Heaven always feels white by Berkeley Battle
To me, the doctor had a curious look on his face. My mother probably didn’t even notice.
She wasn’t curious about other people, didn’t notice other ideas outside her own. She might have
even forgotten why we were here today, in this white room with the white floors and the white
walls, and with the kind doctor in his white coat. My mother’s eyes were closed but her lips were
humming. This she called a “praise song”. An obnoxious rambling spilled from her mouth and it
was loud and off key and I wished she wouldn’t do this in public. She did this often with that
same pained look on her face. The doctor had a concerned look, too, but I liked the way his face
looked thoughtful and contemplative yet not worried. He did not look overly anxious.
He began to ask questions: medical questions, scientific questions, direct and linear and some
silly questions maybe just to see if I was paying attention. But my mother had her own science,
her own cause and effect, her own reasons and “truths”. Her answers didn’t seem to be sufficient
so the doctor continued with his inquiries. It was his job and he was a thorough physician.
I finally had to help answer. This one I thought I could nail: “Are you Amish?” He asked.
“Oh No! Most definitely not!” I replied, “That would mean at least she’s a good cook!” I laughed
too loud. I thought I had been clever. I thought I had lightened the situation and shattered the
tension in the room, but I hadn’t. I looked down and away and recalled the documentary I had
watched about those nifty Amish families. The horses and the simple dresses and the tall grasses
and the little houses with the big kitchens and rows of pies in the window sills. There were
cherry and apple and blueberry pies. There were boysenberry cobblers and brambleberry crisps
and berries I had never even heard of like “razzle berry” that were turned into jellies and jams. Those farms were somewhere in the Northern Midwest, where people practiced what they
preached and life seemed idyllic. I bought it. I was sold; hook, line and sinker, I hadn’t heard any
insufferable chants sung from those Zen like tillers of the earth.
I chuckled inside and winced through the pain in my ankle. The doctor was outside the room
with mother now. He seemed to be ushering her into a particular spot in the hallway,
maneuvering her under a brighter light the way scientists do when they’re trying to observe
something new and foreign. He was trying to spin the bug around in the jar; trying his hardest to
pinpoint something curious.
Good luck! I thought. Quiet voices. Lots of words. Hushed and harsh sentences back and
forth. Lots of the same words from my mother; Jesus, prayer, faith, God, something about a
mustard seed...etc. From the doctor the repetition sounded more intellectual; clinical, diagnoses,
treatment, care, specialty. That sounded right to me. He spoke of improvement, hypotheses,
possible cures and even that mystical word “medicine”. It sounded important; fascinating.
It was just me and the doctor and a nurse now. They were both of them methodical and
confident and swift in their decision making. They knew exactly what to do, when to do it and
how to do it. The ‘why’ wasn’t an argument; nothing was up for debate. There was no tension,
just beautifully crafted problem solving. They were in unison and so was the whole office
actually. It was kind of like those Amish families; all happy and working together, all in
agreement. The men and women in white had a clear propose that never had to be stated,
explained, justified; everyone just knew the exact things to do. If Heaven were a place of
knowledge and compassion then I was seeing what Heaven really looked like. Perhaps Heaven is
all white, completely painted in white, dripping with calm. White in its purity of purpose, its singular goal: to heal. I liked that it was clear now, that there needn’t be any anxiety or fear or
dread of the unknown. No ambiguity. So simple.
“Always ask for help, just ask, don’t be afraid” he said, and then he said almost the exact
same thing again, “If you ever need any kind of help, especially medical attention, ask a friend, a
teacher, a neighbor, any grown up, even a stranger.” Then he clarified because he knew he had
used that word “stranger” and that it was supposed to be scary but he wanted to give me hope
and trust and faith. ”Even a stranger will help you if they see blood or broken bones. I promise
you it will be okay. Even a stranger will know what to do. People do not hesitate to help a child,
right?”
I nodded. My eyes were big and puffy and I was crying because the room was so cold and so
bright and the man was so smart and it seemed really important that I understood what he was
trying to teach me. It seemed crucial. He stood and the nurse stood up. The cast was finished and
she patted me gently on the leg and her smile reassured me. It wasn’t scary in that white room.
My mom’s voice was calling for me, pulling me, and it was scary, actually. Her reassurances
were most often … not. Then I realized that maybe there were answers to problems and
problems were okay because you could, actually, help those you care about. “Do it for yourself.
Do it for your brother and sister. You can help them too, right? You’re a smart girl. It’s okay
now” said the kind doctor.
And he was right. And my mom was wrong again. She spoke on and on. And as we drove
home she tried to explain to me about miracles and faith healings and speaking in tongues and
she said that the word ‘cult’ is essentially a bad word, a word ignorant people use. There aren’t
any cults, she said, just nonbelievers, those ignorant people without faith. I had heard the good words, though, and my leg had been healed in that white building that didn’t even have a cross
anywhere. Perhaps I had found my faith, and perhaps there really is a Heaven.
