by Bernard Brandt
As I have perhaps remarked once or twice, last year was rather tough for quite some time. I’ve been trying to get over it, either by self medication, or by prayer. Until quite recently, though, little seemed to work.
But on the night before last, I had a dream. It started out in the usual way: me driving in a car, my mother’s SUV. Then, suddenly, while I was stopped at a corner, my late wife Beth opened the door and got in. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen before, even in life. I was more filled with joy than on the day of our wedding. I got out of the car and held her, for the first time since her death.
And I asked her, “What kept you from coming for so long?” She said, “I just didn’t want to hurt you.” And I remembered a conversation that we had had years before, when she had said that she thought the reason why angels and the blessed dead did not appear to us more often is that their presence caused us both fear and sorrow, and they did not want us to suffer that.
I told her, “You will never hurt me by coming to me. Now I know that you’re alive.” And then she said, “I’ll see you again, then, when you need it.” And then the dream dissolved into a great light, and I woke up.
I went to Ride to Fly to volunteer again today, and I remembered all the times that she and I had been there. And I felt her presence there throughout my hours there. But this time, it did not hurt. For now I know, in my heart of hearts, that she is in a good place, and is alive. I don’t think I’ll have to drink myself to sleep any more.