Miracles happen. I don’t mean in the theological sense (the jury is still out on that): I mean those incredible, perfect events; the sort you think, until they happen to you, only occur in fiction.

When I went to college near New York City, hopping the train to Manhattan twice a week, I thought it was the only city in the world. I came from the boondocks and here there were actual bookstores, theaters and museums that showcased something other than prize-winning squashes.

But after I graduated and became a starving artist, I started wondering. This used to be an incredible place. People would line up for blocks for the issue of Playboy with the new J.D Salinger story, or turn out by the hundreds to hear Gore Vidal speak. I recently saw Vidal at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. They wheeled him out in a chair, and somewhere inside that mummy the fire of wit and intellect was still burning. But it struck me: New York is dying. Norman Mailer, William F. Buckley, Lionel Trilling, Walter Cronkite they’re all gone. It won’t be long before Vidal and Philip Roth follow them.

And what do we have instead? We walk the streets and the hideous cast of Gossip Girl leers down at us. We go to a poetry reading and sit through ninety minutes of uninterrupted profanity. Bestsellers are authored by Sarah Palin. Brooklyn is a vile nest of hipsters; and in the dark corners, all those people we forget about continue to eke out pathetic existences. I’ve gone with the Midnight Run and talked with homeless people, and one old man, like Gore Vidal wheelchair bound, looked away from me after a long conversation and muttered: “[Expletive] this city. I should’ve stayed in Atlanta. I had everything there; a job, a house…now what the [expletive] have I got?”

When I need a break from the city but don’t feel like going home, I sometimes ride the ferry out to Staten Island; just ride it there and back. It’s free, and you get to be out on the water, which is nice. And you can look back at the Manhattan skyline and feel that after all, the city’s power over you isn’t complete.

That’s when I saw her. I had been walking around the deck, and coming back out on the stern (which faced the city) I saw a girl who must have just left the cabin.

I think I knew right then that something unusual was happening. Just the sight was too much; outlined against the water and the shining buildings and completely alone. I think I rubbed my eyes. And with the subtle motion of the boat underneath us, we could have been floating in midair.

It was one of those warm days we had recently, and she was wearing only a white sundress with a beige sweater thrown over her shoulders. She was petite, slender, but to verge on the crass, had these–lines reminiscent of the Golden Age of Greek sculpture. Her dark hair was tied in a single braid that fell to her waist, dividing her burning white form.

I’m shy–but only when it comes to opening up about myself. Generally speaking, I don’t think I’m scared of anyone. I walked up and we were standing side-by-side, looking back at the city and the huge frothing wake of the boat beneath us; and I swear, she wasn’t even surprised. I didn’t look straight at her; but could see she wore glasses. I don’t look for anything specific in a girl physically. But glasses get me every time, once again proving conventional wisdom false.

After a minute, and without looking at me, she kind of smiled and said:

“Hey. Can I ask you a weird question?”

“I’m a New Yorker,” I said, “that’s pretty much the only kind I get.”

She laughed–and while I’m all for sexual equality, one thing I think a girl should be able to do is laugh like a girl–and asked me: “Do you, like, believe in demons?”

I was surprised. But had to own that, as a Christian of some sort, I did. Although I wasn’t sure if that meant literal demons walking around in human form; or if it wasn’t a metaphor for evil forces like greed, lust and hatred.

“I believe in literal demons,” she said, “so if you think that’s crazy, I’ll understand.” And when I didn’t comment to the effect that she was crazy, she went on, still looking ahead (and now I looked at her) at the motionless giant buildings: “Do you know where I think they are?”

“I’m guessing you think they’re straight ahead of us?”

She nodded. And her voice dropped: “Maybe not, like, Satan himself. Like a minor one like Beelzebub or Hastur.” And she smiled again. “But I think this city is his camp, and he’s there somewhere…”

“Plotting?” I suggested.

“No. Just sitting there enjoying our [expletive]ed-up everything is. I mean, what’s he got to do? It’s already about as bad as it can get. Don’t you think?” And she turned and looked at me and, well, I won’t insult my reader’s powers of imagination by describing the precise movements of my heart in my chest. “Or,” she said, “do you think I’m crazy now?”

I’ll be honest. That was a little bit crazy. But she said it with such sincerity, as if she were really suffering alongside all the victims of this supposed demon prince, that I had to think what (scratching my head) I replied: “I guess if you’re not right…it’s hard to know how to explain a lot of it.”

I suppose a girl with that appearance, and appearing where and when she did, must have a secret. She did, and she told me then: she’d gone to Catholic schools her whole life (she was twenty-two) and now she was in training to become a carmelite nun. She and her Mother Superior weren’t sure she was, so to speak, up for the job. She’d have to give her answer by March 1st.

She said: “I don’t understand why people here do the things they do. Life is precious. Life is a gift. Why wouldn’t you spend every second, I mean like every second of your life either learning, or helping somebody else? What more is there to life?”

And…I couldn’t believe what came next. I literally would have believed that anything was possible at that moment. She started quoting verbatim from my favorite book, the title of which I won’t even mention because jamming in here seems to dilute the awe I felt: “Work without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to sleep, ‘I have not done what I ought to have done,’ rise up again and do it. If the people around you are spiteful and callous and will not bear you, fall down before them and beg their forgiveness; for in truth you are to blame for their not wanting to hear you.’ And if you cannot speak to them in their bitterness, serve them in silence and humility, never losing hope. If all men abandon you and even drive you away by force, then when you are left alone fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears and it will bring forth fruit even though no one has heard or seen you in your solitude. Believe to the end.”

That’s as far as she got. But having the book here, I have to reproduce what comes next: “And if two of you are gathered together–then there is a whole world, a world of living love.”

Now. Even though I have self-confidence to the point of arrogance, there are times when even I wonder why I do the crazy things I do. Why did I sit up at night reading this book in question when I could have been going to the prom? But it turns out there was a reason; and perhaps there is a reason for everything. When she was done, and started to blush, it probably dawning on her just how strange she was being, I opened my mouth and quoted from the same book:

“This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but live like a monk in the world. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it–which is what matters most.”

Perhaps my reader has guessed that, as a writer, I couldn’t avoid adding some professional polish to this, my real story. There were more starts and stops in the conversation than I report; and it went on for some time after. But I doubt I could have invented anything to rival that single moment, and the expression of joy and surprise that burst on her face like a sunrise.

This happened more than a week ago. Everything since has had the character of a miracle. I don’t know, and can hardly hope, my life will continue in this vein forever. One thing is sure, though: she won’t be joining the nunnery.

It’s a truism to say that “there’s someone out there for everyone.” It may be that I’m starting to believe it. But I will say this, in parting, dear reader: don’t just be content with yourself. Strive constantly to improve yourself, to become more yourself. Because only then, when it happens–possibly by chance–you meet that person, you’ll be everything they expected…and more.