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Pictured in the black and white postcard, a leggy blond leaned into the driver side of a beat up pickup truck. Its license plate read “Taos.” Jerry flipped the postcard over: Hey Jerry, Your soul mate lives in Taos! Although it was unsigned, with its Soquel, California postmark, Jerry knew who sent it.

Sean was a retired Methodist minister Jerry had met at the “Who I Am, I Must Become” workshop. While they were lunching, Sean pulled out of his pocket a crinkled old post card of his church in Soquel, California. 

“We’re celebrating our centennial,” he said. “My father preached here. Now I do. Life is poetic, don’t you think?”

“Then my life is a haiku,” said Jerry.

Sean about spit out his teeth.

“My wife passed away last year,” he continued. “We were married 41 years. I was just back from the war, and my parents set me up on a blind date. I picked her up in my Chevy, and she slid right over next to me. We had a great time at the movie, and we stayed up talking for hours. I married her three months later. She was my soul mate. It was meant to be. Have you met yours?”

“No.”

“Well, you will.” 

Jerry smiled as he recalled their conversation. He tossed the postcard onto his kitchen table and headed off to work.

When he got to the Salal, parked in front was a muddied Land Rover sporting a bumper sticker: “I ❤️Taos.”

Hmmm.

After work, Jerry headed off to the library to do some research. He found a New York Times travel piece that described Taos as a favorite ski spot in New Mexico, a haven for hippies and artists and the location of an energy vortex. Say what? “Vortexes are areas of high energy concentrations, originating from magnetic, spiritual, or sometimes unknown sources. Additionally they are considered to be gateways or portals to other realms, both spiritual and dimensional.”

Hmmm.

* * *

Jerry threw his duffle bag into the car, piled in and headed southeast. Pouring out of his self-installed, beefed up sound system, Beethoven’s Fifth rended the heavens asunder. Prairie lands spread out before him with the snow capped Cascades in the distance. 

When he could drive no longer, he pulled off the highway and parked next to a corn field. He got out to stretch his legs. The quiet was palpable. A chill clung to him. He peed and hustled back into his car. 

From the northern horizon, a green fluorescent curtain undulated across the sky. He stumbled back out of his car to get a better look. From the zenith, shafts colored marigold, rose and daffodil shot forth in all directions. Jerry’s jaw dropped. He was mesmerized. It must be a sign from God telling him he’s on the right track.

He was nervous about this mystic journey. Until recently, his life had been all planned out: college, seminary, ordination. All he had to do was execute. His future looked bright. He had a fat Presbyterian pension ahead. Only one thing missing: God.

Now he was off that road, determined to find Him, guided forward by nothing more than a hunch. Was this living by faith? Were signs like these Northern Lights God’s way of communicating for those who have ears to hear and eyes to see? 

He was excited and scared. How alive he felt, how energized. Maybe he really would find his soul mate in Taos. 

Still, another part of him considered this trip a fool’s errand and couldn’t wait to tell him so when he came up empty, and then admonish him to get back on that sensible path. 

He climbed back into his primordial cave. Sleep came quickly, and when he awoke, the sun, peeking above the horizon, cast a golden glow on a field of bleached corn stalks. Frost sparkled on the hood. 

It took a few minutes to get the feeling back into his right side, but shortly, he was back on the highway getting warmed up by the car heater.

As day turned to night, the two lane road contracted into one. It wended its way higher and higher up onto the mesa. Jerry’s internal alarm blared: Danger, danger!

He entered Taos and parked beside a plaza. Unfolding himself gingerly out of the car, he straightened up. If there was an energy vortex here, he sure didn’t feel it. Peering into the dark, he made out a run-down hardware store, a market and an art gallery. The lights were on at the Alley Cantina.  He wandered in. Its TV screens were all tuned into the sixth game of the World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the New York Mets. 

Jerry approached the only table that wasn’t transfixed on the game.

“I’m looking for my soul mate. Have you seen her?” he asked with a straight face.

An impressive number of martini glasses accessorized the table. 

“Soul mate, shmole mate, sit down stranger, you’ll do,” said the woman nearest him. The other two women cackled. Jerry took a seat.

“I don’t believe in any of that crap,” she said. “Here have a drink. It’s on my husband’s, I mean, my ex-husband’s credit card. We’re celebrating my divorce. Even a therapist couldn’t make it work. And I’m a good one too. I’ve helped a lot of women out of abusive relationships.” 

Her multicolored friendship bracelets slid down her tanned forearm as she dangled a martini glass toward a waiter. “Doreen, you’ve got to listen to Ramtha. He really helped me through this.” 

“Toni, I’m totally into channeling,” said Doreen. “I’m doing the workbook for A Course in Miracles. It’s 365 lessons, one for each day, and, at the end of it, you achieve happiness. Did you try these stuffed mushrooms? They are to die for.” 

“I smudged my home,” said Toni. “Burned up half a bundle. White sage, the good stuff. Finally, I can breathe again.”

Jerry jumped in. “So, do any of you believe in God?” 

The conversation needle scratched to a stop. 

“That word, just that word, makes me angry,” Toni said. “I was raised Catholic, and that messed me up good, so I found my higher power on my own.”

“But do you have a personal relationship with your higher power?” Jerry asked.

Toni handed the waiter her empty glass and nodded towards Jerry.

“Sparkling water, thanks.”

“When I sit after yoga, I feel the Om. It’s intense. I feel Her presence; I feel her compassion,” said Toni.

“Can you channel Her?” Doreen asked.

“No. I don’t hear words.”

“You’re not going to believe this,” said the third woman, silent until now. She patted her lips with her napkin. “I was raised a Jehovah’s Witness. When I started living with my boyfriend all hell broke loose. The leaders banned me from the fold; I was excommunicated. They forbid my parents to speak with me. I missed Mom so much, and she missed me. We started having secret rendezvous’s. Can you believe it? A secret rendezvous with your mom? I was done with that church. Now, I’m a seeker. That’s why I’m in Taos.”

“That’s insane, Bobbi” said Toni. “I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this. I was raised a Moonie. My parents act like children. They don’t have a mind of their own. They do whatever Rev. Moon proclaims. I got out. My parents aren’t supposed to speak to me either.”

“Yeah, I have some serious issues with my parents too,” said Jerry. “But, you know, Jesus said you have to hate your mother and your father in order to be his disciple, so maybe we’re all being shoved in the right direction, I mean, to be closer to God.”

“What?” asked Toni. The bar had turned raucous as a ground ball squirted through a first baseman’s legs. 

“GOD ISN’T DEAD!” yelled Jerry into the now quiet bar. Everybody turned to see who said so. Jerry felt his cheeks burn. He smiled coyly and waved. “Anyway I’m going to Jerusalem to find Him.”

They all looked at him nonplussed. 

“Like Israel?” Toni asked.

“Right,” said Jerry. “I had an inspiration last Christmas. If I wanted to find God, go to Jerusalem at Christmas.”

“Don’t you mean Bethlehem?” asked Bobbi.

“That’s what my Dad said,” said Jerry glumly. “I only know what I heard and that’s what I heard.”

Toni suddenly stood up. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

Jerry trekked to the edge of town. Down a dirt road, he found the trailer. 

The psychic Maggie only accepted walk-ins. He crossed his fingers hoping his timing was right. He knocked. She stood in the shadow of the open door, sizing him up. With a husky voice, she said, “Enter.” 

The odor of stale tobacco pierced Jerry’s nostrils. When his eyes adjusted—all the blinds were drawn—he noticed her muumuu emblazoned with small, black and white cows, smiling cows, some upside down, some right side up, floating about in a blue sky with puffy clouds. Her hair was a rat’s nest, dyed raven with extensive gray roots; her face, wobbly; her skin, mottled; her eyes, intense spots of focus.

A black cat dashed out of the living room and zipped down the hallway.

“Have a seat.” She motioned to everywhere. “I gotta grab my Coke.”

Jerry navigated around a pile of Life magazines with John F. Kennedy’s grin on top, past another of National Geographics poised to topple and a third of the Port Townsend Leader newspaper. He found some available floor space next to a scratched up Lazy Boy. On a coffee table, a ceramic ashtray crammed with cigarette buts was a veritable art d’object. A small tv with rabbit ears trimmed with aluminum foil balanced on a collapsible table. 

Over in the kitchen, grocery bags stood in a row, one full of empty cat food cans, another, TV dinner trays, and another, Coke cans.

Maggie returned with a fresh cigarette and a can of Coke. 

She flopped onto the Lazy Boy, then turned her gaze on Jerry, as if discovering something out of place. After a thorough once over, she settled into his eyes and smiled. 

“You seem troubled,” she cooed.

Jerry nodded. “I’m a little embarrassed to talk about it because it sounds crazy.”

“Honey, don’t you worry. You can’t sound crazy here.” She acknowledged her surroundings with a glide of her hand and let out an explosive belly laugh. Jerry stared at the dancing cows.

“See, I’ve been on this spiritual journey,” he continued.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah. Except I feel like it’s time to get back to the business of life.”

“Right. Business of life.”

“I thought you could tell me what to do?”

She let out another ferocious laugh, smoke spewing out of her mouth and nose, skin jiggling every which way. “Honey, look at me.” She launched into another gale of laughter. 

“Well, I want to go to Jerusalem. So that’s a problem. See, I think maybe God is calling me there, but I’m not sure.” 

“OK.”

“And word is you have the gift of discernment.”

“Yeah.”

“So, like I said, I thought you could tell me what to do.”

“Hand.” She extended her hand, and he gawked at its size, each finger a tree trunk emanating from a helipad for placing his own hand. When he complied, a jolt of electricity coursed up his arm and through his body. She turned it over and flattened out his palm. 

“Hmmmm. You have a very pronounced destiny line.”

After a long drag on her cigarette, she stubbed it into the ashtray. She placed a pad on her lap, tightly held Jerry’s hand, readied her Bic pen and closed her eyes.

After 30 seconds she wrote furiously which continued unabated forten minutes, then stopped. She slumped back into her chair and dropped into a deep sleep. 

Jerry waited, not moving. Just when he thought he should leave, she jerked up, grabbed a cigarette and lit up.

She exhaled a plume of smoke and said, “Sorry.”

“What.”

“Shit.”

“What about it?”

“Too much shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s all I see. Just a bunch of deep doo doo.”

“So what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Because it hasn’t happened yet.” Out erupted more laughter, with cigarette sparks and ash flying.

And this time Jerry joined her. Yes, it was truly funny, all of it, talking with God, going to Jerusalem, it was really, really funny, his life. They laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down.

“Ooooh boy, that’s a good one,” she said.

She took three quick drags on her cigarette like she was a train chugging up a mountain. 

“Look, I feel you drowning. You’re fighting for your life. I get it. There’s something big coming up, and it’s not Jerusalem. It’s your shit. It’s big. That’s why I can’t see past it.

“As for going, there’s only one person who can make that decision.”

You, she mouthed soundlessly blowing a perfect smoke ring his way.  

***

“So, this is what’s next for you in your journey,” said Ken with a smile.

 Jerry occupied the now familiar leather chair in Ken’s office. Through the window, he admired Mt. Baker which stood free of all cloud cover. 

“It’s my mountaintop experience,” Jerry said. “I’m all in.” He had packed every double shift he could into the past year and now Christmas was drawing close. It was time.

“You decided.”

“I decided.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure. No, of course not, but I’m going, what the hell.”

“Why?”

“Zihuatanejo.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Heaven on earth. I thought it was here. And it is. But it’s there too, in Jerusalem, for me, and I need to go.”

Ken nodded. Under his hooded eyes there was a sweet sparkle. He dashed some notes in his notebook, snapped his book shut, stood up and extended his hand.

“Godspeed.”

They shook hands, then after a momentary awkwardness, Ken came around his desk and they laid into a hearty hug.

“Drop me a postcard,” he said.

On the morning of the winter solstice, when all was black, Jerry opened his front door and tripped over a box. “A Gift for You From Harry and David,” the sticker read.

Before the box was even opened, family memories spilled forth. His dad used this fruit mail order company at Christmas time for his top clients and always included his own family.  Jerry recalled his excitement over the tower of bright colored boxes tied with wide, red ribbon. Each box brimmed with delectables: apples, pears, almonds, cheese, chocolate truffles and more.

However, this tripped-over box was different, about three feet high and narrow. He carried it upstairs, stuck a knife in its sides and pulled out a live Christmas tree, full of branches perfectly tapered. A note hung on the top which read “Missing you. Love, Mom and Dad.” 

He reached back in the box and retrieved a set of lights and two boxes of Christmas ornaments. In moments, white twinkly lights laced the tree, while silver and red chrome balls hung from its branches. He admired his Christmas wonder, then dashed off to work.

That night, he melted into his rocking chair with a steaming cup of chamomile tea and gazed at his Charlie Brown tree. What a contrast to the robust trees of his youth loaded with heavy ornaments and bulbous lights. They anchored sleepless Christmas Eves. Christmas mornings he tumbled down the stairs and gasped at the bounty of wrapped gifts, then he madly ripped them open to unveil his new treasures.

Now here he was, 27, in a nowhere town, with a nowhere job, surviving below poverty level, with no sitings of the divine, one siting of the northern lights, and a profound loneliness. 

Maybe dad was right. Maybe he was way off course.

He was so tired of it all.

At this outpost, it would be easy to disappear. Forever. Who would know? Who would care? Just one less grain of sand in the galaxy.

Why not jump off the balcony. Or put my head in the gas oven.

Come to Jerusalem next Christmas.

Who said that? Was that God? Or was that me? 

And if that was God, do I have the guts to respond? 

Why should I go?

Is this really a time to ask questions? You’re considering offing yourself and this call is saving your life. You’re going to question that? 

It was like a dare. Is he all in for God or not? Is he willing to do whatever He asks or not? 

What do you have to lose?

Uhhhh.

Anything else going on?

Uhhhh.

Well then…

The Holy Land or bust!

He laughed out loud.

Yes, I will go!

His spirit brightened. 

He suddenly felt like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol flinging wide the window shutters and shouting down to the orphan boy below. 

You there! What day is this? 

Why it’s Christmas, sir.

Oh, for joy, I haven’t missed it! Go fetch me the fattest turkey you can find!

Yes, sir!

***

“Don’t you mean Bethlehem?” said his dad icily on the phone.

Jerry hadn’t thought about that and his dad was right. If he was going to Israel for Christmas, the place to be was Bethlehem, the birth place of Jesus, not Jerusalem.

“I’ll be sure to go there too.”

“Where do you think this is going to take you?”

“Closer to God.”

“Jerry, when is this going to end?”

“Never, so I’d appreciate you not giving me a hard time, OK?”

He was silent.

“Dad?”

“That’s it, Jerry. If you go, then I am cutting you off from the family. You are wasting your life, and I refuse to enable this insanity any longer.”

“I thought you and mom would understand. Finding God. Don’t you think that’s important?”

“Not this way. You find God by being a responsible member of society. You find a job. You serve.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I don’t, and I’m done.” He hung up.

***

“Jerry, there’s no way your congregation expected this to go this long and with no end in sight,” said an agitated Bryce.

“It’s the last leg. I promise. This is my Hajj, my Camino de Santiago.”

“You’re what? You’re what? Look, you go to the Holy Land when you retire and on a tour bus. There are millions of fulfilled Christians all over the world who have never been there and never will be there. Why do you think you have to go there to find God?”

“I’m the doubting Thomas who needs to lay his hands on the stigmata.”

“You what?”

“Yeah, I know, I’m not sure what that means either.” 

They both burst out laughing.

“Look Jerry, you don’t know what an advocate you’ve had here. But I gotta cut you loose. The congregation wants to create a search committee and move on. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll learn much from your trip, but you can’t have it all. There’s a cost for every action, and the cost of this trip is your job.”

***

Was God really calling him to Jerusalem?

There’s a fine line between devotion and delusion.

Jerry pondered this back in his rocking chair. One voice scolded him, agreeing with his father, telling him he was crazy to consider such an irresponsible action. Another voice encouraged him, admonishing him not to question what God asks.

The audacity of hearing God’s voice. When his Princeton peers were commanding pulpits, buying homes and having their first child if not their second, here he was receiving food stamps, eating government cheese and rice, grossing $12,000 a year and alone.

Still, there was something real about all this. He did hear the idea. This was not some intellectual thought. His waking days were more and more a constant awareness of the God-ness in all things. Port Townsend, April included, had awakened his senses. It was a new foundation of faith that incorporated his body as well as his mind.

Still, with his former life, he could see his future so clearly, from assistant to senior minister, marriage, three children, retired grandparent with a fat pension and burial in a nice plot next to his wife’s.

With this new life, he could barely see tomorrow. His future was determined by inspiration without a clear picture of where he was going. But wasn’t this the clearest picture of all: staying true to his inner voice? And perhaps this was the voice of God. He was the only one who could hear it, and he was the only one who could champion it. The former self with all its trappings of job promotion and pension security was fake based; this was faith based.

On the other hand, life was comfortable in Port Townsend. Why upend it? What was he trying to prove by going to Jerusalem? Wasn’t God everywhere?

He was stuck.

“Where’s April?” Jerry asked Bill.

“Country Fair,” he grumbled.

Jerry asked around and learned that the Country Fair in Eugene, Oregon sprung out of Ken Kesey’s tripped out imagination in 1969, “The Summer of Love.” From its hippie, anti-establishment beginnings, it was now a town sanctioned weekend of music, dance and merriment. 

Jerry rearranged his work schedule, packed his backpack, hopped in his car and set off. Eugene was down Interstate 5 and by late afternoon he pulled into its co-op to grab some food. 

As he moseyed into the store, April strolled out.

“Whoa. What are you doing here?” she said doing a double take.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jerry said with a beaming smile.

“You’ve gotta stop meeting me like this.”

Jerry realized why. Coming out of the store was a guy who sidled up next to her. He was the quintessential Pacific Northwestern male: scruffy beard, long curly brown hair, soulful eyes, slender frame, flannel shirt, beat up jeans, hiking boots laced but not tied, pierced ear. 

“Gary, Jerry,” April said.

Jerry gagged on the awkward moment. “Hey, Gary.”

“Jerry’s a friend of mine from Port Townsend,” she said. She turned to Jerry, “So, I guess we’ll be seeing you around. Are you camping on the grounds?” 

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Why don’t you follow us. We’ll show you the ropes,” said Gary.

“Great.”

They wended their way down a dirt road strewn with potholes. Jerry’s car bottomed out several times. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Maybe he’s just a friend, he thought. Fat chance. 

They pulled into a field for parking. Jerry’s VW Dasher stood out amidst a sea of Volvos, Subarus and Saabs, with a healthy sprinkling of classic VW buses and converted school buses painted in swirling colors. As he headed towards the fair grounds, he spotted bumper stickers like Question Authority, Imagine Peace, Arms Are For Hugging and Darwin squeezed inside the Jesus fish. 

April led Jerry to where they were camped.

Jerry said, “Ok, this is a little weird. Sorry to just crash in like this.”

“I’m not sure what you’re expecting. Are you expecting anything?”

“Welllll,” he said sheepishly.

“OK, I’m hooked up with Gary, just so you know.”

“I thought we were going somewhere.”

“And where did you think we were going?”

“Towards…something.”

“You don’t even know what to call it. No can do. I want someone who knows what’s going on. Towards being a couple. I think that was the word you were searching for. And couple is an active verb. It takes work.”

“Good to know.”

They eyed each other. Jerry anticipated more foul tasting medicine that was good for him, but it didn’t come.

April’s eyes softened. She pushed Jerry in the shoulder and smiled. “C’mon,” she said.

Together they walked off. Young families with their Baby Bjorn carriers (worn by the husbands) and Eddie Bauer threads strolled the grounds.  Workshops included “Beginning Reiki” and “So You Want to Commit Civil Disobedience.” Vendors hawked nose flutes and Raku pottery.

They sat in with a group exploring Rebirthing. 

“Breathe deep and as fast as you can,” said the soft spoken leader. 

Jerry complied and became lightheaded. In this woozy state his mind chattered: Put it together, Jerry, put it together. You’re no partner, says April. You’re just looking for a Mommy, says Chris. 

Your penis is an umbilical cord!

Wow, where does he come up with this stuff, he thought.

“Now go back to the moment you were born,” she said in an hypnotic drone. “Try to relive it.”

 I’m looking for Mommy. 

Moans arose around him.

This is complete bullshit!

He got up and walked over to Gary standing on the side.

“Shrooms, man. Enjoy,” nodded Gary holding out what looked like some forgotten food scrap picked up off the floor.

He gagged down what tasted like moldy dirt and hoped he wouldn’t puke. 

They wandered around the eating area, considering such alt choices as tofu reubens and nut burgers. Jerry savored a papaya/banana smoothie which towards the end mutated into a glacial flow creeping down his gullet. 

As they headed over to the main stage, Jerry felt like he was wrapped in velvet only it was inside his skin. They headed towards the front, amidst hundreds of people packed together. The band launched into its first number. With his back to the stage, Jerry opened wide his arms in an air embrace with the entire crowd. Tears streamed down his face. 

These people are so beautiful, he thought. Oh, wow! All the heads are nodding in unison! Look! There are three tie-dyed shirts in a row! 

A beach ball appeared. Its caroming flight riveted him. 

The band broke into a cover of The Allman Brothers’ “Jessica.” He turned around and danced in gooey euphoria.

As the sun set, an announcer thanked everyone for coming and informed them that the grounds were closing. April grabbed Jerry’s hand and pulled him into the woods where they hid. A human chain of security corralled stragglers towards the exit. When all was clear, they returned to the open grounds where now only the vendors remained.

The food stalls were still going full tilt as the people working the stands took their meal break. Jerry felt weak, not having eaten anything solid since morning. His burrito never tasted so good. Then they returned to their tents for extra clothes. With the sun down, the air grew chilly. Jerry’s body felt porous. Cold air wrapped around his organs. He pulled on an extra t-shirt, flannel shirt, sweat shirt and wrapped a blanket around him.

Tonight was Midnight Madness, a show put on by the performers just for the vendors.  They headed over to the stage and found a patch of dirt close to the front. Out pranced the Flying Karamazov Brothers. They juggled chairs, chain saws and bowling balls while keeping a running banter going. Jerry gasped for air while drowning in laughter. 

Next Spoon Man whacked his body with two spoons held together by each hand, a tour de force of maniacal clickety clack. When both hands were going it was like tap dancing with spoons, and then when he was really going, he became a blur of motion, hitting his cheeks, stomach, legs, whirring around in syncopated rhythm.

A sword swallower plunged a two foot steel sword down his throat. His diaphragm struggled for air and his neck veins bulged as he shoved this weapon further and further down his throat. 

A knife thrower hurled knives at his wife and a magician pulled ooh’s and aah’s out of everyone. Finally dueling banjos set the house on fire.

Gary, April and Jerry headed back toward their tents by way of a throbbing drum circle and sweat lodge. 

“Let’s go in. I’m cold,” April said. Gary and Jerry followed.

They hung their clothes up on pegs and entered the canvas dwelling much larger than the teepee in Deborah’s backyard. There were tiered benches on three sides and red hot rocks in the center. A flickering lantern hanging from the top cast a golden glow. They selected the lowest bench and sat in silence. 

Gary hopped behind April and massaged her shoulders. His hands slid down her sweat slicked arms grazing the sides of her breasts then moved back up again, then they languidly descended the front of her chest.

Jerry pulled Gary’s hand away.

Gary considered him, then smiled. He continued doing the exact same thing.  

Jerry yanked his arm away. “That’s not cool.”

Gary’s eyes turned into lava. “Back off,” he growled.

“Leave her alone.” 

A hand pushed hard on Jerry’s chest. It was April’s.

She pushed him outside the tent. Glistening hot skin, they stood face to face. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“He’s putting the moves on you.”

“So?”

“He’s taking advantage of you.”

“That’s not your call. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. You know what? This is too weird. You need to leave.”

“I want to be with you.”

“Just leave before this gets ugly.”

“He doesn’t care about you.”

“As if you do.”

Jerry grabbed his clothes, wrapped the blanket around himself and straggled away.

He crawled into his tent and into his sleeping bag. No position was comfortable; the ground was too hard. Nausea threatened to get the best of him, and a headache clamped down hard.

He heard the zipper of April’s tent and lowered voices, then soft laughter. His heart climbed into his throat. He knew where this was going. 

He had to shit real bad. Racing barefoot over to the restroom, he winced at every sharp pebble.

When he returned, as if he were being chased by a giant mosquito, he zoomed into hyper motion. He couldn’t break down his tent fast enough. He didn’t even bother rolling up his sleeping bag. He draped it over his shoulder, grabbed his tent bag and back pack and sprinted to his car.

As the car squealed out of the dusty driveway, pale light emanated from the horizon. His senses screamed; his head throbbed. He grabbed some acrid coffee from a gas station and barreled on.

Four hours later, he collapsed onto his futon and fell into a black out sleep.

Jerry hadn’t attended a worship service since he walked out on his own. Easter was around the corner. Like a sudden craving for a beloved food he hadn’t had in too long, he wanted to go. He glanced through the church ads in The Port Townsend Leader. “The Little Church, a non-denomination house of worship. No matter where you are in your spiritual journey, this is a safe place to take the next step.”

He rolled up its long, dirt driveway in a thickly forested area, parked his car and proceeded into a building that looked like it was part of a low income housing project. Inside a band played from the chancel with an electric guitar and bass, keyboard and full drum set. Three women before mike stands sang and swayed. Up above, a screen projected the lyrics. 

The place was packed. Families, youngsters, retired folk, simple, humble, filled the pews. No ties and jackets here. Jerry found a seat in a back pew. The worship bulletin informed him this was the first Sunday of Lent and the sermon was titled Does Jesus Have Anger Issues? A sermon on anger: synchronicity. Jerry smiled. 

The pastor stepped into the pulpit. In his 30s, his black hair slicked back, broad shoulders filled out a floral Hawaiian shirt. His dark eyes took in the congregation.

“I am reading from Matthew 21:12-13: ‘Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves.  ‘It is written,’ he said to them, ‘My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of robbers.’”

The pastor looked up from his Bible. “When I was a young man and not yet a Christian, I ran with a tough crowd. I rode a motorcycle and was a member of a biker gang. I lived in a rough neighborhood. Across from my dingy apartment lived another biker. He was huge. I thought I was pretty big, but this guy dwarfed me. He was a mean mother… and I can’t say the next word in this holy place.”

The congregation cracked up.

“If I crossed this guy, he could make my life miserable.

“Our scripture today marks the beginning of Jesus’ triumphant and final return into Jerusalem. And Jesus, who is usually cool, calm and collected, loses it.

“Given how important Jesus is in our lives, shouldn’t we want to know what made him so mad? Like how it was important for me to know that about my neighbor so he wouldn’t waste me.”

“You tell ‘em, brother,” called out a parishoner. 

“If Jesus knocked on your door, entered your temple, would he get mad? Would he start throwing things around? 

“As we prepare for Easter Sunday, this Lent, let’s take inventory of our house, our temple. Let’s clean up. Let’s give it a good Spring cleaning. Amen.”

Many from the congregation responded, “Amen.”

“Now is the time to let Jesus into your life. No matter who you are, no matter how bad you think you are, if you want Jesus in your life, then come on down this aisle and say yes to Jesus.” 

Why not me? Why not now? I want Jesus in my life. He’s offering Jesus. Should I go? There’s no time for thinking. Anyway I spent three years thinking. And where did that get me? I’m sick of thinking. Time to offer my body.

His knees shook. The band wailed. The congregation rose to its feet clapping, many slapping Jerry on the back as he drifted towards the front. One woman spoke in tongues. Another large lady jumped into the aisle and danced, jumping back and forth on her feet, her arms flailing, almost whacking Jerry in the face, but he lurched out of the way just in time.

He reached the front with some others. “What’s your name son?” asked the minister.

“Jerry.”

He planted his cool palm on Jerry’s forehead. “The blood of Jesus wash away your sins. Receive the baptism. Be washed anew. In the name of Jesus, amen.” He pushed back on Jerry while elders stood behind ready to catch him. Jerry stayed put. The minister moved on to the next person, who fell backwards. Jerry felt like he missed his cue.

“I’m so happy we have brought these people to Jesus,” shouted the preacher to the congregation.

Shouts of “Praise god,” “Thank you, Jesus,” “Hallelujah,” “Amen” answered back.

“Let us pray for these saved souls.” 

Jerry floated back to his pew.

When the service ended, Jerry gazed at the plain wood cross hanging over the chancel. Sun streamed through the windows on one side casting shafts of light down onto the blood red carpet below.

He felt a small tug at his shirtsleeve. A small girl stood next to him. She had blond hair, a toothy smile, clear blue eyes, and a deformed arm about one half the length of her other, ending in a partial hand consisting of two fingers and a thumb.

With her deformed hand she gave him a broken egg shell painted gold. Emerging from the egg was a yellow marshmallow with cloves for eyes and a paper beak, a little baby bird. 

“I’m so happy you met Jesus today,” she said, smiling up at him.

Air blowing in his face as he drove home was all Jerry needed to restore cold reason to its throne. Although he was impressed by his bold move to answer the pastor’s call, he also knew he did not meet Jesus today. Then again, who was that little girl?

***

Jerry awakened on Easter Sunday. Something was astir. The call to respond rang forth again.

White lilies filled the front of the chancel of the Presbyterian church down the street from him. A robust choir squeezed into its sides. And a brass quartet announced the good news from the center. 

Jerry fed on the service like comfort food, it resonated so deeply with him. Yes, this was a home familiar to him and perhaps a way to his home within.

The woman minister announced, “We now turn to this table. We invite you to participate.”

Jerry had never felt comfortable about communion. Eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking his blood rang so pagan. He doubted Jesus instituted the tradition. The early church fathers cooked it up in order to give them power: they had something others could not have on their own.

Yet a yearning rose from his belly. As he headed with other worshippers towards the alter, the congregation sang:

Shall we gather at the river?

Where bright angel feet have trod

With its crystal tide forever

Flowing by the throne of God

Yes, we’ll gather at the river

The beautiful, the beautiful river

Gather with the saints at the river

That flows by the throne of God

Soon we’ll reach the shining river

Soon our pilgrimage will cease

Soon our happy hearts will quiver

With the melody of peace

Yes, we’ll gather at the river

The beautiful, the beautiful river

Gather with the saints at the river

That flows by the throne of God

He dropped to his knees. Into his supplicant hands the woman pressed a thin wafer. She leaned in and whispered, “The body of Christ broken for you.”

His skin tingled; his eyes moistened. He placed the desert dry fragment into his mouth.

She returned with the cup from which Jerry tasted the sour bite of wine. “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” she said. He felt her breath.

Tears fell. Indeed something was astir. Walls dissipated, commingling commenced, everything outside was now inside, everything inside was now outside. It was like meditating when he reached mindlessness and nothing was held onto, not a thought, not a moment, just an awareness of flow. He was part of a seamless fabric.

He returned to his place. Let it be; let it be. Quiet the mind, he counseled. This is your body talking. And from the vast, loamy fields of his heart, not the turret of his brain, a tiny seed sprouted.

It was a Salal lunch rush and Jerry, a caffeinated, newly anointed prep cook, sweated profusely. Eight order tickets hung over him fluttering in a wind caused by the crew’s frantic movement. 

Bill stood on the other side of the pass-through, still as the egret Jerry had seen the other day. He studied his order book.

“Bill, can you get this order?” Jerry called. His super quesadilla with all the extras wilted under the heat lamp. 

Bill didn’t even look up.

“Bill! Pick up! Now!”

 Bill sailed around the pass through and shoved Jerry. Jerry stumbled backwards, then righted himself and rocketed back into Bill’s face. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Bill’s eyes smoldered. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Henry pushed the two of them apart. “Guys, we got lunches to serve.” 

The two separated. Bill shoved his order book into his back pocket and grabbed the lunch order. 

Jerry never did like Bill. He was such a galoof. He drank beer, hardly talked, always wore a baseball cap. Yet he was dating the restaurant’s accountant, a Stanford graduate. How was that possible?

If it had come to blows, Bill would have wasted him. What the hell had he been thinking?

The next day during his breakfast shift as waiter, Jerry put on William Ackerman’s acoustic guitar music then slipped out back to the ice machine. When he returned, Led Zeppelin blared. 

He launched into Henry. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m playing good music, not that sissy crap.” 

“That’s not what the customers want. They want something relaxing. It’s not Friday night.”

“They like hard rock. Anyway, I’ve worked here longer. I’ve got seniority.” 

“Screw you.”

“What did you say?”

“Screw you.”

“Why don’t you just leave. You’re not one of us.”

“At least turn it down a notch.”

Jerry wanted to kick the shit out of somebody.

That night, back at his apartment, he dragged his sleeping bag out onto the balcony. He gazed at the myriad stars. Though it was the same show, in its forever season, he never tired of it. The back and forth lapping of the nearby strait lulled him to sleep.

In the morning, he walked over to Chetzamoka Park. No one was there. He planted himself in the center of the gazebo and closed his eyes. In the distance, the faint bong of a buoy marked the beginning of his sit. Quiet embraced him, and the Buddhist ohm became an ahh of contentment. He entered a deep state of meditation. When he was done, he rose and left. It was Sunday; church was over.

Later he picked up April by bicycle. They stopped at the Co-Op and grabbed some picnic items: sparkling water, plump grapes, rustic bread, Brie and salami. Jerry stowed it away in his backpack. Off they headed to Fort Warden, a former military training ground, now a state run cultural center and park. 

Leaving their bikes, they picked up a trail that wended its way through the thick woods and headed towards the bluff. Along the way they explored a bunker, dank and dark, with slits through which to spy outside. They veered off the trail onto a much less used spur that led them to the wood’s edge. A pond lay ahead in a field of tall grass. A few cows loitered; an egret balanced motionless at the water’s edge. 

April draped a blanket on a clear spot. Jerry pulled out the food. 

“I have something for you,” said Jerry.

From a side pocket he pulled out something small enough to keep hidden in his closed hand. He extended this out to her and held it there. He looked up and met her inquiring eyes. She reached out and tapped his hand with her finger. He turned it over and opened.

A necklace awaited her. Small jade green beads interrupted by an occasional black bead surrounded a brilliant, clear crystal set in a beaded socket. 

“I made it,” Jerry said.

“It’s beautiful.”

He lowered it over her head and pulled her hair out from it so the crystal rested just below her neck. It pointed towards her heart. 

“Thought the bead color would look good on you.”

She smiled, always the contained smile, never revealing her cards. “Thank you.”

When they finished eating they lay side by side on the blanket enjoying the warmth of the sun. Jerry’s hand inched over till he felt hers. Ever so slightly the side of his hand pushed into hers, and she pushed back. He interlaced his fingers through hers. They continued to lay there. April’s belly rose and fell as if she were running. He turned onto his side. She turned her face towards him. They kissed. Energy surged from her lips down to Jerry’s toes, yet she was in no hurry. She was there, steady, to taste, to breathe, to feel. This was new to Jerry. He was used to making love in a hurry, as if there were a train to catch. Not so, April. Her tempo was largo. Jerry’s hands were dry, and, to his relief, his penis was hard.

The erotic of the woods  —  the caress of a gentle breeze, the naked manzanita bark, the salty ocean foam  — embraced them,. Time was no longer the nemesis, not something to be endured, but savored. Here he would never ask if someone had forgotten to ring the bell, if someone had fallen asleep. Yes, here, time was no longer hell but eternal heaven.

Day two and Jerry sat next to a sneezing, snorting man. 

How selfish can he be? If he’s sick, why doesn’t he go home. But no, there he sits in his stupid pose, infecting me with his germs. 

Just when he was able to quiet his negative thoughts, another snort triggered a new shipment.

For the next sit, he moved to the other side of the room. That failed to improve his mood. He wanted to scream waiting for the stupid gong to sound. Did someone forget? Surely 40 minutes is up; maybe Howie fell asleep; maybe he’s not paying attention; how long can I sit here; should I get up and leave; I should take care of myself, right? A should-I-or-shouldn’t-I wrestling match careened around Jerry’s mind and then, thank God, the gong rang, and he dashed out for lunch.

As he was working in the garden that afternoon, he spied three people sitting in the hot tub, one man and two women. The man was Howie Cohn! 

Howie had made it very clear that use of the hot tub was gender specific, in order to minimize unnecessary distractions. To see him flaunting this rule threw Jerry into a fury. Why should he be able to cavort with women? And why would he even want to? Isn’t this meditation crap supposed to take care of those cravings?

That night Jerry tossed about. Every pebble underneath his sleeping bag made itself known. He climbed out of his bag and sat in a half lotus. Meditation failed. His mind jabbered unfettered. With a sigh, as if with a colicky baby, he carried his racked body out of the tent, switched on the flashlight and meandered around the woods. 

Back in his tent, he journaled.

That asshole. I’m going to kill him. He lied; he lied. What a selfish shit. He’s playing us all. I’ve been duped, trying to be a good boy, and he’s out partying, laughing at us. He’s laughing at us! What a bunch of idiots we are falling for this silence crap while he takes our money. What a bunch of holy bullshit. 

Why am I so angry? 

He broke my trust. He lied to me. He can’t do that. I have to beat him up, the asshole. Must make this right; must get my revenge; must seek payback; he must pay for his crime.

The next day Jerry made an appointment to speak with Howie. After lunch, instead of working in the garden, he marched over to a little cabin nearby and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came the voice from within.

Howie lounged in a chair near an open window. The sea breeze wafted in carrying a salty, seaweed smell. The rocking waters clattered on the smooth rocks below. He motioned toward a canvas chair.

“How is your meditation experience going?” he inquired with a smile. He shook his long, black hair, pulled it back and expertly rolled a rubber band up to hold his pony tail in place.

“Not so good. I’m experiencing anger.”

Howie nodded. “Yes, that’s your ego. It’s frightened that it’s losing control. And in its panic, lashing out at everything. Just observe. It will subside in time.”

“OK, I just gotta ask. Yesterday, I saw you in the hot tub with two women. That’s against the rules, your rules. Why did you do that?”

Howie’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I saw you in the hot tub yesterday in blatant disregard of the rules.”

“I haven’t used the hot tub since I’ve been here, however I did see those same people, and, just so you know, they are not in our group. They are guests staying here. If you find them noisy, or doing anything that is disruptive, please report that to me. That is strictly forbidden.”

Jerry felt a world of relief. “I am so sorry,” he said and began to cry.

Howie waited, then said softy, “Can you continue?”

“Wow. I don’t know why it was so important to me, but it blew me into a rage. And I don’t know why I’m crying right now,” he choked out as tears ran down his face.

“Silence brings up deep issues. Your reaction to the hot tub may have more to do with something that happened to you long ago. Sit with it.” 

Returning to the garden, Jerry felt a hundred pounds lighter. He noticed so much more around him. Sounds were sharper: the crunch of pine needles under foot, the cawing of crows above. Colors intensified: the emerald leaves, the fuchsia dahlias.

He dropped to his knees and pulled weeds, carefully, noticing, breathing free, grateful. An inner peace infused him.

For the afternoon sit, his mind did not protest. The walking meditation continued the serenity. Each footstep fit itself into the ground, lifted itself up, swayed forward with the next step and situated itself back down again. His breathing flowed like a metronome.

The following morning during the 40 minute sit, he entered into a comfort zone unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was like certain mornings upon waking when each stretch sent a golden glow of pleasure throughout his body. He observed without reacting: the birds singing, the man on the other side of the room still coughing, the person next to him shifting his weight. Information streamed through his consciousness, and he was unbothered by it all.

He broke into a broad smile. This is home!

The gong sounded but he remained. He continued and continued and continued past lunch, past garden chores, till people wandered back in again for the afternoon sit. Only then, and that was two and a half hours into it, did he stop, and only because he needed to pee before the next sit.

***

I had a dream last night. I was in a mansion, my own. I knew it well, yet I discovered a door I had never seen before. I opened it. I entered a large room filled with light. In the center stood a gold grand piano. I sat down and played. And I was so happy to know I could come back to this room any time.

Eureka! I have found my divine home. April was right with that Shawshank Redemption thing. I had to crawl through shit to get here. Is there more? I hope not.

***

On the last day all gathered in a large circle inside the yurt. As Jerry was entering, he spotted a baby bird on the floor right at the corner of the entrance. Thank God no one had stepped on it, he thought. He squatted down and observed. The bird panted. Jerry picked it up. Its eyes burned with life. He cradled it, moved outside and set it down on the warm ground. As if nothing had happened, the bird righted itself, fluttered, and flew away. 

Howie smiled. “Congratulations. You made it. Soon we will return to our lives. Be gentle with yourselves. Readjustment to your normal busyness will take time. 

“I invite each of you to speak now. First your name then a reflection about this experience. If you choose not to speak, that is fine.”

 “I am Jerry Cradleman,” he croaked. “I found a baby bird just now. It looked hurt, but when I took it outside it flew away. That pretty well sums up my experience here, except I will be driving home.”

The others laughed.

After all had an opportunity to speak, and some chose not to, Howie said, “You are free to talk from this point on. There is one more meal before we leave. For individuals who prefer silence, there is a room upstairs. 

“Be filled with the eternal happiness of God.” He put his hands in prayer position before his heart. “Namaste,” he said and bowed to the group.

Jerry filled his lunch plate then parked himself at a smaller table next to a heavy set woman. They were small talking, smiling, when all of a sudden, as if walls inside his mind caved in, his consciousness flooded with commotion: the table of four laughing loud, other voices rambling on, a chair screeching, silverware clashing, dishes clattering. Overwhelmed, Jerry excused himself.

He headed upstairs and found a small vacant room. Wave upon wave of crying washed over him. How was he ever to achieve noble silence amidst this seething cauldron of life, everyone, everything crawling over each other to survive?

***

He stood on the ferry boat. The water slipped by at a moderate pace and the constant rumble from the engine below soothed his raw nerves. Yet when he motored off the boat onto the dock and out onto the highway he overloaded again: cars whirring by, traffic lights changing colors, horns honking. 

He pulled off the highway and followed a long strip of road. It led him to a beach and the ocean. There was a family playing: children running, a father flying a kite. He parked and turned off the engine.

He closed his eyes, quieted his mind and breathed, til he was home.

The sign posted above the yurt’s entrance read:

All students must observe noble silence from the beginning of the course until the morning of the last full day. Noble silence means silence of body, speech and mind. Any form of communication with fellow students either by gestures, sign language, written notes, etc. is prohibited.

Jerry’s stomach clenched as he entered.

“Welcome to day one. The next ten days will be about learning to listen. That’s why God gave us two ears and one mouth. He wants us to listen,” said Howie Cohn, the retreat leader. Howie couldn’t have been further from what Jerry expected. Instead of a dark skinned guru garbed in white linen, he was a pale skinned New Yorker in yoga pants and t-shirt. Instead of an Indian dialect, a Brooklyn dialect filled the air. “We call this Noble Silence. We live in a world that has banished Noble Silence. We are surrounded by talk and music 24 hours a day.  Here we will strip away the noise so you can, perhaps for the first time, listen to your own inner voice. Stop and listen. You will discover who you are. 

“I know you all picture the Lotus pose as the correct position for meditation, but actually sit any way you want. Sit in a chair. Lie on your back. If you need to change your position, do so. Don’t force yourself to remain in an uncomfortable position. All I ask is that you respect your neighbor’s space. Don’t drape your legs across their lap or cuddle with them.”

This brought a tension releasing laugh from the group of about 30 people ranging in their early 20s to late 60s, with more women than men.

“Be still and observe. If you start to fall asleep, go ahead. In fact, most of you are sleep deprived. So for the first few days there’s going to be a lot of snoring around here. (More laughter.) Don’t worry. I’ll wake you when the sit is over.

“If you have a thought, say to yourself, ‘I am having a thought.’ That observation will stop the thought. If it continues, say to yourself, ‘I am continuing to have a thought.’ Gently prod yourself back to observing. 

“Be in constant awareness, until the mind quiets and there is a waking awareness of everything.

“Let’s try it. We’re going to sit for 20 minutes. I recommend closing your eyes, but again, if you don’t want to, don’t.”

The gong rang and Jerry closed his eyes. 

 Now what? Jerry thought. How long is 20 minutes? 

I am having a thought. 

Of course you’re having a thought. That’s you thinking, you idiot. 

I am yelling at myself. 

He started laughing…out loud, which he stifled.

 I stifled my laugh. This made him laugh more.

This is so ridiculous. And he dissolved into giggles. 

Slowly he calmed down and for a moment all was quiet within. Then, more thoughts. Hasn’t it been 20 minutes? Are we there yet?

After an eternity, the gong rang.

“Now we will do a walking meditation,” Howie said, “Notice each footstep; how the foot plants itself on the ground; how the weight shifts from the back to the front. Observe every detail.”

Off they wandered in all directions. Jerry’s mind now had a job to do and was as happy as a dog fetching a stick. He studied his every footstep. He observed the outdoors. Time passed unnoticed.

Around noon a luscious buffet awaited: fresh salad, an ambrosial soup and zucchini bread. In silence, they sat side by side at community tables, avoiding eye contact. Jerry minded each bite, each flavor, each chew, each swallow. He charted its passage down his esophagus into his stomach. He detected the digestive juices gurgling. 

Smells stood out: the intoxicating squash bisque, the warm pine needles. Sounds previously unheard emerged: the lapping of water on the nearby rocks, the clattering of dishes in the kitchen.

Jerry contemplated the forest and ocean. The aspen leaves glinted white in the sunlight. Bay water sparkled with swirling color, inky blue alongside orange and burgundy. 

After lunch they toiled in the garden: pulling weeds, spreading compost, harvesting. This was no typical garden. Giant corn stalks stood 12 feet tall; enormous pumpkins ruled the ground; a forest of sweet pea vines threatened to pull down a fence; giant dahlias, trumpeting vermilion, crimson and gold, ran rampant. Jerry eased his fingers into the soil and yanked out a weed. He dropped it into his bucket. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Contentment grew in his belly.

This wasn’t so bad, he thought. Instead of the crazy-inducing experience he had feared, he was transported back to the simplicity of childhood. Nothing to figure out. Nothing to overcome. Be in the moment. 

The gong rang out. They shuffled back to the yurt. 

Dinner came up surprisingly fast. And he was famished. He laid into his vegetarian casserole with a carnivorous lust. Melted white cheese hung from each bite of broccoli, mushrooms and walnuts. He had to restrain himself from wolfing down his neighbor’s portion. He picked up every last crumb of his organic ginger snaps like a detective scouting for DNA evidence.

“Do you think you learned anything?” asked Ken.

“It changed my life.”

He smiled. “In what way?”

“A lot of dark stuff happened.”

“Yes?”

“I realized some things about my dad, and I sent my mom a letter.”

“Oh?”

“Dad’s a perv. So I sent mom a letter. She needs to know.”

* * *

“You’re angry,” Ken said two weeks later.

“I’m angry at mom.”

There she was, in his mind’s eye, sitting in her fat chair in the living room, reading, while he sat opposite her, being a good boy.

“What about your mom?”

“She didn’t call.”

“And that makes you angry.”

“Damn right.” A subway train of rage rumbled past its regular stop. “It isn’t fair!” he exploded. “I deserve better than that. I deserve to be noticed. I deserve to be loved. Instead I feel like I’m retarded, like I’m a burden to her. I’m starving for affection!” His fist smashed into the desk.

Ken raised his eyebrows. “You OK?”

Jerry regarded his bleeding knuckles. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“It hurts,” he sobbed. “It really hurts.”

“It does hurt,” Ken said. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No.” His knuckles were already swelling. “I want her in my life.”

“And she hasn’t responded,” asked Ken.

 “No.”

“What does that tell you?”

“She doesn’t care.”

“Anything else?”

“You tell me. Sounds like you’re thinking of something,” he snarled.

“Well, I’m thinking about the definition of insanity as trying the same thing and expecting different results. Maybe you already tried as a child. Maybe you were right to withdraw from her.”

“I was just hoping. I mean, people change.”

“Look, Jerry. You deserve better.”

“Yeah,” he said despondently.

“Perhaps that’s the Divine Mother you seek. But in the meantime, you can learn to mother yourself, be the mother you never got. Nurture yourself; it’s within your power.”

Jerry stayed silent, brooding. 

“It’s why you’re here, Jerry. Remember? Zihuatanejo.

“Let’s keep going.” said Ken. “There’s a ten-day meditation boot camp on Salt Spring Island I want you to attend. You will be fed healthy food, vegetarian, grown from their own garden. And there’s a hot tub. You will be safe. Nurtured. And the entire time you will be silent, getting you closer to God.”

“No, no, no, no, NO!” 

Ken’s eyes widened.

“I’ll go insane!ten days of counting the minutes till it’s over! I’m not going.”

“I understand. I do.” 

Jerry sunk back in his chair and grabbed his sides with crossed arms.

“It’s not your fault, Jerry,” Ken said.

Jerry gripped his ribs tighter.

“It’s not your fault, Jerry.”

“I heard you the first time. What the hell do you want me to say?”

“It’s not your fault, Jerry.”

“STOP SAYING THAT!”

Ken leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s not your fault, Jerry.”

“YES IT IS! YES IT IS! I should have stopped him. I should have known better. It was my fault. Why didn’t I stick up for myself.  I’m a coward.” Tears blurred his vision; snot hung off his nose.

“No, Jerry. He is your father. You trusted him; you counted on him for guidance; he was your protector, and he violated that sacred bond.”

“I should have stopped him,” he sobbed.

Ken handed him a tissue, thought better of it, and handed him the box. 

“Thank you.” Jerry blew his nose and wiped off his face. He dabbed the moist scabs forming over his knuckles. 

“You have deep wounds. You are engaging them. There’s nothing easy about this, but this is the only way to God. Meditation will facilitate this process, empower you. But you can stop, if you want. Do you want to stop?”

“Jesus Christ, why’s this stuff so hard?”

“Suffering is a part of this journey. I wish I could take it away from you, I really do.“

Jerry shrugged his shoulders. “As long as there’s a hot tub.”