Showdown at Pizz’a Chicago

“One: if God does not exist, objective moral values do not exist. Two: objective moral values do exist. Three: therefore, God exists,” I said, explaining the moral argument for the existence of God to my a few Christian classmates over Pizz’a Chicago. This argument is one of the oldest and best available to the Theist; for those interested in the argument itself, I would commend you to the work of William Lane Craig. We had just finished a wonderful hike in the mist and trees of the Santa Cruz Mountains and warming up around a fire at my place. We were beginning a lively philosophy discussion. For anyone who knows me, you know that there aren’t too many better possible days. The pizza was delicious (the “Al Capone”; who’d have thought pecans go well on pizza?), and it was looking like it would be the perfect end to a perfect day.

Then there was a person standing over us at the end of our table. It was the man from the next table. He was a short man in his fifties, balding slightly, wearing a full beard with flecks of grey. Surprised, I gave him my attention. He said, “We can hear you from over there. And, you’re wrong!” I suppose I had been a bit loud; it was a pizza joint, after all, and I had to raise my voice to get it across the table. I wondered which of the two premises he disagreed with (I guessed it was the first; this is the approach most Atheists take). I started gesturing for him to join our conversation, but he had already turned around and returned to his seat, next to what appeared to be his high school-aged son and elementary school-aged daughter.

He shot a glance over to me, to see what effect his breach in manners had caused. Perhaps he was hoping for shock, outrage or anger. I don’t think he was expecting polite curiosity. “Which premise?” I asked him. “Both of them!” he shot back, surprised and not looking at me. “Please explain,” I offered politely, again gesturing to the empty seat next to me. At this point, the man came to his senses. He did the most rational thing a mature thinker could have in such a situation: he utterly ignored me.

After this brash interruption of our conversation, I composed myself. I soon continued my exposition of the argument to my friends and the conversation continued pleasantly. All the while, in the back of my mind, I was thinking how to repay this guy. He had interrupted my conversation on a topic which was extremely important. He tried to embarrass me in public and in front of my friends. He wanted to make me look bad and show off to his kids. And then I thought of a way. He’d be so pissed. It would shame him in front of his kids and he’d never be able to get me back. He’d never forget me. Ever. It was perfect.

I called the waitress over, gave her my credit card, and quietly paid for his family’s dinner.

My friends and I finished our pizza, and got up to leave. I walked over to the man’s table while they were still unaware of what I had done and I said warmly, “Enjoy your dinner!” For those unaware of American customs, the proper response would have been something like, “Thank you.” Perhaps this courtesy had shocked the man into silence, or perhaps he was still ignoring me. Maybe his mouth was full. In any case, it was his son who responded with an accusatory tone that ought to be reserved only for the basest of criminals, “You can’t prove God! It’s not falsifiable and therefore false!” Recovering, the man, with what he must have thought was an irrefutable disproof of my argument, said with the confidence of a mathematician delivering the conclusion to a proof, “William of Occam.” Now for those of you who are not experienced in Philosophy, William of Occam is a man and not himself an argument, or at least the words “William of Occam” do not compose a well-formed or convincing argument. But it seemed to be offered as one, which might suggest conversation was actually possible.

I started to respond that proof was possible, but they weren’t listening. I cannot now remember how I knew that they were not listening and desperately wanted me to leave. I don’t have a memory of them covering their ears with their hands, or shouting to drown out my words, or shooing me away like a dog, but however they did it, they communicated as much to me. Then the most unexpected thing of all happened: the daughter, in stark contrast to her family, showed me kindness. She stood up, walked over to me, and gave me a paper craft she had been working on all through dinner.

I walked out of the restaurant smiling. The man and I had battled in the pizza parlor, and I think both of us will remember the day for years to come. And I will treasure my prize, his daughter’s paper craft.

Eulogy of Wolf

Wolf is dead. My good friend is dead. His violent and turbulent life ended peacefully this week.

The first part of Wolf’s story is one of darkness and violence. He was a Hell’s Angel and wielded terrible power over those around him. His life was a kaleidoscope of guns, sex, drugs and the occult. He was a violent and selfish man. It was here that Steven Johnson became “Wolf.” His nickname was appropriate, for all his life he would be aggressive and never well-mannered.

His life of violence made him many enemies. One night, he knew that men were coming to kill him. He turned his home into a fortress, and armed himself for a last stand. He feared death. But he would not die that night. That night he would find True Life. He accidentally turned on the TV. The channel was TBN, and the preacher pointed to him and said he needed Jesus to forgive his sins.

Then he saw a light from heaven and he audibly heard the voice of God. He felt a warmth that started in his belly and radiated thorough his body even to the tips of his fingers. His eyes became as fountains, and he wept so that his long beard was soaked with tears. That moment, he walked out of the house, literally leaving his old life and its problems behind him.

He quickly became a powerful man of God. Upon acquiring a King James Bible, he went to a coffee shop and read through it cover to cover in a few days, barely sleeping. And from that moment on, he would live such a life of adventure as to make any hero seem a coward.

He once had a gun bag that he’d fill with many pounds of tracts and Bibles. He would fast for days on end until he had distributed them all. The police once warned him that the particular neighborhood he was in was extremely dangerous for white people; he said he didn’t care and entered anyways. His entrance attracted the local gangs to come and threaten him. But he preached the Gospel to them, and not a few were convicted of their sins and prayed for forgiveness

There were many other stories of exorcisms, poltergeists, and mighty acts of the Spirit. He took jobs in logging, construction, body-guarding and other equally manly vocations.

Later, he led a home for adolescent boys with problems. To hear of his love for those kids was heart-warming. He really cared for those who were so much like him: aggressive, angry and energetic with no positive outlet. He gave them an outlet. He taught them exercise and martial arts. He directed their anger at their own sin and Satan, and their energy to good works.

But one day, he brought a black boy into the church, and this went against the deepest, darkest racist sentiments of the church leaders. It became such an issue (tact was never one of Wolf’s talents), he was fired from his live-in position and so also evicted. He vowed then that, though his belief in Christ was firm, he would never set foot in a church again. After this, he was hit by a Cadillac Escalade, permanently injuring his back and afflicting him with great pain from which he would not have a reprieve for the rest of his life.

He became homeless. His lost job, his injury, and the depression that ensued kept him on the street. The harsh conditions of the street aggravated his difficulty breathing (COPD), the result of a lifetime of smoking. Soon, the street became his home. Abandoned by his church family, and still estranged from his natural family because of his early life, his family became the homeless of his home town: Westwood. Alienated from the rest of the world, his social circle was limited to others who had (or would have) mental problems. He struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts.

Then something incredible happened. He began praying for a church. And then one opened literally across the street from where he slept every night. Shoreline Community Church, after a series of moves, had settled on the Broxton theater. And Shoreline had a heart to reach West LA. All of it. The poor along with the rich. And so people from the church began to befriend Wolf.

He became a part of our family. He went on our family outings (including our men’s retreat and our church picnics). He slept on our couches on particularly cold and rainy nights. We bought him food, and (embarrassingly) he bought us food. He once insisted (and believe me, it’s hard to dissuade him from a thing once he sets his mind on it) on buying food for a barbeque. I’ll never forget what he said that day, with more than a dozen of us gathered to eat steak the homeless man purchased for us with his EBT (food stamps). Someone asked him what he liked with his steak. He replied heartily, “More steak!” He encouraged us and we encouraged him.

Who was Wolf to me? He was one of my good friends the last two years of college. My first conversations with him were simply out of duty. I ought to lower myself to talk with him; I ought to condescend to the poor sinner (He was a sinner, after all; he had a bad mouth; and he drank alcohol). I did not then consider that he may be closer to God than I was.

I am clean person outwardly; a friend (slightly drunk) once addressed me as, “David Carreon! The F***ing Messiah!” And this foul-mouthed, irreverent, racist homeless man taught me, a test-acing, bright-futured, spotless goodie-two-shoes. Truly, I learned many important lessons through God’s servant Wolf.

He inspired me to courage. I may not risk my life as he had, but I certainly could risk my reputation. I may not have the spiritual strength to cast out demons, but I could contend for my faith. Before I knew Wolf, I considered myself among the bravest of spiritual men. He showed me just how far I have to go.

He challenged me to spiritual discipline. This man prayed for me every night from under a pile of cardboard. He read his Bible every day though he was driven from every table he ever limped to. And what did I do? I didn’t even read my Bible 15 minutes on an oaken table in a warm room. And I didn’t pray for him. And he was the one that was needy. Or was he?

He taught me humility. How could I complain about anything when I had a bed? I helped him construct his home of cardboard behind the CitiBank in Westwood a few times. I felt the looks of scorn and the people crossing to avoid coming within ten feet of he and I. I shared in a drop of his tribulation.

He taught me faith. Through the cold of the street, the pain of his back, and an illness which left him often gasping for breath, he struggled with depression. But never would he forget his savior; he never lost the hope of glory. His strength to continue living wavered at times, but his faith never did. He was assured of his salvation, and now stands before the One in whom he trusted.

“Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” I always thought Jesus was talking about me, a spiritually humble person. I thought, “Mine is the Kingdom of Heaven.” But I think this better applies to Wolf than to me. He was poor. He was blessed. And now, his is the Kingdom of Heaven.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

I was Atlas, bearing the weight of the world pressing down on me. Under the emotional exertion, my heart beat faster, also crushed by the heavy responsibility before me.

I walked down creaking pine floorboards to where I would take up my mantle as senior “Médico,” not that 22 years gave me any qualifications for such a title. I took my place in a bare, makeshift examination room. As it seemed with everything in this part of Tijuana, the furniture was being held together by sheer ingenuity that comes with poverty.

The quiet, black fear broke out into an active yellow terror, like a rat out of a cage. I began to think of any means of escape. My mind darted left and right. Could I pass it to another? Could I leave it undone? No and no. All escape was blocked. If I was to be anything but a coward, I had to do this. I clenched my teeth, preparing for what would be an anaesthetized vivisection of my emotions.

Señor G staggered in, leaning on a friend. I greeted him warmly. He was wearing a blue Chargers hat that he had received as a gift. I complimented him on the hat, and he beamed with joy. I yearned for this moment to stretch into eternity.

It did not. The moment came that I had feared, the moment I had run through a hundred times in my mind. I had to tell him he was going to die. Sr. G had been on heroin and cocaine for many years. That together with alcohol had destroyed his liver, and he did not have long to live. He was my patient, and I alone bore the weight of delivering the news. Everyone dies, but woe unto me, for I had to translate a fact into a reality.

I gathered up all the courage within me, but it was only sufficient to produce a euphemism: “You’re not going to live much longer.”

“I know,” he replied. But he didn’t. He talked about plans he had for years ahead. And now I had to crush them.

“You don’t have much longer to live,” I tried again to make the sting of death less sharp. But death’s sting cannot be dulled by soft words.

“I know,” he said again. But still he didn’t. His planning continued.

“You’re going to die soon.” I used the word. I said it. And I saw despair in his eyes. His spirit overflowed with sorrow and his eyes with tears.

Then something happened that I did not understand. I spoke without speaking, and a voice that was not my own asked if I could pray for him. He and I shared a common faith; the request would have been reasonable, but for the alien source. Laying my hand on his shoulder, I prayed, pouring out my heart to our God. I thanked God for his love to us in giving salvation; I prayed that we would have faith in the valley of the shadow of death; I prayed in the hope of eternity. Then his dirge entered a new movement, as if a light new flute melody danced atop the low and mournful chorus: he remembered hope. The blackness of his night was pierced as if by the morning star; black indeed, but not black complete.

My own terrible weight of fear was cast into a sea of sadness. But even in the darkness above the waters, there was a wind of hope that hovered there unseen. As he limped away, I realized it would be the last time I would see him this side of eternity.

What did I fear? I entered medicine to speak Life, and I had to declare Death. I learned that doctors do not only announce hope, wearing white coats and stethoscopes; we must also proclaim doom, taking up the black hood and sickle. We are not saviors, but guides. We may be angels, but sometimes we must be the Angel of Death. Though we always desire to lead our patients out of the valley of the shadow of death, not all leave the valley. For those who must stay, we must be faithful guides even unto the grave. And it was that grim task that I feared.

The Song of Twilight

Earlier today, I prayed with one of my friends on campus and I biked back towards home after finishing. I cycled towards home down Serra Street past the main quad just after sunset. Some light lingered still, as if in homage to the set sun. For no particular reason (and against the very nature of late-October), my mind began to sing “Joy to the World!” As I reflected on the line, “Let Heaven and Nature sing,” I began to consider the connection between the beauty of Nature and the beauty of Heaven, and especially of Heaven’s plan of salvation through Christ.

I looked up at the trees, and it was as if they began to sing. And my eyes heard their Song. The Song of Twilight commenced by the shadows, shapes and colors of a million leaves. I smiled wide, passing trees on both sides. My teeth exposed, I felt the rhythm of the cool air. The trees sang their praises to God, and my smile would have grown if it were possible. My joy, ever filling, spilled over into my eyes which upturned, but even they would not be able to contain it. Then the Song moved to its crescendo! I heard as heaven above me joined the choir, singing in a deep blue baritone, and about me the buildings sang in earthen colors and the red of tile roofs. All of them together sang in a language unknown but familiar. Though I knew not the words, I knew their message and the Joy in their voices. Nature was unanimous and emphatic in its song: “God loves you.” And my Joy was full.

I continued pedaling down the road, and Joy from the Song continued filling me. Finally Joy overflowed my soul and streamed down my face in tears. They came first in a trickle and then as a flood. The Song was muffled by the tears, but still loud. As my eyes kept hearing of the Love of God, I continued to weep.

It must have been quite a sight for those who saw me: a full-grown man riding his bicycle, his face wet and dripping with tears, his eyes red with crying, and strangest of all, wearing a grin ear-to-ear and laughing.

I cycled for a quarter mile, barely able to see. And then at last, the Song faded. The choir members went back to merely being glorious sky and beautiful trees. But the memory of their melody still played in my soul.

I used to think of our souls as a sliding scale, and “full joy” was moving towards one side of that scale. I used to think Jesus’ promise to make full the joy of those who abided in Him was simply a movement of the scale a point or two. Today I learned that Jesus meant ‘full,’ and not ‘maximal,’ for ‘full’ implies a liquid. So then ‘full joy’ could not be measured by a scale; rather our souls catch Joy as it falls like rain from heaven. But we are imperfect and our souls, like cracked pottery, are always leaking and never full. But today, for no special reason beyond God’s delight, I was filled with Joy to overflowing by the Song of Twilight.

The Exodus

I've just written about what I like about Stanford. Now comes the previously untold story of how I got here. "Here" being after Day 1 of Orientation. And not "How" like in a philosophical or historical sense, just how I drove up the 5 and stuff like that.

Moving
I drove up to Stanford a week ago Monday. For whatever reason (but probably because I hate doing paperwork and usually protest by doing it poorly), I did not get have any information on things like where I was living and where to meet for the get-to-know-the-class camping trip called SWEAT, (Some Weird and Eccentric Acronym-Thing). I thought it was Tuesday, but that was the end of my knowledge. I had learned by this point that my phone, which was a very nice PDA, did not do phone-things like receive calls ever and made them only when it felt like it. It was under these circumstances that I drove a Prius up to Stanford loaded with all of my earthly belongings. 15N->210W->5N = 7 hours.

The drive was mostly nice. I like Kettleman city, but decided to stop at Bakersfield instead because I was too hungry. After a half-hour of clogging my arteries, I continued on. It took me about 7 hours to reach Sacramento, where I would stay on Monday night with my buddy at Davis Med. We met up, and he pretended to study while we talked. I crashed at his place.

The next morning I left early and headed for Stanford. I didn't have a map of Stanford, but I did have one of California, so I followed signs into campus. Once there, I tried to find the housing office. Not knowing anything about Stanford, I was unsuccessful. I had found a single phone number online for the housing department, so I called that. After 4 attempts of failed transfers and leaving messages, I was finally connected to someone who knew where it was. I drove right there, told them my name, showed ID, and was given a key. Simple as that.

Having figured out my housing, I decided to call Josh, the guy who was leading the camping trip (and ironically enough, the guy who used to tell me to wash dishes at UCLA), and he told me where to be the next morning. I then moved all my stuff up to my room (6th floor).

The way my roommate wanted to partition the room, I've basically got a studio to myself (instead of a shared bedroom + living room), which is fine by me. I've got a great view of the campus from my window, and privacy. Not that I really understand privacy, having had at least one person sharing my room since college began (in one case, 3 others shared my room). I kinda like it, though I can see the potential for greed in having MY space (which should always expand and never be infringed upon); I've never really had the luxury, but am certainly enjoying it (hopefully with minimal greed).

Camping
The next day we left for SWEAT. I was driving for one of the car-camping groups. Just to save my precious reputation, I wanted to go with the hard-core backpackers, but for the aforementioned loathing of paperwork and procedure, didn't sign up early enough.

Our leader was a second year, and he guided us with his fancy phone GPS. We tried to meet another group of people in Stockton for lunch, one of the girls told us they drove south from where we were. It turned out that by "south" she really meant "north," but with corroboration by the GPS, we headed south. Once we were clearly outside of any recognizable city in "French Camp," I got off the freeway and turned around amidst cries of, "It's a GPS, it can't be wrong!" It turned out that it was. We ended up finding them and getting some really good Mexican food in a sketchy part of Stockton.

We arrived and the lounging began. The three days were filled with mostly eating and waiting to eat again. We did typical camp stuff (day hikes and swimming) the first day. When it came time to build a fire, nobody knew anything about fires (except me, of course, being an Eagle Scout). Not that I was particularly good at building fires, but, being the only backpacker, my paltry knowledge was sufficient to bedazzle the poor group of campers. The concept of tinder->kindling->fuel was black magic to those who looked on in awe of my powers to control the flames. So thus I established myself as the great and wise woodsman. You know what they say: "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king." [As a side note, it was pointed out to me that the saying would be more accurate if it went "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is stoned to death," thought the traditional story was what applied to me.]

The second day we decided to go for another day hike. A group of us decided to extend the day hike into a long day hike. One girl said she wanted to do it, I said I'd go to, and before we knew it, another four people had peer-pressured each other into going. Fortunately at that point, nobody knew that it was probably 4 miles each way or else they would never have attempted it. So a group of green campers embarked on a journey that very well could have killed them. Fortunately, they all survived and with minimal griping, so little in fact that no violence was done even to the most whiney among us. Everyone was proud of themselves upon completing the journey.

The last day we did a skit. Being the car camping group, we had procrastinated our task of coming up with a skit until the last minute. We discovered that it was not the last minute, because other groups actually started after we did. In the end, we came up with a very funny skit mocking our own laziness. The other groups ranged from obscene to confused. After a little bit more socializing, we drove back home that night.

Pre-Orientation
The weekend following SWEAT, I kept busy. I did a lot of sleeping in, a bit of shopping and lots of eating. I got a bike from Target so that I could be like everyone else. Normally a statement like that is hyperbole, but I'm pretty sure every one of us will own a bike by the end of this week. So I had to fit in. So I went to Target with two friends and we bought two bikes. We successfully fit two bikes and three people inside my Prius. That's right. It's a hybrid.

On Sunday I went with seven others to attend Abundant Life Christian Fellowship nearby. It was amazing! It looked like it used to be a Black Southern Baptist Church; it had a Gospel Choir, very upbeat music, and good, loud singing. The preacher was black, so the traditional white conservation of energy on the podium was not visible. There was no lack of power in the message, and more importantly, it was Biblically based. I'm going to try out some other churches, but I doubt I'll find anything better.

Orientation
Orientation started today, and it was pretty, pretty, pretty good. We had a very inspirational speech by our Dean, an entertaining speech by our Associate Dean, and then a very interesting talk by an author/faculty member whose book I was supposed to have gotten and read. Neither had happened, the latter on account of the former, but the talk was very interesting nonetheless. We were supposed to have a 24-student discussion on ethics and balancing life with medicine which was quickly turned into a 6 student + 6 professor discussion.

In between all this were lots of breaks where I got to meet more and more of my class, who, as I previously described, are amazing.

Next Step
School starts officially on Thursday, and before then I've got a two-page of administrative things that I'm supposed to do. They're the kinds of things that nobody really wants to do, but are indicative of the developed world. Things like online registration and financial planning. I really like flying by the seat of my pants and am rather annoyed at having to use instruments.

I've got another two-day grace period of orientation, and Mom's coming on Wednesday, so I've got lots to distract me from the elephant in the room (the hardest class of my life starting full-force on Thursday). It's a pretty angry elephant, and I think addressing it further would only upset it, so until Thursday I plan to ignore it.

"Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof." - Matthew 6:34

The Audacity of Hope

I ran out of my interview at 3:50PM, tie and blazer flapping in the wind. The girl who offered me a ride to the airport (who just happened to have as perfect a face and as enchanting eyes as ever I have seen) texted me to say she would be late. Too late. And too bad for me.

I couldn't wait, so I grabbed my stuff from the admissions office and ran to the bus stop. I must have just missed the bus because I waited 15 minutes for the next one. I got on the bus and the girl called; the bus was moving right along, so I figured I'd be OK on time. I thanked her for her offer and hung up. As soon as I was disconnected, the bus hit traffic. After a slow mile of stop-and-go, it made it to the city and the traffic cleared up. The driver told me where I could catch the light rail and I got off where he indicated.

I headed briskly in the direction I was instructed, and made it just in time to see my train pulling away. I thought I'd just catch the next one. The trains come only every 20 minutes. As I made this mental calculation, I began running, stupidly like a baffled tourist, after the train. I knew it had frequent stops in the downtown region and I hoped I'd be able to catch it.

I ran hard. I'm not the most athletic of people, so my running/sprinting, carrying my luggage wearing full dress clothes and, more painfully, dress shoes, was rather tiresome. But I was able to maintain a good pace. The train stopped just across one last street, with the doors open, but traffic blocked me. I looked for the first break I could, and ran. I made it to the stopped train. I was winded, but relieved. But the doors were closed. The train started moving.

I ran after it again, this time being less careful with traffic, jaywalking and probably looking very silly. After five minutes of hard running, I saw the train stop 100 yards ahead. I kept running, but knew it was hopeless. Sure enough, as I approached, the train left.

I walked the rest of the way to the train stop. I panted and wheezed as I waited the long 20 minutes for the next train. I remembered then, in that moment, failing to catch my breath, that I had athletically induced asthma that is brought on by extreme exertion. Darn it. I took off my blazer and let the cold Portland wind dry my sweat.

I needed a red train. There were only three trains, red, blue and yellow, and I hoped maybe it would come earlier. I watched a blue train stop, and then go by. I watched a yellow train stop, and then go by. The next turned the corner, and I was anxious to get moving. I watched a blue train stop, and then go by.

The fourth train was red, and I found a nice corner of the train to settle down in. The train ride was a nice reprieve. I tried to relax, but the conversation across from me was too loud to ignore. It was a group of high school girls who must have been some kind of athletes; they talked about injuries to the musculo-skeletal system as I only hope I can learn to. It was rather relaxing overall, until a group of three homeless people got on the train, sat down around me. Two of them began publicly to display their affection to one another. The third talked of nothing to nobody; nobody listened attentively.

The train pulled up to the airport terminal. I grabbed my stuff and continued the race. Running through the terminal, I paused long enough to see that my flight was indeed ON TIME at Gate A6. Another runner beside pointed out the inevitability of this particular application of Murphy's Law. I thought how fortunate I was to have an A gate; I thought I was close. I ran to the security line, an undressed as they dictated. Belt, shoes, blazer, pockets, and a ziplock full of toiletries all were put into a plastic tub an run through the X-ray machine. It was 5:27; my flight left at 5:35. I might still have time! I put my belt in my shoes, grabbed the shoes, the blazer, and the bag and ran, sock-footed towards A6.

"You forgot your change," someone with good intentions, but no knowledge of how late I was, offered.

"Keep it!" I replied, with equally good intentions.

I saw the first terminal! Hooray! Wait, no. It was B1. There it is! No, that is B2-6. I kept running. The hallway turned. Escalators...stopped up by slow people. Stairs! I quickly learned that nylon socks don't have grip on plastic stairs, and scrambled down as quickly as I could without getting killed. A1. A2. More running. A6! A plane outside with the stairs down! But where is the boarding information? Where's the attendant?

I asked where my flight was. The person working behind the counter told me she was not working. I asked another. She sounded sorry, and told me how sorry she was. "I'm so sorry," she said, "The flight must have left already."

I looked at the clock. 5:29. "I've got 5 minutes!" I insisted.

She didn't seem to believe that my affirmation of having 5 minutes would have any power in recalling the departed plane. "They must on the runway already."

For the first time, I saw the humor of my situation. I joked, "So I could still catch them on the tarmac?"

She didn't see the humor in my situation. "No... I'm sorry." She looked sympathetic. "You really tried hard!" I laughed. "Can I change your flight to 8:35?"

I sighed and agreed. I collapsed in an uncomfortable airport chair and didn't move. My attendant typed away at the keyboard arranging my new flight plan.

"There goes Oakland," said another attendant.

"I thought it left already?" said the one helping me.

I looked over at the plane I had seen. The door was still open! I got up, grabbed my bag and started for the gate. Immediately, the door was shut and the plane taxied away. I could have caught them on the tarmac. My silly joke was now a cruel irony.

"I'm sorry," my attendant said again.

She finished re-booking me and gave me my ticket. "Could you recommend anywhere to eat?" I asked. "I've got a few hours to kill."

"Stanford's has a great happy hour. You should head over there!" she replied, happy to be able to tell me good news.

I walked over to Stanford's on the other side of the airport. I found a table in the bar, looked at the happy hour menu and started getting really hungry. Running like a crazy man really works up an appetite. Earlier in the day, the medical school I interviewed at had the infinite generosity to provide me with a sandwich as a reimbursement for my two days, my hotel room, and my flight. To compound this, I had accidentally grabbed a veggie sandwich. Needless to say, I was hungry. I decided on a Caesar salad ($3) and a big bowl of soup ($2) to go with my drink. I was tempted to drink away my sorrows, but decided raspberry iced tea was a more prudent (and tasty) choice.

The waitress came and asked with a hint of sympathy, "How are ya?" I must have looked as I felt: exhausted.

I sighed and thought about the proper responses to the question. "Good" would have been most appropriate, but, "OK" was as optimistic a response as I could muster.

"Just OK?" she asked.

"Ya. Just OK. I just missed a bus, which made me miss my train, which made me miss my plane."

She decided to repeat my attendant's sentiments, "I'm sorry," and proceeded to the part I was really interested in: "What'll you have?"

The clouds were parting!

My mouth watered. "Let me start with an iced tea!" I said with a renewed vigor.

The sun broke through!

"If you want happy hour prices, you'd better order now; you've only got 2 minutes!" she recommended.

A glimmer of hope...

Another waiter, who must have known what kind of a day I was having, intent on making my day as bad as was in his power, said evily and with sinister malice, "The computer's not taking happy hour orders anymore."

Was crushed without mercy!

"Should I bring you a dinner menu?"

Alas!

Henry

Two months ago on a plane to New York, I met a man named Henry. We talked pleasantries for a few minutes, but got into intense conversation rather quickly. He asked me about my research, so I showed him the pictures I had taken and described my research. It turned out that he was a scientifically-minded actor who was very impressed that I was (in his mind) actually a scientist.

God guided the conversation to spiritual things through me, and that's when things got good. I found out that he had a religious background (Episcopal), but has fallen away from the faith and had embraced atheism for the sake of reason. Most of the conversation was spent discussing his security in Atheism; I presented the rationality and defensibility of the Christian Faith.

Before parting ways, we exchanged contact information. I sent him an email when I returned, and he asked me for my mailing address. I provided this, and before I knew it, I had received a letter, handwritten and on nice stationary. He said he appreciated the conversation and it opened his eyes to the possibility of there being a God. But, in the end, he talked about how he couldn't imagine God hiding from us behind the universe.

I sent him a letter explaining that God wasn't hiding; He was everywhere. His beauty could be seen in the sunrise, the shadow of His love could be experienced in human relationships and so on. Through all this I had been praying rather hard for him, harder than I had for any other stranger I had shared my faith with.

The letter I got back blew me away. He said that he longed for my faith, that my letter was refreshing in the cynical darkness of New York. He asked honest questions about my motivation; why I did what I did in religion and life. It seemed that the Holy Spirit spoke to him in such a powerful way that he would completely change his tone. I wrote a letter back that encouraged him to stop longing for faith and just to believe.

By this time I had gotten an interview at Cornell in New York city (the medical school is in the city; the main campus is in upstate New York). I realized I would be able to see him when I went for my interview. I called him and arranged for it. I realized that with such a broken spirit, salvation was close. I prayed and even fasted for him before I left. I had all of my friends and my church praying for him.

I had arranged to meet him on Monday afternoon at 4PM. My plane got in late. His plane got in later. I had no time on Tuesday to meet because of my interview and early flight. For most of the day, I was rather upset with God for seeming to set up such a perfect opportunity to share with him and then to cancel it. I was very disgruntled as I rode the subway and then the bus to catch my flight.

Then, right before I reached the terminal, I got the burning in my belly to change my flight. I had tried to make it a later flight, but there were none on that day. I had nowhere to stay and didn't even know if he was going to be able to meet. If he was free, I didn't know where he'd be. But I did it. I changed my flight to 9AM of the following morning.

I took the bus and then the train back into the city. I decided I'd walk around Times Square until 6pm when he got off of work. With my rolling suitcase, I went through the crowded streets, in awe and disgust at the bustle and materialism of that place. I decided to stop and go to McDonalds to sit for a while. I left a message with Henry and then nursed a Mr. Pibb for half an hour. At 6:05PM, he called me. When I told him where I was, he was surprised; I just happened to be a few blocks from where he was. He walked over and met me in the McDonalds.

He recommended a diner, so we walked and talked on our way there. Upon arrival at Astro Diner, we got to the meat. Then, over the next three hours, we would discuss many things. After discussing it, he admitted that he would probably be happier as a Christian. He also said that Christianity was more rational than Atheism. Eternally, it would probably work out better for Christians than for him. He even had experienced a miracle on Good Friday when he was a believer. We discussed freewill, and he admitted that he had only the illusion of control over his life. But this was all he wanted. This was everything to him: to have the feeling that he was in control of his own life. He was willing to give up everything else for that. He compared himself to the character Cypher in "The Matrix," who knew the Matrix was a lie, but knowingly preferred the lie to the truth.

I have never had a more candid conversation with a non-believer. Never have I heard somebody who was so completely honest about their motivations and intentions. Unfortunately, his intentions were purely selfish.

We agreed to continue corresponding, and he left for home. I later made my way back to the airport and spent as much of the night as I could unconscious, hunched over a food court table.

I hope that God moves in his heart; nothing more can be done with his mind. He has no other hope for salvation.

The Great Outdoors

This is procrastination. Just so you know, I've been writing various essays today about how great I am/how great medical schools are and am sick of writing about it. As a release, I'm going to write about something I like.

I like the outdoors. A couple friends and I decided after our poker game (... no comment on this one) that we would go to Anza-Borrego State Park (It's a huge park in the desert east of Temecula). We saddled up in the Expedition at about 2AM Saturday morning and got on the trail at about 3:30AM.

Before we arrived, I got to test out the four-wheel drive before we got to the trailhead. It was amazing; on 35MPH on dark, twisty, sandy trails with no one in sight or sound at 3AM, windows down, with only the sound of the engine and the violent desert wind. It was so much fun.

Anyways, we started hiking at 3:30AM or so, and realized that there was no moon. We lost the trail after about 5 minutes (or rather, we ignored the trail and went where we wanted to go). We hiked for about an hour in very low light, mostly avoiding the choya (sp? It's a very nasty type of cactus that is nicknamed "the jumping cactus" because of it's tendency to 'jump' onto you from trail sides or 'jump' back and stick you a second time after you pull back from getting stuck). We found the jeep trail we were trying to connect to and made camp at the base of a rocky hill (we don't usually use tents in California, so by 'camp' I mean we threw down a tarp and our sleeping bags).

Once on my back, I looked up at the stars and was almost moved to tears. It was glorious. I've never seen stars like there are in the desert. In LA, you can almost count them, but not in the desert. I really felt like I was in the throne room of God; I saw the stars as I had never seen them before. Talk about proof of a Creator.

We were awakened about two hours later by some Boy Scouts who were getting on the trail just after dawn. I walked around and prayed for a bit before waking up my sleepy companions, and we were of. After going over the first hill, we decided the trail was boring and we picked a mountain to conquer. So we started off the trail.

It was a relatively easy hike, but was sometimes challenging to get past all the vegetation (and the CHOYA!). The desert was surprisingly green and even more alive than it usually is. We even saw some Manzaneta, which definitely didn't belong.

We conquered the mountain and decided it was time for lunch. Once we had eaten, we picked the direction that looked like it would take us back to my car, and we started hiking. Another few hours later, we were back at the car. Another fun trail drive later we were on our way back to civilization by about 1PM.

What's the point? I'm not sure. I had a great time. It was a great hike and reminded me how much I really do need to get outside and conquer stuff (like a pile of dirt and rocks, for example; I struck fear into the hearts of other piles of dirt and rocks with the threat of my boots being atop them!). It was a manly 24 hours that was very refreshing. Kind of like a shower is refreshing for cleanliness, dirt and sore muscles are refreshing for manliness. It was long overdue.