Clinging and Piano Keyboards

          Up to this point I haven't had much difficulty in coming up with topics to blog about.  It seems like God has had so much to teach me on such a consistent basis that there is no end to the subjects that feel fresh and new to me.  This week, however, it hasn't come as easily as before.  I don't think it's because I'm suddenly less in sync with the Spirit.  In fact, I think it's a positive sign.

         There is a certain atmosphere of accomplishment I call the "maxed out" feeling.  It typically comes when I've just finished hitting my stride in some aspect of my life, such as a job, a life situation, and even and especially a particular spiritual perspective on life.  The Lord is constantly mixing things up and making things interesting.  He has a way of causing pillars of our lives that we previously thought were as constant as gravity to crumble to Pixie Stix powder.  When the Lord is actively involved, we often reach a point when, although we haven't learned everything we could possibly from a situation, the new information and experiences we would get from maintaining the status quo wouldn't be nearly as effective as it had been in the past.  That is the time for change.

          The descriptive effectiveness of the phrase "maxed out"  is limited because it implies some kind of finite barrier that we hit in our learning that completely cuts off our upper progress.  To the best of my understanding, such a barrier only exists among Satan's third of heaven and the sons of perdition.  In contrast, the "maxed out" feeling comes when our progress reaches a peak and begins to slow down.

          Oftentimes we are so comfortable in our present paradigm that we try to cling too hard to where we are or how we think because it is familiar to us.  This frequently happens in those moments when we think we have found the most important principle of the Gospel.  Said Elder Packer:

          "The gospel might be likened to the keyboard of a piano—a full keyboard with a selection of keys on which one who is trained can play a variety without limits... How shortsighted it is, then, to choose a single key and endlessly tap out the monotony of a single note, or even two or three notes, when the full keyboard of limitless harmony can be played." 

          On another occasion he said:  "Some members of the Church who should know better pick out a hobby key or two and tap them incessantly, to the irritation of those around them. They can dull their own spiritual sensitivities. They lose track that there is a fulness of the gospel, . . . [which they reject] in preference to a favorite note. This becomes exaggerated and distorted, leading them away into apostasy." 

          I think that might be my favorite quote by Elder Packer.  Oftentimes I rediscover a new spiritual note or combination of notes that I haven't heard in quite the same way before.  I get so excited that I set aside what I have been working on so I can practice hitting those notes just right.  While I'm never going to be absolutely perfect at playing them, and although a certain amount of practice is necessary to be proficient, there comes a point in time when I've gotten good enough at hitting those notes that continuing to play the same thing over and over again would cross the line from productive to irritating. 

          This doesn't mean that I should never play those notes again, or that I won't find something later on that will make them better, it just means that I need to see those notes for what they are:  a single measure in the symphony God is composing for my life.  I need to let those notes fall into their appropriate place in my life.  I should ever appreciate them but never cling to them.  I should recognize that God has an endless supply of measures for me to receive, cherish, and learn from, of which those notes are but a single glittering gem.  I know all that.

          Then why is it so hard?

          It's hard because we come to love those notes so much.  They become a part of who we are.  We want to stand by them and be loyal to them at all hazards, to tell everyone about them.  To paint murals and tell stories and write blog posts about them, not realizing that the time may come when it would be better for us to let them slip from our tightly clenched grasps and be placed a box in the corner of our hearts, to be treasured on a different day.

          Wherever you are in your eternal progression, when God doesn't hand you the topic He wants you to write about that week on a silver platter and you realize that He is beginning to work with you slightly differently from how He has in the past, let your love of the Lord propel you onward toward the next gleaming sunrise.  The one painted in the sky by your Father just for you.  The one just around the bend. 

Salvation: The Apex of Human Experience

          Three fallen men are standing at the bottom of a cliff, with Jesus standing at the top.  Jesus tells the three of them,

          "Come unto Me."

          The first man tells Jesus, "I believe you can bring me to the top of the cliff."  Jesus waves His hand and the man is teleported magically to the top. 

          The second man says, "I will climb up to reach you, but I know on my own I will fall.  Give me a harness and climbing gear and catch me every time I fall."  The Lord does so and he reaches the top of the cliff in safety.

          The third man say, "I know that Thou canst do anything.  Give me strength to climb up to Thee."  Nothing miraculous happens immediately, but as soon as he starts to climb God begins to incrementally strengthen his muscles.  Sometimes the man slips or scrapes an arm and becomes frightened that he will fall.  Sometimes he doubts his own ability to reach the top of the cliff.  However, he remembers that God has prepared the mountainside specifically for him and feels the supernatural strength he receives, and that gives him courage to keep moving.  With time and the man's repentance the Lord heals his scrapes and bruises so he can continue on without falling.  At any time the man could use his agency to give up and let go, but instead he chooses to move on.  However, it is only the strength he receives from God that makes it possible for him to navigate the increasingly difficult cliff face.  With time, he also reaches the top of the cliff.

          When the first man reaches the top he is in a different place but has not changed at all.  The second man made the choice to climb, but only in conditions of complete safety and with little mental or physical growth.  However, when the third man reaches the top of the cliff he is like God.  He is physically perfect because God prepared the mountain to make him that way.  Even more, he has also learned to trust the Lord in the face of impending destruction.  Though seeming to risk life and limb to reach the Lord, he knows that when Christ is involved, there is no such thing as risk.  During the course of the journey, he came to know the Lord, while the other two only knew about Him.  All three men reach the top of the cliff, but only the third was saved.

          All three of these men are real.  The first is the person who deliberately throws his life into the gutter and keeps it there his whole life despite pleading requests from God.  He may believe in God's saving power, but he doesn't act differently because of it.  He is required to suffer for his sins and is saved in the Telestial Kingdom.  He is at the top of the cliff, but his desires and actions are the same.

          The second man is the person who tries to follow God using only the strength and talents God has blessed him with at birth.  These are naturally imperfect and often lead him to shirk his duty or to play it safe rather than do God's will.  His desires may be originally similar or even superior to those of the third man, but without the help of God they never change on the deepest level, and so he does not change.  He chooses to receive the Gospel but is not valiant in the testimony of Jesus.  His righteous choices allow him to be saved in the Terrestrial Kingdom, but still he falls short of his potential.

          The third man also uses his talents and abilities, but he recognizes that they are infinitely less than they need to be for him to be saved.  He knows that he can fall.  But he also has faith in He who is omnipotent and he does His work.

          My friends and associates:  I wish I could tell each of you individually how badly I want you to be the third mountain climber.  I want to tell you how much I want you to reach your potential.  I used to think salvation was easy; in reality it is the hardest thing we will ever do because it encompasses everything that we do in our entire lives.  

          I bear you my witness that Jesus Christ can save you in every sense of the word.  Salvation is not what you do or where you go but who you are.  Christ taught the souls in spirit prison yet He remained a celestial person.  He drunk a bitter cup without becoming bitter.  Even now He has a plan for you that takes into account every sin you have or will ever commit that, if followed, would make you like Him.  Even now that plan is in effect in your life.  If I could tell you just one thing with such power that it would cause every fiber of your being to tremble and shake, it would be this:

          No matter where you are or what you're going through,

Never.  Let.  Go.

Through the Glass Darkly

          It's occurred to me recently that we know a lot less than we think we do about God's plan for us.  I hope this isn't a surprise to anyone, but I've also been struck by how little we know about even the parts that He chooses to share with us.

          Recently the Lord has blessed me with some of the most clear, direct, specific revelation that I've ever received.  I thought I understood why He was giving it to me.  I thought I understood what blessing He was trying to bestow.  So I happily thundered forward and faithfully applied everything He told me to, even the things that seemed peculiar or even a bit ridiculous.  Most of the times I did I felt/saw a confirmation that I was indeed doing what the Lord wanted me to.

          At the end of this last week the spiritual buildup reached its climax.  In many of God's communications to me I saw, or thought I saw, encouragement that things would turn out the way that I wanted them to.  At the same time, knowing how things have a way of happening differently from how I expect them to, I recognized that choosing to believe what the outcome would be was a risk.  Boy was I right about that!  Not only did things not happen the way I hoped that they would, I found out that all the inspiration I had received had a completely different purpose from what I had thought.

          The Lord did have a miracle in store for me, but the miracle was not the sudden shift in circumstances I was looking for.  It was that as soon as it became clear that I wasn't going to get what I wanted, my personal desires fell away and all I cared about was the welfare of the other person involved.  It was a miracle because it wasn't something that I would have naturally been capable of doing without the enabling power of the Atonement.  It has been a long time since I have cared so much about the eternal destiny of another person as I did in that situation.  I understood far more deeply than before the kind of love that motivated the Savior to desire to suffer so that another might not have to.    I wished that I could do the same for them.  I pray that I will be able to do for them anything else that may be in my power.

          Even if, despite the emotional and spiritual exertion that I experienced over the course of this experience, I didn't get what I wanted; even if I never truly understand all of the Lord's purposes for prompting me; even if it causes me distress in the future; if, after all that, the will of the Lord was done by it and one of my spiritual siblings received the blessings they needed, then I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

          We spend our whole lives trying to understand the direction that the Lord gives us.  We try hard to divine His purposes and to see the meaning behind the suffering and the tears.  Yet through our effort we hear the cry of Nephi, in the very act of receiving one of the most clear revelations we have record of:  "I know that [God] loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things. (emphasis added)."  I too do not know the meaning of all things.  In fact, I feel like there are no real exceptions to that.  The lowly specks of understanding that distill on our souls from time to time are absolutely nothing to the Lord's comprehension of the purposes of all things.

          Which of you can describe to me what it means to be saved so that I can understand it the same way that God does?  How could any of us ever hope to completely master the complex interplay of faith, agency, justice, and mercy on par with the Great Jehovah?

          Follow the promptings of the Spirit.  Serve others.  Keep the commandments.  But always remember that the Lord's ways are higher than our ways and that we often misunderstand the reasons for the guidance He gives us, even when they seem obvious.  The day will come when we do understand, but until then we are to walk by faith, not knowing everything.  When we see as we are seen and know as we are known we will thank God for the experiences of our lives and rejoice at the perfection of His plan for us.

          That each one of the people I love might stand with God and His Christ at that great day is my prayer and the purpose for which I have dedicated my entire life.

Less Than The Dust

          What does it mean to be less than the dust of the Earth?  It means recognizing that God is infinitely more powerful than ourselves, and that even on our very best days we know absolutely nothing about what's really going on.

          We so often assume that we know far more than we really do.  The stability of our lives paves the way for a façade of control that really does not exist.  "God...has created you, and has kept and preserved you, and has caused that ye should rejoice, and has granted that ye should live in peace one with another...and is preserving you from day to day, by lending you breath, that ye may live and move and do according to your own will, and even supporting you from one moment to another. (Mosiah 2:20-21)" 

          We wander from decision to decision, moment to moment, with the assumption that life and freedom and structured existence are the natural way of the universe, when in reality even our ability to breath and move of our own accord is constantly supported by the power of God.  Without Him we would collapse into the ball of chaotic matter that we were before He created us.  Even the vilest human being is propped up from moment to moment by the hand of a loving God.  Such is His love that He allows us to make mistakes.  Such is His love that there is nothing beyond His ability to heal and repair if we come unto Him.  Such is His love that the only reason He would not save us is if we chose not to be saved.  He doesn't count the number of chances He gives us, only the number of His children who still need them, which is all of us.

          Scientists send rockets to the moon, and yet mankind has still failed to find an indisputable definition of what it means to be human.  If we still don't understand ourselves we don't really understand the universe either, as much as we might think that we do.  So often we strive to set the course of our own lives when we don't we understand what it means to be alive in the first place.  We try to make decisions about who we will be, where we will work, and who we will marry, all based our personal flawed, biased, infinitesimally small data set of sample size one.  There is One who understands the true order of things and what we really desire.  He loves us with infinite love.  He is the only one capable of making the decisions that will place us in the happiest of circumstances.  The only intelligent course of action is to let Him take over.  Make the decisions that He asks us to make.  Trust Him with all our heart, might, mind, and strength, and recognize that the only reason we ever accomplish anything good is because He empowers us to act.

          The reason your life doesn't turn out the way you expect is because your perceptions and expectations are naturally flawed.  God has a perfect plan for you, an imperfect individual.   He never leaves your happiness to chance.  There is no such thing as bad luck, only a bad understanding of what is ideal.  If we truly understood the purpose of the circumstances of our lives, we would never trade places with anyone.

          In short, understanding that you are less than the dust of the Earth is the only way to know how much you matter to the single most important being in the entire universe.  If there is one thing in life that I am sure about, it is this:

 

Everything about your life is because God loves you.

Miracle Girl Epilogue

          I walk down the long hospital hallway slowly, not because I'm in a particularly thoughtful mood, but because my right knee hasn't been working well lately and the doctor recommended that I go easy on it.  The white tile passes by piece by piece under my feet.  I glance down at the item clutched in my left hand, then back up at the hallway.  A long, low sigh  burrows its way out of me, surprising me with the intensity of emotion that accompanies it.  A minute or so later I reach the other end and peer around the corner into the food court, looking for the woman with glasses and graying hair.  I spot her at a table in the fall corner, talking animatedly on the phone the way she always does when one of the children calls.  I walk over slowly and sit down next to her.  She finishes the call and looks at me expectantly.

          "Room 2304" I say.  Who was that on the phone?"

          "Charlie"

          "Anything interesting?"

          "Alicia is expecting!  Isn't that wonderful?  That will make...twelve grandchildren now?"

          "Fourteen, counting the twins."  She smiles and I smile back.  I think about all of them, all living happily in their own corners of the world, and decide that life can't get any better.  But then I've been saying that for sixty years, and every passing day has a way of proving me wrong.  For a while longer I look intently into the woman's eyes, thinking about all the things that make her beautiful.  After awhile my gaze settles back down on the object in my hand.  I nod in unspoken agreement to something left unsaid.

          "Well, we'd better do what we came here for."

          She puts a hand on mine.  "Are you ready?  It's been such a long time."

          I think about it, then nod again.  We make our way over to the elevator and ride it up to the second floor.  Partway down the corridor the hallway branches off into the wing specifically designed for long-term cancer patients.  My heart thumps quickly in my chest.  How will she react to my being there?  Will she even remember me?  An almost forgotten feeling from ages past warms back over me, like that distinctive smell that you never quite forget.

          I look at the number on the door, then back at the paper in my hand.  2304.  I take a deep breath and we walk in.  We sit down on the chairs just inside the door, just as we've done at countless hospitals with countless friends and associates over the years.  But this time will be different.

          The lady in the hospital bed is sound asleep, and so we settle down for what we know from experience can be a long wait.  I open the book in my hands to the page with the corner turned down.

          With a gigantic roar, Thymsdale drew his sword once more from its sheath.

          "What doth it matter if we be outnumbered?  Was my fealty to the king to be conditioned on the odds?  I live my life for this kingdom, and I die for it too."

          King Richard looked down at him from his mount in admiration.  "Thou art a miracle to me," he declared.  Then with a thunderous shout, they turned as one to face the enemy hosts...

          A nudge on my arm interrupts me and I look up to see that the person we are here to visit is awake and has opened her eyes.  I close the book and trace my finger over the grooved letters of the author's name.  Mercedes A. Clemens. I look over at the lady in the hospital bed.

          "It's been awhile," I say.  She nods.

          "Yes it has."

          "This is my wife, Lydia," I say, gesturing over at her.  Mercedes nods and smiles with effort, her purple eyes dimmed with age and disease.

          "I brought your book," I say, gesturing to the tome in my hands.  "It's very good.  Actually, all of them are very good."

          She nods and smiles again, too taxed to express herself much more profoundly than that.  I glance over her old, frail body, wondering how much more I can do for her.  Her golden hair, now tinged with silver, splays around her head like a crown.  The vivacity of her spirit is still there, but it's buried deep under the extremity of her current condition.  Her face radiates peace and purity.

          "Thank you."  She says.

          "No, thank you."

          We sit there awhile longer, but all that was needed to be vocalized has already been said.  A little later her eyes close again and her breathing becomes deep and methodical.  It is the last time I will see them open again for a good, long while.  We get up and leave, treading softly on our way out so as not to wake her. 

          As we walk down the hallway away from the room Lydia's hand slips into mine and my eyes sting with sudden tears.  A nearby nurse nods at me sympathetically, probably thinking that I'm mourning the soon-to-be loss of a loved one.  She doesn't see that they are tears of happiness.  But Lydia does, and she squeezes my hand a little tighter.  I pull her close to me and let the tears flow freely, not holding anything back.  I tilt my head back, staring up towards the high-arched ceiling, at the legions of invisible angels that I know are there.  A stream of sunlight arches through the window high above us, bathing all those who let it in with irrepressible, glorious light.

 

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

Miracle Girl Part IX

          I walk swiftly toward the north side of campus,  A zephyr of air snatches wind-born leaves from their hiding places in the nooks and crags of nearby buildings and thrusts them upward into the marbled, overcast sky.  I shove my right hand into my pocket, my left still clutching the phone to my ear.  Another gust throws dust into my eyes and rails me backwards, as if even the forces of nature are conspiring against me to stop my progress.  I beat on, feet against the pavement, borne ceaselessly forward toward my destination by the pulsating beat of the heart within my chest.

          "I'm to the left of the Wilson building.  Just coming up on the McJohnson."  Mercedes says, her voice cracking again.

          I readjust my course, turning down a narrow opening between the Dayton Center and the Donaldson building.

          "K.  I should be able to see you soon."  I scan the pathway ahead for the tell-tail gleam of blond hair.  A blast of air batters me again and I duck my head against the brunt of it.

          "Nick!"  I turn and look left and there she is, walking quickly toward me.  Her hair's disheveled, tied hopelessly in knots from the unrelenting wind.  It's more than the wind though.  There's something about herself as a whole that's worn down.  As we get closer I see the broken look on her face and know instantly, without any possible doubt, that I've made the right decision.  She stops a few feet away from me.  Hot droplets burn tear tracks from the violet gems of her eyes down the sides of her cheeks.  An irrepressible compulsion to protect and comfort wells up inside of me.  I step forward and pull her into a hard embrace. Somehow Mercedes overrides her natural inclination to resist me.  I try to squeeze out all the pain and suffering I can see in her.  My social self-consciousness tries to stop me from showing such unreserved emotion in public, but my desire to help her is too strong.  I hear a tiny groan in my ear and feel her relax against me as the strain of carrying her personal burden becomes too much to bear alone.

          I step back and lead her over to a nearby bench.  She lowers herself down slowly, as if scared she might shatter if she hits something too hard.  The dark barriers I've seen so long in her eyes are gone, beaten down by the cruel weight of whatever drove her to call me today.  I wait for her to get possession  of herself.  I'm in no hurry.  I have all the time in the world.  This is what I have time in the world for.

          When she calms down enough that I feel her trembling against my side slowly subside, I quietly ask, "What is going on?"

          A few more tears slip out.  She's gathering the courage to tell me.  Finally she pulls up the sleeve on her right arm.  I see the marks there, first not comprehending, then suddenly realizing.  I've been wrong all along.  All this time it hasn't been her family at all.  It's drugs.  The dark circles under her eyes, her mysterious late-night activities, skipping class, the fact that she told me she isn't close to anyone when everyone knows she hangs out with Kyra, it all makes sense now.

          The look on her face makes it obvious that she hasn't told anyone before.  She's studying me closely, watching, even expecting, to see me shrink away.  Instead I pull her closer.  I feel the wetness of her cheek against my shoulder.

          "How did it start?"  I ask.

          And the reservoir bursts and she's telling me about feeling lost and alone in high school with all the right friends for all the wrong reasons.  About ending up with the wrong crowd halfway through senior year, how that crowd followed her to college, this time without parental restraint holding her back.  Then about how her grades keep slipping, her sleep schedule getting twisted up into knots, cut off from everyone, wanting to escape all week, making the firm resolve to break free time and time again but finally caving in anew every weekend.  She talks about her repulsion of the people she deals with, how she longs to be with others but how the feeling of who she is drives her away, about waking up coming off a high, how it burns and burns and makes her feel rotten, about hating herself every time she goes back for more.  She goes on and on, pouring out her trembling vulnerable self into my outstretched hands.  I hold the information carefully, honored and humbled by the preciousness of what she's given me.  All through her words I keep her close, locked onto her violet eyes, straining to glean every detail, every facet of what she is feeling.

          I lose track of time.  There is no time here.  It doesn't matter.  There's only the continual stream of thoughts and emotions as Mercedes gives me all that she has.  Finally she stops, having run out of stamina, and silence returns after its long absence.  Mercedes is trembling up against my side again.  Outside our world, the wind has died down.  I give a long pause, letting the silence sink in a bit to soothe her stinging heart.

          "Do your parents know?"  She shakes her head.

          "They know some, but not much."

          I make sure she's looking me in the eyes so she'll feel the intonation of my next question and not take it the wrong way.

          "Why are you telling me now?"

          She sighs, gathering courage, and starts up again.  "One of my roommates found some of my stuff.  She showed it to the landlord and they're going to kick me out."

          "Are they going to report you to the police?" 

          She shrugs.  "I think so."

          "What are you going to do?"

          "I don't know."  We're silent for a little longer.  Then,

          "Your parents can either find out from the police or from you," I say.

          Mercedes nods mutely.  I don't tell her what to do.  I just want to remind her how things are and point her in the right direction.

          She holds her phone in an outstretched hand like it's a bomb ready to go off.  Her arm shakes some more and she slips it back into her pocket.

          "I can't do it."  She says.  I don't push her.

          "What are you going to do now?"  Mercedes shakes her head and remains silent.  I don't know what to say.  I feel the weight of the situation press down over my shoulders.  The emerging crack in my self-assuredness grows wider.   I scrounge around in my brain for something else to say that might help her.  I'm completely out of my depth here.  Seeking inspiration, I look up and for the first time see the people going about their business around us.  

          Some of them glance over us interestingly, but they're all just caught in their own little worlds.  They walk on, each a complex blend of circumstance and decisions.  Some with strong determination and a will to succeed.  Others concealing wounds or chafing at the chains of monotony.  Yet each of them is inherently valuable, inherently powerful.  Each can become, and already is, a creature beyond comprehension.  I think about myself, a self-absorbed study freak turned hero.  I think about Lydia, who against all reason acted against her own interests based on my word alone.  Mercedes is one of those incomprehensible beings, just like me, Lydia, and every other person on this planet.  I've known it all along.  It's still true, even in light of what she's done.  In a sea of exceptional people, she is no less special.  And in that moment I know that there is nothing she could ever do that would stop me from seeing her as extraordinary.  All worry about what to say disappears, leaving in its wake only pure, clear love.

          "You can beat this," I tell her.

          "I can't."  She sobs.  " I've tried so many times and it doesn't work."

          "They have people who can help you.  You don't have to do it alone."

          She gives a humorless laugh.  "Maybe.  But so what if I get better?  No one will hire me with a criminal record.  No one will never be able to see me as anything other than an addict who's gone into remission."  Her free hand tightens into a first, nails pushed up against her palm so hard that it starts to bleed.  " No matter how good I am, people will always see me the way I used to be.  So why even try?"  The last sentence comes out almost like a whisper.

          "I don't see you as an addict."  Something inside me clicks, and I mean these words like I've never meant anything before.  It is crucial, it is imperative, for her to feel how strongly I believe what I'm saying, what I'm about to say.  "I see you as someone who can change the world.  You aren't afraid to tell people to change when they need it.  You're honest with yourself.  You see things the way they really are.  You never give up."  You never give up.  I pause after the last one.  I know it is true; I can see it in her.  But I don't know how I know.  Evidently she sees it too, because she doesn't object.

          "You don't have to settle for struggling back to being ordinary.  You already are one of the most amazing people I have ever met."

          Mercedes looks down at the fist clenched in her lap.  In the distance, somebody calls out.  I turn and look around.  Mara comes around the corner and comes to a halt, frozen, directly in front of us.  Her eyes take us both in:  Mercedes, eyes latched on me, leaning against me for support.  Myself, sitting very close to her, looking back at Mara with an expression somewhere between shock and dread.

          "Who is she?"  Mara asks with calm so false it's downright icy.  She knows exactly who Mercedes is.  It's a different question she's asking.  I remember suddenly that my date with her was supposed to have started in less than an hour and my insides turn rotten.  Mercedes opens her mouth to say something, but I'm not about to let her take the heat for me, so I say,

          "My friend is going through something rough right now and I was trying to help her."

          "Right.  Your friend."  Her gaze sweeps over us again, completely missing Mercedes' tear-stained face, and turns with spiteful derision to mine.  "Well I hope you both have a nice day.  Maybe you should take her to a movie or something."  Her voice cracks and she turns and marches away, trying and failing to hide tears of her own that splatter against the sidewalk beneath her feet.

          The world seems to freeze and shatter into a million pieces at the same time.  It's worth it.  I know it's worth it.  But that doesn't stop the pain of the moment from scorching scars of horror and guilt into my insides.  I will never be able to undo what I've just done to Mara.  But neither could I have backed down and let Mercedes throw her life by the wayside.

          Mercedes stands up.  Her face is devoid of all emotion.  "I should go," she says.  I stand as well, stung once more by the irony of how normal things would have been with Mara if Mercedes had left just a few minutes earlier.  Mercedes gives me one of her sad little cracked half smiles and begins to walk in the general direction of the apartments, where the police and her parents will no doubt be waiting for her.  It hits me as I stand here watching her go that I will never see her again.  If I want to leave one last mark on her life, it has to be now.  There's no time to think.  She's already halfway gone, so I call out the first thing that pops into my head.

          "You're a miracle to me!"  She doesn't turn around.  She's far enough away that I can't even tell if she heard me, and a few seconds later she turns the corner and is gone.  I stand there a while longer before my legs remember themselves and begin to walk away, cursing my choice of words.  "You're a miracle to me?"  What a weird thing to say to somebody.  My phone vibrates and I pull it out.  It's a text from Lydia.   Where are you?  

          Are the presentations over already?  I glance down at my watch and find that not only did I miss the anatomy presentation, I'm not going to make it to the job orientation either.  I've given up a job, a potential girlfriend, and my career plans in one fell swoop.  The thought stings sharply, especially the memory of the look on Mara's face, but the pain is completely swallowed up in the fierce desire for Mercedes' welfare.  Next to that, what is medical school?  Absolutely nothing.  I tell Lydia where I am and a minute or so later she's there.  She's all apology.

          "I tried to get her to give you credit anyway, but she wouldn't listen.  I told her it was an emergency, but she just said that if it was a big enough emergency to miss the presentation you should have let the paramedics handle it.  I'm sorry I really--"

          "I doesn't matter," I say.  She nods and falls silent.  She looks at me pensively, not daring to ask the question burning on her lips.  So I don't make her ask.  I tell her everything.  I start at the very beginning and talk until I get to the very end, leaving out only the details Mercedes told me that I feel are too personal.  I tell her about meeting Mercedes in the library, about the sociology assignment, my repeated attempts to turn my friendship with Mercedes into a miracle, everything right up until the anatomy fiasco and everything that just happened.  I look up at her after I finish, trying to gauge her reaction.  Does she think I'm weird for getting so crazy about everything?  A little.  But she tries to be understanding, and there's something else there too, something that I can't quite identify.

          On the way home I figure out what it is.

The Epilogue will be posted on Monday

Miracle Girl Part VIII

          Drip.  Drip.  The water still comes down in sprinkles, but inside my heart it's a raging downpour. 

          I was wrong.  I try to track down the logic behind my assumptions once more.  Mercedes gave me conclusive evidence that she has a strained relationship with her family...didn't she?  My heart twists as I scramble to latch on to something concrete in what she said.  Now, though, I see everything in a different context.  I try to make myself believe that she lied when she said she doesn't have anything against her family, but I doubt my ability to read her more than I doubt her honesty.

          I failed.  The thought punctures my mind like the worst kind of knife to the chest.  It's worse than her not letting me help her with something legitimate.  The need for help has never been there at all.  I've thrown everything I have into something that didn't exist in the first place.  All the effort I put in to find a way to help her was wasted.  So much for miracles.  So much for being the upper 2.5%.  So much for changing a life forever.

          The feeling of bereavement is so strong it almost overwhelms me.  I carry on, not headed anyplace in particular.  Walking, but not seeing the path before me.  The castle of dreams I built up for myself slowly dissolves into a puddle of scorched sugar crystals.  Those things I thought were miracles no longer seem so amazing.  I mean, sure it's weird that I ran into Mercedes the day after I met her for the first time, but that probably had a lot more to do with the fact that I was looking for her everywhere than it did any kind of divine intervention.  Everything else that's happened since then came either from efforts on my part or her natural reaction to them.  Where's the miracle in that?

          I don't hear my name being called until it's shouted for the third time.  I turn and look, heart whirling again with the tiniest, faintest particle of hope...

          "What's up man?" asks Matt, and the hope comes crashing back down again with an earth-shattering thump.

          "Nothing," I say, and keep trudging, but the fact that it's a lie bothers me, so I slow down and correct:  "Actually, I just tried to change someone else's life for my sociology class and it completely backfired."

          I half expect him to laugh, but he doesn't.  "That's too bad," he says.  "But don't give up.  You'll have your chance."

          Now I'm the one to laugh. "I don't think things like that actually happen in the real world."

          Matt smiles a little but stares intently back at me while he says,  "Maybe moments like that are just rarer than you thought they were."  His smile broadens and tightens his hold on his backpack strap.  "See you around, Nick."

          For a second I feel hope again, making me even more confused than I was to start with.  I'm more than slightly annoyed about how my emotions are getting sling-shot around to every imaginable range of the spectrum.  When did life get so crazy?

          Just then my phone rings.  I slide it open with one hand, not bothering to look at the number.

          "Nick?"

          "Yes?"

          "This is John Broadhead, from  University Broadcasting.  We've decided we'd like to hire you for Summer semester."

          I'm silent with shock, not sure how to react.

          "Pay is $10 an hour, 20 hours a week.  Does that work for you?"

          I nod in response before realizing that he can't see me and quickly answer back, "Sounds good."

          "We're holding a mandatory orientation meeting on Saturday at one o'clock.  Will you be able to attend that?"

          That's right between my anatomy presentation and my date with Mara.  I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried.

          "Sure."

          "Great, I'll put your name down.  I look forward to working with you, Nick.  You did outstanding in your interview.  You should be very proud of yourself"

          "Thank you."

          I jot down the orientation meeting on my schedule, my mind still whirling.  This day just kept getting weirder and weirder.  I wonder what's coming next.

 

 

 

          The next day, Thursday, is our final group meeting in preparation for the anatomy project.  I work hard, but my mind is on a completely different planet.

          "Are you ok?" Lydia asks and I snap back to reality.  Genuine concern crinkles across her face.  With a great heave of mental effort I force up a smile that probably looks like the half-hearted kind Mercedes does.

          "I'll survive.  It's just life."

          She doesn't say anything, but it's clear that she doesn't believe me.

          "He probably just got shot down by some girl," Jarren says.  He has no idea how right he is, although in a completelydifferent sense than the way he's thinking about it.

          "I'll survive," I say again, with more emphasis behind it.  They both back off.  Even Jarren sees the futility of trying to get more out of me.  We all go back to work.

          A few minutes later my emergency emotional generators conk out and the smile slips away again.  I sink back down beneath the surface of reality.

 

 

          I awake on Saturday morning with a slight headache and a dull attitude.  I have a class presentation, a job interview, and a date today, but none of it matters because Mercedes blew me off three days ago and there's no way I can help her now.  I open and close my hand slowly, watching my veins bulge out against my skin.  I wish that this day would get over already so I can get back to being depressed.

          I pull myself into the shower an hour or so later than normal, but it doesn't matter.  I'll still get there in time.  I fill my backpack with sketches, diagrams, and pictures for the anatomy report, stuff my wallet, phone, and keys into my pockets, and take a mental inventory.  Have I forgotten anything?  I feel like I have, but I can't think of anything I'm missing.  I go through the full list in my head.  Yep.  I have everything.  I'm going to be early if I leave now, but I can't stand just sitting around here waiting for time to pass, so I leave anyway.  The walk to campus seems shorter than ever.  I wander aimlessly through the maze of buildings, checking my watch as I go.  I still have several minutes before I have to be there.  Almost unconsciously my feet take me to the fourth floor of the library, to the spot where I saw Mercedes the first time.

          I brush my fingers tenderly over the grainy wood of the desk in the corner.  This is where it all started.  Despite everything, the spot it sacred to me.  The meaning behind this place transcends ordinary forms of communication.  It's surprising that something that ended so badly could still tug on my heart strings this way. 

          As I stand there, staring out over the rows of shelves, a kind of warm feeling oozes over me.  It isn't the kind of "aha" moment I had that night under the stars when I decided to change Mercedes' life forever.  It's nothing that earth-shattering.  But as I stand there, something comes back that I hadn't realized had ever left:  a peaceful, happy optimism for the future.  I may not ever be able to put my finger on why, but I think it's in that moment that I start believing in miracles again.

          I glance down at my watch and see that it's  time to head over to the anatomy auditorium, then back up at my surroundings.  For better or worse, this marks the end of one of the great epochs of my life, and the start of another.

          "Goodbye."  I whisper into the silence, and turn and glide away.

 

 

          The auditorium is almost full when I get there, but I find a spot next to Lydia and Jarren up near the front and sit down.  Lydia's leg is vibrating up and down rapidly.  She's nervous about her grade.  Come to think of it, I am too.  It will likely be the determining factor in my hopes for medical school.  Even Jarren doesn't look as calm as normal.  I pull my backpack between my legs and unzip it.  The visual aids for the presentation peak out over the edge of my binder, exactly where I put them.  I brush my hand over them, reassuring myself that they're still there.  Dr. Orozco steps up to the front.

          "We'll start with the groups on the front row and work our way back from left to right.  Be sure to keep your presentations under seven minutes so we can get through them all in a timely manner."  She steps over to one side and sits down.

          We're on the third row back, so it will take a little while to get to us, but at least we won't be clear at the end.  Lydia relaxes slightly beside me.

          The first two presentations are very well done.  I'm a little worried how we're going to measure up to their standard.  The next group begins without incident.

          "Our presentation is on the bones of the hand," says the guy up front, pointing to a diagram to his left.  "As you can see here..."

          My phone starts to buzz, vibrating against my side.  It's quiet enough that no one else can hear it, but I still put my hand over it to stifle the sound.  A few seconds later it stops.

          "The Navicular Articuluti, near the base of the hand..."

          My phone starts to vibrate again.  Lydia shoots me a questioning look this time.   I shrug my shoulders and look back up at the front.  Something begins to itch in the back of my mind.  Who would be calling me right now?  I'm relieved when my phone falls silent again.

          "As you can see, the Lunate Articuluti, which borders the Navicular Articuluti..."

          My phone starts up  a third time, but now a feeling that has been vaguely forming in the back of my mind suddenly bursts into full consciousness.  I need to answer my phone.  I don't understand how I know, much less why, but the feeling is unmistakable.  Instantly the doubts start crowding in.  It's in the middle of a presentation!  What will people think?  What if the professor sees me?  But then I remember what I felt standing on the fourth floor of the library just a few minutes ago and reach into my pocket for my phone, bending my head down so that nobody else can see.  It isn't a number I recognize.

          "Hello?"  I whisper into the phone.

          "Nick."  It's a girl's voice on the other line, strangely scratchy.

          "Who is this?" I ask.

          "Mercedes.  Can we talk?"  I almost drop the phone.  This can't be happening.

          "Of course.  When?"

          "Now."

          I glance up at the front.  The hand bone group is still in the middle of their presentation.  I'll be here for another hour at least.  After that I have my job orientation at the broadcasting center, but maybe I could reschedule it? 

          I'm about to mention this when Mercedes chokes out, "I don't know who else to call."  And I hear the tears in her voice, and the whole world goes deathly silent, even though there's still someone speaking up at the front.  The nails of my free hand dig into my palm.  This is it.  It's the very moment I've been waiting for, the miracle that was never going to happen, and here I am stuck inside this stupid anatomy presentation.  All that time and effort, and here I am, unable to help Mercedes when she needs it most.  Mercedes needs me.  She needs me!  I cease to see the class around me as the world snaps into sharp clarity.  I'm here because of my grade; a single splat of ink on a piece of paper, and somewhere out there is a real, live human being who needs me.  And not just any human.  Mercedes.

          I take a deep breath, willing the oxygen to sink back into the depths of my heart and give me courage, courage to do something I'd never done before, to sacrifice what I never thought I would have to sacrifice, what I never thought I should sacrifice, all for a vague chance at the other end of this telephone line.

          Immediately my mind fights back, reminding me that a grade is far more than a splotch of ink.  For me, it's also my hopes and dreams to become a doctor.  To live how I want to live.  To achieve what I have the potential to be.  But just as this thought enters my mind an equally powerful one thrusts it out again.  What I have the potential to be would be nothing, absolutely nothing, without being the kind of person my heart tells me I should be.  In order to gain what I know is most important, I have to sacrifice what everyone else says it is.

          My  legs are lead.  They don't want to move.  I clench my fist tighter and whisper under my breath the battle cry that has kept me going all this long way:

           We have to choose to be the outliers of humanity.  We must defy the consensus.  In short, WE MUST BECOME the miracle that we want to see in our lives.

          And I know my decision.  Even before I say the words.  Even before I make the first movement to rise up out of my chair.  It's etched so deeply in my soul, by this and all the other decisions that have led me up to this point, that for me there is no other answer.  There is no other way.

          "I'll be right there," I whisper back.  With shaking legs I stand up and walk toward the back door of the auditorium.  I feel a half-dozen eyes on the back of my head, but I shove my inhibitions aside and keep on walking.

          I can hardly believe I'm actually doing this.  I'm throwing my grade out the window.  I'm breaking every social norm in the book.  I didn't just think it.  I'm actually doing it.  The door closes behind me, and a soft feeling of liberty and personal triumph clenches tightly in my chest.  I did it.  I really did it.  I walk down the hall a pace.

          "Where can I find you?" I ask Mercedes

          "I'm at the north end of campus."

          "Start making your way south.  I'll be right there."

          Suddenly the door to the auditorium bursts open and Lydia and Jarren storm through.  I lower the phone without hanging up.

          "What's going on, Nick?"  Asks Lydia.  "Professor Orozco's having a fit because you left."

          "She says she's going to flunk  you if you don't get back in there right now," enjoins Jarren.  My nerve almost fails me right then and there.  It'll be on my permanent record.  There's no going back from this.  I'm tottering on the line between being incredibly courageous and incredibly stupid.  I could just wait until after the presentations...

          But the same inner voice that told me to answer the phone says otherwise.  Mercedes needs me, and she needs me now. 

          She strung you along once and then shut you down!  My more cynical voice roars back.  What if you sacrifice your whole academic record and she does it again?  What if she's just worried about the grade on her chemistry test?

          I take a half-step toward the door and stop.  What if it's not?  What if it's important?  What if everything is riding on my willingness to help her?  But yet again, am I still willing to sacrifice all this for the chance that this is something incredibly critical?   The quiet, deeper voice inquires, Are you willing to take the chance that she really needs you, but you weren't willing to help her?

          Lydia and Jarren are staring back at me, waiting for an answer.  No.  I'm not willing to take that chance.  I remember the tears in Mercedes voice.  I trust her.  If she's conning me, let her con me.  I don't care.  I'm here to help her, not matter what.

          "I have a friend that needs me," I say.

          "And it can't wait an hour?" cries Jarren.  "You realize she's going to dock both of us too if you aren't in there."

          "Really, Nick, can't it wait?" asks Lydia.  I look at her.  I look her straight in the eye.  I don't bother with Jarren; he won't listen.  But I stare deep into the back of Lydia's dark brown eyes, willing the contents of my heart to somehow cross the few feet separating us and make it into her.

          "I have a friend who needs me," I repeat slowly, with all the feeling I can muster.  "Now."

          Something changes on her face, but I can't tell what.  My heart aches for her to understand.  Please, if you can't forgive, please understand.  Understand that I'm not trying to hurt you.  Understand that there are more important things than grades or how much the teacher likes you.  The skin on her temple stretches even tighter.

          "Go," she says.  Relief floods through me.

          "Are you crazy?" exclaims Jarren.  "He's going to destroy our grade!"

          I pull the charts and graphs from my backpack and hand them to Lydia.  She's looking at me in a way I've never seen before.

          "Thank you," I say  And then I'm gone.

          "Are you serious?"  Jarren calls after me.  "You're going to shaft both of us just because-"

          The sound of the outside door closing behind me cuts him off in mid-sentence. 

 

 

The penultimate chapter, Part XI, will be posted on Thursday.