It had been five days since Tod and his family left the Hope Center and Nick still had not told Maggie that he and Buck planned to go to Tikal.
Fortunately, the days were filled with a whirlwind of activity and he didn’t have time or energy to spare thinking about it. Besides, he was having second thoughts about going. Two more nights in the past week he had been harassed by the same dream—John begging him to take refuge amongst the boulders.
Sitting in John’s office, Nick glanced at the calligraphy above the door.
What are you trying to tell me, John?
Whatever it was, it seemed like a warning, which made the thought of going to Tikal more and more daunting. If not for Buck’s encouragement, he would blow off the trip. But he also realized that if he did that, he would return home with a chapter of his life unresolved.
Suddenly, Nick’s soul surged with nostalgia, and his heart ached for Montana and his parents. He longed for simpler days and the long, warm nights under the Big Sky. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled his phone from his pocket and called his parents. He was surprised when his father answered.
“Son.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Everything okay, son?”
Nick hardly knew where to start in relaying his experiences of the past two weeks. “It’s all really great,” he began, warming to the task. He talked about the Hope Center and the orphanage and some of the patients and the cases he’d done so far. His father listened intently and asked questions about the clubfeet surgery. They talked for over thirty minutes, very unusual as his father was always quick to get off the phone. It was the first time Nick could remember that they spoke like friends and colleagues; he was surprised at his father’s interest in what he was doing.
“Mom okay?” Nick finally asked, surprised that she was not on the phone.
“Your mom is at a women’s meeting thing. How is Maggie?”
“She’s good. Still pretty raw, but she is so amazingly strong.”
There was a long pause. They ran out of things to say, but neither wanted the call to end. Nick heard his father sniff and wondered if he was crying.
“You know, Nicklaus, your mom and I are really proud of you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Nick hung up and stretched back in John’s chair. He was flooded with emotion. This may have been the first time he heard his father say that. He wiped his tears and felt a stirring and a shifting of his own heart.
He looked around John’s office and didn’t know what to think. He hated that his time in Guatemala was almost over.
All the children with clubfeet correction were recovering nicely, and he’d sent all but Isabella home. Re-splinting her feet was easy after Carmen slipped her a little narcotic cocktail. As she slept, Nick straightened her feet another twenty-five degrees or so. He hoped that he could do it again before leaving.
The surgical team had operated on other patients, mostly neglected traumas, Nick’s surgical specialty. He was glad to have Anna’s help; she had become an excellent assistant.
She is such a quick learner. I’ve got to remember to write her a letter of recommendation when I get home.
He was also glad he was able to keep his lustful thoughts at bay and regarded her more like a little sister than a potential conquest.
Nick glanced at John’s journal that sat open on the desk. Maggie had given him her blessing to read it. It had been a torturous read for Nick, but, strangely, also a source of comfort.
When he had found the journal in the top drawer of the desk, he had not opened it. After a couple of days, he decided to open it, randomly flip to a page, and read the first thing he came to. Whatever it was would be a sign to continue or not.
The random page read: Dear John—my beloved son. How much I love you. I hear the cries of your heart and I know the needs you have. Be strong and courageous for I have given you a heart of a warrior.
It went on for several paragraphs—all in John’s handwriting. Nick had continued to read. It seemed like a love letter from a father to a son. Nick couldn’t imagine Pops writing it. Then it occurred to him: Could the father be God? It would certainly go along with everything Maggie had been telling him and the calligraphy above John’s door. He read more. Sure enough, it was as though John and his Heavenly Father wrote notes back and forth—notes of encouragement, notes of praise, notes of instruction. Nick had asked Maggie about these notes. Without batting an eye, she’d told him that they both wrote down things they felt their Father spoke to them. She told him matter-of-factly, as if hearing from God were the most natural thing in the world.
I’m not sure I would even know if God spoke to me, never mind write it down.
At times, John journaled the depths of his heart, confessing things done and left undone. Every struggle and every triumph was there in black and white. Nick had been sure John wouldn’t mind his best friend delving into the depths of his heart. As he perused the volume, he found solace in the fact that John had his struggles. But he was surprised to be envious of the relationship between John and his Creator, His God, His Friend.
Father, can I know you like this?
Nick was holding the journal and flipping the pages when he asked himself the question. Suddenly he heard a faint voice in his head. He closed his eyes and strained to hear. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself sitting in the dimly lit corner of the chancel, in the recess near the altar of the church. He wore the red acolyte robe and was trying to stay awake as the Priest labored on and on through another boring sermon.
There was the voice again.
He closed his eyes tighter and concentrated on hearing more.
“Nicklaus.”
The voice came quickly and vanished. It had been an exhausting week at the Hope Center, physically and emotionally. He thought his mind was probably playing tricks on him.
Could God really be calling me?
Nick leafed through the journal again. It was full of these love letters between John and the Father and John’s day-to-day thoughts and notes to himself. When he read a note reminding John to get Maggie an anniversary present, he teared up.
He turned to the last few pages in the journal where John described his trips to villages in the northern part of Guatemala and listed his concerns—No new pregnancies or births. El Naranjo, 6mos. Cruce Dos Aguadas, 5mos. El Chilar, 6mos. El Zapote, 5mos. No new clues from my last visit. Heavy use of pesticides in agriculture around villages. Have asked the farmers to get me the names of the chemicals they use. Villagers appear to be healthy otherwise. There seems to be less parasite load in children after getting new wells. No recent births. Ran into the Koreans from FOCO again today. NOT very friendly fellows for doing such good works.
Nick swatted at a buzzing mosquito and looked at the map on the back on John’s office door. “FOCO,” he said out loud and looked at the stick-on dots that John had placed, indicating where FOCO had drilled water wells.
He turned the page of the journal and saw he was reading John’s final words:
Labs came back today from El Zapote village. All normal, except evidence of recent viral load. Leave tomorrow to go back to villages.