The young woman sits in my truck passenger seat. She is 19. Her hair is red. Scottish red. Luminously red. People always comment on her hair first. 

Today she attended a presentation I gave at the library. Everyone at the library asked about her. They noticed her red hair and assumed we were related since my hair is also red. 

At first, I explained that we weren’t related. Then I’d tell the story of how we met, when I first wrote about her, some years ago. But after a while we got tired of explaining ourselves and we started calling her my niece. 

The young woman attended my presentation because she is very supportive of me. Although heaven knows why. We come from different generations. She’s a college kid in a sorority. Whereas, yesterday a salesperson enrolled me in AARP to save 15 percent.   

Currently, as we drive through Birmingham traffic, my “niece” is using her GPS to navigate aloud for me. She is better at using phones than I am.

She is tranquil and collected, delivering important driving instructions as I wage battle with the homicidal motorists of Jefferson County. 

“Turn here,” the girl says calmly, using the same tone a driver’s ed instructor might employ. “Go past this light.” “Use your right blinker.” “The lady in the left lane is flipping you off.” “I believe she is using both fingers.”  

The child is well-mannered. Smart. Polite. Talented. Thoughtful. And I don’t think I’ve met anyone with more genuine optimism. 

It’s her optimism I marvel at the most. 

She lived in the hospital for nearly 230 days last year. For nearly a decade, she has struggled with an itemized list of medical issues that would make most grown men crumble. 

Paralyzation. Vision impairment. Diabetes. Relearning to walk. Twice. She lives on a feeding tube. She hasn’t eaten solid food since June. And yet she smiles. 

Our young heroine has approached the threshold of death on more than one occasion. She has been on life support, repeatedly. She has existed in states of pain so great that she’s told God, audibly, without a trace of irony, that she is ready to die. 

Nineteen-year-olds aren’t supposed to say things like that.

She bears the marks of trauma, wearing scars on both the inside and outside. Each wound, a testament to her bravery. Each scar, a story of her refusal to take the drug of self-pity.  

And yet somehow, this young redhead doesn’t see the world the same way as I do. Optimism paints her vision. She sees kindness. She sees miracles. She sees magic in places I can’t see it. 

She doesn’t view normal situations with the same jaded eyes I have. This child’s suffering has elevated her. Her hardships have made her higher.

Sometimes I ask her how she does it. How she gets through the agony with such optimism. All the sleepless nights of physical, emotional, and animal pain. All the suffering. 

The young woman just smiles at me. She pats my hand and says, “When you suffer, you’re closer to God.” 

Quite a girl, my niece.