by Irene Hannon
Except Evan.
As the angled evening light threw the boys’ faces into relief, most looked eager and excited and carefree. But the shadows highlighted the creases on Evan’s brow and his discouraged demeanor—both reinforced by the dejected slump of his shoulders. The boy looked far too old for his years, and a pang of sympathy tightened Mark’s heart.
“Don’t forget—we’re moving the practices to the school gym starting Thursday. I’ll see you all then,” Mark dismissed them.
A chorus of “See yas” and “Thanks” echoed as the boys dispersed, many to waiting cars, others on foot. Evan was in the latter group, and Mark watched him depart, his expression troubled.
“Good practice.”
At Reverend Andrews’s voice, Mark turned. “I didn’t know you were watching.”
“I just caught the end. You’ve worked wonders with them in a very short time.”
“All except Evan.”
“That’s a tough case.” The pastor looked after the boy, who had been joined by one of the other team members as he trudged away. “I spoke with his father after Sunday services. He’s a good man, and he’s doing his best, but I think he’s at his wit’s end. They’re barely scraping by.”
Mark hadn’t had a chance to give much thought to the idea that had started to niggle at his brain after the practice game, but as the minister continued, it resurfaced.
“Anyway, I offered to raid the church coffers again, but he said they’d be okay for a couple of weeks. Then he told me in confidence that Evan had given him his space fund to help with household expenses.” The man shook his head. “Evan is one special kid.”
“Space fund?” Mark stared at the minister.
The man smiled. “Sorry. You wouldn’t know about that. But it’s kind of legendary in Oak Hill. Evan has always had an avid interest in astronomy, and he’s been saving his earnings from grass cutting, leaf raking and odd jobs for two years so he could go to space camp in Huntsville next March, over spring break. It’s an educational program at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center in Alabama.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” Mark’s throat tightened with emotion and he averted his head, staring at the long shadow cast by the church as the orange sun disappeared behind it.
How odd that Evan, just like Bobby Mitchell, had funneled every spare penny into a space fund. But Bobby’s dream of going to space camp hadn’t been shattered by family financial hardship, like Evan’s. Instead, leukemia had robbed him of that chance. A senseless illness that had cut short a life filled with potential. An illness Mark had never been able to accept as God’s will, as had been suggested to him at the time. How could the loving, caring God his parents worshipped end a young life so abruptly and inflict such raw grief and irreconcilable loss on those left behind? It hadn’t made sense then, and it didn’t make sense twenty-plus years later.
“Mark?”
Mark pulled himself back to the present. The minister seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but Mark didn’t know what to say.
When he remained silent, the man took the lead. “You look troubled.”
“I’m worried about Evan. And his family.”
Tilting his head, Reverend Andrews studied him. “Why do I sense that it’s more than that?”
The question didn’t require a detailed answer. Mark could brush it off if he chose. And he didn’t think the pastor would push the issue. Yet the man had opened the door for further discussion, if Mark wanted to walk through.
Once before, he’d been tempted to share his feelings with Reverend Andrews. There was an innate goodness about him, a kindness, that invited confidences. That suggested he could listen with understanding and empathy, withholding judgment.
Mark had resisted the temptation last time. But much had changed since then. He was having more and more difficulty dealing with a slew of unexpected emotions. Not the least of which were his conflicting feelings—and growing attraction—for Abby.
Though he didn’t intend to discuss that dilemma tonight, perhaps he could talk with this man about the most painful period in his past. Persistent reminders of it were beginning to convince him that the long-buried interlude might have played a far bigger role in shaping his life that he’d ever realized.
“I know a nice quiet place to talk.” The minister withdrew a set of keys from his pocket and jingled them as he inclined his head toward the church.
Torn, Mark looked again toward the white clapboard structure with the soaring steeple. As the shadow of the church crept across the parking lot toward them, Mark thought of Abby’s quiet faith. She’d alluded to her trust in the Lord once, and it seemed to sustain her through her trials. He thought of his father, who’d built a publishing empire based on the principles of his faith. Of his brother, who’d chosen a faith-based career that offered far less in monetary rewards than many other options. Of Evan Lange and his family, who continued to worship despite the difficulties that had beset them.
Had he been missing some essential truth about faith that might help him deal with the difficulties in his life? If so, could this man help him discover it?
Raking his fingers through his hair, Mark looked back at the minister. “I haven’t been in a church for quite a while. Like I told you at our first meeting, pastor, I’m not very religious. Though I’m beginning to wish I was.”
“Regular church attendance isn’t a requirement for entering the house of God,” the man told him with a smile. “Nor is it necessarily an indication of spirituality. I hate to say it, but there are members of every congregation who never miss a Sunday service, who give all the outward appearances of being good Christians, but who fail to live the tenets of their faith the rest of the week. The problem with them is that they think they’re doing everything they’re supposed to do by showing up on the Lord’s day. I’d rather have a few more like you, who recognize and acknowledge the lack of faith in their lives, but feel a call to deepen their relationship with the Lord.
“That said, however, this isn’t a conversion session, Mark. I’m willing to listen merely as a friend if you think talking about whatever is bothering you might help. The church happens to be convenient—and quiet. We could accomplish the same thing in the city park if it was closer.”
With sudden decision, Mark nodded. “Okay. I’ll meet you inside.”
While Mark deposited the basketball and other equipment in his car, Reverend Andrews unlocked the church. When Mark rejoined him, the man was seated in a pew near the back. Mark slid onto the polished oak bench beside him and looked around.
It was a small, simple church, classic in design, with tall, clear windows that ran the length of each side. Electric brass candelabras hung over a center aisle that ended at the raised sanctuary. Dimmed, their muted light combined with the glow of the setting sun to give the space a mellow, peaceful feeling.
“Nice,” Mark commented.
“I agree. It’s a worthy place to worship, thanks to the support of the congregation. The members are very good about pitching in to maintain both the physical and spiritual structure of the church. They always step in when the need arises. Like the situation with Evan’s family. One of the women organized a casserole program, and the ladies have been providing meals at least four nights a week for the family. Even busy women like Abby Warner, who already have their hands full with plenty of other challenge and demands, are participating. I’m always touched by such outpourings of generosity.”
“Abby cooks for the Langes?”
“She takes her turn, like all the rest. She’s an amazing woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
The minister’s eyes narrowed a bit, and Mark felt hot color steal up his neck as he met the man’s insightful gaze. He wasn’t ready to talk about Abby. So he was relieved when the man draped an arm over the back of the pew and changed the subject.
“I didn’t mean to be pushy out there on the parking lot, but I couldn’t help noticing that you seem very disturbed about Evan’s s
ituation. Perhaps more than might be normal given that you don’t know him well yet and have never met his family.”
Clasping his hands between his knees, Mark leaned forward and stared down at his clenched knuckles. “I am upset. It’s been on my mind since the first game, when you explained the problem. But our conversation a few minutes ago…it triggered memories of a very difficult time from my past.”
“The recent past?”
“No. This happened twenty-one years ago. When I was thirteen. About Evan’s age.” He shook his head. “I thought I’d put it to rest and moved on. But it all came rushing back out in the parking lot. The odd thing is, over the past few weeks that’s happened several times. What surprises me is how painful the memories are even after all this time.”
“Traumatic events can have that effect on people. And if they occur when we’re young, the impact can be even more dramatic, leaving us with lots of unresolved questions and issues. What dredged them up just now?”
“The space camp reference.” Taking a deep breath, Mark lifted his head and stared toward the large cross that dominated the sanctuary. “My best friend as a kid developed an avid interest in astronomy when we were about ten and decided he wanted to be an astronaut. Bobby was in awe of the universe, and he made the stars and the planets sound so exciting that he swept me along on his dream. He started dragging me out to the backyard in the middle of the night to look through his telescope, and pretty soon I wanted to be an astronaut, too. I’m not sure I would have followed through, but I have no doubt he would have—if he’d had the chance.”
“Why didn’t he?”
A muscle clenched in Mark’s jaw. “He died when we were thirteen. Leukemia.”
There was silence for a moment before Reverend Andrews responded. “I’m more sorry than I can say. For both of you.”
The minister’s sincere, compassionate tone tightened Mark’s throat. “Yeah. Me, too. We were inseparable. From the time we could walk and talk we were best buddies. We never even had a fight. Not one. When he got leukemia, it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t survive. With all his spunk and spirit, I was convinced he’d beat the disease. He felt the same way.
“Anyway, we both started praying—that was back in the days when I still believed that God was in His heaven and all was right with the world. A lot of other people were praying, too. I figured God had to listen to all those voices. That surely He wouldn’t let a kid like Bobby die. Even when things started to get really bad I kept believing. I just knew God would save him, even if it took a miracle.”
The expression on Mark’s face hardened, and bitterness etched his voice, like acid on metal. “I was wrong. Bobby died. But I wouldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t even go the funeral. For months afterward, I was distraught. I realize now I could have used some help, but in those days no one thought much about grief counseling for kids. You just got over it, you know? Except I didn’t. The sense of loss was overwhelming. So was the anger. How could God let that happen? I kept asking that question, but no one had any answers that made sense to me. In the end, I stopped going to church and turned my back on the Lord.”
Drawing a ragged breath, he propped his elbows on his knees and pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Maybe in time I might have gotten over that. But eight months later my mother died of a cerebral hemorrhage.”
“I’m sure that multiplied your sense of loss exponentially.”
“Yeah, it did. My whole world seemed to be caving in, but there was no one I could turn to for comfort or consolation. My brother was too little to grasp the extent of my trauma, and my dad was too mired in his own grief to help me deal with mine. I felt like I was drowning. The only way I could stay afloat was to bury that whole period of my life so deep it could never rise to the surface. And that worked for many years. To the point that I thought it had lost the power to hurt me.
“But I was wrong about that, too. It’s still there. And I’m beginning to think it’s had a far greater impact on my life than I ever imagined.” His voice caught on the last word, and he sucked in a ragged breath.
Even before the minister spoke, Mark felt deep caring and compassion and a sense of connection in the hand that was placed on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry for your losses, Mark.”
Blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes, Mark turned to the man. “So why does God let good people die so young?”
The question was torn right from his heart, and the minister returned his anguished look with one that was steady, direct and honest. “There’s no answer to that question, Mark. People have struggled with it through the ages, and many have turned away from their faith because of it, as you did.
“But I can tell you this. While God blessed us with intellect, our intelligence isn’t great enough to allow us to grasp the mysteries of His ways. Trying to understand the mind of God is like attempting to audit the books of the most complicated business in the world with nothing more than a pencil and paper. Or trying to build a spaceship with only a hammer and nails. We aren’t equipped for the job. It’s an exercise in futility.”
The man leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Once we learn to accept that and to recognize the most essential truth—that God loves us and sent His Son to save us—the quest for answers becomes far less of an obsession. We can learn to trust in God’s goodness without fully understanding His ways. And that trust opens our hearts to the many gifts with which we are blessed and allows us to face the future with hope.”
As Mark pondered the minister’s words, he turned to stare at the cross. He’d never thought of the events of his life in quite that context. He’d tried to make sense of them instead of accepting them as part of the mystery of God’s plan. As a numbers man, he was used to definitive answers, accustomed to things adding up. Two plus two always equaled four. Yet life wasn’t that precise. Or that predictable. It had been a losing battle to try and make it conform to an exacting mathematical model.
But he’d lost in other ways, as well, he acknowledged. When his mother was taken, the place deep inside him where hope and ambition and faith were barely clinging to life had died, too. And he’d shut down. Going forward, he’d operated on a simple philosophy: don’t kill yourself working for something that could be snatched away tomorrow. Don’t form attachments that could be severed in an instant. Don’t honor an uncaring God.
For twenty-one years he’d lived his life by those rules. But he hadn’t been happy, he acknowledged. Though he’d gone through the motions of his glamorous lifestyle, an emptiness had plagued his days. As had a soul-deep loneliness that echoed in his heart. If asked what his life stood for, he’d be hard-pressed to find an answer. He could list no notable achievements. And he could count on one hand the people who loved him. Not much to show for thirty-four years of living.
But if the minister was right, there was still hope. He could put his trust in the Lord and embrace tomorrow, accept the gifts that God sent his way—including love—and do his part to brighten a few lives. In other words, live with purpose rather than just exist.
It was a new concept for him, one predicated on establishing a relationship with the Lord. And that wouldn’t be easy. Not after years of estrangement. Yet despite the difficulties inherent in that journey, a tiny ember of optimism began to smolder deep in his soul. Recalling the old saying “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” Mark knew that he had taken that first step today, thanks to the man beside him.
Mark looked at Reverend Andrews and extended his hand. “Thank you.”
The man took it in a firm clasp. “Anytime. Talking things through can often work miracles.”
Mark had to agree.
Chapter Ten
Abby was avoiding him.
As Mark headed toward the coffeemaker in the Gazette’s break room, he noted that her office door was once again closed—as it had been since the hypoglycemia incident the weekend before. Add in the fact that she’d also sent him on a nu
mber of shadowing assignments away from the office, and the message was clear. She didn’t want to see him.
A few weeks ago, Mark would have been glad that she was distancing herself. But since his talk with Reverend Andrews he was rethinking a lot of things in his life. Including the reasons he’d avoided relationships all these years. Abbey’s diabetes had thrown him, but after hours on the Internet researching the disease, he’d concluded that while it could be unpleasant, it was manageable. He was pretty sure he could live with the risks, despite the medical traumas in his past.
However, Abby wasn’t giving him a chance to find out. Since their encounter on Saturday, she’d made herself as scarce as a Starbucks in Oak Hill. The question was, why?
It didn’t take a genius to come up with a couple of reasons. For one, he was the enemy. Given a favorable report by him, Campbell Publishing was poised to take over the helm of the Gazette and end the Warner legacy.
But Abby was a smart woman. She had to know that if Campbell Publishing didn’t acquire the paper, it would fall prey to another conglomerate—or go under. And the Gazette could face a far worse fate than being drawn into the fold of the principled operation his father had created. He had a feeling she knew that.
Still, the loss of her family heritage, which she regarded as a sacred trust, would be deeply distressing. And his role in the takeover wouldn’t endear him to her.
Then there was the fact that they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. He was well aware that she’d written him off as a lightweight when they’d met. But in the weeks he’d been in Oak Hill, he’d worked hard. He’d taken on all the shadowing assignments without complaint, despite the disruption in his auditing schedule. He’d even gotten involved in the community by agreeing to coach the boys’ basketball team.
And along the way he’d changed in some profound way that he himself was just beginning to understand. Somehow, he sensed that she’d picked up on that, as well. On more than one occasion he’d seen a glint of admiration in her eyes.
