When she thinks of it she is brought up short, as she always is, forgetting to breathe for a moment. Was it real? Is it still real? Can I possibly doubt it?
Down on her knees, on the floorboards, dirt under her fingernails, she searches for the hiding place, the loose plank under a pile of boxes, in the darkness beyond the swirling lighted beam of dust piercing the basement. Here is the board--her breath thrills in her--and underneath it, yes, here is the cool and dirty space, the yet unseen crevice she must painfully torque her wrist to reach, the gap her hand will not pass through without force, enough to scrape her knuckles raw and make her gasp.
But she feels it there, her secret, in its secret wooden box. Still waiting for her. She grips it, awkwardly, and draws it out.
Here she keeps the memory, her most precious, profound, unearthly memory, hidden away from the rest of her life, as though it happened all apart from the timeline of her days on Earth. It slips away from her thoughts from day to day, and she goes about forgetting that she is spellbound, forgetting all about her own private miracle. And then all at once, some unremarkable day, the recollection dawns on her like a breaking wave. She rocks back and sits up straight, brushes splinters from her knees, straightens her shirt, her hair. Inside this box she remembers the day God reached down His hand and touched her directly. She opens it.
She was young, a young woman, unmarried, just eighteen, twelve, a little girl, with a raggedy row of baby teeth. She knelt here, in the cellar, enjoying her fear of the dark, the thrill of a dank and silent space with only one sunbeam, dusty and remote. It was impossible to see the walls around her. What was she doing? It was a day like any other day, her mind was on mortal things, immersed in her mortal life, human. Untouched.
Like a child she played with gravity, splayed carelessly on the floor, tracing the grain of the shaggy unfinished wood. And then gravity came to life, pressed down from above and held her there, head on the floor, afraid. The mice in the walls were silent, reverent, invisible. What held her? What had someone forgotten to tell her about the world, or about the basement? Her vision faded slowly, becoming dark and indistinct, irrelevant. That inexorable force that pinned her to the floor took shape, lifted her, and held her standing--and she could feel it, a hand, an enormous hand wrapped all around her head. She could hear only the beating of her heart and the creak of the floorboards.
How often is a life invaded by an undisguised miracle? Is this really the way it was? The Presence was silent, dangerous and gentle--no dove's wings beating, no visions of angels, no instructions at all, just an unrelenting message: now you must think of me and nothing else.
I love you, she thinks, as she thought it then.
After a while she remembers feeling a sort of freedom of motion, and her vision clearing, but she had not returned to normal. The Lord had inhabited her entirely: He felt through her fingers, stood in her feet, watched through her eyes. It was electric--she feels the echo of it, just thinking back--that otherworldly presence running through her like water. What did he want?
It lasts for the better part of an hour. It is the only holy hour of her life. She stood and felt Him there inside her, unable and unwilling to move or speak but as He bid her; and He looked into her heart, and revealed her to herself, and showed her her forgotten, deepest memory, the primal memory, kneeling, alone, in the basement...
She holds her memory tightly, fervently, rocking back and forth. She squeezes it, kisses it, admires it in her open palm. Still real. Then at last she eats it; swallows with eyes closed, and hides the box again. It is her one unimpeachable truth. And no one will ever know.
Christine, Dreaming