Land of Fog and Ghosts

In early September of 1994, I drove to South Hamilton, MA, in the pouring rain and got lost going south on 95 until it looped around and then driving north until I nearly reached New Hampshire before realizing my mistake. Until I looked at a map, I’d truly believed for part of that night that God had physically transported my southbound car onto a northbound highway in response to my fervent prayer. After finally making it to exit 17, I ended up arriving at Gordon Conwell seminary after midnight, and after finding Pilgrim Hall. I rang the doorbell, and Mark Peake descended the stairs and answered the door. I think I can honestly say we were instantly friends.  And there’s not many people I’d say that about.

Later, on the opposite edge of the continent, in Santa Cruz, CA, I was the best man in Mark’s wedding amid one of the most fondly-remembered weeks of my life. And though I didn’t have a traditional wedding party, Mark stood up and gave a toast at mine— almost a decade later, and now more than a decade ago.

Last night, in June of 2019—almost 25 years later—I had a dream that the two of us returned to Pilgrim Hall, and it was again raining. And though our old dorm no longer houses students, we found a door open, and wandered through it, looking for some forgotten piece of the past or perhaps ourselves. 

Then we were suddenly in the mailroom, in another building. And though everything looked different and I couldn’t remember the number of my box, let alone its combination, I somehow found it anyway, and it opened as I touched its dials.