I think I was shot.
I think I was shot.
I was praying in a garden yesterday. It wasn’t a natural garden. It was a man-made one, where they were buried according to custom. Returned to the dust from whence they were built. Oddly, I was praying about something that had happened there, not about the dead. My prayer went up to my Lord, His grace surrounding me up until the very moment he walked up.
I don’t remember him. At all really, he was faceless, but I knew his name. I knew what he was doing here, what he had done here. But my question was thus, what was he expecting? I called his name, and he questioned mine. I told him, and he laughed. Cackled, really, that sort of thing that comes about when you’re so excited about something that it wells up inside you and bursts forth. We might have had more words. He pulled a weapon from somewhere, probably beneath his clothing, or from a pocket. He aimed it in one hand at me. It was a small pistol. Suddenly convicted, I surged forth.
I must have pounced, I don’t know how I got into the air, but there I was, hurtling towards him at speed. I had only jumped perhaps three feet, but in the last moments, time moves more slowly. He shot me.
If you’ve ever been shot before, you know that the force of the bullet is such that it rocks your foundation, and you are pushed back possibly losing balance. You also know then, that at that point you lose all of the energy in your body, subsequently falling headfirst to the ground. Knowing this, and applying to the situation of being shot in mid-air, the slug entering your stomach an inch below your diaphragm, you see a slightly different scenario. The energy left my body, and the force of the slug slowed my decent, weakening my fall onto my assailant.
He shoved me off, onto my back. I looked up at the moon, rising early in the evening, its white glow expanding, expanding until I stood in quiet whiteness.
“Hello, son of man.”
“Hello.”
“Are you well, son of man?”
“Yes, I am well. What is your name?”
“Michael.”
“That’s my name.”
“I know.”
“It’s very warm here.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
“Ringing.”
“What?”
“Your phone is ringing.”
So it was. The moon had retracted back to its place, and my assailant stood over me, laughing. I saw him holding a cell phone in his hand. Mine was in my pocket, ringing.
After much effort I managed to pull it out and bring it up to my ear, pushing the middle button to answer the call.
“Micky!?”
I coughed, the gooey, coppery liquid stuck to my teeth.
“MICKY?!”
“Randi.” It was meek and labored, but it came out.
“Micky, where are you?!”
The garden.
“The graveyard.” So hard to speak, but I managed.
“What happened?!”
I couldn’t speak, the whiteness was returning. Michael now stood over me.
“Randi, I’ve got to go.”
“No!”
“Michael’s taking me home.”
“Stop it, I’m on my way.”
“I’m sorry, son of man, the Lord’s word is very clear. We must leave now.”
“Okay Michael.”
Yesterday, all of this transpired. I know it. This morning, Randi got high to try to get rid of the pain of loss. This afternoon, Daniel called my phone and she picked up. Rex picked Randi up from Kitten’s, they didn’t go to church.
Right now I’m with Him. Looking down from His presence at those people that I love, talking with Him about what is to come.
There is no fear here, no longing, but somehow I don’t want any of you to suffer. Do not mourn my passage, for death is not the end, but the beginning of life in the full.