The Patient in Room Nine Says He's God
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“Then you wouldn’t have gotten to see it.”
“Sure I would, just through the lens.”
“Then you would not have gotten to SEEEEEE it,” I emphasized.
My point is that seeing something like this magnificent wolf cannot be captured in a two-dimensional digital reconstruction. You have to see it with your own eyes; it has to speak to your senses: the touch of ground under foot, the mist, the cold air, the sounds of a pounding waterfall, everything has to be in harmony for you to SEEEEE it. You cannot fully experience your daughter’s first recital if you are peering at her through a video lens; you cannot feel the tinkle of the keys, the missed notes, or see the gentle rustle of her new dress against the piano bench. You can’t really see your sons first hit, feel the dust rising from the diamond, hear the gentle whoomph of him leaping onto first base, if your eye is pressed against the camera’s eyepiece. You can’t see your child’s first play, notice the subtle smiles and waves, the rocking uncertainty of memorizing speech if you are working on the focus or the zoom. You can’t see; you’re not really there.
But for a whole new generation of parents, the world is passing them by; their child’s greatest moments are lost, or the chance to squeeze the hand of your spouse, to exchange smiles, glances and moments of pure joy, because we are too busy taping what we should be experiencing. We are missing God’s presence, we are missing angels dancing, and we are missing heaven on earth, all for the sake of a few gigabytes of video file on our IMac.
We are taping the present so that in the future we can watch the past that we never saw when it was happening. We have turned into thousands of water buffalo, jostling for positions at the front of our watering hole: a darkened auditorium, hoping to capture on video that one special moment in time, when we instead should be capturing them on the hard drives of our souls. You can’t see God through a video lens. In time my mind will fade, my eyes will falter, but as I go gently into that good night, I will have with me my most prized possessions . . . my memories.
Epilogue
I exited Room Nine, the soft light slowly retreated back into the sanctuary from where it came. With a gentle clack, the brushed steel knob engaged the door frame. The hallway seemed brighter and more inviting. I glanced down at my watch: 3:30 A.M.
The nurse caught up to me in the corridor. “So, did God have anything to say?” she asked half-jokingly.
I paused, looked back at the door, shook my head, and gave her the faintest of grins. “Not yet, but then again we’re just getting started.”
A puzzled look danced across her mask of fatigue. “Maybe, you weren’t listening well enough,” she replied.
“Maybe,” I answered, my smile widening; I turned to walk down the hall.
“So?” she called out after me. I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.
“So, let’s call social services and see about getting him a room somewhere in psych.” Balancing the clipboard in my open palm, I motioned to the door. “But first let’s get him a cup of coffee, perhaps a meal tray, or better yet one of those donuts, and let’s listen to him for a while. I bet he has some stories to tell.”