Conceived Without Sin (31 page)

Sam rubbed his chin. "Explain again."

"If God exists, it should be easy for Him to prove it to you.
After all, He's all-powerful. It should be a piece of cake. Why should you, or for that matter, me, since I'm also finite and fallible, have the burden of proof?"

"Buzz, that's a very good point. Why doesn't God just show me he exists? Like you said, it should be easy for him, especially if he's all-powerful. I'm just a man. Why do I have to ask you to prove it to me? God should be able to do
it for himself."

"Precisely, Sam. So why don't you ask Him?"

Sam looked at his sneakers. "Ask him what?"

"Ask Him to show you that He exists. To prove it to you. Prove it beyond a shadow of your doubt. While you're at it, you can ask Him to show you that Jesus was His Divine Son. Why should I prove it? I'm a mess. Let's ask Him right now! Then we can go play hoops, and drop the question. Let Him
do the work. Then you can marry Ellie with a clean conscience."

"How? How can I ask God to prove he exists when I don't believe he exists?"

"It's not so hard. We'll pray right now. If God doesn't exist, our prayers will be empty words. Nothing will happen. You're right; I'm wrong, and you'll remain an agnostic. If we ask Him to show us, and He does exist, He'll hear you whether you believe He
exists or not. What do you have to lose?"

Sam felt like running out of the room. For his entire life faith had seemed so far away, a stranger on an island in an uncharted sea in another hemisphere. Now faith seemed so close, like a person in a sailboat, coming to a dock he was standing on. There it was, within his reach–the rope–just tempting him to grasp for it…

Don't touch it!
Sam's instincts
counseled wisely.

But Sam couldn't run away from the dock. Buzz's steady gaze, now very serious, was holding Sam; he felt weighted down. He had never seen such a look in Buzz's eyes, ever.

It was a
game face.

Punch!
Buzz thought wildly; enjoying the moment.

"Okay," Sam whispered, not looking down at his sneakers, as he might have done in the past.

"Then repeat after me," Buzz said, not taking
his eyes off his friend. "And mean every word. It's worth it, Sam. Trust me. Ellie's worth it."

Sam's fear melted into nothingness. He felt nothing.
Okay, for Ellie.
He nodded at Buzz.

Buzz closed his eyes. Sam imitated him.

"Dear God," Buzz said softly, keeping his hands on his knees.

"Dear God," Sam repeated, a frown coming to his face.

"If You exist," Buzz continued.

"If… you exist," Sam repeated,
a smile coming to his mouth. He shut his eyes tighter.

"…then show me…"

"…then show me…"

"…the Truth…"

"…the…truth."

Buzz purposely did not say Amen. He let out a deep breath.

Sam opened his eyes.

"We're done," Buzz said softly, rising. "Let's go run the courts."

He shut down the computer on the desk.

Sam remained silent. Eventually, he rose and retrieved his gym bag from his office.

Buzz took
a sip of Pepsi.
Now he's yours, Jesus.

Sam got out his keys, set the alarm, and the two friends walked out the front doors with Edwards & Associates etched into the glass. Fourteen computers stared blankly at them as Sam locked the door.

The sun slapped them like a warm, gloved hand when they stepped out of the building.

Later, during the walk up Wagar Road toward Hilliard Boulevard, Buzz spoke
up, "Don't be surprised if God starts answering your request soon. Watch for signs."

"What kind of signs?"

"Signal graces, they're called. Not miracles or anything. Just things that don't normally happen. Or things that happen that have special meaning to you. My experience with God has shown me that He is very subtle. He doesn't overwhelm. I know that sounds like a bunch of malarkey, but it isn't."

"I'm still not following you, but I'm trying," Sam said.

"Signal graces are like those signs on the highway that come just after the exit. You know, it just says the name of the road and the direction–I-80 West or 271 South. They don't prove anything. They just confirm to you that you're on the right road, going in the right direction. Signal graces are God's way of telling you that you took the
right exit."

"Give me an example," Sam requested.

"No. I won't. I don't want to get you looking for something, reading into things. Let's make it really hard for God. I don't want to spoil the experiment. I don't want you to have the excuse of saying I prompted you. Just keep your eyes open, that's all.
You'll
tell
me
if you get a signal grace."

"Fair enough," Sam said.

They were at the Rocky
River Police Station. The courts, packed with players, were behind it, beyond a parking lot. The weather was almost perfect. A slight breeze would probably not affect their shooting.

+  +  +

The game was close, just as it had been the day Buzz and Sam met over a year ago. For this game, however, Buzz and Sam were on the same team.

Buzz was frustrated. He had missed all his shots; he was off. He
felt too strong. Only Sam's heroic rebounding and defense had kept them in the game. The other three players on Buzz and Sam's team, new guys from Lakewood, were giving Buzz dirty looks, and had stopped passing him the ball when he was open.

They were on defense now. If the opponents scored, it was over. The Man held the ball on the point for the enemy. The new guy covering him wasn't up to the
task. The Man broke for the basket, blowing by Buzz's teammate.

"Help out!" Buzz shouted, unable to fill the lane. It was over. The Man was open, the ball on the way up for an easy lay-up…

Then Buzz saw Sam's long arm come from eons away and block the shot. Sam's long torso flew past the Man, just missing him. Sam fell past the basket, and crashed into the post; the Man followed.

A clean block!
Buzz thought, as the ball zipped into his hands. Sam scrambled to his feet.

The new guy who had been on the Man streaked down the court–but Buzz didn't see him. Two tall opponents were swarming on him, knowing that Buzz was not the best ball-handler.

"Buzz, down court! Throw it!" Sam shouted.

Buzz tried to look. He saw the blur of the new guy sliding past half court, a bad guy in hot pursuit.
A thousand arms surrounded Buzz.

"Jesus Christ! Throw it!" Sam shouted in frustration, at the top his lungs…as Buzz said, "Okay."

…and threw the ball in an arcing, lefty hook, leading his streaking teammate.

Too far,
Buzz thought, then…something else…

He turned away from the ball, which was still in the air, and looked at Sam, who was following the ball's flight.

"Swish," Buzz predicted.

The ball
thumped through the net.

Sam stood open-mouthed. A huge smile came to his whole face.

"Buzz! You did it! You made it! We win!"

The Man shook his head at Buzz, but didn't say anything. The new guy high-fived another new guy at the other end of the court.

Opponents cursed.

"Sam?" Buzz asked, ignoring the tumult around him. A wonderful light seemed hidden beyond his sleepy eyelids.

Sam stopped cold.
I yelled
Jesus Christ
before he threw it.

"Signal grace," Sam croaked, looking away, toward the woods to their right. He could now see the trees from the forest.

Buzz didn't respond.

He didn't have to.

3

That night, someone came screaming after Sam like a wild, searing arrow shot from the heart of all that is good.

Sam forgot all about Buzz's incredible basketball shot by the time he got home
from the game. He took off his sweaty clothes, showered, and watched television in his skivvies, distantly trying to distract himself. He didn't call Ellie, which was as unusual as his watching television.

Like a drug that helps time pass without anything truly meaningful happening, the television transformed eight o'clock into eleven o'clock. Sam slowly lifted himself out of his chair, walked
to his fridge, poured and drank a small glass of orange juice, then went to his bed.

His bedroom was like his office, all sparseness and efficiency. The sheets on his bed were clean, white, J.C. Penny all the way. The bed was simple, solid, not too modern, made of wood. There was no rug on the wood floor. He used a bookshelf for a dresser (it was easier to see and grab his clothes, he reasoned).

He was on his back. The room was perfectly dark, except for the slinky tinge of red from his electronic alarm clock. He let his mind wander, lighting atop this image or that: a scene from his job–that new girl, Amy, who was selling up a storm; a moving picture of Ellie walking in front of him on the beach at Mentor Headlands, her lithe hips swishing this way and that way enveloped by clean, blue
jeans. Without trying too hard, he kept the image of the basketball, rotating in flight toward the iron ring, out of his mind until…

…until he fell asleep. Then, he fell to deeper sleep, his eyeballs rolling back and forth beneath their lids…

In his dream, Sam was tiny, a human gnat, clinging to a basketball flying through the air, toward a hoop. It was the Rocky River court. Buzz behind him,
having tossed the ball Sam was riding. The hoop came closer and closer. Sam closed his gnat-eyes as he braced to thump through…

…then he was in the Chicago Art Institute, staring at a painting, an El Greco. The Savior of the World. Jesus was holding one hand on a basketball, his stare boring through Sam.

Sam tried to look away, but could not. He heard an oddly metallic sound behind him, and when
he turned, he saw what had to be a Roman soldier, also staring at the same painting…

…suddenly Sam was out of the museum, and in that way of dreams, no longer a man, but rather, he was now a photon, a screaming, speeding particle of energy capable of careening through matter itself. Sam was now smaller than microscopic. A smithereen was a giant world compared to this tiny Dream Sam, who found
himself flying, jetting, darting out of his bed and out toward…

…toward what? There was a street below him now. There were no moving cars on it. It was dark. It was a main street in Rocky River, Detroit Road. Sam flew; he flew, smaller than all things, somehow able to see all things. He could see
the insides
of things. He could see their material structures.

Oh, the precision of the leaves on
the trees to his right and left! He could see cell structures, mitochondria, and even perceived the workings of photosynthesis! Yes, photosynthesis happened at night, didn't it? Now, he could see beyond, inside the cells, to the subatomic structures. There was a vast universe in each existing thing!

In that way of dreams, he could see all the material things that had existence. After the leaves,
he turned his gaze to the countless trillions of electrons that were streaming in torrents through the electrical lines on the poles next to the trees lining Detroit Road. He looked down, and marveled at the macadam; the many-faceted parts of things that were now to Sam as a daisy is to a child in a garden…

…But there was a being somewhere, a man, a priest, watching Sam. Sam could tell. But he
could not see this other being. This man's name?

What is your name?
Sam asked as he flew through the night…

"Thomas," the priest replied, his words coming from the ether. "I am a doctor, but not the kind of doctor you are familiar with…"

Sam felt that this being, this man-priest was a guide on this eerie dream ride through Rocky River.

"Where are you taking me?" Sam asked, somehow happy, somehow
afraid.
Afraid of what?

"Silence, blind man. This awakening in your sleep will not last long. See beyond the forms of things to behold the substance. Look, you have eyes now! Look!"

And the priestly-Thomas-being went away.

Samuel Fisk felt utterly alone. He longed for a companion. He could see all things, it seemed, but he was so alone. So lonely.

Buzz? Are you out there? Can you join me?
he called
out in the dark, intricately structured world around him. Suddenly, he felt guilt pile atop his loneliness.

Why didn't I call for my father?

Sam was still speeding through the ether of the night. He passed Rocky River High School, then Martin's Market, and an old folks home. He saw the form of them all. He saw the matter of them all, but he did not see the substance…

"Oh God whom I do not know
or see, where is this substance of which Thomas spoke?" he cried out, anguished, not realizing that sometimes prayers within dreams are still prayers…

He saw the church bouldering toward him. It was Saint Christophers, where Donna often attended daily Mass.

Maybe Donna's inside!

It was a lovely church, with real stone masonry, and night-darkened stained glass windows, and giant wooden doors, with
carved gargoyles and angels…

…the doors were very close to Sam–too close–he passed through them without them opening, watching in wonder as the basic molecules of wood blew by him. He came out the other side. There was a flickering red light beyond the altar. The color of a stop sign. The church was empty…

Donna's not here!
He panicked.
Buzz? Father? Mother? Anybody!

And now there were the pews,
and the marble floor, and the steps before the altar, and now the altar, and Sam tried to close his eyes but could not, for beyond the altar was…was the tabernacle…and Sam passed through its brass doors, and saw the bread that was not bread, and beheld the Substance there…

…Sam awoke as if shot from the barrel of a Springfield. He sat upright. Sweat ran down his forehead, which he grasped in his
long, lanky fingers. He tried to remember his dream; in the dark room, his short hair jutted from between his fingers like bluegrass from the cracks in a sidewalk.

Was it a nightmare? Was it…something else?

He simply could not remember any details from his dream. But he could feel the lingering emotion.