most part we were quiet aside from the occasional direction (“stand”, “sit”, “kneel”).

I remember less than zero about this Mass. I remember nothing of what was said. Nothing of a “Gospel”. I do not remember processions or music….

I remember it was crowded.

And I remember within that crowd the man. The man who sat one pew ahead of me, across the aisle, cater-cornered, also sitting on the end.

No doubt I caught sight of him as my attention wandered around (and away) from the sound of what I perceived as Charlie Brown’s teacher (“Wa-Waaa-Wa—Wahhhh”) having no guidance at the time on what I was attending.

But where there is God. There is the Way.

I caught sight of this man sitting cater-cornered from me just ahead… in those same 80’s chic polyester golf pants of brown, the same cream short sleeved polyester shirt tucked in - sans belt. I felt a twinge. A gulp. I looked away. But I couldn’t stay away. I glanced over again and scanned up to this man’s face.

A face that wore the same oversized square glasses, the same dark brown sideburns.

I cast my eyes away as I tried to recover from what was a small twinge to what had now erupted within me as a sound gut-punch - to my sternum.

“What’s wrong?” whispered my friend.

I looked over again. I could not. Stop. Looking…

…at my Dad.

This man looked exactly – head to toe – polyester to sideburns – like my dad.

And I could not bear it.

With each glance the waves of unrest erupted in a gulp, a sniff, a cough… until I was full on weeping.

“That man (gulp) looks like my dad!” I glanced again.

This time I was caught. The man caught my eye. He saw me staring, and re-staring, at him.

I looked away with a jerk as the tears exploded.

“Go through that door. There’s a bathroom. You can wipe your face,” my helper directed. I scanned for this magical door. But in order to go through that door I’d have to stand and walk down the center aisle to the front of the church and cut across the front row.

No. Just no.

So I remained there crying - until I stopped. I don’t know when I stopped. I don’t know when I resisted the urge to stare at the man I longed for who was never coming back but who had seen fit to make an appearance at this random church.

There was no discussion of this afterward. No one, as I recall, asked me what happened or what was wrong or offered any comfort. It was all rather embarrassing at the time. Surely I was just that kid’s friend who was a bad influence anyway and best not to engage. Can’t even take her to Mass.

So many find fault with a God who is referred to as Him or a man. For that matter so many find fault with Mary as mother or as, well, anything.

But this was a day God saw me and called to me, speaking the language the I would undoubtedly understand. Grabbing my attention in the way that could not fail.

I was in need of a father. My father. My dad. I had no religion and no desire to have one at that time. But that mattered little to God.

And on this day, God called to me and told me where my father… my Father…was to be found.

Sweet child. You are mine. You are my own. Here is what you don’t know but one day will realize by the seed I am planting right now. You will find your father…your Father… here, with me, IN me, at the altar, in my house. You will find him everywhere I am. He is not lost. He is present. He’s just across the aisle, though a little further ahead of you. He still catches your eye, and you are still the apple of his eye. Just across the aisle. I know it’s scary to pull yourself away, to come near the altar. I’ll wait. When you do, I’ll wipe your tears. I have a little flask. I’ll count them and save them. Not one tear will go to waste. They are diamonds to me. Your Father is in my house. Just across the aisle. Just across the aisle, just a little further ahead.

I see you. You are not alone. Neither is he.

When I was very little, about three or four as I recall, my Dad took me to the beach. We walked together out in to the waves which at one point reached up above my head. My Dad, holding tightly to my hand, would lift me way up above the waves as they came rolling in. At one point there was a wave that did not roll, but crashed in and engulfed me. My Dad never let go. He held so tight that even though the roll of the water demanded my surrender it would not be able to break the bond. And within a few moments I was above water again, though a bit shocked, looking at Dad, who was smiling at me.

Now I know that on that day in the church I was reminded that Dad will never let go.

Your dad… Your Father -

- will never let go.

---

Do you have a story or a memory of when you’d been seen but didn’t realize it til later? I’d like to hear.