My Bakersfield Visitor

There is a client of the bank who comes in once a month to take care of the same particular item of business. The first time I met him I noticed his accent, and then I saw from his check that he was from Bakersfield, California. I remarked to him that I was familiar with the area and have some very good friends that live there. It was hard to give an explanation of interest in what would be received with such small significance, when in reality the weight of that town in California conjures up a response filled with much more emotion and weight. We chatted briefly how he was from there, how he likes the mountains in Virginia compared to the hot dry climate out West. He asked me where I was from, laughed, and asked how a California born, Connecticut raised girl ended up in Rockbridge County, Virginia. I enjoyed talking with him for a bit, and then he went on with his day.

After he left I remember thinking that he was about the same age as Bill Davenport, and I was thankful that in small moments someone I never met could be such a continued living presence in my life three years after he passed away. I have struggled in these three years to define a place for Bill to live where I could draw comfort, forgiveness for the choices that I made that he never argued, and how to have a lasting relationship with him in light of meeting him through his community and estate after he passed away.

Today this same man came in, and I will be honest I did not recognize him at first. I started chatting with him a little bit and processing his request for an official check. He very casually said to me "You are the Bakersfield girl". I responded with a yes, and I am sure that the smile that crossed my face conveyed the joy in the connection and what the reference meant to my heart. It was simple. It was unexpected. It was a moment that an experience and journey continues to live, even years later.

Sometimes I wonder if Bakersfield, California is even a real place. The time I spent there in the summer of 2005 often feels like a distant memory and illusion. The visuals that come to mind are the snapshots of driving around in Bill's white Volvo running errands and grabbing a Jamba Juice smoothie. They are of me sitting on the floor in the living room with hundreds of photos sprawled out over the carpet telling a thousand stories of nameless people and places. Sitting in my chair at Bill's memorial service listening to people talk about the changed man through his recovery, his heart for helping others, and the man who loved his only daughter. I can list endlessly of the poignant, heartbreaking, and joyful things that come to mind.

The mystery is not that I experienced any of them, the feelings they emote from my heart in simple remembrance are enough to prove that they are real...I suppose the mystery is that the memories continue and in their space from their birth in time those few years ago I am in disbelief. The initial rawness of grief, the layers associated with going through the experience have since numbed and their ache isn't quite as jarring. What continues despite time, is the impact the memories have in my life- regardless of the frequency they are remembered or inspired. I have found myself holding onto some so tightly in fear that I will one day forget, and in forgetting lose a piece that shapes up an entire person who is gone.

This visitor to the bank will never know the thoughts that his simple visit initiate. He will never know the history I have associated with the place he grew up and recently moved away from in his retirement years. He will never know that in his eyes I seek a pair that belong to someone else. I am thankful for these moments, and I am thankful that while a time in my life that brought great pain and joy, continues to bring hope and comfort as I am changed by what I've learned as I continue to heal. While surreal, and often times felt to be an illusion due to the isolation I've felt in regards to what I went through, the Lord provides divine moments of reality and comfort... whether its in hearing myself laugh at something with the same inflection Candace said Bill had, hearing a song I was obsessed with during my four week stay that hot August in 2005, and perhaps because I met Bill in the kindness of his friends and their stories that I am able to see him in the the warmth of a stranger in whom he lives in life for me still.