The Day The Aliens Came

It was a miracle because no doctor could explain it and it was my uncle's miracle because I joked it and mom believed, not necessarily in the same sequence.

For a very long time after the canonization of my uncle I never saw him in dreams. I was hungry for life and enjoying being healthy.

I held back publishing anything on the Dark Matter. I still did not trust human nature. It was a tough decision and I escaped by sampling the distractions of youth.

On the day of my graduation with a degree in astrophysics with honors; I dreamt of my uncle Barnard, now known as St. Tomlinson of Golden Lake.

"Are you really my uncle."

"Of course I am you ungrateful kid. Did you think I was a space alien looking for a ride?"

"Well, it happens; St Tomlison."

"Yes, about this sainthood thing; why did you do this to me? I thought you loved me."

"Sorry uncle did not mean to. Won't do it again."

"You could have saved me and told them I was gay."

"I could but I was not sure of that point."

"Me too, not sure myself and never got a chance to find out," he laughed his hearty laughter. He added, "what's with this performing of a miracle posthumously. You would think that doing anything- however mundane, anything at all after death, even going to the washroom, would be a miracle all by itself."

"Well, you did much more than that."

"I did not, I wanted to though and I am happy for you. Now stop cruising and partying and do what you are here to do. All we are given in this life is time, and precious little of it at that. There will be enough time for fun when you're thirty something. Don't waste your age of wonder."

After a long pause he added, "and, trust the goodness in human nature. On the balance of things, science and technology made life better. Don't be mistrusting of others like a religious zealot."

I remembered when he told me, shortly after my accident, that all things happen for a reason. I remember wondering then what reason could that be that a young boy like me becomes paralyzed. I then wonder if I were not trapped in the wheelchair, would I have been receptive to thought-probes coming across galaxies to make contact?

IN the years that followed "my miracle" the debate raged between those who believed that it was nothing but a miracle performed by a saintly uncle, and those who believed it was intelligence from far away sharing with the wisdom of their civilization. The opinion was equally divided with each side discounting the other completely. In the end I was not too sure myself. Why would one story be more believable than the other I will never understand. At one point I became not sure myself. I know it was not my uncle, but "an alien looking for a ride," but I loved my uncle and wanted to honor his memory. I also loved my mother and wanted very much to make her happy. Would this justify falsifying truth, as I know it?

Then I ask my self what is truth. People will believe what they want or need to believe. Perhaps without faith life would be unbearable, or worse: meaningless.

One thing I was sure of: It was my uncle Barnard in the later dream. As he always did, he came to give me a wake up call, and to guide me in a tough decision. Exactly the kind of thing a saint like him would do, posthumously.