I sat in the church pew next to Stephanie. I was wearing one of her stupid sundresses, which was too tight under my arms. Organ music swelled from the front of the church and sunlight poured through the stained glass windows in brilliant reds, greens, and blues.
Grandma and Grandpa sat on the other side of Stephanie.
How had I gotten into this? Even Norm didn’t make me go to church. And I hadn’t even brought any clothes to wear. But here I was. Because we’d been in so much trouble from last night, when Grandma said we were going, I didn’t think I had any way of getting out of it.
This morning, early, I had walked Star around the back yard, while the grass was still wet with dew, with the ski rope around her neck. She had wobbled along on her chopstick legs, staying close. She was incredibly attached to me.
Breakfast had been very quiet. Grandma had made scrambled eggs with cheese in them. Grandpa looked as though he hadn’t slept well. Stephanie was like a statue, pale and quiet. I knew I’d betrayed Grandma and Grandpa in going to get Stephanie without telling them.
So, now, here I was in church.
I looked around at all the people. Why were we all here? I wasn’t perfect and neither were they, so why were we all here, acting like we were so close to God?
We’d sung some songs whose words had been projected on a large screen in the front of the church. Now the minister, a woman with graying red hair, wearing a dark robe, was getting ready to give her sermon.
My mind floated away to Star. What would the place she was going be like? Would a wild herd of deer accept her into their midst?
“None of us can know the effect or importance of our actions,” said the minister. “None of us can know what God wants to use us for. Each of us has to do our best, not knowing what kind of impact we will have.”
I stared at Stephanie’s leg, next to mine. I glanced over at her face. She believed in all this stuff.
The minister started telling a story, and I found myself listening. “There was a boy who had been in a fire, was in the hospital, and had been out of school for a while. A teacher asked a volunteer if she would go to the hospital and work with the boy on adjectives and adverbs.”
That sounded horrible. Being in the hospital would be bad enough, without having to work on adjectives and adverbs on top of it!
The minister went on. “The volunteer went to the hospital and was shocked at how terribly burned the boy was. She didn’t think he would survive. What difference do adverbs and adjectives make to this poor boy? she wondered. But she had been asked to work with him, so she did.”
Where was the minister going with this story, anyway? It seemed pointless.
“The next day, when the volunteer went back, one of the nurses asked her what she had said the day before. The boy had made a hundred percent improvement. The doctors believed he was going to die, but he had regained his will to live. The volunteer told the nurse she had just worked on adjectives and adverbs.
“Later, after the boy had made more progress, another nurse asked him, ‘When did you turn the corner?’
“And he said, ‘When that lady came to work with me. I figured they wouldn’t send someone to work on adverbs and adjectives with someone who was going to die.’ ”
The preacher went on with her sermon, but I didn’t listen anymore. I was thinking about that volunteer. She’d just done what she’d been asked to do. Nothing special. No big deal. But she’d ended up saving that kid’s life. And she didn’t even know it.
Huh. Maybe everything we did in our life, every little act, could have a tremendous impact on other living things. In ways that we might not ever know.
I remembered diving into the river while whitewater rafting, and Norm diving after me.
I remembered riding bikes with Cody on the Outer Banks, seeing the foal and her injured mother, and calling the police, and hiding in the dunes while the police came.
I remembered giving Iggy the iguana to the security officer on the cruise ship.
I remembered walking around the hospital floor with Grammy, slowly, talking with her.
I saw Star, coming toward me in the woods. Star, on our sun porch, waiting for her bottle.
I saw Mom, in the car, letting me drive.
I saw Dad, at the Outer Banks, flying with me high over the water.
I saw the disappointed faces of Grandpa and Grandma, this morning, at our quiet breakfast.
And I saw Stephanie, in the passenger seat of the car as I drove last night.
Everything I did mattered. In ways that maybe I would never know.
The minister had finished her sermon. She had her arms high and was blessing the people, saying a prayer.
Stephanie, beside me, wiped her eyes with a tissue.
With that story, something in me had changed.