I remember once a baby had been killed in car crash near my home. I went to the crossing where it had happened. I was drawn there. It felt so … unjust. That this child had been killed like that.
Some drunk assholes were speeding all through our city. Then they hit the car in front of them. The car which had stopped in front of the red light.
Apparently the baby wasn’t strapped properly in, or the power of the crash was too much – for the baby was thrown out the front window and killed.
The baby’s parents were also in the car and were also killed. That’s what I remember.
Anyway, I went to the crossing and just stood there for awhile. Trying to …. sense. Something. As if I was desperate for someone to give me a sign that this was not just a random act of meaninglessness and then you die and become nothing. Like millions of times before in history. Like those rational smart modern educated people who think religion is abusive bogus would say, while nodding at you – sending you the ‘look’.
You know, the one that’s a cross – another cross – between being a little bit forgiving that you can be so superstitutions, stupid or … well … childish, to still yearn for some kind of religion. For an afterlife. For meaning. For help. For all the things to be right, when we see behind the world As It Is.
Only children do that. Grown ups accept that ‘life is a bitch and then you die’. And they don’t wine about it. That’s progress! Non-superstition.
Well, at least for some. Hell no – for a lot.
Anyway, I was standing there, in the crossing. And suddenly I felt like … I was in a Church. Church with Big C.
I felt I was in a profoundly sacred place. That’s the best word I have for it.
I didn’t get an answer. I didn’t know if the baby was still alive … somewhere. If there had been any particular meaning to this gruesome death, karma or whatever.
I just felt I was in a … profoundly sacred place. For the briefest of moments. Whilst traffic roared by.
Then I calmed and went home.
I have had some other such experiences since, or variations there of. Like when an older friend – someone I actually knew – had been killed in a car crash, and I went to her grave and FELT that she was there, too. If only for the briefest moments.
Or like when I was visiting Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam, and I looked out the window and saw the church across the street and I almost froze, because a Thought came to me … solid and real and insisting upon itself:
THIS house is the real church.
That house was the church. Not the ‘real’ church across the street.
I wonder …