There Are Things You Cannot Erase

The waves rise and fall and crash in a gentle rhythm, and I can almost forget. I get to the lighthouse, turn around, and my footsteps are already gone. I like that. But there are certain things you can’t erase…

I almost forgot my fear as I stood there on the sand. While my footsteps were erased, my fear was not.

This was just before I was preparing for my first sail. My father was a sailor, although I did not know him as others did. Brahmin knew him. Brahmin (his name means “Abraham”) was a true man of God, quiet, meditative, wise, and caring. He somehow heard what I could not. He spoke only words of value. In this way, he always enriched those around him with thoughts almost too deep for words. He seemed to me as if he were connected by a golden thread to the Kingdom of Light.

Brahmin told me one time that even though the waves that baptized my feet erased my footprints, my footprints were recorded in Heaven and would never be forgotten there. He said the lighthouse was a representation of THE light that would guide me as I sailed on the vast ocean toward a destination unknown to me. I was afraid to cross the ocean, but Brahmin assured me that HE would be with me every second of the way. He would never leave me.

“Was he with my father?” I asked Brahmin. Oh, yes, Brahmin assured me. Although the ocean took the life of my father, he was known and loved. The Voice had spoken to my father before he left me as a young man. There was so much, Brahmin said, that my father wanted to share with me. Knowing that the powerful waters and the waves of adversity might take his life, my father asked Brahmin to share with me all of the wisdom that I could absorb so that I would be ready for whatever life offered me, good or seemingly bad.

During my last time listening to Brahmin speak of the deep wisdom that Life had taught him, and as I watched him work at his potter’s wheel, I remember that he spoke haltingly and only as The

Voice prompted him. I had no words. Listening was paramount since I had never heard anyone utter such things that seemed to connect heaven to earth.

It was late at night when I walked to the beach, toward the lighthouse. I heard the seagulls crying and the foghorn bellowing to alert unwary ships of approaching land. The only sounds were the lapping of the waves onto the shore, the crying seagulls, and the foghorn.

I was alone. I felt alone. It was cold and I pulled my wool coat close around my neck. Somehow I knew I needed to be here this night… to listen as I had listened to Brahmin … with my heart and my soul.

It was then, after a long time of listening that I began to feel warm in spite of the thick fog that had rolled in. I sat on a low wall not far from the waves and suddenly did not feel alone anymore.

“Hello?” I said into the darkness. The foghorn bellowed again and brought me back from deep thought and from the distinct feeling that I was no longer alone. I was definitely alone. There was no one around me.

I looked up at the ocean in front of me. Although I could hear it, there was nothing but darkness enveloped in fog. There were a few streetlamps behind me, but no other light.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I asked into the darkness. I felt stupid speaking into the darkness, but I again had such a strange feeling that someone was near.

“Almus?” he said. I couldn’t see him but he called to me. “Almus?” he said again, and this time a figure emerged from the ocean. It was still foggy and I could not see all of him as he emerged from the ocean, only his long coat or cloak. I could not see his face.

It never occurred to me to ask his name, or how he knew my name.

“You are sailing across the ocean tomorrow, aren’t you?” he asked.

Feeling strangely comforted, he spoke to me of life, of the ocean, of time, of birth, of death, of Brahmin, and of my father.

“I have been listening to you tonight, Almus,” he told me. “I will talk to you so that you will understand what I am saying, but you must listen very carefully to me, alright?”

“Yes, I will listen to you,” I answered. How had he heard me? - I thought to myself.

I listened with every fiber of my being. For some reason, I knew that I must.

During our conversation, his garments fluttered in the ocean breeze, so I knew I was not imagining this. He assured me that he had known my father.

I asked if Brahmin knew him. “Yes, Brahmin did know me,” he patiently explained. As he spoke and answered my questions, I was sure that he knew my every thought already.

I asked him if it was lonely on the ocean. He said that if I had the right knowledge, there would be no loneliness at all.

As strange as it was to ask this, I asked him if he would be with me as I sailed out onto the vast and foreboding ocean in the morning. He assured me that he would be there even though I might not see him. I did not understand that… how would he be with me if I could not see him?

“Do not be frightened, Almus, for I am still with you,” he said after a long pause in our conversation. Strangely, I did not feel afraid anymore. I knew that whatever tomorrow brought, I would be alright, and I would not be alone.

“I will never leave you, Almus. But you must always listen to me and I will always hear you as I did tonight. And I will tell you things that you cannot know on your own. At the end of your life, you will be carried to the opposite shore where you will be with your father and with Brahmin. I will be there to greet you when you arrive.”

With that, he slowly disappeared, fading back into the ocean from where he had earlier emerged. “Are you still there?” But I did not receive an answer. The cold set in again and I once again pulled my collar up around my neck.

As I stood up, I saw footprints in the sand where he had been. A wave came and the footprints remained. How was that possible? I have never erased that image from my mind… or from my heart. Even the waves could not erase his footprints.

The next morning as I boarded the sailing ship and waved goodbye to my friends, I helped the crew to set sail. I then turned away from the crew and toward the ocean and I whispered, “Are you still with me?”

I am not sure if I actually heard him say, “Yes, Almus. I am with you as I promised,” or whether the impression was just very strong. But I knew for sure that he was with me, and I confidently faced the ocean, unafraid.

Now, decades after this experience, I, Almus Tafa, do testify that He is still with me.

Signed,

Almus Tafa

(“the prophet”)