The Chosen

To recall and reassess any part of what took place then only serves to confuse me further, on the evidence apparent. Yet this recent revelation prompts my hand to put pen to paper, and record all of the relevant details, for what they are worth. For me, the mystery has only increased in magnitude, and deepened further. All those years ago, but the dates and incidents are firmly entrenched within my memory: never to be forgotten.

My son, two weeks past his forty-third birthday, and elected to the position of Secretary-General of the United Nations. An achievement I swelled with pride over. His mother, but were she still alive, would have shared the moment with me. A son we had always been proud of. Yes, forty-three years now passed. Over forty-four since Joshua and I first met.

I was duly present at my son's inauguration to his new position, and truly overwhelmed with congratulations on his appointment myself. The assembly hall was packed to capacity to see this youthful man attain so coveted a rank: and in the same year he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. In a world stricken by droughts, famines, energy crisis, economic declines, and living under the constant threat of nuclear holocaust, he was looked to for solutions. To bring stability and order where order into chaos had become the unwritten rule.

That evening I sat at home, in the quiet of my study, and reviewed the day's inaugural ceremony through the medium of television news. My son was the principal character that the cameras trained upon, but there were many pull-back shots of the diplomats and dignitaries present also.

It was during one of them that I saw Joshua. A look of pride and happiness on his face as he observed the ceremony from the wings of the hall. My surprise was flooded out by thoughts of how I might contact him again, when in those confused seconds I realised this was the same Joshua I had met in Manila: over forty years previously. The very same man, not aged visibly one day.

Wavy, blonde hair. Wide, smiling deep blue eyes. Lean muscled frame. Tall and distinguished. The same sense of presence that radiated confidence and inner strength. Not one wrinkle upon his brow. And myself grown old and grey, with Jenna dead these four years past. Impossible, I told myself, repeated to myself. Yet what he had done that night forty-odd years before, the night our son had died, was impossible too.

I had arrived in Manila, the capital city of the Philippines, on my first vacation from my newly-appointed position as a computer engineer on an oil production platform, based in the Java Sea. A well prospected job, fresh out of university in the States and into a free travel, top-salaried line of employment. A great opportunity for gathering all kinds of experience, and feathering my bank account too. One I took to with gusto, working only one month offshore, and then one month's vacation. All paid, and paid well.

Although it was my first trip to Manila, I had heard so much about the country, and particularly in the city, from my fellow crew members that I felt I already knew the place intimately. I had a score of addresses from them: of decent hotels to stay, and bars to drink. All of which abounded with hospitality girls who would jump at the chance to share my leave, and my bed. Yes, the shallow aims of youth, I reflect. But I was so young then, and all of life before me was novel and carefree.

After establishing myself in an apartment style hotel, I ventured out into the city to seek some of the famed disco bars on my list. My first choice proved to be quiet. So after slowly drinking a cold beer there, I decided to move on down the road. I asked the bar waitress to settle my bill, and give directions to the next watering hole on my list. She seemed vague as to straight forward directions, and spoke to a man sitting at the far end of the bar: alone and nursing his drink. Returning moments later, she informed me that Mr. Joshua knew the bar, and could direct me there.

I alighted my stool, and moved up the bar to introduce myself and join him. He was of an indeterminable age. I guessed somewhere in his late thirties, or early forties. His accent as difficult to place as his years. Definitely Caucasian. Well-spoken English. Blonde, with sharp blue eyes. Yet his skin held an olive hue that seemed to belie a hardened sun tan. We got to chatting, and he called up two fresh drinks in what I was later to learn was fluent Tagalog. When I inquired if he lived in the Philippines, his grasp of the language so proficient, he informed me he had no permanent address but travelled continually. I asked which was his country of origin, but again the answer was one of ambiguity. He stated he was an International: first and last.

As we finished our drinks, he inquired why I wished to visit the bar I had mentioned earlier.
'Looking for a wild time, and wilder girls? You have to be careful in this city. You can encounter trouble with some of these bars and their hostesses. Better you choose a quiet bar where the prices aren't exorbitant, and the girls are honest,' he advised.

He suggested we take a walk down the street a-ways, and I eagerly complied with his obvious expansive knowledge on the subject that had primarily brought me there: on my first leave from the offshore drilling crew in Indonesia. We walked a couple of blocks, then he entered a small bar with several cosy booths, and quite a number of beautiful looking hostesses decorating the place. I dogged his footsteps, and drew myself onto a corresponding bar stool to his.

Again, he ordered drinks in fluent Tagalog, and we whiled away the afternoon and early evening discussing the world in general; and myself too. My beliefs, my ideals, and my dreams and aspirations in particular. I don't think I was totally intoxicated with the drinks that evening, but as it progressed I was hard put to keep my eyes and attentions on anything other than the exotic beauties in the bar.

Joshua spoke to the Mamasan, and she disappeared into the rear of the bar for a few moments, returning with a beautiful girl in her late teens. I was introduced to her by Joshua, and he informed her, in her native Visayan dialect, that I wished to buy her a drink and enjoy her company: if she were willing. Jenna sat on a stool beside me, and ordered fruit juice. Then she proceeded to open a conversation in excellent English, which at first surprised me until she explained it was compulsory subject in their school curriculum.

As Jenna and I became engrossed with each other's stories, Joshua settled his bill, wished us both a good-night, and left. Jenna asked where my friend was going. I replied I didn't know, as I had only met him earlier that afternoon, but surmised he was a regular customer there. No, she related, it was the first time she had ever seen him. That, I feel, was the first piece of the puzzle.

Well, needless to say, Jenna was my initial close encounter with a Filippina, and she was a beautiful and intoxicating example of her race. I felt, at first, a deep infatuation for her. By the end of my month's vacation that had grown into what I would eventually learn was true and lasting love.

The following month of duty, offshore Java, passed quickly by, and my next accumulated leave period found me back in Manila: reunited with Jenna once more. We toured the archipelago extensively together during my vacation, and towards the end of it I asked Jenna if she would cease working as a bar hostess if I provided her with support. She was enamoured with me enough to agree, and also enrolled herself at college during my next working absence. Back to college, to complete her earlier-curtailed education: due the lack of financial assistance by her family.

It was during my next leave period that I met Joshua again. I had been walking in the Luneta Park, and was returning to the recently-acquired apartment which Jenna and I now shared. I saw him crossing the boulevard into the park, and coming straight towards me. I was so full of my news and the plans for the future that Jenna and I had made, that I tattled on for quite some time.
As we sat in the quiet of the park he absorbed all I related to him with obvious interest, his eyes never leaving mine. A smile of deep satisfaction lit his face when I told him Jenna and I had posted the banns at my embassy, and were to marry in two months' time, when I was next on vacation.

When he inquired where we planned to spend our honeymoon I informed him we hadn't given the matter much thought, and if we really wanted a honeymoon at all was still undecided.

He proceeded to talk in depth of the highest city in the Philippines: the summer capital of Baguio. Resplendent and cool, with her beautiful pine trees and surrounding mountains. Six thousand feet of elevation, and panoramic, breath-taking views. The idyllic place for honeymooning couples, he revealed, and one frequently chosen by many Filipino newly-weds.

I extended to him the offer to stand as my best man at the wedding ceremony, as I would be hard pressed to find a fellow crew member who had the same leave schedule as my own, and who would be in Manila during the period we planned to marry.
He was sorry, he replied, to have to decline my thoughtful offer, but he too would be absent from the country at that time also. I related it was a pity he could not attend our marriage union, as it was he who had been the instrument of bringing Jenna and myself together. I wished to show my appreciation, with this gesture as gratitude.

His following statement surprised me a little at first, but in the way he asked, it seemed a deeply felt request. I agreed to it readily, certain of Jenna's approval: if and when the occasion arose. He wished to be god-father to our first born child, he said. There was no need for gratitude in bringing us together: we were like spirits, and only needed pointing in each other's direction. But, if I felt that I did owe a debt for the introduction, then allowing him the privilege of being god-father would repay it, many fold.

Jenna and I duly married, and strangely enough, enjoyed two weeks of undisturbed bliss: spending our honeymoon in the mountain capital of Baguio. There must be some truth in the old wive's tales and superstitions that it is the ideal location for newly-wedded couples, as Jenna conceived during our stay there.

She continued college through her pregnancy, stopping only as her confinement drew close. I arranged my leave schedules as to be home for a minimum of two weeks before her forecast delivery date, and if necessary, to take a leave of absence until she was recovered enough to care for our first born alone, whereupon I would return to my work.

Jenna enjoyed an easy pregnancy, and really bloomed in healthy looks, her face and eyes radiant with the approach of imminent motherhood.

Our son was born in the breaking dawn of a bright Philippine morning. A Capricorn, with a good head of dark hair, and all his fingers and toes, he weighed in at seven and a half pounds. Jenna experienced a short labour, and a relatively easy delivery, and was soon sat up in the bed of her room in the maternity clinic.

I left her to rest and sleep, and returned home that evening full of the joys of fatherhood. I telegrammed Jenna's parents, in their home province of Leyte, with the news, then rang my own parents in the States to inform them of the arrival of their first grand-child. It was late when I had completed my call, to the proud grand-parents, and had no sooner just replaced the phone on its cradle when it rang. A pall of total despair fell over me when I learned it was the maternity clinic. They requested my presence there immediately. There were complications with our newly-born son's respiratory functions.

I hailed a cab outside our apartment and quickly returned to the clinic. A lady doctor met me at the reception desk, and explained our baby's lungs were filling with fluid. He was unable to breathe without the aid of a respirator. She then requested me to accompany her to Jenna's room, and be with her while she too was informed of the drastic downturn in our child's earlier excellent condition.

Jenna wept bitterly. Even more so when the doctor informed us there were small hopes he would live through the night. As Catholics, did we wish her to summon a priest to christen our son, and be at hand to administer last rites? Out of my confused mind I mumbled my consent, and requested we be allowed into the nursery wing to see our dying child.

We walked slowly along the corridor, Jenna leaning against me and weeping. In the nursery, our son had been removed into a glass-walled intense care unit, and further encased in a respirator. A doctor was examining him, with a stethoscope and his hand passed through a side pocket of the unit. Faced against the glass of the I/C, we stared helplessly in, as the last of life ebbed from our son. I was unaware of someone standing beside me until he spoke.

'This should be a time of great joy for you both, yet it is time of tears. The child's soul has not yet grasped the essence of it's physical being.'

Joshua! It was Joshua. There, alongside me. His eyes saddened as I told him our boy was not expected to live beyond that night. My mind was confused and depressed. It was only much later I thought of why he came to visit in the late hours of night. Who had told him of our son's birth? How did he know which clinic to come to? These questions were further suppressed in my thoughts by the arrival of a priest, accompanied by the woman doctor.

She hurried into the cubicle to confer with her already present associate. The priest approached Jenna and myself with condolences we didn't want to hear, asking further what name the child was to have. Jenna pulled herself closer to my side, and her sobbing deepened. I was at a loss. We had discussed names on a frivolous basis only, and had no certain one picked. We intended to wait until our baby arrived, then we could choose a name to suit.

As the priest was about to repeat his question, Joshua spoke out, 'His name shall be Michael, and that alone.'

I turned to him, wondering why he would assume to name our child without conferring with me. But as the forming words from my confused mind stuttered across my lips, he placed his hands upon my shoulders and gave me a look of all wisdom: slowly nodding his head twice.

The doctors moved aside as the priest approached the respirator unit containing our son. His ritual was short, and without the usual accompanying ceremony. His task performed, he exited the I/C unit and came to stand beside us as the doctors continued their examination. The elder male doctor removed his stethoscope from the respirator, and slowly lowered his head, with a long sigh.

Even through my clouded mind I immediately understood the implication of this gesture, and hugged Jenna closer to me as warm salt tears swept my face. The doctors left the I/C and came to my wife and I with their sorrowful condolences.

'Things can always go wrong in a baby's early days.' 'Young enough to have more children.' 'No indication anything would be wrong with your next child,' they informed us.

Then suddenly the lady doctor turned sharply, calling out, 'You can't go in there!'
In my half-perceiving state I hadn't noticed Joshua enter the I/C. The doctors tried to follow him, but the door was securely locked. No, not locked, as no lock was fitted. They pushed and banged on it, calling out their protestations, as he opened the respirator. Slowly, so gently, he took up our son's body in his hands and held him aloft.

Jenna and I drew close together, gazing spell-bound, as he lowered the small body and kissed it's forehead. Then he mouthed the words, 'Michael, your time to go has not yet arrived.'

A blue glow emanated from Joshua, growing stronger and further in it's reach. Deepening at first, then, as it engulfed the whole I/C unit, becoming lighter: as intense as ultra-violet. The doctors had ceased their efforts to gain entry to the cubicle, and stared on unbelievingly also. Now it was hardly possible to see anything inside, just the outline of Joshua's body. Arms outstretched, holding his godson in his hands.

The light grew brighter and brighter, then suddenly glowed in an all-white flash. Disappearing in the same instant, it left a blackness darker than night: impenetrable to the human eye.
As quickly as it had manifested, the inky darkness gave way to a point of yellow light at its centre. This grew whiter and larger as moments ticked by. Turning again to the ultra-violet sheen, it once more filled the entirety of the I/C. My eyes winced involuntarily at it's intensity. Then I could discern the shape of Joshua once more, lowering Michael into the open respirator. The blue glow seemed to fade, drawing back into Joshua's body: from which it had first emanated.

He leaned forward, and kissed Michael once more upon the forehead, then turned and opened the cubicle door. Speaking to both the astonished doctors, and he stated that he thought their earlier diagnosis incorrect, and advised them to check again. Jenna was stood erect, eyes wide and staring - first at Joshua, then to the open respirator, over which the baffled doctors busied themselves amid the cries of our son.

Joshua walked to us, and took Jenna's hands, and mine, between both of his.

'Do you like the name of Michael for your son?' he asked, I stuttered yes, as Jenna embraced him, whispering repeated thanks through fresh tears: tears of joy.

The priest struggled to regain composure, and weakly spoke, 'What manner of man are you to perform this thing?' He visibly desired to reach out and touch Joshua, but held himself in restraint.

'Why,' replied Michael's godfather, 'I am what you aspire to be. I am living faith, in manifest form: no more.'

He turned back to Jenna and I, speaking we should now look to our son, as he had to leave. Both doctors were baffled and at a loss to explain why, but our son's breathing was normal, his respiratory system unimpeded. All vital signs and heartbeat were strong. His body was functioning as it should. A healthy new-born child: almost one day old.

'Who was the person who went into the I/C unit?' they asked. 'How had he done what he did?'

I looked around to where Joshua had stood moments before. But, as my clearing mind had expected, he had gone. The priest still held his place, staring into the respirator at Michael, mouthing silent mutterings of disbelief - overwhelmed and totally unconvinced of the miracle he had been a privileged witness to.

We took our beloved baby home that next morning: to his own cot beside our bed. Never again in his lifetime did he succumb to ill-health, nor suffer the usual, expected childhood ailments. He thrived and grew into exceptional manhood. And all thanks to a man whose second name I never knew.

And how to contact him now? I fear there is no known address to his abode. Nor a true record kept of the places he passes through. Nor the lives he touches for brief moments of his journey. All I can conclude is that he touched our lives so long ago, and we became finer people in his passing wake.