Worthy Witness

Out of the blue, I picked up a call that had percolated in my phone for a year.  When I called for messages after a severe electrical storm, I was amazed to hear a voice from 25 years ago; the message was a year old.  I don’t understand telephonic, but I do understand opportune time, so I responded.

Maggie was ecstatic that I returned the call, even if it did take a year.  When I explained what had happened, we both agreed we had to meet that day, and as soon as I showered, I was off to Massachusetts.  Not knowing if we would recognize each other, we exchanged information on cars and hair color; we said what we would be wearing.  We traded cell phone numbers, and she told me she had never turned hers on; however, she answered on the first ring when I arrived early.  Time had not been gentle with her.  She was stout, short, stooped when she got out of her 20-year old red Volkswagen with the grey door.

Her hair was magnificent; pure white, with a simple cut that enhanced her youthful face and smiling Irish blue eyes.  In a split second, we knew each other and remembered; the thread of our lives picked up as though it were yesterday.

In the restaurant, we were giddy as schoolgirls.  Sun streamed through the window, and framed Maggie in its warmth; she settled into it like a kitten.   The bank of memories floated as bubbles above our heads, and we pulled them down, one by one, testing the texture of their context, exploring emotions laid bare.

Maggie had been my mentor for a year.  She was a seasoned public relations writer, and I was her assistant.  We spent most of the winter working at her magnificent country home with acres of rolling farmland.  Shortly after, her husband’s business spiraled out of control, and they lost everything.  In the years that followed, we lost contact.  She was, and is still an accomplished writer; she had been a faithful wife and would forever be a loving mother.  When divorced, she became a recovering alcoholic, had severe depression, lived through a stroke, and was, I learned,  about to lose her home.   Nothing of which she said, though, could take away her passion for life, her inner peace, and her faith in healing grace.

We paid our bill, and knew there was more to be said, more to this opportune time.  The restaurant had an outdoor dining area that had been closed for lunch.  We were able to climb over its low stone enclosure and sit at one of its tables.  We talked of our faith and prayed for our families under the shade of a towering oak.  We hadn’t noticed the fountains when we sat down.  It was, perhaps, because they were quietly running.  As we prayed, the sounds of water became louder, and when we looked up, the water was living; it was tumbling in torrents, sheets where there had been trickles.