“GRACE”

“Follow the cottonwood blowing in the wind, it will take you to the reflective waters”, spoke a voice in Susan’s mind. She shook her auburn hair, unsecured that day in haste to flee to her favorite walking spot. Where had she heard it? As she trudged the Iowa farmland, Susan had faith that she would know where she was…. if she found the lake.

Susan had wanted to get away for a long weekend by herself to relax. Her occupation as a therapist was becoming too demanding; draining her sparkle and vivaciousness, and leaving the young woman in her early 30’s to reflect a colorless shell of her essence.

“My clients seem to have it more together than I do”, she spoke with a soft, yet sarcastic voice, and again shook her head…. my clients, except for Grace. Susan reflected on and reviewed Grace’s file in her mind. Grace was a child in a young women’s body; she had been a troubled person all of her life. She never really fit comfortably in her own skin, or in her world of friends or family. Truly bad things did not befall Grace. Yet she insisted on perpetuating her tormented self-concept.

Grace was convinced that her mental outlook on life was the sum-total of all of the bad situations that she had brought on herself. Grace had a real problem of trusting in herself—her intuitions. She had always relied on others to direct her in those things that were very personal preferences in most people’s lives: her goals, her career direction, her spiritual beliefs, her selection of spouses, who she should be…all came from the voiced opinions of others.

Susan did not even notice the two squirrels playing near where she has slowed her wanderings, eventually stopped, and stretched out on the grass. Once again, her thoughts turned inward, and notice of her surroundings went hazy. She was mesmerized by the visual and mental clarity with which she recalled a recent conversation with her troubled client, Grace. With only the passage of a few moments was Susan transported back to a scenario with Grace.

* * * * * * * * * *

“It was the night before News Year’s Eve. I tore into the house after my drive home from a job interview. Whew! What a day! The interview lasted several hours. I was crazy from lack of sleep, Susan!” Grace was waving her arms as she related her day to her therapist. Susan knew she was in for a spectacularly colorful story. But, Grace’s face had an intense expression, and was speaking furtively to Susan—her eyes bright, her cheeks and neck were flushed with the “heat” of the moment as she expressed to Susan that day in her life.

“I passed my kitchen door, and my plaque of “Footprints” caught my attention.” Grace had paused. Susan knew it was one of Grace’s favorite verses. It always touched her heart when she read it. Grace, seeking a clue to give meaning to her anguish, read the verse word for word. “One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the LORD. Across the sky flashed scene from his life. For each scene, he noticed two sets of footprint in the sand; one belonged to him, and the other to the LORD.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in his life.

This really bothered him, and he questioned the LORD about it. “LORD, you said that once I decided to follow you, you’d walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don’t understand why when I needed you most you would leave me.” The LORD replied, “My precious, precious child. I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

Grace was now crying. “The verse had always brought me comfort. But not that night, though. I quickly ripped it down from the wall, and carried it into my family room, and turned the front of the plaque in towards the wall, so as not to be able to see it. Grace was sobbing with a pain that came from a deep chamber within her; that pain ha been imprisoned there for many years. Pain that was now experienced as she related the memory of that night.

Tears streamed down Grace’s face as she went on to tell to Susan the remainder of the story. “All that I kept saying over and over was ‘what shall I do? What do I want?’ But there was an answer from somewhere in that family room. One emphatic command: “Listen to your heart”.

“I soon grew so hot! But then realized that I still has my winter coat on, and I was comforted by that logical explanation.” Grace smiled, relieved at her pragmatic reasoning.

“Later that night, I had to get up and get a glass of water from the kitchen. I started to shiver and shake before I really comprehended what was amiss. “FOOTPRINTS” was back up on the kitchen wall, where it has always hung! Maybe I had dreamed the entire happening. What do you think, Susan?” Grace abruptly asked.

Susan sighed. The early afternoon sun beat down on her with hot beams of light. She hurriedly recalled the rest of the scene that Grace had related to her. That next day, Grace had sought out the comfort of a newly acquired friend . . . a born-again Christian. This woman referred Grace to yet another Christian woman. Both women had not known how to handle Grace in all of her grief and pain, .......and understanding Grace was beyond their abilities.

Susan’s thoughts halted. Then Grace had done something really a bit strange. She packed a few belongings in a bag, her typewriter and a few well-liked books. She fled from her hometown. Susan could not remember as to actually where Grace had traveled, but she was intrigued by what actually followed in her story.

Grace had gone to a favorite haunt, and wrote for two solid days. She has described it as being some “force or power---to write”. From deep within Grace’s little spirit came words that she did not fully understand the meaning of, or the reason they came to the surface now, at this time. One of her written pieces, “The Faded Photographs” stuck in Susan’s mind. The story was a snapshot of Grace’s frame of mind at the current time, as she looked back at photographs of another time in Grace’s life—lost for eleven years, but not missed…captured by a camera’s eye, imprinted on the lens lid and forgotten. It was a very strange story, indeed, Susan thought to herself. So were the other written fragments of thought of which Grace has written.. Secrets deep from within the child-woman had miraculously revealed themselves through Grace’s writings.

“THE FADED PHOTOGRAPHS”

By Grace

An eerie happening, I am about to relate. A few weeks ago, my mother handed me an envelope with eight photographs. Mysteriously, an old camera of my mother’s [forgotten for years] ended up in her sister-in-law’s [my aunt’s] possession. No one seemed to know to whom the camera belonged. I am convinced it was the little inexpensive camera I gave her one Christmas (1975?) It had been misplaced and forgotten all of those years. Funny. The value in price of an object is positively correlated to how quickly it can be misplaced. And forgotten.

My aunt had developed the pictures around 11-1/2 years after they were actually taken. And what do you think I found? You could barely make out the images in the pictures; they were images of my family: my mother, father brother, and myself. How did I know how old these pictures were? I am wearing a T-shirt that said, “GRACE”. I bought that shirt in February 1976, when I had begun to date my husband-to-be.

Back to the photos: they told me something. The pictures were always of three of the four of us; the fourth person was always taking the picture. We were smiling, as most people do when told to do so in front of a camera. But our actions, as demonstrated by the photographs, are indicative of where all four of us were at that point in time … going through the motions, doing what was asked or expected of us by each other.

In 1976, I have to think back to where were all really WERE. Thank God it wasn’t too long ago; maybe it was really only just yesterday. My brother was right in the middle of his college career. My parents’ marriage was falling apart—though, no real declaration had been made. I have just divorced my first husband, and was diving headfirst into another doomed-for-divorce marriage.

But we were smiling. Dad, with him impish grin, Mom with her “cheesy” smile, my brother with his boyish, yet sardonic face, and I with a statuesque expression of forced gaiety. All of the years of events of disappointment, grief, bitterness have never really taken place in my mind, until I realized the lives and lies with which we were all actually wrestling : My mother was often rejected by her “orthodox” parents in favor of two younger brothers [at least in my mother’s mind]. My father, all his life, repressed his grief - grief that was present after his father committed suicide one summer evening on the front porch of their house in the country when my father was seven. My brother had just been expelled from a small all-male college in the South, where he was sent to get “straightened out.” And then myself, destined to be in and out of relationships as frequently as Elizabeth Taylor.

All of these mysteries and secrets were locked behind a camera’s shutter. What a person usually sees when viewing through a camera is the world as we see it, as the camera sees it, at that point in time ONLY. But what that camera held onto, unknown to the people in the faded pictures, was not quite reality.

I realize this now, as I look back into the shadows of a past life. Those people were ghosts. But, at the present time, some of those people are becoming who they really want to be.

Some of them are still trapped behind that camera lens, fully undeveloped.

* * * * * * * * *

Susan rolled over, aware of the dampness between herself and the now-matted grass. For several days she had been carrying a lengthy manuscript by Grace entitled, “Fragmented Stirrings”. (you may click on the link to read Grace's powerful musings) Susan read a few excerpts out loud to the gentle breeze, the birds, and the cottonwood present yet just drifting lazily around.

(taken from Grace's manuscript) “…. What am I frightened of: If I want something badly enough---I can want it so much and work for it so hard---that I can make it happen, almost always. It is a power that is almost as strong as the power of God.

To know that you mattered on this Earth, for a brief time, is more important than Life itself. Living a meaningless life is not really living.

Self-actualization: Abraham Maslow’s highest level of his hierarchy of needs. What does it mean? We are finally able to burrow deep down into ourselves; be so naked without even our skin, to see our intricate mental mechanisms? But, what runs the mechanism? Our Life Force?

You can get away with the games that you play with yourself, and others—for awhile. But, once you begin to see a pattern of your dysfunctional behaviors, you now have a whole new set of rules… and you can never win at that game again.

Mental illness is better than being brain-dead. I think…”

Susan shuffled through the voluminous manuscript. Many of the passages sounded vaguely familiar—but it could be cause of the many times that she had gone over them, trying to read meaning into the more incomprehensible concepts. Either Grace was frighteningly ingenious, or mentally deranged. Well, Susan knew that Grace was at least was an extremely sensitive person with a higher level of awareness than a lot of people. She continued reading.

“We are born alone, and die alone. We are born (usually) into a doctor’s waiting hands; when we die, God’s hands are waiting to gently receive us back to his Home.

I want to be remembered for my written works—words from my inner being—THAT WHICH SUSTAINS MY SPIRITUALITY…”.

At this point in her reading, Susan realized that Grace had departed from her reflections in her manuscript, and was describing an incident of which she was a part.

“It is an enlightening and enriching afternoon. Walking the 200-year old grounds, many crystal clear sights, sounds, and emotions almost overloaded my perceptions. I was searching for something; it was bitter cold—I couldn’t have picked a more chilling day. But no matter. I stumbled upon the tiny chapel and burial grounds. It was as I remembered from my last visit sixteen years ago. Seven simple pews were on both sides of the center aisle, void of any superfluous décor.

At the altar was a bent over, little white-haired lady, who turned towards me when she heard the creak of the heavy old door.

“Is it all right that I come in here for awhile?” I asked.

“Yes, yes come in young lady!” she replied. Our voices broke the solemn hush that lay over the chapel.

“Whether you wish to sightsee, warm yourself, meditate or pray, everyone is always welcome who wanders in here”, spoke the old woman again, but for the last time. I was comforted by the withered, kindly old woman, and the stillness of the chapel.

Susan felt a great weakness in her body, as if she could not stay in an upright position any longer. She found that she was holding her breath as she read and re-read the following sentences. She was perplexed and very unsure of their intended meaning.

“I am You. And You are Myself. I am inside of your mighty walls. It’s too late…. I am now a part of You, and You know that I am. You cannot run from me. The only way you can avoid running into me is to turn toward yourself—with so many unanswered questions. You cannot answer these questions right now . . . but I will try to answer them with love through your prayers.” Susan frowned. She did not remember reading these words, the first few times that she had read the manuscript.

Susan skipped to the very last entry in Grace’s reflections. She became aware of the very powerful forcefulness of the words. She noticed that the names “Grace” and “Susan” had been penciled in by the text. Her breathing became shallow, and the papers she held became warped with the sweat from her hand.

(Grace) “How strong is your Faith?”

(Susan) “My faith is powerfully strong.”

(Grace) “Are you afraid of me?”

(Susan) “Yes.”

(Grace) “Then your Faith is not strong enough.”

(Susan) “I am afraid of you for one reason. What you say, how you make me listen to you. But I have

Faith that my understanding and acceptance of your words will come on their own free will—for

I have no Will against you.”

Susan put down the manuscript, and placed her tote bag on it so that the gentle breeze would not stir the papers. Her neck muscles strained to keep the sob within her from escaping through her lips and eyes. God, Susan mused, what is this Grace all about? Why do her writings move me so? She is so very expressive with her pen. Susan pondered the clouds above, and the innocent and unaware baby rabbits romping several yards from Susan’s half-lying posture.

As Susan lay face-up to the mid-day sun, and soaked in the magic of the summer day: the perfume of the mimosa, the humming and chirping of summer insects, and the presence of the smaller wildlife contributed to a state-of-mind that caught her up in her reverie. Susan began searching her own memory.

Grace, in past weeks, had referred to a business acquaintance that Susan came to realize was actually her Christian friend, Jackie. Grace adored Jackie. But Jackie had a zealously religious friend, Sybil, whom Grace had also befriended. Grace said that she liked Sybil, and felt drawn to her. Grace has met with Sybil several times for conversation, guidance, encouragement, and prayer.

Grace worshipped Sybil, Susan realized. Sybil’s soft voice, and mesmerizing words comforted Grace. But, the powerful intensity of Sybil’s chanting had started to frighten Grace. She spoke feverishly and frequently of the Lord and the Devil. Grace never went into anymore detail.

* * * * * *

Over the long weekend that Grace had actually spent away from her home, exploring her surroundings and writing, she had described an unknown Force that had caused her to vacillate from reality/dreaming, wakefulness/sleep, and writing/praying. It was bitter cold outside that weekend. But Grace had mentioned that she needed the bitter cold to appreciate the warmth within her. THAT statement puzzles me, Susan thought.

Grace had also said to Susan at a subsequent visit to Susan’s, “At the end of my weekend, I panicked. I did not want to leave this peaceful, yet desolate place.” Grace went on, “I felt a warmth circling around me and holding me in its center. Holding me like it was LOVE itself, in the truest form. I felt so very secure, and a great comforting presence was with me.”

But you have made mention to me many times of the cold outside,” Susan contradicted Grace”, and how cold you felt most of the time. Now you speak of warmth. I do not understand,” Susan spoke in a monotone to her client.

Grace appeared to be carefully considering Susan’s comment. “I think that at those times I felt warmth, I really realized that I WAS NOT COLD. Does that make sense?” Grace addressed Susan’s comment.

Susan thought back to that conversation, recalling the mental note that she had made: who actually was the therapist in this relationship, anyway? Grace seemed to just "appear" and prod Susan's thoughts into startlingly new realizations.

Grace had also mentioned at that session of stopping by to see Jackie upon her arrival back into town, after her weekend “away”.

* * * * * * * *

Grace slowly walked up the sidewalk to Jackie’s tiny home. "I will be a different person when I leave here later this evening that I am right now, " Grace told herself.

“Hi!” Jackie’s face appeared at the front door, and opened the door to let Grace in, after hearing a hesitant knock. Jackie’s expression changed when she saw the tears in Grace’s eyes.

“Oh, my dear little Grace,” Jackie crooned as she pulled Grace close to her, “ what is on your mind? Come, tell me about it”, the older woman offered.

Grace took a long time to explain her “absent weekend” to Jackie. There were long pauses of silences between both women, as they each absorbed the story as being told by Grace.

At one point, Grace lost the final ounce of control that she had had on her emotions. “What does all of this mean?” the words poured from Grace’s contorted face, as her tears flooded over both herself and Jackie.

Jackie was holding and stroking and patting Grace; expressing a continuous need to reassure the hurting individual in her arms. Jackie herself brushed a few tears straying from her own eyes.

“Oh Baby, I wish that I could make you understand! You are growing, that’s all. Your spiritual being is emerging, making itself known to you, “ Jackie explained. She had noticed that her comments were beginning to sink in, as well as calm Grace down.

Jackie went on, “My dear little Grace, we all have a spiritual side. With a lot of people, though, it never does emerge into the light of day. My angel, you are very sensitive, and you are unconsciously allowing your inner self to surface now, after all of these years of being quiet.”

Jackie stopped. She cupped Grace’s puffy red face in her hands, and spoke again, her tone of voice laden with emotion.

“I love seeing a person struggling to be born—into a higher universe...into a Christian...or entering whatever higher level of existence that helps them to be and experience everything to its fullest potential.”

Jackie’s voice got lower, “For brief instances, but happening with more frequency—our universes are opening up to each other’s experience. Does that scare you, my child?” She searched the now quiet young woman before her.

Grace stammered, and stopped. Slowly with resolution she looked directly into Jackie’s eyes, and smiled. “I love you, Jackie,” Grace said, and quickly added, “like I love all people, and myself.” Out of confusion and bewilderment, Grace added the last phrase for clarification.

“I think you feel something between us because you are receptive to the concept to which I am referring. You couldn’t know or be aware of its presence, but you have opened your heart and mind to this boundless universe around both of us”, Jackie quietly explained. “And yes, I do feel your love, and want to grasp the experience fully.”

Soon after this scene Grace left Jackie’s house, and returned to her own world. That very next day, Grace met with Sybil. Sybil looked so sweet, like an angel. Grace wanted her velvety voice to speak softly of Hope, Love, Light and Peace; instead Sybil spoke fervently and almost ominously of the Lord. Many prayers and Bible passages flowed almost mechanically from her lips.

Later that night when Grace was unloading her satchel, crammed full of papers from only a half-day of work earlier, she found her manuscript “Fragmented Stirrings”, and the three copies that she had made of it a few hours earlier while at work. Grace had told Susan that she had started chilling again, and went to turn up her thermostat.

* * * * * *

Three days later, Grace, in a session with Susan, explained in detail, what actually had transpired in the forty-eight hour period following in her return from her brief day at the office.

“Susan, I started separating the xerox copies of my manuscript into piles,” Grace explained, “and putting them in the order of the page number one through eleven. I noticed that three of the copies did not have page number at the top. Through process of elimination, I found that the “page 9’s” had not copied the number “9” at the top of three consecutive pages.

Grace was losing a grip on her emotions. “And Susan”, Grace gulped and with difficulty breathing, “I got so very cold. It was like my body was a clock of ice!” Out of curiosity, I went back to my original copy and sure enough, there was a page “9”.

“I’m not following you, Grace. What are you trying to explain to me?” Susan nervously asked.

“M-m-m-y copier at work prints copies upside down, the opposite direction of the original---Grace choked, and wailed, “Oh, Susan! What does this mean?? The copier would not print the three copies with the “9’s” upside down, which would be “666! Satan’s sign!”

"Oh My Dear God!" exclaimed Susan. Susan had witnessed many emotional breakthroughs in therapy with clients who had great difficulty in unleashing paralyzing truths. But this session was affecting them both, deeply, Susan realized. She pulled Grace from her chair and onto Susan’s lap, grasping Grace’s wrist unobtrusively to take her pulse. Too much mental and emotional anguish could throw her into some sort of psychic break, and physical duress.

As Susan held Grace close to her on her lap, she felt the distressed girl tremble. Susan did not understand the meaning of what had actually happened to Grace three days earlier, but Susan held her tightly, praying for strength to do the right thing, from a therapist’s standpoint. Susan was not aware that an inner strength within herself was mystically transferred to the emotional girl in her embrace.

Grace’s crying had lessened, and she continued.

“I am convinced that Satan is in my writings,” she said flatly. Satan has fooled me into believing that I a going through a “spiritual awakening”, when it is really Satan getting a hold of me…fooling me into believing that it was the Holy Spirit!”

“NO!” defiantly protested Susan. “No, you are wrong, Grace!” she said again. “Then what? Go on”, she encouraged.

“Well, I called Sybil”, Grace explained, “I guess I was crying so hysterically that it scared Sybil out of her wits! Sybil started up her chanting in ritualistic tones, and she scared me! Sybil had given me three books at earlier meetings, and begged me to read on in particular. Sybil believe that there is Satan and Evil in all of us. That Satan is so stealthy that he could fool us into believing that certain things in our lives look “good” to us, ‘cause we choose to see that that way. But in reality, we are only fooling ourselves”, Grace paused, drew a deep breath and continued her story.

“I sensed that Sybil was afraid for me. She begged me to read one of the books three times—she said I needed to purge Satan from my soul!” Grace paused for a long time. Her tears had left streaks of white salt on her flushed cheeks.

Grace drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “I went to see Jackie that very next day. For the first time that session Grace smiled a twisted little smile. But then her smile turned to a look of tender sadness. “Jackie wouldn’t talk about it with me. I think my little episode scared her too. Maybe she was questioning the validity of her Christian beliefs. Maybe the power of Satan threw her into some sort of doubt about the reality of God. I just don’t know. I care a lot about Jackie. Her blowing me off really cut into me.”

Minutes ticked by on the antique clock on the bookcase in Susan's office. There was silence between the therapist and the younger client. Susan was glad that she didn’t have another client scheduled until 2:00pm that afternoon. Sneaking a glance at her watch she saw that it was only noon. She did not wish to break the spell of the session for anything.

"Welllll----" Susan exhaled at what she thought was the end of the story.

“There’s more”, came a small voice from Grace as the words were breathed onto Susan’s neck, where her client’s small head was tucked. Grace looked up from the crook of Susan’s neck. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Susan swallowed hard. “Continue,” she said, wiping all emotion out of her voice.

“That very next day I had a thirty-five minute drive to a very early morning appointment. It was 6:45am. I spoke very openly and at length into my tape recorder to Jackie….talking to myself as much as Jackie, trying to sort out the confusion around all that happened up to the present time. “You’ve got to believe me, Susan. My Faith has grown stronger despite what Sybil was saying to me the other day.

“As I sat in the lobby at my appointment’s, I played back what I had recorded during my drive. But---what I ended up hearing on that recorder was not my own voice! It was a deeper, much slower-speaking voice, lingering on every word----”

“What was the Voice saying?” Susan interrupted.

“ ‘Life Everlasting . . .’ repeated over and over in a deep, monotonous voice” exclaimed Grace, the terror creeping back into her voice. “I could not cry out; I was in a lobby full of people. I literally thought that I was having a nervous breakdown or nightmare or something!!!!”

“Somehow I made it through my appointment, and went in to the office of my employment. After several hours of conversation with the very concerned president of my company, I was told to take four days off. I felt . . . lost, and hurt,” Grace concluded.

She went on. “I looked up Jackie at work, but her unyielding wish to ignore these last two turn of events further crushed me to depths of despair I have never known,” Grace related with genuine confusion and sorrow. “If there is a Force inside of me, whatever it may be—turning towards it is all that I had left.”

This sentence spoken by Susan’s client silently repeated itself in her head with an eerie cadence for the remainder of the day.

* * * * * * *

Once more, Susan rummaged around in her tote bag for another group of papers that she had picked off of the coffee table before she left her house—now hours ago.

Susan retrieved the papers. They were entitled, “More Focused Stirrings” and written by Grace. The more noteworthy passages caught her eye, and she read the passages slowly; sensing the deep feelings of the author. Susan attempted to read the sentences as seen through the eyes of Grace, as she had written them.

“I understand the song which I am humming. I like the lilt of the melody . . . the crescendos and nuances. I like the way the notes connect to give meaning to the music they create. A feeling I get in listening to it is ecstasy. Ecstasy is an emotion that is described only in understandable terms of how our sense are reacting to a feeling.”

“I have formed an opinion of who I am. I ask, “Why do you perceive me as such-and-such? I’m not what you think I am. Two different perceptions of one person. Which is right? Well, I like myself. I feel that I am correct. I accept myself; what do you think [as if I care].”

“We trust in children. Why? We perceive that they do not know the ways of the world yet. They have not played the game very long—they are not practiced at the rules of deception. So, anything we tell them, they believe. And everything they show us comes from their hearts, not their reasoning heads. We should listen to our own children more often; not necessarily from the offspring we produce, but from the child that lives inside us all.”

“I do not choose to come to you totally naked . . . to exist in our world this way is totally unacceptable. The nakedness I show you is a nakedness of my soul, not my body. My soul has no definite boundaries; my body does. My soul is boundless, with our universe. The universe? Even the word “universe” has limits: a “u” and an “e” bound the word. But the concept is without bounds. My soul is bound within my body, as the universe is confined and defined in the word “universe”: The concepts and sum totals are everywhere, beyond the limits of our own minds.”

Susan vividly remembered the day that Grace gave her “More Focused Stirrings”. Grace appeared to be less tense. Softer. Not quite so child-like. Wiser.

Susan recalled what Grace had told her had taken place after Grace had left the session.

Grace had errands to run. One of them was “the Speedy Eyeglass Place”. Gee, I’m sure glad I’m going to see more clearly with my new glasses. She waited inside, patiently, which up until now had not been a virtue of hers. The place was bustling with patrons: bringing in broken glasses, getting glasses for their children, and updating their frames.

“Next please,” said a kindly clerk, a thirty-ish woman

“I think my glasses need adjusting. The prescription is strong enough. It’s just that the frames keep slipping, distorting my vision. Can you help me?” Grace calmly asked.

“Surely,” said the woman with a broad grin”, give me a few minutes and they’ll be as good as new”.

While Grace was waiting, a boy of about eight jostled her arm. Another clerk, a thin, nervous woman of about fifty waited on him.

“Are my glasses ready yet? My dad said to check back in about an hour,” the young boy said.

The clerk disappeared for a few moments. Grace noticed that the clerk was empty-handed when she returned. Grace listened closely to the conversation between the clerk and the boy.

“I didn’t see them,” said the clerk, “they’re probably not quite ready yet.”

“But they are, too”, insisted the young boy, determined to be believed by the clerk. “I see them—over there.” He pointed in the direction of his fixed gaze.

The clerk went back inside the glassed-in area where new eyeglasses were made. She looked all around, shaking her head impatiently, with a puzzled look. She shrugged to the little boy through the glass. The boy, still patiently, pointed emphatically. Grace followed his finger with her eyes. Grace was short, as was the little boy. The clerk was tall. Grace and the boy could both see the glasses, viewing them from the side of the shelf on which they lay. Other shelves obstructed the clerk’s view because she was looking down from a nearly 6-foot height.

The young boy knew that he saw what they all were looking for, but he could not communicate with the clerk because she was in a soundproof, glassed-in area. The boy, though, seemed to trust that the clerk would keep looking until she found what she was searching for, for him.

In deep thought, Grace left the store and returned to her home. She had something yet that she needed to do. She went to her jewelry box, and took out a ring. It had her name on it.

Grace went to Susan’s home. She had been there a few times previously, and did not feel that she was intruding. Somewhere in her heart, Grace felt that this woman, Susan, her therapist, and Grace had grown extremely close. Feeling convinced of this, Grace wanted to give something to Susan, something that Susan could look at, and think of Grace…always.

Susan had just sat down to a newsy woman’s magazine, when the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, there stood Grace. Smiling.

Grace simply said, “To remember me always—wear this ring and you will always know where I can be found. I have learned so much from you about myself.”

Susan slipped on the ring. Through her tears she realized that it fit, as she knew it would.

* * * * * * *

Susan had become drowsy in her lengthy reverie. She had trouble probing her consciousness, with sleep overcoming her. She desperately clung to threads of wakefulness in the meadow that afternoon, before sleep triumphed over Susan’s reflections of her young client, Grace. From that moment forward, by the laws of God and reality on earth—and the incomprehensible: either Susan’s thoughts and dreams, or Grace’s related happenings through her own conversations with Susan…..or telepathic communications allowed the continuation of Grace’s story to unfold.

* * * * * * *

After Grace had left “More Focused Stirrings” with Susan after her last session, she returned to her corner of her world to think about all that had happened to her. Things had been happening so rapidly, her poor head was spinning. She bargained with herself: Grace would look back over the last two weeks---over all the years of her life.

She put all of the tapes in her head on “rewind.” While she was waiting for them to rewind completely, her thoughts wandered. What was the meaning of all of this? Occurrences in three’s of bizarre happenings. Her three “signs”- did they mean for her to stop, look and listen? To what? The presence of Jackie and Sybil in Grace’s life, the voice telling her to listen to her heart”, the “missing inverted 9’s” and the garbled voice on the tape talking about “Life Everlasting” had some connection. Grace knew that. She was greatly puzzled, but she had unyielding trust that it would all make sense. Eventually.

As she was caught up in her own deep concentration, the tape had stopped rewinding, and was now ready to play out her life in slow motion. Grace never knew this, but Susan, asleep amidst the gently blowing cottonwood had lived what the tapes had recorded, as they now were playing with deliberate clarity.

* * * * * *

Something had happened to Susan as it also had happened to Grace. They transcended together from that ever-present void, where they had both existed for such a long time.

Grace returned to her home, after she had left Susan’s, having given her the ring. It was very late now, and she had had a very enlightening day. Somehow, she felt that she was losing a grip on her own life, and becoming a very integral part of Susan’s. She built a fire, wrapped a blanket around her, and looked for comfort in her own meditations. She closed her eyes.

“All my Children, I have a story to tell you this night. You’ve all heard it before; but it has always calmed you so you could sleep,” she crooned, ever so comfortingly. And once again, she spoke The Story as she had tirelessly told Her Children for millennia.

And Grace told the story, her story…as she needed to…. to children like Susan, and many, many others. Somewhere in the middle of the story, sometime that night, Grace opened her eyes and smiled. There was no one actually in that room with her, but the souls of thousands were her audience.

In her quiet surroundings, Grace had discovered her purpose for being who she was: to open Susan’s heart. Her therapy, her writings, and her encounters with people were Grace’s way of teaching Susan self-acceptance of her own spiritual self.

Susan was fighting Grace’s attempts to reach her, with all of her might. That night that Grace had given Susan the ring; Susan had had a real-to-life “night-terror”. Grace was not aware of this for several days.

“There was a young artist sketching a picture, sitting on the canal bridge on the outskirts of a village in France. The young artist had long, flowing jet-black hair. Susan could see her from various angles from the sides and back, but the girl never turned so Susan could see her straight on. Susan could never quite determine what she looked like, by never being able to see all of her face at one time.

The young artist was sketching a portrait of a young woman, dark eyes and long, dark hair. The subject of the drawing could very well have been the artist herself: a self-portrait.

In her frustration at not being able to see the artist’s face, Susan turned to walk away. With her back to the artist as she retreated, she heard a commotion from behind. Then, without warning, a flash of gleaming silver streaked across her peripheral vision, then clattered to the concrete sidewalk near Susan’s feet.

As Susan turned to look back at the lone figure on the canal---horror gripped her. She went numb. Speechless. The artist had stood and hurled a knife at Susan’s retreating backside. The silent young artist was trying to kill her, and Susan was horrified at the near miss of the sharp blade..

Realizing that the artist was unarmed, Susan rushed back to physically fight her. She got inches from her, and grabbed her shiny, black mane and jerked her head back. The artist was…. Susan! Susan looked from the artist to the portrait: both could have been her twin. The artist went limp in Susan’s arms, and the portrait became very blurred. At the very bottom of the almost-completed portrait, the small title of the painting came into focus. It was entitled “Grace.”

* * * * * * *

Susan jerked awake from her sound slumber, opened her eyes and focused on the sky, relieved to feel the sturdy ground beneath her. She thought that she had never shown all of herself to any one person. Each only experienced a piece of who Susan was, as a person. She even felt smug about the fact that she never shared all of herself with anyone. But of what was she afraid? Skepticism, I guess, she reasoned. Others’ skepticism towards other sides of her personality that they has not experienced; different sides that she had not shown to others for fear of their rejection of her. They could only find fault with the known parts of her, while she fearfully clung to parts yet unrevealed.

She sat up. But there were plenty of parts of her personality that everyone in her life could accept or relate to, in part. But by sounding so vague, no one could ever figure out who she really was. And if no one knew of the hopes and expectations that she had inside, she couldn’t fail in their eyes, and consequently her own.

Susan slowly realized that she had always been at the mercy of others to give her self-definition.

People had always told Susan, “you have such strength, such persuasive power---you’ll go far”. Susan felt very strange indeed, playing the part of her own therapist. It had been through the appearance of Grace in her life, or rather through the acknowledgment of her presence inside Susan: that Grace was a part of her.

Susan had convinced herself that this mental scene would vanish as soon as she woke up. But the birds were flying above, and there were chipmunks, rabbits, and cottonwood all about…creating such splashes of color and aromatic scents that teased her senses. Yes, she has resigned herself to the fact that she was already awake. Fearlessly and weakly, Susan worked through the emotions that had been a part of her for so long, yet muffled.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Eventually, Susan spoke aloud, a long, contemplative soliloquy. She was totally dissociated, and disconnected from her present surroundings.

Slowly and deliberating Susan spoke. “Grace has been inside of me all of my life, first as an infant, and later a baby. But a peculiar thing happened to Grace. I cocooned her. It was as if I encapsulated her for her own protection from any of my hurt, my failures, my mistakes that I brought upon myself.”

Susan paused and reflected some before starting again.

“I did not want Grace to hurt because of something that I did. Finally, I hid her from myself. Safe and secure in her own unreal world. So I kept her in my womb. Grace had been so still all of these years. I had never allowed Grace to be born. I never even accepted the fact that I had been carrying her. And yes. Grace knew what I was doing, but she never let on. She never cried out in silent pain.

Susan stopped her whispered reverie. She couldn’t go on. Her thought processes were stopped, venturing into uncharted territory, and very indecisive. Some Force within her, though, continued her insightful musings. The therapist did not vocalize the rest.

“Then not too long ago, something incredulous began to occur. Unceremoniously, stirrings of Life within her were experienced, but Susan couldn’t comprehend what was happening to her. But, nonetheless, there was movement…and telepathic waves were being emitted from Grace. There was motion and emotion within Susan that she had never, ever felt before. Little Grace had a lot to say to her. She needed for the world to see her!” Susan shook her head. “It was not good enough for Grace that I keep allowing my world to see only bits and pieces of me.”

Her thoughts stopped once again. She could think no longer. She could reason forward only with great effort. Her head was beginning to ache. She went on, thoughts tumbling out slowly.

“Grace has been living through me, enjoying life vicariously through me, whenever I allowed it. Nonetheless, I wasn’t even aware of Grace’s presence! But to acknowledge Grace, I would have had to expose her, for judgment by the rest of the world.

Susan’s head was pounding. She reached in her bag for some painkillers with codeine, and then changed her mind. They weren’t going to help the mental and spiritual pain that she was in. The pain of labor - of giving birth to a spirit form.

Slowly she said aloud, “I was able to keep Susan and Grace from ever meeting each other. Keeping them both cloistered away in separate compartments—worked for awhile; but the mistake of not allowing them to interact with each other caused each of them pain in the realization that separately, they were incomplete.

Susan felt a great pressure in her heart and in her womb give way. The chain’s padlock, holding in years of stifled life gave way from around her heart. Membranes gave way in her feminine organs causing contractions of pain turned to spasms of joy. As the pulsating subsided, Susan lay exhausted, not moving for a long, long time. As Susan allowed Grace to be born, Grace’s only purpose for existing at all…. started to diminish.

Susan searched the archives of her mind, and her early psychiatry training. She drew upon all knowledge in her field to work through her blocked emotions. Her acceptance of Grace in her heart, was her way of giving life to Grace…. at long last. In giving birth to little Grace, she was freed from her cocoon, but absorbed back into Susan’s consciousness.

Another realization came to light. Even in the beginning when Grace first came to Susan in therapy, and gave Susan something she had written---what had Susan done? The manuscript was locked up in a file at her office. Susan needed to not hear what her ever-so-wise client had to say to her. No one knew of the writings. But Grace did. And Susan knew that Grace had written them for her, and her alone.

* * * * * * *

Sticky from sweat, and stray cottonwood wisps sticking to her neck, Susan stiffly and slowly rose from her bed of grass, stuffed the manuscripts into her totebag, and slowly proceeded in the direction in which her had originally headed earlier that morning. A few minutes later, she let out an elated yelp.

“The lake! The lake! I found it!” she shouted to Nature around her. And she ran towards it, and hugged herself as she absorbed the tranquility and serenity that filled her soul.

For the remainder of her stay in the country Susan ate heartily, walked in the nourishing sunlight, and unconsciously processed all that had transpired in that first afternoon.

Upon her arrival in the city, Susan made an appointment with her own therapist, Verna, whom she saw very infrequently.

“Well, my Lord,” exclaimed Verna when Susan crossed her threshold. Verna was a tall, slender woman of about sixty---with salt and pepper hair. She wore no make-up, save for a smudged bit of eyeliner. Susan looked at the older mentor-therapist that had been a part of Susan for so many years, grateful to see her and giving her a huge bearhug.

“How have you been? Where have you been, Susan? Do I detect a suntan, Susan?” questioned the older therapist with her eyes crinkling into a knowing smile. Something was up.

“Oh,” Susan began matter-of-factly, "I’ve journeyed to the recesses of my psyche.” Susan lightly announced this, but with deep feeling.

“Uh-oh! A little self-therapy do I detect? Here”, Verna offered, “sit down, Child”. She sensed an emotional storm brewing in Susan.

“What is it, Susan? You look so very badly shaken! Tell me about it.” Verna took Susan’s hands into her own.

“I want to leave this earth, and know that I mattered. I want to make a difference in our world”, Susan implored. “Oh, I’m not talking about being an Albert Einstein or John F. Kennedy”, Martin Luther King or even Marilyn Monroe," Susan stopped, and began speaking a more slowly. “I need to make a small difference. Somewhere. Can you see how so very critical that is: to have meaning…to have a purpose? Here?” Susan’s tone sounded desperate.

“My dear, precious Susan,” Verna responded warmly, “you have always mattered to me. You have been my absolutely favorite-est student! She clasped her hands in a delighted gesture. “Why, I have always wanted to be closer to you…but you were so cool and distant at times. I just had to let you travel your own journey. I knew you’d see the light at the end of the tunnel in your struggles,” she said.

Susan blankly took in what Verna was saying, disbelief in her eyes.

Verna continued, “Susan, there is a bond between us. Somewhere in our years together, you grew into my heart.” As Verna squeezed Susan’s hand in that timeless second, Susan felt Grace snuggle deeper into her own heart.

That night, Susan had a dream; less emotionally charged than her recent other dreams. Again, that next afternoon she saw Verna, and spoke to her about the disturbing dream she had had the previous night.

Susan began, “There was this tunnel. It had a lot of people spaced sporadically along its dark corridor. Each was holding a candle; as it they were attempting to light my way as I wandered into and along this tunnel.”

As I would approach one of the figures, they did not speak to me. They only lifted their candle a little higher, so that I might be able to see my way better in their section of the tunnel”, she spoke. Disbelief was in her voice. She continued.

“If I only reached out to them, and taken their candles, I could have proceeded on my own at my pace, thus lighting my own way. Instead, I have it in my head that I had to rely on them to help me find my way.” Susan spoke with assurance in her voice that her interpretation of the dream was, in fact, correct.

“Blindly, I must have trusted that in the long stretches of blackness, there would eventually be another figure up ahead with a lit candle. As it turned out in the dream, these people were actually people that I knew in my life. They were all of the people in my life up until now who are very dear to me. Everybody!” Susan exclaimed with surprise. “Can you believe than? There were some people that I hadn’t really thought of for years!”

“Well anyway, I walked, and walked, and walked. I became very terrified in that expanse of blackness. But then, I came upon you, Verna, in the corridor." Tears welled up in Susan’s eyes.

“But Verna, you had two candles, one in each hand. These two candles gave out ten times the light of the other candles.” Susan’s voice became hushed, and her voice lowered, as if in reverence.

“There was no more darkness ahead of me. It was like the pre-Dawn itself. There was no longer the inky blackness; now a gray light was becoming visible. The gray grew light and lighter, into a white—then a whiter white. Then a curious thing took place. I wasn’t too sure I was interpreting my senses accurately. The whitest white gave way to warmth. That means it still had to be light, doesn’t it?” Susan broke into her recounting of the dream to ask of Verna.

Verna merely nodded. “Go on, dear”, was her only comment.

“In the midst of all this white and warmth was Grace. Little Grace—at the end of all the darkness was warmth and light and truth and hope. Grace, who lighted the way for me all of my years, was finally recognized for what she really was,” Susan acknowledged.

“As I got closer to Grace, I couldn’t figure out who she really resembled. It was a though I knew who she was, but did not recognize her as any one person. Verna,” Susan asked, “what does this dream mean? For the life of me, I cannot put it all into perspective”, Susan appealed to Verna once more.

Verna was quiet. Susan knew that she was working on how she was going to answer her questions. Verna was an almost priest-like in her wisdom and profession.

“Susan, somewhere along the way, it was pointed out to you that the world was more gray, more sepia-toned, with no real distinction between colors. I think that you realize that now.” Verna paused.

“You are finally allowing your striving for perfection to become a past trait of your own personality. I am convinced that you are allowing yourself to feel things for the very first time, without your usual crutches: cigarettes, alcohol, stringent diets, men and constant material wants.” Verna’s voice grew stern.

“You have always distracted yourself with one of these things, when you were experiencing a feeling that you did not want to have”, Verna paused and took a sip of her now-cold coffee. She began again.

“I told you a long time ago, that facts and feelings do not mix; they are like oil and water. The facts are the known facts. We may all have different feelings about these facts. Feelings are from within ourselves, our souls…. facts are 'out there'; truisms.”

“Your strong ability to use your head, to process thoughts and to have knowledge have been misused by yourself. It is what people have reasoned with in trying to reason with you, my dear. They have appealed to the rational, reasoning side of your intellect. You finally have just found it more difficult to deal exclusively with your “head” logic. You are now wishing to live and feel and choose with your heart—and there is no reason you should feel that you have to “numb” these feelings because you are finally feeling them!” Verna nodded her head, indicating to Susan that it was Susan’s turn.

In that two-hour conversation, teacher and student learned more about life, themselves, and each other. Their conversation was joyous as tears of gratitude sprinkled intermittently from both women.

Susan slowly walked out of Verna’s office. With the “forced birthing” of Grace, and Verna’s training interpretation of the intangible, Susan felt that she was a new person. Totally new. Better. Happier. More whole.

Little Grace was now lodged comfortably within my heart, trusting that she will not be ignored any longer, Susan admitted.

Susan strolled along the sidewalk of the quiet neighborhood, keenly aware of the sounds of early June: the distant sounds of a schoolyard about to be emptied for the summer, a faraway stereo playing contemporary jazz, and a lawnmower buzzing from afar.

“How lucky I am to be alive! Really alive!" Susan thought as she stooped to stroke a neighborhood tabby cat. From her stooped position, she squinted up at the sky, blinking tears of joy. Changing her mind, she allowed new tears to cascade down her face, unashamedly.

“I [hopefully] have many years off into the future before I die,” Susan thought. “But I have Faith that Grace will live on with the ticking of Time . . . in the hearts of many. (please keep reading, scrolling down this page.)

At this point in your life, it is very possible that Grace within you may make herself known to you for the very first time. (Go on. Don't stop now. Keep scrolling on the browser's down-arrow)

Do not be afraid of Grace’s presence. She is only a child. She cannot hurt you. Just let her be…. herself. (you have not read 'The End' yet, have you? Keep scrolling.)

So you have looked closer into these blank pages of your life. Did you learn anything during these times...during the passing years? But what did you hope to find? Answers to your past? Predictions of the future? (still have not gotten to the end - keep scrolling)

Don’t turn deaf ears to the little voice in your heart! Listen closely. The booming voices in your head will ‘most certainly drown out the little voice of Grace. (have patience, My Friend....scroll on)

Ah, you’re eighty-seven years old now…. And you think it’s too late to change? To open your heart? If you are still drawing a breath—then it is not too late--- (scroll)

“So you never did acknowledge Me in your heart? When your Life was over?”

Then you were ready to hear Me… maybe you were blind or deaf; but you did not sin. You did not fall from….

…… God’s Almighty…..

"Grace"

The End

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Author’s Note: This is a true story. Every last scene of it. The events really happened. Only the names have been changed to protect those who dance with demons of their own.

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