Growing up I had a doorway to adventure right in my
own bedroom. Well, it was really more of
a hatchway than a door. It led into the
attic. You had to be careful where you
stepped because there were some cross boards here and there but mostly you had
to balance on the ceiling joists. You
could only stand up in a few places because of the slanting ceiling. The season had to be just right. That’s because it was poorly insulated; in
the winter it was frigid, and in the summer, it was roasting in there. But several days each year there was the
perfect blend of mild weather, boredom and curiosity that lured me to explore
the hidden treasures of the attic.
It is still all stored in my memory – the Christmas
lights and decorations in one corner, Beatles memorabilia from my sisters in
that stack, the three wooden storage boxes that my father had made for older
brothers Jim, Gary and Tom when they spent summers working at Bear Paw Boy
Scout Camp. I especially liked to look
through the pictures taken long before I was born. Occasionally I would discover something
treasured long ago that spoke to my heart about being treasured again.
I remember one particular such successful
expedition. I think I was about
thirteen. Half-hidden, back behind my
Mom’s old cedar chest I found the box. I
had probably found it before. Afterall,
the attic was only so big. But this time
I decided to sort through the contents – a paperweight, an old folded up shirt,
an empty picture frame with a cracked corner.
Then I saw it. I stared at it for
a few seconds. Then I reached in to grab
it. It was a crucifix. It was small, maybe 8 inches. The wood had a neat alternating triangle design
and there was a little white plastic Jesus figure. I had never seen it before. I didn’t know whose wall it had hung on. I set it off to the side and kept searching
the box.
Shortly after though, my curiosity waned and my
stomach began to rumble. I carefully put
everything back in the box. I held the
crucifix and pondered. Somehow it didn’t
seem right to put Jesus back in the box.
I decided to keep him. On the far
end of my bedroom across from my bed there was a dresser my Dad had built. I propped the little crucifix up there; it
looked right. I smiled and went
downstairs to get some lunch.
That night I remember saying “goodnight” to Jesus and
I turned out the light. I woke up for
some reason several hours later and rolled over. As I fluffed my pillow, I saw it. There in the dark was something
otherworldly. It glowed kind of greenish-whitish
in the blackness. WHAT IS THAT!!! My heart pounded against my chest as if it
wanted out. I think I gasped in several
times until it finally occurred to me to also breathe back out. My gaze was locked on the strange glow. I pulled the covers up and waited for it to
pounce. WHAT IS THAT!!!
Whatever it was it didn’t move; it just hovered there
menacingly. I finally risked it all,
threw off the covers and sprang for the light.
I flipped the switch. I looked at
the dresser. There was nothing
there. Had I imagined it? I turned the light out and the glow
returned. Light on. Glow gone.
Light off. Glow on.?! Light on.
I reached over and grabbed the crucifix.
Light off – and the glow was in my hand.
My other worldly menace was a glow-in-the-dark Jesus! I placed him face down on the dresser and
went back to bed. I put the crucifix
back in the box in the attic in the morning.
I just wasn’t ready.
His Peace,
Deacon Dan
Comments
Post a Comment