Feb. 23: "Hey, Lady!''

I met Jordan in one of the many waiting rooms at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis.

He was snuggled up in his grandmother’s arms, fast asleep, when Mardecia Herring Sutton, my tour guide and an old high school classmate, reached down and smothered the three-year-old’s plump cheeks with kisses.

Eyes still closed, the little boy squirmed and frowned under the onslaught of kisses, then sat up and looked at Mardecia’s face just inches from his own. At first, he did not seem to recognize her.

But in another moment, his eyes grew wide and a broad smile burst out on his little face. Then he looked across the waiting room, where a couple of strangers were sitting, absently watching the scene.

“Hey Lady!’’ he shouted joyously. “It’s Mardecia!’’

And the room erupted in laughter.

I missed classes on Tuesday to drive up to Memphis and visit St. Jude.

For a few weeks, I had been considering the possibility of pursuing a career in fund-raising. I knew that Mardecia, who was a year behind me in high school, was a treasured volunteer at St. Jude and had carte blanche access, so I asked her if she would be willing to introduce me to some people who were involved in fund-raising there.

She arranged a meeting with one of the top people in that department and for an hour he explained the job and answered my questions. By the end of the hour, I was convinced that I’ll work at St. Jude someday, even if it’s sweeping the floors.

Mardecia also insisted on giving me a tour and it was the tour that stands most vivid in my recollection a day later.

You can’t forget a kid like Jordan, whose lust for life makes you wonder why you don’t go around smiling all day.

A couple hours later, I sat in another waiting room, making small talk with Ariel, another one of “Mardecia’s kids’’ while Mardecia excused herself to meet with someone.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked, noting the white plastic bad in her hand. “You been shopping?’’

“No,’’ she shrugged. “It’s just medicine.’’

Ariel, is from Hattiesburg, and will soon be 18. She’s been a patient at St. Jude for almost two years. She comes here once a month for tests and treatments. When she’s at home, she gives herself chemotherapy treatments. I never imagined you could do that.

“I never was scared of needles,’’ she said, deflecting my amazement that she could actually conduct her own chemotherapy.

I found out a lot about Ariel as we sat in the waiting room. She has an identical twin sister. Recently, her grandmother gave both of them new cars. Ariel got a Toyota Tundra pick-up.

“My sister got a Camaro,’’ she said, wrinkling her nose. “I wanted the Camaro, but my grandmother figured that I had gotten so much attention lately that maybe my sister should get the Camaro.’’

Ariel was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She wore no makeup. On Monday, she had been dolled up for her MRI because a really cute young doctor – maybe an intern, for she had never seen him before – had been helping perform her previous MRI.

She had taken extra time to fix her long, light-brown hair just right and her makeup perfect on the chance that Cute Intern would be there.

“But he wasn’t,’’ she said, frowning.

There was a lull in the conversation for a short while and I wondered what subject a 17-year-old might find interesting.

“What’s the best thing about this place?’’ I asked.

Her face lit up. “The Prom!’’ she said.

She spent several animated minutes explaining the prom that St. Jude puts on for all the kids ages 13 and up. The girls get to pick out new dresses. She mentioned some names that I assumed were names of designers. The girls get to keep the dresses.

“But I think the boys have to give the tuxes back,’’ she said.

On the night of the prom, the girls have their hair and makeup applied by experts who donate their time for the event.

And then there go to a big room at St. Jude where they have a DJ and a photo booth and “really good food, not just snacks, you know?’’ Ariel explained.

“And once you go through the door, no grown-ups are allowed in!’’ Ariel said, the inflection of her voice assuring me that this was the absolute best part of it all.

“It’s really cool because a lot of people who are here don’t get to go to prom,’’ she said, smiling at the memory.

I only met two patients on Tuesday. Both Jordan and Ariel are doing well, well enough to be called survivors.

But in her many years as a volunteer, Mardicia has lost a fair share of “her kids.’’

And as I walked around St. Jude and saw kids in the halls and waiting rooms, I began to wonder which of these children won’t be survivors.

St. Jude, by its nature, is a serious place.

And yet, the ambience is bright and cheerful and full of hope. Virtually every wall is alive with bright colors and splendid murals and artwork, much of it made by patients. In these halls and waiting rooms, the smiles seem to come at you from all angles and in all shapes and sizes and colors.

I know that somewhere behind doors where visitors are not permitted, there is pain and suffering and bitter tears aplenty. There are survivors and there are those for whom death comes at such a tender age.

I do not attempt here to tell you the story of St. Jude. I know so little of it; just a glimpse is all, really.

But as I left the parking lot, I was humbled,

I thought of Jordan, a three-year-old buzz-saw of a kid. I thought of Ariel, on the cusp of womanhood, scanning the horizon for that cute intern.

A life is best measured not by its length, but by its depth, I thought.

I think the folks at St. Jude have known that all along.