You Be the Judge

What does it take for something to be supernatural?

I suppose it would depend on who you ask . . .

At the risk of revealing myself as a total wacko, let me share some experiences from my now ancient past and you be the judge . . .

* * *

To set the stage . . . I’m a first-year college student -- premed, physics major, chem and math minors, with teaching credentials . . .

I know -- overly optimistic -- and all too soon to be switched to a communications concentration. That’s where both my major and minor are in the same department.

Before the switch, my OB-GYN Uncle Elvin invites me to go on rounds with him. He’s practicing at a hospital in New York. I jump at the chance.

The only two people, besides my uncle and me, who know I’m only an eighteen-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears aspiring premed student (as opposed to an intern who happens to look young for his age), are the director of medicine and the head nurse.

I put on the requisite white lab coat, pick up a random clipboard and -- along with three other real doctors and two nurses -- do rounds.

To say that my uncle is an OB-GYN is an understatement.

By this time, he’s a gynecological surgeon -- read that, he reconstructs vaginas out of skin grafts, removes cancer tissue from betwixt and between lady legs, then rebuilds their undercarriages to such a degree that several grateful husbands have told him their wives are “better” than when they first met!

Rounds means peering into delicately located pre- and post-surgical sites. Since this is a teaching hospital, patients are used to strange eyes focused on private places while doctors commiserate as if the patient isn’t even there.

You might think this would be a golden opportunity to study female anatomy up close and personal.

It isn’t -- not in the sense that that phrase might convey.

The first patient is a 47-year-old woman who’s cancer was so extensive that once it’s removed, there isn’t much left. I stare into a raw pelvis, kept moist by thick pads that have to be changed frequently.

Elvin cautions me not to exhibit any horrific reactions. But no amount of preparation can prepare me for this.

Probably to distract the patient, Elvin hands me her chart saying, “Dr. Ruskjer, what do you think?”

I pretend to study the flipped-to page, then nod in approval.

“Exactly what I would have done,” I say, as professionally as I can muster under the circumstances.

We see 67 patients in four hours. Turns out the director of medicine has to speak at some symposium so my uncle is seeing his 37 patients as well as his own.

I discover the main reason doctors look at your chart right after they come into your room:

It’s so they’ll be able to greet you by name! “Good morning, Mrs. McGillacutty. How are we feeling today?”

It’s at the conclusion of these rounds that I decide I don’t want to be a doctor -- at least not a surgeon. There’s so little personal interaction between doctor and patient.

Having worked as an ambulance attendant on two different rescue squads for four years apiece, and having been a hospital orderly for nearly as long, the idea of having to look up a patient’s name on a chart seems entirely too impersonal to me.

Next up after lunch comes surgery. We’re going to witness three different ones from the observation deck.

Two are postponed.

The one I see is enough to validate my now lack-of-surgical desire.

Unlike episodes of ER, the doctors here are all but cavalier -- discussing everything from sports to upcoming camping trips, to stock tips, listening to the radio in the background.

If an organ is in their way, they just stuff it up under the rib cage -- like poking a water balloon with two fingers to push it out of sight, out of mind.

I know the patient is sedated, but I wonder if that’s why people feel like they’ve been hit by a truck after the anesthesia wears off . . .

It comes as quite a shock to me that the organs themselves are not nicely color-coded like they are in all the medical texts I’ve seen. At least with this patient, they’re all pinkish grey.

This particular patient has cancer. It’s spread throughout her abdominal cavity. Surprise number two comes with the realization that this cancer is bright yellow -- in stark contrast to the pinkish-grey of organs not stuffed under rib cages -- it’s almost like yellow Spackle.

It’s a short surgery. On seeing how extensively she is spackled, they just sew her back up without even trying to get any of it out.

I can’t help but wonder if the stuffed organs find their way back to their original positions . . .

* * *

I only tell you this to explain why I’m in New York driving my uncle to the airport in his bright red VW bug.

I get him there in plenty of time. He wants me to drive his car back to his place.

I memorize the house number. It’s 26 on S. 43rd Street.

By the time I drop him curbside at his terminal, we’ve been maybe 40 minutes in the car.

Retracing the same route, I manage to find S. 43rd Street with relative ease. The numbers start getting smaller. At least here in New York they apparently assign 100 numbers to each block.

I quickly calculate I have 43 blocks to go.

To say that I’m getting antsy isn’t the right word -- squirmy might be a better choice.

It’s been awhile since I last faced porcelain. Whatever pressure-sensitive mechanism monitors the bladder is telling me it would be ever so happy if I could find it in my heart (or in this case somewhere in New York) to ease the pressure a bit.

Forty-three blocks? We’re talkin’ 20 minutes tops. No problem.

Until . . . I run out of street!

I get all the way down to house number 105 -- then it dead-ends against a huge cemetery!

Hmmm . . . Maybe I should have turned right, back there at 4300 . . . Worth a try.

I make an illegal U-turn and head the 20 minutes back to the scene of the crime.

Blazing through that intersection, I continue until -- would you believe -- S. 43rd Street literally becomes a little dirt road that peters out to nothing!

Back we go -- we being me and my extended bladder.

Thirty minutes later I’m back at the cemetery. No way around it: S. 43rd just up and quits -- a block short of uncle-owned porcelain . . .

From my ambulance-past I recall a run we had to 124 Clear Lake.

When we got off the phone with dispatch we went to the huge map on the wall.

Turns out there’s Clear Lake Road, Clear Lake Drive, Clear Lake Circle, Clear Lake Street and Clear Lake Boulevard -- all within a single square mile . . . I’m wondering if there might be a S. 43rd Avenue lurking nearby.

As I ponder this, I slowly drive towards the 4300-block, when I see a mailman -- so far the only human being I’ve encountered on 43rd Street since leaving my uncle’s place. Mailmen are supposed to know where things are.

I pull up beside him, stick my head out the window and ask, “Do you know where 26 S. 43rd Street is? -- I’ve been trying to find it for the past hour!”

“Oh,” he says, “that’s on the other side of the cemetery. You have to go around.”

Who would’ve thunk it! . . .

“Thanks!” I yell, as I do another U-ee.

At the cemetery I take a left. I’m slowing down at each intersection until I see the corner edge of the cemetery approaching. Turning right at the corner, I press down on the accelerator.

All of a sudden the cemetery -- disappears!

No sooner does this register, than I hear the loud blast of an air horn!

Turning to my left, I'm staring into the chrome grill of a Mack truck bearing down on me!

I floor it!

If it missed me by more than an inch, I’d be surprised.

My relief is short-lived, as it dawns on me that I have seven more lanes to cross . . .

* * *

Somehow I make it.

My bladder problems are put on hold for the moment, superseded by adrenaline-assisted heart palpitations.

Once on the other side of the cemetery (literally and figuratively!) I quickly locate the missing block -- more specifically my uncle’s house domiciling the porcelain convenience.

As I’m addressing the pressure problem, my thoughts replay the preceding events . . .

If I had been one or two milliseconds earlier anywhere along my search for the elusive number 26 -- the time it would take not to say Thanks!” -- there’s no way I would be having these, or any other thoughts.

* * *

Divine providence? Or happenstance?

Personally? I’d go with happenstance.

Divine providence feels better -- makes for a better moral-of-the-story ending -- “I must have been saved for some higher purpose.” (although I’ll probably be spending the rest of my life wondering what that possibly could be).

* * *

I’m reminded of a book I read, on or about the same era, written by an Air Force chaplain who used to pray with the pilots before each sortie.

Most came back.

Some didn’t.

He wondered what went wrong with the prayers of those who didn’t.

Knowing these guys as he did, it didn’t seem to him that only the good guys returned.

He’d heard various rationales --

God knew they would have been lost if they had lived, so He took them while they were momentarily on the right side of the fence, so to speak. Stuff like that.

The chaplain concluded that this wasn’t an area that God concerned Himself with. Didn’t the proverbial rain fall on the proverbial good and proverbial bad?

Some got shot down. Others didn’t. It was as simple as that.

* * *

OK. Here’s one I can’t rationalize quite so easily:

I’m now a junior in college. Have already switched from premed to communications -- trading biology and chemistry for journalism, speech, film and broadcasting.

This school is the second largest parochial university in the denomination. As with most of its schools, twice a year they have a week of prayer. That means an hour a day of required assemblies, which disrupts some class schedules, but otherwise has minimal impact. It looks good to parents who at the time were spending $10,000 a year to send their kids to a “good” school.

If you grew up in parochial schools, you learn to go with the flow. Most religious components are required --

One religion class each quarter or semester. One chapel assembly each week. Attendance is taken at church services on the weekends.

Whenever there’s an altar call, everyone stands or comes forward. That, by no means, is to suggest that everyone feels compelled to answer the call. You just get dirty looks from faculty and staff or are labeled a rebel by fellow students if you don’t. Consequently, everyone does.

Privately? Most students have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude.

This year the speaker, if not riveting, is at least tolerable. He holds our attention, or has managed to do so for the first four days.

It’s Friday. End of the week. Last meeting.

Everyone’s braced for that all-inclusive altar call. Go down front. Maybe shed a tear or two. Maybe even feel something. But give it a little time and it, like a bad casserole, will pass.

Or so we thought.

With the end of the hour approaching, the speaker isn’t making any overtures. The organ isn’t softly playing Just As I Am or even I Surrender All.

Students start checking their watches.

The speaker notices. He says, “We’re probably going to run over a little. Don’t worry. You won’t be counted late for class.”

Some classes were scheduled from 11:00 to noon. That’s when the cafeteria opens before afternoon classes resume.

Eleven becomes 11:15.

Students begin looking to the alpha students for their reactions.

Now it’s 11:30.

A few rebels get up and head for the door. They’re blocked by faculty members, arms crossed, daring anyone to try and get past them. Nobody in or out. Rebel students return to their seats.

This is most unusual! You can’t just lock 1,600 students up in a church!

Noon comes and goes. The speaker drones on.

When the meeting finally does let out -- after 1:30 in the afternoon -- student opinion is divided. Some think it's unconstitutional! -- at least it’s probably a violation of the Fire Marshal's safety code . . .

Others think something profound just occurred -- the faculty and administration had acquiesced -- possibly even were in on it from the start -- to prioritize spiritual over academic. If they thought it was that important . . .

I moderate a talk show on WSRL (student radio lab) from 6:00 to 10:00 that evening. It’s a little campus-limited carrier-current station that can only be picked up in the dorms. Your radio has to be within 300 feet of an electrical outlet, and even that’s a stretch.

Students want to talk about what happened. This happens to be when the denomination’s Sabbath starts, so I cue up some Ralph Carmichael and open the phone line -- we only have one.

Some students have phones in their rooms. Others have to queue up to the phones in the dorm hallways.

When you consider our average listenership, as reported by Arbitron, is always 100 (you get that if no one admits to listening) one phone line is usually more than enough. Tonight it won’t stop ringing!

At quarter of nine the caller is -- oh, oh -- Dean Ashlock, the boys’ dean!

Someone must have ratted us out.

Since he lives in the dorm, he’s probably the only staff member who can listen in.

He’s cool though. He doesn’t get on my case or the cases of dissenters -- who comprise roughly 70 percent of the callers -- but comments like anyone else and hangs up.

The upshot is -- a genuine religious revival takes over most of the campus.

Students start meeting in small prayer bands and study groups on their own.

Those gifted in music or public speaking are sent out by the university to local churches -- and sometimes not so local -- as far away as 1,000 miles -- to try and explain in their own words, what happened. We don’t sing Kumbaya, but a lot of services do end with We Are One in the Spirit, We Are One in the Lord.

You’re still waiting for the supernatural part . . . I’m getting there . . .

* * *

Two or three weeks after that fateful Friday, I start hearing voices -- one voice actually -- telepathically, not verbally.

The best I can describe it? It’s like you’re one of two protagonists in a dream. Since it’s your dream, you essentially are dreamatically experiencing both sides of the conversation.

You kinda know what the other "person" is going to say. You also know how you’ll respond.

* * *

Now you’re in my world . . .

The content of this voice is mostly personal.

I recall one time driving for 90 minutes -- I’m the only person in the car.

This voice “talks” to me the whole way.

I have no memory of actually driving at all. I remember turning onto I-94 after leaving the school. I remember 90 minutes later turning off near Battle Creek. But for the entire time on that highway? Nada.

During this time, the voice is -- how can I put this -- berating me for the way I’m interacting with a former high school classmate who’s now attending the same university.

Tim Wolfe is, to be charitable about it, slow. He just doesn’t pick things up very fast.

For nearly a year, he’s been coming down to my room, asking me how to do this or that, or how to relate to this person or that situation.

I give him my best guess.

In high school he was originally in the class ahead of ours.

They’re a rough crowd.

They have beach parties on the shore of Lake Michigan. Members only -- members of their class, that is.

Not school sponsored.

No adults.

Tim is grandfathered in, even though, technically, he’s no longer a member. They encourage him to bring his guitar.

Musically speaking? Tim is terrible -- absolutely terrible! He knows maybe three chords. By the time he figures out the fingering for the next one, he’s way past the part in the song where that chord should be strummed.

No problem. The song can just wait for him to catch up.

Consequently, he looks and sounds -- well -- spastic!

His former classmates find this hilarious.

They tell him how great he sounds so he’ll continue entertaining them for hours on end . . .

The two sexiest girls in the class -- Clarolyn Omens and Susan Davis -- invite him to go for a walk on the beach. Tim is delighted to accompany them.

They each take an arm as he walks between them.

Who knows what they talk about as they first walk a few hundred yards down the beach, then back again -- the girls, clad only in their bikinis --laughing all the way.

As they walk back towards the rest of the class lounging on the beach, they each pull down the shoulder strap closest to Tim, exposing their respective breasts.

Tim might be slow, but his body is quick to respond -- which apparently is the whole point of this exercise.

The girls and the rest of the class howl uncontrollably. They’re laughing at Tim so hard, they cry!

It takes poor Tim a moment to figure out what’s so funny. Then he gets beet red, with no place to hide.

As I say, a rough crowd.

So this whole 90 minutes this voice is telling me how I need to stop telling Tim what to do. The term “enabling” never makes it into this one-sided conversation, but that’s basically the gist -- freely translated: “Quit it!”

The voice says I should just listen, then ask Tim what he thinks he should do -- encouraging him to work things out for himself, rather than to just come to other people for answers.

Self-talk, right?

Not enough to include it in the supernatural column? . . .

I agree.

The voice tells me who I’m going to marry -- a girl I’ve never heard of, by the name of Betty Ferguson.

I have to look her up in The Cast -- the picture book comprising the entire student body.

She’s not particularly a looker. Has an over-enthusiastic lower jaw.

Some discrete research reveals that she is rather devout.

The voice says that if I stay the course -- which I take it to mean follow the proddings of this voice -- she and I will be married in two years, shortly after graduation . . .

When I tell my mom, she starts shopping for shrinks.

Other students ask me to ask this voice questions on their behalf.

I tell them I can’t just conjure up “the voice.” It seems to come whenever it feels like it. If I don’t immediately stop whatever I’m doing and engage it, it gives me the silent treatment -- sometimes for weeks at a time.

When it does decide to make an appearance, I dutifully pass on whatever questions were put to it through me.

It answers quite candidly and specifically, which I then convey to the question’s originator.

This goes on for months . . .

With that as background, I’ll tell you the instance I think may qualify as supernatural (although telling me who I’m supposed to marry, by name, comes mighty close in my book).

I’m now the station manager of that little student radio carrier-current station with the call letters: WSRL. Probably stands for Student Radio Lab. We only broadcast from 6:00 in the evening to 10 at night. Unless the engineer or music director needs the studios outside of these hours, they remain locked until just before air time.

It’s 10:00 o'clock in the morning. I’m off to a World Civilization class.

Halfway across campus this voice says: “You need to go to the studios. There’s someone there who needs to talk.”

The voice gives me the person’s name -- I’ve never heard of this person before.

This is frustrating! How am I supposed to go to school if this voice keeps having me skip class? Oh well . . .

I reverse course and head for Netherly Hall. The studios are on the second floor . . .

I’m thinking, I must be going nuts! (a sentiment my mother might resonate with). Nobody can even get in the studios this time of day! What do I use for an excuse for skipping class?

“I’m sorry, Professor Cannon, but God told me to talk to some girl over at the radio station.”

As I approach the studios, the outer door is open . . .

I go in.

Sure enough, a girl I’ve never seen before is sitting in front of the console in the inner studio, crying her eyes out.

I gently knock on the door jam.

She looks up.

“Are you Karen?”

I can tell she doesn’t know me from Adam.

She nods.

“May I ask how you got in here?” As station manager, security falls into my bailiwick.

“A teacher let me in,” she sobs.

I roll up a chair, talk both her hands in mine and say, “Tell me about it.”

She talks for two hours.

I miss not only World Civ, but speech class as well.

Oddly enough, today I couldn’t tell you what her problem was.

She wasn’t pregnant. Nobody died. She might have just broken up with her boyfriend. I don’t know.

I do know she seemed to feel better when she left.

And I do know that that was the time I decided: This can't continue.

The next time the voice “appears,” I tell it, “I don’t know what you want from me, but I can’t keep doing this.”

The last words it said to me were:

“No problem.”

I’ve never heard it since.

* * *

I can think of no explanation for subconsciously knowing some girl, whom I’ve never seen before, being in some place that’s inaccessible to the student body at large, who, at that precise moment, needs someone who will listen to her.

How is that possible -- without invoking the supernatural?