I raced up the sidewalk, resting my bicycle anyhow up against the wall of the church and stepped through the front door so fast I dropped my Book, sending notes and postcards and pictures within it whirling everywhere. Quickly shoving everything back together I fell into the center pew, next to Sister Trumbull, who smiled indulgently at my whirligig entrance.
‘I had to swerve twice,’ I told her, ‘once to avoid a stagecoach, and once out of the way of a big sedan full of G-men. They had guns sticking out. I think they were after rum runners. They looked like it was in the 1920’s.’
Looking at Sister Trumbull, you don’t notice that her fashion sense reflects the year your mother was born; you only see the peace and certainty of life in Gods kingdom radiating from her eyes.
‘It is certainly beginning,’ she agreed. ‘We don’t notice because it’s unusually warm for autumn, but the veils between the worlds are rapidly evaporating.’
‘I notice several flocks of large geese, and quite a few dogs, as well as coyotes.’
Kindhearted Sister Trumbull patted my hand comfortingly. She regularly rescued all kinds of animals, living or dead, and made sure of their welfare in both worlds. ‘We all have lots to do,’ she agreed. ‘Remind me after service, I have a bag of birdseed for your mother.’
‘Sister Trumbull, I have never seen a T. Rex, or a Brontosaurus,’ I told her musingly. ‘Not that I want to, but I see horses from a hundred years ago in town, and all kinds of furry spirits. Why no dinosaurs? It is that time of year.’
‘God wisely draws an impenetrable curtain across each scene of His creation story,’ she replied slowly. ‘I know the wise men at the U-Dub think that birds are the descendants of the dinosaurs, like they went to sleep one night as triceratops and woke up chickadees.’ She smiled like the sunrise. ‘Actually, we can never know what life and the world was like even as far back as the dinosaur days. Strange vibrations produced colors we can not see, a much brighter sun looked smaller in a sky that was not blue, or even green; the star patterns were unrecognizable. And the great saurians were hardly clumsy grey scaled beasts. Their skin was like a thick fluid, and iridescent, so that they shone in the sun like diamonds. What a strange, utterly beautiful world it was then!’
‘Sister Trumbull, how old are you?’ I asked, a little alarmed.
She laughed at my naiveté. ‘Not that old! We had studies of the ancient texts in my day, and we treasured them, I think, a bit more than people do now. The descriptions of the Lost Worlds are in the Gnostic Scriptures, in the Book of Enoch, and in the Gospel of Adam. We are told just what we must know about what was lost, and cautioned to keep our boundaries secure. “Keep our own estate,” is how Scripture phrases it, in order to keep our own world healthy and safe. And this is the reason you won’t see the spirit of a dinosaur rambling through downtown; even if you did, chances are, you wouldn’t recognize it for what it was.’
‘We are alive, yet we commune with those who are dead.’
‘There are none of us dead in Christ, dear,’ smiled wise Sister Trumbull. ‘That is why we can see them and speak to them and hear them. They are conscious of us, and pray for us, because we are all of the same Body.’
What an utterly beautiful person she is!