BLESSED ARE THE MEEK

         Tuesday morning began like any other typical workday, but as the sun brought dawn to each meridian, an unsuspecting eight billion people would be in for a rather sublime awakening— a day that will forever be remembered as the anniversary of a new age for mankind.

         Among the planet’s population, no one could have predicted this balmy June morning would also awaken a Gnostic vestige that had been dormant for over two millennia— a day when the world is about to learn the true meaning of the ancient beatitude; ‘blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’

         Richard Crippen, a distinguished-looking gentleman of forty-three boarded a commuter train in Cicero, a quiet suburb west of Chicago noted as the birthplace of Ernest Hemingway. Ironically, the town was also named after one of the greatest statesmen of the Roman Empire who died about four decades prior to the emergence of another heralded birthplace, the small village of Nazareth in the Roman province of Judea.

         Richard was the only child of an American diplomat and daughter of a wealthy family of New Delhi, India. The bulk of his childhood was spent at various prestigious boarding schools, including secondary studies in ancient Sanskrit at a Himalayan temple in Nepal. After losing his parents to an earthquake in Kashmir, Richard emigrated to America about six years ago where he accepted a librarian job at the University of Chicago.

         Most co-workers and students regarded ‘Crippen’ as a likable, yet unassuming type though a few simply viewed him as a humdrum nobody; an introverted loner content to plod through life as a mousey librarian— a perception that would prove to be a colossal mistake. For his day was about to evolve into something far more provocative.

         Richard had always known his tenure at the University would be limited, and given the cosmic purpose ahead of him, he also knew he had no choice. Yet, even for this supersensory mortal, who would have thought something as mundane as a bagel would be the catalyst to prematurely unveil a most extraordinarily rare human being whose prophesied ‘time had come.’ But it did!

         By 9 a.m. Chicago’s Loop was a hive of activity as Crippen moved in step with thinning crowds scurrying through Union Station. Its footprint covered a full city block with split-level escalators at either end that ferried commuters from Metra’s lower rail terminals to exits onto Riverside Plaza above.

         Both escalator banks were connected by a wide, mid-level mezzanine that was home to fast-food eateries, newsstands, and a large bi-level cocktail bar under construction adjacent to the Ceres Café where he had taken an aisle-side table, idly sipping a cappuccino while perusing the lead story of the Sun Times.

         The featured article induced recurring thoughts of mankind’s current state of degradation— rueful of how the human race has sadly declined into a degenerate species, content to perpetuate military mayhem, genocide, terrorism, and homicides within a global cesspool rife with violent crimes, tyranny, corruption, perversity, thievery, and crookeries of every description.

         Such a pity, he sighed, acutely aware each denizen will soon have their day of atonement— beginning with Mr. Santorelli and his complicit attorney, he mused as he daubed his pencil-thin mustache while reflecting on the paper’s headlines.

MURDER TRIAL UNLIKELY!
REPUTED MOB BOSS TO GO FREE!

         Richard’s attention was drawn to an overhead monitor airing the same highly publicized news story.

         “Frank Santorelli’s murder trial resumes later this morning at the Dirksen Building Courthouse on south Dearborn. The alleged crime boss has been indicted for Federal racketeering and a double homicide in Near West-Side Chicago. But Dante Ippolito, counsel for the accused, said Judge Robert Allen will have no option but to grant a motion for dismissal.” The newscast then replayed clips of the flamboyant counselor leaving the courthouse last Friday afternoon.

         “The prosecution claims they have an eyewitness. Well, where is he?” the brash Ippolito challenged. “I’ll tell you where he is— he doesn’t exist. Never has. If you ask me, this entire ordeal is a pathetic media ploy, an election charade that’s getting tedious. My client has better things to do than to be an unwitting billboard for the D.A.’s political ambitions.”

         Santorelli’s attorney also berated the murder victims. “They were thugs! Hard core drug dealers with rap sheets a mile long, likely gunned down by turf rivals. Federal resources would be better spent rousting local gangbangers instead of perpetuating this agenda. My client is absolutely innocent. He happens to own a restaurant and two apartment buildings in that neighborhood, nothing more.”

         Ippolito continued flouting the D.A. as a political hack in contrast to his portrayal of Santorelli's civic distinctions. “My client is a pillar of the community, an honest businessman who abhors violent crime as would any other sensible citizen.”

         The media ate it up, but Crippen knew differently as he watched a smarmy Ippolito weave his way through a passel of reporters.

         Indeed, my time has come. Richard rekindled thoughts of his prophetic mission, driven by unimaginable esoteric forces astir within his sacred soul when a chance event would preempt his plans of being far more than a passive spectator at Santorelli’s court appearance less than two hours hence.

         “Dammit!” Juan Gomez watched helplessly from his wheelchair as a buttery bagel spun from his grasp and wobbled across the floor, coming to rest against Crippen’s ankle like a leaner in horseshoes. A little girl seated at an adjacent table giggled and pointed at the errant roll despite her mother’s disciplining. Juan first apologized to her for the profane slip, and then to Richard who was reaching for the culprit that left a blob of cream cheese sticking to his sock.

         “Sorry, mister. Slippery little devil got away from me. Get that for me, will ya, Mike?” Juan gestured to his table mate, a burly construction worker on coffee break from the build-out next door.

         “No bother.” Richard smiled and waved Mike off as he dropped the bagel into a waste bin and asked a counter clerk for a damp rag. The little girl went back to licking jellied fingers as Mike checked his watch, whose occasional morning break with Juan had become a highlight of his day. Mike idolized Juan, and relished every opportunity spent with the sports celebrity ever since he helped the Hall-of-Fame Jockey maneuver around construction materials blocking the mezzanine’s central elevator.

         Juan had once ranked among the nation’s leading riders with three Derby wins and a Triple Crown to his credit until a dozen years ago when a tragic spill left him permanently paralyzed from the waist down. The prognosis of irreparable spinal damage sent him tumbling into an abyss of despair. Only the deep-seeded love of his wife and two-year-old daughter at the time helped him find the strength to go on living, his resolve further uplifted after landing an engaging job as racing columnist for the Sun Times.

         Crippen had his foot propped atop a chair to clean his sock when he glanced at Juan; their eyes meeting for a mystic moment of silence before Mike abruptly interrupted an inexplicable sensation infusing Juan’s mind.

         “What are you staring at?” Mike glared. “You heard the man; he said he was sorry. You expect a fin for a new shine or something? Is that it?”

         “Chill out, Mike.” Juan glowered, and annoyed by Mike’s rudeness, pointed to a bag of coffees and donuts sitting on the table. “I think it’s time you took those to your crew. They’re probably antsy waiting on their morning java fix by now, anyway.” Unable to shake the eerie feeling, Juan tried resuming his brief interlude when Crippen apologized.

         “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I was not staring. Let’s just say I could see in your eyes how badly you wish you could have retrieved that bagel yourself.” Richard offered a redeeming smile. “It is possible… providing you have what it takes.”

         “Why, you insensitive son-of-a—” Mike huffed, stopping short of another slip in mixed company. “Listen, buster. Why don’t you shove off before you need that rag for your nose.”

         Crippen ignored Mike and remained focused on Juan. “I am most serious; it is possible for you to walk again.”

         Who are you; what are you? Juan shifted in his seat, his mind flooded with conflicting emotions. The levity of Crippen’s words and solemn demeanor resonated with such countenance, a rising sixth sense seemed to polarize the fabric of his being that kept him from denouncing this stranger as a certifiable screwball.

         Mike stood. “OK, bub, I’d say we’ve had enough of—”

         “Sit down!” Juan snapped. “For once in your life, will you please just – be – quiet!”

         Juan resumed attention to Crippen as a couple patrons awaiting service were drawn to their discourse. Some were curious, others were no doubt anticipating a physical confrontation was afoot. Despite his state of confusion, Juan found the words to ask.

         “What do you mean— providing I have what it takes? What do you want from me, some sort of donation? Is that your game? You think I have big money, or something? Don’t be playing me for a sucker, mister, ‘cuz if you’re some kind of a two-bit hustler duping people with mojo-magic, I ain’t buying. In fact, I despise such shenanigans… nothing but a bunch of phony charlatans preying upon desperate people’s emotions, hoping this once a miracle would come true. But I have no such aspirations, mister. Docs said I’d never walk again— ever! And that’s that. So, unless you can walk on water, amigo, I suggest you take your tin cup elsewhere.”

         “A normal reaction,” Richard conceded, “but before I leave, hear me true. I pray you have the courage to listen with your heart and not your ears, for I can only speak the truth. You see, I possess certain wisdoms that modern science cannot even fathom, much less refute if unable to measure or probe with instruments. But I assure you such mastery exists. Since you alluded to Jesus for example, I presume you believe he had the power to heal and perform a number of ‘miracles’ as you say… yes?”

         “Yeah, that’s right. I believe in Jesus and the Good Book, so what?”

         “You believe what was written centuries ago, yet you were not there to witness,” Richard responded. “So why do you not discard such stories as a possible myth, an allegorical or sensationalized story for effect?”

         “Because I’m a Christian; one of billions of us who believe what’s written in scriptures. That’s why, pal.”

         “An understandable answer, sure. But seems you prefer relying on blind-faith, with little or no reservations for the possibilities such references may have been mutated through multiple retellings, or perhaps crafted to sway the masses that forged traditional precepts celebrated for thousands of years.”

         “And still worshiped by billions of people, don’t forget,” Juan reiterated.

         “Maybe so, but have you ever considered that several centuries before your Christian tenets were ever conceived that nearly identical gospels in their root forms have been symbolized within several of the world’s theologies?”

         “What do you mean?”

         “Well, what if for instance you were living back then, before Christianity was even invented, and you were paralyzed as you are now when Jesus should happen by. Would you have recognized him for what he was? Would you have accepted his kindness? His curative abilities at face value— or would you and your companions have shooed him away, branding him as a phony charlatan hustling mojo magic?”

         “Ha! Get a load o’ this dude. Now the lunatic is gonna say he’s the second coming of Christ,” Mike scoffed.

         “Pa-lease, Mike. Shut up!”

         “This is no game, sir,” Crippen said with a hint of sternness. “And as for you, Mike? You may have uttered something closer to the truth than you could possibly imagine.” Crippen looked directly into Mike’s eyes. “It’s easy for you to be a cynic, driven only by a selfish aim to curry a pseudo-friendship with this man. But you’re not the one confined to a wheelchair. Thus, are you so certain I’m a hoax that you’re willing to risk derailing your friend’s only chance of ever walking again?”

         Mike blanched, and speechless for the first time as his hangdog expression shaped by Crippen’s inflection spoke for him. He suddenly felt exposed and shamed, let alone terrified of owning such a responsibility.

         Crippen re-addressed Juan. “It’s true. Your Jesus was a ‘christ’ in possession of such virtues. But contrary to what many may perceive, ‘Christ’ was not a surname, but a wondrous divine state of spiritual attainment derived from the Greek word, christós… meaning the anointed or enlightened one. An initiate and purveyor of abstruse knowledge.”

         Richard thence delivered an astounding revelation. “You see, I too have such capabilities, but only if you have an absolute desire to change in concert with an unwavering belief in me.”

         Juan’s mouth opened, but words were slow to come. “Why me? What do I have to do? How much do you want?”

         Richard sighed. “Hear me this once for I am very short of time. I am as you see me— a mere mortal, a man. But I am also an initiate, another christós if you will... or what is often referred to in Hindi as a ‘bodhisattva’, from the root word ‘bodhi’, meaning an ‘awakening’, of a, ‘sattva’, a divine, compassionate being versed in recondite secrets from beyond the Veil of Isis.

         “There have been many before me,” Richard continued, like Gautama Buddha, Vajrapani, Apollonius, Manjushri, and many others over the ages, including your beloved Jesus. But today, it is I, Richard Crippen, who now stands before you as an emissary from the same lot. But my purpose is not to amuse with wowie miracles, or to foster a religious cult. I am a messenger, the bearer of a momentous epistle for mankind. In the coming months, many will learn of my mission and hear my words, but few will heed. For now, let us focus on you. If you truly desire, you shall walk again within minutes. For the last time, what is your decision?”

         A momentary silence ensued between the pair.

         “I see. You’re still hesitant,” Crippen said. “No problem, but I really must...”

         “Please,” Juan interrupted and wheeled his chair closer. “Give me a minute. A single minute, please?” Juan grappled with an overwhelming sense that something incredible was indeed happening as tears welled in his eyes.

         “Please understand. My instincts are screaming at me; ‘believe him; believe in him,’ they’re saying. But I am also a newspaper man, a realist if you will, and not one to be awed by hyped TV BS. Of course I’d give the sun and moon to be able to walk again. So, please,” Juan begged. “My family and I have been living with this dreadful condition for years. All I ask is that you spare me from false hopes. I couldn’t take it if a ruse.”

         “I assure you this is no ruse— the bagel was no accident. And there is no need for money. No need for adoration or fanfare, only a genuine faith in me for less than a minute. Peace comes from within; trust your instincts.”

         Juan studied Crippen’s piercing eyes for only an instant. Convinced, he humbly nodded. “Yes. I believe in you; I truly do believe in you. What do I have to do?”

         “Simply relax, loosen your belt, and lean slightly forward. I need only lift your shirt tail and place my hand upon your lower spine for a brief moment. Ok?”

         Juan nodded as the suspense heightened. A few patrons and a passel of curious commuters looked on as Crippen placed one hand against Juan’s lower back, the other against his chest.

         “Now, listen carefully and concentrate. This is where you must give me your unconditional focus. Draw me into your soul. Fuse my will with yours and command your body to heal. Will it… will it to heal with all your heart.”

         Juan closed his eyes and exhaled softly as if submerging into a hot Jacuzzi and lowered his head until his chin rested upon Richard’s hand. What seemed like minutes took less than a dozen seconds when Crippen retrieved his hands.

         “You did well, my friend. But now the rest is up to you.”

         The little girl asked her mother what the man was doing but was shushed as all eyes were glued to the pair as Crippen knelt to help Juan lift each leg from the chair’s shoe rests.

         “Your legs may begin to feel warm and prickly at first as dormant muscles and nerve endings are coming to life, but it’s time to use your legs and arise.”

         “You’re right! I can feel it! It feels like they’re tingling all over.” Juan giggled with expectant joy as Crippen helped him stand.

         Richard then addressed a stupefied Mike who was at the front of a small gathering in the aisle, no doubt battling astonishment mixed with guilt given what he had just witnessed. “Since you want so much to be his friend, guide him toward you with a genuine want for his wellbeing.”

         Mike didn’t hesitate and complied by coaxing Juan to walk toward his waiting arms. A gasp from bystanders broke the silence as Juan took his first steps in over a dozen years.

         Look at me! I can walk! I can really walk!” Juan stepped forward into Mike’s arms and hugged him, partly in gratitude and partly to muffle an incontrollable sob with his face buried in Mike’s chest.

         Crippen reached for Mike’s bag of coffees and handed the package to Juan. “Here. I think Mike has been working too hard; that’s why he’s so grumpy,” Crippen teased, a gesture that helped Juan regain composure. “Take these to his mates next door. They must be starving and wondering where he is by now.”

         Juan brushed a trail of tears from his cheeks and looked toward the work area about forty feet away. He spotted one of Mike’s coworkers in the walkway, waving for fellow workers to come see what was happening for themselves.

         Onlookers parted as Juan slowly but methodically made his way toward the construction site and returned when a bystander broke the muffled silence.

         “What a load of rubbish. I seen this sort ‘o crap on TV before. They’re working together as a team to scam people out of money.”

         Mike heard it and whirled, shaking a menacing fist at the perp’s nose. “Shut your sorry face or I’ll shut it for you! This ain’t no scam! They have never met before today. That’s Juan Gomez, a famous jockey who’s been paralyzed for years and now writes for the Sun Times. Look him up! He’s in the paper every day, bozo.”

         Richard interrupted. “No need to get riled, Mike. There will always be naysayers. It’s pointless to try educating those who insist on living their lives unwisely. A decision to believe in me, to absorb the true essence of my message will rest entirely with each individual. And each shall bear the consequences of such decisions. Buddha once foretold that for those who choose to ignore the truth, ‘they shall lose what they cling to.’”

         “I believe you, sir. Besides, who the hell am I to talk. I was no different than him only ten minutes ago. And for that, I am so very sorry.” Mike profusely apologized. “I will change, I promise. I can really feel something rising within, and it’s a great feeling, I might add.” Mike knelt at Crippen’s feet with humbled tears welling in the big man’s eyes. “Please forgive me, sir. Give me a second chance. I’m so ashamed and don’t know what else to say.”

         “Say nothing and rise. There is no need to kneel in the face of enlightenment. I sense you are most sincere, a changed man as you say. Six centuries before your Jesus was born, Buddha also advanced the premise; ‘the mind is everything— no one can, and no one may save us but ourselves.’ You trusted your inherent power of reason and chose to believe in me. Now it’s time to believe in yourself. Remember this day forward. Learn from it. Live your life wisely… and you shall inherit the earth.”

         Richard turned to Juan and pointed to the wheelchair, suggesting he be seated but Juan adamantly refused.

         “I don’t ever want to sit in that damn thing again.”

         “There’s nothing to fear. You are truly healed and will always be able to rise and walk as you wish. But you should take it slow for a few months to rebuild your atrophied muscles. Give it some time, so I suggest you be seated. Before long you’ll be skipping up and down stairs and walking to work from the train station every day. I promise.”

         Juan returned the smile but chose to remain standing as a handful of people couldn’t take their eyes off Crippen, unsure if to applaud, ask for a blessing, or… insult him by asking how the ‘trick’ was done when Juan interjected.

         “I owe you so much, Mr. Crippen, more than I can ever express. And I know this is gonna sound silly, but I have to know. Are you? You know… are you the second coming of Jesus?”

         “No, and we had settled that already.” Richard smiled and took Juan’s hand. “We are shaped by our thoughts, and we become what we do and think. You need only think and act earnestly. By virtue of being human, we are all divine beings at birth… blessed with an intellect, a will, and an ability to choose right from wrong that separates us from every other lifeform. All anyone need do is, be it. Pure and simple. Trust your preternatural instincts and you will know exactly what to think, do, and say whenever any issue arises.” Crippen glanced at his watch.

         “Oh my; I must run. I have very important matters to tend to and need to be at the Dirksen courthouse within the next twenty minutes. It’s been a pleasure, fellas. Goodbye and stay well.”

         Crippen quickly headed toward the escalators, ignoring questions shouted from a few spectators snapping photos. Juan remained somewhat puzzled, sensing that somehow his psyche has been elevated, that their day’s interaction was deliberately meant to imply their paths are destined to cross again. Juan glanced at his wheelchair with contempt and elected to be seated at a table like normal patrons. He purposely selected the chair Crippen had abandoned, along with the Sun Times still open on the table that prompted him to immediately reach for his cellphone and fast-dial a close friend and colleague.

         “Barry? Gomez here.”

         Hey, Juan. I only have a couple minutes so make it quick. I’m in the lobby of the Dirksen Building about to go through security to cover the Santorelli hearing. What’s up?”

         “Precisely why I’m calling. A head’s up. There’s a Richard Crippen on his way to the courthouse; tall, slim, dark hair and a thin mustache, about mid-forties and wearing a navy pinstripe suit. Should be there in about five minutes or so, ‘and for a very important reason,’ he said. After what I’ve just been through and learned, I feel certain it’s connected to the Santorelli trial somehow. If I’m right, he’s going to be a much bigger story than you would ever dream of covering.”

         “Wow. Sounds serious. Is he the missing witness the Feds have been worried about?”

         “Could be in a way, I ‘spose. But there’s no time to discuss. When he arrives, pay close attention to who he sees, what he does and says. And whenever you get back to the Times, come by my office because lord knows we’re both gonna need a whopping drink.”

         “Ok, pal. You have definitely grabbed my attention. I’ll hang here a bit longer to see if he shows, but can you at least give me a clue what this is all about?”

         “I’ll explain everything later but will share this much— I can walk, Barry. I’m telling you, I can really walk again! And Crippen is responsible. Just do as I say. Find him, and follow him. Talk later, bye.”

         His next call was to his devoted wife, though he had no intention of sharing the mother of all surprises. As tough as it was to mask exhilaration, he warned he’d likely be an hour or so late from work and not to make dinner, that they’d order out fully anticipating the three of them would cave to a plethora of wondrous emotions the moment he walks through the door.

         Oh my God, what a magical day, he beamed after hanging up. Juan breathed easier after he managed to catch one of the Times’ star reporters still in the lobby. The relief drew his attention to the newspaper on the table. His years at the Times induced further reflections of his time spent with his remarkable benefactor.

         “My legs aren’t the only things coming to life today,” he said quietly to himself. Juan’s inquisitive nature intensified when recalling a few illuminating comments gleaned from the day’s events. His initial thought centered on a blessing bestowed to Mike who had flipped from hostility to humility before returning to his construction job next door.

         ‘And you shall inherit the earth,’ Crippen said to Mike when granting him forgiveness. Could those words suggest an apocalyptic prophecy of some kind? After all, the man did make it clear he was not here to change water into wine, but as a messenger bearing an epic epistle for mankind. He also stressed he had very little time before tending to critical matters at the courthouse as more alluring clues were beginning to emerge.

         ‘No one can save us but ourselves,’ was a particular axiom Juan kept repeating to himself until a glance at the paper’s headlines idled the intriguing refrain. ‘Many will hear, but few will heed,’ Crippen also announced in reference to his stated mission, Juan debated. Were the day’s combined euphemisms mere musings? A passel of pensive clichés?

         Hardly! Empty, pointless words can be ignored, but his words seem sacrosanct, beyond question with a prophetic ring that commands reverence. His fundamental precepts are certainly not intended to imply a threat, or a do-or-die ultimatum, but a revelation— a merciful plea for mankind to respect his message or risk losing… ’what they cling to,’ he said? What could that mean? Juan’s quizzical brainwaves dithered between cryptic clues and pragmatic links as to why he's at the courthouse.

         ‘A missing witness?’ the papers said. ‘A witness Ippolito insists never existed?’ My god, can the lot of them connected to the case be that stupid? He again alluded to the Times, expecting the FBI, the prosecutor, Judge Allen and even every jurist must know by now who they’re dealing with. Their missing canary is likely sleeping with the fishes somewhere. Yet, nobody wants to publicly announce the king has no clothes, only to be crucified if failing to back it up with indisputable evidence.

         Unless! Juan’s mindset purred like a mainframe. Unless this hearing must be the venue Crippen chose to launch his ‘very important’ mission. Here! In the Windy City. And why not Chicago? It’s a perfect play. One of the world’s largest cities, ranked 2nd highest in the nation for homicides, and at a public arena set to try one of the nation’s most notorious mobsters; the head of a powerful crime syndicate whose smug attorney is probably just as involved in shady affairs as Santorelli.

         Wow! That’s got to be it! For my money, I think Crippen is about to expose their innocence or guilt by virtue of either accepting or rejecting a God-given chance to save themselves with the truth— the real truth! Not a charade of Ippolito's twisted legal denials. I’ll lay 20:1 Santorelli’s ultimate fate will not be decided by a judicial process today, that he’s about to become his own judge, jury, and… somehow be his own executioner? The finality of such a prospect fanned the flames of further puzzlement.

         What if they do completely reject Crippen? Santorelli's brazen attorney is bound to argue objections, that this self-proclaimed witness is a delusional nut case, a crazy sensationalist who doesn’t know squat about the case, let alone qualify as credible. I can picture the egocentric Ippolito strutting his stuff, razzle and dazzling promises of acquittal to multiple murders; sure to undermine their chances of deified redemption when Juan’s mind reverted back to a previous notion.

         Hmm? What would be the consequences? Would Crippen’s quoted epithet to Mike, ‘they shall lose what they cling to’ be applicable here? If so, is the credo meant to be a metaphor, or taken literally? Does the inference mean they should abandon flawed ideals in order to stay on the path of earning holy blessings? Or would they forfeit power and influence, giving up their ill-gotten wealth and other material things? Or could the premise actually mean they’d… lose their lives?

         Vacillating theories between arcane wisdoms and earthly allusions bewildered Juan, who made a mental note to spend coming weekends pouring over his Bible’s Book of Revelations. Until now, he had never given much thought as to the sheer numbers that must account for the rotting core of our globe.

         I have no idea how Crippen plans to deliver his luminous tidings. Or what type of receptions he’s likely to provoke, but given man’s self-serving state of amorality, I think he’s destined to run into fierce resistance from both clerical and layman sectors alike. Considering Murphy’s law of averages, what I fear the most is he’ll probably incite a comparable condemnation that befell our previous savior.

         My God! A gripping thought emerged. How many— how many of us will actually listen? How many self-adjudicated souls will be left to populate the Earth? Juan sighed, glancing at a couple adjacent patrons and then to a parade of travelers bustling through Union Station. Though a very large and busy edifice, the crowds were miniscule compared to the city’s three million. Our life-giving planet is a whole different ballgame.

         How will the masses decide what path to take? Is the world prepared for such a glorious event? Will we ever be? It’s one thing to read about and presume the impact of events recorded eons ago, but this is the here and now. Modern day times where people would be living through the transition; bearing the consequences of fateful choices versus customary rites proffered by some ministry or other.

         I wonder... will the global masses even be capable of accepting him for who and what he is? And especially to respect the reasons as to why he's here— a celestial supreme being for the benefit of each and every one of us. Or will they send him packing? Will there be a worthy civilization left to reconstruct a homogenous peaceful species? An enlightened New Age; free of perpetual conflicts; free of crime and personal indiscretions while fostering a genuine compassion for our fellow man? As for me, I believe it's destiny. I wouldn’t be surprised if this ordinary workday will eventually be memorialized as the day when a living 'Bodhisattva' has awakened!

         Questions, questions, questions. So many mystic theories, confusing allegories, and various interpretations that have shaped multiple theocracies that have proliferated for several millennia. The global impact is mindboggling. But heeding Crippen’s last bit of advice, he stood, stretched, and returned to his wheelchair while noting the time on his phone.

         “Good grief, I’d better scoot,” he groaned, partly from raw anxiety over what may be happening at the Dirksen Building, and, of how his higher-ups are likely to react as to why he’s so late. But, he chuckled, after I stand from this bloody contraption, I’ll lay another c-note that more than one in the office will be running for champagne.

         “What a fabulous summer day,” Juan enunciated to himself as he exited the station at West Adams and Wacker, directly across from the Sears Tower where the Sun Times maintained administrative offices. Filled with a freshly charged sense of vitality, he massaged the top of each thigh still tingling with life while waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Only this time, grinning like a Cheshire cat, he couldn’t resist rejecting his savior’s words.

         Despite people rushing around and by him, he proudly stood and slowly pushed his captive cage of twelve years across Wacker Drive and to the entrance of the Tower. Immensely jubilant, he re-seated while fielding a final lingering thought about the morning's bizarre events.

         I wonder what will happen after today? It's beyond comprehension, yet exhilarating at the same time. I haven’t the faintest clue where, when, or how the planet’s future will eventually shake out, but do know a couple of things for certain.

         The bagel was indeed no accident, Mr. Crippen, and, Barry is about to scoop one heck of a story for the Times. From this incredible morning forward, there will be at least two humble mortals awakened as well. Two modern day apostles who will be first on this earth who are ready, willing, and committed to heed your every word.



PROMPT: What if this is a day to remember? - the band, A Day to Remember
W.C.: 5571