Proof of something
I discovered proof of something the day my brother, Tony, died. Killed in an auto accident. My Mom, visiting my house for the first time ever—and I mean any house or apartment or boarding room I’ve ever inhabited, at any time up to that point in my 30-year-old life—was asleep with my stepfather in the master bedroom, next to the phone, where I usually slept. In the guest room next door, my ex-wife woke me with an elbow in the ribs about 3 a.m. “The phone,” she said.
Knowing that my mother was asleep in a strange room, perhaps struggling into consciousness with no good idea where phones or light switches might be located—or perhaps, after the long car trip to our home that evening, not even sure exactly where she was—prompted me to project myself quickly, nakedly, down the hall and into the master bedroom. Where I answered the phone. It was my brother’s wife, sobbing and hysterical. “Mom,” I managed to hear her plea.
By that time, my mother was more or less sitting under the covers on the side of the bed. As I stood by her and think back on it now, neither of us was really bothered by my nakedness. In fact, my nakedness was so irrelevant I’ve only now just thought of it for the first time.
I handed the receiver to my mother and heard her ask: “Tony’s dead?”
Soon after I realized that God had grabbed me by the collar—despite my nakedness—and stared down my throat, and gave me a clear message: “Family matters. Don’t ever let yourself get so far away again.” And he was not kind about it, or subtle. He was greatly emphatic. And really a little pissed that I made him go to that extreme. He made it so that I handed my own mother the phone, and then had to stand there and listen to her find out that her son was dead. What are the odds? And how masochistic can you get?
Later, of course, I realized that God had killed my brother only to teach me an important lesson. But he’s leaving it up to me to determine what that lesson is. And he took the opportunity—I mean, this was a dramatic and public event—of teaching a multitude of other lessons to an ever-expanding relationship pyramid of other people, who must also receive lessons, and are all within 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon.
And I had my proof: science cannot explain everything.
A neurologist recently wrote about his near-death experience. The angelic presence that guided him provided 3 pieces of information: (1) “You are loved and cherished, dearly, forever.” (2) “You have nothing to fear.” And (3) “There is nothing you can do wrong.”
This coincides roughly with many wisdom religions around the world, some of the Dalai Lama’s tweets, as well as portions of AA’s 12-step program. It also explains my fascination in recent years in cable TV programs such as “The Ghost Hunters,” where 99% of my time is wasted. On one or two occasions, however, the evidence is convincing. For example, the St. Augustine lighthouse is haunted—at least it was the day the crew was filming the episode:
The crew from “Ghost Adventures,” another cable TV program on the paranormal, which I find only about 98% wasteful, once had a brick thrown at them, which was also convincing.
Arthur C. Clarke, of course, saw that “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” I believe that science must advance to become magic in order for an understanding of the universe to emerge. Because I’ve got proof of something. And science does not.