Chapter 7 god file

The Archmage led me into his small home office.This made the obituary seem too serious and too embarrassing a subject, as if the doctor had just seen the patient and the patient had to take off his clothes.When talking to people, you can't start by saying: Well, when you die, what kind of person should I say you are? I try to chat a little.Talk about the weather.Talk about the old look of the community.We walk around the office and visit places.Bookshelves were crammed with books and files, and desks were piled with letters and notes.There were open cardboard boxes everywhere, things he was revisiting, or sorting, or doing whatever.

It feels like I've forgotten most of my life.He said. After watching all this, it may take another lifetime. oh.He laughed: well said, well said! It felt odd to make the Archmage laugh; I was kind of proud and disrespected.From a closer look, he is no longer the burly man I knew when I was a child.I used to mix in the crowd on the seats and look at him on the podium, and he always looked so burly. In front of him, standing on flat ground, he seemed much smaller and fragile.Aging had reduced his height by several inches.His broad cheeks were sunken, and though his smile still showed confidence, and his eyes still narrowed into a wise, thoughtful gaze, he walked with the gait of a man who is afraid of falling, and life and death had caught up to him. .I really want to ask him: how long?

However, I only asked about his file. Oh, and there are a lot of stories in the archives, ideas for sermons.He said: I cut newspapers and magazines.He grinned: I collect Yankees reports. I see a folder marked OLD.There is also a huge file folder marked God. Do you have a file on God?I asked. yes.Please, please take down that file and put it closer. I stood on tiptoe and reached for it, careful not to mess up the other files.I put it on the lower shelf. near you my god.he sang. We finally sat down.I open my notebook.The habits I have developed in journalism for many years have deeply affected my interview methods.He nodded and blinked, as if he understood that this was a more formal phase.He sits in a low-backed chair with swivel wheels that allow him to glide over to a desk or cabinet.I sat in a thick green leather armchair.The chair was so soft that I sank into it a few times like a child.

do you sit comfortablyhe asks. Comfortable.I lied. Want something to eat? no thanks. What about drinks? That's fine. That's good. nailed it. I didn't write down the first question in my notebook.What is the proper first question to ask?The summary of life, how should I start?I took one more look at the god folder which intrigued me for some reason (what's in it?), and then I blurted out a question that a man in a robe could answer without even thinking about it . do you believe in god Yes, I believe. I wrote the answer down in the notebook. Have you ever talked to God?

Do this regularly. What are you talking about? recently?He sighed, and then half sang and half said: Lately I've been saying: God, I know I'll see you soon, and then we can have a good chat.But, for now, God, if you're going to take me, please do it quickly.If you're going to leave me here, he spread his hands, looking at the ceiling give me a little more strength to do what I have to do. He dropped his hands and shrugged.It was the first time I heard him talk about his own death.It suddenly dawned on me that this was unlike any other speaking invitation I had ever accepted; every question I asked the old man added up to an answer to the one question I hadn't the nerve to ask.

When you die, what kind of person should I say you are? Ah, he sighed, and looked up again. how?Did God answer? He smiled. I'm still waiting for him to speak.he said.