Though half of the people in the store had the good sense to pretend that they weren’t watching, everyone attended to the happenings behind the fake fichus tree. Rosa had backed off at the nonverbal direction of her boss. She now stood with her comb poised over the head of a teenage boy, intending to work on his hair, eventually.
When Theresa called ten minutes later, Philly had not even had a chance to enter his name on the list for a haircut. On the other hand, he had seen evidence of three healings.
As he pulled himself free of a rejoicing grandmother, and waved at Rosa on the way out the door, he replied, “What time can I see you tonight?”
“Come to my house after three thirty,” Theresa suggested.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll spend some time at Grandma’s house until then.”
He didn’t really need a haircut very badly, anyway, so he didn’t go back in to start the process all over again. Who knows, he may have been busy there all day without ever feeling as much as comb touch his hair. He laughed at the scene, as it replayed in his head. And he really wanted to see Grandma, all of the sudden.
Philly called and warned Grandma that he was on his way. She sounded a bit distant, but from that distance she also sounded very happy to have Philly come to see her. Grandma greeted him, as usual, at the kitchen door, off of the driveway. She seemed to have reeled back into the present, from whatever exotic place she had visited before Philly called. It was just like old times; cookies and iced tea, catching up on the news—the reassuring bond between them still strong.
Looking into Grandma’s eyes, Philly detected some change, however, and the first thing that came to mind was her health. “Are you feeling alright, Grandma?” he said.
As if catching herself at some bad habit, Grandma winced slightly and shook her head. Then she smiled and replied, “I’m feeling quite well, Philly. I’m as healthy as I’ve been in twenty years.”
“What is it then?” he persisted.
Grandma took a big breath and scooted further back in her seat at the breakfast nook in her kitchen. “I’ve been listening and I’m hearing him still, Philly. I can still feel him in the room with me. And I go away with him sometimes, more and more it seems these days.” She tilted her head and looked at her grandson, assessing his strength to hear what she really wanted to say.
Forging ahead, Grandma said, “I’m an old lady. I’ve lived well past eighty years. We don’t have to say how far past,” she grinned. “And I’ve had a full life on this earth. But I know that he has a better life waiting for me where he is. And I’m feeling the pull into that world more strongly every day.”
Philly looked concerned and Grandma recognized that look.
“I’m not sick. What I’m talking about is not like that. It’s not that I feel bad, or regret living here. It’s just that I know, more clearly than ever, that there’s a better place for me and I’m ready to go there.”
Then Grandma looked at Philly, as if just realizing something, “And for you, young man, there’s a lot of living yet to do and you should go about doing it.”
In that last phrase, Philly heard confirmation that he should ask that question of Theresa. And, here again, Philly recognized the orienting and rejuvenating experience of hearing Jesus speak out loud to him, this time from Grandma’s mouth.
Grandma’s gravitational pull toward her heavenly home impressed Philly, who envied her clear desire for one true thing.
“This sounds like more than just more of this same feeling,” Philly commented. “You’re hearing something specific, aren’t you?”
Grandma nodded. “It won’t be long. Oh, not days, or maybe not even weeks, but certainly months. I expect this will be my last year on this Earth,” she said. And Philly saw again that look that had launched his concern. He knew it now as a look of sorrow mixed with hope, the sort of feeling no one could consciously mimic. And he was grateful for her pity on him, the source of her sorrow at the prospect of leaving, even in the middle of her own buoyed hope.
Again, Grandma took one of those purging deep breaths. “We must not talk about this anymore; and I want your promise not to tell anyone else. This is just for you and me, and Jesus.”
Without forethought or intention, Philly slipped forward in his chair and leaned over to hug Grandma, and then he let himself feel the loss that lay ahead. Within two or three minutes he was sitting up, wiping tears and blowing his nose on paper napkins and tissues. Grandma too, had to take off her glasses to wipe at her eyes, though she seemed to remain remarkably calm, even as she felt Philly’s pain.
Philly and Grandma generally talked about less weighty matters the rest of that day, even watching a few innings of the Cubs’ game, on TV. Philly did tell Grandma about what happened at the haircut place that day and about his talk with Dave Michaels before that. As usual, she made comments, but offered little advice and no criticism. In the quilt of Grandma’s contented life, Philly represented one of her favorite squares. And that, after all, was why Philly loved Grandma so much. Everyone needs to be somebody’s favorite.
When Philly got the call from his dad that November, just three and a half months later, and learned that Grandma had died in her sleep, he instantly pictured her flying like an angel toward Heaven, right past where the Russian cosmonaut couldn’t find it, to where Jesus and his Father would greet her once and for all.
In the days between, Philly became as familiar in the counseling center of the church as he was in the healing lines, with appointments twice a week, once with, and once without, Theresa. He had, of course, asked his question, and she had said, “Yes,” which explains the nature of their weekly counseling session together.
As the community center took shape, and Philly built a computer network and a computer training program for the neighbors, his chess team also developed. He enjoyed the kids even more than his network and found deep satisfaction from watching one particular boy discover his own genius at the game. Ricardo had no father at home and his grandfather, who had taught him chess, had died recently. To Philly, the stocky eleven-year-old looked like a boy he once knew, with a little darker skin, maybe, and the occasional spiky blue hair, just for fun.
In Ricardo, Philly saw a boy who needed someone to share his passion for the game, someone to understand him and to accept him just as he was. All of that Philly could give freely, because he had received the same, after he met a remarkable stranger on the bus one day.
Acknowledgment: Thanks again to my dear wife for reading an early draft and offering helpful suggestions. As always, I value your input, my love.
Seeing Jesus Page 29
