Norbert’s HandS

Norbert died instantly.  When his car rammed the back of the truck, hundreds of pounds of steel pipe had slid off the truck bed, shattering his windshield, coming to rest against the back seat - all except for the few that made it out the back window, clattering onto the road behind Norbert’s car.  Norbert had been decapitated.  That was years ago, and Doris had managed to put the images out of her mind.  Since it was just like a movie she’d seen in driver’s ed in high school, it took awhile.  For years she had replayed that scene over and over, replacing the bloody anonymity in the movie with Norbert’s strong shoulders, his large, competent hands.

Doris missed Norbert.  They had been soul mates.  Norbert had done woodworking, and owned a small business that he operated out of the workshop at the back of their house.  Doris had a home business too, sewing costumes for the local theater.  She never got bored by the variety of texture and color in fabric, never tired of the intricate piecing required by the complex costumes.  She was always delighted when a costume was finished, and she saw the miracle of what she had done.

Doris and Norbert had always had lunch together, sitting on the deck that overlooked the little pond out back.  He would tell her about a particular joint he was having trouble with, or a new finish he had heard about.  She didn’t tell him about her work, but listened, lulled into happiness by his deep voice, his love of wood, and the smell of sawdust that swirled about him always like a fine cologne.  She would pour iced tea into their glasses, pleased at the way the liquid, sometimes rusty brown, sometimes golden, sometimes the deep, rich color of the earth, slid over the ice and filled their glasses, knowing that it would be smooth going down, and that in small sips it would refresh and satisfy them, without their hardly noticing at all. 

But that had been years ago too.  After Norbert died, Doris had stopped having lunch on the deck.  She became more active in her church, something she had never done when Norbert was alive, since he had no use for the hypocrisy of church folk, as he put it.  But the church was a good family for Doris after he died, and she kept busy in Bible studies, working at the local food pantry, and teaching Sunday School from time to time.  She had also become more involved with her sister’s family, and especially with her niece Doreen and Doreen’s two young children.

 Doris and Norbert had never had children, but once, when they were younger and Doris’ sister was having difficulty with life and love, they had taken in Doreen for a couple of years to ease the pressure.  They had enjoyed Doreen, giving her all the space she needed to explore her world and get her emotions sorted out, and Doreen had thrived in their quiet, loving home.  And even later, when she was back with her mother, and later, out on her own, Doreen had gone to Norbert or to Doris many times, and had told her troubles, and been so thoroughly listened to by both that she knew that no problem would ever be too big.  So after Norbert died, Doreen moved close to keep an eye on Doris, and to make sure that there was always love in that house.

 Thus Doris kept busy, and she had a good life, even without Norbert, but she knew that she was only biding time until she could join him.  There was nothing she wanted more than to be with Norbert again, to feel his soul gently touching hers, moving as she moved, loving as she loved.  When she sat in church, and the pastor talked about loved ones in Heaven, and about living side by side with Christ, Doris blushed like a young bride waiting for the war to end so she could be reunited with her lover.  And because of this she was not unhappy when she died.

 She had felt a strong pain in the left side of her chest one morning as she was pinning a sleeve to a 19^th century milking-girl’s dress.  She had sat on her wooden sewing stool, the one Norbert had made her, just the right height and with a swivel under the seat, carefully removing the pins she was holding between her lips, and said out loud, “At last.”  She waited, but nothing more happened.  The pain stopped.  She waited for a bit more before she turned back to the sleeve.

Later that afternoon she was heating up some curried rice with chicken and the pain came again.  This time it dropped her to her knees.  She stayed there, bent over, hands clutched over her chest, and listened to her own hard breath.  That one had been worse, but it, too, passed.  When she could, she gently moved, sitting on the cool tile floor, leaning against the wooden cabinet door.  Norbert had made the cabinets too, but Doris wasn’t thinking about that – she was looking out the kitchen window, watching a hummingbird as it hovered over the feeder that hung just outside the window. It was sipping sweet sugar water through its long straw of a beak.  It was a male – its crimson throat shimmered in the sunlight - and she could hear the low whirring of its wings.

Doris was tired.  She rested a bit and then made her way to the bedroom.  She lay on the bed, slowly sinking her head into her pillow, its case fresh-washed and smelling of lavender, and closed her eyes.  While she napped, she had a third ‘episode’, much worse than the first two.  With that one she was released from this life and entered into that long white tunnel of light she had been hoping for ever since she read that book Doreen had given her when Norbert died, the one about ‘near-death’ experiences. 

Just as she had read, Doris was greeted by the smiling faces and outstretched arms of loved ones long gone, and some radiant people that were familiar but that she couldn’t place.  They were greeting her, guiding her toward the shimmering whiteness at the end of the tunnel.  She was filled with an incredible sense of peace and the stirrings of joy, and she moved – ‘like floating’, she thought – toward the bright, white light.  As she neared the end of the tunnel, her sense of joy caught on something, the way fine, filmy fabric can get snagged on a pin.  When she took the pin out to look at it, this is what she realized:  she had expected Norbert to be first in line, but he wasn’t there at all.   

But now Doris’ attention was diverted, because she was passing through the light at the end of the tunnel.  As she passed through, she was filled with a deep and profound sense of pleasure.  It was as if every cell in her body were singing out in joy, and her own laughter filled her and flowed over like a fountain.  Every care left her, worries she had carried for years without even knowing, and she felt light as a wisp.  And then she was at the gate, and there was St. Peter, beaming at her like a small boy with a lucky penny.  He stretched out his arms to her, and she wasn’t a bit afraid or intimidated as she moved into them.  She looked over his shoulder at Heaven, and its beauty stopped her breath.  Nothing she had ever seen – no colors,  no patterns of light, no rich brocades or creamy velvets – even hinted at the beauty there.  So when St. Peter spoke to her in his deep voice, saying ‘Welcome home Doris!’ she was in the mind of perfection, and answered, “Thank you, Peter, I’m so glad to be here. I can’t wait to find Norbert and get settled in” 

A slight shadow crossed over Peter’s face.  This was an awkward moment, but not an uncommon one.  And even the sorriest news couldn’t fully penetrate the joy of heaven.  So he said, rather quickly, “He’s not here Doris, but you’ll find quite a few other folks you know, and plenty of good ones that you haven’t met yet.  And you’ll find that the bliss is unending, regardless.” 

Doris stepped back.  She looked at Peter, whose eyes, for the moment, were veiled.  “Norbert’s not here?” 

Peter shook his head.  “Norbert did not believe, Doris.  You do realize that?” 

“Well, yes, but he was such a good man.”  Doris was trying to remember her Sunday School lessons.  “God is merciful and just.” 

“All fall short of the Glory of God, Doris.  It is by grace, through faith, that we are saved.”  Peter stood quietly for a moment, pondering.  “And even faith is a gift.” 

Doris was trying to think.  “But Norbert really was a good man.  I remember the time that Chuck Bends returned Norbert’s coping saw, and it was broken, and he didn’t offer to pay for it – just said, “Accidents happen!”  And Norbert just let it be, and he was still friends with Chuck until he died.  He was a forgiving man, Peter!” 

Peter nodded.  “All of us up here liked Norbert, Doris.  We were pulling for him.” 

“And I suppose Emma Lipkin, who gossiped the live-long day away every day for as long as I knew her is up here?  And her husband Elmer, who was so good he couldn’t hardly stand to be around the rest of us?” 

Peter cocked his head.  “Emma is here, Doris.  She was, well, reluctant to put her faith into action, but when it got down to the wire she ‘saw the light’, as we say, and was truly repentant.  But Elmer … no.  Elmer had very little love in him, Doris, as you so keenly observed.” 

Peter watched Doris’ face as she struggled.  “Doris, it’s not good to look back at the world and its ways.  Look forward, into God’s kingdom.” 

Doris wasn’t listening.  She was wondering if it would be possible to go to Norbert - just choose to be with him.  She could, perhaps, relieve his pain.  She’d read in a book about reincarnation that some souls ‘reject nirvana’ to stay and help other souls who need it.  Maybe she could do something like that, arrange that with Jesus.  He was certainly compassionate, she knew that much for sure.  He would surely appreciate the sacrifice.  But then she wondered.  Could those years in Hell, in the fire, have changed Norbert, turned his sweet soul into something else?   

When Doreen had come to stay with them all those years ago, she had been withdrawn and distrustful, still a sweet child, but quick to anger.  It had taken time  before they had seen Doreen’s own lovely nature blossom.  And what about all of those men in prison?  Doris didn’t know any personally, but she had read stories about men who were worse when they came out of prison than when they went in.  Was Hell possibly like that?  Would Norbert be strong enough to resist all that agony and degradation?  Would she? 

Peter seemed to read her thoughts.  “Put it out of your mind, Doris.  After only a few years, Hell destroys even the kindest soul.  You wouldn’t even recognize Norbert now.” 

Not even recognize Norbert?  She recalled his large gentle hands and his playful chuckle.  Doris sighed.  This is certainly not what she had expected.  “Will I forget him, then?  Is that how it works?  Do we forget the ones down there?”  As she searched Peter’s eyes, they seemed to change.  They were still blue but they deepened, opened, until she could see stars, galaxies, the whole universe, and the universe was permeated with a love that saturated her as she stood there, that wrapped around her and drew her in. 

“Well, yes, Doris.  I’d say that’s close to what happens.  Except occasionally someone leaves a door open, and then the clamor and cries of the perishing souls rise up even to heaven, and that, Doris, is not a sound you soon forget.” 

Suddenly they were interrupted by the sound of voices singing from beyond the gate, thousands of voices, singing, in multiple harmonies.  The voices soared high and floated down, blended and then split and circled her and joined again, rushing upward and filling her spirit with light and love.  

Doris blinked. She looked at Peter, at the gate, at the beauty beyond.  Her father’s wisdom came to mind:  “You gotta play the hand you’re dealt, Doris.”  Words she hadn’t thought of for years, and certainly had never heard in church.  She stepped forward.  The gates swung open, and Doris walked through.    As the gates closed softly, her memories of Norbert, her thoughts of mercy and justice, were absorbed by every beautiful detail and all good pleasures.