A Glimpse of Eternal Life My heart pounds with anticipation as I step up to the ledge of Grand Canyon’s 7,000 foot plateau of the south rim. I scan the vistas of eroded reds, and purples, and yellow chiseled rock. My chest labors with a shortness of breath. I look away to suppress the moisture spilling from my eyes. I discretely look around at the faces of other tourists hoping that they will not see the tear cascading down my cheek. I am safe. They are too enthralled with the timeless carved sculpture standing before them to notice. It has been forty years since I have seen this sight as a ten year old. As a child this was interesting, but I quickly lost enthusiasm after a few minutes. Not today. Every time I look upon this grand sculpture of rock tears well up once again. I see the majestic patience of water against rock and thousands of generations. I wonder if this is a freak convergence of fate and time, all coming together in one geological moment or something more? Is this a silent monument of another type, a testimony for all generations? My life’s experiences over the last forty years speak to me that such order just doesn’t happen by chance. A farmer’s crops just don’t plant themselves and cultivate by random probabilities. I look back down to my right. I see a yellow strand of hair, a trail, winding down a mammoth finger of carved rock toward the valley floor. If I could see a man walking on the trail he would be but a speck. Scanning back to the left I see a piece of the mud red Colorado River flowing, ever cutting the canyon deeper. What did the first explorers think when they stepped up to this high desert ledge two hundred years ago? Before the paved roads, parking lots, visitor centers, and asphalt trails? My ears awaken as a young man, heavy with a French accent, asks me to take a picture of his family. Looking through the lens I see the canyon’s layers of red and purple and gold, outlined by the blue sky and wisps of white clouds in the background. I am stirred by the kaleidoscope of languages speaking in awe of the wonder of this place. I watch one person after another attempting to capture the canyon’s majesty with their cameras. But can a picture capture what we are witnessing here? Even a video camera cannot take in the overwhelming panorama saturating through my body. After taking in the canyon for a couple of hours I reluctantly walk back to the parking lot. The pressure of tears leaking from my eyes subsides. I look back but the sculptured canyon’s colors are out of view. I want to hold onto the experience but the memory of this picture fades. I can only see the scrubby trees lining the hot asphalt trail. The canyon is evaporating like water on the sand of the hot desert floor after a passing thunderstorm. I reluctantly smile at the realization. The painting of the monument behind me fades like water in my hand. It leaks out even as I try to tightly hold my fingers together. All I have left is a little bit of water in the hollow of my palm. Where did all the water go? Looking at the water in my hand I see back many years. I see the first few minutes of my first bicycle ride in the Casa Grande back yard. I remember pushing off the concrete block wall with one foot and staying on without falling for the first time. My finger touches the surface of water in my hand to recapture the exhilaration, but now it is only a tablespoon of water. I remember the first time I swam all the way across the swimming pool a couple blocks from that same childhood house. And then the water’s reflection illuminates the amazement on my young face the first time a hit a baseball. The water in my hand is diminishing. There is only a teaspoon left. The surface of water projects my first kiss and what I felt when we first held hands. After another moment of time there is only moisture on my palm. Why do experiences fade into nothingness? As the days turn into years and one season overtakes the last I so appreciate simple things. And yet I yearn to feel again the wetness of water cooling my hands. Walking back toward the car I see many people in their own somber thought, the water in their hands is almost gone too. A few minutes ago they chattered like children making a new discovery, posing for the camera and smiling as they snapped countless pictures. And now there is only quiet reflections dancing on the faces as they reluctantly get back into their cars. I lament at so many lost moments of life. Like camera pictures, only a fraction of the living moments remain. I ache to climb back in to that slice of time when I walked in the door to see my son Jesse, a week old, for the first time. I had just come home from being out to sea on a submarine. I had imagined this moment for so long. But as I stood at that open bedroom door all I could do was stare. I marveled at the tiny bundle of miraculous life, where did this come from? It was another Grand Canyon, one of thousands. I want to hold on to the tears in my eyes, but they have all vanished except for their shadows. Life, real life. I look back at my palm and only see dampness. Where does this substance of life go? Where is the reservoir of all these particles of water vapor that have evaporated from the palm of my hand? Where are the tears of joy? I want to find it and jump in. I want to float in them forever, with the sun warming my face. A thought spills into my mind. Is this what heaven is, an endless river of life’s wonderful experiences that never die… eternal life.
Posted on: Fri, 06 Sep 2013 10:17:49 +0000
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