How many of these innocent people had been slaughtered since I left Africa?
Two weeks ago, when I’d taken the train from Amsterdam to Rome, a warm feeling filled my chest, and I had a sense of something “not me.” I’d found myself asking why. And I was doing it now.
Just as it had happened then, I heard or sensed something like a voice that I didn’t feel was coming from me.
Brigid. You want to know why.
I opened my eyes. I wasn’t asleep. The flight attendant was still walking up the aisle. A mother and two children were in the seat ahead of me, and the children were throwing candies at one another and laughing.
I had a shocking revelation.
I was on the plane, and at the same time, I was outside it. A pretty village came into focus just below me, as if I were flying over the treetops on my own power. I saw people tending a community garden, children playing in a park. I felt wind in my hair, the warmth of the sun on my back, and a sense of incredible peace.
The voice-if that was what it was-cut into my thoughts. This is happening.
Air hissed through the vent overhead.
I said, out loud, “Tell me. Are you God?”
A little boy with big, blue eyes threw a fistful of candy over the seat back at me. His mother turned and apologized-“Scusa, signora”-and scolded the child.
And, still, while I was seated in row 11, seat D, on an Air France flight to Paris, I was “flying” freely over adorable shops on a lane in the heart of the village. As I watched, a baby carriage rolled into the street, where it was struck by a car, full on, crushing the carriage under the wheels.
I clapped my hands over my mouth and clamped down on a scream.
I heard the words inside my head.
This is yours. Take care of it.
There was a sparrow in my now-outstretched hand. It was brown and black, with white streaks on its wings. It looked at me and blinked its sharp, knowing eyes. Then it flew away.
I said, Come back.
More birds joined the one that was mine. Hundreds of little birds, thousands, millions, all rising up from the trees and power lines, filling the air to the horizon and beyond, shutting out the sunlight until all I could see was a shimmering blackness.
The vibration, like a voice inside my head, said, Can you care for your bird? Does it obey? Or does it have its own will?
I spoke out loud, “Stop. No metaphors. Please.”
An African village appeared in my mind. It might be Magwi, the closest town to our settlement. I had been there only once, when the driver who had taken me from Juba to Kind Hands had skirted the village center on the way to the camp.
Now, I saw the whole town from my flight path overhead. I saw the individual tukuls and a church and low buildings built within the curl of an estuary. I saw umbrellas over the street market. I saw barefoot children herding thin cattle with sticks.
I said, “Why are You showing me this?”
You know.
“I only know that I’ve lost my faith in You.”
The “voice” resonated in my mind.
I haven’t lost mine in you.
Chapter 32
A METALLIC squeal and warble called my attention to the public address system. A flight attendant announced the start of a movie and requested that passengers lower their shades.
I lowered mine and tried to call up the now-broken connection to the presence in my mind. But the line was down. Had I imagined the voice, the birds, the close-up view of Magwi from above? Had I been dreaming?
Or was I crazy?
It was possible. Two months ago my brain had been deprived of oxygen for however long it had taken Sabeena to get me into that helicopter, find the appropriate needle, and shove it with surgical precision into my chest. I was technically dead for four minutes, maybe five.
Oxygen deprivation can cause brain damage, but recovery is possible, even common. Top neurologists in Amsterdam had checked me out and declared my brain perfectly fine.
Still, residual injury might cause hallucinations.
Or possibly, because of this injury, a part of my brain that was normally closed off had become a two-way channel for communication with God.
Was that possible?
Was I delusional? Or was I hearing the Word of God?
Either way, this “voice,” these visions, scared me a lot.
I stared at the seat back in front of me. Lights flickered as a movie played on a couple hundred little screens throughout the cabin. Eventually, I got up from my seat and retrieved my bag from the overhead rack. I dug around until I found my iPad, and then I created a new page in my journal.
I wrote, If I could ask God only one question, it would be the same question Aziza asked me not long ago. “Why must we suffer so?” This question has been addressed in biblical verses and theological writings and notably in the book of Job.
But the answers seem hazy and theoretical on the page.
In real life, I see suffering. And I see faith. And the second doesn’t cancel out the first. When I ask why, the answer comes back, “You can’t see from God’s point of view.”
If today God was putting thoughts and words and images in my mind, He conveyed that He has faith in me. And He showed me a path.
If I have no faith, how can I follow Him?
If I follow Him, does it mean that I have faith?
I thought about what I had written, and then I went to my email in-box and I typed:
Dear Zach, You did nothing wrong. I’m a coward, and I’m sorry to have left without saying good-bye. I was afraid that if I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to go, and I must.
I care about you very much, but I am a broken woman.
All I can do is run.
I won’t ever forget the wonderful times we spent together.
Yours, with a sad heart,
Brigid
When the plane landed, I reread my email to Zach, and then I launched it.
I got off the airplane with purpose. I stood in front of the arrivals-and-departures board and got my bearings. Then I crossed the airport and booked a flight to Juba, the capital of South Sudan.
God called. I answered.
Chapter 33
BUT I couldn’t leave France just yet.
There would be a two-hour wait in Charles de Gaulle Airport before my plane departed for Juba. And then there would be a change of planes and the next leg of my journey, for a total of twenty-six hours en route.
I ate a croque monsieur at a fast-food brasserie. I had a beer. Then I had another one.
I bought three new T-shirts in an airport shop, along with a pair of socks and a green rubber slicker. I washed much of my body in the sink in the ladies’ room and put on a new shirt, a pink one with the Eiffel Tower outlined in sequins. I purchased bags and bags of hard candies and some American newsmagazines. I found a seat at the gate and read for hours.
The big stories were startling. There was a severe drought in California that threatened wildlife and agriculture. Sea level and pollution were up. Ice was cracking off the poles. Planes had crashed. There were terrorist attacks in several countries and a plague in Saudi Arabia. Nine people had been shot to death during Bible study in a church in South Carolina. There was another mass killing in South Sudan that tested my belief, not in God but in the human race.
At two in the afternoon, I boarded the plane, and this flight was full. Again I had a window seat, and I didn’t wait for takeoff to fall asleep.
I awoke to change planes in Dubai, and once we were aloft, I took a pill and slept again. I wasn’t in communication with God or anyone else, but while I slept, I was making plans.