George Pittman would never forget where he was when The Voice, as it came to be known, revealed itself. It was similar, although of certainly far greater magnitude, to the 9/11 attacks and the assassination of JFK. It was a Sunday morning in June and the heat of the day was just beginning to rise. He was rocking on his front porch, thumbing through the Times, one eye on his great grandson racing back and forth across the burndt lawn. Sweat was climbing up the roots of the boy's blonde hair. The street was quiet, but for the trill of song sparrows and the chirping of crickets.
The Voice came suddenly and without warning and blanketed the Earth like a net trap. George carefully stepped off the porch and looked up to the pale sky. The boy wrapped his arms around George’s bad leg and did the same. Neighbors peered through window blinds and then began spilling out and onto the street. At first, George thought it must have been a local hoax. A loudspeaker, perhaps. But the sound was all-encompassing, no less than the air's embrace. Then neighbors who had checked their televisions and phones began spreading word that The Voice could be heard, not only in their city, not even just through the country, but across the globe. There was one broadcast for all. It awakened New Zealanders at 1:30 A.M.; it stirred Russians preparing for supper at 5:30. The voice was decipherable in every language. In Tokyo, they heard Japanese; in Nigeria, The Voice sounded in over 500 tongues.
The Voice began by announcing it had indeed created the Universe. It created Man too, and given him the breath of Life and dominion over the Earth. Among George’s neighbors who now filled the street, there was a cacophony of triumphant cries and applause because at that moment there was a collective agreement The Voice was that of God. George’s age-spotted hands shook. He shut his eyes and whispered, Hallelujah. By then, his great-grandson was running around again, repeating things. It’s a miracle, he said. It’s glorious!
But just as strangers were throwing themselves into each other’s arms, The Voice continued that, despite being dynamic and powerful as a whole, human beings as individuals were insignificant. The Voice said once we died, our journeys ended. Once we died, we no longer continued on in any form at all.
George struggled to breathe, the Hand of God strangling his lungs. It couldn’t be; his whole life, after all, had been built on the premise of resurrection. It was like being told he wasn’t really George Pittman. Or that Bloomington, Illinois, his life-long home, didn’t exist on any map. His thoughts rushed to Ellen. He then stared through the boy.
The Voice said, Now go back to your live. And then it was gone. The birds and crickets could again be heard. No one moved or spoke until Mrs. Wurthington, George’s neighbor, fell to her knees and cried.
George Pittman had always been a Man of God. For over forty years, he had served as senior pastor at The First Christian Church; his father was pastor before him. George had been witness to countless miracles: the healing of Sergeant Samuel Hayes who was told he would never walk again after being struck by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan; Baby Mabel who was found unharmed in a cornfield, a tornado having ripped her home from the ground; Jennifer and Kathy Bender, twin sisters separated at birth who discovered each other fifty-five years later living only three miles apart.
For George, there had always been signs his late wife, Ellen, was near too. A week after she passed, he heard music coming from somewhere in the house. He finally pinpointed it to the attic where he dug through old boxes and Christmas decorations until he came upon a music box given to them on their wedding day. And not long ago, his great-grandson was having a conversation, alone in the basement. When George asked him who he was talking to, he said his mama (who had died of cancer at only thirty), Grandma Ellen, and a handful of other deceased relatives the boy couldn’t possibly have known.
George had waited fifteen years to see Ellen again. For a long time, he wondered if she would be waiting for him, fearing she may have instead chosen to reunite with her first love who died in World War II. Now did he have to fear she wasn’t out there at all? He knew The Voice couldn’t have been God’s, that there had to be some other explanation, but he still found himself wondering, What if?
George thought about his great-grandson, the family member he had grown closest to after the boy’s mother passed. He couldn’t bear the thought of not watching him from above, maturing into a fine young man, finding a nice wife, a good job, having a family of his own.
He desperately wished his death had preceded The Voice. In eighty-five years, he never had questioned his life beyond. Never had any doubt about it. He was infested with guilt for having even such fleeting thoughts now. He opened the Holy Bible for strength, but had difficulty keeping his mind focused. He listened to songs he and Ellen would dance to – Wake Up Little Susie, Yakety Yak. He longed for a sign from her that she was there with him. Maybe a skip of the record. He waited.
After The Voice revealed itself, the world descended into a universal depression. Of course, there were those who reacted in anger, using it as an opportunity to ignite cars on fire and shatter storefront windows. Others stockpiled water bottles and canned goods and hid in storm cellars. George just stayed indoors. Each morning, neighbors gathered outside their homes expecting The Voice to return and share more, but the skies were silent. What could the purpose of such a dreadful message have been? No one could make sense of it. Within days, speculation began to grow, through city streets and on television news programs and radio talk shows, casting doubt that The Voice was really God after all. And even if so, was He merely testing mankind to see how easily its faith could be shaken? It couldn’t possibly be of human invention. Was The Voice an alien life form playing with the shared Earthling psyche? Or worse, Satan attempting to deceive Man and crush his frail spirit?
The morning headaches and nausea George had been experiencing just weeks before The Voice, had by now become intolerable. But it wasn’t until he suffered a seizure that he finally went to see a doctor at St. Joe’s. He underwent a battery of tests.
We found a lesion in your left temporal lobe, the doctor said. George didn’t speak. He went numb.
A second MRI a month later showed that the lesion had grown. Glioblastoma Multiforme Grade IV tumor was what they called it. The doctor recommended radiation and chemotherapy. He said, George, I’m going to be honest with you – the average length of life for someone with a tumor like this is ten months.
George had always told himself, long ago, well before The Voice, that he would decline treatment if circumstances such as those ever arose. That he would pray and let the Lord’s will be done.
Can I please have some time to consider my options, George said.
George couldn’t sleep for days. He read Scripture. He walked around with a black-and-white photograph of Ellen in his hand, as yellow-stained as his old teeth. In it, she stood against a rail overlooking the Niagara Falls. She had smooth skin, big brown curls, and a smirk, as if she feared nothing and would always remain young.
Days later, George called his doctor. Nothing? the doctor said. Are you one-hundred percent sure? George was sure. He would pray.
The Voice hadn’t returned in months. Maybe it never would. Folks stopped listening for it in the mornings and, slowly, life went back to the way it was before. George figured people born after The Voice would likely never perceive it as a real event. It would be as foreign to them as Neil Armstrong walking the moon to Generation Y. They would know of it only from the special television events on its anniversary. Man was resilient, after all, and knew how to suppress discomfort. And fear was an emotion that couldn’t sustain its intensity for long.
George wanted to live normally for as much time as he could. He pushed himself to keep up with the church choir, even though he couldn’t remember the words to hymns anymore or even read them for that matter. They sang Jesus My Lord My God My All and there were enough voices that George felt he could still follow along okay without being a distraction. He was tired all the time. Bruises covered his body like leopard spots. He was losing his speech. They were all symptoms of the illness.
To George’s surprise, hallucinations were symptomatic of it too, particularly auditory ones, and he became convinced The Voice and even the conversations he had about it with his family and neighbors were all just fantasies of his diseased mind.
The Voice wasn’t God’s. It wasn’t Satan’s. It hadn’t been the game of an extraterrestrial being. That’s what George would tell himself whenever fear would grip him. Whenever he would reconsider clamoring back to the doctors for medications and miracles, he would tell himself The Voice never really happened. That it was no more real than Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds which caused widespread panic of its own. He told himself that soon he would be at peace.
Ellen came to George on his deathbed. He was sure of it.
While Death tugged at his ankles, his fingers instinctually clawed for solid ground. He was nine-years-old, building forts and foxholes with his older brother, Jack. Then he was twelve, sitting on the living room floor in front of the Zenith console radio listening to The Shadow with mom and dad. At last, he was a young man being introduced to Ellen for the first time, when he and his family had gone to Chicago to visit long-time friends. Even though she was far more worldly and educated than he would ever be, George knew immediately that he would marry her. The feelings from that moment were still as real and alive as the pain he was enduring that day.
George longed to be with everyone again, to let go, to be at peace with the Lord like he always imagined he would be. But would they be out there? Would their existence continue beyond the threshold? That’s when Ellen came to reassure him. She appeared as a deer peering through his bedroom window. George tried to get the attention of his family, of the nurse, but he couldn’t speak anymore and couldn’t lift his arm to point. He looked at the deer and knew it was her. The deer nodded and turned as if inviting him to come along.
In his final memories, George saw the brilliant white light so many described. He could see his relatives crying over his body and his great-grandson touching his cold foot. The boy looked up at George departing and he waved. George’s daughter said, Don’t leave yet, Dad, don’t go. And he considered holding on longer. But then he saw Ellen walking towards him, her hand extended until it reached his. Of course I’ve been waiting for you, she said. Of course I’ve been right here.
Hers was the only voice he heard.
The Voice came suddenly and without warning and blanketed the Earth like a net trap. George carefully stepped off the porch and looked up to the pale sky. The boy wrapped his arms around George’s bad leg and did the same. Neighbors peered through window blinds and then began spilling out and onto the street. At first, George thought it must have been a local hoax. A loudspeaker, perhaps. But the sound was all-encompassing, no less than the air's embrace. Then neighbors who had checked their televisions and phones began spreading word that The Voice could be heard, not only in their city, not even just through the country, but across the globe. There was one broadcast for all. It awakened New Zealanders at 1:30 A.M.; it stirred Russians preparing for supper at 5:30. The voice was decipherable in every language. In Tokyo, they heard Japanese; in Nigeria, The Voice sounded in over 500 tongues.
The Voice began by announcing it had indeed created the Universe. It created Man too, and given him the breath of Life and dominion over the Earth. Among George’s neighbors who now filled the street, there was a cacophony of triumphant cries and applause because at that moment there was a collective agreement The Voice was that of God. George’s age-spotted hands shook. He shut his eyes and whispered, Hallelujah. By then, his great-grandson was running around again, repeating things. It’s a miracle, he said. It’s glorious!
But just as strangers were throwing themselves into each other’s arms, The Voice continued that, despite being dynamic and powerful as a whole, human beings as individuals were insignificant. The Voice said once we died, our journeys ended. Once we died, we no longer continued on in any form at all.
George struggled to breathe, the Hand of God strangling his lungs. It couldn’t be; his whole life, after all, had been built on the premise of resurrection. It was like being told he wasn’t really George Pittman. Or that Bloomington, Illinois, his life-long home, didn’t exist on any map. His thoughts rushed to Ellen. He then stared through the boy.
The Voice said, Now go back to your live. And then it was gone. The birds and crickets could again be heard. No one moved or spoke until Mrs. Wurthington, George’s neighbor, fell to her knees and cried.
George Pittman had always been a Man of God. For over forty years, he had served as senior pastor at The First Christian Church; his father was pastor before him. George had been witness to countless miracles: the healing of Sergeant Samuel Hayes who was told he would never walk again after being struck by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan; Baby Mabel who was found unharmed in a cornfield, a tornado having ripped her home from the ground; Jennifer and Kathy Bender, twin sisters separated at birth who discovered each other fifty-five years later living only three miles apart.
For George, there had always been signs his late wife, Ellen, was near too. A week after she passed, he heard music coming from somewhere in the house. He finally pinpointed it to the attic where he dug through old boxes and Christmas decorations until he came upon a music box given to them on their wedding day. And not long ago, his great-grandson was having a conversation, alone in the basement. When George asked him who he was talking to, he said his mama (who had died of cancer at only thirty), Grandma Ellen, and a handful of other deceased relatives the boy couldn’t possibly have known.
George had waited fifteen years to see Ellen again. For a long time, he wondered if she would be waiting for him, fearing she may have instead chosen to reunite with her first love who died in World War II. Now did he have to fear she wasn’t out there at all? He knew The Voice couldn’t have been God’s, that there had to be some other explanation, but he still found himself wondering, What if?
George thought about his great-grandson, the family member he had grown closest to after the boy’s mother passed. He couldn’t bear the thought of not watching him from above, maturing into a fine young man, finding a nice wife, a good job, having a family of his own.
He desperately wished his death had preceded The Voice. In eighty-five years, he never had questioned his life beyond. Never had any doubt about it. He was infested with guilt for having even such fleeting thoughts now. He opened the Holy Bible for strength, but had difficulty keeping his mind focused. He listened to songs he and Ellen would dance to – Wake Up Little Susie, Yakety Yak. He longed for a sign from her that she was there with him. Maybe a skip of the record. He waited.
After The Voice revealed itself, the world descended into a universal depression. Of course, there were those who reacted in anger, using it as an opportunity to ignite cars on fire and shatter storefront windows. Others stockpiled water bottles and canned goods and hid in storm cellars. George just stayed indoors. Each morning, neighbors gathered outside their homes expecting The Voice to return and share more, but the skies were silent. What could the purpose of such a dreadful message have been? No one could make sense of it. Within days, speculation began to grow, through city streets and on television news programs and radio talk shows, casting doubt that The Voice was really God after all. And even if so, was He merely testing mankind to see how easily its faith could be shaken? It couldn’t possibly be of human invention. Was The Voice an alien life form playing with the shared Earthling psyche? Or worse, Satan attempting to deceive Man and crush his frail spirit?
The morning headaches and nausea George had been experiencing just weeks before The Voice, had by now become intolerable. But it wasn’t until he suffered a seizure that he finally went to see a doctor at St. Joe’s. He underwent a battery of tests.
We found a lesion in your left temporal lobe, the doctor said. George didn’t speak. He went numb.
A second MRI a month later showed that the lesion had grown. Glioblastoma Multiforme Grade IV tumor was what they called it. The doctor recommended radiation and chemotherapy. He said, George, I’m going to be honest with you – the average length of life for someone with a tumor like this is ten months.
George had always told himself, long ago, well before The Voice, that he would decline treatment if circumstances such as those ever arose. That he would pray and let the Lord’s will be done.
Can I please have some time to consider my options, George said.
George couldn’t sleep for days. He read Scripture. He walked around with a black-and-white photograph of Ellen in his hand, as yellow-stained as his old teeth. In it, she stood against a rail overlooking the Niagara Falls. She had smooth skin, big brown curls, and a smirk, as if she feared nothing and would always remain young.
Days later, George called his doctor. Nothing? the doctor said. Are you one-hundred percent sure? George was sure. He would pray.
The Voice hadn’t returned in months. Maybe it never would. Folks stopped listening for it in the mornings and, slowly, life went back to the way it was before. George figured people born after The Voice would likely never perceive it as a real event. It would be as foreign to them as Neil Armstrong walking the moon to Generation Y. They would know of it only from the special television events on its anniversary. Man was resilient, after all, and knew how to suppress discomfort. And fear was an emotion that couldn’t sustain its intensity for long.
George wanted to live normally for as much time as he could. He pushed himself to keep up with the church choir, even though he couldn’t remember the words to hymns anymore or even read them for that matter. They sang Jesus My Lord My God My All and there were enough voices that George felt he could still follow along okay without being a distraction. He was tired all the time. Bruises covered his body like leopard spots. He was losing his speech. They were all symptoms of the illness.
To George’s surprise, hallucinations were symptomatic of it too, particularly auditory ones, and he became convinced The Voice and even the conversations he had about it with his family and neighbors were all just fantasies of his diseased mind.
The Voice wasn’t God’s. It wasn’t Satan’s. It hadn’t been the game of an extraterrestrial being. That’s what George would tell himself whenever fear would grip him. Whenever he would reconsider clamoring back to the doctors for medications and miracles, he would tell himself The Voice never really happened. That it was no more real than Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds which caused widespread panic of its own. He told himself that soon he would be at peace.
Ellen came to George on his deathbed. He was sure of it.
While Death tugged at his ankles, his fingers instinctually clawed for solid ground. He was nine-years-old, building forts and foxholes with his older brother, Jack. Then he was twelve, sitting on the living room floor in front of the Zenith console radio listening to The Shadow with mom and dad. At last, he was a young man being introduced to Ellen for the first time, when he and his family had gone to Chicago to visit long-time friends. Even though she was far more worldly and educated than he would ever be, George knew immediately that he would marry her. The feelings from that moment were still as real and alive as the pain he was enduring that day.
George longed to be with everyone again, to let go, to be at peace with the Lord like he always imagined he would be. But would they be out there? Would their existence continue beyond the threshold? That’s when Ellen came to reassure him. She appeared as a deer peering through his bedroom window. George tried to get the attention of his family, of the nurse, but he couldn’t speak anymore and couldn’t lift his arm to point. He looked at the deer and knew it was her. The deer nodded and turned as if inviting him to come along.
In his final memories, George saw the brilliant white light so many described. He could see his relatives crying over his body and his great-grandson touching his cold foot. The boy looked up at George departing and he waved. George’s daughter said, Don’t leave yet, Dad, don’t go. And he considered holding on longer. But then he saw Ellen walking towards him, her hand extended until it reached his. Of course I’ve been waiting for you, she said. Of course I’ve been right here.
Hers was the only voice he heard.
