Lamp Black: Second Edition, Disaster, Preparedness, Survival, Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 2) (38 page)

John finished his bathroom duty and pumped a glob of hand-sanitizer into a palm. He rubbed his hands together vigorously until they were dry. As a young officer, he studied lessons learned from the Soviet Army. They had practiced very poor field sanitation during their occupation of Afghanistan in the 80’s. Their cooks, in particular, practiced the worst field hygiene of all. They reportedly never washed their hands, smoked directly over the food they cooked, and urinated and defecated within feet of their field kitchens. Water purification was also a factor, but he remembered more than forty-percent of the Soviet Army contracted some kind of debilitating sickness due to poor field sanitation practices. It wasn’t the sole contributing factor to their
withdrawal from Afghanistan, but it was believed to be a major contributing factor. John considered them every time he used hand sanitizer, and he wondered about his need to associate.

He knew the importance of field sanitation, especially now that the hospital, which was once a reasonable hope of immediate and reliable medical care, was beyond their reach in every way. With the hospital no longer an option, every cut or scrape, no matter how small, was a potential life threatening injury due to the risk of infection. That was something they couldn’t afford, to lose someone to infection during the disaster.

Before the disaster, serious injuries weren’t much of a concern to John, but that changed overnight. And medical doctors, they were worth their weight in gold. He wished he knew there was one in the neighborhood, but there wasn’t. John had a generous supply of over-the-counter medications, for everything from headaches and coughs, to constipation and diarrhea, but he had no prescription drugs, no antibiotics, and no pain killers. He had nothing for serious medical emergencies except a comfortable supply of insulin for Abby, and he didn’t want to think about what would happen when they ran out.

After grabbing two granola bars and a bottle of water from the kitchen, John returned to the guest room. He handed a granola bar to Paul and traded places with him at the window. “I think Marissa’s up,” said John. “I heard her talking to one of your boys in the living room.”

“Yeah, she’s an early riser,” said Paul. “She’ll probably go to the kitchen and start breakfast. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” answered John.

“I know you two were talking in the kitchen last night,” said Paul, demurely, as if he wasn’t quite sure how John would react to his indirect implication of impropriety.

John took a moment to consider how to respond to Paul’s statement. He wasn’t sure what point Paul was trying to make, but he knew honesty was the only option for Paul. Without leaving the window, John said, “Yes, we talked for a little while last night.”

Paul sat on the corner of the guest bed and sighed out a question, “Did you tell her I killed Darrel?”

“I did not,” replied John. “I didn’t think it was my place. That’s between you and her.”

“What else did you guys talk about?” asked Paul.

John was getting uncomfortable with Paul’s line of questioning, but he also wanted to settle his nerves. “Paul, you should talk to her about it. It’s not wise to talk to a man about his wife. There’s a chance he’ll hear something he won’t like, and then take it personally.”

Paul seemed to consider John’s words for a moment and said, “I know Marissa very well. We’ve been married for a long time. I know she was moved by your heroics . . .”

“Paul, wait a second,” John interrupted, “my actions in no way . . .”

“It’s OK, John,” said Paul, interrupting John in his own turn. “Really. I’m not jealous. It’s not like that at all . . . but did she tell you she was raped when she was a young girl?”

John nodded and said, “She did.”

“So then you probably also know about her . . . her so-called spiritual experience?” asked Paul.

Once again John carefully considered his next words. If Paul thought Marissa’s spiritual experiences were “so-called” then he would very likely think John’s experiences were down-right crazy.

“You don’t believe her?” John asked.

“It’s not that I don’t believe her, it’s just that I think she exaggerates a little. I think the stress of the rape messed with her mind . . . that’s all,” replied Paul.

“I’m sorry, Paul, but that’s the same thing as not believing,” answered John. “What is it about her story that you don’t believe?”

“Well, you know we’re Mormon, right?”

“I do. Yes.”

“Well, then you might also know we don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

John asked, “What kind of thing?” He was now very curious to see where Paul was taking his argument.

“You know, the stuff about leaving your body, seeing angels, and that kind of stuff,” replied Paul.

John wasn’t entirely convinced Paul believed his own words, but he wanted to understand Paul’s rationale. “So you think Marissa’s story is delusional?”

“I guess so. I mean, I’m not a mental health counselor or anything, but I think her experience caused her to dive deep into her subconscious, you know, as a way to leave the rape behind. I think she imagined the entire angel thing as a coping mechanism.”

John realized he was at a cross-roads with Paul. He could play along with his shallow psychological evaluation of his wife and avoid a potential conflict, or he could come clean and tell him something of his own beliefs on spirituality. “Paul, I believe Marissa. And I have good reason to believe her.”

Paul put his hands on the bed as if he meant to stand, but he remained seated. He looked at John as if he was unsure how to proceed, and waited for John to continue. John saw the turmoil in his eyes; saw how Paul seemed to hope John wasn’t one to believe such nonsense. “I . . . what do you mean?” he managed to say.

“What I mean,” answered John, “is that I’ve had spiritual experiences of my own. I absolutely believe Marissa, and I think it doesn’t have anything to do with her being a Mormon. I believe there are a lot of people who have spiritual experiences, they just don’t want to talk about them because they don’t want people to think they’re crazy.” John let the curtain fall over the window and turned to face Paul. He was surprised to see him lying on the bed, feet on the floor, an arm over his eyes. “Paul, what is it about her spiritual experiences that bother you so much?”

“I don’t know. It’s just weird. It’s not natural,” he answered.

“You’re right, it is unnatural, as you say, but that doesn’t make it any less real for the individual. Your reality is not the only reality. Do
you have to actually see something for yourself before you believe it’s true?”

“No.”

“Then why is it so hard for you to believe Marissa’s experiences are real?” John watched Paul fidget on the bed, and he waited for him to speak. Finally, after a long silent pause, John asked, “Do you believe in God?”

“Of course I do.”

“Have you seen Him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know He exists?” asked John.

Paul sat up. “I don’t know. I just do,” he answered.

“Is it a feeling?”

“Yes . . . no, it’s more than a feeling. I know it, deep down inside. It’s hard to explain,” answered Paul.

“So you believe in God, but you haven’t seen Him. Then why is it so hard for you to believe that Marissa saw an angel? God must surely have angels working for him . . . don’t you think?” asked John.

“Of course He does,” said Paul, as he sat up, “it’s just that this isn’t the bible. We live in modern times. Our guidance comes from our church leaders. They’re the only ones who . . . who do those kinds of things.”

“So you think you’re not open to personal revelation? Hmm . . . wasn’t your first prophet a sixteen year-old boy?” asked John.

“What? Joseph Smith?” Paul studied John for a moment and said, “How . . . never mind. This conversation is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps it is, but what do you think will happen to you when you die?”

“My spirit will go to heaven,” answered Paul.

“And where is your spirit now?” continued John.

Paul put his right hand over his chest and said, “It’s here, in my body.”

John nodded and said, “OK, and why is that?”

“Really? I don’t want to talk religion right now,” replied Paul, with exasperation.

“I’m not talking religion,” said John. “I just want to know what you believe about yourself, not your church.”

“OK, my-spirit-makes-my-body-alive,” said Paul, as if the sentence was one long word.

“A joining of spirit and body?”

“Yeah.”

“Was your spirit born with your body, or did it exist before?” asked John.

“Before what?”

“Well, some people believe your spirit doesn’t exist before your body. What do you think?”

“Does it really matter?”

“It does if we’re talking spirituality.”

“Then yes. I believe I existed as a spirit body before I had this body,” replied Paul, as he touched a hand to his chest.

“So you believe you have a spirit body, one that existed before you were physically born, that exists now, and will continue to exist when you die?” asked John.

Weary of a trap, Paul reluctantly answered, “Yes.”

John nodded and said, “But you also believe the physical body is dominate to the spiritual body, that people can’t just separate from their bodies. Right?” asked John.

“Right! Because I . . . because it’s a one-way trip. When you leave your body you’re dead . . . you die,” answered Paul, mildly defensive.

John knew Paul was tiring of the conversation, but he really wanted to understand why Paul didn’t think it was possible to be aware of his spiritual self if he already believed he was, and is, a spirit in a physical body. It just didn’t add up. “I agree,” said John, “it usually is a one-way trip.” Paul leaned forward, and John continued before he could interrupt. “But what if Marissa died during the rape, Paul? Maybe it was so terrible that she separated from her body.”

Paul was shaking his head left to right. “Why is that so hard to believe?” asked John, as he turned to look out the window. “Do you have to have your own spiritual experience before you can believe Marissa?”

“I’d rather not,” replied Paul.

“Believe, or have one of your own?”

“I don’t think Marissa is crazy, and I don’t want one of my own,” replied Paul.

“A lot of people are like that. It’s scary to think there’s more to life than what we physically experience.” John dropped the curtain and said, “Last question and I’ll drop it. Why do you think it’s like that? Why do you think we don’t know, first and foremost, that the most important part of us is our spirit bodies?”

It was obvious to John that Paul was no longer interested in answering more of his questions, so he dropped it. Logic clearly wasn’t the right argument to use when dealing with someone’s personal feelings or faith. John’s feelings were as fierce as Paul’s, but the conflict was one of experience; John had it and Paul didn’t. He didn’t know if Paul was envious, scared, or indifferent, but he knew Paul would never accept Marissa’s out-of-body experience as truth until he had one of his own. When he thought about it, John realized he wasn’t much different from Paul before his dreams began. John was changed with time, and maybe Paul will too.

John pulled the curtain aside and said, “I think there’s enough light now. Let’s go get Pete’s attention.”

“How you gonna do that?” asked Paul, coming to his feet.

“I’m gonna throw a rock at him,” replied John.

After several attempts to strategically hit Pete’s large diesel dually from the front porch with a small rock, John finally made contact with the rear quarter fender. The sound of the rock hitting the truck sent a surprisingly loud “clang” echoing through the still morning air. A moment later Pete stepped out of the truck with a shotgun in hand. He was apparently ready to blast whoever, or whatever attacked his precious truck.

John hollered through cupped hands, “Pete!”

Pete waved and hollered back, “Hey John. Did you just hit my truck with a rock?”

“I did, and I’ll pay for the repairs, but I wasn’t about to go knocking on your door. And I see that was a smart decision.”

“It’s OK,” hollered Pete in reply, “I would have aimed for your leg. Let you suffer a bit before I put you out of your misery.”

“Yeah, right, like that deer you shot in Wyoming two years ago?” chuckled John. “Would you care to join us for breakfast?”

Pete ignored John’s comments about the deer and replied, “I would love to, but only if you have coffee.”

“I think I can help you, but can you pull into the driveway. I’ll meet you at the garage.”

Pete waved in acknowledgement and climbed into his truck. John watched as the big diesel chugged to life, and when it started to roll he went inside. John went to the bedroom to share the news with Jenna, and he saw she was already up. He found her in the master bedroom closet, dressing by the beam of a flashlight. “Did I wake you with all my yelling?” he asked.

“No, I was already up and moving about before you stepped out. I was about to go join Marissa in the kitchen. So Pete made it up here after all?” said Jenna.

“Yeah, Paul woke me early this morning. He arrived a few hours ago.”

“Is Bonnie with him?”

“I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.” John kissed his wife on the forehead and turned to leave. He paused at the door and asked, “By the way, do we have any coffee?”

“I think so. Check the freezer.”

“Thanks Babe.” John walked the length of the house and found Marissa making fresh tortillas in the kitchen. “Wow, those sure smell good. Can I have one?” Marissa smiled and handed him one right off the griddle. “Thanks. Where’d Paul go?”

“He’s in the bathroom,” she replied, as she rolled out another tortilla with a well-used rolling pin.

“I’m sure you heard all the yelling. A friend of mine just arrived.”

“I can tell you’re happy. He must be a very good friend,” replied Marissa with a smile.

“The best,” replied John, between bites of the hot flour tortilla he held in his hand. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to make coffee . . . would you?” asked John.

“I do. Do you need me to make some for you?”