A tragedy as beautiful as it was terrible

The tranquil lab was violently disrupted by the piercing ring of my phone. I quickly snatched it, knowing who was texting, my heart hammering. A digital drum roll building up to the defining milestone of my life's work.

On the screen, the numbers displayed something unbelievable. My fruit flies, tiny symbols of my toil, had surpassed our most aggressive estimates for their lifespan, flourishing into their fifth year. They had defied time, living thirty times longer than usual, still buzzing in their enclosures showing no sign of age.

News spread. In minutes, I received over 200 texts: “Congratulations James!” 

The President of the United States already categorized the early discovery as one of the most important in history.

But I couldn't afford to revel in the moment. 

The nagging reminder of human mortality echoed in my mind, signaling that my breakthrough had more serious implications than just a cause for celebration. I captured this pivotal moment with a photograph, posted to Instagram, of a fruit fly with vibrant and vivid eyes, that would reverberate through the scientific and political spheres, heralding the dawn of a groundbreaking era in science. 

I boarded a flight to the DC Beltway, where pharmaceutical giants, armed with substantial funds for investment, eagerly anticipated my arrival.

During the flight, I met with my wordsmith—a skilled communicator tasked with simplifying the complex findings for influential decision-makers. The simplification didn't do the science justice, but it was necessary for those in power to comprehend. 

Together, we crafted a narrative for the average person:

Picture chromosomes as intricate origami within a cell's core, their complex folds previously believed to safeguard DNA. However, like paper folded repeatedly, each fold introduces noise--and that noise leads to errors when copied—and once an error is introduced, that mistake passes down each time those cells regenerate. Consequently, the functions of our cells slow over time due to these accumulated errors, heralding our inevitable decline and death.

Yet, within liver cells lies a secret—a pattern immune to these errors, hinting at perpetual renewal if its harmony could be replicated. 

I stumbled upon an unexpected discovery during my stem cell research. As I observed cellular function through powerful microscopes, I discovered the tiny tube-like structures could have their electrical frequencies modified.

My breakthrough came from applying counter frequencies. Like a conductor guiding an orchestra, I manipulated cellular energy by adjusting the counter frequencies to electrical pulses, which would increase or decrease the main frequency of the cell. By mimicking liver cell frequencies known for regeneration, I sought to see if different frequencies would cause chromosomes to fold less, and thereby related cells would be less susceptible to error.

It worked.

I had unearthed a secret so profound it could revolutionize our understanding of life—a mundane facade concealing the potential for eternal life.

I thought of the discovery as akin to witnessing the universe's dance. Peering into cells under the intimate light of a microscope, I tuned their essence with precise electrical charges that synchronized with nature's rhythm. 

As higher frequency electricity coursed through microtubes, emulating patterns from nature's intricate designs, I witnessed cells dividing and chromosomes folding like expertly crafted origami. At lower frequencies, the chromosomes didn’t fold and mimicked the liver cells. The unfolded chromosomes preserved their data perfectly. No more errors introduced. And without errors, the cells could regenerate quickly and could adequately replace all dying cells.

This had paved the way to what some might call immortality. But I alone possessed the map to this sought-after fountain. Just to be sure I wasn’t taken advantage of, I safeguarded the most crucial discoveries, with only my handwritten and private notes. These notes contained the exact formula which hastened rejuvenation. It worked for a menagerie of animals tested. Fruit flies lived beyond their expected lifespan; mice bounded energetically and they healed quickly from any bodily damage; dogs ran without the weariness of age; chimpanzees swung through trees, their fur shining as in their youth.

When I first realized we had something substantial, in my hubris, I christened these microtubes "Cherubim’s Sword," a name that ignited a turbulent conflict with religious purists. Honestly, I harbored no desire to be godlike or all-knowing—my motivation stemmed from pure curiosity and the desire to decipher DNA's language—a code as purposeful as hieroglyphs carved by ancient civilizations.

But beneath this contemplation simmered a darker sentiment—a seething resentment towards God. My personal history stood in stark contrast to the promise of blessings for professing a belief in God. While I have evaded life's cruel turns unscathed, my relatives bore scars from centuries of injustice that spanned generations like indelible stains—from ancestors who endured the Trail of Tears to grandparents punished for speaking their native language.

My immediate family's narrative was punctuated by loss—a sorrowful tapestry woven from threads of grief: parents coerced into assimilation programs; siblings harmed under the guise of foster care; uncles lost to tragic violence.

I found myself more ensnared in memories on what should be a celebratory day—one particularly vivid of my cousin—a victim of murder and an unforgettable presence. Today, her memory clung to me tenaciously. Perhaps my subconscious made a bargain: If God would let bad things happen to Faye, then maybe it might not be a good idea for Him to be the author and finisher of my sense of morality. Maybe I’m pushing into the dark and tragic story of her life to rationalize my decisions to pursue my scientific findings unwavering.

It was a tragedy as beautiful as it was terrible; a story about light as it was about dark. I was caught in a deep daydream, my mind wandering to recall memories of my cousin Faye. 

Surrounded by the carefree laughter and easy-going chatter of those around me, I recall seeing Faye's bright smile sliced through the chaotic backdrop of the night club patrons like a beacon. Her presence attracted people like a magnet, an enigma with an infectious laugh that rang clear and true. Faye epitomized joy and was the lifeblood of any celebration, her spirit a vibrant mix of brightness and darkness. Her laughter, enchanting as a siren's call, captured hearts with its melodic charm.

Yet beneath her lively surface, a storm was brewing that threatened to overshadow her light. The tragedy struck with shocking speed. Faye, my steadfast companion in academic ventures in high school, had been my rock. My last meeting, in the Duluth city library, was our last encounter. She was about to testify in a tense court case, speaking out against the man responsible for her partner's death.

She feared revealing her life's complex weave of truths and lies. Still, Faye longed for absolution; she was determined to honor the truth on the witness stand. She had once given me a painting I’ve always treasured—a lifelike scene of a woman at peace on one of Lake Superior’s violent winter storms. Insisting no payment for it, it was a symbol of our connection.

Despite her struggles, Faye had an extraordinary gift for making others feel deeply valued. Behind her composed exterior was a flawed woman who still found space in her heart for others amidst her own turmoil, most self-inflicted. This time, though, I saw a deeper darkness in Faye's eyes—a sign of the confessions and confrontations ahead. She wasn't without grave and serious sins and knew they would surface during the trial.

As winter's grip tightened, January 25th brought a biting cold to Duluth. The courtroom became a stage for a six-week legal duel, with every action under the jury's watchful eye. It was more than just legal argumentation; it was a fight over who controlled the story, mixing fact with conjecture—a fight Faye approached with unwavering resolve. Nevertheless, the Huff trial cast an ominous shadow over her—a daunting prospect filled with legal complexities and indifferent stares from the judge and the media.

Leading up to her final week of brave testimony, Faye changed noticeably. Her voice did not tremble with defeat but rose with a profound peace—the kind depicted on saintly faces surrounded by halos in opulent Renaissance art.

This change was also in her paintings, filled with deep symbolism: benches under holy archways carved as if by age-old guardians—one bathed in divine light, alongside an angelic figure holding a beacon; the other shrouded in creeping shadows. On these canvases lay Faye's most significant revelation, inscribed above: "Maria once visited me, gone as quickly as morning dew, but now she returns through my art! Thank God!" This heartfelt gratitude seemed to leap from the canvas.

On the back of this masterpiece were more private thoughts written with fervent haste: "Maria said, ‘Hi honey, come sit with me...’" Now caught between celestial light and quiet twilight, Faye faced a crucial decision: to choose the radiant marble touched by divinity or to fade into anonymous shadows? Her choice would define more than fate—it was a proclamation of her character during hardship and beyond. If repentance could take shape on canvas—this was it.

A defining moment captured in paint and purpose; a clear turn towards goodness and light, rejecting darkness. She stood before the court and spoke truthfully despite being under oath and thus forced to reveal embarrassing details. 

The jury convicted Huff.

But this victory was short lived. Contrasting this triumphant resolution was another poignant discord—Duluth police discovered another horrific crime scene just days after Huff's conviction. Another life had been violently ended on coarse sand, marked by bloodshed and scattered pieces of a broken pool cue and steak knife. Faye's world—once rich with creativity—was extinguished in stark silence.

In her hotel room lay an unsettling scene—a Bible open at Psalm 31, underlined desperately with grief—"For my life is spent with sorrow…" A chilling premonition written before reality's harsh blow.

The news sent shockwaves through once vibrant communities.

Mourners gathered by Cass Lake’s cemetery, a collective from far-flung places united in sorrowful respect. Yet fate had one more surreal act—a malfunction caused Faye to be lowered into her grave abruptly, flipping her coffin over and soiling the hand-crafted Navajo rug draped atop her resting container. A terrible moment forever etched in the memories of those present, especially her mother, whose face crumbled at the sight.

At Duluth's Peace Church, a mighty throng flocked together, pack like sardines in the chapel, their combined heartbeat forming an intricate tapestry of intertwining legacies that outlasted any grave.

I started to exit my flashback, a little groggy and amazed at the intensity of feeling that emerged inside.

As I tried to shake off the solemnity, the night's shadows enveloped my room like a suffocating shroud, haunting me with unanswerable questions. A restless fire ignited within me, fueling a whirlwind of thoughts oscillating between the divine and contemplations of human suffering. Amid this mental turmoil, I lay alone, grappling with the transient nature of our existence in a breathtaking yet sorrow-ridden world. Yet, in the same token, I had a key to end much of the decay in our human existence.

In the midst of this mental upheaval, a troubling notion emerged: what if creation was a mistake—a forsaken experiment by a Creator who deemed our mortality a mercy? The idea that eternal life could lead to even greater suffering unfolded in my mind, hinting that our endless innovations could become instruments of torment enduring through the ages. We could live forever, but our spiraling world would yield to entropy and follow a path to demise and affliction. This led me to question whether my pursuit of immortality might inadvertently pave the way not to salvation but to an eternal self-inflicted hell. 

Yet in that dark moment of reflection, something extraordinary began to materialize in the confines of my desolate solitude. A profound presence pierced the silence, bringing a peace that made it seem as though the world paused in its orbit just for me.

A gentle light then pierced the darkness, filling the room with a soft glow that evoked a sense of otherworldly tranquility. She appeared like a vision: silent and majestic, her form cutting through the mundane reality as daylight pierces night.

She moved with a grace transcending physical confines, her very essence the epitome of purity. Her eyes held the expanse of galaxies, her countenance reflecting light as if from distant stars. In her gaze lay the power to quell storms and the promise of unraveling the knots that torment our souls. She was the embodiment of grace, untouched by corruption or decay.

Her presence alleviated my inner turmoil, transmuting it into a gentle breeze with her calming influence. Her compassion pledged peace amidst chaos.

Approaching me, this regal emissary—formed not of flesh but of a fabric beyond our cosmos—flooded me with revelations that revitalized both body and spirit, offering healing for the soul.

Her voice traversed dimensions as she addressed me: "Child of Divine breath," she pronounced—a clear call slicing through my uncertainty—"I bring comfort to your world entangled in sorrow." Her form extended not just solace but guidance towards comprehension and growth.

She spoke with a weight underscoring the urgency of her message, imparting wisdom before time slipped away.

Prepared for profound insights, I awaited more information to understand what exactly was developing before my eyes.

Faye stood before me, her presence defying her diminutive frame with an intensity contradicting her usual calm librarian demeanor. Today, she demanded attention not with volume but with conviction.

She addressed me sharply: "You have dwelled in self-pity for too long, cloaked in entitlement. Let me dispel this notion—the universe owes you nothing; we are not guaranteed happiness from birth."

Shifting her tone subtly, Faye channeled timeless wisdom as she spoke. "Reflect on the cosmic architect working beyond time, interweaving intellect and will into existence itself. He offers us free will and honors it perfectly—His honor a light against the darkness of sin and chaos."

Her words summoned images of celestial beings, yet she reminded us that only humans of all the host intelligences in the universe are endowed with free will—a gift second only to The Godhead itself.

Her sweeping gesture included everyone as she passionately spoke about the essence of human connection. "To be truly human and to be divine is to intertwine so deeply with humanity that self-sacrifice is as natural as instinct—you forgive the unforgivable, give generously without expecting anything in return, and mercy outshines even justice. Only humans can choose to rise above base animal instincts, to use a powerful mind and by virtue of free will choose to live as the divine and enjoy a life of sacrifice.”

Her intense look challenged each person to reflect. "It's amidst sorrow that joy takes root deepest—through sacrifice we discover its true meaning," she said softly, touching every heart, awakening spirits. Faye's story grew epic as she mentioned Jesus Christ—born in a stable, not the heavens, a savior lying in straw as hard hearts denied Him shelter of a roof and warm bed.

"Consider his journey," she urged, breathless, drawing them into this saga of betrayal by a close friend, rejection from his own people, and scorn from those he came to save. She paused dramatically and then emphasized: "His love was so immense that he willingly suffered for all humankind."

After her speech, a profound silence settled; even doubters would question their beliefs from the feeling she bestowed. Could there be a greater purpose than to emulate such sacred footsteps? In a lesser-known realm, a young boy chose heroism over revenge when violence shattered his innocence. This story, told with reverence by Faye, proved more powerful than any sermon. "And remember," she finished with hopeful uplift, "the burdens you carry aren't yours alone; solutions extend beyond this world—so live freely and joyfully, for eternity awaits those refined by love's transformative power." She was gone. 

As darkness fell, I listened to a voice in my subconscious—a message that I felt growing and getting stronger over the past few weeks, but could easily ignore, until now. It was a message, draped in light, warning me against releasing the deep secrets of Cherubim’s Sword. It would be misused to trap souls on Earth, chaining memories and souls to a corrupted existence. "The people who seek it," the resounding voice in my subconscious cautioned with dire foresight, "choose a twisted reality far from heaven's comfort.

With sorrowful finality, I got the boost I needed. God, after years of witnessing my struggle with Him for the state of the world and begging Him to release me from guilt brought on by my sins, came into my mind. He said, “James, blessed be your dedication and duty over a few things. Thy sins are forgiven.”

God made no mention of my discovery. But upon hearing those words and knowing that God tells the truth, I felt a powerful energy emerge within me. It was as if my soul was made whole. I saw people differently. I approached them with charity and concern. My predominant concern was not myself, but my neighbors. 

I remembered the weight of my decision, the entire world watching. While it was dark, and I couldn’t do anything now, I lit a candle—a defiant act against the encroaching shadows—and watched as the flame brought light to my once troubled face.

In this single flickering light, my choices were clear; I stood firm against eternal temptations.

With a calm smile amidst the engulfing gloom, I recognized what this flame represented—a beacon of hope and defiance against the darkness, a quiet rebellion not of rampant flames but of quiet courage—as bright as conviction itself.

The next few days will be very tough.