For weeks we have been uncovering each story of the Conventions and Caucuses on their completion, even as the GOP Establishment has tried to cover them up. Recounting and documenting the events, with all the cheating, and proving them, with recordings and videos and eyewitness affidavits as they become available.
And, today, I was in a break from what has become at once both an investigative and prosecutorial job.
And I saw what I think was a minute vision… for less than a second.
It was very much a specific, detailed mental picture, but not a memory. It had no connection to any memory… I didn’t know what I was seeing at first… and figured it out a moment later. The house was vacant. There was no context, no events connected to the image of the door. But the message was that I was looking at a “real” place, as real as it was in the bright sunshine of 1953. The wood was clean but very worn, the grain vividly clear and detailed, like a snapshot taken in a vision. I do not know, but assume that that specific house was torn down long ago… it was old in ’53 and quite small, not far from the center of town and probably commercially zoned today.
But I think that all the old places, the places in our past, must be “real.” Especially the ones with children at the time. The little ones see the physical world clearly, without overlaid interpretations. The places they saw are in an eternal vault, exactly as they were at every real moment.
And on Judgment Day every detail will be as clear as if not a second has passed. The parsonage in 1953, or Ford’s Theater in April 1865. What a terror for the guilty! To see and have seen by all, not a film, but the exact events in three dimensions. Ordinary trials are composed of significant facts, recounted by date and time, but those to come are to be whole, full of real, worn doors and lawns needing mowing, bright in the sunshine, cracks in the sidewalk. And men as they were. And did.
We’ve lived our whole lives in these real places, moving through them as they change. The skyline of the city, the signs on the stores, the styles and cars all changing like leaves in seasons, but in only one direction.
Where you sit is just the place you’ve come to, now. Before that you walked into this room, remember? You can retrace your steps now, and can continue to do so for a while, going back through your day, but not very far. Even if you had the will to retrace and could remember your own history, day by day, sooner or later you would come to the place that has changed, permanently, since you were there, blocking your trek into the past. But suppose it did not.
Suppose that as you went back to the place you were before you came here, to read, everything else would go back with you. The previous room would be just as you left it, unchanged. And you could go back to all the places you had been and they would be just as they were when you left them, the same people in them, too, just as they were, even years ago. Just as if you had forgotten something and went back for it. They would look up, slightly surprised that you had come back, wondering why.
And you could go back through the places of your life and the circumstances that made it all real at the time would be there just as they were then… the places of a year ago, five… the places of your childhood, even. Your parents would be there when you got that far, just as they were when you saw them then. And, just so, you could go back to the past.
Your soul, the history of your life, re-wound at will, by the simple process of going to the old places and finding them as they were, and real.
This is, without a doubt, very much as it will be at the end, contiguity continuity. For all the works will be laid bare in the bright sunlight of the places where they happened and all the people that were there.
And our works will be, as it were, naked in the brightness of that Great Light.
How sure are you of your credentials?