You don't want to be a Saint.(Kevin Hughes) You do not want to be a Saint. Trust me. I know. You already know who I am. Or you think you do. I don’t even know what I am. Only who. And believe me, you do not want to be a Saint. The News Media and Social Media have constructed their own views of who I am. But none of them will talk directly with me. They are afraid. They should be.

So here’s my story. Told by me. No spin. No agenda. No falsehoods. No speculation. My story. And believe me…you do not want to be like me: A Saint.

*****

It is about fifty feet from my front door to my mailbox. A journey I had made often in my thirty one years of living in that house. Of course at age Seventy two, it takes me a bit longer than it did when I was a young- just hitting middle aged- man. Since my wife passed away (I miss you Honey. I hope you are well wherever you are) there isn’t as much mail. She was the one that wrote all the cards, kept her relatives informed of our goings on, and she was a wonderful friend to many. I am glad she wasn’t around when I made that last trip to my mailbox.

Before I tell you about that trip..one that many of you watched unfold in real time…I should, I guess, tell you a bit about me. There isn’t a lot to touch. I was a good enough athlete to make every team I tried out for, but never good enough to start. It was fun for me. I knew I wasn’t going to be a Professional Athlete. I loved the camaraderie, and the exertion.

I went to college like most men (boys really) did back then; to avoid the Draft. Funny how that worked out. I flunked out of college, and ended up in Vietnam. My tour wasn’t like you see in the movies. I basically drove a truck to deliver things around the Base at Long Bin Post. It was the size of a small city, or large town. I never fired a single round. But believe me, you still didn’t want to be there. I didn’t.

From then on, my life was an ordinary one, one repeated millions of times. I came home to find out my College Sweetheart had gotten engaged to another man at Christmas. She kept my ring until I came home. I wished her well. Not then, but later. I went back to college. This time I studied. I got my degree, and then another one. No big deal. I met my wife in Grad School.

We got married. But not until I was forty years old - she was 38. We never had children. We didn’t try not to have children. We just didn’t. It didn’t seem to bother her, and I never really cared one way or the other. I think I would have been a good Dad. Maybe. I know I was a good husband because she told me all the time. She used to make me laugh when she bragged to her three sisters:

“I won the Husband of the year lottery.”

Cancer took her from me just three years before that last trip to the mailbox. I wonder what she would have thought about it…sometimes. Other times, well, I am glad she left before the circus began. I guess I should mention that I had lost all my hair - except on my back. I don’t know why, but my nose and back could grow enough hair to make a throw rug. I only had cutting teeth, my chewing teeth had been pulled when I was sixty seven. I had partial dentures. I also had a hip and a knee replaced. I was glad the pain was gone. But I sure missed being one hundred percent natural. LOL

I got hearing aides when I turned seventy. I had been wearing glasses since my forties. And I guess I was one of the lucky ones as far as weight goes. I was only about ten pounds heavier than I was in High School. Once my wife passed, I lost about twenty pounds…it isn’t any fun eating alone. I had no real friends, most of my Social contact was from work, or volunteering at the Homeless Shelter. When my wife passed, I stopped volunteering. Mostly I just read, or watched Youtube videos…and some sports.

I was your typical widow in his seventies. Not wanting to die, but not really caring if I saw another day.

And then…I went to the mailbox.


*****

I put on my old Army Ball cap, pulled on a sweater, and left the door open as I headed down the driveway. It was a very cold day in January. At least cold for the little Southern town I lived in. Just seven miles to the beach - but to be honest, I hadn’t been to the beach in years. It was cold though. Below freezing without a wind chill. And those days used to be very rare indeed. But I was only going to the mailbox. A hat and a sweater would do me just fine.

When I got to the end of the driveway, and turned to walk the few feet to the side where the mailbox was….I felt…funny. I can’t describe it. I felt like I was being picked up like a child. Light. Safe. Warm. I must have closed my eyes to enjoy the feeling. I remember placing one hand on the mailbox to steady myself. I thought maybe I was having a stroke (I wish!). I remember thinking if a stroke felt this warm and welcoming, it was a good way to go. It wasn’t a stroke.

The being picked up like a child feeling faded. Then I felt like I was floating. Just bobbing gently up and down in the air like I did in the warm waters of the Caribbean when my Wife and I were on our honeymoon. I savored that feeling for a few seconds. I opened my eyes with a big smile on my face. It was that pleasant of a feeling and memory joining each other in a seamless match.

When I opened my eyes…the pleasant feeling fled from my mind and body. Because I was actually floating. I could look down and see the mailbox just a few feet below my dangling feet. I panicked. I tried flinging my arms and legs to bring me back to the ground. It didn’t help. I just kept flailing uselessly. I might have screamed. I don’t know. I floated a bit higher. I was even with my roof when I heard Bob and his brother slam the brakes on their brand spanking new Ford 150.

My first thought was: I hope they are okay, and didn’t hit Zach the neighborhood Jack Russel Terrier. Zach wandered from house to house to get treats. Sometimes when you heard brakes slam on my street, it was to stop from killing Zach on his treks to get treats from everyone. But they didn’t slam their brakes because of the beloved Jack…but because they saw me. A seventy two year old man dangling about eight feet above his mailbox.

Bob leaped out of his truck, his brother literally flew out the passenger door. They were both in Construction with the muscles and stamina that come with that job. Bob was also a fairly good Sprinter in College…so he moved real quick. They couldn’t jump high enough to reach me. They just stood there…under me…looking up. It was then that I spoke for the first time since I left the ground:

“Jesus, Bob, get me down!”

“How?”

“I don’t know. You have a ladder on your truck. Get it and pull me down. Please. Bob, I am scared.”

Bob sprinted to his truck. I could see why they called him “Speedy.” He and his brother got their big eighteen foot ladder, set in on the concrete driveway and climbed up to get me. Then they pulled. Hard. The ladder fell. Bob was holding on to my leg. His brother was holding onto my other leg. I noticed out of the side of my eyes, that Neighbors were coming out of their houses and running to see what all the commotion was about. Bob and his brother had both started screaming when the ladder fell over.

An eighteen foot fall onto hard concrete would end Bob’s sprinting days for sure. And maybe his life. His brother was holding on even tighter …if that was possible. I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t in control. But my body slowly lowered until Bob and his brother were only a few feet from the ground. They let go and sprawled onto their backsides in relief. I sprung right back up in he sky. Again I was about eighteen feet off the ground. Just high enough to see over my roof. And I was crying.

The Police came in less than two minutes after they got the call. I drifted another five or so feet higher. I could see my own back yard. I could see into Becky and Tom’s backyard. Becky was watching her grandchildren and they all turned and pointed at me. I saw Becky’s hand fly to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, just before she fainted. I yelled down to the Police:

“My neighbor just passed out…she has two little kids with her. Please…go check on them.”

The Cop stared up at me:

“Where? What neighbor?”

I pointed to Becky’s back yard.”

“There is a side gate by the garage…it’s never locked. Be careful with her. She had a heart attack a few years back. She isn’t moving and the kids are scared out of their minds. Go!”

And one of the Police Women raced over to check on Becky. From my perch I could see her tend to Becky. Becky sat up and pointed up at me. The kids snuggled up to her in bewilderment …never taking their eyes off of me. I waved. Becky feinted…again. I don’t know why- but that made me laugh. Maybe I was going crazy. Maybe I already was. More Police showed up. The News came next. Then…well…there were at least a hundred people staring up at me.

I laughed out loud.

The Cop that seemed to be in charge yelled up:

“What are you laughing at?”

I stopped laughing enough to look down and tell him:

“Nothing Officer. I was just laughing because now I know what the word “gawking” really means. Everyone is gawking at me!”

I started laughing again.

They brought ladders. Those didn’t work. I guess whatever was happening to me learned a lesson from Bob and his brother’s attempts to pull me down. Whenever a Cop got to the top of the ladder…I would gently float just out of reach. Then I floated up to about twenty five feet or so. They brought the fire department.

Same thing happened. Every time a Fireman would get close to me…I floated up another few feet. At one Point they had their extension ladder on its own truck fully extended. That mean I was up in the air as high as a four story building. And still I floated a few feet out of their reach. Some brainiac down there decided to move every vehicle out of my driveway and for about ten feet on either side of the mailbox.

As soon as they were all out from under me…is fluttered down like a leaf back to my old perch of twenty five feet off the ground. And hung there. I could see the cameras zooming in on me. I could hear the chatter down below. None of it meant much to me. My mind was mush. It was then that the First miracle happened.

NOTE: When I read the descriptions of that first day…or see the Talking Heads on TV News Channels…I still shake my head in wonder. An old man floating twenty five feet in the air over his own driveway is not a miracle? They never called it a miracle. But they did call what happened next…a Miracle. The first of many that day. I thought it was the second of that day. And that made me peal out more laughter.

According to them, the first miracle (and according to me…the second miracle- but no less impressive than the first). So what was this “miracle” ?

Well, remember when I told you I had my hip and knee replaced? That I was glad to be rid of the debilitating pain of OsteoArthritis - at least in my bad hip and my bad knee. Those things were made out of Titanium and Steel. And I heard them hit my driveway. Yep. They just fell out of my body. I felt like a toilet flushing …a rush came from the top of my head, raced down my torso, and spilled out near my feet.

What spilled out of my body (and you can clearly see it on the Video) was everything that wasn’t original. My Hip and Knee replacements clunked on the driveway almost simultaneously. Followed in no particular order by: my teeth, my partial dentures, five fillings, two hearing aides, my glasses…and oh yeah…m skin. All of it.

I threw up.

And out came two stints and a valve from my heart. All replacement parts. All laying on my driveway with a scarily pile of skin that still looked liked the outline of a full human body.

The crowd was silent. I wasn’t. I was screaming in a volume that would have impressed Pavarotti. And I wasn’t screaming nice words. Any drunken Sailor or Marine would have been in awe at the endless stream of curse words spewing forth from my mouth. A mouth by the way, that now included all of my teeth. Yep. Everyone one back in place and shining white like I was seventeen again. My eyes, which were cloudy from the cataracts (which, by the way, were down their on the driveway with my other parts and skin) were clear, a lovely honey brown, and the Whites were…well…white. Really white. Not egg white, or off white, or tinted with jaundice or the occasional bloodshot veins. Nope. My eyes looked like those of a young man just out of puberty.

I felt another rush. Almost like somebody pulling a silk sheet over a naked body (I had that feeling once on our Honeymoon, and you don’t forget that. It feels…luxurious.) I heard the crowd gasp in unison…and they also backed up like people on a beach when a shark comes to close to shore. I had my skin back. Okay, not MY SKIN, that old crusty flesh colored suit was laying down there in the driveway. Like a human being puddle.

This sink was brand spanking new. Not a blemish, bruise, or callous anywhere. It was the smooth supple garment I wore as a High School Senior. Firm but flexible flesh…the flesh of youth. No hair, but same freckles. I used my new found 20/10 vision to admire my forearm and wrist. I used my hands to feel the rest of my body. I couldn’t find any hair …anywhere…but just smooth perfect skin. I was quite pleased with myself.

I never even realized I was now fully naked. Just me and my birthday suit dangling twenty five feet off the ground over a pile of old parts. Even my dangly bits were free from hair, but not from dangling. It made me laugh to have my most private junk exposed- I told you I was an ordinary guy…and there, between my legs, was proof. And I wasn’t even embarrassed. It was a good body. My old body with some improvements and a tune up. I didn’t know it then (but I suspected) but my body was now perfect.

Never again would it get sick, broken, diseased or cut. In a word, I was immortal. And perfect. Oh not God like perfect like a Greek Statue. No. It was just my body…perfected. I was the perfect me. The only hair I would ever have again anywhere on my body was the lovely red bunch of curls on my head. And it never grew longer. Nor did it ever sneak its way back up by receding to expose a giant forehead. Nope. It just stayed like it is now. Perfect.

I spent three days up there. Three days. Because my brain was now perfecting itself too. I could feel the old connections and neural networks being pruned. It was a series of miracles just as big as the ones to my outer shell. My mind became sharp. Razor sharp. I don’t think I have reflexes anymore. My thoughts are faster than any of my old reflexes. Everything I think, do, or act out now…is thought out in nanoseconds. Everything I do…I do o purpose. And…by choice.

Believe me. That is a wonder beyond words. A miracle. One of many.

I felt my emotions change. I could no longer be angry. Nor jealous. Envy? Gone. Fear? Gone. Revenge? Can’t even picture it. Depression, hopelessness, grief, all gone. Happiness was replaced with a feeling I can only describe as contentment. My mind was now undisturbed by petty comments, gossip, or rumor. I could (and I mean literally) see the good in everyone. And…everything. I was free from the mundane worries, setbacks, hysteria of ordinary life. I was now a centered being capable of only caring, kindness, and love.

I felt a tenderness towards all life, especially Human life. I wanted better for them. And that is the first thought that let me know I wasn’t Human in the strictest sense of the word. “Other” was all of Humanity. Or me. For I had become an Other. One outside the trapping of ordinary humans. I was merely a vessel now for all that was good, kind, and growing. I was…or had become…A Saint.

It turns out…we don’t really want a Saint.

I don’t fear for my life, although many have tried to take it. But weapons are useless around me…or against me. You can’t even hit me with your bare fist. If you try, I merely let you get a glimpse of your own fear, hate, and anger. That is enough to slow you down so we can talk. You change. And some people don’t want to change. Those are the ones I shed a tear for. I can’t take away free will. I guess I could, but I don’t. And I won’t. I am a Saint.

You also can’t lie around me. Even a half truth will burn in your mind if you are in my presence. A real lie, told with intent to hide the truth…and well, you don’t think I am a Saint. You think I am the Devil himself. Your tongue will burn, your body will heat up, and when the pain gets to the breaking point, you will yell out the truth. Politician hate me. So do those who want power. Because they don’t have any over me. And never will. I am a Saint.

I don’t know why I was chosen. I don’t know how I was chosen. In a sea of seven billion souls, I am alone. But not adrift. I have a purpose. I am here to stop the silliness, the pettiness, the puffed up puffery of Ego. I will show you who you really are…and accept you just as you are. You are good enough just the way you are…you always have been. You just keep thinking other people are better, more talented, better in bed, smarter…whatever. I hold a light up to you that shows how you shine, once you stop being anything but yourself. Life is not a competition. It is a journey. Your journey.

I know that. Because I am a Saint.

You don’t want to be me. I know I will fail. Some of you cannot open you minds, or your hearts. Some of you cannot forgive, forget, or move on. Even with my help some still chose misery and self righteousness. I can’t change that. And that hurts.

Because…like most Saints…I am no Saint.

I remember. And it is going to be alright. I can’t go anywhere without being spotted, hounded, harassed. I also can’t go anywhere without being adored, worshiped, honored and lauded over. Loved. That’s the price I pay to have the gifts I have. I will pay it.

I am a Saint. And I will love you. You’ll see. You do not want to be a Saint. Just be you. Trust me on this.

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