I can’t be certain about those four days of rain. That’s the forecast for our trip down the shore, but maybe the sun will break through anyway.
I can’t be certain about the four days of re-runs, either. That’s what I’ve attempted to preschedule here, but I’ve bollixed pre-scheduled posts before so I can’t be sure if these will really show up until after the fact. Can’t know anything for sure until after the fact, which is sort of related to today’s re-run.
This one, “Falling Flat,” is from a sad week in 2011.
The past week has been full of questions. PopPop was with Grandma now, the girls were told, and they’re both looking down, free of pain and disability and dialysis, watching your swimming and softball, happier than ever in heavenly bliss.
Really? The girls, to their credit, are skeptical. What do these people mean when they say Pop is with Grandma? And do I really think he somehow saw the bed and the pictures and flowers, that he somehow knows how lovely the room was? Where is he now? What happened to him? In that sleep, what dreams may come?
These are questions I can’t answer. None of us can. And so I tell what truth I have.
“I don’t know.”
Not good enough, of course, for them or for me. And so the children demand to know what I think — what I believe or guess or hope. And not just the children.
Here I can do only slightly better. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,” St. Paul wrote in response to just these questions, and God help me the best story I know about such unseeable and unhearable things is Flatland.
A bit of a downer, I guess, but hopefully still hopeful. You can read the rest here.
And feel free to talk amongst yourselves.