Where there is despair, hope
"Come in, Matthew." Sister Genevieve looks up and smiles when she sees me, even though she doesn't realize I can tell. She always smiles when she looks at me, even though she barely smiles any other time. I guess I wouldn't smile either if I were in charge of a bunch of kids and hardly had enough money to keep the building from collapsing. Sister Genevieve is old and wrinkled and known for her short temper. But I know the truth. I hear all the nights she walks the halls and goes into the rooms of the children who can't sleep, holding the small ones close and talking to the older ones when they have bad dreams. We all love her, but it's our secret. The world cannot know of her kind heart, or it will try to cheat her even more than it already does.
"I've called you in to talk about your test scores."
"Oh," I breathe deeply and sit down in the chair in front of her desk, taking care to act like I don't know where it is without feeling for it. I'm a little scared. It's been two months since I took my SATs, and I haven't heard anything. They say that's normal, but I've lain awake a lot of nights thinking about all the answers I know I missed, about how the mission has no money for me to take the test again, that I may never get into college because of one single day.
"You did extremely well, far better than—what I mean is, your grades have always been very good, but we had no idea what you were truly capable of. You scored in the top five percent in the nation, Matthew. Several colleges have offered you full scholarships, and the Diocese Foundation is going to take care of your living expenses. It will be up to you what course of study you pursue."
My eyes tear up behind my dark glasses. The sister smiles again and puts out a calloused hand, interlacing her tiny fingers with my much larger ones. "Your father would be very proud of you."
Later that afternoon, I carefully put on my most presentable shirt and khaki pants and make my way outside the mission and toward the church I used to attend every week. Father Lantom sometimes visits the mission, but I haven't seen him in several months.
"Good afternoon, Matthew." He's sitting outside on the church's front steps.
"Father," I say, using my cane as if I need it and taking my place beside him. "I came to tell you I'm going to college. Not for a few months, but I wasn't sure if I'd see you." I set my cane down and rest my elbows on my knees under the warm summer sun.
"You want to confess anything?" He cuts to the chase. Most confessions take place in a box, separated by a wall, but I know him well, and he knows me better.
"Sometimes I think I'm all alone in the world," I answer, "and then I find out something like the fact that they're sending me to school, that I can be anything I want. And I see the pattern again."
Father Lantom reaches out a hand and rubs the back of my neck for a few seconds, exactly where the tension always sits. "When your father was alive, were you happy?"
"Sure," I answer quickly.
"Why? Was everything perfect?" I see what he's getting at, but I don't apprehend his point.
"No." I shake my head. "Mom died, and then my accident happened. And—my dad drank. You know that."
"But you still found happiness. Why is that?"
"I guess because I liked being around him. Even the bad stuff was ok if he was there."
"Exactly," says the collared man beside me, smiling to himself. "He made the bad things bearable just by being there. That's what faith in God is like, Matt. Sometimes we get to see the good things, the easy things, the graces we don't deserve. Those are like giant neon signs to remind us that there's a plan. But true faith is more than that. It's knowing He's there in the hard times, the times when we feel alone—and trusting that He makes those times worth it, too."
I nod. "I'll—try." I mean it. I can't lie to him.
"What I want you to do, Matthew, is pick a time. Just one time, when you're feeling alone, and I want you to remember He's there, on purpose, just like if your dad suddenly walked in and made things better. Doesn't have to take long, just a couple of seconds. See what happens."
I'm used to Father Lantom's unusual ideas about penance, so I nod again, and he absolves me, sitting on church steps on a Saturday afternoon. As he's praying, I think about how much I'll miss him when I've gone.
It turns out, I forget about the penance I've been assigned in the flurry of my preparation for school. Or maybe I want to forget. I'm not sure how I feel about a God who's in charge of the world whose cries fill my ears in the nighttime. I don't know if I even want to remember His presence in the bad times.
I finally do as I'm told nearly four years later, when I'm about to enter a new dorm room at Columbia Law. There are few things that scare me all that much any more, but this does. During undergrad, I lived alone in my own apartment. No one had to deal with being the roommate of the blind, disabled orphan with a dirt-poor past. For the first time, I have a roommate, and I'm nervous.
Just before I push open the door, I feel the profound aloneness choke me inside, and I breathe a prayer. "Please be there." I don't know if it's any good after four years, but I give it a try.
I step inside, and that's when I meet Foggy Nelson. As soon as I see his face, I know. God isn't just an idea. Sometimes he's a friend with long hair and a ratty t-shirt who's right where you need him.
A/N: It's great to be a professional writer, but that means that sometimes, when you're writing for a job, it cuts into the writing you really want to be doing. Sorry this took so long. Hope you enjoy.