by Faith Potts
I sigh, gazing out across the parking lot. “It makes my heart hurt, Uncle Joe. And I haven’t cared this much about anything since…well, you know.”
“I do know,” he says softly. And he does, because he was there for me in the dark nights when I cried in his arms, broken worthlessness weighing down my soul.
“I also know that because of that, you’re a good influence on James. You genuinely care about people, and he sees it.”
I smile, my mind emerging from the memories. “I don’t know about that.”
“I’m serious, Lexie. You’re good for him, and he’s good for you.”
“Now you sound like a matchmaker.”
He chuckles and, with a quick glance at his watch, stands. “I’d better get upstairs before he thinks I’ve given up on him.”
I follow him inside the air-conditioned entry and on around the bend toward the elevators. My mind is still stuck on the words—Uncle Joe’s words, James’s words, my words. Words have power, but we must learn to wield it carefully.
“I have a few minutes more before I’ve got to be back. Mind if I walk up with you?”
Joe smiles and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I would love that, sweetie. Our handsome Marine might appreciate it, too.”
I jab my elbow into his side. “Don’t push it, mister.”
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
At Uncle Joe’s side, I slow my steps as we approach James’s room. He’s expecting a vet mentor—not me, since our therapy session isn’t for a few hours yet. I step back to the side, hands clenching my crossover strap. “You go on in. If he’s all right with me being here, I’ll come.”
Turning from knocking on the door, Uncle Joe nods, barely able to keep his grin hidden. “I’d be honored to announce your presence.” He knocks a second time before we receive an answer.
“Come in.”
My fingers running up and down the strap halt. James’s voice sounds…weird. Like he’s upset or bothered or something. I chew my lip, possibilities assailing me. There’s nothing in a tiny hospital room that James could bring harm to himself with…is there?
Not giving the odd response more than an eye twitch, Uncle Joe pushes the door open and enters the room. Curiosity getting the better of me, I peek in right behind him.
James is sitting on the bed, facing out the window opposite me, with his shoulders slumped forward, his head down.
Uncle Joe walks over and sits on the chair facing him. “How are you, James?”
James doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up a Gideon Bible from the bed beside him and holds it out to Uncle Joe, his hand shaking uncontrollably. “Joe, I… I started reading this Book late last night, and I didn’t stop until just an hour or so ago.”
I grin, my heart light. He read it. He read it.
Knowing that he’s physically okay, I’m now afraid I’ll be caught eavesdropping. Turning away from the doorway, my foot snags on the door frame and I catch myself against the wall. The instant fear that they’ve heard my bumble is unnecessary.
James’s voice continues to drift out the open doorway. “I read the whole thing in around twelve hours. Everything else is just a blur right now after I focused on those little words for so long, but…”
The lightness in his voice that had appeared as he joked about blurred vision disappears with his next words. “Talk to me, Joe. I need to know what to do now. I need to know it’s all real.”
Hand to my heart, I lean back against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut as tears crowd in and threaten to spill. Thank you, Lord.
“Oh, it’s real, son,” Uncle Joe says, his voice sure and strong. “More real than anything on this earth. It’s a love that defeats death and a grace that transcends any wrong mankind has ever committed.”
I continue my eavesdropping long enough to whisper a prayer of my own as Uncle Joe guides James into a thorough explanation of salvation and leads him into the throneroom of God.
His sincere prayer, broken by sobs and sniffles, cuts straight to my heart. My mind flashes back to those terrifying moments on the roof. Then, and in times since, I have seriously wondered if James was too low. If restoration and redemption were possible. If he could ever climb his way out of his darkness. How could I have ever doubted the power of such a loving God? James doesn’t have to climb out of this darkness that’s taken hold of him. He needs only accept and cling to the Hand reaching out to him.
I’m pulled from my own communion with God by Uncle Joe’s voice. “How do you feel, son?”
James chuckles, though I can still hear the tears in his voice. “I’ve never felt so good in my entire life, sir.”
“I know what you mean. Hey, Lexie?”
I freeze, pressing my back to the wall. Oh no. Please no. Don’t do this.
“Lexie, are you still out there?”
Cringing inwardly and outwardly, I step around the corner into the room. “Yes, I’m still eavesdropping. Should I even attempt an apology?”
“I thought I heard someone bumbling around in the hall.”
James turns and meets my eyes, grinning. I was right—it’s rather handsome. Even though still bearing evidence to the tears he’s shed, his eyes sparkle and shine, abolishing the dark haze that’s been there so long and lightening my heart. This is the beauty of grace.
“It’s all right; I don’t mind,” James says, his voice low and almost shy as he doesn’t look away.
I smile and step around the bed to where they’re seated. “Congratulations, James. Best decision you’ll ever make.”
“Thank you, Alex.” He surprises me by offering an awkward one-armed hug—which I accept and return.
I take a step back, smiling wider at the look in his eyes. “You look peaceful.”
|| ~* || ~* || ~* ||
|| James
The night following my decision to believe in a God greater than my problems, my hurt, and my fears, I again find myself lying in the narrow hospital bed and staring up at the ceiling.
It’s different tonight, though. The peaceful feeling in my heart cannot be described with mere words. I’m still afraid of what will come, of the demons lurking in the darkness. But I’m not alone anymore.
I’m broken—I know I am. But I feel clean. Fixable. Like I have a chance at a mind that’s healed and whole again.
I know in my heart that the prayer I uttered with Joe’s guidance and Alex’s silence support was genuine. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe I will be okay.
Chapter Six || Alex
Climbing the back stairs to the third floor, my mind drifts over all that’s happened lately. Three weeks have passed since James’s sincere prayer there on the hospital bed. They were good weeks, too. Weeks during which I made a new friend—and that’s saying something for Alex Lorance who lets very few people into her heart. James still has a long way to go, but his ability to laugh and smile inspires me. The darkness will not win.
I stop at the nurses’ station to pick up a wheelchair and head down the hall to room 357. This morning, I’m on my way to get James for our therapy session. He also has an appointment with the prosthetist to have his new leg attached and adjusted. Lord willing, he’ll be on his feet within a couple of hours.
I pause outside his closed door and rap on it. “James?”
“You can come in, I’m decent.”
I bite back a grin and push the door open. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He offers me a little smile, raising his hand in greeting from where he sits at the head of the bed, Bible open on his lap.
Seeing the wheelchair, he closes the Bible and sets it aside, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Prosthesis today, right?”
I nod, wiggling the chair in closer. “It’s not going to be that bad, I promise.
He stands and motions me forward. “Can’t be any worse than anything you’ve already put me through.”
“As rough as boot camp?”
“Nearly.”
I set the
brakes on the wheelchair and step closer in case he needs my assistance. But he doesn’t. He edges closer to the seat and sinks down into it, then raises his leg and settles it in the footrest. “Move out, fair maiden.”
“As you wish, sir.” I grip the handles and cut a wide circle, barely missing the bed before heading toward the door. I don’t know what he weighs, but it’s a lot. Even after months of limited physical activity, he looks the part of a Marine.
“Was that a Princess Bride reference?”
He’s seen The Princess Bride?! “What? No! Of course not.”
He twists to see my face from his seated position, grinning widely. “Just checking. Because that would be awkward if my therapist was in love with me.”
Great, now I’m blushing. “Yeah, that would be awkward for my husband, too.”
“I don’t see a ring.”
I groan—garnering a laugh from my patient. “Too smart for your own good, I tell you.”
We exchange random talk on the way down to the therapy center. The prosthetist is waiting there when we arrive. I leave him and James alone at the bench and step away. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me hovering over when I’m not yet needed.
I clean the equipment, sort through some patient files, and mostly just watch them. And try to pretend like I’m not watching them. Which is easier and harder than it sounds.
When I see the prosthetist stand up and gather up his few things, I start back toward them.
“All yours.” The kind middle-aged man nods to me, wishes James the best, and steps away.
And I turn my attention to my patient. Although he had to stand at the parallel bars for the prosthetist to make adjustments, he’s now sitting on the bench, staring down at the prosthetic leg extending from his shorts and going down to the floor.
I take a slow step forward, hesitant to approach him too quickly and interrupt this moment. “You okay?”
He jerks his head up and meets my eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. Just…” He rubs his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know… What happens now?”
I nod toward the bars extending down the wall ahead of him. “Now you’re mine for the next couple hours while we get you on your feet and moving.”
He swallows, scooting toward the edge of the bench. “Okay…so, what are we doing here?”
I move closer, demonstrating how he should stand and grab hold before taking larger steps. His gaze roves from the prosthetic leg to the bars ahead of him and down again. I wait and watch in silence, knowing his emotional wounds must heal, too, and he needs this time to sort everything out.
After another moment, he finally shakes his head and scoots back to lean against the wall. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
Huffing, I bounce up onto the bench next to him. James scoots a foot away from me, and I roll my eyes.
“You know what my grandma used to say whenever one of us kids would dare utter the word ‘can’t’ in her presence?” Maybe this is harsh, but I’m pretty sure he can handle it. The harder I push, the harder he’ll push back.
“Nope.” His hand lays at his side, fiddling with the edge of his shorts. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
I resist another eyeroll and answer calmly. “She would say ‘can’t never could.’”
He glances my way, obviously not impressed. “Your grandma never lost a limb, though, did she?”
I pin him with a stern glare. “No. But she raised seven kids on her own, including my mom and Joe, after her husband was killed.”
His eyes darken, a frown marring his handsome face. “Sorry…”
“Makes sense though, doesn’t it?” I ask, ignoring his apology. “Someone who ‘cannot’ never could. If you say you can’t enough, you’ll start believing that you actually are incapable.”
He looks away, his eyes roaming over the other people performing various workouts across the room. “Well, then I don’t know where you’re going with this because I could once.”
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best approach. I gnaw my lip, praying for wisdom. Praying that he’ll drop the self-pity and set his mind on achieving this goal, throw his all into walking again…getting his life back. Because he deserves it.
“Maybe you’re looking at this wrong,” I begin again. “Yes, you could once. Once you could just hop up and take off across the room. Or play any sport you wanted, dribble a basketball or swing a baseball bat with either arm. But now you can’t.”
He turns to look at me, really look at me. Focusing on my eyes like he did that morning in the cafeteria. Like he did the day he invited Christ into his heart and life. I like it. It’s his way of letting me know he’s listening—focusing on hearing every word, even those written between the lines.
“Your life isn’t over, James.”
“It is as I know it.”
“No, it is as you knew it. This is new and different and it won’t be easy, but…” I smile, hoping I’m being of some encouragement to him. “Won’t it be worth it? Won’t it be worth the blood, sweat, and tears to be able to walk across this room without help from anyone or anything? Don’t you want that freedom?”
He swallows, looking down at the prosthetic. “Yeah, I want freedom. But not like this. Not where kids stare at me and adults just pretend not to.”
I wince, knowing full well that the majority of people who saw him on the street would probably stare. Not to embarrass him, but just out of…curiosity? “So what do you want?”
He turns to face me again, without a trace of humor in his eyes. “I want to be able to go back to five minutes before the explosion. I want to be able to change the outcome of that night.”
I don’t know what his story is or what he’s referring to, but it must be painful for him. The brokenness in his eyes touches a place deep inside of me, a spot that never fully healed from my own breaking.
“I don’t know what happened to you over there, but I do know that God is in the business of second chances. I believe that’s why I saw you in time a few weeks ago. I believe that’s why we’re here today, and why you’ve been given the chance to take steps toward getting your life back. Don’t you want that?”
Another sideways stare through dark eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re wrong.” I have to slow myself down, have to be careful not to lose my temper with him. “I haven’t been in your shoes or felt your pain. But I was in a situation a couple years ago, where I seriously began to believe the ‘can’t’ line. I had been pushed so far that I thought I wasn’t capable of living without…well, without someone who wasn’t worthy of me. But I was wrong, and I know that now. I recovered emotionally, and though that was nothing like your situation, I know you can, too.”
He drums his fingers along the top of the high bench where we sit without saying a word, jaw shifting side to side.
And I realize what I left out—perhaps even the affirmation he needs the most. “God will be with you through it all, James, and He’ll never leave. He’s here with us. Right now.”
“I believe that, I really do. And I want to move on and heal.” He glances away, Adam’s apple bobbing. “But I’ll fall. I have one arm now, Alex; I can’t hold the bars.”
So that’s it… My heart breaks a little further at his shyly spoken confession. “You’re not going to fall. I’ll be near enough to steady you at any time, okay?”
He lifts his head, looking back into my eyes, suspicions high. “You couldn’t hold me up if you wanted to.”
I slide off the bench and stand in front of him. “I didn’t say hold, I said steady. You might sway a little while feeling it out, but you aren’t going to just pass out on me. I hope?”
That earns me a small grin. “You don’t give up, do you?”
I did once, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Not often.”
He lets out a long sigh, rolling his shoulders back. “Guess it’s now or never.”
“That’s a much better attitude.”
I position myself to his left, in the slight space between him and the bars, ready to offer help if he needs it. And being that this is his first time, I’m pretty sure he’s going to.
Glancing my way and then back ahead, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around the bar ahead to his right. “Good?”
“Good. Now stand with your left leg and the prosthesis has no choice but to follow. Remember, you’re in control here.”
Clenching the bar until his knuckles turn white and his arm trembles, he slowly stands, rising to a couple inches above my height. He wobbles, and I place a firm hand against his back.
“Hey, it’s all right.” I step closer, cocking my head to see into his face which is aimed down at the faux-wood floor. “You’re doing great.”
“Don’t feel too great.”
“You’re telling me it doesn’t feel amazing to stand on two feet again?”
“Well…” He sneaks a glance at me, smirking. “That is pretty awesome.”
“Thought so.” After guiding him through inching forward until he’s between the bars, I take a step back. Ducking under the bar, I come up between them, facing him. “Okay, now walk toward me.”
He watches me for a second as if wondering how far away I’m going to go. With a deep breath expanding the chest of his USMC t-shirt, he takes a first step, lifting his prosthesis off the floor an inch or so and moving it barely ahead of his foot.
“Great,” I encourage him, bopping my head to the beat of the music filling the room. “Now, leave your prosthetic there and put your weight on it while you step out with your good leg.”
Without giving any indication that he’s even listening to me, he picks up his left leg only enough to scoot it up next to the prosthetic and then looks up to me for approval.
