A Missed Opportunity

Two weeks ago, one of my best friends and I visited a favorite place--Colonial Williamsburg, VA!  My photos of the iconic Governor's Palace and George Wythe House garden are above.  We also spent a couple of days getting our roller coaster fix at Busch Gardens--very exciting and nostalgic for me because I spent so much time there as a child.  

It's interesting how one can visit the same place as a child and as an adult, and come away with a different perspective.  Busch Gardens, with its various European "countries", the place that sparked my childhood imagination and spurred me to travel as an adult, is still a magical and fun experience.  Simultaneously, the sights, sounds, and physical rigor of walking and being jostled around on thrill rides overwhelms the body and tires the senses.  It's overwhelming in other ways too.  I have a novel called The Heart Reader that I've read a couple of times.  The main character, Sam, receives a mysterious ability to "hear" the deepest spiritual needs of everyone around him.  While watching a football game at a stadium with friends, Sam is so overcome by the clamor of hopeless voices that he begins starting conversations in order to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.  My experience at Busch Gardens reminded me of Sam's story. The frenetic atmosphere of a theme park doesn't allow one to pretend that the world is unbroken. In the midst of having fun, I saw hurt flash across a little girl's face when her mother told her to shut up.  I heard a child cheerfully attempt to change the subject when her dad began grumbling and her mom asked him how many beers he'd had.  

And most of all, I saw her.  The line for the roller coaster was thirty minutes long.  She and her boyfriend were standing just ahead of us, and she spent most of the time slipping her arms around him and gazing adoringly.  At one point, we passed through one of those water misters, designed to keep waiting guests cool, and she told him that the droplets in his spiky black hair looked like snowflakes.  His complexion was dark in contrast to her porcelain, his eyelashes long, and he wore an alternative rock T-shirt.  In spite of the heat, she wore tight black pants with her Chuck Taylor sneakers.  Her hair was dark, with the slightest whispering of whitish blonde at the ends, her bright eyes were carefully rimmed with kohl, and her teeth were charmingly crooked.  Her arm was tattooed with a doll-like figure in a frilly dress, sweet except for the ghoulish quality of its pupil-less eyes.  She was beautiful.  I thought they were perhaps European, but heard English spoken in an American accent.

Then I noticed the cuts.  Two long scabs on the top of her arm, as though she'd been scratched by a tree branch.  "A coincidence," I thought uneasily.  Then she turned so that I could see the underside of her forearm.  Dozens of little white scars crisscrossing one another, all but invisible to everyone but those who knew what they were seeing.  Like I did.

I stood there thinking, knowing that I wasn't going to say anything.  Later, I formulated the words:  "I know that you don't know me, and that it's none of my business, but I want you to know that cutting yourself isn't worth it.  I've tried it.  God loves you so much that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to die for you, and He wants to help you if you'll ask Him."

I even asked God for another opportunity, but I didn't see her again, and I probably never will.

Who is your opportunity?