Darkness Breathes

Darkness breathes the coming of a new and different day
In which we know we will not be the same.
So we knock down our army men by battles rows
And lay aside our baby dolls and our dress up clothes.
We study like Trojans, like it's all we have,
And when we stop to socialize, the fun turns us mad.
We learn how to get by from fix to fix
As we work the game of Pick-Up-Shifts.
For this we were not born it seems,
But oddly in these molds we feel free.
And in order to get to tomorrow's light,
We must be diligent through the night.
And we may as well lift our hands in praise
To the God who brings us through the change.

I feel a great peace. It seems everything I do can be done directly unto God, and if I find that it cannot, I can quit doing it. The things I have to do I was made to do. For instance, it seems I cannot but write, as if I was created to create. It's a joyous thing to rest in. At times in my life I have felt to do what I loved was contrary to God's will, but I think that is usually legalism. Currently, when I read God's Word, I feel like I'm sitting in His lap, listening to Him speak. It's amazing. And in my relationships, I feel utter excitement right now, as if I am the most blessed person in all the world. I must be.

The New Identity

(Here at last is the final poem in the series that began with "Observations of a Little Girl" and continued with "For Fear of Beauty," "The Mirror Tells It All," and "Glimpses.")

All my life I have chased a dream of who I want to be,
But the dream turns to wind and I'm left with only me.
All my life I've lost myself in the mirror's weary face--
The tear-streaked eyes, the hardened mouth, the unpenetrated glaze.
I have tried to be rustic; I have tried to be strong.
My life has been a masquerade, and unfelt, dreary song.
Despite the closets where I live with the secrets that I hide,
I was never meant to live alone: I was made to be a bride.
And somehow in my dark domains, I feel this in my bones,
But I have not yet opened up, for fear that I'll still be alone.
From my closet, from my cell, I hear a voice ring through:
"You are mine, chosen long ago; and now I've come for you."
A gentle voice met with gentle hands and eyes that see my heart,
Come rescue me from empty dreams; come rip this mask apart.
Now I unchain this beauty; now I set her free.
Oh God, let me loose myself in Your identity.

Man of passion, take my hand; lead me to your hidden land.
Man of wisdom, here I wait; it grows harder with each day.
Man of valor, show your might; I am ever on your side.
Man of worship, fall in line; He's your Lord like you are mine.
Man of courage, praise His Name, through all failures, through all gain.
Man of scripture, listen close; lead me closer to our Hope.
Man of kindness, don't let go; hold me close until we're old.

Healing Hands

When I realized that it was still the middle of the night, I knew something must be wrong with me. But You don't sleep. So, walking across the cold floor in three rediculous layers of socks, I crawled up into Your lap. "Daddy, I'm sick. Will you heal me, please?" You ran Your fingers through my long hair, placed kisses on my forehead, and touched my stumache, from whence came the pain. I rested my head against Your chest for a long, long time in agonizing bliss 'til at long last I fell asleep. You healed me in a better way.

I Met Her in the Forest

I met her in the forest and found her blood was green,
Her eyes always speaking, her voice seldom heard.
I crowned her like a tree and made her my queen.

I met her in the forest, her hair a golden vine,
Her smile rays of light, her laugh rustling leaves,
We blended like the dirt and she told me she was mine.

Between

This is something; pink clouds greet me all down the sidewalk.
I know this place--up that way is the high school,
Down the hill is the elementary. In between is
The steady roar of traffic, the steady moving of feet.

At the top of my street, I used to look down
To imagine myself in London. But trees have grown up
Between the houses now, sprinkled with squirrels.

I know this place--the pencil tight in my hand,
My heart going crazy with emotion, my mind with words.
I am everywhere and anywhere, even away from the sidewalk
On the road between two schools. Adventure on adventure.
Pink clouds in Africa. How is it that I feel so close to God
When I walk, when I write, when I dream?

Midnight Lullaby

Lights are cast across the far wall, starting at one side and racing across to the other to dissapear into the corner; distant sirens shriek; cars rage; horns clamour. These are the background sights and sounds set off by the steady rain tonight.

The raindrops hit the window pain like hundreds of spills which are either rejoiced over or mulled over, but never rebuked. And if the Rainsender brought an end to the tiny spills, even the mullers would cry out for rain. These spills are not the kinds which need not cleansing. Rather, they are cleansing. They are healing, replenishing, creating. The sound of their spattering against the window pane is the sound of so many proclamations of the Rainsender's longsuffering. But this, too, becomes background noise, like the pleas of sirens, the roaring of motors, the yelling of horns, which once meant something to me. The raindrops become the fourth part, the harmony of this midnight lullaby.

I think I am asleep, resting in the palm of the Rainsender's hand, which has become to me so consistent that I think nothing of His stroking my hair in the night, and planting kisses on my kneck. I just rest, as lights races across my visage to display the peaceful expression there.

Only Grace

I have no rights, only priveledges.

Sleep cannot be lost, only gained.

God is not unreasonable for sending people to hell, only unfathomably merciful for allowing to be into His heaven.

The Battle of Night

So close I hold him that I feel his warmth
And I feel his receiving from me
Until his tiny eyes give way to dreams.
I lay him down and wrap him tightly in the arms of night.
Are you warm tonight, my love?

The dishes are all put away; the spotless floor is shining
Lonsomely in the firelight; nothing calls for mending.
Glancing over at the bed, I think I may half fill it,
But the emptiness of the one side does not lure me to it.
Where are you tonight, my love?

The window seal is my rest for now,
Though it's cold as the snow drifts slowly down,
Unseen in the emptiness of night.
As my eyes beging to close, black night turns to crimson.
Are you well tonight, my love?

You said you would go for our rustic, sweet domain,
For your love, for our child, for all the world to come,
And as courage filled your eyes, mingling with tears,
You said that you would go for our Lord.
Are you in the arms of earth tonight or with our Lord, my love?

The Undeciphered Seals

Here in Harappa, words are kindled like fires and then they die
Like undeciphered seals on the grave stones of time.
And if this is only the beginning, then what will be the end?
If we never join the fight, then how can we hope to win?
For we wake up and we work and we try not to think
For fear that we might start to put together the links
And remember that our lives are as fleeting as rainshowers,
As wayfaring men, as coinage, as fires, as flowers.
Though they're here and now they're gone, forever they'll be
Engrained on the the earth as long as earth stands eternitiy.
But here in Harappa, we will try not to think of all this,
But remain in our labor, our order, our agonizing bliss.

First Fall Breath

In this morning light, the ground glistens bold like chrystal
With dew so thick and air so cold and clean.
If you were here we might make angels in the dew,
Resting in the grass, hair mingled in the blades, soaking up the sun,
With the turquois sky above, empty and yet full.
All the storms have left behind this kind and care-free aura,
This long awaited gift--to dance in the first chill of fall!

My mind replays those childhood days,
Running through dew up to my knees--
It all returns in the moment's crisp domain.
If you were here, this morning might cast its spell over us,
But I know those days can never be again.

So I breathe in this first fall breath
And then exhale in praise
For the fall days of yesteryear,
This blanket of memory,
This blanket of dew in the morning light.

"For the LORD spake thus to me with a strong hand, and instructed me that I should not walk in the way of this people, saying,
Say ye not, A confederacy, to all them to whom this people shall say, A confederacy; neither fear ye their fear, nor be afraid.
Sanctify the LORD of hosts himself; and let him be your fear, and let him be your dread."

--Isaiah 8:11-13

Glimpses

(A sequel to "The Mirror Tells It All")

I've been watching you for some time,
Glimpsing at the beauty hidden in your eyes,
Tortured until she cannot be recognized,
And then seized with ease and buried alive.

You were not meant to live this way,
With your flowing hair locked away,
Your heart encaged and enslaved,
Monotonously pounding out its days.

But I promise you that beauty is truely kind,
And if you'll dig her up, you can come back to life.
See, God, in His wisdom, has made you a girl
And has plans for you to change the world,
Not in the ways of guns and knives,
But with your beauty deep inside,
With the gentle power in your veins,
Your tender courage, your quiet ways.

But as you open up your life completely to Him,
You must open the casket which your beauty lies within.

In the Image of God

It's sickening--the things people say about humankind, to the point that I must pity every speaker for, from their twisted, horrifying viewpoint, I don't understand how they keep living. It's gross to conceive that we are forms of animals, that we have slowly evolved into what we are. Is this idea not a high price to pay in order to claim that there is no God and that we owe ourselves and our lives to no one? Perhaps, from the standpoint of evolution, we "have ourselves" and we can do "whatever we want," but there is no point in life at all. In dismissing God, everything is dismissed--joy, peace, fullfillment, art, beauty. It is as if we close our eyes and imagine that we have altered ourselves to fit life, when really we have been created with God's purpose in mind. He made us like we are so that we might carry out His will, and apart from this there is no real joy.

"In the image of God created He him: male and female, created he them." That makes me so excited to be alive!

Sorry, I'm just frustrated with that bit of stuff at the beginning of World Civ. marked as "Prehistory."

Mutant of Maintstream Chapter 1 (A Revision)

This is a revision of the first chapter I posted a while ago. I would love to get your feedback. Never fear; there truely is a second chapter.

Chapter 1: The Workmanship

I was searching, as a snake wandering through the wilderness, but unsure exactly what I was searching for. Everyday, I received just what I needed from the hands of God in order to keep going, learning, and trusting. I had no idea what I was in for the spring of my junior year in high school, the trail that God had predestined for me to follow in order to bring me slowly, ever into his likeness.
Near the beginning of the semester, a meeting with the principal of the school loomed over my head. With everything in my being, I dreaded it, praying the meeting would be canceled or that I would get sick, but as the time neared and neither of my prayers were answered, I just asked God for wisdom that I might know how to respond to the principal, Mr. Rummers. His office was dark with a single dim lamp casting shadows across his face. In fact, the shadow of his glasses left his eyes hard to see and his lips hard to read. He complained about my recent decline in grades. Having known this was coming, I was prepared with my defense. I wrote down on a piece of paper that I was only doing so poorly because I had stopped speaking. Since then, I had begun flunking oral exams and presentations, although I should have been flunking them all along because no one could understand me when I spoke. Mr. Rummers then tormented me with his dim lips and concealed eyes, urging me to keep trying to speak, and reminding me how far I had come with lip-reading (so that I didn’t even need an interpreter for my classes), and assuring me that just such a thing could happen with my speech. However, Mr. Rummers, sitting back in his desk chair, with an immovable expression plastered across his face like a fortress which separated his world from mine, had no way of imagining what a monster speech could be. He had never known the feeling of doing away with it, as if chaining a vicious monster to a stake and setting it on fire. It was wonderful. But Mr. Rummers let me know that if I did not learn to speak, my life would be basically useless. Against these harsh ideas, I tried to copy his expression, to set my face like flint with no emotion, but the pain boiling inside of me was torture to mask. I feared the principal could see right through me.
When I was dismissed, the soft wind of the outside world greeted my face, cooling all that had boiled inside of me. My father had been waiting for me in the lone car in the parking lot. I used my natural means of communication—American Sign Language—to convey to him what Mr. Rummers had told me. But my father seemed to think little of Mr. Rummers’s concerns, signing to me that, as the Bible says, I was God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God had before ordained that I should walk in them. In comparison with God’s viewpoint, the speculations of my school principal were unimportant.
So, with my hope battled on against despair and my faith against doubt, I rested my head against the vibrating car window as my father drove us home. The feeling of uselessness was always chasing and taunting me and it was only further fueled by Mr. Rummers remarks. I cried out to God in the constant silence of my mind, pleading that He might take me and what little I had to offer and use me for His glory in order to accomplish His purpose.
Home was a small, ordinary-looking place, crammed into a neighborhood with miniscule yards. No flowers adorned the bushy garden outside—no flowers dancing like little, bright fairies in the wind to signify individuality or profess to passers-by of a feminine heart within the home’s brick walls. Yet this place welcomed us through the garage and into the kitchen. Once inside, the aroma of wood greeted me and I welcomed it gladly, for to me it was the scent of peace, work, and stability. Though the house held little furniture and few luxuries, there was no place I would have preferred to return to after that painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this simple place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hands and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making a dinner characteristic of us—one which combined rice, chilly, and which ever spices appeared most tasteful to us at the time. Above the steaming pans on the oven, we signed leisurely about making guitar deliveries, things going on at our church, and interesting facts I had learned at school that day.
I told my father that I was invited to James’s house the following night along with Elizabeth. The three of us—James, Elizabeth, and I—were the only deaf students at our school, and we had been close friends since the deaf school we had begun in, with the focus and the end thereof being public, mainstream education. Still, as high school students, and James about to graduate, we stuck together through the currents, all of us inefficient communicators. James, who had lost his hearing at the age of five, could talk decently, but was not a lip-reader; I, having lost my hearing at three, could read lips, but had given up on speech; and Elizabeth, who was born deaf, could neither speak nor read lips. These “flaws” were evident to everyone, leading to our ostracism by the hearing students. To befriend one of us was to deface oneself, and it had been this way since grade school. We, the few, the deaf, though tragically unconformable, were still lost in the mad rush of the mainstream. Only, we all knew we could not end were everyone else was ending. We were different.
After dinner, my father and I pulled out two of our handcrafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep, brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly. A short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.

As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking me before the entire class. She did it to everyone who was late, but she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. The students’ mouths were moving rapidly and Elizabeth, unable to read lips, was simply trying to find a way past them. Because I knew exactly what the students were saying, my urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. Without looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely, until she sat down at her desk.
When she thanked me, respect revealed itself through her eyes. And as I turned to find myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway, working my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
As I took my seat at the front of the class, the teacher put on a sarcastic smile and, through it, asked me what had happened. She started with questioning about the little things, remarking that perhaps I had forgotten to set my alarm, or enjoyed my shower to much. But eventually she came to sharper ideas, saying perhaps my girlfriend had broken up with me, and that was what made me late, as pleasure in her own wittiness lit her face. Even when I started to write something down, she stopped me, telling me this was not writing class and that she wanted an answer. With a smile still plastered across her face, she said she sensed a lack of respect at my not answering her. It was utterly mortifying. Though I could not hear the laughter, I could sense it, which was probably worse. I forced myself to faze out completely and asking God to give me patience and a sound mind, to be “slow to anger and abounding in love,” as Paul puts it, as anything else would end me in detention.

When I arrived at James’s house that night, I was greeted first by his two youngest sisters, Jessica and Jenna, who swarmed me with hugs and then skipped hastily away into the kitchen. The aroma of lasagna coming from the place of their retreat made me want to follow them, but I forced myself momentarily ignore the smell and look for James.
As I neared the den of their house, it seemed to nearly vibrate as James’s two brothers, lay on top of him, wrestling with him. When James saw me enter the room, he flung his brothers off onto the ground. He then signed to me, thanking God I had come to save him from Joseph and Jared. After looking over at the twelve-year-old and eleven-year-old, I responded by signing that I did not think us a good match for them. Joseph and I against James and Jared looked fairer. But James let me know he did not think that was an even match either, reminding me of his being four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than me. I assured him, however, the odds were in my team’s favor, though I did not explain how. The younger boys were eager to begin. So, without a signal or the establishment of any rules, we slammed into each other, shoving, pulling, twisting, struggling, persevering, drawing back, then slamming again.
When Elizabeth walked into the room, everyone saw her, but no one stopped. James clearly became more desperate to get the upper hand after her entrance, but I also became more resistant to his taking it.
Suddenly, Joseph and Jared drew back. We signed to them, asking what had happened, and they replied that it was time for dinner. Though we were all panting from striving and sweat was dripping down our faces, all of our former efforts were instantly of no importance. We greeted Elizabeth as if we had just noticed her entrance. James kissed her cheek and placed his sweaty arm around her as we went into the dining room.
At the Kirkpatrick house, each person spoke and signed simultaneously, although James was the only deaf member of the family. Tonight, the mood around the table was light and refreshing after the tedious week of school, with the bright prospects of the weekend before us. I was intrigued by Jessica’s determined efforts to cut her own lasagna despite the offers of everyone at the table, not knowing she had already received offers, volunteering to cut it for her. James, who worked for his father’s company, was discussing a work situation with his father, as Elizabeth watched with interest. Julie, James’s fourteen-year-old sister, was telling her mom about being offered drugs at school that day. The four youngest children were too caught up in eating for making much conversation, although at intervals they would burst out with some nugget of information. I sat slowly taking in the food, looking from person to person in the warmth of the atmosphere, enjoying my feeling of invisibility for as long as it might last.
After dinner, we played an aggressive game of “Spoons.” The game is not solely about skill; it has much to do with one’s degree of viciousness as well. So, it was not surprising that James and Joseph were the ones to make it to the last round. At that point, the game is only luck. Joseph won, by chance.
When James, Elizabeth and I were in James’s room later that evening, James made a point to ridicule my poor skills at the game of “Spoons.” But Elizabeth stood up for me, reminding James that I was probably a wonderful guitar player, though the two of them couldn’t know, and that I at least looked cool when I played. Elizabeth and I looked at each other, smiling like two siblings might when they find themselves on the same side of a conflict. James reminded me of how weird Elizabeth’s grandmother thought I was when we were little kids and all I ever did was play guitar, despite my being deaf. I did not remember that. When I thought of Elizabeth’s grandmother, Mrs. Anderson, I could think of nothing but raking her yard for her in the fall and her repaying us with chocolate chip cookies and telling us stories about child-eating monsters. We asked Elizabeth how her grandmother was doing and she told her grandmother was doing very poorly, almost to the point of having to go into a nursing home. I, who had had no idea that things were so bad, looked away, ashamed I had not asked about Mrs. Anderson more recently.
If Mrs. Anderson went into a nursing home before Elizabeth graduated, James told me that Elizabeth would move in with his family for her senior year. At that time, James would have a full time position with his father’s company. After that, we all knew what was going to happen—James and Elizabeth were going to get married, get their own house, and start their own family. Though their anticipation seemed to grow as the time drew closer, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.
I, on the other hand, faced the future without direction. Perhaps, after I graduated, I would go to college or perhaps I would simply become a luthier like my father and put in more hours in the workshop at home. Honestly, I would be content with anything, as long as God would place me in His will.

The Mirror Tells It All

(A sequel to "For Fear of Beauty")


When I look in the mirror, I'm met with sagging lips and swollen eyes.
Nothing fascinates me long; nothing brings me back to life.

I've become so tired of this:
The river surges past, beckoning me, but I cling like a branch to its tree.
The river wants to set me free, but I'm stuck in individuality.

I know I was not made for this:
To be a ghost, chained and controlled, untended and ungrown.
To be a figure still and cold, untouched and unknown.

I hate who I've become:
The hesitant, unreachable girl, without a smile, without a twirl,
With empty dreams to change the world, locked away in a dresser drawer.

When I look in the mirror, it's like looking through a window
Into a deep and dead place in the shadows of my soul.

For Fear of Beauty

(A sequel to "Observations of a Little Girl")


What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Continually screaming out my name,
But seldom heard from her prison chains?

She says if I will loose her bonds, take her hand, lead her out,
She will show me happiness, love, and what I'm all about.
She tells me the two of us will be the best of friends,
That she will secure a place for me in the world I'm in.

What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Combating with that familiar tone
Which urges me to be my own.

It tells me beauty will buy from me everything I love,
And then stock me with amusing, but unfullfilling stuff.
It tells me beauty will enslave me just like all of them,
Make me pleasing on the outside, but rotting from within.

What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free?

I'll leave her barred in the prison where I will not often see her face,
For fear that she will grab me there and crush me in her embrace.

Observations of a Little Girl

My sisters play with barbie dolls
Clothed in latest trends from latest malls.
They play with plastic crowns and heels,
With made-over faces and lofty ideals.

My brothers play with army men,
With sweat and blood to beat their friends.
They play with fake guns and swords
To slay the dragons and save the world.

My mother's friends sit and talk
To see if they can amuse and shock.
They speak about their little girls,
Sweet and small with proper rules.
And they laugh about their little boys,
Always finding new and dangerous toys.
Then they redicule their husbands' lives,
Since they are like boys with real guns and knives,
Since they are always holding back their wives
From treating money like paper just to dress nice.

But here I sit in the middle of the house,
Pondering inside and looking about,
Not caring at all for girls' plastic heels,
Their barbie dolls and lofty ideals.
I don't want to grow up like my mother's friends
Sitting and gossiping about their men.
I want to change the world, and then,
As I stare in wonder at the men,
I know I cannot be like them
Because I'm not like that deep within.

Oh God, how can I change the world,
Since You've made me a little girl?

Lament of Leaves

We came to life with the spring;
It gave us hope, it gave us rain,
And we danced in it's breeze,
Contented servants in our chains.

We desire drink now, but the skies have become iron,
Leaving us without music, without tears to cry,
Like prisoners to the branches,
Yearning, burning for an end of summertime.

Come, Autumn, come to cut and set us free,
To entrap us in your wind and guide us with your breeze.
Come, Autumn, come, that we may kiss the ground,
To be there forever lost and there forever found.

Mutant of Maintstream Chapter 1: The Workmanship

A Note About ASL

Because ASL (American Sign Language) has its own grammar rules and sentence structure and is dependent on facial expressions and body language, it is impossible to write it in English just as it is signed. When reading the signed communication in this story, imagine it as a translation from ASL into English—and not a translation of words, but of concepts. The characters are communicating to each other what is printed, but they are doing it in a different way.


Chapter 1: The Workmanship

“I know you can do better than this, Lance,” were Mr. Rummer’s stony words. “You’ve gone from Bs to Fs. Could you please give an explanation for the change in your performance?”
My hearted thudded like the ground when it is bombed over and over again, as I stared into the man’s bleak, grey eyes overlaid with large, thick glasses. Taking a notepad and a pen from my pocket, I wrote: “I was not doing any better when I was making Bs. The teachers probably pitied me then. But ever since I quit trying to talk, I’ve been flunking oral exams and presentations. The truth is, I should have been flunked before because no could understand me.”
After looking at the note I had written, Mr. Rummer responded, “So basically, you’re failing because you’ve given up.”
“I’ve become realistic,” I wrote.
“If you wanted to enough, you could speak. Just stop worrying about what other people think. If you want your life to count for something, you can’t go on in fear.”
“I’ve been trying my entire life. I just can’t talk well.”
“When you were younger, you probably never imagined being able to read lips as well as you can now. You don’t even need an interpreter in your classes. If you keep trying, you could get just as good at speaking. The only way to fail is to give up.”
“I’m finished trying, Mr. Rummer.”
“Don’t you want to go to college, Lancen?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t you at least want to make a difference? I mean, what’s the point of living and breathing, if you’re not contributing anything to the world?”
I looked away instinctively with my body shuddering against the bombs constantly landing in my chest. Though I had amunition of my own, begging to be used, I kept it tucked tightly inside me.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Mr. Rummers questioned.
“No sir,” I jotted down hurriedly.
“Then you’re free to go.”
As I left the room, a refreshing breeze greeted my burning face. I walked down the hall, through the door, and into the majestic sunshine. Breathing deeply, I went the short distance from the school building to the lone car in the parking lot. I got in on the passenger’s side and sat down.
“How was it?” my father signed to me from the driver’s seat.
I shuddered again upon the remembrance of the dark office from which I had come. “The principal said I’m never going to amount to anything or do the world any good if I can’t talk,” I signed back. “And I can’t talk. So basically…”
“But he’s wrong of course,” my father’s hands responded, “God has an incredible plan for you, Song. He sees so much in you. You are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works which God hath before ordained that you should walk in them. It doesn’t really matter what the principle of the school thinks you’re capable of doing!”
“Yes, I know.”
My father started the ignition. Leaning my head against the car window, I prayed, God, I trust You. I don’t have anything else to rely on. Please take my life and let it count for something. Let it bring You glory.
When at last we came to a neighborhood with all of the houses packed tightly together and separated by miniscule yards, we pulled into the driveway of a house with no flowers adorning the outside. It may have seemed a bit uncared for by visitors, perhaps the kind of house one would ring the doorbell, expecting a man to answer dressed only in a bath towel, with a half shaven face. But this same place beckoned us through the garage door and into the kitchen. Upon entering, the fragrance of wood entered my nostrils. I welcomed it heartily, for to me it was the very fragrance of passion, labor, and stability. Though our house held few luxuries when compared with most American homes, there was nowhere I would have preferred to come back to after the painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hand and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making dinner. “Dad,” I signed, “can I go hang out at James’s house tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Do you want to take the car?”
“If it’s alright.”
“That will be fine. I don’t have any deliveries to make tomorrow. How is that rice coming?”
“It’s getting there.”
“Will it just be you and James tomorrow night?”
“His family will be there… and Elizabeth.”
“You’re going to make sure James and Elizabeth behave, I guess?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Alright, you can add the rice to the chilly now.”
After eating a meal characteristic of us, we pulled out two of our hand crafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly and a short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.

As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking before the entire class—She did this to everyone who came late, bust she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. Though the students’ mouths were moving rapidly and I knew exactly what they were saying, Elizabeth could not read lips. My urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. With out looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely.
“Are you okay?” I signed to her, after she had sat down at her desk.
“Yes. Thank you, Lance,” she signed back, as appreciation and respect revealed themselves through her eyes.
“Anytime,” I responded, turning swiftly and finding myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway. But as I worked my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
“What happened, Lancen?” the teacher’s lips read as I took my seat at the front of the class. “Let me guess: You forgot to set your alarm. No? You really enjoyed your shower this morning? I suppose it’s worth it to get a tardy for something that important. Oh, no, I know: Your girlfriend broke up with you?”
I started to write something down, but she stopped me.
“This is not writing class, Lancen. I want an answer.”
God, I can’t even answer for myself. She might as well just shoot me on the spot and save me this mortification, I prayed. But thank you that at least I don’t have to hear everyone laughing right now.
“I sense a lack of respect,” the teacher said.
I knew I could close my eyes and block out all that was happening around me, but that would do no good. So, I waited eagerly until the subject changed.

“So, I said, ‘Man, I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m deaf,’” James signed on Friday night. “And then, he just kept talking. So, I went and got my dad who told me the guy was asking me how I could talk if I couldn’t read lips. I was thinking, ‘Maybe it’s because I live in Memphis with people like you who don’t open their mouth when they speak.’”
“But he didn’t say that,” signed James’s father, Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Customer service isn’t your calling, is it James?” I signed.
“He’s great at stocking though,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick immediately responded in defense.
“He’s our companies best,” added Mr. Kirkpatrick.
At this, the younger members of the dinner party instantly joined in the admiration of their oldest brother. “It’s because he’s so strong,” spoke the seven-year-old, Jenna, as she signed.
“Yeah, he’s strong,” copied Jessica, the five-year-old.
If I had remembered that James’s huge fan club sat before me, perhaps I never would have commented on his customer service skills. Even James laughed at his family’s avid admiration.
But Elizabeth, with her blue eyes glowing, smiled and signed, “They’re right.” Then her hand disappeared beneath the table, no doubt to be caught up in James’s hand.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick got up from her seat, gathering plates from around the table. Julie, the fourteen-year-old, helped her mother. They both vanished into the kitchen and when they emerged again, Mrs. Kirkpatrick spoke and signed, “So, let’s get this party started. What do ya’ll want to play?”
“‘Spoons!’” said Jared, the eleven-year-old, signing with large, repetitive movements.
“Yes, ‘Spoons,’” the twelve-year-old, Joseph, agreed with slower lips and more passive hands.
“No, no,” pouted Jessica, “I hate that game. I’m always the first one out.”
“Alright, calm down,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick interfered. “Let’s find out what our guests want to play.”
Elizabeth and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“I want to play ‘Go Fish,’” Jessica announced.
“But it’s not your decision,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick reminded her. “What do you think, James?” she asked Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“I think most everyone here is too old to enjoy ‘Go Fish.’ And we haven’t played spoons in at least two months. So, who’s up for spoons?”
Though the uproar was not loud enough for me to hear, I sensed a sudden rising of tension and commotion. It was settled. We began a long, aggressive game of ‘Spoons.’ Gradually, the table of ten dwindled down until the final two, James and Joseph competed in the championship. We all watched as Joseph got four of kind first and grabbed the one remaining spoon.
“You may be good at playing guitar, but you really suck at spoons,” James told me when he, Elizabeth, and I were in his room later that evening.
I laughed. “Yeah, too bad you and Elizabeth can’t even tell whether I’m a good guitar player or not.”
“Well, you look cool when you play,” Elizabeth commented.
“Thanks…”
“Do you remember when we were little, how Elizabeth’s grandmother used to make fun of you when you played guitar, Lance? She thought it was just weird that a deaf kid would play guitar.”
“I guess I was too focused on playing to look up and notice criticism back then. I just remember that we would rake her yard and she would pay us in chocolate chip cookies afterward and she would tell us those weird stories about child-eating monsters.”
“Oh, yeah, I could never forget that. How is your grandmother doing, Elizabeth?”
“She’s hanging in there,” Elizabeth responded hesitantly.
“Is she taking care of you?” I signed.
“I guess you haven’t been over in a while, Lance. I’m taking care of her.”
“It’s that bad?”
“She might have to go into a nursing home soon.”
I looked away, ashamed that I had not inquired of her grandmother more recently. “But where will you go then?”
James answered for her. “If it happens before Elizabeth graduates, she’s going to come live here.” We all knew what would happen after Elizabeth’s graduation. She and James had been planning it for as long as I could remember. This year, James was a senior. After he graduated, he was going to a get steady position with his father’s company. Then, a year later, when Elizabeth would be out of high school, they would get married, buy a little house, and start a family. Though their anticipation grew as the time drew closer every day, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.

A Story on the Way

At last, I have finished the first draft of "Mutant of Mainstream." I'm very excited about that story. In fact, I think I like it better than any first draft of a story I have ever written. There is a lot of passion in it, a lot of personality, a lot of feeling. But I am really going to need feedback on this one since I am writing it from the perspective of a deaf guy and I am neither a guy nor am I deaf. The story is split up into four chapters, so I may post one chapter at a time as I complete them. The first draft isn't terribly long--about twenty-six handwritten pages--and I imagine that the second draft will be about the same length. I would like to have as many readers as possible. Thank you, everyone.

On Thrill

So, I'm going to New York on Friday. Don't tell anyone (obviously, I desire secrecy since I am sharing this post with the entire world), but I'm terrified and excited all at once. And, though it makes no sense, I am much more terrified than excited. That's the wierd thing about my feelings--they never seem to make sense. As often as I've had my own Birthday party, I've dreaded it's coming. And I always get that sensation when getting up on a knee board that I could seriously injure myself--or maybe die. I try to avoid amusement parks, since peaceful talks and afternoons spent on writing or reading seem so much more intrigueing... and safe. Shopping, rather than gratifying, as it is to most girls, is usually depressing to me.

Perhaps, I'm just not much of a thrill-seeker. But I do crave experiences and situations, perhaps mostly because they give me something to write about. So, of course I want to go to New York. It's going to be great, and after I come back, I will probably agree with myself.

God is good to allow all kinds of experiences, to put them in our reach, to make us, if not thrill-seeking, generally adventurous. I guess God is a God of adventure. He is mighty and valiant, and, according to the Bible, "a Man of War." And when He indwells us and surrounds us, we are left with nothing to fear, because He is all-powerful and His will is always done.

The Journal of My Mind

Words are such small things that they cannot be measured,
Falling like bricks from our lips with simple pound to the ground,
Forgotten in the blankness of our minds.

But I was there when you gave me those words you forgot,
Which fell like bricks from your lips and grew roots in my heart,
Jotted eagerly down in the journal of my mind.

Oh, words are such large things that they cannot be measured,
They can be rewound and replayed, but never erased, long after they've been
Forgotten in the blankness of our minds.

Images

Faces--black, white, and beige,
Some youthful, some aged,
Bierded faces, calloused faces,
Sweaty faces, tender faces.

The brush strokes thick,
And then it is thin,
Heavy, watery,
Steady, faltering,

In blue like saphire skies,
Black like moonless nights,
Red like concrete cuts,
Green like ball parks,
White like perfect cloudes,
Yellow like the sun they conceal,
Pink like the twilight,
Purple like this child's shirt...

In countless varietes of shapes:
Turtles for our one-day pets,
Frogs for wive'stales of warts,
Smiley faces for random thoughts,
Rainbows for dreams we've failed to attain,
Hearts for what we still desire,
Balloons for parties at which we closed off,
Crosses for the commitment we've sealed ourselves to.

But it all wipes away at the end of the day,
With a few drops of water against these cheeks.

Yesterday in flames

Craving is a fire that has burned these holes in my heart,
Muddled my vision and my purpose for being here at all,
And left me to trust with everything inside me
That you have a plan and you will stay beside me.
I have no understanding of my own to lean on anymore--
It's burning in that fire locked behind the door.
And I have no sufficiency of my own at last
Because the flames are shriveling all the pride of my past.

So I'm laying alone on the floor in this room,
Thinking and breathing and crying to you.
You're all I have to lean on today.
The hopes of last night are burning away
By the minute,
By the ticking of the clock.
That fire just won't stop.

And I am waiting for You to guide my paths.
I've got nothing now to hold me back.
I will follow. I will run in Your ways
From the fragments of the shriveled yesterday.

The Death of Israel's First Priest

It's a long, long way up the mountain.
My heart beats harder with each step,
Trying and tripping, climbing and slipping.
It feels like I'm dying with each step.
Everyone is watching and waiting
With my brother and my son at my sides.
Still I'm trying and tripping, slidding and gripping,
Knowing soon there will be none left at my side.

It's a short, short way up the mountain,
But my throat is still parched with these thoughts--
The promise of death is nearing me,
And I know it's there to greet me at the top.
Yes, death is here to greet me.
They both turn around and leave,
Trying and tripping down the slope.
No more climbing, no more slipping,
No more sliding, no more gripping,
No more trying and tripping for me.

A Bird Unbound

With feathers white and free and light, you dance along the bars.
With joyful heart and care-free art, you sing the highest part.
And I see the sky reflected in your eyes as you brighten the bars,
Skipping, preening, breathing, gleaming, taunting my captured heart.

With feet let loose, you're in the air, bound up by cheerful wings,
Higher, higher, 'til you're out of sight, clothed in white, a king.
The sky is yours for, like the clouds, you float on tender wings,
And from my small, barred domain, I hear my angel sing.

I Must Die

Everything is ready;
I have only to run up the hill, embracing this wooden fixture
Without fear of splinters,
Casting down this life which was once so dear to me.
I know that I must die.

And I lay my shaking hands down on the wood,
Knowing soon I will feel that piercing pain I have always avoided.
And there will be no going back.
But this is all that I can do--
I know that I must die,

Like a seed falling to the ground
To rise and truely live.
I am being crucified, so nothing will hurt me,
But I will be alive in a whole new way
As, everyday, I die.

These Days

I don’t know what’s going on these days:

I’m in some kind of struggle in the valley’s dark

And I see just enough to know how bad this hurts-

To be in somewhere in the middle, but to be so alone,

To talk to you without any suitable words.

I’m on the verge of a song, a run, a cry

Because the pain that I feel is so deep inside

That it cannot help but hide.

She’s wailing and weeping, but shedding no tears.

She’s dying and lonely, but still partly alive.

He’s broken, confused, but still fumbling around,

With half a heart here to be with us

And half a heart lying back there on the ground.

They’re on the verge of a song, a run, a cry

Because the pain that they feel is so deep inside

That it cannot help but hide.

We’re on the verge of a song, a run, a cry

Because the pain that we feel is so deep inside

That it cannot help but hide.

She’s loving, but hating, and worn out with feelings.

He’s torn apart over his misunderstandings.

I’m falling down with the weights that I carry.

Let’s all fall in the dark and lay on the ground

And know the Light that never wearies.

Let’s help up each other stand up in the Light.

Gasoline

I feel like I've been injected with a hundred pounds of caffeine

And I lay sleepless through the night.

My thoughts are overwhelming this tired, one-track mind

On the edge of the bed, clinging tight.

I feel like I've been injected with a hundred pounds of gasoline,

But I have no engine to run it off.

It eats me through the night; this morning I am gone,

Entangled in the weight of every thought.

Oh Father, I am not a car and I am not a coffee pot

And I don't know what to do when my mind gets this hot.

So hold me in Your arms, though I'm sweating gasoline,

And please just lift these thoughts that keep haunting me.

I know that You're still holding on to me, too,

So I'm on the edge of the bed, clinging tight to You.

The Dust of Life

A quick fix with chic flicks every half hour,
A new do for a true you every five minutes,
And everything impossible is coming out of your microwave.
I've tried over and over, but I guess I'm just not as brave.
Because it seems that the best things
I always have to wait for.
And I practice and practice, strumming these strings,
While you take center stage of the world.

Life seems to take so long to live
And it's high school, day after day after year,
And it's practice, note after note after song,
And it's night time, fighting and fighting these fears.
Is this the life God came to make to full?

Your pop tarts and breakfast bars and abrvs.,
Your five easy steps to success,
Your five easy days, your five easy ways
To get made, to get paid, to get saved.
I'm back here in the dust of life,
In the lonely moments where I wait,
And I work and I sweat and I bleed;
It seems I've lost track of you, world.

Life seems to take so long to live
And it's high school, day after day after year,
And it's practice, note after note after song,
And it's night time, fighting and fighting these fears,
And this is the life God came to make full.
And it's high school, day after day after year,
And it's practice, note after note after song,
And it's night time, fighting and fighting these fears.

A Strange Kind of Weakness

I have a strange kind of weakness when I rest in Your arms,

A vulnerability, a freedom, I have alone with You.

There I admit exactly what I am

And You listen to the gore of the truth.

I have a strange kind of peace when I rest in Your arms

Which grabs me from before, behind, inside.

It is the peace of forgiveness, the peace of the clean,

That at long last there is nothing more to hide!

I have a strange kind of beauty when I rest in Your arms,

As a pure spotless child through Your grace.

And You see Your Son in my radiance,

Your Son in my heart, veins, feet, hands, and face.

I have a strange kind of strength when I rest in Your arms,

Your power manifested through my flesh

To love what You love, to do what You do,

To join in Your work, Your love, Your rest.

Picture in Our Minds

But we all still have that old picture in our minds,

A reminder of how our affections change with time,

And leave us with new crises and harsher bolder thoughts,

And how we will make it through again if we trust again in God.

Yes, that emptiness and searchingness that flooded us last year,

Is filled with smiles and matches now, which do not calm the fears.

And still there are those of us who are free from that game,

But then I think in bed at night how we're all about the same

And how it's all a trick to get us agonizing deep inside

And trying like baby birds who are a little young to fly,

And starving ourselves for something that feels like a greater thing,

But not realizing our mistake until someone breaks a wing.

So, I have the couple picture ingrafted in my mind,

But then comes the cold remark "Affections change with time."

I want to work in that hospital for birds with damaged thoughts

And remember I will make it through if I put my trust my God.

The Shrieking Hearts of All

There are those sometimes when I feel unlike the rest.

And that's not so bad until I come up dehydrated

From a frozen over river, a spring stopped in its cycle,

And I shut my eyes to those round me who have fainted.

How can I desire wealth and the winning of this race?

They say that loosing is victory in Your freeing chains.

How can I climb this wall when You tell me to fall,

Into my weakness, Your strength, and the shrieking of all?

Somedays I ask for freedom and for sliding into that,

And turn my back on sweet incarceration and the pain.

And I unplug my nervous system to all those around

Who are slaving and dying in the light of Your Name.

Did You give me life, just so I could live?

Did You give me freedom, just so I could give?

Did You call my name, just so I could call?

Or is this the greatest calling of all?

Adherent Walls

Would you please allow me turn off your music?

These thoughts are piercing me straight through the bones.

Why must we be on opposite sides of the room,

Opposite sides of our minds all the time?

Why won't you look me in the eyes and listen?

Why won't you spill your mind to me?

Why must we adhere to adherent walls, that drive us away?

They always force me to the opposite side of the room.

I'm lost for words in all of these thoughts.

I'm a freak. You're a freak. What does that mean?

If God is speaking, when will we hear-

When we break through these walls to which we adhere?

Bouquets and Thunderbolts

Every day with You is like a dance

Where I'm caught up in Your wooing romance.

Your love songs sound like thunderbolts

And the rusteling of trees,

And all the flowers are bouquets

You have made just for me.

Though I'm going through the land of darkness

I am surrounded by Your strength and goodness,

Talking in knowing, seducing kinds of tones,

Walking with the Light in the valley of bones.

Wipe now the tear that is slipping down my cheek

Of hostility and passions which prove that I am weak.

The warm winds of summer are like your breath on me-

Tell me, reassure me Your love will never cease.

Every day with You is like a dance.

Question of a Mortal (from the Perspective of a Searching Man)

Good is never good enough; better is never best.

I could sleep the whole day through and never get a rest.

What haunts me is the fear, the guilt, from messing up last time.

What drives me is what lies ahead- to win this mile to shake this hand, to be one of the best.

I walked down the medical aisle late last night: the products read "happiness", "peace", "panacea"...

I picked up the bottle to fix loneliness, the one I take every other day.

I still have that mad craving inside to be someone or have someone or really just know someone.

And it doesn't go away every other day.

Good is a term they twist with theology and psycology to mean whatever they want.

They have played this game so long that I always loose.

They make their own truths...

What is truth?

So I ask yet again:

In the end, do we all die like mortals?

Frets and Strings

Another part of me comes alive,

Moving up and down the frets and strings,

Hammering on and hammering off the things,

And a sharp bend and a smooth slide.

It slips through my fingers and into my veins.

Give it, share it, love it- I feel it in my fingers.

I feel it in my fingers, deeper than sound-

A person deaf and blind could know it still,

A silent running, a vibrant feel,

Making quiet minds wonder and full hearts pound.

It slips through my fingers and into my veins.

Give it, share it, love it- I feel it in my fingers.

Don't Let Go

Caffeine highs and desperate lows,

Questions mount and feelings blow

To foreign lands where they are killed

Like leaves blown into enemies fields.

It's the doubts that tell this weary hand

To let go and fall into enemy lands.

The doubts say You will let me fall;

The doubts say You will watch me crawl

In deserted lands where I will call,

And You won't care- You'll watch me fall.

But faith says I'm at desperate lows

And I should hold tight when feelings go,

And not because of caffeine highs,

And not because of pretty lies,

And even though the feelings die:

I know You when You hold me tight.

And there is peace that questions can't trace

And there is joy that doubts don't faze.

And there is love that won't let me fall-

My Father hears me when I call.

The Wanting of More

Silence and thinking,

Silence and starring,

Silence and the wanting of more.

Music and distance,

Music and nearness,

Music and the pulling at the floor.

Passion and apathy,

Passion and purity,

Passion and the waiting by her door.

Beauty and shadows,

Beauty and stillness,

Beauty and the way you look at her.

Passion and apathy,

Passion and purity,

Passion and the waiting by her door.

Music and distance,

Music and nearness,

Music and the pulling at the floor.

Silence and thinking,

Silence and starring,

Silence and the wanting of more.

The Journey Home

Riding across the horizon

As the sun comes out

To fill the Texas sky

And illuminate our minds

And bring them to lands

They don't often go,

Across the massive sky

To a place we now call home,

Through the enchanted grass

Of that old Oklahoma

That I played in some years past

And danced through the mist

Like a native indian

Who traveled off to Arkansas-

Here we come, sweet Arkansas,

Where the last of my childhood lay

In the backyard in a grave.

And all that was left of me

Settled where life begins, in Tennessee.

The edge of the river ended our roam,

And end, for now, in a place called home.

To Burn

To die is to live

Like a brand new thing,

To be buried in the fire

And come up and start to sing.

To worship is to live

With a fire in your heart

That burns up the old

And sets the new apart.

To serve is to live,

To set another soul ablaze

And watch and help

Until their heart is like a flame.

To give is to live-

To sing with all your heart,

To dance with all your heart,

To die, worship, serve with all your heart-

To burn is to live.

Our Shells

He is somewhere beneath his shell of pride,

But no one knows who he is inside,

And everytime that someone tries

He cringes behind his shell and hides.

She says she love the man he is

But tells him to change that or this

And he tapes together the broken shell of his

And hides again and pretends to live.

And when I look at you again

You hide behind a shell like him

And whitewash the sickness of your sin

And fall in line with all of them.

The only thing to change is me

Because I close the door when you shouldn't see

And I think I'm better than they could be,

But now I scream, "Oh Father, set me free

From my whitewashed shell of pride,

From the tape all over my insides,

From what I show and what I hide-

Crack my shell open to life."

Loving and Leaving

I've seen women turn to girls over men they love so deep.

And I've seen girls turn to puddles on the ground.

And I've seen men be so gentle as to stroke their hair

And I wonder and I fanticize- what is it to be loved?

I've seen two turn to one with this thing

And I've seen two break away from this thing

As if it were a mystery to throw you in a trance

And two smile together and say "Let's take a chance."

Some see that to love is to commit,

But some think to love might mean to leave.

And some will leave and some will cleave

And some will die and some will cry.

They will blame it all on love.

I may leave this place and never really return.

I think it better to never love than to love and leave.

I may never completely return.

The voice that greets me every morning

And rocks me to sleep at night

Is the one that always cherishes

But never breaks away into the night.

Fallen in the Night

The voice of the one helpless victim is resounding in my ears,

The weakening scream that I have to stop to hear.

The killer is disguised in a robe of white

And the tiny marks of blood are all beyond our sight.

You hear it if you cup your ear, you hear the woman talking

Behind closed doors with other girls in between her sobbing.

The voice of the forty-five million have drowned out in the night

Like spots on the killers angelic robe of white.

Now more and more are screaming out whispers in the dark

And the girls are all sobbing out their guilt in the dark

And the so-called angels are doubting in the shadows of their minds

And everyone is questioning and everyone is blind.

And the forty-five million have fallen in the night.

Song of a Vagabond

You have brought me to this place of sweet dependence

In the valley on the way to my home

Where my dreams have turned to question marks,

Burning deep inside my heart

As I think and I laugh and I roam,

As a vagabond in a valley going home.

I have nothing here to eat but what You give,

And I have no water but the rivers you pour forth,

No shelter but my Sweetest Friend,

No musice but the songs You send,

No beauty but Your glory springing from the earth,

And the little pleasures You're always sending forth.

So I will wait on my Provider in this valley

And I will close my eyes and think of home

And think that if you provide all my needs

Then You will work out these dreams,

Burning in my heart as I roam,

As a vagabond in a valley going home.

Behold the Man...

He speaks harshly to the self-consumed

And picks up the people they called doomed.

He turned our water into wine

And anointed the eyes of the blind.

Behold the Man that some call God

And some call a sinner and a fraud.

But now He is silent, He writes on the ground

And now He is shouting that the lost may be found.

He walks on the water, but won't overlook a child.

He clears out the temple and they whisper He's gone wild.

But the blind can see and the lame can walk;

The deaf can hear; the dumb can talk.

He opens His mouth and says the word:

The tomb breaks open; the dead comes forward.

Behold, the Man who invites us to drink His blood

And lets them beat His body into the mud.

Who is this Man nailed to the cross?

And are we really worth that cost?

Behold, the Man who conquered the grave!

He came to seek; He came to save.

Though it pierced His side and scarred His hands,

Behold, the Son of God, the Son of Man.

Blood and Flowers

I know it's difficult sometimes

When tommorrow seems a million years away,

And sometimes in the evening

You might look into her eyes,

And your "someday girl" seems to fade away.

I know waves splash against the rocks,

Beckoning you to follow,

But please don't go because you know

It will only end in sorrow.

And your "someday girl" waits on the shore.

She will not accept their flowers,

Drenched with blood from their hearts.

She will not dance with their lips

Or hold their hands and feel their powers.

She's clinging to the Only Love

That she's allowed to know,

And that love will fill her heart;

That love will make her grow.

Oh , please don't give away your flowers,

Drenched in your heart's blood!

But cling to the Power greater than their touch

And wait on the shore for our time

To know God's gift of tried and pure love.

I know waves splash against the rocks,

Beckoning you to follow,

But please don't go because you know

It will only end in sorrow.

You know waves splash against the rocks,

Beckoning me to follow,

But I won't go because I know

It will only end in sorrow.

But I won't go because I know

I'll be yours tomorrow.

Please don't go, please don't go, please don't go

Because you know

You'll be mine tomorrow.

Reminiscing on Grace

Morning Star of Bethlehem and Root out of Dry Ground,

You reached to the darkness so that I might be found.

For I was a little child who hid in the shadows I hated,

And I was a free heart who found that freedom overrated.

I was a vagabond wandering from sin to guilt, to sin,

Like a lonely wolf in the moonlight sighing deep within.

But I was too afraid to be like all the rest--

To smile the way they smiled, to dress the way they dressed.

So I was out on my own again, swinging in the backyard,

Laying on my stumace and unable to breathe,

Starring at the weeds down below, imagining them as trees.

I was not brave enough for boys or silly enough for girls,

So I swung far a way from earth in my own little world.

But, one day, You drew me close, like a Shepherd who leaves

His flock behind to find that one last sheep.

And you came back rejoicing with Your prize,

Wiping the dirt from my wool, the tears from my eyes.

You showed me what it is to be clean with in,

To leave the swing of loneliness and find a Faithful Friend.

Oh Branch of Righteousness, Seed of David's throne,

The grace You had on Israel now also is my own.

Tracks

Darkness, darkness, light, light,

Over eyes and hands in a hundred different places,

Over cold poles and blank faces,

Until they hit the next sight

Where some will leave and others come

Like robots to their orange seats,

To sit, to stand, to leave,

As the tracks resound in their ears like drums.

And they do not want to go where they are going,

But they have no reason to stay,

And their habits and feet are guiding them on today,

Like waterdrops always searching and flowing.

So they are on to the next fix, the next sight.

And they stare like the only one there,

Where they feel no comfort, yet no fear,

But always darkness, darkness, light, light.

To Clear Our Minds

The wall of iron over your heart,

None could shatter it apart.

But when you scrapped the surface there

And etched it musically for all to hear,

I all together closed my heart,

Pulled off and left you far apart.

Those who live in a world of darkness and gloom

Should keep to their dusty, cloudy rooms,

Far, far away from our white-washed kind

Who use drinks and friends to clear our minds.

Don't bring your thunder to our game.

Don't soak our light bulbs in your rain.

Don't wash the paint from off our faces

To show us who we are in places,

In rooms that we have long closed off,

In drawers of which we never talk.

If you want to walk away and die,

Do it far from our ears and eyes.

Don't etch the gunshot in our minds;

Don't make us still; don't turn us blind.

Don't stop the ticking timer in our game

To drag us out into the rain.

Songs of Deliverance

“Is God making a difference in your life? Are you different from your co-workers or classmates? 2 Corinthians 5:17 says ‘If anyone be in Christ he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.’ If you are truly in Christ then God sees you as perfect and spotless! Do your actions reflect your identity in Christ? Do you really pray? Do you really love people? Is the Word of God changing you?”

I felt as if a steel rod just out of the furnace was pressing against my heart. For the first time, I realized that the pastor was not speaking to the walls of the room or to the pews but to the people who filled them. He was genuine. At that moment, I realized what a fake I had been. To me, God was an event. All of this time, life had been centered around me. No one understands me. I love me. I hate me. I want this for me. No one knows what I have gone through. Me…me. On this note, someone might say, “Well, God knows and God cares.” I would agree, but what did that mean to me? Remember, to me, God had been an event which felt good for a moment and then passed on by. But the question pierced me now: Can God change me? It was backed up by: Do I really want Him to? And that was me… me again.

The service went on, but I couldn’t get past those thoughts. Finally, I walked out of the room, all sweaty and clammy inside, my head ringing. Can God change me? Do I want Him to? I followed Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy down the hall. Aunt Kristy’s hair just touched her shoulders and bounced gracefully around her neck like little ballerinas. I starred into Uncle Jeff’s black, black coat. “I need to change. I half want to change.” When we reached the nursery, someone handed me Carter. Aunt Kristy took Katelynn and Uncle Jeff took Thomas. Carter yawned and laid his little head on my chest as we walked toward the door. I kissed my cousin Carter softly on the top of the head, where his hair was a perfect mix between Uncle Jeff’s brown hair and Aunt Kristy’s blonde hair.

Was the God that had saved me seven years ago the same god I served now? The former was a loving, caring, powerful God. The latter was a motionless god who only got aggravated when I did not go to church. It made me feel guilty for gossiping or not sharing my faith, but when the chance came for me to do things differently, this god would not give me the strength.

We walked out of the bright church building into the black, black night outside.

This god could not be God. I felt like such a fool. How could I be so stupid as to serve a false god with such zeal, even coming to points of utter frustration with my lack of ability to please it? But this god did not care how I felt. It would not help me when I messed up, but laughed, instead, at my mistakes. What a miserable life I had been leading!

I buckled Carter in his car seat.

I wanted to be free from this god. So badly, I wanted to be free. I wanted to be changed. Oh God, I cried out in my spirit, I have messed up so badly for such a long time! I don’t know how You can take me back, but please forgive me. Please change my life. Show me who You really are! Come near to me. I need You. Peace stormed my spirit like a flood.

I looked down the dark road as we traveled in the van, realizing that there were so many things I had believed that I had not even known I had believed. There were so many things I had completely doubted that I had not even known I had doubted. Alas, God was near. He did care about my life. All of the sudden, I remembered what that meant.

The van pulled up to a log house and stopped on the rocky driveway. After unbuckling three sleepy one-year-olds, I handed Carter and Thomas to Aunt Kristy. I took Katelynn and waited as Uncle Jeff unlocked the door to the house. Once inside, I pulled off my shoes. Our house was that medium, perfect size. It was cozy, yet airy. The sweet homey smell that welcomed me when I entered always made me wonder why I had left.

The phone rang in the kitchen. I walked through the living room to get it.

“Hamilton residence,” I said.

“Ada? This is Steven.”

“Oh, hey.”

“We have practice tomorrow, you know.”

“Oh that’s right, we do.”

“Yeah, six o’clock. I’ll meet you at the pillars after school, okay?”

“Alright, thanks for calling.”

“Bye.”

With a start, the radio came on. I rolled over in bed and rubbed my eyes to look at the alarm clock. It was only 6:30. I usually did not get up for another fifteen minutes. But today would be different. I turned off the radio, pulled myself out of bed, and opened the window to find the world still dark as a bird cage draped over with a cover. My feet were cold against the floor. After picking up my Bible, I got back in bed. Oh God, I prayed, please wake me up. Please speak to me and change me with Your Word.

I looked up the passage in 2 Corinthians 5:13-18 that the preacher was speaking about the night before. “If we are out of our minds, it is for the sake of God; if we are in our right mind, it is for you. For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all, and therefore all died. And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again. So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer. Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation.” I breathed heavily and prayed, Please help me to live like a new creation, God. Show me how to carry out this ministry of reconciliation.

In a plaid skirt, I sat down across from Shelby. The cafeteria was buzzing like an ant colony with guys in ties and girls in identical plaid skirts. I took a bite of the sandwich before me. Shelby sighed and said, “I’m going to fail that history exam on Wednesday.”

“No, you won’t fail! You always say those things and then you do well,” I reminded her.

“This time I’m really going to fail.”

“Do you want to study together tomorrow?”

“Why not today?”

“I’ve got practice for the musical.”

“But today’s actually a nice day. Tomorrow is supposed to be colder.”

“You mean you want to go down to the pond to study? Who cares if it’s a little cold?”

“Look!” Shelby almost shouted, looking in the distance. “It’s Katie Crosbin. I can’t stand her. Do you know what she did to my sister?”

Something seemed wrong. I thought about the question she had just asked me.

She pressured me. “Ada, don’t you want to hear what she did to my sister?”

“No, I really don’t.”

Shelby looked surprised. “Oh, come on. It’s not gossip; it’s true. Why can’t I tell you?”

“Shelby, I know we always end up talking about people like that, but I can’t do it anymore. There’s something wrong with it.”

“There’s something wrong with you. Why are you being such a goody-goody all the sudden?”

“Listen, can’t we just drop it?”

“No, if you don’t want to talk, I’ll go talk to someone else. I hope you get back to normal soon.” Shelby got up with her tray of food and moved to a different table. Sitting there alone, I starred at the sandwich in front of me with one bite taken out, and I starred at the people passing by, and I starred at the girl in the distance, talking to other girls. She had been my neighbor and one of my best friends since kindergarten. How could she just get up and walk away? God, I prayed, why is this happening? I thought You cared. I thought You would make things better. I’m just not sure I can handle this. Do you have some sort of plan?

The fall leaves fell steadily on the ground that grey afternoon. I sat against the pillar outside of the school building watching students walk past like a school of fish.

Then I saw Stephen’s black hair among the crowd. He came toward me. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” I responded, standing up and walking toward his truck.

He opened the passenger door for me and then got in the other side. “Do you always get out early or do I always get out late?”

“I think I always get out early. Mrs. Lamback always lets us out five minutes before the bell rings. I guess she doesn’t get in trouble for it though.”

“Maybe the bell rings five minutes late. Maybe someone should get on to whoever set the bell to ring five minutes late.”

I laughed. I enjoyed Stephen’s passionate speeches about things he really did not care much about. It seemed he did it only to entertain me, though I could not understand exactly why he wanted to entertain me.

“What do you think about Katie Crosbin?” questioned Stephen very seriously as we meandered out of the parking lot.

“Katie Crosbin? Katie Crosbin?” I muttered, wishing everyone would drop the subject all together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… do you think she’s nice?”

“I don’t know her very well.” I looked over at Stephen’s mature-looking face. He had recently turned seventeen. I felt like he was growing up and leaving me behind. But I didn’t talk about that. “Why do you ask?” I questioned.

“She’s kind of been flirting with me.”

“So?”

“So?”

“Are you telling me you want to go out with a girl just because she flirts with you?”

“Ada, I never said I wanted to go out with her. I was only asking you what you thought about her. Obviously you don’t like her…”

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. I guess you’re old enough to make your own decisions anyway.”

“Thank you,” Stephen said sarcastically and laughed.

After half an hour of traveling down the road with Stephen, he turned into a familiar street with old houses and magnificent trees. It was such a welcoming street. The trees themselves, as they shook in the wind, seemed to chant to me, “Ada, why have you been so long in coming?” I responded in my mind, Well, there was the break. But still, they did not seem to think that that was a reasonable excuse. But this was all but a childish trick of my mind.

We pulled over between two houses. Both of them were a normal size and looked very similar to the other houses around. Clearly, they had been standing for decades.

We got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” I told him, approaching one of the houses.

“No problem. See you at 5:54?” he said, knocking on the door to the other house.

“I’ll be here.” I climbed the steps to the wooden porch I knew so well and unlocked the front door. Once inside, I took off my jacket and shoes and set them by the doormat, smelling the old familiar smells and looking around.

Aunt Riven, my father’s father’s older sister, sat in a rocking chair in the corner. Her white hair was up in her usual Victorian style bun and her glasses were resting peacefully on her wrinkled nose as she read a book with the words “The 101 Best Chess Strategies” across the cover. She looked up now. “Ada Lane, is that you?”

“Yes ma’am.” I came closer to her.

“Why,” she said, “I was hoping you’d be coming today, but I couldn’t quite remember if today was Sunday or Monday. It’s Monday, I guess?”

“Yes ma’am, it is.”

“Would you like to play me in a game of chess?”

“I would love to, but I have to get my homework done and practice for the musical is at six.”

“Well, first things first; maybe I can help you with your homework and then you can help me by letting me practice one of the 101 best chess strategies on you… over a bowl of soup, perhaps?”

“Okay, I suppose we have time.” I sat down in the chair across from her and unzipped my backpack.

Three hours and thirty minutes later, we were fifteen minutes into our second chess game and Aunt Riven had the upper hand. I was looking down at the pieces on the chessboard and thinking how they made a very interesting game, but they did nothing whatsoever without me moving them. They were lifeless blocks of wood without the ability to plot how they might win the game. I had the brain. I ruled over them and moved them where I wished. Though the king looked as if he was in charge, he really had no more ability than the rest. I thought about how small and helpless we must look before God, like these blocks of wood before me, and I remembered part of a chapter in Isaiah: “Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD sits enthroned above the circle of the earth and its people are like grasshoppers. He stretches out his heavens like a canopy and spreads them out like a tent to live in. He brings princes to naught and reduces the rulers of the world to nothing. No sooner are they planted, no sooner are they sown, no sooner do they take root in the ground, than he blows on them and they wither and a whirlwind sweeps them away like chaff. ‘To whom will you compare me or who is my equal?’ says the Holy One.”

“What do you really think about God?” I asked Aunt Riven, who had just moved her horse after intense thought.

I did not remember ever hearing her say much about God before. She looked at me for a moment, and then down into her tomato soup. “God is good; God is love,” she said quickly, as in an effort to make me feel better and wrap up the subject. “Oh my, what a silly move I made! It messed up my whole strategy,” she muttered.

“Do you think God knows our hearts and everything about us?”

“Why, yes.”

I captured her knight. “Do you think He is just?”

“Haha! That is precisely what I meant for you to do,” she smiled, switching the places of her king and castle and somehow putting me in checkmate.

I looked at the board. “Augh, I never saw that coming… Wow…”

“Oh, it’s okay, Sweetie. Chess is not just about winning. It’s about learning and thinking,” she said, putting the pieces back in their original places. “And I’ll never get you that way again…”

“I would hope not.”

“But your Uncle Chester on the other hand…” She grinned.

I pulled out of my pocket a small, black cell phone. “Oh, it’s time to go.”

“Stephen’s not here yet.”

“I told him I would meet him outside at 5:54 because our phones are on exactly the same time.”

“My goodness, that’s a strange time to meet someone.”

“Yes, but it works out so that we get there at exactly six o’clock.”

“You two are strange,” she laughed.

“Bye, Aunt Riven,” I said, kissing her forehead.

“Bye, Ada Lane. Be safe. Have fun.”

After putting on my jacket and shoes, I stepped outside into the growing darkness just as Stephen was coming up the steps. “Honestly, we’ve got to get better at this,” I said, as we both began walking back down the front steps.

“I know,” he sighed dramatically. “It’s 5:55.”

“Since we didn’t have practice last week, I don’t think I remember anything—not one note, not one move, not one line.”

“How many lines do you have?”

“That’s beside the point… Like fifteen, but…” My tone dropped, “one by myself.”

“I imagine you remember much more than you remember that you remember.” We went down the side walk passing old houses and huge trees.

“It’s sort of a depressing storyline,” I muttered.

“You mean the storyline for the musical?”

“Yeah, but at the same time, very thought provoking.”

“Of course, Marvin always comes up with thought provoking storylines.”

“It’s just strange the way Putrid has been in prison nearly his whole life and the only thing he does, day by day, is come up with plans to escape. Whenever he comes up with a plan that seems workable, some other prisoner uses it to escape. But then, in the end, Putrid doesn’t even seem to want to leave… In the end, he doesn’t even want to be free.”

“It sounds like an allegory.”

“Yeah, but I wonder if everyone realizes it...”

“That reminds me of something I wanted to talk to you about—something I’ve been thinking and praying about. It sounds kind of crazy.”

“What?”

“Starting a Bible study at the theatre before the practices and performances with the other performers—whoever wants to come I mean.”

“Wow. That sounds awesome.”

“Yeah? Would you want to help me with it?”

I looked up at him, suddenly filled with anxiety.

“I’ll let you pray about it,” Stephen reassured me.

Ten houses past Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven’s, the theatre stood a large, black marble building in the cool night sky. The top of it had a strange, jagged tip which ended in a sharp point. Outside of it, there were large and small black marble statues. The theatre was one of the few attractions in the town. It showed original musicals every six months. For the performers, like Stephen and I, that meant consistent practices. The sign outside of the theatre, blowing slightly in the breeze, read, “November 11^th-17^th: The Prisoner’s Dream.”

Stephen and I went through a side door to the backstage. Once inside, I breathed in the stuffy, but welcoming air. The smell of wood and glue and metal and sweat was actually refreshing to my senses. My eyes were pleased at the sight of the countless little hallways and steps to various entrances, as people were walking around, chatting.

Stephen stopped someone. “Where are we starting, Michael?”

“Scene 6.”

“With the madman?”

“That’s the one.”

Stephen smiled. He liked the scene where a madman was taken into prison because Stephen was a prison guard and he got to pretend to beat the madman. Shaking my head, I went to my entrance.

“Hi, Mrs. Carothers,” I greeted the tall woman in black clothes and sunglasses. She always wore that same garb unless a costume required to her to do otherwise. Her lips were always bent into a frown beneath her frizzy brown hair. In truth, it was depressing to be around her. She was a good actress, however, and she had a very interesting singing voice. Still, it was as if through her dark sunglasses life took on a dark tone for her. Nothing was exciting or intriguing to her; everything was monotonous.

“Hello, Ada,” she replied in her usual level tone.

“How are you?” I asked her.

“Fine,” she responded, but her tone implied, “Bad, as always.”

At the moment, I thought deeply on things I had only thought momentarily on before. I wondered if there was anything unusual about Mrs. Carothers’ life, or if perhaps her life was much like mine (only, it took on a dark tone through her sunglasses). I could not be sure. Once in the past, I had had the urge to tell her, “Why don’t you take off those glasses and try looking at the world as it really is?” But tonight I realized her problem may not be nearly so physical. Perhaps it was sin which clouded her vision; she could not “take off” sin… by herself. It seemed sin had the power to bind someone like shackles.

Shackles. I soon found myself on the stage, beside Mrs. Carothers, pretending to be shackled to the wall. (I was only pretending because we did not have the shackles yet, nor did we have our costumes.) I sang a sad song with the other “prisoners” on the stage, glancing around at the people—adults, teenagers, and children—all bound with invisible shackles.

After practice, I sat on the steps outside of the theatre. People were talking, laughing, and leaving around me. I felt like the pensive-looking marble statue which stood near me.

Alisha, a picture perfect girl a year older than me, came to the stairs hastily and turned around toward me abruptly. “Ada,” she said, “you’re coming to my party Friday night, right?”

I had not known that she was having a party or that I had been invited. “Well, you know, I don’t really live downtown, but I’ll be staying here next week and the week after for the play. So, I’ll probably need to spend some time with my uncle and aunt in the country. So, yeah, I guess I can’t go. It was sweet of you to ask.”

She shrugged and said, “Okay,” and walked away. She was the kind of girl who acted like your best friend one minute and the next minute she acted as if she did not know you at all. Still, I felt stupid for giving her such a long explanation when she really did not care.

All of this made me hurt inside. This whole day made me hurt inside. Almost everyone I came in contact with seemed so lost and blinded. God, I cried out in my mind, what should I do? These people, they need You. And I know You. I want them to know You and I know how they can come to know You, but I can’t get past surface conversation. What do you want me to do?

It was Tuesday morning and I sat quietly in Algebra class, starring blankly at the board, trying to comprehend the things Mrs. McArthur was saying. Though her words made no sense to me, she rambled on monotonously, as if it made perfect sense to everyone. It reminded of when guys talk to girls about football. For instance, a few nights before, my aunt had asked my uncle to bathe the triplets while she and I went to the store. “Sure, honey,” he had said from the television. “Just five minutes.” We had not realized that he meant football minutes. Needless to say, when we returned, the babies still had not had their baths. And a different day, Stephen had seemed unusually happy at school. When I had asked him why that was, he had looked at me as if I was an alien, and he responded, “The cowboys won last night!” In the same way, in math class that day, Mrs. McArthur made perfect sense only to herself.

Shelby handed me a note. I looked over at her and then looked down at it. It read: “I heard Katie Crosbin is trying to steal your boyfriend.” Anger crept through my veins like poison. I crumbled the note and slid it in my pocket. I buried my head in my hands and fought back tears. I was angry with Shelby for calling Stephen my boyfriend. I was angry with Katie Crosbin for flirting. I was angry with Stephen, also… but I did not know why.

As the poison still ran through my veins, Mrs. McArthur’s voice rang out, “Ada, if X equals seven, what does Y equal?”

“Eight?” I responded.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh… I don’t know.”

“How was school?” questioned Aunt Kristy as I got in the van that afternoon.

“I thought trying to please God was supposed to make you happy or successful or at least…” My voice trailed off as though I had never heard Aunt Kristy’s question.

“What are you talking about?” questioned Aunt Kristy.

“I lost my best friend today,” I responded, kicking the floorboard.

Aunt Kristy leaned over and hugged me. Then she looked at me sympathetically and said, “Do you mean Shelby?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry, Ada,” she told me.

In this, Aunt Kristy had done all that she could, but she could not relieve the pain I felt. “I just don’t understand,” I mumbled. “I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I finally did something right.”

“I know none of this makes sense right now,” said Aunt Kristy, in her sweet, soothing voice, “but maybe this is part of God’s plan for you to change your friendships.”

“But I see Shelby all of the time—at school, at church, and in the neighborhood. Now I never want to have to face her again.”

“You said you didn’t do anything wrong. You can keep up your record by being kind to her still.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m strong enough, especially since I’m just trying out this being good thing. Before this I have always listened to her gossip because I didn’t want her to abandon me. I have been living in defeat for so long.”

“But you have asked forgiveness from God, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“So God has forgiven you and He sees you as pure and spotless. He also sees what you are going through and He knows that you cannot handle it on your own. But if you trust in Him, He will give you the strength to do the right thing.”

“But how can I be sure of that?”

“Don’t you remember where Paul says in Philippians ‘I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength’? You can claim that, too.”

“I guess I’m a little afraid to put all of my trust in Him so that His strength will work through me. But at the same time I guess it is the only way for me to live for Him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ada. There is never a point where a Christian gets so good that she doesn’t need God’s strength. Whenever I try to do it on my own, I realize how insufficient I am.”

“The more I have been thinking about it, though, the more things I realize I need God’s strength for. You know, the world is so full of people in the dark, in bondage to sin. They usually seem fine on the outside, but they must be hurting deep within. I think people have shells kind of like eggs. They have this hard-looking shell on the outside, but on the inside they are all like liquid. Even though we are all so tender inside, when we see other people’s shells, we expect them to be hard all the way through. And I think if I could really see what they are like inside, I would want to share the Good News about Jesus with them. But there are so many of them and their shells are so hard… and I am so weak.”

“I can tell you have been doing a lot of thinking, Ada. And you are right—the people we pass by every day are desperate for Jesus on the inside. If we don’t share with them, no one will.”

“But Stephen had this idea about starting a Bible study at the theatre and leaving the invitation open for any of the play participants to come…”

“That sounds like a really good idea.”

“Yeah, but he asked if I wanted to help with it… and I’m really not sure about that. It sounds nice, but I’m not sure I could actually do it.”

“Well, just pray about it. If God wants you to do it, he will show you. It seems to me that you have a huge opportunity at the theatre.”

“Yeah, I really do.”

It was a cold night; three blankets covered me. Though my body was wedged tightly between the bed and the covers, my mind was not stationary at all. It was running from place to place, pounding as it went.

Of course, I was not an ordinary fourteen-year-old girl. I did not often touch make-up (unless it was for a musical performance). I dressed neatly, but not flowery. And, I strove to never flirt with guys. But still, I was a girl and, though I was quite sure most people did not realize it, at the core I was just like all the others—I wanted to be thought of as beautiful and I was attracted to guys. There was one I was especially attracted to, but he was just a kind of dream and much too popular and sophisticated for me. Most likely, he was at home right now, an hour away from this place, doing homework, talking with his family, watching a recorded football game, or sleeping soundly. Whatever he was doing, he certainly could have not have been thinking about me. He was too old for me, too outgoing for me, and altogether too good for me. Surely to him, I was just the girl he had grown up with, the girl who had always needed him, whom he was happy to meet the needs of, yet the girl whom in no way did he need. This was the only sensible assumption for me to make. Still, I could not help but think the world of him.

A rush of chills went up my spine as I looked around the cafeteria, searching for some friendly, familiar face.When I saw Nicole Shurefield sitting completely alone, without another thought, I took a seat across from her. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“No,” came her unreadable outburst, which was of such a nature that when I looked back at her again I could not tell whether she had said anything.

Then, Katie Crosbin called from a couple of tables away, “Hey, Nicole, come over here!” Nicole got up and left to go to the other table instantly, leaving me as if I had not sat down there to be with her, but rather simply to have a seat. Misunderstood or else disregarded, I stared at my sandwich, as if I were a lone animal in a bare cage at the zoo.

Suddenly, Stephen plopped down across the table as if from heaven. “Mind if I sit here?”

“No…”

“How is biology going?”

“Augh… it’s alright.”

“I never liked that class.”

“I wish it wasn’t scheduled right before lunch: We’re going to start dissecting soon.”

“You’re not going to eat those chips are you?”

Just as I handed Stephen my bag of chips, five guys came up and flocked around him, engaging him in a conversation about the game of football—which of course, I did not understand. They said something about a referee making a bad call and that the Cowboys really should have won their game. The guys seemed sorely disappointed.

“I know, I know,” Stephen responded, “but they still have a chance…”

“Yeah, if they have better refs in their next game,” said one guy.

“Who aren’t prejudiced,” added another.

“And conniving,” said a third.

“And deceitful,” put in a fourth.

“And pig-headed,” said a fifth.

“Come on,” whispered the first to Stephen, “it’s your turn.”

“Oh,” he said, “well, it was just a bad call; I’m not going to make any assumptions about the refs.”

Really, Stephen was almost popular. Everyone at school knew him and he knew everyone, but he did not care enough about what people thought of him to win the title of popular. Though a host of girls seemed to like him, to my knowledge, he had never asked anyone to be his girlfriend. Neither did he have a definitive group of friends, but he moved about like a bouncy ball, so that it was hard to know where to find him. If one got lucky, though, he might plop down across from her in the cafeteria.

That night, as usual, I went to the Wednesday night youth meeting at our church in the country. Shelby, my once close friend, helped lead in worship. I had difficulty focusing on God because I kept thinking about Shelby and telling myself, She’s such a hypocrite. How can she talk about people behind their back and turn on her good friend, and then come to church and pretend to worship God? Then I would have to ask God for forgiveness. Finally, I closed my eyes, but I could still hear her voice. It brought with it memories from my childhood—both sweet ones and bitter ones. It made me realize how much I had given up, how I had sacrificed a human friendship for my friendship with God, how much pain I felt. Then, we switched from a praise and worship song to a hymn:

When I survey the wondrous cross,

On which the prince of glory died,

My richest gains I count but loss

And pour contempt on all my pride.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e’re such love and sorrow meet

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,

Save in the death of Christ my God.

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to His blood.

Were the whole realm of nature mine,

That were an offering far too small.

Love so amazing, so divine,

Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Again, I had to ask God to forgive mw and change my heart. After He went through so much for me on the cross, surely it was worth it to endure some loss for Him, and to turn around, as He had to those who had betrayed Him, and tell God, “Father, forgive Shelby. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Thursday afternoon, while Aunt Kristy was out grocery shopping, I was stumbling through some homework at the desk in my room. The triplets were in a playpen near me. “Katelynn, given this equation, what is Y?”

She did not seem to care; she was much too concerned about her baby doll.

“Okay,” I said at last, “so it’s five. What would that make X? Carter, I see your hand. Do you have the answer?”

He giggled.

“You know, none of you are much help when it comes to Algebra,” I sighed.

In my pocket, my cell phone vibrated. When I saw that it was Stephen, I had a strange sort of sensation in my chest, much stranger than the sensation of a cell phone vibrating in my pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ada.”

“What’s up?”

“Just the usual, I guess… I was just wondering if you had thought anymore about the Bible Study I was talking about starting at the theatre.”

“Yeah, I have. I’ve been praying about it.”

There was a silence for a moment. Stephen broke it with a sigh.

“I think God’s leading me toward it,” I said at last, “though I don’t totally…”

“I know, you’re kind of scared.”

“Yeah, but I also have this peace…”

“‘For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love, and of a sound mind.’”

“Right.”

“Great, so, do you want to call Mrs. Rumbleweed and ask her if we can do it?”

“What?”

“Yeah, we work as a nice team, see: I can talk to people in person and you can talk to people on the phone.”

“Um…”

“I’m only kidding. Just do this for me this once.”

“Alright.”

For all my dread of calling Mrs. Rumbleweed, the actual phone conversation easily could have been worse.

“Hello?”

“Hello. May I please speak to Mrs. Rumbleweed?”

“This is she.”

“Uh, this is Ada Hamilton. I’m in the musical… um, ‘Prisoner’s Dream’, and Stephen Foster and I, well he’s in the musical, too…. We were wondering if we could start a Bible Study thing before the practices and performances… just for whoever wants to come.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. I’m sure you could use a room backstage.”

“Okay, thank you very much.”

“Would you like to make an announcement about it after practice Monday night?”

“Yes ma’am, that would be great.”
Though I was certain Stephen could have done a better job talking to Mrs. Rumbleweed, he seemed pleased with the product of my efforts.

“But this means you’re going to make the announcement, right?” I said.

“Sure,” he responded “whatever. Thanks though, I really hate talking on the phone.”

“Yeah, I know… I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I didn’t mean… Okay, whatever. See you tomorrow.”

I closed the phone and sat there for a minute starring into space. “Okay,” I said at last, looking over at the triplets, “I smell a dirty diaper. Whose is it?” After close inspection, I found that it was Thomas.

“Boys,” I said to myself, getting out the baby wipes “are interesting.”

In study hall on Friday afternoon, I labored over a pre-laboratory report for Biology—that is, my mind labored, but my pencil was rather idle. My pencil was so idle, in fact, that it slipped lazily from my fingers to the floor with a crash. Because the desk was shaped in such a fashion, the only way to get to the pencil I had dropped would be either to walk around my desk, stoop down, and pick it up, or to reach my foot out, scoot it closer to me, reach down, and pick it up. While I was still debating the options, Kevin Crosbin, seated beside me, picked my pencil up off the floor and handed it to me. He did not just hand it to me, though. He touched my hand in such a way that I was certain he had done it on purpose. The senses in my hand sent an alarm through my whole body and I jerked the pencil out of his hand and said, “Thanks.”

He laughed at me (not in the fun way that Stephen would, but in a harsh mocking way) and responded boisterously, “Chill, Aida.” Needless to say, he had mispronounced my name.

“Quiet down,” yawned the teacher at the front of the room, without looking up from her book.

It was an ordinary Friday night. On the couch, Uncle Jeff was watching football intently. Nearby, Aunt Kristy and I were engaged in the card game of gin over chamomile tea. On the floor, Carter and Thomas seemed to be playing some kind of game of their own. Katelynn sat on my lap and was on my “team” in gin.

“So, how are things going, Ada?” Aunt Kristy asked. “You haven’t spoken much about Shelby lately.”

“Well, I haven’t spoken to her since she gave me that note about Stephen and Katie. It’s all kind of difficult and I feel pretty lonely, as if everyone is turning against me, and I’m not sure why.”

“Do you feel like Stephen is turning against you?’

“No, not him, thank God.”

“Then whom do you mean?”

“Just Shelby and… everyone.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re jumping to conclusions? Because you’re hurting now over your relationship with Shelby, are you sure you’re not letting your feelings overtake you and build a wall around you, allowing no new people to enter your life?”

“You might be right… I guess I’m just a bit scared that they will turn on me like Shelby did, and so I tell myself that they already have. I just feel so much alone.”

“Ada, you have your Uncle Jeff and I and you have Stephen. You’re pretty safe with all of us… But even if we all forsake you, then you will still have God, and the more others turn their backs on you, the more you can know His nearness.”

“Yes, I think that’s what God is trying to teach me right now.”

“Remember I’m praying for you.”

“I know you are… Gin!”

“And you’re about to have an incredible opportunity to reach out to people and get out of your comfort zone with this Bible Study.”

“Yeah, I know, that is, if anyone comes to it.”

“God is going to do exactly what He wants to do, Ada. He only asks you to be surrendered to His using you, and you have surrendered to that.”

Suddenly, Uncle Jeff stood up, raised his hands over his head, and shouted, “Touch down! Touch down! That’s the way. That’s my team.” Then he sat back down quietly.

I looked down at the new hand of cards Aunt Kristy had dealt me. “I’m going to miss you all next week,” I said softly.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be much too busy to miss us much,” interposed Aunt Kristy. “If you do, though, you know you can give us a call anytime.”

“I just don’t think I could ask for a better family, next to my real parents. I’m so glad you’ve been here for me… Gin.”

“Gin, already? Well, that’s it—you’ve won the whole thing. Congratulations. Now, I better get the kids to bed.”

“Alright, I’ll help.”

“You’re really a blessing to us too, Ada, more than you can ever know.”

Early the next morning, the alarm in my mind went off, though the alarm on my night table did not. I opened my window and looked out into the approaching of a new day. The house was quiet still and the only noise to be heard was the noise of the birds outside. With the trees so still and the grass so full of dew, I felt a yearning to go outside. Quickly, I changed clothes and grabbed my Bible from off the night table. After slipping on my shoes and jacket by the front door, I went out to join the serenity that lay upon the earth. It was a little cold, but that was alright, for, how could God go wrong?

Down the little path I went, down that old familiar path. I walked and then skipped and then laughed, as with a friend, for I was with a Friend. This is the day that the Lord hath made, I told myself; I will be glad and rejoice in it! Far off, in the morning mist, I spotted the pond I knew so well, and at the sight of it I ran down the path, faster and faster until I felt that I was flying. I knew, without looking down, exactly where to stop to avoid falling into the water. There, I sat down abruptly. How often I had been down that path with Shelby, walking, skipping, laughing, running, collapsing. I remembered, also, going down the path with Stephen in the same manner when I was very young. How often I had gone down feeling all alone as well. But today I knew I was not alone. I was aware of better companionship that either Shelby or Stephen. I felt sure that God had been beside me, enjoying my enthusiastic worship of him, though it was a childish mockery of me. I remembered David’s words to his wife Michal, though: “I’ll become even more undignified than this.”

As I sat there, now, starring down into my own reflection and the reflections of the trees which surrounded the pond, I recollected one of my earliest memories of the place. Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy had recently been married and had moved into their house. My parents had gone to a Christian conference for the weekend. Stephen’s parents, who had been close friends to mine and to Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy, had gone, too. Because the conference had been in a town a couple hours from Riven (where the Fosters had lived) and about an hour and a half from Melanik (where my parents and I had lived), and because Lillis (where Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy had lived) had been on the way to the conference, Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy had volunteered to keep Chris (Stephen’s older brother), Stephen, and me. My parents had taken their own car because they had planned to come back sooner than the Fosters. On their way home, a semi-truck had crashed into their car at seventy-five miles an hour. My parents’ car had exploded. As a five-year-old, the news had not made complete sense to me. I had been able to understand their being gone or even their being gone for a very long time, but I had not been able to comprehend what it would be like for them never to return. I guess, until the occurrence, it is impossible for anyone to understand what it is like to loose the same people who have always been there. I had sat down by the pond then and let my tear drops fall down into the water, making small, individual splashes. Stephen had been with me often, his arm around my shoulder. He had not said much, but I had kept telling him “Please don’t go,” for I had gone to the pond to get away from everyone and everything, yet I had not really wanted to be alone. Shortly after my parents had died, I put my faith in Christ and what He had done for me to take away my sins. Aunt Kristy told me that, if I had done this in sincerity, I would go to heaven when I died, where my parents already were, since they, too, had put their faith in Christ.

Yes, this calm water I now starred into in the early morning light brought such memories and feelings with it. A week before, I had known God mostly as the one who would take me to heaven to see Him and to see my parents after I died. But now I was getting to know Him intimately as a Friend. I opened up my Bible, hoping to hear something from my Friend which I could apply to my life and to my heart, which still ached and yearned for my father and mother.

There was a great deal of enthusiasm in the girls’ Sunday school classroom the next morning. I had never quite understood what seized the girls when we came together there. Did everyone drink coffee at just the right time that the caffeine hit them as they entered the door? How could they be so calm in the hallway, talking with the guys, and then become so ballistic in our classroom? Of course, despite the coffee I drank that morning, I was my usual, quiet self, enjoying watching the girls dancing around, but not partaking in their activity.

“Alright, alright, calm down now,” spoke out Mrs. Griffith at last. “It’s time to get started. Sit down, girls… Okay, does anyone have any prayer requests?”

I glanced over at Shelby, whose gaze was far from me, thinking over whether I wanted to say anything in her presence at all. “I do. Musical practices are going to be crazy this week and then we have performances next week, and we’re starting a Bible study before the practices and performances, so just pray that that God will use that to show His love and truth, and that people will actually come.”

“Who’s starting it?” interjected Shelby.

I looked over at her, feeling stabbed as our eyes met. Then I looked away toward the ground. “Stephen Foster really is, and I’m just helping.”

“That’s really exciting, Ada,” said Mrs. Griffith. “Of course, we’ll be praying about that. Anyone else?”

For the rest of the class, I could barely concentrate for Shelby’s voice always ringing in my mind: Who’s starting it? And my mind kept responding, You know who’s starting it, you must know. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you looking at me like this? When does my punishment for hurting you end? When can I stop thinking about this? Will you ever forgive me? Will I ever fully forgive you? It seems every time I think I have, then I see you, and it all comes back to me. God, help me to fully forgive her somehow.

After our class was dismissed, Mrs. Griffith approached me and asked, “Ada, are you alright?”

“No ma’am, I guess I’m not really.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not really, sorry—it’s just something I’ve got to sort out on my own.”

“Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

“Thank you.” I slipped out the door, struggling with my emotions, yet knowing God was the only one who could help me.

I slung my weighty backpack into the trunk, leaned against the back of the van, and breathed what I knew would be my last few breaths of Lillis air for a while. Aunt Kristy was buckling the triplets into their car seats and Uncle Jeff stood, starring at me thoughtfully, leaning against his own car. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“You have your toothbrush?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I’m ready in all of those ways.”

“We’ll be praying for you, you know.”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Uncle Jeff walked the few feet between the two vehicles and wrapped me in his arms for a moment. He kissed me, and then released. “Take care, Ada.”

I got into the front seat of the van and Aunt Kristy backed up out of the driveway, switched to drive, and we were off down that long, dusty road, the country house getting smaller and smaller with each moment. Goodbye, Lillis.

Hello, Melanik, with your plaid skirts and black ties, with your white pillars and cold hallways, with your knowledge and tough love, with your gossip and all-out hate, with that long winding road which I stared down as I waited for Stephen that day, almost wanting to take that road for a couple miles into some small Texan hills, to the place home had once been. That house bore all the beauty of Melanik for me.

Then, hello, Renebelle, with your scattered, welcoming trees, your old houses with enchanting memories which beckoned me to new adventures. Hello, pleasant walk to the theatre, and hello, black statues, which dared me to enter the backstage doors, and which dared me to sing and dance and wear myself out and pray while Stephen announced the Bible study.

Goodnight, everything. I needed to sleep well that I might begin again.

“So, this is it,” said Stephen in his truck on the way back from school on Tuesday. “I think we should get there a little early and pray together first.”

“Okay. What are you going to talk about?”

“Genesis, I think. It seems like a good place to start, you know, with God making the world and all. We can just read through the first couple chapters and talk about it, and then pray—that is if anyone comes. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great. I’m excited about it.”

“Good.”

There was silence for a while as we bumped along the road. Then I asked nonchalantly, “Stephen, what does one do when someone tells her she’s pretty?”

He looked me right in the eyes. “Was it a guy?”

“Kevin Crosbin.”

“If he ever… then I’m going to kill him…”

I leaned my head back. “So, what you’re saying is, you don’t think I should go out with him?”

“Ada,” Stephen said sternly, and then changed his tone to gentle; “you don’t go out with someone just because he tells you you’re pretty.”

I started to laugh, but then Stephen added, “Everyone knows you’re pretty.” Though I looked over at him, his eyes were fixed on the road now, so I turned my head to look out the passenger-side window, soaking up his compliment. Somehow, I enjoyed it much more thoroughly coming from his lips than I had Kevin’s. In fact, I was certain I had never received a more wonderful compliment than Stephen gave me that day, despite my digging for it.

At 5:40 in the room backstage, I heard the door open and a lone girl came in. Glad, but frightened, I let out the customary, “Hi, how are you?”

The girl, a high school sophomore with blonde hair and glasses, smiled in return and said, “I’m fine. I guess this is the place to be?”

“This is definitely the place to be,” answered Stephen. “You’re Hannah, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I just thought I would come and find out what you think about the Bible, because at my church they tell us if we follow God and obey the Bible, we’ll go to heaven, but it’s kind of weird because they only read the Bible in Latin and I have no idea what they’re talking about. I found this Bible at my house the other day.” She held up a King James Version of the Bible with the name John Chambers in the bottom right hand corner. “I looked at it a little, but it’s kind of hard to understand. If what the Bible says is so important, it seems like I should know what it says. So, do ya’ll understand all of this—all of this Old English stuff?”

“Well, no, not really. That’s why I use a different version of the Bible that I can understand. There are several different English versions of the Bible, so it would probably help you if you found one in plain English.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize there was more than one version. That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. We’re going to start out at the very beginning of the book, read the first part, and then we can talk about it. You can follow along in your Bible, Hannah. The words will be a little different, but the meaning’s the same.” After reading, Stephen emphasized what it had explained—that God had made everything from nothing in one week.

“Wow,” said Hannah, “that’s definitely not what I’m learning in Biology at my school.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Stephen agreed, “but you just need to decide what you believe—what the Bible says or what they say. It’s your decision, and it’s going to make all the difference.”

“I guess I’ve just never heard people talking seriously about creation before, like that’s really what they believe.”

“We really do believe it.”

“Why?”

“Simply because its what the Bible tells us. I mean, why do so many people believe in evolution?”

“I guess it’s scientific.”

“Or they’ve been taught to think that it is. It’s up to you, Hannah. I would never press this on you.”

“Well, I guess that’s why I’ve come isn’t it? I’m sorry for making such a big deal about it; it’s just strange to me that you believe this.”

“You shouldn’t be sorry. It is a big deal. The thing about the Bible is that it’s a take it or leave it book—you either have to accept all of it as truth or you might as well reject it all together. But, it’s something you should really think about.”

“I see what you mean.”

“It’s almost time to go. Ada, do you want to pray before we go?”

“Sure,” I responded, timidly, but I tried to focus on God and block out everything else as I prayed. “Dear God, thank you for letting us come here and have this Bible study. Thank you for bringing Hannah here and giving her an open heart. Please reveal Your truth to her. Please guide her to You and show her what You really want from her. Bless this practice we’re about to have, and continue to use this time each night for Your glory, in the Name of Jesus. Amen.”

As we got up, Stephen said, “Hannah, we would love to have you back tomorrow night, if we haven’t frightened you too badly.”

“Oh, you haven’t. I really appreciate it.”

“Whose Bible is that?” I asked her. “Your last name is Adams, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, this is my grandfather’s Bible. It looks like he read it a lot; he sure marked it up. When he passed away, he left it to us.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah, it was just last year. He was always a quiet man, though. I guess that’s why he never talked to me about his faith.”

“It’s too bad.”

The business and the sweet of savor of morning were present in the air as I stepped out the door of Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven’s house on Wednesday at 7:30 A.M. Stephen was coming down the steps to his front porch at the same time. He unlocked the passenger’s side door of his truck and let me in.

“Well,” he said, once in the driver’s seat, “God may really be working in Hannah’s heart today. We’ve got to be praying for her.”

“It must be hard on her, though. I mean, my whole life I’ve been taught that creation is truth, that the Bible is truth. But if you’ve been taught that it’s only a story, it would be hard to just believe it one day.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s kind of like in ‘Prisoner’s Dream.’ You know, Putrid has been in that prison for so long that he forgets what it was like in the real world, and one day someone comes into the prison and starts talking about the way things are on the outside, and Putrid thinks he’s crazy.”

“‘It isn’t true,’” quoted Stephen. “‘If you get out of this prison, you’ve gotten nowhere, for the world itself is a prison.’”

“Yes, people who don’t know Christ are like prisoners who don’t believe that there is more out there simply because they haven’t experienced it.”

“Except, of course, the world could be considered a prison with gravity rather than bars.”

“Well, yes, of course…”

“I hope I haven’t terrified Hannah.”

“No, you really did a great job explaining things to her, Stephen. I’m glad you did it because I wouldn’t have been able to.”

“But it’s important to speak out for your faith. Wouldn’t it be tragic to come to the end of your life like Hannah’s grandfather, who, evidently, knew the truth, but never shared it?”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about that.” I let Stephen’s words pierce into my heart, and I prayed, God, he’s right. God, help me. We both smiled into the morning light, as if we smiled into the coming day with its challenges which we could not overcome and victories which we could not win on our own.

That afternoon, I closed the door to my small room in Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven’s house to change from my school garb of a dress shirt, a skirt, stockings, and black shoes to the musical casual attire of jeans, my black T-shirt that read “Prisoner’s Dream,” and tennis shoes. The clothes I changed into made me feel refreshed and excited about the remainder of the day.

Opening my door, I went down the hall and found my backpack lying against the couch in the living room. As I sat down and opened my Algebra book, Aunt Riven brought me some green tea from the kitchen. “Thanks,” I told her, grasping my hands around the cup to feel its pleasant warmth. “We worked with fractions again in math today.”

“Dread things,” responded Aunt Riven, sitting down in her rocking chair and taking up the book, “Be a Checker’s Master.” “I like whole numbers. Take it or leave it. Go all the way or don’t go at all, but don’t just stop somewhere between two things.” She shook her head, “It just shouldn’t be.”

Though she had a point, to me it did not seem to have anything to do with fractions, but it did have to do with something else. “It’s kind of like religion,” I said.

Aunt Riven laughed. “How are fractions like religion?”

“Well, a lot of people go half way with religion—they try to be good, but they fail to be good enough. Their religion does them no good because they fail to meet the standard of God, which is perfection.”

“And you’re saying others are good enough, like yourself?”

“No, not at all. I’m not good enough either. No one meets God’s standard. The Bible tells us, ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’”

“Then, why do you keep trying?”

I pondered her question for a moment. “I don’t try anymore. I’ve given that up.”

With a very curious gaze, Aunt Riven looked at me. I was about to explain my words when I heard the front door knob begin moving around and Uncle Chester came in.

“Hey, honey,” Aunt Riven greeted, giving the man at the door a big kiss. “You’re home early today.”

“Yeah,” he responded. “We got real slow at the store and I thought Mike could handle it.”

“Just as long as you can come home early on Friday, too, for that Nine Men’s Morris tournament at Jack’s house.”

“Oh, I’ll be back in time. I couldn’t miss that for anything.” After I had gotten up and given him a hug, he asked me, “What are you working on there?”

“Fractions.”

“Oh, I love fractions! Do you need some help?”

“Sure.”

When Stephen and I got to the Bible study room that night, one person was already there. “Mr. McGregor!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”

“Fine, Ada,” he responded. “I just thought I’d come and see what you kids were up, too.” Mr. McGregor was a single man in his forties who had been in the theatre for a few years, perhaps because he had extra time on his hands or a need to occupy his mind. He played the part of my father in the current play.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” I told him. To my delight, Hannah entered again that night, this time with her eight-year-old sister, Sarah.

“I was talking to my Biology teacher today,” Hannah said, “and she told me that she’s not really sure if she believes in evolution, but that she is just supposed to teach it.”

“What does she believe in?” asked Stephen.

“She doesn’t really know, but she said that a lot of scientists are beginning to think this world and everything in it is much too complicated for it all just to have happened, that maybe there was an Intelligent Designer.”

After praying, Stephen read the third chapter of Genesis and talked about Adam and Eve’s sin, explaining that we were all under the curse of sin, even today.

“Wait a second,” spoke up Mr. McGregor. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Don’t you believe that good people go to heaven? Or are you saying that since we have all sinned, we are all hopeless and under God’s wrath.”

“Well,” Stephen said slowly, “we have all sinned and all sinners are under the wrath of God. I mean, God is love, and it’s not that He wants to punish us, but the Bible tells us that ‘He will not leave the guilty unpunished.’ He is just, and He must punish our sin.”

“So, you’re telling me that after we die, we’re going to hell?”

“I don’t want to go to hell,” put in Sarah.

“Ada?” said Stephen.

Perhaps it seems cruel that Stephen would throw me out into presenting the gospel, but this was the good news of Christ, and though I was like a child in my faith, at the moment I had the words to say. It seemed as if God had put them in my mouth at the right moment. I looked at Stephen for a moment, and then at Mr. McGregor. “What Stephen’s saying is that we are all in a helpless state because of our sin. If nothing happened, we would die and go to hell and be separated from God for eternity.”

“I don’t want to be separated from God for eternity,” Sarah said.

“But God, out of His love for us, sent His Son, Jesus, to earth in human form. He was like us, except that He was also totally God, so He was perfect. And even though He didn’t have to, He died on the cross for our sins and took the punishment for our sins on Himself. That’s why the Bible says, ‘God made Him who knew no sin to become sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.’ Because He took our sin on Himself, we can be right with God. But what we have to do is believe in Jesus and what He has done. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved.’ This is the way that God has made for us to get to heaven and to have a relationship with Him now. It’s not because we deserve it or because we’re good people. It’s just because He loved us enough to die for us.”

“I thought He came back from the dead after He died,” Sarah mentioned.

“Oh, yes, He did. After He went through all that agony and pain for us, died, and was in the tomb for three days, He rose from the dead. He’s not dead anymore. He went to heaven to prepare a place there for those who would believe in Him.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yes,” Stephen said. “It is good. What Ada just shared is the Good News of the Bible. It’s our whole hope in life. It’s everything. It’s the reason we’re having this Bible study. But it does no good to only know about what He’s done. In order to be united to God, you have to put your faith in Him.”

“I want that,” Sarah spoke out without a moment’s waste.

So that night, Sarah surrendered her life to Jesus.

The following morning, when I had my quiet time, I kept thanking God for bringing the people He had brought to the Bible study the night before. I kept thanking Him for what He had done in Sarah’s heart, and praying for her as she began her new life in Christ that day.

Afterward, I began reading in the Bible in Ephesians. I was so captivated by the way it expressed God’s love to his children and His Sovereign choice of those who would be His that I continued reading past the time I usually would have started getting dressed. At the end of chapter four, the text read: “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving one another, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

The forgiving part was what really caught my attention. It made me realize that God was not wanting me to forgive Shelby simply because I had made mistakes, too, or because she was in many ways a good person, or because there was a slight chance that she might someday change and we could be friends again. No, God wanted me to forgive her because He had forgiven me. He wanted me to forgive “just as” He had forgiven me. But how had God done it? Certainly He had not chosen to forgive me because it would not be too far out of His way; instead, while I had still been acting against Him, He had chosen to forgive me in spite of everything He would have to give up and everything He would have to take on for that to be possible. When I thought about it this way, I was faced with the question, How hard have I really tried to forgive Shelby? I remembered the day before when we had both been walking into our math class. I had said, “Hi, Shelby,” but she had only glanced at me in return, and had then turned her gaze elsewhere. Her attitude toward me had hurt me so badly that feelings of bitterness had overtaken. So, as I sat on my bed that morning, I pleaded with God, Help me to have a forgiving spirit toward her, no matter what she does to me and no matter what I have to give up or take on in order to forgive her.

That night at the Bible study, Hannah and Sarah came, along with a friend of Sarah’s. We read through most of the first part of John and discussed what it meant and who Jesus really was. According to the text, He was “the Word,” God, the Creator, “the light,” “the One and Only,” and “the Lamb of God.” Unlike the previous nights, everyone was asking questions and everyone was searching for answers in the text. While Stephen’s questions were meant to spark thoughts and ideas in the other’s minds, their questions were more sincere in that they wanted to know the answers. I found the whole study fun and challenging, and I was especially excited to see the enthusiasm with which Sarah explored her new Bible.

The practice that night was the first dress rehearsal. Seeing Mrs. Carothers in her prison garb reminded me how hopeless and imprisoned she must have been inside. After the rehearsal, I told her, “You know, we would really love to have you at the Bible study some time, if you would like to come.”

“Well, I might do that. What time do you do it?”

“5:30.”

“I guess I could come. Religion’s never done me any good before, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to come.”

“Well, that’s great. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I walked past those black statues outside the theatre with Stephen and headed homeward, I mentioned that Mrs. Carothers might come to the Bible study.

“Good,” Stephen responded. “It seems we’ve lost one of our comers.”

“But we’ve also gained one, and Sarah seems to be doing so well.”

“Yeah, I know… Look, I think your aunt told my mom that she and your uncle have a game tournament tomorrow night, so we thought you might want to come have dinner at our house.”

“Sure, that would be cool.”

“What is it that they’re going to be playing again?”

“Oh, it’s a Nine Men’s Morris tournament.”

“You’ve told me about that game before.”

“Yes, it’s very much a game of skill. I like it, but I never win against Uncle Chester or Aunt Riven. You know, it’s been bothering me lately—After knowing them for my whole life, I don’t really think that they know Jesus, and I’m coming to think that they don’t even really understand the way to know Him. I’ve talked to Aunt Riven a little about it, but I’ve never come to the point of sharing the way. Maybe you could pray that I’ll have the opportunity to share with them while I’m here this time.”

“Of course, I’ll pray for you about that.”

On Friday night I was tying my tennis shoes on the couch in the living room, as I was about to go over to the Fosters’ house.

Aunt Riven was waiting anxiously on Uncle Chester to get home from work. “Surely he hasn’t forgotten about the tournament,” she said from the kitchen.

“He’s probably on his way home,” I reasoned.

Then, the phone rang and Aunt Riven picked up instantly. “Hello?”

I walked over, leaned against the counter, and watched as Aunt Riven’s face turned pale and white. “Okay,” she said into the receiver, “I’ll be there in a minute.” She hung up the phone with her face still the same.

“What is it?” I inquired.

“Chester had a heart attack.”

“What?”

“I’m going to the hospital.”

“I’m coming with you.” I walked out of the door into a world which had suddenly turned black and white and grey. As we drove away in Aunt Riven’s car, her face remained white as ivory and resolute as iron. Uncle Chester doesn’t have heart attacks, I thought. How could this be? My mind, my heart, and my hands felt numb as I focused on the news. Numbly, I prayed, though expecting the worst all the while.

When we were near the hospital, I remembered where I would be if this had not happened. With my numb fingers, I pulled out my phone and called Stephen.

“Hello?”

“Stephen, I can’t come tonight. Uncle Chester’s had a heart attack. I’m going to the hospital.”

“Oh, my gosh.” There was a moment of confused silence before he said, “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

“How are you?”

“I’ve… gotta go.” Without another word or thought, I hung up the phone and stepped out of the car at the hospital.

“It’s going to be okay, Ada,” Aunt Riven told me though her face was still pale.

I realized that I should have been telling her that. After all, this was her husband. But I could not find it in my heart to offer her such words. After my parents had died, everyone had told me that it was going to be okay. Perhaps it had been okay then. I had been left breathing and living, but my life had never been the same since. Presently, I was wishing that the word okay did not exist.

Once we were in the building, okay was the word which the doctor used to describe how he expected Uncle Chester would be. But Uncle Chester had tubes in his arms and his nose and he looked as white as Aunt Riven. In both of their countenances, fear showed through. “I was going out to my car to come home,” Uncle Chester explained to us, when he was able, “and it just came on me all the sudden. Luckily, Mike saw it, and he called the ambulance.”

I went out into the hall and phoned the man who was hosting the Nine Men’s Morris tournament. Then I called Aunt Kristy.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

“How is your Aunt Riven?”

“I guess she’s okay.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know…”

“We’ll come visit Uncle Chester tomorrow. If you want to, you could come home with us, at least for the rest of the weekend.”

“I don’t know.”

“I love you, Ada. Call me whenever you need me, okay?”

“Okay, I love you.”

Back in the hospital room, Uncle Chester told me, “You should go to play practice tomorrow. I’m going to be fine. I’ll be out of here real soon.”

I looked at him gravely and thoughtfully.

Weakly, he laughed. “You look at me like I’m dead or something! I’m not, okay? I’d feel better if you didn’t miss practice tomorrow on my account.”

“It’s just that I love you so much,” I explained.

“I know you do.”

We stayed there for hours. In the waiting room, I starred at me feet and then paced back and forth, thinking, reasoning, questioning, fearing. People die of heart attacks every day. Usually, the first one that seizes them doesn’t kill them. But eventually... eventually. I’m not ready for Uncle Chester to die. I need him. Aunt Riven needs him. Everyone needs him. He’s not ready to die either. Most likely, he wouldn’t go to heaven. And what if he had died today, and what if he had gone to hell? How could I ever forgive myself for not sharing with Him the hope of heaven that I have with me every day? How would I be any different from Hannah’s grandfather? How could I ever live with myself? I felt that I might as well forever be alone. Besides, it did no good to talk to anyone.

At nearly eleven o’clock, Stephen called. “Ada, how’s your uncle?”

“They say he’s going to be okay.”

“Thank God. How are you doing?”

“I’m just… I just don’t want to talk. I need to go.” Though I felt like a demon hanging up that phone, I did it swiftly. I sat back down with the phone in between my hands, passing it back and forth from one hand to the other, not wanting to talk to God about any of this. Instead, I sat there wallowing in my own stupidity and cruelty. I felt cold and dark like the night outside.

The next morning, I woke up around nine and found a note on the kitchen counter in Aunt Riven’s handwriting: “Ada, I’m going to the hospital, but I purposefully left you. I don’t want you to have to miss another practice. Everything is going to fine.”

I walked stoically toward the coffeemaker, but, after I poured a cup of coffee, I downed it black and all at once as if I was crazy. Then, I went and took a hot shower. There, I could finally cry easily because the tears fell down my face just like the water. I could finally break. I fell to my knees in the shower with the water still running down my back, and I sobbed, “God, God, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that all of this time I’ve been knowing the truth but not sharing it. And I’m so sorry that through what has happened to Uncle Chester I’ve been so cold and cruel to everyone. I’m sorry that I’ve closed off to You. Oh, God, I’m so sick of being this way. I’m so sick of feeling alone. I really need You. Help me to be love to all the people You’ve put in my life. Help me to be kind and compassionate and to quit focusing on myself. And please heal Uncle Chester. I’m so scarred that he’s going to die soon like my parents did...”

After I turned the shower off and got dressed, I read my Bible. I felt somewhat relieved and comforted, but still, I knew there was something I had to do. It pressed on my heart until I went next door and rang the doorbell.

Stephen opened it. We starred at each other.

“I’m sorry I was so harsh on the phone yesterday,” I said at last. “I shouldn’t have treated you that way.”

“All is forgiven,” he told me. “Why don’t you come in?”

Breathing deeply, I entered. Mr. Foster and Chris sat on the couch in the living room, watching football.

“Ada,” said Mr. Foster, “how is your uncle doing?”

“I think he’s doing well.”

“We were going to go visit him at the hospital today, if you think that would be okay.”

“He would probably really appreciate it. I think Uncle Jeff and Aunt Kristy are coming up to see him, too.”

“We’re praying for him.”

“Thanks.”

Stephen led me into the kitchen where food was spread out across the island. “Have you eaten? We have sandwiches and popcorn and chips and…”

I slid down on the floor with my back against the island. Stephen slid down across from me. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

I was hesitant to answer. “Don’t tell anyone this, but I’m afraid that Uncle Chester’s going to die.”

In silence, we sat there for a moment, starring at the tile on the kitchen floor.

“I thought you said he’s doing well.”

“I don’t mean that he’ll die right away. I’m just afraid he’s going to die soon.”

“And you don’t think he knows Jesus?”

“No, and I guess it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your responsibility to save him, Ada; it’s only your responsibility to tell him.”

There was silence again. At last, Stephen handed me a piece of paper that was folded up in so many different ways that it took me almost a solid minute to open it. When I did, it read: “Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you while you may be found; surely when the mighty waters rise, they will not reach him. You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.—Psalm 32:6-7”

I looked up. “I’ve been so selfish, Stephen.”

“Let me pray for you.” He placed his hand on my knee and said, “God, please comfort Ada right now. Help her not to be afraid. Give her wisdom from You so that she can know when to share with her uncle and aunt and what to tell them. Help her to be able to show Your love to them and comfort them during this time. Use even this hardship to bring glory to Yourself. Thank You for always being here for us when we need You and never forsaking us. I pray this in Your Name. Amen.”

“Thanks.”

“Who knows? Even though your uncle’s heart attack was a tragic, maybe it’s also the opportunity that we’ve been praying for, for you to share the Good News with them.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right… How was the Bible study last night?”

“It went well. We had Hannah and Sarah and Mrs. Carothers, and we talked about faith versus works, because, you know, we need faith to be saved, but at the same time, ‘faith without works is dead.’”

“Cool.”

Then, Stephen stood up and helped me up. “Anyway, why don’t you get some food and come watch the game with us. It’s the cowboys’ game from last night and we’re almost finished with it.”

“I don’t know how you put up with me,” I told him.

“Neither do I,” he responded jokingly.

Mrs. Carothers was at the Bible study again that day. Even though she spoke little, she seemed very interested in what was being said. Sarah was still intent as she had been, trying to learn all that she could. Hannah told us, “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I’m ready to do this. I don’t want to put it off anymore. I want to put my faith in Christ.” When she began trusting Christ that night, all of my selfishness and stupidity of the night before seemed so lame. This was what life was about—knowing Christ.

The last dress rehearsal took place that day from noon until four. Afterward, I went with the Fosters to the hospital. Uncle Jeff, Aunt Kristy, and the triplets were there. It felt so good to be with them all.

“Are you doing better?” Aunt Kristy asked me.

“Yes, I really am.”

“Good. Are you going to come home with us?”

“If it’s alright, I think I would rather stay here with Aunt Riven. I don’t want her to have to be home alone at night…”

“I think you’re making a good choice.”

“I do, too,” said Uncle Jeff. “I’m sure she needs comfort and encouragement right now.”

“How is the Bible study going, Ada?” Aunt Kristy asked me.

“It’s awesome. Two sisters—Hannah and Sarah—have both gotten saved. It’s really exciting.”

“Ada, that’s wonderful!”

“I think they’re going to go to Stephen’s church tomorrow, and I would like to go so that they would know someone else there, but I’m not sure if I should do that to Aunt Riven.”

“She’ll probably understand.”

“Oh, Ada!” exclaimed Uncle Jeff. “Check this out. Reagan’s walking on her own pretty well now.”

“No way! Why do all these things happen while I’m gone?”

“Come here, Reagan. Show her what you can do.”

After church the next morning, I went up to the hospital with Aunt Riven. Dark, heavy clouds filled the sky. My heart was heavy, like the clouds, with a message I needed to deliver. But like the shaking of thunder before rain, shaking seized me, challenging my overriding peace that God would do what needed to be done through me and that He would be pleased. Because I had talked to Stephen about what I needed to do, I was certain he would be praying for me, too.

As we stepped inside the warm hospital, Aunt Riven shook with the chill of the wind she had left and I shook with the chill of the moment that approached. In the hospital room, Uncle Chester was happy to see us. “They told me if I’m good, I might get to come home tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Aunt Riven lit up. “Now I’m sure you’ll be on your best behavior.”

“Or perhaps they said something about the condition of my heart being good.”

“That makes more sense,” I noted.

After we had chatted for a few minutes, exchanging happy thoughts and hopeful glances, I broke the spirit with the words, “I’m sorry about how I acted after this happened to you, Uncle Chester. I know I wasn’t very encouraging or helpful. The truth was that I was afraid. I kept thinking about how I had failed to share something very important with both of you. In fact, I’m not sure why I haven’t done so up to this point, since it means everything to me, and since I have no reason to live without it.”

“Well, perhaps you could tell us now,” suggested Uncle Chester.

“I would like to, if it’s alright.”

“Go ahead,” said Aunt Riven.

“Well, Aunt Riven, do you remember how I was saying that no one can be good enough to match up to God’s standard?”

“Yes, I’ve been wondering what you meant by that.”

“See, our failure to match up to God’s standard is known as sin. We’ve all messed up and done things that God doesn’t like. Because of this, we as humans are disconnected from God. Even though He loves us, He hates our sin and He has to punish it. The punishment for our sin is eternity in hell. But God loved us so much that He sent His Son, Jesus, into the world to take that punishment, which we deserved. Basically, He took hell on Himself when He died on the cross. Jesus’s death was the only way that we could have a relationship with God. Remember, the Bible says, ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.’ And Jesus Himself told us, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ So, trying to earn our way to heaven, to meet God’s standard on our own, is a lost cause. We have to believe in Him, His sacrifice on the cross, and His resurrection from the dead in order to know God and spend eternity with Him. We have to surrender to Him and make Him our Lord. When this happens, we can really have life. Jesus said, ‘I have come that they may have life and have it to the full.’

“After my parents died, you probably remember that I was depressed and confused for a long time. But, then, when I accepted Christ, something finally made sense and I had a reason to live. Since then, I’ve made some mistakes—I guess you could say I’ve strayed from God—but He never abandoned me, and a couple weeks ago, I finally came back to the point of surrendering to Him, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Even though it has meant giving up some things, it’s been worth it because of the peace and friendship I have with God.

“So, Uncle Chester, after you had this heart attack, I felt angry with myself that I hadn’t talked to you before about the hope that I have in Jesus, because I knew that if you weren’t with us anymore, I would have lost my chance all together.”

“But it wasn’t too late, so I guess you’ve taken your chance now,” responded Uncle Chester.

“Yes, I have.”

“Then I’m glad you’ve told us about this, seeing as it’s so important to you.”

“You’ve definitely given me something to think about, Ada,” Aunt Riven added.

“That’s good.” I sat down, beginning to breathe again. Thank you, God. I’m not sure how far that penetrated into their minds or hearts, but thank you for giving me the courage and the ability to share with them.

At school on Monday, I seemed more an outcast than I could ever remember having been. Increasingly over the first four periods, everyone seemed to stay away from me and avoid talking to me, but, at the same time, whisper about me as I passed. Though my curiosity was sparked, I was afraid to ask anyone about it.

The truth only unfolded, however, when I passed Katie Crosbin in the hall on the way to the cafeteria after Biology. Although she had never spoken to me before, now she blurted out my name, “Ada.” I had not even known that she had known my name.

“Hey, Katie…”

“What’s your secret?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean with Stephen. How do you hit it off so well?”

“Um, I guess we’ve always been friends. It’s nothing I’ve done really. I’ve just been blessed.”

“I’d say so. I can’t imagine Stephen ever going to bed with any other girl.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s no point in hiding it, Ada. It’s no secret; you should know by now that everybody knows.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. It’s not true. Stephen would never do something like that.”

“Well, he says he did. I mean, Elizabeth told me that Shelby said that he said that he did.”

“Well it’s a lie, and I know he wouldn’t tell anyone that was true either.”

“Obviously, you’re relationship with him is not as good as I thought, if he’s not even honest with you.”

“Katie, listen to me. Stephen would never brag about something like that.”

“You’re just a freshman. You’ve got a long way to go and you obviously don’t understand the first thing about guys.” Then Katie walked off without another glance or another word.

I stood there with my head pounding, looking around, at last with the knowledge of what they thought about me. Though some may have been jealous like Katie, rather than judgmental, the whole idea of it made me feel sick. Facing the ocean of accusers in the cafeteria was the last thing I could think of doing.

Instead, I quickly found refuge in the girl’s restroom, inside a securely locked stall. I slid down without effort onto the floor, with my head buried in my hands, away from anyone’s gaze. Unconsciously, I wondered which was worse: to have lost my purity, or for everyone to think that I had. And how was I ever going to be able to talk to Stephen about this? And how were we ever going to be friends after this? After all, I was almost certain that Shelby was the one had begun the rumor to get me back at me for the discontinuance of our friendship.

Oh, God, You’re the only One who really understands. You’re the only One who knows the depths of my heart. I’m sorry that I listened to Shelby’s gossip for so long. If I had not, none of this would have happened. Now I’ve left everyone with this wrong conception and Stephen to try to convey the truth to them. But people aren’t ever going to the think of us the same way. I have no idea what to do now. Please just help me and give me wisdom and peace in all of this. For a long time, I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks onto my plaid skirt and black shoes.

When school had finally ended and Stephen passed by the pillar which I was leaning against, he did not say anything. He just glanced at me and walked on. I followed him to his truck. Despite the occasion, he opened the passenger door for me and then got in on the other side. He looked over at me, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. Involuntarily, more tears slid down my cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” Stephen told me “that this has happened. But I promise you I had nothing to do with starting it. I would give anything to take away the events of today.”

“I know, Stephen. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault for being friends with Shelby for all of this time and then suddenly one day not letting her talk to me about people, and, in essence, breaking off our friendship. I was asking for trouble. So, I’m sorry.”

“But you did the right thing, Ada. Sometimes the right thing has hard consequences.”

“The right thing would have been to never listen to her gossip in the first place.”

“Yeah, but that’s over now. I understand, though, if you don’t think I should be around you at school anymore—you know, to make you look better…”

“Stephen, you’re the only friend I’ve got at school, especially now.”

“Alright,” he said resolutely. There was some hair in front of my face, soaked in tears, which he reached over and secured behind my ear. For several moments it was as if I could still feel his fingers where he had touched my forehead. “Then we’re going to make it through this together,” he assured me, starting the motor.

With the coming home of Uncle Chester came that wonderful joy of a family being together. The pain from the rumor at school was partially eased as I helped Aunt Riven prepare Uncle Chester’s favorite meal of chicken dumplings and watched them talking and laughing at the table. Of course, I did not tell them about the rumor. When they asked me how school was that day, I just said, “Well, we dissected worms in Biology.”

“Really?” Uncle Chester responded. “I bet that was nice.”

“Some guy smeared a worm’s insides on a girl’s shirt. She was really upset and no one could calm her down. So, the guy had to go to the principal’s office.”

“Sounds like me when I was that age,” commented Uncle Chester.

“I mean, if the girl would have just held her voice down it wouldn’t have been any big deal.”

“That’s what I always said, too.”

I wanted so badly to know what was going on inside Mrs. Carothers. She came again to the Bible study, but I could not understand why, since she distanced herself from everything that was going on.

The first performance flew past. The thrills, the lights, the music, the applause came and then vanished, leaving us only with the hopes of the following night.

Stephen’s face was ignited on the way home.

“You were great,” I told him. “It really looked like you beat up Mr. McGregor badly.”

“It was just the lights,” he smiled. Then he changed to a more serious tone, “I’m going to straighten this out at school, you know.”

“Of course you will. Anyway, it’s just a reputation, right?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, I mean, there are things a lot more important than what people think.”

“Ada, please don’t fool around with me and try to act so strong. I know this is hard on you, and I don’t expect you to get over it easily.”

“I’m being serious.”

“You’re driving me insane.”

“Why?”

“Because this is a big deal! We’re talking about purity here, and you’re trying to tell me that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Stephen, I didn’t mean it that way. That does mean a lot to me.”

“Just be honest and don’t pretend like you have everything under control.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

In my bed, away from lights and familiar faces, the reality of the rumor at school again set in for me. Despite my efforts to portray that it was no big deal, it was indeed so embarrassing and demeaning for me that I had no desire to talk to anyone about it ever again. Therefore, dealing with the situation on my own seemed much more appealing that getting help from others. But what could I do to end the shame that I felt, to end those degrading stares which had haunted me all that day at school? Perhaps I could run off somewhere, without any explanation. But of course then I would be found and brought back to greater humiliation after everyone knew that I had tried to escape from this reality. Or, I could leave so that no one could bring me back. Suicide would be an easy out. But then there were the people who cared about me and who had grown used to having me around. And there was God who actually had a plan for my life.

But then, just like through Uncle Chester’s heart attack I had been able to share the gospel with him and Aunt Riven, maybe God had a reason for allowing this situation into my life as well. Maybe this was an opportunity for me trust God in a way that I had not grown to trust Him yet. Maybe He wanted to demonstrate that He was what I really needed, not the good opinions of others. I’m giving this to You, God. I’m putting this situation in Your hands because it is too big and too difficult for me. I need Your wisdom, Your strength, Your courage, Your love to flow through me right now because I don’t have what it takes to face this on my own.

On Tuesday, the world of ties and plaid skirts passed with the slow ticking of the clock. As I finally leaned against that pillar outside of the school, I heard the bell ring in all of its beauty.

“Ada, you’re a hypocrite,” spoke a voice.

I looked up quickly at Shelby as she approached. “Shelby, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all these things people were saying about me today. I know this is all your doing. You try to act like you’re too holy for gossip until someone talks about you, and then everything changes.”

“Shelby, I didn’t even know people were saying things about you, and I certainly didn’t start it.”

“And now you’re lying to my face about it.”

Somehow, I resisted the urge to tell her that all of this was her own fault and that she was the one who had been lying. Instead, I stared down at the pavement.

Shelby kept talking. “We used to be friends? Whatever happened to that?”

But I did not respond. Shelby’s tone grew louder and louder as she continued. “I don’t know what Stephen sees in you anyway. He’s too good for you. He’s better looking than you. He’s friendlier than you…” On and she went.

Peculiarly, I found myself praying even as she spoke, Father, please forgive her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Something new in me must have been taking root because I was certain I would never do something like that on my own.

At last, a warm hand touched my shoulder. I looked back at Stephen who was looking at Shelby, his eyes reflecting neither kindness nor hatred, but rather pity. Shaking, I came close to Shelby, whispered so that none could hear but the two of us, “I love you,” and then left the scene without another glance.

“So, how was your first performance?” Aunt Kristy asked me over the phone that afternoon.

“It was good. No one tripped or forgot any lines. I suppose that’s a miracle for an opening night.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I really called because I need to talk to you about something that’s going on.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, this rumor’s going around that Stephen and I…”

“What?”

“That we slept together.”

“That’s horrible! Surely everyone knows you better than that!”

“No, no one really knows me that well.”

“But then they know Stephen better than that.”

“I’m not saying how it should be; I’m just saying how it is.”

“And I guess you think this is Shelby’s doing?”

“Yeah, I know it is. She’s not even ashamed of it.”

“Ada, I can’t believe… I can’t imagine why anyone would do this to you.”

“Well, I guess it really hurt her when I quit listening to her gossip.”

“I can come and get you right away, if that would help…”

“No, no, that’s not necessary. Don’t you see? Of course this is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever been through, but God has a plan and He’s using even this for His glory.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you talk quite like that, Ada.”

“Aunt Kristy, God is really working in my life. He’s helping me to trust Him and to forgive others. I just wanted to let you know about this because I know you’ll pray for me.”

“Of course I will.”

“And there’s this lady at the theatre, Mrs. Carothers, who’s been coming to our Bible studies, but she seems completely disconnected from what’s going on. I really want to find out about her and what she’s going through. Maybe you could pray about that, too.”

“Sure, Ada. You know I would do anything for you. Tell me if you need something, okay?”

“Of course, but you’re doing plenty as it is.”

In English class on Wednesday, Kevin Crosbin said, “Hey, Ada, did you hear what’s been going around about Shelby?”

“No, I just heard there was something going around about her. I’m not really interested in hearing about it.”

“Okay… I thought you would thank me or something.”

“For what?”

“For spreading those things about her.”

“No way.”

“It’s not like there’s something wrong with it. I was just getting her back. And I did it for you.”

“It didn’t help anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Please just stay out of this from now on, okay?”

“Oh, come on, Ada, lighten up.”

“Please just don’t go around saying things about people on my account. Please don’t try to help me at all.”

“Fine, I love you, too.”

I looked over at him, caught off guard. “Kevin, I don’t hate you.”

“But you don’t like me. The only person in the world you like is Stephen Foster.”

So all through English class that sentence was pounding in my head as if I were rewinding and replaying, then rewinding it again, involuntarily, to hear it once more. The only person in the world you like is Stephen Foster.

That night, amid lights and voices and people dancing solemn dances, I danced a dance of praise. Yes, I was in fake chains. Yes, I was hurting. Yes, I was a pariah. But still, I danced a dance of praise to God, for He was faithful to do what He had promised, and He was doing even more. He was my sufficiency—there was nothing I needed that He did not provide. Not only this, but He had given me the ability to forgive Shelby, not that she deserved it or that I was such a good Christian, but because God had forgiven her through me. He had enabled me to forgive her like He had forgiven me in Christ Jesus. What was it to endure ridicule, shame, and rejection without fighting back after Jesus had endured the agony, disgrace, and turmoil of the cross without defending Himself? Perhaps this situation at school was not only about me depending on Christ, but also identifying with Him. So now, as the people round about me danced for an audience, I danced for God—the One who had delivered me from shackles of bitterness. “I’ll become even more undignified than this.”

On the way back from school the next day, the sun came out with all of its warmth and beauty. “Do you mind if we go on a detour?” Stephen said suddenly.

“A detour?”

“Yeah… I just want to show you something. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.”

He turned left a few streets before the street we lived on, and then parked his car beside a hill. Once out of the car, he made it up the hill much more quickly than I, so that by the time I reached the top, he was already sitting on the yellow grass with his knees wrapped up in his arms, his chin resting perfectly on top of them both, and his eyes gazing out at the small town before him. In wonder of the creature who sat there, I almost took a step back. Was this truly my childhood friend—the boy I knew so well? For the moment, it seemed it could not be, because there, gazing down onto the town, sat a man.

I sat down a few feet from Stephen, entranced in the town before me as the afternoon sun reflected off the rooftops and windows of the houses, off the pavement on the streets and the crowns on the trees, off the surface of the little creeks and the statues outside the theatre, so that the entire town looked like it was made of gold.

“I come here a lot in the morning before school to have my quiet time,” Stephen said, “but I’ve never told anyone about this place.”

“It’s incredible.”

“For some reason, I feel like I’m on top of the whole world up here and I can do anything or be anyone. Suddenly, there are endless possibilities.”

“But I thought you always knew you could do anything.”

“Well, I mean, acting is not exactly the easiest field to get into. A lot of people dream about things they never end up doing. It’s part of life.”

“Yeah, but, Stephen, you’re not just anybody. If you want to badly enough, of course you can make it.”

Laughing, Stephen responded, “Thanks… At least I’ve got one fan.” We starred out beyond the hill, silently, for a couple minutes, until Stephen said, “You know, I think you’ve changed recently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first, you stopped listening to gossip, then you didn’t just help with the Bible study at the theatre, but you’re reaching out to the people there, and you’ve shared the gospel with your uncle and aunt, and now you’re forgiving Shelby for all that she’s doing to you. I guess you’re growing up and finding out what life is really about. I mean, you’re just fourteen, but you’ve become more mature than most people will ever be.”

“Thanks…” His words rested on my ears like a beautiful melody from a music box which one eagerly rewinds and replays over and over again. Also, his words reminded me that God was answering the prayers that I had prayed. He was changing me.

“You haven’t been to Lillis in a while,” I said. “It’s wonderful there, too, at the pond. And early in the morning the birds sing such enchanting songs. Some of the oak trees are ideal for climbing and you can sit there, too, and feel on top of the world.”

“I couldn’t forget that. Don’t you remember? Whenever we would play hide-and-seek and it was Chris’s turn to seek, we would hide in that big oak tree, and Chris could never find us?”

“Yeah, but then finally one day Aunt Kristy said it was time for dinner, and we had to come down in full view and reveal our hiding place.”

“We could never find a better one.”

“Perhaps you should come to Lillis again sometime… We wouldn’t have to do such childish things, but…”

“Yeah, that would be cool.”

After dressing into my theatre garb that afternoon, I came into the kitchen at Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven’s house, where they were finishing up a game of backgammon. I poured myself a cup of milk and sat down at the table where they were.

“Ha,” Aunt Riven stated, “I’ve won this one.”

“Yes, now we’re tied, two to two. Whoever wins the next is the champion.”

“So tell me, Ada,” Aunt Riven said. “Did God purpose for me to win that game and did He bring it about or did I win it because of my skill?”

I rested my head down on the table, my eyes level with the game board, and thought a moment. “Well, God is the one, after all, who created you and gave you a mind that functions well and is capable of developing strategies. Though I suppose it seems silly to think that God, already busy with keeping the world in its orbit and calling the stars each by their names, would be very concerned about who wins you and Uncle Chester’s backgammon tournament… Yet, even that is in His control.”

“So, you’re telling me I shouldn’t take any credit for myself?”

“Well, why would you want to, in light of all of God’s goodness to you? He doesn’t have to give us life, to bless us with homes to live in, and food to eat, and family and friends to be with. Why, then, are we so eager as humans to take credit for what we accomplish through the use of the things He has given us? I know we all desire the credit, but it doesn’t quite make sense for us to take it, does it?”

“I suppose you have your point.”

Then, I sipped my milk and watched the two of them play their final game which would determine who the champion was, knowing all the while that tomorrow it would make no difference, since playing games of skill was about “learning and thinking,” not so much about winning anyway. So, why did they go on in this way? And what would it matter in three years if Uncle Chester died of a heart attack that he was a champion in the game of Backgammon and Nine Men’s Morris? Perhaps, I thought, taking in the last bit of milk from the bottom of the cup, for Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven, their gaming was only something they used to preoccupy their minds and keep them from thinking too much about the important and eternal quality of life. This quality was so close to them and apparently so little considered that it practically sat between at the kitchen table, tapping its fingers on the game board, waiting for recognition.

The following evening, sitting at my entrance and waiting for the cue to go out on the stage, Mrs. Carothers looked over at me and said slowly, “Ada, I’ve wanted to talk to you about something. But, then, there are such dark and dreary things to mention, that I would hate to trouble your young mind. For some reason, though, I know you wouldn’t be one to go and tell everyone about this.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”

“Well these things ya’ll have been saying at the Bible study—they’re wonderful ideas, but I have trouble believing that they’re true. It’s just that I’ve been around a while and I haven’t seen such a good side of God as you seem to have.

“A long time ago, I got married to a man named Ray. I couldn’t imagine a better man in the world, but with each day, we faced new problems. I thought we might need marriage counseling or something. But he didn’t think that would do us any good and he divorced me when we had only been married about three months. He moved off to Dallas, got a decent job, slept with lots of women, and got drunk a lot. I heard about it all, but I still loved him and wanted to remarry him, so I started praying to God, asking Him to give me back my man. I guess God didn’t hear me though, over all of my sin because, instead, Ray married another girl. I heard she was a good deal younger than him, and I imagine she was a good deal prettier than me. But needless to say, they had marriage problems, too. I suppose he had felt like he just didn’t have any hope of ever being happy, so one night, he just killed himself. Never have I gotten over him. Never have I loved another man since. I don’t know why God let this world be such a sick place, where we can’t even be happy, where we can’t even find enough reason to keep going. See, Ray was searching. He was searching for something to satisfy him, but obviously it just wasn’t out there.”

“I’m sorry…” I told her. After several silent moments, I said, “I guess Ray was just looking in all the wrong places. The only thing that really satisfies is a relationship with Jesus. Apart from that, there’s no reason to live. There’s no other hope for us.”

“See, that’s what I’ve been wondering about because, since Ray died, I haven’t felt like I’ve had any reason to live. All these years, I’ve been on the verge of suicide. I’ve started several times, but for some reason, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. When I put the gun to my head, this thought always comes—‘What if there is something I’m missing?’

“Ada, do you really believe that God would want to have a relationship with somebody like me?”

“Of course He wants to have a relationship with you. The Bible says that ‘While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’ And Jesus said Himself that it’s not the healthy that need a doctor, but the sick. He didn’t come for the people who thought they had it all together, but for the people who had messed up and knew they had no hope apart from Him. The reason you feel so bad about yourself is probably just that you have this hole in your heart that only God can fill and you’ve been trying to fill it with other things that don’t please Him. But if you ask Him to forgive you for your sins, then He will. He will see you as perfect and spotless because Jesus died to take your sins on Himself. God won’t see your sin any more. Instead, when He looks at you, He will see the righteousness of Christ. He will take you in and show you His love.”

“But it’s almost too good to be true.”

“Yeah, it’s up to you to believe in Him or not.”

Then, Mrs. Carothers suddenly said, “There’s our cue!”, and we went out onto the stage.

Saturday night, after having prayed for Mrs. Carothers throughout the day, I watched her come into the Bible study room with a smile spread across her face. Certainly, even in this small gesture, she did not seem like the Mrs. Carothers I had always known.

“Ada,” she said as she sat down, “I’ve begun to trust in Christ, and I really believe He has taken away my sins, and I feel connected with God for the first time. It’s the strangest, most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. When I talk to God, it seems He hears me, He pays attention to me, and He cares about me.”

“That’s incredible, Mrs. Carothers! You know, I’ve been praying for you, that you would be able to say those things.”

“I just feel clean inside, like I’m not who I used to be.”

“Well, the Bible says that ‘if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!’ So, you aren’t who you used to be.”

“I just don’t understand—If having a relationship with God is so wonderful, why don’t more people have it? I mean, a lot of people are religious, but I don’t think there are many people who know God personally. Why do you think that is?”

“Well, Jesus said that ‘small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it,’” said Stephen. “I think that is because He also said ‘If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.’ The thing is that following Jesus isn’t just an easy thing. That’s what we were going to talk about today. Does someone want to look up 2 Corinthians 4:16-18?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” said Hannah, flipping through her Bible. “‘Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.’”

“How about Romans 8:17-18?”

Sarah found that one. “‘The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him, that we may also be glorified together. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’”

“So, why do we have to suffer as Christians?” Stephen asked.

“Because Jesus suffered,” answered Hannah, “and since we are in His family, we are supposed to be like Him.”

“Yeah, exactly. You know, the apostle Paul wanted so badly to be like Jesus that He didn’t really care what it took. He said ‘I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his suffering, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection of the dead.’”

“So really,” I said, “I guess in order to know Christ we have to be like Him, right? Maybe that’s why God has brought me through such difficult stuff lately. It’s like I’m experiencing a little tiny bit of what He experienced when everybody turned their backs on Him. The more I’m insulted or lied about or avoided, the more I can identify with Him, and the better I can know Him.”

Farewell, dreary music floating up from the orchestra; farewell, sorrowful dancers; farewell, hearty applause. Of course, I would come back in a couple months to practice for a new musical, but farewell to this one.

“What was life like anyway, before those mad musical practices started?” asked Stephen in a dazed tone on the way home.

“This has been going on for so long that I’m not even sure, but it seems like I remember something about quiet evenings at home.”

“God really has been good. I still can’t believe how He’s used the Bible study at the theatre. I mean, who are we that God could speak through us and turn people’s hearts toward Him? Who are we that we could be of use to God?”

“Yeah.”

It felt that we had reached Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven’s house altogether too soon. Stephen stopped, folded his arms and looked down at me for a long moment. “You know…” he began, and through his gaze I could tell what he was getting ready to say. But before the thing left his lips, consideration must have caught up with him, because his expression changed, and he said a different thing. “You’re my best friend, Ada.” I thought about those words and all that they meant. And I asked myself why he had not said the thing that he had been about to say. Perhaps it was only out of kindness toward me and consideration of my age that he had kept himself from saying it. Still, his glance told me that he would wait for me, but I knew I could not hold him to that. Then he held me close for a moment, but only for a moment, before letting go. He watched me as I climbed the porch steps and entered into the house. Then he was gone.

Knowing Uncle Chester and Aunt Riven would already be in bed, I went quietly into my bedroom and sat down on the bed. God, how good You have been to change me, and in changing me, to impact the people around me. How good you have been to give me Stephen and my family and Your Spirit that never leaves me and the songs of deliverance You always surround me with.

I found that note Stephen had given me which I had tucked away inside my Bible—the one folded up in so many different ways. I read over it again.

“Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you while you may be found; surely when the mighty waters rise, they will not reach him. You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.”—Psalm 32:6-7