Building Blocks

kid who used to strike fear into the hearts of most of our class was now teaching against such behavior?

  "You see, Herbert, after being stabbed, Timmy began to realize that a change was needed. He knew he was lucky to be alive, but at the same time, fighting was all he'd ever known. He continued abusing fellow students as he got older, despite knowing in his heart that it was the wrong thing to do. Eventually, he found himself in juvenile hall. They had a program there commonly referred to as the 'Scared Straight' program. They took Timmy and a number of other youths to an adult prison to show them a taste of where their lives were headed. And Timmy wanted none of it. When he finally got out of juvenile, he vowed never to lay an aggressive hand on another person as long as he lived. And he never did. He currently lives in Indiana and is studying to become a pastor."

  The pieces of the puzzle were finally beginning to fall into place. My fight with Timmy, though it seemed like just a mean kid beating on someone smaller than him, wasn't just about me. It was a part of his journey, too. It was a piece of the lifelong process that turned him from child to adult, from bully to peacemaker. And while our altercation didn't have an instant effect on him, it was one of the building blocks that helped him become the man he is today.

  But how did Doc know all of this? Was Timmy a patient of his?

  He spoke before I could ask the question. "As for you, this incident was the first of many that taught you compassion for those who suffer abuse at the hands of others. As I've said, God works all things together for the good of His children. You see now how it affected Timmy. But it also helped you develop your strong sense of justice. Today, you would be quick to stand up for the weak or the abused, would you not? It is a part of your personality that was formed from the years of injustice you suffered."

  I nodded slowly. "I defend Sasha a lot at work. There's a guy who works on the floor named Eddie who constantly harasses her. I honestly don't know what his problem is; he's just always got her targeted. When I see him bothering her, I'll come to her defense. I don't know if she appreciates it or not—I know some people get offended when you don't let them fight their own battles—but all I can think about is how often I wished someone would have come to my defense when I was younger."

  "She appreciates it," Doc assured me. "More than you realize."

  "How do you know that?" I asked, spreading my hands in frustration. "How could you possibly know any of the things you've told me? The only explanation I can come up with is that this is all one crazy dream, but it's so much more real than any dream I've ever had."

  Doc chuckled at that. "I've done my homework, Herbert. Trust me. I could never be effective in my work if I didn't ensure that I was well-informed about my patients."

  When could he have done such extensive research? Besides, that didn't explain the magic fog. Or Herbie's suicide. "What was that vision I had before I wound up back here? Before you showed up? I saw Herbie—"

  Doc held up a hand and nodded. "Don't worry, we will get to that. But first, let's take a look at the next memory you and I visited."

  The wind blew, the mist billowed, and suddenly we were looking into my parents' living room. Mom was passed out on the couch with the wine bottle beside her, and Dad was rummaging through the bills. "This is the day he put her head through the window," I muttered. "What good could've possibly come from this?"

  "Much the same way that each of Timmy's fights were but pieces of a much larger puzzle, so too were the altercations between your parents. As you now know, much of the fighting between them came as a result of drug abuse. That, combined with the constant consumption of alcohol, kept them from finding any measure of peace or contentment in their lives. The negative effects of their irresponsible actions are obvious. However, within it all, God was using their poor judgment as a means to mold you into the person you would eventually become."

  I raised an eyebrow. "You mean cynical and bitter?"

  "Honest and moral. Herbert, most children tend to follow the example set by the adults in their lives. More often than not, that means their parents. They don't know how else they should conduct themselves. After all, if Mommy and Daddy do it, it must be okay. But you used your parents behavior as motivation to be something better. You decided early on that their example was one not to be followed. And to this day, you've never touched drugs or alcohol. You despised what your parents were and strived to be something more. That is the good that came from these kinds of incidents."

  "But couldn't God have given me loving and hard-working parents to teach me the same lesson?" I asked. "Why did it have to be this way?"

  "Free-will, remember?" Doc reminded me. "God didn't decide what kind of people your parents would be. Their choices determined who they were, just as yours have guided you. God helped by granting you the wisdom to see the consequences of their actions, but the decisions were yours and yours alone."

  It was becoming more and more clear where this was going. Doc's contention has always been that each and every one of the horrible events in my life—no, in the world!—brought about some measure of good somewhere along the way. To an extent, I agreed, but I guess I never really grasped the vast scope of it. When he said everything, he meant everything. Everything from bumping into someone on the sidewalk to wars that ravage entire countries. Now he was taking me over the events I showed him and illustrating to me how positive things came from each. But to think that such a rule could be applied to everything in the world was absurd! Did he honestly believe that humanity benefited in some way from the children across the globe that were beaten every day? Women who were raped? Surely, that couldn't be possible!

  "Oh? And why not?"

  My heart stopped cold, and my eyes grew as large as dinner plates. I hadn't spoken my thoughts aloud. I hadn't! My mouth hadn't moved! I wasn't even looking at Doc; I'd been staring into the mist. Yet he had somehow heard me. He knew what I was thinking and responded directly to my skepticism. But how? How could he hear my thoughts?

  Again, Doc's eyes seemed to hold information that he wasn't sharing. "When a woman is raped, it isn't because God made it happen. When I tell you that God brings good out of all things, you are hearing, 'It's good that she was raped.' But it's not good. It's not good when anyone is raped. It's not good that you were abused. It's not good that your parents abused each other. But God allows us to decide how we live or lives, so we are the ones in control of such events. However, since He is the God of love, the God of mercy, the God of healing, and the God of forgiveness, He brings good out of all things. Those who trust in the God of Abraham don't view it as, 'It's good that she was raped,' but rather as 'It's terrible that she was raped, but I trust that God will somehow bring good from it.'"

  It all went back to my perception of God as my guardian in this world. My assumption as a child was that He would protect me from pain and suffering. But God won't stop people from making their own decisions. So if someone decides to attack me, He won't stand in their way. Instead of expecting God to stop it, I should be trusting that something positive will come from it.

  Doc spoke softly, almost as though speaking to himself. "And he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, and said unto him, 'Go, wash in the pool of Siloam.' He went his way therefore, and washed, and came back seeing."

  I raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "I'm not crazy, right? You can hear what I'm thinking, can't you? How? None of this makes any sense! How are you doing this?"

  "As I believe I said at the start of this journey," Doc said through his grin, "all things are possible."

  Possible for God, yes. But for a doctor . . .

  It was beginning to come together. Herbie's suicide, the magic mist, Doc's knowledge of everything and anything, the dream itself . . . All of it was far more than another visit to Doc's office. None of it could have occurred in the real world.

  "You thought the same about time-travel, didn't you
?"

  But we had been traveling through time for two weeks. The fact that he mentioned it now suggested . . .

  Doc put his hand on my shoulder. "You're getting there. But let's continue for now."

  The next image came from my memory of the carnival. Little Herbie stood with his hand extended, offering the bundle of cash to its rightful owner. The joy on the man's face was unmistakable. Having witnessed that much when Doc and I had revisited the night, I already knew what Doc was going to say. Or, I thought I did.

  "This man's wife and child had been involved in an aeromobile accident earlier that day. They were supposed to meet at the carnival, but when his family never arrived, he started to worry. Calls to his home and his wife's phone were unanswered. Finally, he managed to get in touch with her sister. Without the number for his personal phone, she'd been unable to contact him to tell him the news. Now knowing what had transpired, he hurried to call for a cab to take him to the hospital. That's when he discovered that he'd lost his money. You can just imagine the despair he felt of having no way to get to his family."

  "And I gave him back his cash," I murmured softly, my eyes fixed on the little wad of money in Herbie's extended hand.

  "Yes. You helped him get to his loved ones,