The Cave

Late this afternoon I went with Nana to her new flat, a spacious apartment comprised of two bedrooms, two full baths, kitchen, den, living room, and sun porch. It didn't exist six months ago, and I could smell paint still drying today.

"Have a drink, lovey. Would you like cheese and crackers?"

"No, thank you Nana."

We sat, and light splashed down from large windows. My grandmother flipped on the classical music station. Ice clinked in our soda glasses. We talked quietly all through a golden hour, about music and painting; about loneliness; about people and friends we have loved... and lost.

Nana isn't a Christian, but over the last few years she has become one of my favorite companions. She is an artist, and knows far more than I do about perspectives, composition, colors, etc. We share a common delight in classical music, theater, architecture, and cooking. Talking with her is bittersweet, especially when I try to share my struggles or dreams. How can I say to her, "Nana, I learn to write because I want to express the Gospel in its aching, awful beauty. I have waking nightmares about the lost, Nana, and I am desperate to show them how real Christ is"?

How can I say to her, "I long to see you rejoicing in the truth, Nana. That's why I wear this blue band on my wrist; to remind me to pray for you. I want you to understand about the cross, Nana"? How can I say, "Nana, you are dying, and it breaks my heart"? I love her, I love her... and I'm losing her. Oh, Lord God, I have spent the last six years trying to learn skill with words so that I can explain... and I can't find a way to say it! If I tell her that I am trying to learn humility, she tells me that there is a "healthy" amount of pride, but commends me for trying to "find myself."

"I do believe in some sort of a higher power, lovey. I believe in a greater design."

My mind races. Would it do any good to mention Genesis? Should I take an approach through Teleology or the Moral Law? Would a quote from Lewis or Augustine help? A desperate prayer to the God of my life: "help me! What can I say? What will she hear?"

It's as though we speak the same English, but have two totally different sets of definitions for each important word. God. Sin. Salvation. Self. Hell. Heaven. I ask questions, trying to understand. I know that I have to understand where she is. Then, I try a tentative explanation of some aspect, a sharing of some belief.

"Well, honey, you've studied this so much more than I have."

I turned my face away to hide it. What gain is all my study? I can't even find words to hold out the gift of life to her.

"I do believe that faith works for some people. I remember I had a Catholic roommate in college who lost her parents... she seemed to find such comfort in her Bible."

Hope stirred. I tried again, very gently. "I know, Nana. I could never have gotten through this semester without God. He's held me together..."

"Well, there! It works for you."

I came home and put my arms around my mother. "Nana volunteered some information about her understanding of theology, Mama."

Mama searched my eyes. "Well, that's good, honey."

I nodded. I know that it's a long process, that it takes much praying, much loving, much time and many questions. But this afternoon, weary and sad, all I can do is think of her long, long life lived for herself. All I can see is the seeming waste. Being in love is probably the highest thing that Nana recognizes. "It's good for people, lovey. I really do think that it puts a spring in the step, you know. It's special."

How can I tell her that what she sees in romantic love is only a reflection? I looked at the bars of light on the floor in her apartment, waning slowly as her life, but dying still.

How can I pierce the cave? How can I show her the Sun? How?

As Dumas said, "Wait, and hope"... to which I add "Pray, and love."