BZ flew into Florida on Friday evening for this year’s book fair in The Villages. We spent much of the first couple of days talking about Ruth, revisiting personal memories, and experiencing what felt like a couple of spiritual visits.
On her first night, as BZ was settling into bed, she heard her mom’s voice: “Hi. This is Ruth Tebo. Please leave a message.” I’ve kept Ruth’s cell phone so the kids and I can call it now and then to hear her voice. BZ hadn’t dialed Ruth’s number last Friday, but she still heard her mom’s voicemail greeting. It’s the only logical source for the voice she heard. It’s just one of many unexplainable moments since losing Ruth.
The next day, BZ was coming back from the pool just as Barbara and I were arriving at the house by car. As the three of us walked into the house, a photo popped up on BZ’s phone. It’s one I hadn’t seen in years. It was taken twenty-five years ago, shortly after she moved to San Diego. We’d gone to the wine bar where BZ worked, and Ruth, after two glasses of wine, was hammered. Back at BZ’s apartment, Ruth sprawled on the couch, and when she saw the camera, she flipped it off. That photo’s sudden reappearance felt like Ruth letting us know she was around. I can’t explain it, but moments like these have happened dozens of times since her passing. I don’t question it anymore. I just accept it.
BZ and I are open to these visits. They’re not scary; they simply are.
On Sunday morning, while I was making coffee, I noticed my Echo displaying lyrics from a karaoke song I’ve been practicing -Willie Nelson’s “You Were Always on My Mind.” I asked BZ if she’d played the Echo, since I usually just see the time, not song lyrics. She hadn’t, and the words had just appeared out of nowhere.
I wanted to take a picture of the Echo screen, but as I approached with my camera, the words disappeared. The usual blue screen displaying the current time popped up. Later in the day, as I was cleaning up after lunch, the lyrics appeared again. I grabbed my phone and took a picture. I wanted to save the evidence of another unusual encounter.
I didn’t really study the photo until Monday morning when I was about to download it onto my computer. Looking more closely, I saw Ruth’s face in the lyrics and was shocked. When I called BZ into my office, she had the same reaction. It was her mom’s face. You might see it too.
Not long ago, BZ and Sutton were listening to music while Sutton made lunch for them. Music is his passion. He sings and writes constantly, and if he’s not doing that, he’s listening. As he was making salsa in the blender, the sound of the music vanished under the noise, even though the music was still bouncing around the room. They couldn’t hear it, but it was still playing. BZ shares that story with some of her clients who are dealing with grief. Just because we can’t see it, or hear it, doesn’t mean it’s not present.
When Barbara shares stories like this with her Singles New Beginnings class, she often tells a similar tale. When a dog whistle is blown, its high-pitched sound is unheard by people, but the dog reacts because it’s there, present in the moment. It’s another example of how we humans struggle to connect on a deeper level with what’s next.
I find comfort in the idea that those who have passed on are still present. I’m not a religious man, but I’d say I’m spiritual. I believe there’s something more, though I’m not sure what it is.
I think everyday life gets in the way of understanding what’s next. I believe some among us have greater insight, but our collective skepticism keeps the truth from revealing itself. I also believe the time will come when we’ll understand it all.
The answer to the “what’s next” question is always on my mind.