A Day with a Perfect Stranger

by David Gregory

  He laughed a little louder. I did too at the image of Nick flipping to those religious networks while I was brushing my teeth, as if they were the Playboy channel or something.

  “So what if your marriage were more fulfilling?” he asked. “Would that satisfy you?”

  “It would help.”

  “But would the deepest part of you be filled?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just hard to imagine that with Nick.”

  “Would it have mattered if it had been someone else?”

  “Well…maybe.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like…” Only one person ever came to mind when I thought about this. “There was this guy I dated for a year in high school, Jason Payne. I was so head over heels about him. And ever since, I’ve wondered what might have happened if we had stayed together.”

  The ordering line had receded back to the counter. Nevertheless, I lowered my voice a little. “I think about him pretty often, actually. That sounds terrible, I know.”

  “It simply sounds like someone who isn’t fulfilled. So what happened to the relationship?”

  “He was a year ahead of me, and he was going to Stanford for college, and I started getting cold feet. I was afraid that he was going to meet someone there and that we wouldn’t last, because I was going to stay in the Midwest for school. I didn’t want to risk that rejection, and he had done a couple of things that annoyed me, so before he left, I broke up with him. It was the stupidest thing I ever did.”

  “You think you would have been happier with him?”

  “Well…” I didn’t like the sound of the truth. “Yeah. I do think that. That’s not to say that I don’t love Nick. Or didn’t, anyway.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “You know, you wouldn’t have been any more fulfilled with Jason.”

  “How do you know?” That’s a pretty bold statement to make.

  “Because I know Jason.”

  “You do? Jason Payne? From Evanston? How do you know him?” I was trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “He met me after he moved to the Silicon Valley area. He’s still there.”

  “Doing what? Is he married?” That sounded truly pathetic.

  “He was. Twice.”

  “Twice? He’s already been married two times?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Both of them left him.”

  “They left him? Why would anyone do that?”

  “Let’s just say that he had his own issues. With which, I am happy to say, he is doing much better.”

  “Did you meet him professionally? I mean, in your counseling?”

  “Not exactly. More of a personal relationship.”

  I sat back and stared forward. I couldn’t believe it. Here I had entertained this fantasy for all these years: what if I hadn’t broken up with Jason? And now, in the course of two minutes, that fantasy had been dashed to pieces.

  “And, no,” he said, “being with you instead wouldn’t have helped him. He needed something more than a loving wife.”

  I hate how counselors sometimes know just what you are thinking.

  “And marrying Jason,” he added, “even with his having worked through some of his issues, wouldn’t have ultimately satisfied you, either.”

  “And why not?” Dashing my fantasy is bad enough. You don’t have to keep stomping on it.

  “Because people’s souls are never filled up by human relationships. There is the initial thrill of romance and the chemical high that accompanies it, all of which is great. But that wears off. Eventually people settle into a relationship and find that it can’t meet their heart’s deepest longings. It wasn’t meant to, so it’s no surprise, really, that it doesn’t.”

  “You’re not saying that relationships are unimportant.”

  “No, not at all,” he responded. “I’m just saying that true fulfillment can’t be found in the created realm. Only God himself can satisfy the human heart. You were created for God. Nothing else will satisfy.”

  “But I don’t believe that. I see happy people around all the time.”

  “How well do you truly know them, though? They may all be just like you: they have meaningful aspects of their lives, but ultimately they are not fulfilled. It’s not that hard to put on a good face when you’re around others.”

  “I just think lots of people are fulfilled—in their work, in relationships, in causes they devote themselves to. Plenty of things.”

  He looked at me for a moment. “Do you really think that? I don’t think you do. Look at the society you live in. The list of things people try to fill themselves with is endless—alcohol, drugs, food, work, television, video games, sports, sex, shopping. I could go on. But nothing on this planet will satisfy the human soul.”

  “But not everyone is addicted or compulsive,” I objected.

  “No, some aren’t. They seek fulfillment through parenting, balanced work, exercise, healthy relationships, social service. There are many positive things to devote yourself to. But these still don’t fill the heart. When people get to the end of their lives—even those who have had good careers or marriages or parenting experiences—they’re still not ultimately satisfied.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, for one, many of them tell me. They won’t tell anyone else, but when no one else is listening, they tell me.”

  “Why—because you’re a counselor?”

  “I suppose that has something to do with it.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “That what they experienced wasn’t enough. It may have been a good life, but deep down there is still some emptiness in their hearts.”

  “And you think that’s because…”

  “Because how is your heart going to be filled by someone, or something, as finite and imperfect as you are? If people were created to have an intimate connection with their Creator, would you expect them to be satisfied apart from him?”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it on his pastry bag. “Maybe Nick has come to realize that, as important as you and Sara are to him—and I have no doubt you are—his heart was made for something more, for something transcendent, and he couldn’t be fulfilled without it.

  “And,” he continued, “you’re searching for something deeper too. Even if you don’t know it yet.”

  “I’m just hoping for things to get a little better.”

  “That’s the problem. Things don’t usually get any better. Circumstantially, life is what it is. People hope things will improve, but they rarely do. Tomorrow will have its own set of frustrations and stresses and disappointments. Or things may get worse. You could lose your career. Or your family. Or your friends. Or your health.”

  “Sure,” I replied, “those things could happen. But I can’t base my life on that possibility.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Possibility? Most of those things will happen. To everyone. There’s only one thing that can’t be taken away from you. When you find your fulfillment there, you can’t ever lose it.”

  He unexpectedly stood up and pushed his seat under the table.

  “We’d better go,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Our flight is boarding.”

  “Our?”

  “You’re going to Tucson, aren’t you?”

  “BUT THE FLIGHT DOESN’T BOARD for another twenty minutes,” I objected, looking at my watch.

  “It’s boarding now. Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Can I carry your suitcase?”

  I got up and placed my bag above my rolling suitcase. “No, I’ve got it.”

  We walked down to the gate, and, sure enough, they were calling my group. I got out my boarding pass and glanced at it. An F
seat. Next to the window. At least I’m not in the middle.

  The plane actually didn’t look quite as crowded as the last one. Almost all the middle seats remained vacant as I walked down the plane to my row. I stopped. The counselor waited behind me while I put my suitcase overhead. I slid across two empty seats and got into mine before turning back to say farewell.

  “Well, you’ve given me some food for thought,” I said. “It was certainly an interesting conversation. What row are you on?”

  “This one,” he said as he sat down in the aisle seat on my row.

  “This one?” I grabbed the boarding pass out of his hand and looked at it. My row. Seat D.

  I handed it back to him. “Sorry. I was just surprised that we are on the same row again.” He took the boarding pass and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  “Don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence,” I asked, “our being next to each other two flights in a row?”

  “No. Not really.”

  I put my bag in the seat between us. It didn’t look like anyone would be sitting there. And it provided a kind of buffer in case the conversation took a turn I didn’t want. Which it already had, I suppose. Here we were, talking about fulfillment in life and God and so forth, but somehow, with this man, I was more drawn in than turned off.

  I was curious as to where he was heading right before we left Starbucks. But it did seem a little awkward, our getting on an entirely new flight, two strangers sitting next to each other again. And discussing the meaning of life. I thought maybe it was a good time to back up for a moment and at least get officially acquainted.

  “I never did introduce myself,” I said. “I’m Mattie.” I reached across myself with my right hand.

  He awkwardly bent his own hand around his armrest and shook mine. “Hi, Mattie. Call me Jay.”

  “Good to meet you, finally.”

  “You too,” he said, smiling.

  “Why are you headed to Tucson?” I asked.

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “My father and I run a management operation, so to speak.”

  “Management of what?”

  “Pretty much everything.”

  This guy is not real big on specifics.

  “I thought you were a counselor.”

  “I am.”

  “You do that on the side?”

  “No, it’s part of the same operation.”

  I couldn’t imagine what kind of operation that was, exactly, but I let it drop.

  The plane’s engines revved up. I looked out the window as we sped down the runway and took off. Once we were above the clouds, I turned back toward Jay. I figured we would resume our conversation where we had left off, but he had put his tray table down and was writing on a pad of paper. Where did that come from? I didn’t see him carrying anything.

  I watched him for a couple of moments, but he didn’t look up. I decided to read my new book. It started quickly, as all Sparks’s novels do.

  The flight attendants arrived with drinks. I got another cranapple juice, which Jay handed to me. He got some water. And we both got the ubiquitous pretzels.

  I opened mine—Here I go, some more useless calories from a food I don’t even like—as he set his pretzels on the middle seat.

  He started writing again. I opened my book and resumed reading. After a minute I set the book down and leaned slightly toward him. “What are you writing?”

  “Oh, some favorite words of mine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Poetry, mostly.”

  “Poetry?” I laughed a little. “You didn’t say you were a poet.”

  “Someone else wrote it, actually.”

  “What are you trying to do, impress me?” I said half joking.

  He smiled but didn’t reply. To be honest, I was already impressed. I’d never met anybody quite like him.

  “May I see some of it?”

  He handed the pad to me. “It’s free verse. At least it is in English.”

  I started reading.

  I have loved you with a love that never ends.

  Though the mountains be shaken

  And the hills be removed,

  Yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken.

  How could I give you up?

  My heart is turned over within me.

  I will take great delight in you,

  I will quiet you with my love,

  I will rejoice over you with singing.

  “This is really good,” I commented. “I mean, I love the intensity of feeling. Who wrote it?”

  “My father did.”

  “You’re kidding. What was the story behind it? What inspired him?”

  “A relationship he had. One that he desperately wanted back.”

  I handed him his pad. He set it on the middle seat and opened his pretzels.

  “God wants to love you with this kind of love,” he said. “A passionate love.”

  “Passionate?” That was the last word I would have applied to God.

  “God is pursuing you. He wants you to be connected with him forever.”

  I sipped my juice. “But I don’t feel loved by God. Much less pursued by him.”

  “That’s because you’re so deadened to his voice. Everyone is at first. Humanity rejected God, and it’s been deaf to him ever since.”

  “But that’s too easy. To say we’re all deaf to God—to me that just means God doesn’t exist. If I say, ‘Prove God to me,’ and you say, ‘Well, you’re deaf to him; if you weren’t, you’d hear him,’ that’s too convenient. It’s just taking the facts and making up a story that fits them.”

  “Oh, people aren’t entirely deaf to God,” he replied. “They hear his voice in a variety of ways—just not nearly as clearly as they could if they were connected to him. It’s like the difference between my listening to you and my listening to the captain when he came on a few minutes ago to tell us something about the flight, which was all garbled. Could you make out much of what he was saying?”

  “No.”

  “People are like that toward God. They can hear him a little, but they can’t make out much of what he’s saying. When Sara was born and you held her in your arms and looked at her for the first time and you couldn’t believe you could love anything so much, that was God speaking.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt. I couldn’t believe how much I could love this little person.”

  “When you stand above the California coast and look out to the Pacific Ocean, you feel so small. You know there has to be something greater than yourself in the world.”

  “I’ve experienced that.”

  “That’s God speaking. When you fail to love Nick, and instead are angry and bitter and you retaliate, your guilt is God speaking through your conscience. You know that you weren’t meant to live that way. It seems less than you were created to be, doesn’t it?”

  I shifted in my seat and looked out the window for a moment. I felt a tug toward what he was saying and a tug away from it. I turned back toward him. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s almost impossible not to be resentful.”

  “I know it is. I’m just talking here about God speaking to your heart. All these things touch something deep within you because you were made for intimacy with God. He is the something bigger, the one who loves more than you could imagine, the one who forgives instead of being bitter. Connecting with him deeply is what your heart longs for. There is no being as delightful as he is.”

  Delightful? God? Delightful? I would have placed him more on the boring side of the spectrum.

  As if reading my thoughts, he continued. “God is the least boring, the most fascinating, sublime, enchanting being that exists. How could he be otherwise? Delighting in God simply means that you derive your greatest joy a
nd pleasure from him, because of who he is.”

  “Pleasure from God? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, not in the least.”

  “How could anyone find pleasure in God? I mean, I can understand believing in God, but—”

  “That’s the statement of someone who’s cut off from God. You don’t realize how upside down what you just said is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied somewhat defensively.

  He had a drink of water and thought for a moment. “You know the hypothetical question, who would you want to have dinner with if you could dine with anyone from history?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “What if you could dine with the one who carved the Grand Canyon, raised the Rocky Mountains, coded DNA, invented nuclear fusion, designed language, created the stars, establishes justice, fashions every newborn, and loves without end?”

  “But God doesn’t drop in on people for dinner.”

  He smiled. “Well, maybe. But what I am saying is this: God far surpasses any person or thing or experience this world could possibly offer. God is infinitely more delightful than anything or anyone he has made.”

  “But God—I mean, even if there is a God—reaching out to him…Who would know where to start?”

  “You don’t have to start,” he answered. “God has already started. He is already reaching out to you. That’s why he became a person.”

  “You know, if I could actually have dinner with Jesus, like Nick allegedly did, maybe I could believe too.”

  “Faith is a lot easier than you think. And you don’t really need Jesus to show up. You do need to let go of what keeps you from trusting him and connecting with him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You tell me.”

  I turned away and stared blankly out the window again. A swell of anger grew within me. I turned back his way and spoke measuredly, trying to keep my voice low enough so no one else would hear.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what would keep me from trusting God and even wanting to connect with him. My younger sister was abused—sexually abused—by our uncle for six years, starting at age eight. I didn’t even know for several years.”

  I paused to make sure I retained my composure. “Her life was ruined. And I couldn’t stop it. I tried to, but I couldn’t stop it.”