Standing Strong

by Theresa Linden

  Keefe shook his head, not understanding.

  Brother Simon smiled and shuffled to a nearby door. Twisting the knob, he opened it and motioned Keefe into the room. “John 1:39-41,” he mumbled, moving to a simple desk in the corner of the room. He flipped open a Bible, one of two books on the table. “Get settled and I’ll bring you something to eat. Later, while you enjoy quiet time before bed, you can read the Come & See verse, John 1:39-41. Because that’s what the three days are about.” He turned to the door but stopped. “Have you called your father to say that you made it safely?”

  “Oh, no, I forgot. Actually, my phone’s dead.” Keefe withdrew his cellphone and charger from his travel bag and then dropped the bag on the floor.

  “I will take care of that, and I’ll call your father to let him know you arrived. You are now on retreat.” Brother Simon stuck out a hand, palm up. “Unless you feel that you need it, may I have your phone? You won’t want it during the retreat.”

  “I won’t?” Keefe handed over the phone and charger. What if Jarret needed him? What if Roland—

  Brother Simon left the room and closed the door.

  Keefe stood frozen for a moment, forcing himself to trust in God’s will. Then he turned and took in the room. In addition to the simple desk in the corner, the room consisted of a neatly-made bed, a little sink, and a lamp on a nightstand. Over the bed hung the same crucifix that Keefe had recently hung in his bedroom, the same crucifix with the image of Christ that had spoken to St. Francis: the San Damiano crucifix. Keefe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, muscles relaxing and cares slipping away. He knelt by the bed, his gaze on the face of Jesus. “I’m here, Lord.”

  He waited as if expecting the Lord to reply. A feeling of peace rose inside him, along with a hint of apprehension. Keefe felt a question posed to him, but he didn’t understand it yet.

  “Did You want me to be here? Is this my calling?”

  He allowed silence to stretch out before speaking again. “If it’s not, let me down easy, Lord. And show me what to do next.”

  An ache bloomed in his heart. If this wasn’t God’s will for his life, what had the inner promptings meant?

  He stretched his arms out on the bed and buried his face in the bedspread, praying from the ache in his heart. “I’ll be whatever You want me to be, go wherever You want me to go. And if You don’t answer me today, I’m okay with that. And if I spend my life searching and wondering where I belong, well, that’s okay too. You alone are my answer. Your will is what I want. Let me be in Your will.”

  CHAPTER 32

  A light knock on the door yanked Keefe from dreams of traveling down endless highways.

  Then a voice broke the silence, words mumbled in Latin, followed by words he could understand. “Peace and all good.”

  Longing to return to sleep but also feeling a sense of responsibility and a need to get started, Keefe blinked at unfamiliar surroundings and pushed himself up in bed. The window showed a dark early morning sky and let hazy bluish light into the little room. As Keefe tossed the blankets back, his memories came together and joy rushed into his heart. The Franciscan retreat. He’d made it!

  Keefe washed up in the little sink in the corner of the room and threw his clothes on. Brother Simon had told him that the day would begin with Morning Prayer in the chapel at 6:30 am, which was 5:30 am in the time zone back home.

  Leaving his room, he joined three other men in the hallway, two friars and one boy about his age. They all exchanged nods and shuffled toward the stairs. Downstairs, two more friars joined in the casual procession, coming from a hallway along the way and exchanging simple greetings or nods.

  As Keefe entered the chapel, his gaze skittered over wooden pews and a pale tiled floor to the simple white altar and the cross above it. Keefe’s skin prickled at the sight of the San Damiano crucifix high on the wall, the face of Christ glowing under a spotlight.

  A friar motioned toward a pew, indicating where Keefe should sit. “You must be Keefe,” he whispered.

  Keefe nodded, mouthing the word “yes.” He sat where directed, next to a friar with a tidy white beard. He counted four other retreatants, each sitting next to a friar with a thick prayer book. Brother Simon, who sat in the row in front of Keefe, glanced back with a smile, his glasses reflecting the yellow light of the overhead lamps as he turned.

  After a moment of silence, the bearded friar next to Keefe pointed to a line of text in his prayer book. A minute later, everyone made the Sign of the Cross and the prayers began. “Lord, open my lips,” the Brothers on one side of the chapel rang out.

  “And my mouth shall declare your praise,” the other side replied.

  Keefe followed along with a penitential psalm, his gaze drifting to the altar and to the tall windows high in the walls. They revealed the rich blue of the sky at dawn, making Keefe sense something of the uniqueness of this call. While the world slept, the brothers of penance lifted their hearts to God.

  Keefe’s mind transported him to the first time he’d heard Franciscan friars praying Morning Prayer—Lauds, they’d called it. Last fall, the group that had stayed at the Brandts’ Bed & Breakfast had gone out to the woods to pray, having nowhere big or private enough in the house. Keefe had spent the night to learn more about them. And in the morning, he’d followed them into the woods. He’d climbed a tree to watch without them knowing. He should’ve simply asked to go along. He’d made a spectacle of himself by falling out of the tree. But he wouldn’t trade that humiliating experience for anything; it had set him on this journey.

  “O God, You are my God, for You I long; for You my soul is thirsting...” The friars prayed different Psalms today but the words from the Psalms he’d heard that day in the fall weaved through his mind and spirit, lifting his soul higher and higher.

  After Morning Prayer, they remained quiet for a time and then celebrated Mass, beams of sunlight now streaming in from the high windows on one side of the altar. The high ceiling allowed Keefe’s spirit to soar, and he lost himself in the prayers of the Mass, the love of God surrounding him.

  DIDN’T WANT TO HURT her. Wish I knew myself better.

  Shouldn’t have started something with her at all.

  She’s pretty though. And a cheerleader. So she’ll get over it.

  She’ll have another boyfriend tomorrow. If that’s what she wants.

  What do I want?

  Jarret stuck the pen between pages of the journal and reclined back on the mound of pillows he’d piled against the headboard. His wet hair pressed against his neck and a drop of water rolled down his chest and onto the clean, dry t-shirt he’d put on after a long, hot shower.

  The road trip, maybe even the date, had left him feeling grimy. As soon as he got home from dropping Chantelle off, he’d called Roland to make sure he was okay, and then jumped in the shower. Roland said they were almost home. The Durango ran fine with the new battery. Apparently, Peter knew cars. Or maybe Brice Maddox did.

  Jarret inhaled a deep breath, slowly filling his chest with air. His muscles relaxed and strange feelings clashed in his mind—Strength? Pride about his spiritual victory? He did it. He broke up with a girl rather than stay in a situation that tempted him. He exhaled slowly and gazed at the ceiling.

  With the memories of the canyon fading, fear of failure had grown. Maybe the Lord backed off on purpose so that Jarret could figure out how to handle life himself. He never would’ve thought it possible, but he could do this. He was on the right track and going to stay there. Nothing would stand in his way. Thank you, Lord, for today.

  He opened his journal and wrote a few details about the day’s trial, temptation, and victory.

  Twenty minutes later, footfalls in the stairwell made him stop writing and drop his pen. Even with the cast off, Roland didn’t walk as silently as he had before the crutches. A light rapping sounded on the door.

  “That you, Roland?”

  The door inched open.

  The blood drained from Jarret
’s face as he realized that he held his journal on his thigh. He twisted around and stuffed it between the headboard and a pillow, then twisted back to find Roland in the doorway. And someone behind him. Peter?

  “Hey, I wanted to say thanks.” Roland swung the door open farther. He’d combed his damp wavy hair back and wore his black jacket, making him look like a greaser from the 1950s.

  Peter stepped up beside him, his dirty blond hair flattened to his forehead but sticking out everywhere else. “Yeah, thanks, dude. You’re lucky you didn’t stick around. We got a few house guests before the storm passed, and everything got wild. A ton of crazy going on out there...” He motioned with his index fingers, making air circles near his head.

  Still feeling exposed, Jarret nodded and let out a breathy chuckle. Then he felt stupid for laughing at something Peter said. He had no clue what he meant.

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Roland said.

  Head bowed, Peter took another step into the room, practically standing on top of Roland. “I, uh, know you and I aren’t exactly friends. So I really appreciate what you did for me. Totally went out of your way and everything. You know, even after I—”

  Roland bumped Peter and threw him a warning glance.

  Too late. Fire flared inside and heat crept to Jarret’s cheeks. He hated to think that he’d just turned red. “Yeah, well, Peter, now you really owe me.” He jumped off the bed.

  “Well, goodnight.” Roland tugged Peter’s arm.

  “Yeah, goodnight.” Peter backed out of the room and turned down the hallway, heading toward Roland’s room.

  Roland touched the doorknob and started to shut the door.

  “Hey.” Jarret lunged and grabbed the door up high, stopping Roland from shutting it.

  Worry flashed in Roland’s eyes, a look Jarret had often seen, but the look soon mellowed to something more like surrender. “Yeah?”

  Jarret slid his hand to the knob, maybe needing to feel in control of something. “Why’s he here so late?”

  “He’s staying the night.”

  “Oh really?” A block of lead settled in his gut. And the flames of the internal fire leaped and twisted. He did not want Peter in his house. All the practical jokes he’d done to Jarret over the past year, all the rude comments...

  “We’re getting an early start tomorrow. Camping trip, remember?”

  He took a breath, forcing the flames down. “Oh.”

  COOL DROPS OF RAINWATER trickled from the canopy of leaves, striking Jarret’s arms, head, and neck and making spots on Desert’s creamy buckskin coat. A squirrel jumped from one overhead branch to another, creating a shower where the early morning sunlight stole through the leaves, the raindrops glistening like grace from Heaven.

  The rain had stopped late last night or maybe early this morning, leaving nature drippy but fresh and washed clean.

  At dawn, Jarret had awoken feeling the same way: clean, free, glad he’d broken it off with Chantelle, and ready for a fresh start. He decided that he wouldn’t date for a while. He’d just focus on his last year of high school. Maybe he’d start dating in college, or even after college. If God wanted him to marry, he’d meet his future wife eventually.

  How would he know when he found her? Whatever. He’d figure that out later.

  He may have lost the special awareness of Jesus in his life, but he wasn’t giving up. He could do this. He did the right thing last night. And more than once. He didn’t have to help Peter, but he did. Granted, he’d only done it for Roland. But he’d done it. He had this game under control.

  Jarret rode toward the stables, spotted Mr. Digby by the steps to the veranda, and dismounted.

  “Morning,” Jarret hollered, leading Desert by the reins.

  “Morning, Jarret.” Mr. Digby strolled to him at his typical leisurely pace. “You staying home while Roland and your father go camping and Keefe’s out of town?”

  “Yup. I got plenty to keep me busy.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Digby reached for the reins. “I’ll take care of Desert. Gonna clean the saddles today. You go on in. I believe Nanny is cooking up a nice big breakfast for you boys, what with Roland having a guest.”

  Jarret’s stomach sank and his limbs tensed. He’d forgotten that Peter was over. He strode to the garage that he’d left open, anxious to get back to his bedroom. Who knew what Peter would do in his absence? He’d pulled too many “practical jokes” on Jarret already. One more and Jarret doubted that he’d have the strength to hold back.

  Jarret yanked his boots off in the mudroom and walked silently through the house in his socks.

  The smell of bacon tempted him as he passed through the great room. Nanny, with her back to the dining room doorway, dug through one of several boxes on the table. Two stacks of folded laundry also sat on the table. Roland and Peter had probably eaten breakfast already, unless she planned to serve them at the bar counter or kitchen table.

  Jarret turned to the staircase. As he mounted the stairs, he noticed sunlight streaming from both his and Roland’s bedrooms, throwing rectangles of light on the hallway floor. Why was the door to his bedroom open?

  His senses heightened.

  He reached the top step and stepped into the hallway. His bedroom door hung wide open and a figure moved in his room. Roland would never go into his room without permission.

  Jarret clenched his jaw.

  The figure stepped into view, rushing to leave. Messy blond hair, a flannel shirt, and jeans.

  Peter and Jarret met in the doorway.

  Jarret’s hackles rose. Suspicion. Anger. Hate? Every muscle in his body tensing, he envisioned slamming Peter into the door.

  “Oh, hey, Jarret.”

  “Why are you in my room?” Jarret prided himself in the heroic amount of self-control he used and his willingness to give Peter a chance. But he’d better have an airtight reason.

  “Oh, I...” Peter pointed over his shoulder and stepped aside as if to squeeze past Jarret.

  Not having it, Jarret shifted to completely block him from leaving until he spit out an explanation.

  “Mrs. Digby... er... Nanny told me to take some things up to your room, clothes and stuff.” He looked at the pile on Jarret’s bed. “New clothes, I think.” He turned and gave Jarret the once-over, the hint of a smirk on his face. “Did you have Nanny pick out your clothes?”

  Jarret looked Peter up and down, arrogance and anger seeping through his pores. “Why didn’t she have Roland do it?”

  “Uh, he’s in the bathroom changing, trying stuff on, I guess.” Peter waved his brows and smiled, seeming unduly amused. “Guess she wants to make sure it all fits.” He paused and a cocky grin stretched across his face. “She make you do that? Try stuff on?”

  Irritation surged through Jarret, but he held back. He slammed Peter to the door in his mind though. Again. How much longer could he fight the impulse?

  Remaining in control and ready to answer, he grinned back, but he couldn’t keep the threatening look from his eyes. “No. Nanny doesn’t make me do anything.” He stepped toward Peter.

  Peter visibly tensed but didn’t budge. He looked Jarret over again and cocked a brow, a look of challenge creeping onto his face. His expression and body language almost said, “Do it. I dare ya.” But not quite.

  “Thought you two were heading out early.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Roland always has one more thing to do, you know?” He shifted his weight to one leg and propped his hands on his hips, a friendly, casual posture. “Hey, so it’s not too late to change your mind. If you decide you want to go. Come up anytime.”

  “No.” In addition to his original reason, he now had Chantelle to think about. He’d hate to see her all weekend at the campground. It would be uncomfortable for them both.

  “Okay. Suit yourself.”

  Disgusted at the tired phrases Peter often used, Jarret sneered and shook his head. Then he hardened his scowl. “Don’t go in my room for any reason.”

  Peter raised h
is brows and nodded, still with the grin. “Sure thing, Jarret.”

  Jarret shifted to move out of his way.

  Peter squeezed past, his arm grazing Jarret’s chest. “Next time I’ll set your stuff on the floor.”

  A rush of animosity struck Jarret, making his eyelids flicker and his hands curl into fists. While all he could think about was grabbing Peter and slamming him into something, he grabbed his door and swung it shut.

  Then he took a breath, turned away from the door on the exhale, and sank his hands into his hair. This was another victory. It really was. It just didn’t feel like one. It felt like he’d let Peter walk all over him.

  His gaze landed on the new clothes on his bed, and his suspicions rose. He glanced about his room, looking for things that Peter may have messed with. His gaze stopped on the scapular he’d tossed onto his dresser after Keefe had given it to him.

  How was Keefe’s retreat going? He wished he could talk to him. Keefe had a way of putting things into perspective. Jarret would have to handle this one on his own.

  Jarret snatched the scapular from the dresser and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  CHAPTER 33

  Keefe sat before a plate of scrambled eggs and toast at a long table in the friary dining room.

  A brother with a thick silver beard and a serious demeanor led them in the Prayer Before Meals, then he glanced at each of the retreatants, his gaze ending on Keefe. “I’m Brother Giles. I’d like to welcome our new retreatant.” The serious expression gave way to a sincere smile. “This is Keefe West. He comes from South Dakota, a good nine-hour drive, right?”

  Heat slid up Keefe’s neck. Not ready to explain to everyone what made him so late, he only nodded.

  “Yesterday, we welcomed the retreatants and invited them to join us at Vespers and Adoration. We got to know each other over dinner and recreation, and we shared a bit about our lifestyle. I believe Brother Simon gave you the ‘Come and See’ verse to contemplate last night?” Brother Giles’ pale eyebrows climbed up his forehead.