The following weekend, shooting pain ripped me from a peaceful slumber. A vague dream lingered behind my eyes, making me wonder if I was awake—until my chest constricted again and sent fire down my left arm. Yes, definitely awake. Breathing heavily, I rolled to my back, shifting Oxley in the process. I looked at the time, then at Trent. It was 2:34 a.m. Should I wake him? Pain seized my chest several times in quick succession, wiping out any question. I cried out.
“What’s wrong?” he muttered.
“I realize this sounds completely crazy and entirely improbable,” I answered, “but I feel like I’m having a heart attack.”
Having learned our lesson on Christmas Eve, we drove straight to the emergency room. Trent dropped me at the entrance, and I stumbled to the registration desk.
“Chest pain,” I wheezed, gripping my left arm.
The clerk, a hefty grandmother-type with thick reading glasses, barely looked up from her erotica novel. “Driver’s license and insurance card,” she demanded in a voice befitting a cop writing a ticket.
As she entered my information, I noticed a strange silence. I looked around: dying fluorescent lights flickered over a completely empty waiting room. With nary a person in sight and no sounds except an infomercial playing on a distant TV, the situation felt eerie—like the opening of a horror film where you beg the heroine to run the other way. Can’t you see you’re having a heart attack in the Twilight Zone of emergency rooms? Escape now, before it’s too late!
“Berta!” the clerk barked into an intercom, startling me. “Twenty-nine-year-old female with chest pain.”
Like a magic trick, two nurses materialized out of nowhere. They grabbed my arms and pulled me through double doors into a long, dark hallway. I almost expected fun-house mirrors and a guy swallowing a sword. I imagined a creepy doctor wielding bloody scissors. Step right up! The afterlife is right this way!
Pulsating pain brought me back to the moment. “It . . . hurts . . .” I panted as the nurses situated me in an exam room. Nurse #1 thrust a half-gown in my arms. “Naked from the waist up, ties in the back,” she instructed. “We’ll give you a minute.” Undressing, I noticed that my feet looked like I’d gone Dumpster diving in the Goodwill donation bin: one slipper, one bootie, and two different socks.
“Breathe,” Nurse #1 instructed when she came back to take my vitals. I endeavored to breathe as calmly as possible while Nurse #2 covered my body with electrodes and wires—which is to say, I breathed as calmly as a drowning snorkeler.
“Normal temp and regular heartbeat. Blood pressure only slightly elevated,” pronounced Nurse #1. “But we expect that in the ER. How’s your pain?”
“Better,” I reported, even though I was confused by its abatement. “My chest still feels constricted, but the pain isn’t bad anymore.” I glanced at the clock: 3:40 a.m. “The worst of it must have lasted about forty-five minutes.”
Nurse #2 studied the test results as they printed out. “Good news,” she said. “Your EKG looks normal.”
“We’ll send the doctor in,” Nurse #1 said, patting my shoulder. “Try to relax.”
Relax. I told myself. It’s just a regular night in the hospital with a possible heart attack. No biggie. I looked up and sighed, wondering how many more dropped-tile ceilings I’d have to face for the Sickness. Though I lacked proof that the chest pain was directly related to my other symptoms, it felt like an acute version of the muscle cramps and spasms I had been dealing with daily.
Shortly, I heard the doctor’s cursory staccato knock. Luckily, he didn’t resemble a horror movie doctor. A young, short black man, he walked with the jaunty confidence of a guy four times his size. He reminded me of a tiny African-American Mr. Clean who made up in facial hair what he lacked on his head. A thick beard jutted straight out from his face, as if a porcupine had escaped from the forest and attached to his chin.
“I’m Dr. Haziz,” he said, taking a partial seat on the stool facing me. We chatted for a few minutes about my symptoms. Dr. Haziz smiled broadly, and the porcupine’s quills puffed out. “I’d bet my house you aren’t having a heart attack,” he enthused, adding a large, double-armed gesture for emphasis. “In fact, I’d bet my house there’s nothing wrong with you except a little indigestion and a lot of anxiety.”
Indigestion and anxiety in my ARM? I shot flaming arrows at him with my eyes, but he failed to notice, possibly because he was too busy admiring his reflection in the paper towel dispenser.
“Is there any other medical history I should know about?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to tell him about the Sickness and promptly shut it.
“Nothing that would change your diagnosis of anxiety,” I sighed, knowing years of weird symptoms would only make him surer of his opinion. “If this is all in my mind, when can I go home?”
“Do you have to work in the morning?”
“I have to go to church.”
“I can write an excuse note for God.”
“It’s kind of important. I have a deadline to meet.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Now I’d have to explain.
“A deadline for God?”
Grimacing, I gave him the briefest possible outline of Thirty by Thirty. It was a sorry summary intended to discourage questions, but his face lit up like a casino slot machine. Oh no.
“Thirty religions?” I could see his internal gears shuffle, and he adjusted his posture to resemble the Thinker statue—if the Thinker was hunkering down for a nice, lengthy heart-to-heart. I remembered the empty waiting room. Clearly, he was bored.
“Religion and history—that’s all I ever read.” He petted the porcupine. “Tell me, do you believe in God?”
I wanted to fire back with, “Sir, with all due respect, it’s four o’clock in the morning in the weirdest ER in America. I am mostly naked in a room approximately the temperature of an ice cube tray. Twenty-seven sticky electrodes are attached to my body; you have just become the 252nd medical professional to tell me my symptoms are mental, and you want to know if I believe in God?”
Nodding with exhaustion, I made a simple declaration that wasn’t simple at all. “Yes, I believe.”
The doctor still wasn’t finished. “But what religion did you choose?” he pressed.
I mustered all the grace I’d collected throughout the year. Sometimes grace descends directly from the heavens in the form of a dove, but most of the time it manifests more modestly, like returning a gentle word instead of a well-deserved strangulation.
“I picked all of them and none of them. I chose something much bigger than religion: Love.”
“Do you think all religions are equal?”
“I think all religions are equally incapable of containing God. I once heard the guy who wrote The Shack—Paul Young—say on the radio, ‘The only time you’ll find God in a box is because he wants to be with us’, which sums it up perfectly.”
The doctor adjusted his thinking posture as he reflected on this, and before he could ask another question I sputtered, “Can I please get dressed now?”
“Oh, yes.” He blinked. “You’re finished here.”
“HELP!” I SHRIEKED FROM our home office in my “technology-is-Godzilla” voice, perfected through years of marriage filled with broken computers and drowned cell phones.
My tone implied that Trent—the man who once created an antenna that received digital cable and three movie channels out of only an olive can, tin foil, and a wire hanger—should run (not calmly walk) to my rescue. I bopped him on the head when he appeared a full five minutes later.
“What’s so urgent?” he asked. “Me and Oxley are in the middle of breakfast.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but this virtual reality church service is starting in three minutes, and my little avatar is naked. It looks like Stripper Barbie!”
He snickered but made no move to help. “You’re going to church in Second Life,” he observed, reading the name of the virtual world program. “Why do you need clothes?”
“You want me to be naked in church,” I accused.
“I plead the fifth on that one,” he said, studying the screen. “But it looks like our graphics card is having trouble with the Second Life program. I can fix it.”
As Trent clicked away, I watched the computerized mini-Reba thump her small head against the virtual wall. “I suppose it had to end like this,” I observed. “Reba Riley, naked and banging her head on the church wall like a mental patient. Better that it’s the mini-me in a virtual church than the real me in the psych ward. It really could have gone either way, especially after the ER last night.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
I sighed. “Broken in body but mighty in spirit. The good news is I only lost most of the skin under the electrodes.” I showed him the raw, red circles.
“Ouch,” he grimaced as partial clothing appeared on the screen. “Ah! There it goes.”
We considered mini-Reba, who was covered in rags. “Now I look like Les Mis Barbie!” I yelped, putting my head in my hands. “I’m finally crossing the Thirty by Thirty finish line, and I’m not even dressed for the occasion!”
“Actually, Les Mis Barbie is crossing it for you,” he corrected. The screen’s graphics cleared to reveal not only my clothes, but the interior of a striking Anglican church.
“Wow, pretty,” I breathed, taking in mini-me’s surroundings. With Gothic Revival architecture, including vaulted ceilings, stone columns, and stained glass, the virtual church was everything you’d expect of a European cathedral, only digital. “One problem: mini-Reba’s still stuck.”
Trent deftly maneuvered her away from the wall before going back to his breakfast. Mini-Reba instantly got stuck standing backward in the virtual pew.
“Psst!” A text bubble appeared over the head of a girl avatar to my virtual right. “Do you need help?”
“Is it that obvious? :-)” I typed, a text bubble appearing over the mini-me.
“Just right-click on the pew to sit,” she instructed, her blue-haired avatar walking to me.
Mini-Reba sat next to a kind stranger clothed like Mrs. Jetson. “I’m Cadie,” said the blue-haired rescuer. “Are you new to Second Life?”
All 363 days of new spiritual experiences, and I still looked like a newbie. “Yep. I’m Reba,” I typed, thankful Cadie had come to my aid.
“Well, welcome to the Anglican Cathedral on Epiphany Island! What do you think so far?”
“It’s really lovely,” I typed, wishing I knew how to make the mini-me smile. I settled for a ;) emoticon. “The rose window reminds me of Notre Dame.”
“The service is about to begin, but we can talk after.”
Though Cadie was behind her own screen, possibly thousands of miles away, I felt almost like she patted me on the shoulder. The pastor’s avatar stood at a digital lectern at the front of the sanctuary. He welcomed everyone in a lovely English accent that I could hear through Trent’s insulated headphones.
“Can everyone talk if they have a microphone?” I typed to Cadie.
“Right now only the minister and liturgist, but generally speaking—yes.”
With dual-oversize monitors, sitting at Trent’s desk was like attending church at NASA’s mission control . . . except for my attire. Three words: flannel frog pajamas. I smiled; it seemed fitting that I should attend my final service wearing the pajamas that had accompanied me through the year.
As the pastor spoke, his words appeared over his head in tandem with his voice. When he summoned a liturgist to the lectern, my actual mouth dropped open at the virtual sight: The liturgist was a mermaid.
Though I had never imagined a finned creature wearing a pink seashell bra leading the Lord’s Prayer, the scenario worked in Second Life. Are Ariel and Snow White in the choir loft? I wondered. No Disney princesses appeared, but there was a purple bear sitting near the back. Maybe virtual costumes provide enough camouflage for people to be themselves.
The congregants joined the mermaid in the Lord’s Prayer by typing the sacred words in time with her recitation. Collectively, we joined our hearts via our keyboards, and the stream of characters brought us together—a worldwide congregation, one in spirit.
The mermaid returned to her seat and the pastor took her place. “I am the Vine and you are the branches,” he referenced John 15:5. “If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit.”
The Amish lay minister had preached on this same passage, and the intersection of the two belief systems struck me. An ocean apart in practice but similar in core beliefs, they were probably closer on the Divine Disco Ball than either would realize. The Amish represented the faith of the past—the shunning of technology in exchange for a peaceful way of life. Second Life represented the faith of the future: pushing the bounds of technology in exchange for a global community. The Amish existed without technology; Second Life existed only because of it, and I existed somewhere between the two.
In a lilting accent, the pastor sermonized, expanding on the passage. “The two acts—loving God and loving each other—are connected by faith. If we love God, we will love one another. In our devotion to God, we should be devoted to each other.”
“Let us pray for ourselves and the worlds in which we live,” he concluded. I noted his use of “worlds,” plural, remembering that while Second Life was only a world I was visiting, for many it is a full, actual-ish world. He read prayer requests from the box, and they were heart-wrenching, probably more real than most “real life” services. I realized people could confess anything here with total impunity, but there was an attitude of reverence that reached past the computer screen and into my heart. Anonymous entreaties whipped quickly around the globe:
“I’m a disillusioned Catholic priest and want to leave the ministry.”
“I am lost in a haze of depression and don’t know where to turn.”
“Terminally ill and fearing death.”
The Second Life congregants typed prayers of support after each one, text bubbles echoing with support for the priest, care for the sad, and understanding for the afraid—virtual prayers that filled the digital church with real love. My own fingers flew across the keys writing words of comfort, and I hoped my intentions would cross the continents and transcend their digital form to reach the hurting.
“Let us close by giving thanks for our many blessings,” said the pastor. Prayers of thanksgiving began to float above the congregation, many about mothers because it was Mother’s Day.
I reflected on how truly thankful I was for my mother—her unfailing love, never-ending prayers, and her willingness to believe that God was big enough to meet her little girl even when she didn’t understand how. I teared up as I typed, “Thank you for my mom, who is willing to accept my journey for what it is—mine.”
CADIE TURNED TO ME after the service. “Would you like to join us for socializing in the courtyard?”
“Absolutely, if you can tell me how to stand up.” She explained the mechanics of movement in virtual life, and we walked together through the church’s open doors. The church was built on an island, so we were surrounded by glistening sea.
“I love the idea of being on an island without leaving home!” I exclaimed.
“The waves may be digital, but they can still be inspirational,” she replied.
Congregants gathered in circles, talking and laughing together. Even if I hadn’t been standing with Cadie, I would have felt at ease approaching one of those groups; the virtual world felt infinitely open.
She introduced me around.
“Where are you from in RL?” asked a blonde vampire wearing a ball gown. (It took me just a moment to figure out that RL stood for “real life.”)
“Columbus, Ohio,” I replied.
Cadie turned to me. “Really?” She threw up her virtual voice in an “OH!”—the universal Ohioan greeting.
“You’re from Ohio, too? What are the chances?”
“Not just Ohio; I’m from Columbus!”
The rest of the folks were from around the world—England, Sweden, Boston, Wyoming, South Africa—but my new friend Cadie lived less than two miles from me.
“I’m having an interfaith ceremony on June 30. Would you be interested in coming?” I asked her.
“Yes! It’s very rare that Second Life intersects with RL, but when it does it’s pretty cool!”
A commotion broke out when the purple bear started scaling the front of the church. Now there’s something you don’t see every day.
“Bernard,” said Melinda, a brunette with dangly silver cross earrings. “Stop horsing around!” She turned to me, “Bernard’s always climbing everything—he’s our class clown.”
“One in every crowd,” I replied, “even virtual crowds.”
I briefly wondered if Bernard the Bear climbed in Second Life because he couldn’t in real life. I’d read that physically challenged people live full lives in Second Life—the virtual world allowing them to do things their bodies couldn’t. Or maybe he was just the class clown. Either way, I liked him.
“Hey, Bernard,” I said after he jumped down to virtual earth. “I like your irreverent approach! I think we’d get along.”
He threw me a ;) and I returned it.
“You guys have a really special community here,” I said to the group, thinking that even if they couldn’t deliver casseroles in person, it was obvious they loved one another. “Thank you for being so welcoming. I love your church and Epiphany Island.”
As everyone said their good-byes, I was aware that I was just moments from completing Thirty by Thirty. I turned to Cadie last. “I hope I’ll see you in RL in June!”
“Wouldn’t miss it 
,” she replied.
“Great!” I typed. “Okay, I’m signing off now. Bye!”
I clicked the program closed and stared at the screen for a moment with a sense of awe: Thirty by Thirty was officially complete. I’d brought my list into Trent’s office, so I uncapped a marker and checked off my final visit. I bowed my head over the keyboard, a moment of silent thanksgiving between me and the Godiverse.
When I opened my eyes, a pop-up ad appeared on the screen.
“You’ve won!” read the text.
Under the sentence spun a glinting, winking disco ball, reflecting virtual light.
I could hardly believe this kiss from the Godiverse. I extended my hands to the ceiling in appreciation.
Then I powered down the computer and slowly emerged from Trent’s office looking like a radiant victor. (Kidding. I looked like a sick girl in frog pajamas, but I felt victorious.)
“It’s finished,” I yelled to Trent and Oxley, who were lying on the couch in the living room. Trent walked in to hug me.
“You did it, babe!” He imitated a sportscaster after the Superbowl and stuck a TV remote out like a microphone. “What are you gonna do now?”
Fatigue rippled through my body. I felt like I’d crossed a marathon finish line after an all-out sprint the final mile. I was elated and exhausted, smiley yet shaky, and the Sickness held on just beneath my smile. “I’m going to go to sleep,” I said, kissing his cheek. I called to Oxley with my daily refrain, “Naptime, Ox.” He trotted with me to the bedroom, where I collapsed on the bed.