Enigma

Enigma

( Finding God in a 1956 Buick)

Moist cool grass cradles me lying face up in shaded lawn spot on a hot summer day when a muted rumble, not a vibration as with oncoming train, rouses me from lazy contemplation of my mind’s formed personifications in puffy clouds above me. I sit upright.

 Here comes a looming large shiny black chariot, too grand to be called a car, dripping in chrome and presence, as it eases under boulevard canopy of dappled light to curbside in front of me, with just a muffled protest of white sidewall tires voicing a scuff against curb, gliding to placid halt.

Then silence. No movement.

Curious, I stand, and walk slowly toward this ominous arrival.  I see my reflection in opaque windows that prevent me from looking inside, even as I press very close.

Then, a whine, as glass recedes downward, releasing cool, conditioned air smelling of French lavender and freshly washed sheets from inside, into my flaring nostrils.  I am excited. What has this conveyance brought here?  A learned judge?  A celebrity?   A lost soul?  Curiosity leaps unbridled in my heart as I lean yet closer. 

Only one sits on the commodious leather rear seat, facing away.  I fully feel the coolness now. It is like viewing a sanctuary inside there. Calm and shaded and mysterious.

“May I help You?”  I implore, anxious to see what character has arrived in this magnificent sedan.

No response. No turn toward me.

I shudder. Goosebumps. What lies in store?  What does this being want of me? What is his purpose? I feel strange, but calmer now, as if a peace has shrouded me.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, this richly dressed, almost formally enrobed figure turns, and the face slides from veiled shadows into my view.

I am transfixed, startled, astounded. And scared shitless.

I am looking at myself. It is my own countenance gazing back at me. It is I.   How can this be? 

Before I can rebound and formulate a question, there comes a smile from the “car me”

“No thank you, I am just looking,” comes in voice, or maybe a thought, or perhaps from intuition.

 I cannot discern if actual words were formed.  But I can feel the presence.  Whatever the format, the delivery came with a sense of omnipotence, of reassurance, of all-feeling, all-seeing.

Frozen, I watch the window rise with a soft whir and then a solid thud as it closes, again shutting me outside, alone, to ponder it all, as the car pulls from the curb to continue down the boulevard.

Shapes and light slide me back to the now. I am lying on the grass, looking up again at clouds.  Did I nod off? Was there ever a car?

Or did I gaze ever so briefly into God’s eyes?      

                                                                              - Jerry Wendt 2016

6 levels of Photoshop to portray this graphic of "God in a '56 Buick"