Man on 44th Street says he has seen God.
I have never seen God myself, but I have seen some of His angels on occasion.
I think the sun may have tricked my eyes when this happened and I might have mistaken their wings for something else.
But I know I’ve seen them.
I have this reoccurring dream, though it’s been awhile since I’ve had it.
In the dream, I am on a hill, standing in a field with tall, wheat-like grass that bend and wave in the wind. The grass is tan and the height reach just above my knees. There is no one else around me and the sky is moments before the sun falls.
There is a tree at the top of the hill. Its branches are bare after an autumn’s season, and an early winter’s sunlight trickles through the branches.
I do not hear anything, but yet, something stirs and in an instant, thousands of tiny birds fly from the empty tree branches. Then the birds disperse, and quickly vanish.
I view this dream as a pure, childlike version of my faith’s curiosity . . .
And it’s enough to make me smile.
There is a small creek in an area of trees that run along the eastern side of the Meadowbrook Parkway and ends in a lake before the ramp at the Southern State. The water is mostly fed from the runoffs after heavy rains.
The creek is mostly dry in the winter months. Its sandy bottom are refuge to small trinkets of garbage like old cigarette packages, the occasional beer cans, soda cans, and of course, the discarded toys that wait to be discovered by a young boy like the one I used to be.
Along the creek’s bed, scattered boulders are the final resting places to items like fallen helium balloons with their once bright and colorful ribbons caught in the cracks of large rocks.
In springtime, the water begins to flow and the creek runs south towards the lake. I used to walk along this creek as a boy. I traveled through this wooded section with the Meadowbrook Parkway on one side of the trees, and suburban homes on the other. I walked through the woods for as long as I could with the sunshine filtering through the leaves that shuffled with the wind.
I did not feel as if I was close to home.
I felt like I was exploring someplace far away.
I found a ray gun once. It worked too. All it needed was some batteries and an imagination. Fortunately for me, I had them both.
I found a pocket knife once. I took it home and cleaned it. I oiled the hinge and the safety lock at the bottom of its handle. The knife had been forgotten; it laid there waiting to be found and used for its purpose. I found baseballs and an old flip-open cigarette lighter.
I have no idea how these small treasures found their way to the stretch of woods. I imagine the items I found had their own history. I suppose we all do and our history forgets itself, once we are found.
The best part of being a child is the ability to dream and imagine.
However, there is a child inside of me that wants to believe, but the adult at his shell tries to keep him quiet because he’s too afraid.
There is a child inside of me that wishes he never learned the truth about the tooth fairy. But the adult at his shell tells him to, “Keep it down,” in an angry voice. He says, “I have to keep my head on straight,” and the child inside has no other choice but to sit quietly until the adult at his shell has time to play.
After working a long overnight shift, I was reminded of my first pair of sneakers or at least my first pair that I was aware of. The sneakers were blue suede with a white design. They were called Zips and they were sold in a store called Buster Brown.
I thought I could run faster because of those shoes . . .
I thought I could jump higher too.
I have had many pairs of sneakers since that time. But none of them made me feel like that pair did . . . . like I could take on the world
There is a child inside of me that dreams with a pure heart.
And that’s a good thing.
It’s good because I need these dreams to keep me sane.
The dreams help break the armor long enough to hear the laughter from the child inside.
And it’s good to hear laughter from a child.
Otherwise, what is there?