8 A BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Growth means change and
change involves risk, stepping
from the known to the unknown.
– Author Unknown
When he reached his room, Mack discovered that his clothes, which he had left back in the car, were either folded on top of the dresser or hung in the open closet. To his amusement he also found a Gideon’s Bible in the night-stand. He opened the window wide to let the outside night flow freely in, something that Nan never tolerated at home because of her fear of spiders and anything else crawly and creepy. Snuggling like a small child deep inside the heavy down comforter, he had only made it through a couple verses before the Bible somehow left his hand, the light somehow turned off, someone kissed him on the cheek, and he was lifting gently off the ground in a flying dream. Those who have never flown this way might think those who believe they do rather daft, but secretly they are probably at least a little envious. He hadn’t had a flying dream in years, not since The Great Sadness had descended, but tonight Mack flew high into the starlit night, the air clear and cool but not uncomfortable. He soared above lakes and rivers, crossing an ocean coast and a number of reef-rimmed islets.
As odd as it sounds, Mack had learned inside his dreams to fly like this; to lift off the ground supported by nothing-no wings, no aircraft of any sort, just himself. Beginning flights were usually limited to a few inches, due mostly to fear or, more accurately, a dread of falling. Stretching his flights to a foot or two and eventually higher increased his confidence, as did his discovery that crashing wasn’t painful at all but only a slow motion bounce. In time, he learned to ascend into the clouds, cover vast distances, and land gently.
As he soared at will over rugged mountains and crystal white seashores, reveling in the missed wonder of dream flight, suddenly something grabbed him by the ankle and tore him out of the sky. In a matter of seconds he was dragged from the heights and violently thrown face first onto a muddy and deeply rutted road. Thunder shook the ground and rain instantly drenched him to the bone. And there it came again, lightning illuminating the face of his daughter as she soundlessly screamed “Daddy” and then turned to run into the darkness, her red dress visible only for a few brief flashes and then gone. He fought with all his strength to extricate himself from the mud and the water, only succeeding in being sucked deeper into its grasp. And just as he was being taken under he woke with a gasp.
With his heart racing and his imagination anchored in the nightmare’s images, it took a few moments for Mack to realize it had only been a dream. But even as it faded from his consciousness, the emotions didn’t go with it. The dream had provoked The Great Sadness and before he could even get out of bed, he was once again fighting his way through the despair that had devoured too many of his days.
With a grimace he looked around the room in the dull gray of the growing dawn that snuck in around the window shades. This wasn’t his bedroom; nothing looked or felt familiar. Where was he? Think, Mack, think! Then he remembered. He was still at the shack with those three interesting characters, all of whom thought they were God.
“This can’t really be happening,” Mack grunted as he pulled his feet out of bed and sat on its edge with his head in his hands. He thought back to the previous day and again entertained the fear that he was going crazy. As he had never been much of a touchy-feely person, Papa-whoever she was-made him nervous and he had no idea what to make of Sarayu. He admitted to himself that he liked Jesus a lot, but he seemed the least godlike of the three.
He let out a deep, heavy sigh. And if God was really here, why hadn’t he taken his nightmares away?
Sitting in a quandary, he decided, wasn’t helping, so he found his way to the bathroom where, to his amusement, everything he needed for a shower had been carefully laid out for him. He took his time in the warmth of the water, took his time shaving, and back in the bedroom, took his time dressing.
The penetrating and alluring aroma of coffee drew his eye to the steaming cup waiting for him on the end table by the door. Taking a sip, he opened the shades and stood looking out through his bedroom window onto the lake, which he’d only glimpsed as a shadow the night before.
It was perfect, smooth as glass, except for the occasional trout leaping after its breakfast sending circles of miniature waves radiating across the deep blue surface until they were slowly absorbed back into the larger surface. He estimated the far side was about a half mile away. Dew sparkled everywhere, diamond-like tears of the early morning reflecting the sun’s love.
The three canoes resting easily at intervals along the dock looked inviting, but Mack shrugged off the thought. Canoes were no longer a joy. Too many bad memories.
The dock reminded him of the night before. Had he really lain out there with the One who made the universe? Mack shook his head, dumbfounded. What was going on here? Who were they really and what did they want from him? Whatever it was, he was sure he didn’t have it to give.
The smell of eggs and bacon mixed with something else curled into his room, interrupting his thoughts. Mack decided it was time to emerge and speak for his share. As he entered the main living area, he heard the sound of a familiar Bruce Cockburn tune drifting from the kitchen and a high-pitched black woman singing along rather welclass="underline" “Oh love that fires the sun, keep me burning.” Papa emerged with plates in each hand full of pancakes and fried potatoes and greens of some sort. She was dressed in a long-flowing African-looking garment, complete with a vibrant multicolored headband. She looked radiant-almost glowing.
“You know,” she exclaimed, “I love that child’s songs! I am especially fond of Bruce, you know.” She looked over at Mack, who was just sitting down at the table.
Mack nodded, his appetite increasing by the second.
“Yup,” she continued, “and I know you like him too.”
Mack smiled. It was true. Cockburn had been a family favorite for years, first his, then his and Nan ’s, and then each of the children to one degree or another.
“So, honey,” Papa asked, continuing busily with whatever she was doing. “How were your dreams last night? Dreams are sometimes important, you know. They can be a way of openin’ up the window and lettin’ the bad air out.”
Mack knew this was an invitation to unlock the door into his terrors, but at the moment he wasn’t ready to invite her into that hole with him. “I slept fine, thank you,” he responded and then quickly changed the subject. “Is he your favorite? Bruce, I mean?”
She stopped and looked at him. “Mackenzie, I have no favorites; I am just especially fond of him.”
“You seem to be especially fond of a lot of people,” Mack observed with a suspicious look. “Are there any who you are not especially fond of?”
She lifted her head and rolled her eyes as if she were mentally going through the catalog of every being ever created. “Nope, I haven’t been able to find any. Guess that’s jes’ the way I is.”
Mack was interested. “Do you ever get mad at any of them?”
“Sho ‘nuff! What parent doesn’t? There is a lot to be mad about in the mess my kids have made and in the mess they’re in. I don’t like a lot of choices they make, but that anger- especially for me-is an expression of love all the same. I love the ones I am angry with just as much as those I’m not.”
“But,” Mack paused. “What about your wrath? It seems to me that if you’re going to pretend to be God Almighty, you need to be a lot angrier.”