My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Before the Ascension
I would have preferred Jesus saddened by the prospect of Ascension. I would rather him miss his friends even before leaving them, and that he tell them so rather than simply leave. I would rather have him regret the loss of them, no matter how short the time; but maybe he had already said those things. Maybe he had spent that forty days in sharing and perhaps it was in that time he got to say: "Know I loved you, and don't be afraid to love each other; sing often and dance each chance you get; touch one another; let each other know you are trying to understand; don't let your friend become only your brother, and remember that brothers are more essential to one another than anyone else might ever be; don't let traditions end as long as they are good and helpful; offer assistance to those in danger of becoming creeps; trust each other." Maybe it had all been said. Still, I wish he had said goodbye, with a tear in each eye.
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