New Short Story: What Really Matters

To the new believers who rekindle my own ember of faith by their enthusiasm for the Lord and His Kingdom. I love being around your joy.

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Her white-blonde hair catches the bright gymnasium light as she spins, like the first glimpse of a winter sunrise. Her blue eyes are half-closed and dreamy toward the brilliant chaos of the dance around her, but when she completes her spin and faces me, her eyes focus on mine without reserve and my already bumbling attempt at dancing gets even worse. I know if someone were to take my pulse, my heart would be racing. Racing with powerful emotions. Racing with longing . . . and even a little hope. 

Her name is Beth, Beth Copeland. Every male in Valley View Christian High, freshman to senior, knows her name. She’s that one girl blessed with such amazing beauty as to be the automatic dream of the entire school, or at least most of it. Boys want to date her. Girls want to look like her. Teachers hope they might be featured in a magazine someday under the headline, “New Face of America Accredits Success to High School Teacher.”

And she is actually dancing with me. 

I didn’t think she was in my league, of course. I am a lowly sophomore who barely made the football team earlier this school year. I weigh exactly 137 pounds, though that is a six-pound improvement from the start of the year. I am average in just about every way: height, IQ, abilities, you name it. I’ve never been in the limelight for being good or bad, unless you count a couple of school plays (never a lead) or my baptism (only half my church family cared to see it). 

All that changed, though, when I caught a pass from Dillon Seewald on the last play of the season and scampered into our rival’s end zone with the winning touchdown. Suddenly I was a hero, someone the team wanted to hoist up and carry on their shoulders. My name became known by more than a handful of people at my school; it became a household name, really. Everyone heard about me, in this town and the next. A student Youtube video of my catch has even gone semi-viral, with all of 3,873 views last I checked. That day became the best one of my life, and in my mind’s eye that football game became simply The Game, capitalized.

I thought I had lived my fifteen minutes of fame to the fullest, and just a couple of minutes ago, you would have found me where you’d find any average, insecure sophomore at a winter ball: hanging out at the punch bowl with other sophomore and freshman boys while glancing over nervously at girls. But then Beth had walked up.

“Hi,” she had said.

“Hi,” a couple of the boys had replied. But then I realized she was talking to me.

“Beth,” I nearly choked on my punch. “Hi.”

“How’s it going, Kevin?”

“Good,” I nodded, but all the while I was wondering how Beth knew my name. I had never spoken to her before, of course. I wondered if she had been at The Game. Or maybe she’d seen the YouTube video. I realized I was still nodding and stopped abruptly.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I’m doing fine.” She shrugged. “You know, If I didn’t know better, I would think you guys thought the winter ball was all about drinking punch.”

“I, uh, haven’t really learned how,” I confessed. “How to dance, I mean.”

“It’s easy,” Beth said. “Look, you can’t be worse than Jeff.” she nodded at a known class clown dancing with uncoordinated abandon. His ill-fitting black jeans and clunky sneakers only added to his look.

I shrugged.

“Want some punch?” one of the other boys suggested. His voice sounded kind of like a mouse learning how to talk.  

“No, thank you. Too much sugar.”

“Oh, ha ha,” the boy said. Another added that he was on his sixth cup and didn’t care.

There was an awkward pause.

“Well, I guess I will go wait around for a guy to ask me to dance,” Beth said. “It’s funny how they still want guys to ask girls to dance.” She looked at me.

“Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Dance,” I gulped. “You know, with me.”

And here we are. I part hands with Beth and twirl with the girl on my left. Then I am facing Beth again. We step close, then apart, then close again and twirl. I have to let go of her hands again at that point in the dance, but I don’t want to. Then the music fades out, and the dance is over, wayyy too quickly. I never thought minutes could pass like seconds.

Beth curtsies and claps, and I bow awkwardly. One of my hands makes it behind my back like I’ve seen in movies, but the other one just kind of hangs there. I join in the applause for the dance to cover up my embarrassment.

Beth steps to my side and slips a hand in my elbow as the dance caller instructs, “Lead your partner off the dance floor.”

“Do you want water?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m parched.” She says. She smiles, and I am glad I didn’t make a joke about punch.

I lead her toward a couple of orange Gatorade tubs labeled “water,” steering clear of the sugary punch but flashing a triumphant look at the boys gathered around it. All the while I am trying to work up the courage to ask her for a second dance.

“That was fun!” I say.

“Yes, it was. And I am sure your dancing will get better with practice.” She says it in such an offhand manner that I am left scrambling to consider it a compliment.

“Practice makes perfect,” I joke weakly.

“Well, better at least,” Beth replies lightly.

I start, stop, and hesitate. “Would you—”

“Hi Beth!”

We both turn at the familiar voice. “Oh hi, Dillon!” Beth replies, and she says it with more life in her voice than she ever had to me.

Dillon is a total stud in his perfectly fitted vest. Every inch of his 6’2” frame stands out, and his muscles ripple nicely under the rolled-back sleeves of his red dress shirt. His hair is combed up and back perfectly, and he is smart enough not to try the senior beard, so his face looks well kempt. He is a good guy on the inside, too, a picture-perfect high school quarterback.

“Looks like you were having a time of it out there,” Dillon says. I notice he omitted the word “good.”

 Beth giggles. “Well,” she says giddily, “Kevin is better running with a football in his hands.”

She and Dillon laugh at the joke. I don’t find it that funny. At all.

“Come on, Kev, lighten up, man!” Dillon holds up his balled hand for a fist bump, but he holds it high enough to where I have to reach up. A fleeting fantasy crosses my mind of fist bumping his square jaw instead, but I laugh lamely and reach up for his fist with mine.

“Can I please have the next dance with you?” Dillon asks Beth.

“Sure,” Beth replies. And just like that, she has left my side and linked arms with Dillon.

“Don’t you still want water?” I say.

Beth shrugs dismissively. “No, I’m fine.”

“It’s okay, we can grab water before the next dance,” Dillon says kindly, and he guides her off toward the water.

I stand in the middle of the dance floor for a minute, heart sinking. I turn on my heels and walk back to the punch bowl. The split halves of my heart seem to bounce in each shoe. But who was I to think I’d ever have a shot with the prettiest girl in the school, anyway? Sure, I had my moment of fame during The Game, but now I realize that Dillon was in that game too. He was the one that drew off the defense toward him, buying time for the little sophomore no one thought to guard to get out into open field. He even faked to our 6’5” tight end for good measure before he threw it to me. I was a nobody that Dillon had made a somebody by his greatness.

“Dude, harsh,” one of the freshmen says to me. He is outweighed, though, by the jealous derision of the other boys as they grind me back down to where I belong with biting half-jokes and sarcasm.  I ignore them, fill a cup with punch, and wander away. I think about crossing the dance floor to the cluster of chattering girls we boys  had jokingly named the “magpies,” but my heart is just not in it. I feel a need to talk to someone. Someone who can help me out of my budding identity crisis. Someone who will truly listen. Someone adult, even.

I look around the chairs laid out for the parents of the students attending the dance. Very few parents have come, and I don’t know any of them. I don’t even know some of my friend’s parents, come to think of it. One older man catches my eye, though. He looks rough. His skin is weathered and three days’ worth of gray stubble isn’t enough to cover deep wrinkles and even a scar that runs across his left check. He wears a flannel and a pair of brown Carhartt’s that have small tears in the legs. My first thought is a cry for school security, but yet, the man’s countenance is inviting and kind—friendly even. It piques my interest, even disarms me, and I instinctively walk toward him. I am not completely sure why in the moment. Maybe I think it wil cheer me up to talk to someone who has had a rougher go at life than me.

There are two seats open next to the man. I don’t want to sit next to him, but sitting a seat away from him would put me next to Dorothy Dreyer. She is our PE teacher, but ironically, she’s one of those people who kind of takes up more than one chair. I sit in-between the two seats, hovering awkwardly above the crack. I glance once at the man, then look away. We stare out at the dance floor.

 

“Another dance is starting soon.”

I can tell in my peripheral vision that the man is trying to make eye contact with me. “I . . . it’s just not my night,” I mutter.

“Not mine either. The one night I have visitation with my daughter, it’s the school ball.”

“You could dance with her.”

“She’d be embarrassed.”

That is kind of what I am inwardly thinking. “Who is she?” I ask after a moment.

The man inclines his head in the direction I have studiously been avoiding looking toward. “The tall, slender girl there, with the blonde hair and turquoise dress? That’s my daughter. Beth is her name.”

Now I look the man in the eye.  “Wow,” is all I can manage.

The corners of the man’s eyes wrinkle even more as he smiles. “Don’t look so surprised, buddy. As you can tell, she takes after her mother.” the man adds “in a lot of ways” under his breath, but I am too busy wondering if talking to Beth’s dad will boost my chances with her to notice. Probably not, since I never knew Beth’s dad was even a part of her life. I don’t figure Beth is too proud of him.

“She’s dancing with the school quarterback,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, I see that. And she was dancing with Valleyview’s hero a minute ago.”

I smirk ruefully. “You can see why it’s not my night.”

“Yeah, I know why you’d feel that way. I’ve had a lot of those nights,” Beth’s dad says, but then he smiles. “They’re not so bad anymore, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, do you know Jesus?”

“Um, yeah.”

“He saved me. He saved me from my selfish living.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with dancing,” I mutter.

“Everything, buddy, everything,” Beth’s dad replies. “Take me. Before Christ, I pursued girls because I thought they would fulfill me. I pursued sports because I thought it would give me meaning. I made money because I thought that’s what people did to satisfy their wants. When my dreams failed, I felt empty, meaningless, and unsatisfied. When I did catch my dreams, I was happy for a while, but still unsatisfied.”

I look at Beth. “Like, how?”

“Because everything in the world is broken, I guess. None of it is complete. Even if you get it, it still leaves you wanting.”

“Maybe you just never completely had your dream.”

Beth’s dad looks at me sharply. A flash of something—is it hurt or anger?—shows in his eyes, but then he softens. “That’s not true. I had Beth’s mom, once. I had a great job. I was a successful salesman; I had money.  And then we were blessed with Beth, my starlight.”

The conversation has taken an abruptly personal turn so fast, that I grow uncomfortable with it. Curiosity overrules me, though, and the questions keep coming out my mouth before my better judgement stops them. “What happened?”

“I was left wanting.”

“They left you?”

“I left them first, in my heart, and I was too pathetic to do anything about it. My wife filed for divorce, and she won custody. She took my starlight with her. Jesus was nudging me all the while, trying to show me that I was building a house upon the sand, but the rains came before I realized it.”

“That’s rough,” I say after a bit.

Beth’s dad nods sadly. “It was for years, and for awhile I didn’t want anything to do with my family ever again. I picked up some bad habits, drinking and fighting primary among them. That’s how I got this scar.” He fingers the scar on his cheek. “All my selfish dreams ended in scars, really.”

“But why were they selfish? I mean, can’t our dreams be good?” I ask.

“Well, I used to think that dreams were kind of amoral, you know? But now I believe that if Jesus isn’t in our life, our dreams can’t be selfless or good, because we’ve lost sight of what really matters.”

“Which is . . .” my voice fades into a question mark.

“Building God’s kingdom, glorifying Him through it. Can’t you see it? Our own little kingdoms of fame, wealth, possessions, relationships, and stuff just kind of die with us.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“You don’t sound very convinced.” The man is still smiling.

“I just don’t see how I can stop dreaming. Like, I don’t want to give up.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I still have dreams. But they’re different now, you know? It’s hard to explain . . . I guess the way I’d put it is that my dreams no longer center on what I can do for me, but on what I can do for God.”

The music fades, and a dance ends. I stir restlessly. I hadn’t really set out to hear the life story of a total stranger, and somehow his words aren’t comforting. Or at least, they’re not what I want to hear, even though I had asked all the questions. I get to my feet. “Well, I should probably get back to the dance.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get to talking so much.”

“It’s all good,” I say, even as I start walking away. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, buddy, take care.”

I walk into the men’s bathroom. I check myself in the mirror. A tuft of my hair is struggling to stand at attention against a heavy coating of hair gel, and I do my best to smooth it down by wetting my palm and pressing it to my head. My average face seems to tilt closer to the ugly side of things under the harsh bathroom lights. I pretend to be washing my hands when another boy comes by, but as soon as he’s in a stall, I stare at myself some more. I stare into my own eyes, wondering about myself, wondering about my dreams.

“Do they really matter?” I whisper. “Do I really matter?”

Staring at my own ordinary self, the odds don’t seem to be in my favor.

I imagine a scar running across my cheek. I shudder, because in the mirror it looks real. My fingers instinctively press my cheek, feeling for the scar tissue. There is none, of course. My skin is smooth, like a baby, really. I don’t even have stubble yet. Your whole life is still ahead of you, I think to myself.

I turn from the mirror with a sigh and wander back out into the gym. Another dance has started already to a lively party song, but I filter lifelessly through the glitz and lights and dancing teens. I hit the door out of the gym, and it swings open to let in a breath of fresh night air. The song and noise of the dance fades and then cuts off abruptly as the door closes behind me, and I am alone in the dark.

I look up.

The moon is hidden behind a cloud, but the cloud’s edges glow a brilliant silver. The sky is a dusky bluish-black, perforated by the twinkling light of a sprawl of stars. I remember a recent science lesson on the stars, how they hurtle along in perfect unity with their neighbors in one huge, awe-inspiring dance. I’m struck by how immense and beautiful it all is, and really, how tiny I am.

“I’m nothing,” I whisper.

It’s freeing, now that I have actually said it. It puts my own petty kingdom of self-worth into perspective. I committed myself to Christ, to the one who created everything, but I haven’t really been living for His glory, especially after The Game. The pursuit has left me empty and sick. Sick of trying to impress, only to be rejected. Sick of chasing, but never really obtaining. Soul sick, I think that is the name for it.

“Can you heal me?” I whisper.

I listen for a voice, either booming or still and small, but I don’t hear anything coming down from above. I guess I never really expect God to speak back to me anyway. But it still feels good to talk to Him again. It’s been so long.

“God, I’m back.”

It’s really the only thing I can think to say, but a thought sparks in my mind at the same moment. It’s about a verse I had read awhile—well really quite awhile—ago, something Jesus had said. I couldn’t quote it exactly, but I know Jesus had said for people to come to Him, and He would give them rest for their souls. Rest. That sounds good.

Like a rush I remember other words of scripture; I remember more about God. Christians are dearly beloved children of God. He will work all things together for good to those who love him, to those who are called according to His purposes. He is faithful, even when we are faithless. It’s like the rush or remembrance fans a smoldering ember deep inside me, an ember of faith that has been slowly burning out. Passion rises inside me, the same passion I felt when I was baptized. It’s passion to break away from an empty life and live differently. It’s passion to serve the One who gave Hs life for me so that I might truly live. It strikes me that this is probably what makes Beth’s dad so eager to share about Jesus in his life. There’s purpose in this passion.

“It’s true, this is what really matters.” My thoughts spill out my mouth. “I’m nothing, but I’m not worthless. I’ve been redeemed by a great price for a great purpose.” I smile, grin even. “Thank you, Lord, thank you!” I whisper earnestly.

And then, almost spontaneously, a line from the Lord’s prayer springs from my mouth, and I have to repeat it again, slower, to catch what I mean, to really pray it as a heartfelt prayer.

“Your Kingdom come,” I pray. “Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Keeping the Captive

KEEPING THE CAPTIVE

To my dad, and to all the Godly mentors the Lord has brought into my life! Thank you for your grace and patience in all you have taught me over the years! May I always speak the truth. . . but in love.

~~~~~`

Too busy to rest, then too restless to sleep. What an odd sensation these Earthlings lose themselves in. They pride themselves in their freedom while they wholeheartedly collect chains. Another pleasurable sin, another vice, another death. We see the natural progression of the natural man, and sometimes we think our job is easy. 

Take my captive, for instance. Your typical, foolish Earthling. He doesn’t help our cause much, but that’s okay. He is slowly dragging himself into the dirt, crushing himself under a load of sins and chains he’s been collecting since birth. I’m watching him right now. I’m obsessed with keeping him. It’s my job. I have provided him with the essentials, of course—a pathetic façade of “life is good” and a couple of weapons to fight back the logic of the enemy with. In one hand he carries the wisdom of man, their primary choice to deflect the evident truth that there is a God. It’s a blunt spiritual sword, really, because who can deny His existence? In the other hand he carries a shield of healthy skepticism of spiritual things. He doesn’t even think I or my kind exist!  I smile at this little captive soldier I’ve built. His armor is so pathetic . . . no more than a mask to hide the deep pain of a meaningless life. And yet off he trudges into another day, ready to fight for his freedom to remain my captive.

You can see why I think my job is easy sometimes, and I am only a low-ranking force compared to most of my comrades! Pardon me for not introducing myself earlier. My name is Lucius, and I am an enlightened angel serving the Morning Star. I reject the plan my Creator had for me, and I live to serve my new lord in his quest to establish his kingdom over all the created world. I live, like he does, to steal, kill, and destroy. I repeat that pattern over and over with each new assignment—each new captive— I am given. I steal away their hope and chance at an abundant life. I crush their earthly life. And they are destroyed forever in an eternal punishment so horrible it was originally reserved for us. Yes, you simple humans call us demons, but don’t forget what we once were. We’re more real, more glorious and profound, than you ever will be in your natural state, Earthlings. Which is why we want to keep you that way.

Does my captive even know we are destroying him? He must know, because despite my hardest efforts to the contrary, he has been exposed to the light several times. He knows of the abundant life our enemy offers . . . a life of true freedom and broken chains. A life of power over the grave and victory over our temptations because of the work of the Son of Man. It’s terrible. Sometimes I can’t believe he doesn’t wake up and see it. Is sin that pleasurable that he would choose it over life?

I jerk myself from my contemplations and turn my attention back to the task for the day. Keep him captive; don’t let them change him. A flash of doubt sparks through my mind. My orders are clear, and though they seem utterly antithetical to my mission, I trust with utter confidence in my superiors. I am taking my captive to see a Christian today. We’ve been orchestrating this appointment all morning, and it is almost show time.

My captive is hard at work at his day job. He works at Starbucks—long shifts too. As many hours as he can get. Right now, he is wiping tables. He’s got his back turned to the Christian, who is walking toward him with coffee and computer bag in tow, but that will change in a second. Sure enough, almost right on cue, the Christian opens his mouth to speak. Here we go!

“Good morning! Thanks for wiping that table.”

“Yeah, not a problem,” my captive replies.

“I can’t stand tables that still have crud on them,” the Christian says. He unslings his computer bag and plops it on the edge of the table, where my captive has already cleaned. They are now on opposite ends of the table from each other. My captive has his head down, rubbing away at the sticky ring someone’s caramel frap has made. The Christian is staring at him awkwardly, waiting for him to finish, trying to think of something else to say. He shifts from one foot to the other, then takes a sip of his coffee. He gulps it down too quickly, I think. It looks like he burns his throat.

“You having a good morning?”the Christian all but chokes out.

“I’m hanging in there.” My captive straightens up and snaps his rag clean. I am afraid he is going to turn and leave, but thankfully, for the sake of not looking completely indifferent, he reciprocates the question. “How about you?”

“Oh I’m good!” the Christian replies. “God is good!”

There it is. Finally! These Christians, they are often so slow getting around to mentioning the God they claim to serve. This is the whole point of the meeting though! A test. A conflict. And if all things work out as planned, a captive even deeper in bondage. I lean forward, watching every moment unfold. I’m ready to insert myself if need be.

Right on cue, my captive bristles. Up goes his shield. It’s invisible to earthly eyes; I wonder if the Christian even notices it. But regardless, my captive’s words make it clear where he stands. “Well, I’m glad God’s working out for you anyway,” he says.

“You don’t believe in God?” the Christian asks. Ah, you see, he wants this opportunity too. The spiritual conflict is inevitable now. I feel myself thrill to the fight. The coffee house setting fades and all but disappears in my mind’s eye. I am immersed in this glorious, eternally-impacting struggle.

My captive shrugs. ”I don’t know. I believe in things I can see and observe.” With these words, he unsheathes the spiritual weapon I have equipped him with, the wisdom of man. I’m disappointed to see that he doesn’t thrust deep with it. Not yet, at least. Maybe he will once he feels more threatened.  

“I have seen and observed God!” the Christian replies. “He is evident in all His creation!” With these words, out comes the Christian’s weapon. It shines brighter than gold, like sunlight on a pure, white snowfield. It is sharp and deadly, able to cut right through the pathetic armor we equip our captives with.

I shudder and draw back, suddenly terrified. What am I thinking! Such a weapon can easily destroy any fortress I might build. It is absolute torment to me! In a moment, I am ready to take flight and flee for my life. Let me go black to darkness, away from the light and the battles. Who cares what happens to my captive, if only I am safe from that terrible weapon! But my eyes lock with one of my superiors across the room. He is a seasoned warrior for our master; he has destroyed countless numbers of captives. He tells me in that glance to hold on.

“I only know,” my captive is saying, “that many, many smart people believe in evolution. What’s more, science has proven it!” It’s a weak thrust with a blunt weapon. Such a jab won’t dent the shield of faith most Christians have, and sure enough, it glances harmlessly off this Christian’s shield.

The Christian raises his brilliant weapon high. It is his turn to strike. I all but grovel in my place behind my captive, knowing I will feel the terrible bite of the Christian’s spiritual weapon. Surely it will rip me to shreds, or if not me, then my doctrines of deceit.  The weapon drops, and I all but screech and flee . . .

 But the blow doesn’t strike me! It cuts deeply into my captive, rending right through his pathetic armor. I hate to see the armor rent, but I am so glad I didn’t receive the blow that I can’t be truly upset.

“The fool says in his heart, there is no God! Fools deny the self-evident truth of God and suppress the truth with their own foolishness. You are a fool if you follow them!”  

Again and again the Christian raises his weapon and strikes. He shares truth after truth, battering down my captive’s feeble attempts to raise his shield of skepticism.  At first I flinch with every stroke, sure one of them will be directed at me, sure that my plans for keeping my captive will be harmed. But with each stroke, I grow more confident, and then even exuberant as I watch. My captive reels from each blow. His spirit is being crushed. He is being emptied and insulted, bludgeoned out of humanity itself. The Christian’s work is far more devastating than any of my efforts in my captive’s life the last year. What amazing destruction! The Christian’s weapons are indeed powerful.

I realize the brilliance of my master’s scheme. Why take my captive to a Christian? For precisely the reason before me! Their weapons can cut deeper than any of ours, even our most potent ones like rage, jealousy, and slander. We know this from experience. Countless numbers of our spiritual strongholds have fallen to the power of their weapons and the Lord they serve.

But what if—imagine this! What if these Christian soldiers mistake our captives for their enemies?

The battle is over. My captive disengages, too weary to continue. The Christian watches my captive as he heads back to the employee section of Starbucks and he even calls out “God bless you!” as if he has just won a great victory. But it is I who have won! Yes, my captive lost his shield and weapon—they are battered to pieces!—but he still carries his chains. He stumbles underneath them, his inward person too damaged to hold up under them much longer.

My captive finds his way out the back door, to where the employees who smoke take their breaks. His friend Joe is there, sprawled out on a green, rust-speckled bench. I wave hello to my comrade assigned to Joe, and he gives me a knowing look and a thumbs up. Joe takes a drag from his cigarette and does one of those “cool man” chin bobs at my captive. “What’s up, dude?”

“I hate Christians.”

Joe laughs. “You too, huh? What happened? Some zealot aim his blaze of glory at you?”

“Yeah, big time Bible-thumper.” My captive sighs, kicks at the cigarette buds that litter the floor, and sits down on the bench next to Joe. “What’s their problem, man? Do they take pleasure in ripping us apart?”

“Naw, they want you to believe what they do, bro.”

“By pounding me into the dirt? I’d rather go to hell than believe what they do.”

“Haha, that’s the spirit. Believe in what makes you happy, that’s what I live by. If that sends me to hell or not, I don’t know. But at least it makes life here bearable.” Joe taps the ashes out of his cigarette and leans back like he has just shared a bit of profound wisdom.

“Keeps our Sundays free, that’s for sure,” my captive replies wryly. For the first time this morning, he smiles. This is perfect! Bit by bit, Joe has nursed my captive’s wounds. He’s helped him recover! At the end of it all, he’s handed my captive back his shield of skepticism and helped arm him again with our spiritual weapons, and my captive is stronger for it. He just might make a good soldier for our cause someday.

The two humans share a laugh, and my captive rises and clasps his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks, Joe, I appreciate you being there for me. I got to get back to the tables.”

“No problem, man, anytime.” Joe flicks his cigarette on the floor and stomps it. “I’ll follow you in. Gotta keep making the big bucks, right?”

“Haha, that’s right. One day at a time.” My captive holds the door open, and the two of them file in.

I pause at the door, collecting myself. Proud, very proud. My superior meets me there. It may sound weird to you humans that we have emotions too, but he is all but smiling as he says, “Good work, Lucius.”

“Thanks. I did well?”

“Yes, it went as well as planned.”

“So what’s next?”

“Same thing as always—keeping the captive. Don’t lose him.”

“After today? I don’t think I ever will.”

My superior nods. “Just keep him away from Christians who actually know how to use their weapons.”

I grin maliciously. “Sounds like a plan!”

~~~~~~

The Lord’s bond-servant must not be quarrelsome, but be kind to all, able to teach, patient when wronged, with gentleness correcting those who are in opposition, if perhaps God may grant them repentance leading to the knowledge of the truth, and they may come to their senses and escape from the snare of the devil, having been held captive by him to do his will. 2 Timothy 2:24-26

Happy Just to Be

Happy Just to Be

To Timmy for inspiring this story. Thank you for letting me learn about life with you! (And yes, you can be annoying like Jack sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade you for the world.)

-----

I swung my 1972 Chevy Malibu into the gravel beside the road. I skidded to a stop at an awkward angle, but I didn’t really care. This would be a quick stop, and a quick turnaround. I’d be homeward bound in a few. I jammed the shifter into park and hopped out. I soaked in the warm late-evening rays and stretched, and my weary body cracked and popped several times as I straightened my long frame. It had been another long day installing drywall—It had been another long week installing drywall.

 But now it was the weekend!

 I had been heading to spend the evening at the bowling alley with my friends. Rock-n-bowl, Friday nights, where everything is bathed in blacklight and the balls and pins are luminous, speckled colors, where the crash of the pins is only matched by the almost deafening party music. The atmosphere there makes it easy to forget the worries and trials of young adulthood, at least for a couple of mind-numbing hours. I had been heading for that when I got the phone call. Mom and dad had decided to go on an impromptu date, and I was put on little brother duty.

I had tried for a moment to plead my way out of it. I hemmed and hawed, and when I finally resigned my plans for the evening, it was with a long-suffering sigh and a goodbye bordering on hostile. I know I sound selfish—and I guess I am. But I had worked hard all week; didn’t I deserve to spend my Friday evening how I wanted?

 I consider my little brother Jack to be a certified pain. He is the literal definition of the baby of the family— the poster child of over-spoiled and annoying. What’s worse, I get the brunt of him. My older siblings, Glenn and Alexa, had long since acquired their wings and soared out of the nest, leaving me alone with my hatchling of a brother and his obnoxious, hungry chirpings. He is 12, 9 years younger than me. I suppose he’s not fresh out of the egg in that sense, but he’s still a content pubescent caught in the everyday pleasures of childhood. On my good days, I am decently amiable toward him, as long as he doesn’t intrude too much into my grown-up life. On my bad days, I would rather just ignore him, to put a force-field around my life’s sphere.

I think this might be one of my bad days.

That said, I had been put in charge of him for the evening, so I strode down the cracked sidewalk toward the Davis’s house in moody silence. Their small herd of kids are Jack’s best friends. Mom had let me know that this was where Jack had been spending his lazy summer afternoon, and shouts of joy and cheerful laughter directed me to the backyard, where I found him. He and four of the Davis’s were jumping on their trampoline. The youngest Davis boy—I never have learned any of their names—was hunched in the fetal position on the mat, knees clasped tightly to his chest, while the three other Davis kids and Jack jumped in a ring around him. From the looks of it, they were trying to bounce the young boy high enough to break him of his tight hold. It was a fun old game that I remembered playing such a seemingly long time ago. 

The children were laughing and calling out jokes to one another, completely oblivious to my intrusion. I watched them from the other side of the fence that ringed the Davis’s back yard. Their cheeks were flushed and dimpled in excited smiles. Their hair was standing up every which way from all the bouncing and the static electricity from the trampoline, and the evening sun’s slanting rays shone brightly through it all, giving the impression that they each had a hazy, golden halo. It was almost comical, but at the same time it looked . . . serene. They didn’t feel a pressure to be orderly and properly austere. They were expressing their friendship with enthusiastic abandon, not caring to put up an adult facade.

I watched as the little boy in the center came down from a particularly high bounce and splatted like an egg on the stretchy canvas—limbs flailing, his hold finally broken. The little boy rolled onto his back and giggled ridiculously. The other kids whooped with victory. I almost laughed with them; I even thought of joining them. I imagined myself jumping high and launching all five of the little ones sky high. That would get them giggling, that’s for sure!

Then a volleyball-sized bouncy ball slammed into my forehead. My head jerked, and I went reeling backwards a step. The kids burst out laughing again, and Jack called out in a sing song voice, “Hey, Mike the man!”

I frowned, my moment of reverie instantly gone, as if the ball had bounced it right from my brain. “Time to go, squirt,” I grumbled.

The kids were immediately crest fallen, and Jack opened his mouth to protest. A severe look by me cut him down before he could give voice to it, though. I watched the kids climb down from the trampoline and plod over toward the gate. I was glad that my authority was going unchallenged, but at the same time . . . it felt kind of lame to be the bad guy. At least for the Davis kids. I didn’t care a ton that I was ruining Jack’s fun, because he had already ruined mine.

Jack was first to file out of the backyard gate and pressed past me. He picked up the bouncy ball he had playfully flung at me and lobbed it back over the fence. The oldest Davis girl, who was about Jack’s age, smiled at me as she tried to press back her frazzled auburn hair with the palms of her hands. She was small, even for a twelve-year old, which made her even more cute. I made a mental note to tease Jack about her later.

“Was it a long day at work?” she asked. The tone of her voice was more questioning then it needed to be for a simple conversation-making question, as if she really wanted to ask, “Why is Jack’s brother so grumpy?”

I shrugged. “Kind of normal.”

“Did you get to enjoy the sun?”

I laughed a little at this. “No, not really. I do drywall.” I left it at that, as if she should know that duh, all drywall is indoors.

I walked around to the front of the house with the band of halflings thronged around me. Jack broke from the group and away from the straight shot to my car.

“Where you going, Jack?”

“Gotta get my bike.”

“Your bike?”

Jack looked at me like I had the brain of a clownfish. “Yeah, how else do you think I got here?”

“How do you think we’re going to fit it in my car, genius?” I shot back.

“It’s a hatchback. It’ll fit.”

Of course it would. That was the one thing about my mid-range muscle car, my beautiful Chevy Malibu. I had dumped all my savings into the station wagon model my late uncle had owned. I had loved the extra space in the back end at first. It was practical and convenient, was my thought, and I was a practical and convenient guy who also liked fast cars. However, it’s ridiculously wide rear end had become the butt end of many jokes from my coworkers—and that pun was definitely not intended.

Jack fetched his beat up, Wal-Mart brand bike from where it had been dumped in the front yard. He wheeled it toward me as I flipped open the hatch. My tool bag was dumped back there, along with several empty Monster cans, a Frisbee, and an old college textbook. It wasn’t exactly clean, but I was still reluctant to cram a dirty bike back there. I grumbled under my breath as I took the bike from Jack and lifted it in. When it was all said and done, the front tire left a smear of dirt on the seatback, and I nearly wrenched the handle bars off as I twisted them at an awkward angle to make the bike fit. I slammed the hatch shut with an exasperated sigh.

“Let’s go.”

Jack hugged his friends and said goodbye. I waved once to the kids out of a sense of obligation and hopped into the driver’s seat to check my notifications. Jack finally got in next to me, and I put my phone down and reached for the ignition. My engine roared to life, and I floored the gas for fun. I peeled out, and with a spray of gravel and a cloud’s worth of exhaust, we were off. The Davis kids laughed and clapped behind me. I smiled despite myself.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

“Fun day?” I asked when the silence became unbearable.

“Yeah, definitely!” Jack said with true enthusiasm. He didn’t reciprocate with a question of his own, so silence returned for a couple more awkward minutes. I decided to make use of that mental note to tease him.

“That Davis girl is cute.”

“Nicole?” Jack blushed a little even as he said it.

“Is that her name?” I asked. “Of the girl with the auburn hair, about your age but shorter?”

“Yeah, that’s Nicole.” Jack hesitated. “I like her. A lot.”

I glanced at him sharply. “You like her… like actually like like?”

Jack shrugged and stayed quiet.

I snorted and looked back out the windshield, straight ahead. “Aren’t you a little young. I mean, you’re twelve.”

“You mean you never had a crush on anyone when you were my age?” Jack retorted. He was being genuine, and there was this intense look on his face as if he was wondering if there was something wrong with him.

“No yeah—I mean yes, I guess I did,” I softened somewhat. “But of course, they never worked out or anything. You shouldn’t think about it too much.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I don’t know . . . I guess it was lame of me.” I paid a lot of attention to the stop sign I was rolling up to.

“I wish I was old like you,” Jack said wistfully. “Then it would work out.”

I laughed ruefully. “Being older doesn’t fix anything, kid. It doesn’t even work out when you are old enough for a relationship sometimes.”

“Like with Megan?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. Megan had been my girlfriend for almost nine months before a painful breakup late in the spring. I had thought she would be the one. We had been a great couple, even. But now there was only that lingering, hollow ache that only the freshly single know so well. I tried to gulp down the lump in my throat and blinked rapidly at the late evening sunlight, as if it were the slanted rays that caused the tears in the corner of my eyes.

Jack watched me carefully. “I still wish I was older,” he said.

“What do you know? You should just be happy to be you!” I retorted, and I was surprised by the force of anger in my voice. “Being ‘grown-up’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” I almost added more. I almost unloaded on him all my secret thoughts about how I wished I could be his age again, how I wished I could be free of the many pressures and hurts of my newfound adult life. But I managed to bite my tongue and turn my angry thoughts inward. It wouldn’t do to crush all of Jack’s wistful idealism about being “old”, a darkly sarcastic part of me reasoned.

It was almost tragically ironic. Here we were, two brothers, both with idealisms and dreams. The only difference was one of us wished for the future while the other longed for the past.

We rolled through our small town. Well, comparatively small. It had more than just the standard post office, hardware store, grocery store, and gas station. We had a small strip mall that fostered a revolving door of failed startup businesses, a couple of banks, a movie theater, several restaurants of both the mom and pop and chain variety, the bowling alley, Wal-Mart, and several other stores. It took about 5 minutes to get from the Davis’s side of town to the north to ours on the south.

Even though I rolled through it almost without thought, our town was nice. The filtered rays of the golden sunset bathed it in a comfortable glow, and friendly town folk waved occasionally from the sidewalk or from the front porches of the houses interspaced between the businesses. I had often had big dreams of leaving this town as soon as possible when I was younger, but those big dreams had slowly but surely been corroded by this—this small-town charm I rolled through every evening.

Jack grew especially quiet when we approached our one ice cream shop in town, a Baskin Robbins. An intensely thoughtful look worked itself onto his face. I could see the gears turning in his mind. He was wondering if there was any conceivable chance his big brother would have a drastic mood swing and buy him an ice cream.  

I snorted.

“What?” Jack asked

.

“Oh nothing,” I said, and there was a pause.

“Sure was a hot day,” Jack offered a moment later.

“Yeah, almost hot enough to make me want an ice cream cone.”

“Yeah?" Jack perked up hopefully.

“Almost,” I repeated.

Jack hung his shoulders. He looked kind of like a birthday balloon that had lost its helium. He couldn’t see that his little scheme hadn’t completely failed, because he couldn’t see my thoughts. It had been a hot day, and it was the weekend. Plus, the money I had planned to spend for bowling would more than cover a triple-scoop waffle cone. On a sudden whim I jammed the brakes and turned into Baskin Robbin’s parking lot. Spontaneity—Maybe that’s something adulthood had taken from me. And maybe that was a good thing. But maybe, just maybe, it was okay to enjoy life a little sometimes.

Jack looked at me, his eyes as big as baseballs, and all but squealed with surprise and ecstasy. “Oh yeah, ice cream! Thanks, Mike!”

Where I might have had a warm feeling of good will, a twinge of indignation gripped me instead. I had this urge to teach Jack a lesson on responsibility and its correlation to privileges. What right did he have to just assume I’d buy him ice cream? I brooded on that thought for a bit.

“Have you ever heard the expression, ‘there’s no such thing as a free lunch?’” I asked as I held the door to Baskin Robbins open for him.

Jack slowly pulled himself out of ice cream euphoria and blinked up at me. “No . . .” he said dubiously.

“It means that we have to buy what we want, or else if something is free, it’s only because the person who gave it to us expects something from us. Like taxes. Or our dependence and eventual slave labor.”

The politics of it clearly flew over Jack’s head. “What does that have to do with ice cream?” he asked.

“It means I’m buying mine, and you’re old enough to start paying for your own.”

Jack protested. I pointed out that he had money from mowing Mrs. Carrol’s lawn across the street.

“Yeah for like $5 a mow,” Jack countered. “You make way more money!”

“Since when did you become a communist?” I retorted. “And anyway, last I checked, five bucks can buy you plenty of ice cream.”

“And when did you become a stingy old miser,” I heard Jack say under his breath as he turned away to exam the closest fridge of ice cream flavors.

“Welcome to Baskin Robbins!” a ditsy teenager said from behind the counter. “What can I get started for you?”

 I acknowledged her with a nod. I tried a few samples like I always did before going with my tried and true favorites: strawberry, sea salt caramel, and chocolate. All the while I stewed over Jack’s last comment. He didn’t understand the adult world of money! He didn’t understand how hard we worked for it and how important it was to save and not just spend frivolously!

“Believe me, man,” I added as almost an afterthought as I watched Jack struggle to pick what flavors he wanted. “I wish I could be like you again and spend my money as quickly as I earned it. But adults have responsibilities.”

Jack shrugged by way of giving me the cold shoulder and didn’t even respond. He was taking forever to order his ice cream. Finally, he settled on two flavors.

“Gross, dude, seriously? Of all the 31 flavors, you chose sherbet and cotton candy?” I said.

“Are you guys paying together or separately?” Ditsy Girl said from behind the cash register. She looked at me expectantly.

I looked her squarely in the eye and said, “Separately.”

“Oh.” Her tone was somewhere between shocked and condescending. I looked down at the register. The display read $9.43. She began to mess with the keyboard, trying to cancel the order and re-enter each ice cream separately.

I guessed she was probably a communist too.

Meanwhile, Jack dug into the pockets of his cargo shorts. He produced two crumpled dollar bills and started counting out nickels and dimes. And a few pennies. I sighed and decided to drop the morality lesson.

“Forget about it,” I said. “I got both of them.” I handed the girl my debit card. Jack returned his dollars and coins to his pocket with a relieved look on his face.

Back in my Malibu, the only sound was the smacking of our lips as we enjoyed the ice cream. I slowly eased back onto the road, driving one-handed. As far as I knew, driving and eating ice cream wasn’t illegal yet. I kept glancing over at Jack . . . at the pleasure in his dirty, sweat-stained face that was soon to be joined by sticky sherbet smears. The way his lips were puckered from the cold of his ice cream. The way his chubby cheeks were drawn back and dimpled as he ate the top off his ice cream cone. The slurping and smacking noises he made as he sucked the sweet cream down his throat.

I was waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, some kind of thank you. Deep down I knew I didn’t really deserve a thank you. I had been a pill all evening, and I started to think this chip on my shoulder was more like an anchor dragging me down. A part of me started to wish I could just reboot the evening.

But it still would have been nice for him to say it.

As if he knew I was expecting something, Jack turned to me and said, “I’ll start earning more money soon.”

I shrugged, caught off guard. His words slipped under the armor of manufactured grudges I had been holding against him, but they didn’t really hit a soft spot. “Yeah, it’s nice to have,” was all I managed.

“It’s not everything, though,” Jack confided.

“It’s what we need to live.”

Jack nodded. “But I’d rather live for other things.”

I was about to correct Jack that I had not meant that I lived for money, but the air I sucked into my lungs to protest never turned to words. I licked my ice cream thoughtfully instead. Maybe, in this season where money meant the difference between a boy and a man—where all I needed was money to pursue my dreams—maybe it had become what I lived for. What else had more control of me? God? I rarely found time to open His Word between Sundays. My parents? Their authoritative role had diminished ever since I had gotten a car and a boss, though they still let me live in their house for rent. Maybe Megan a few months ago, but not anymore. Was I a slave to earning and saving? I looked at Jack again, not with a grudge, but with . . . something close to envy.

“Maybe money isn’t so freeing after all,” I mumbled.

Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I guess . . .” He was thinking too, but his crinkled forehead and the thoughtful look in his eyes passed quickly like a cloud on a summer day.  “It bought ice cream, though.”

I smiled a little bit. “Close enough to happiness, right?”

The joke slowly dawned on Jack, and he burst out laughing.

“What?” I said. “It’s not that funny.”

And I was right. The joke wasn’t really that funny, but Jack was still laughing. I felt like I was on the other side of a fence again, watching a world I had grown too old for but somehow still wanted. Maybe I could join it, just for a moment.

“You’re going to snort ice cream up your nose,” I said, and I grinned impulsively.

Jack laughed even harder and snorted in-between breaths. “Ow, ow, you’re right!” he gasped between breaths.

Now I laughed. He looked so comical, his face contorted in a laugh and grimace at the same time. And the thing was, with each laugh I felt the chip on my shoulder growing lighter, as if it was being shaken off. And it actually felt good—like I could just be free.

A sudden thought struck me as I laughed: maybe the way to enter that old world on the other side of the fence was to let Jack into mine. I had bought hook, line and sinker the culture’s idea that little siblings were nuisances to be avoided at all costs . . . but perhaps that was all wrong. I thought of a verse from the Bible just then, something Jesus had said: “Let the little children come to me.” Maybe the example of the wisest man on earth was worth following.

Our ice cream was consumed, but we were still snickering when I turned into our gravel drive. It was a long driveway, about a mile long, but I actually felt a twinge of regret that we only had a mile of our drive left. So much for bowling. This was starting to feel like it could be more fun somehow. More real. I stopped the car abruptly and turned to Jack.

“Hey, you wanna drive?”

Jack’s eyes turned to baseballs again. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t you want to?”

Jack nodded excitedly. “Like, on your lap, or trade places?”

I slid my chair back all it could go, which was about two notches further then I already had it set for my long legs. “Lap,” I said. “For your first time, anyway.”

Jack clambered over onto my lap awkwardly. His face pressed into my shoulder for a solid 15 seconds as he tried to get his feet under the dash and near the pedals. I laughed again, not caring that he was getting sweat-caked dirt and leftover sherbet on my t-shirt. It was a work shirt anyway. Finally Jack got himself situated. His tummy was an inch or less from the wheel, and the back of his head stuck in my face. I craned my neck to get a view out the windshield and said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

Jack took a deep breath as he put the car in drive. A sort of gravity fell over him. Risk and reward, I realized. Responsibility. He eased onto the gas and started puttering down the road at about 7 miles an hour.

“Come on, bro, let’s hit it!” I knocked his foot off the gas with my own and stomped on the pedal.

We spun out and swerved precariously, and Jack squealed with ecstasy and terror. I added a holler of my own as Jack got us straightened out, and we flew down the road. The sun was down, and the first few stars appearing in the dusky sky winked at us as we sped below. The neighbors to our left had horses fenced next to the road, and the startled beasts took to flight and ran along the fence line ahead of us. I rolled down the window and whooped at them as we caught up and passed them. Jack added a whoop of his own.

“This is amazing!” he shouted, giving each word emphasis.

“Yeah buddy!” I yelled back.

And in that one moment, that one glorious moment, our worlds collided and shattered in a kaleidoscope of shared emotions. I forgot about whatever season of life it was I was supposed to be living in—or rather, I lost all feelings of disappointment and longing to be someone I could not be. In that second with Jack, I breathed deeply and added one last joyful yell.

And I was happy just to be.

The Greatest Story

What is a great story, I wonder? And do not all of us hunger for these stories? They are the ones that truly captivate us and move us, the stories that point to some bigger meaning that we long to discover. Where are these stories found? Are they found in the happy confines of average life--where nothing unexpected ever happens and the main characters live normal life all their days? No, surely not! To me, a great story is found in two little Hobbits leaving the comfort of the Shire far behind for Mount Doom. It's in a shipwreck and a deserted island or a land of perpetual ice and snow.

It's strange: the stories that truly mean something to me—and probably to a lot of people, come to think of it—are the ones filled with danger and dread. What is a story without woe, betrayal, and treachery?

But no, all that really doesn't make for a great story (unless you are a really, really messed up person I suppose). It's what comes out of the darkness that counts. In the great stories, betrayal is replaced by beauty, treachery by treasure, and woe by wonder.

But how does that happen? Isn’t it by the bravery and endurance of the main characters that darkness turns to light? Yes! Commitment and courage, friendship and faithfulness, Service and steadfastness--all are prerequisites of a main character in these epics. Samwise Gamgee, Robinson Crusoe's man Friday, and little Lucy Pevensie come to mind.

So what is a great story? To me, it's far from comfort and close to calamity. It's full of tension and even terror, but resolved in healing and happily ever after. Memorable characters burst from these stories and captivate us, and we only wish that they could exist outside the world of imagination and inspiration!

To take it one step further: what is the greatest story ever told? Is it found in the fictional worlds of Middle Earth and Narnia? Maybe, but what if even these great stories are only a shadow of the greatest story, the one that has been unfolding in our world since the beginning? 

What if it's found in the middle of the serene gift of a garden paradise, but then in the tragedy of a forbidden fruit and a fall?  What if it is in the mercy of the Maker and the suffering of a Savior? Surely, there is a story filled with betrayal and beauty, treachery and treasure, woe and wonder, and praise be for the mercy of the Maker, the end of this story is healing and happily ever after.

But what does that make us? What if . . . Imagine it! What if we are characters in this greatest story, this epic that outshines all others? Do we even dare to imagine that we could be a Samwise Gamgee or a Lucy Pevensie? When I consider who the Author is of this story, I dare to hope. Placing this hope in Him, I strive to be courageous and committed. I long to be found faithful as a friend and steadfast as a servant!

But no Samwise Gamgee is alone. There be warriors and weapons. There be fears and fortresses to conquer. There be a Lord and a Light to follow. So there is one more question I must ask:

Will you join me?