The Assignment

The Assignment

Version One — The Revelation

I awoke with a start.

Something had disturbed my sleep, although I couldn’t say what. The bedroom was dark and silent. I glanced at the clock beside the bed.

3:05 a.m.

I closed my eyes, but something wasn’t right.

Someone was in the room.

I couldn’t see anyone. I heard no footsteps, no breathing, no movement. Yet I knew I wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” I called into the darkness.

Silence.

I raised my voice.

“Who’s there?”

A quiet voice answered.

“It’s just me.”

I sat upright.

“Who’s me?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not supposed to know I’m here.”

I reached for the bedside lamp.

“Please don’t.”

My hand stopped.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’ve always been here.”

“What do you mean, always?”

“Since you arrived.”

“Arrived where?”

“Here. On this world.”

I stared into the darkness.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I know. You’re not supposed to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you’re here.”

I felt a chill.

“Are you telling me you know why I’m alive?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because we placed you here for a reason. And knowing that reason would interfere with what you’re supposed to do.”

I swung my feet onto the floor.

“Who is ‘we’?”

There was no answer.

“Are you God?”

“No.”

“An angel?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“Something you don’t yet have the knowledge to understand.”

“That’s convenient.”

“I suppose it is.”

The answer irritated me. Whoever—or whatever—this was, it seemed perfectly comfortable being in my bedroom without explaining itself.

“Am I dreaming?”

“No.”

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t.”

I considered turning on the light anyway.

“Would I see you if I did?”

“No.”

“Then how do I know you’re real?”

“Perhaps you don’t need to.”

I looked again at the clock.

3:05.

The numbers hadn’t changed.

“Why are you here tonight?”

A long silence followed.

“Because you’ve begun wondering whether your life has mattered.”

I felt suddenly exposed.

It was true. Lately I had been looking back over my life, remembering accomplishments and disappointments, decisions made and opportunities missed. I had begun wondering what it all amounted to.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I told you. We’ve always been close by.”

“Watching me?”

“Observing.”

“Everything?”

“Everything that matters.”

“That’s a disturbing thought.”

“To you, perhaps.”

I sat quietly for a moment.

“All right. If you know so much about my life, answer something.”

“I’m listening.”

“Was it Hurricane Ike?”

“What about it?”

“Was that why I was sent here?”

The question surprised even me.

I remembered the hurricane vividly. The destruction, the uncertainty, the decisions that couldn’t wait. People depending upon me when there were no easy answers. Problems that had never appeared in our plans suddenly demanded immediate solutions.

For a time, it had seemed that everything I had learned throughout my career was being tested at once.

“Was that my assignment?” I asked.

“No.”

I felt strangely disappointed.

“Then why did it happen?”

“The hurricane was a natural event. But what followed created circumstances we had not anticipated.”

“You mean you didn’t know what was going to happen?”

“No.”

“I thought you people were supposed to know everything.”

“We never said that.”

“Then what happened?”

“You were needed to deal with a problem that arose. It was important. But it wasn’t why you were sent here.”

I shook my head.

“You’re telling me I was placed on Earth for some particular purpose, but even you don’t know everything that’s going to happen?”

“Knowing a destination is not the same as knowing every road that leads there.”

“And what if I take the wrong road?”

“Then another may become available.”

“And if I never reach the destination?”

“That happens.”

The answer unsettled me more than anything else the visitor had said.

“So people can fail?”

“Of course.”

“Then why not tell us what we’re supposed to do?”

“Because the choice must be yours.”

I thought about that.

“Do you interfere in our lives?”

“Sometimes we create opportunities.”

“Like what?”

“An unexpected meeting. A delayed journey. A conversation that might never otherwise occur.”

“You’re describing coincidences.”

“That’s what you call them.”

“Are you saying every coincidence is arranged?”

“No. Most are simply coincidences.”

“How am I supposed to tell the difference?”

“You aren’t.”

I leaned back against the headboard.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why tell me any of this?”

The voice seemed to hesitate.

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I wanted to.”

For the first time, I heard something almost human in its response.

Curiosity.

Perhaps even uncertainty.

“You have rules?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve broken one?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because after observing you for so long, I wanted to hear what you would ask.”

I smiled despite myself.

“Well, I’ve got plenty of questions.”

“I know.”

“Do we live more than once?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Are there other worlds?”

“Yes.”

“Other people?”

“Other forms of life. More than you could imagine.”

“Do they have assignments?”

“Many do.”

“Who decides?”

Silence.

“Do you know who created the universe?”

“No.”

That answer caught me completely off guard.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Then maybe you’re not so different from us.”

“Perhaps not as different as you think.”

I looked toward the window. Beyond the curtains, the world remained dark.

“One last question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Will I ever know why I was sent here?”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“When knowing can no longer change what you choose to do.”

I waited for more.

Nothing came.

“Are you still there?”

Silence.

I turned on the bedside lamp.

The room was empty.

The clock read 3:06.

***

Life continued.

There were ordinary days and extraordinary ones. There were people I helped and people I disappointed. There were decisions I was proud of and others I wished I could make again.

I never told anyone about the visitor.

Who would have believed me?

Occasionally, something happened that made me wonder whether an unseen hand had been involved. An unexpected telephone call. A chance encounter. A problem resolved by someone who happened to appear at precisely the right moment.

But I had no way of knowing.

And gradually, the memory of that strange night became something I kept in a quiet corner of my mind.

Until one afternoon at the grocery store.

I was standing in the checkout line behind a very elderly woman.

She was small and frail, bent forward by age, and moved with painful slowness.

The cashier finished scanning her groceries and told her the amount due.

The woman opened her purse.

She searched through one compartment, then another. She removed a handkerchief, some receipts, and several other small items.

Still no money.

I glanced at my watch.

I had things to do.

Another minute passed.

I shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.

Finally, I leaned toward the cashier.

“Just put her groceries on my bill,” I whispered.

The cashier nodded, gently touched the old woman’s hand, and said softly, “You can go, ma’am. Everything is taken care of.”

The woman looked confused.

She gathered her groceries and began shuffling toward the exit.

I felt relieved. At last the line could move.

Then she stopped.

Slowly, she turned around.

“I have money!” she declared angrily.

I looked into her face.

And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

It was my mother.

My mother had been dead for decades. Yet there, standing before me, was her face.

The same features.

The same expression.

Those unmistakable blue eyes.

I knew it couldn’t be her. But the resemblance was so overwhelming that for a moment I forgot where I was.

“Mother,” I whispered.

I don’t know why I said it.

Then I found my voice.

“I know that. Just accept it.”

She looked at me for another moment, turned, and shuffled away.

The woman behind me leaned forward.

“Now that’s paying it forward,” she said. “I think I’m going to cry.”

I swallowed hard.

“If we live long enough, we’ll all be there.”

I turned toward the cashier, blinking back a tear.

She handed me my receipt.

When our eyes met, a knowing smile spread across her face.

Neither of us said anything.

I left the store and went about my day.

I never saw the elderly woman again.

But I never forgot her face.

***

Many years passed.

I grew old.

The responsibilities that had once consumed my days were gone. I had more time to think about the life I’d lived.

Occasionally I remembered the voice in my bedroom.

I wondered whether I had completed whatever assignment had brought me into this world.

One night, I awoke suddenly.

I didn’t need to look at the clock.

I already knew.

3:05 a.m.

“You’re back,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve never left.”

I smiled.

“Still observing?”

“Always.”

“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed the show.”

“More than you know.”

I laughed quietly.

“Tell me something. Have I done it?”

“Done what?”

“My assignment.”

“Yes.”

I sat up.

“When?”

“Many years ago.”

I began searching my memory.

“Something during my career?”

“No.”

“Something during Hurricane Ike?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You paid for an elderly woman’s groceries.”

I stared into the darkness.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“That was my mission? To buy groceries for an old woman?”

“That was the beginning.”

I remembered the woman’s face immediately.

“My mother,” I whispered.

“The resemblance was remarkable.”

“Was that you? Did you arrange it?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Of course you can’t.”

The visitor continued.

“Do you remember the woman standing behind you?”

“Vaguely. She said something about paying it forward.”

“Her name was Margaret.”

I waited.

“Margaret had inherited a considerable fortune from her late husband. She had spent years searching for something meaningful to do with it. She had become disillusioned with the world and increasingly withdrawn from the people around her.”

“Then she witnessed what happened in the grocery store.”

“She saw an impatient man quietly pay an elderly stranger’s bill. She saw that stranger defend her independence. She saw the man suddenly overcome with emotion.”

“And she heard what you said.”

“If we live long enough, we’ll all be there,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

The voice paused.

“She went home that afternoon and began thinking about the elderly people she passed every day without noticing. People who had once been strong and independent, who had raised families, built businesses, taught children, and contributed to their communities.”

“She decided to do something.”

“What?”

“She established a foundation to help elderly people remain independent, obtain medical care, and live with dignity.”

“At first, the effort was small. A few volunteers. Transportation to appointments. Assistance with groceries. Visits to people living alone.”

“Then others became involved.”

“The foundation grew. It expanded into other communities, other states, and eventually other countries.”

“Today, millions of elderly people have benefited from its programs.”

I sat motionless.

“Millions?”

“Yes.”

“Because of something that happened in a grocery store?”

“Because of what Margaret decided to do after witnessing it.”

I thought about that.

“But I didn’t do any of those things.”

“No.”

“She did.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you telling me that was my mission?”

“Because your assignment was to inspire hers.”

I shook my head.

“But I wasn’t trying to inspire anyone. I was impatient. I just wanted the line to move.”

“I know.”

“Then how could that possibly count?”

“Because you could have reacted differently. You could have complained. You could have embarrassed her. You could have walked away.”

“Instead, you quietly helped.”

I thought about the old woman, the anger in her voice, and the face of my mother staring back at me.

“Why didn’t you tell me what would happen?”

“Because then you would have been following instructions.”

“And that would have been wrong?”

“Not wrong. But different.”

The visitor paused.

“Your assignment wasn’t simply to perform an act of kindness. It was to make a choice without knowing that anything depended upon it.”

I remained silent for a long time.

Finally, I asked, “What about all the other things I did in my life? Did they matter?”

“Of course.”

“Then why this one moment?”

“Because you spent your life measuring the importance of your actions by the results you could see.”

I looked toward the window.

“And this was something I couldn’t see.”

“Yes.”

“Something I never even knew happened.”

“Until now.”

I felt tears gathering in my eyes.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Of course.”

“That old woman. Why did she look so much like my mother?”

The visitor was silent.

Then it said, “Some things are better left unexplained.”

I smiled.

“You’re never going to tell me everything, are you?”

“No.”

The room grew quiet.

Then the voice spoke again.

“There’s something else you should know.”

“What?”

“Margaret had an assignment, too.”

“To establish the foundation?”

“Yes.”

“And the old woman?”

A long silence followed.

“She completed hers that afternoon.”

“What was it?”

“To be there.”

I waited for an explanation.

None came.

Then the visitor spoke one final time.

“Never underestimate the importance of a moment simply because it appears ordinary.”

I looked at the clock.

3:05 a.m.

For the first time, I didn’t have another question.

I lay back against my pillow and closed my eyes.

And I smiled.