C. S. Lewis famously said, “For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity.” Does this help us live in the present moment?

It’s been a few days since All Saints and All Souls Day, a particular time we set aside to remember those who have passed away. On Zoom I gather with my Centering Prayer friends and tonight our meditation tells us that these days the veil is the thinnest between us and our late loved ones, inviting their presence closer into our hearts. Some call these special times a “liminal space”—a doorway to eternity. We are on one side of the door, while those who have died are on the other.

“I should thank the veil,” a prayer mate of mine on the Zoom call says, “but I’m closer to cursing it, wishing I could lift it and reunite with those who’ve passed on.”

“I’ve lost three brothers,” another prayer mate says. “Something will come up, and I’ll think, why, I’ll just call Tom and ask—until it comes to me. He’s no longer with us, so I’m left to imagine what he’d think. All because he’s on the other side of the door.”

Closing my eyes, I see it a shiny wooden door, twelve feet high. Vines are carved in deeply, with heavy grapes hanging low. Its finish is a rich golden color; the frame a triple-threaded rope. In line with the thinning veil, I ponder how the door must also become paper thin, so transparent, we can nearly see the other side—but the keyword is nearly. Although it’s gorgeous and welcoming, there is no knob. I cannot open it. I cannot see my loved ones who have crossed over to the other side.

            “There’s so many people I miss,” my first prayer mate says. “I talk to them, you know, in my head. We laugh together and remember. They say time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. Time just puts more space between you and the rawness.”

            Time is such a curious dimension. Wouldn’t it be lovely to crack? How incredible if, on this side of the door, we could merge our most precious moments and live with all our loved ones in this world and the next? C. S. Lewis famously said, “For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity.” Does this help us live in the present moment?

When my children were small, tucked into bed, reading a picture book together, we lived in a specific eternity I never wanted to end. But it did, as I watched three individuals grow and transform into loving, productive humans. And the eternity I live in at the Present is good. Moments together with them, and the grandchildren, are round and full. Like the harvest moon.

“Memaw, Memaw, guess what? The moon is very big right now because it’s closest to the earth,” Dax, my five-year-old grandson, says with raised eyebrows, his lips a serious straight line. He wants to be a doctor on a spaceship someday. In his future Present.

            But today, I am in no hurry for this liminal space with my grandson to end. We hug, laugh, ponder, and sit at the kitchen table, with glue, googly eyes, foam pieces pretending to be parts of a turkey, and a black pen, to write the names of those we are grateful for. We finish our craft, and he proudly walks through the kitchen door to share his finished gratitude turkey with his mother, who is working in her office upstairs.

I want to make a thick braid of all my slices of eternity, with my past moments of Present, and wrap that three corded thread around my soul. I see the door with no knob, and I'm in no hurry to go through it, but I smile. If eternity holds my children when they were small, my grandchildren as they grow, and all the tiny Present moments, the other side of the door will indeed be a lovely, beautiful place.