Here the man slowly turned to look at his audience. The kids clung to every word. “What do we Christians mean by following in the steps of Jesus?
“I’ve been wandering around your town for two days trying to find a job. I don’t mean printing, I mean any kind of job. And in all that time I haven’t had a word of sympathy or comfort from anyone, except your Mr. Whittaker here who said he was sorry for me. Everyone else turned away—or turned me away.
“Now I know you can’t all go out of your way to find jobs for people like me. I’m not asking you to. I’m just trying to figure out how those words in the Bible connect to our lives, to what we should say or do when someone in need comes up to us. When Jesus said to follow Him, what did He mean? Did He mean to just get on with our lives, or was He talking about something more—something that would make a difference in our world?”
He scanned the audience, then slowly continued, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should be able to get a job somewhere if I really wanted one. That’s what all the people who have jobs and homes and money say. They don’t understand how hard it is. My wife died a few months ago and I thank God she’s out of this trouble. My daughter is…well, she’s taken care of. I never wanted to be a burden to her or anybody else. But nobody in Connellsville could help me, so I made my way toward Odyssey. I thought, Here’s a place where folks are living well. There’s got to be something there for me.”
The man stopped for a moment and pressed his hand against his mouth as if trying to stifle a scream. He swayed slightly. Whit and Tom took a step toward him, but stopped when he spoke again. “I’m puzzled, that’s all. Everyone’s doing so well in this town, and Jesus said things like ‘Sell what you own, give money to the poor, and follow Me’ and I’m trying to figure it out in my mind. My wife died in a tenement building in Connellsville. It was owned by a Christian landlord and, even though she died, he told me I had to pay my rent or leave right away. He was a Christian man and said he felt bad for making me leave. I guess he felt bad the same way the young man in the story felt bad.
“Jesus said to follow Him, and we always feel bad when we don’t. Maybe we just don’t understand what He means. Or maybe we do and we just feel bad because we don’t think we can do what He wants. I don’t know. Maybe we don’t even ask ourselves what it really means to follow Him. Do we ever ask, ‘What would Jesus do if He were in my situation?’ What would Jesus do if He had a nice house and a good job and decent family but knew there were folks outside who didn’t have any of those things? What would Jesus do to help folks like me who have to walk the streets or who die in tenements or who—?”
The man suddenly jerked toward the stage as if someone had punched him from the side. He reached his hands out wildly, then fell to his knees. Spinning out of control, he grabbed the edge of the stage with a grimy hand for only a second before collapsing to the floor.
CHAPTER THREE
WHIT RODE WITH THE unconscious stranger in the back of the ambulance to the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses met the gurney as it was brought into the ward. Whit started to follow as they wheeled it past a curtained area, but a doctor stopped him.
“Please wait out here,” he said, pulling the curtains together.
Dazed by everything that had happened, Whit slowly paced back and forth in the lounge of the emergency area.
“I need some information about the patient,” a nurse with a clipboard told him. “Name?”
“I don’t know,” Whit said.
“Do you know anything about him?”
Whit shook his head. “Not really. He’s a stranger. He collapsed in my shop.”
“Then he isn’t insured, is he?” the nurse asked.
“If you’re worried about who’ll pay,” Whit replied, “I’ll take care of everything. Just help him, all right?”
The nurse handed Whit the clipboard. “Then I’ll need you to fill this out and sign at the bottom.”
Whit mechanically obeyed. Even as his fingers moved the pen through the little boxes asking for his name, address, and financial information, his mind raced with everything the stranger had said earlier. Do I know what Jesus meant? he asked himself again and again. What does it really mean to follow Him? What does it mean to walk in His steps?
The hands of the clock above the nurses’ station moved indifferently past the hour—then past another hour. Whit sat staring at the torn black leather on the waiting lounge sofa. The television was on but the sound was off. Whit didn’t pay attention to the fast-cutting images that flickered and flashed on the screen. Does following Jesus mean just trying to be good, or does it mean something more? What does it mean to walk in His steps?
“Well, Whit?”
Before he looked up, Whit knew the voice. It was Captain Wilkins from the Odyssey police.
“Hi, Joe,” Whit said.
Captain Wilkins sat down on a small chair nearby. He was dressed in casual clothes, as if he’d been called from an evening at home. His jacket was partially zipped up over a flannel shirt.
“Is it cold outside?” Whit asked. He had forgotten to bring his own coat.
“A typical fall night. Crisp,” the captain replied. “Tom told me what happened at Whit’s End. I guess some of the kids and parents are still shook up. What can you tell me about the stranger?”
Whit sighed. “Not much. He said he was an unemployed printer from Connellsville. His wife died a few months ago in a tenement owned by a Christian. He has a daughter, but didn’t say where she was. That’s all.”
“It’s a start,” Wilkins said. “He didn’t have a wallet or any identification. I can check with the printers’ union, though. And the Connellsville police may be able to help me with tracking down information about the dead wife.”
Whit glanced at the captain. His words sounded so cold and clinical, as if the stranger was an abandoned car instead of a human being.
The captain leaned toward Whit. “They told me you’re going to take care of his bills. Why? You’ve never seen him before today, right?”
“He came to my door this afternoon and the shop tonight.”
“You don’t have to feel obligated, Whit,” Captain Wilkins said. “He’s not your responsibility.”
“Isn’t he?” Whit asked.
Dr. Morton appeared in the doorway to the waiting lounge. Her white coat was rumpled and her hands were shoved deep in its pockets. She looked tired. “Whit?”
Whit looked up at her.
“Your friend has a damaged heart,” she said. “There isn’t much we can do. Right now he’s in a coma.”
The doctors moved the stranger to the intensive care ward. Since no one had been able to find any information about the next of kin, Dr. Morton gave permission for Whit to sit with him. Apart from a patient across the floor, all the other beds were empty. The stranger was attached to all kinds of tubes and equipment. A heart monitor blipped a green line on a black screen. Its effect on Whit was hypnotic. Up and down, up and down the line went.
It was close to ten o’clock when one of the nurses signaled Whit to come out in the hall. Tom Riley was waiting for him, clutching a coat in his hands.
“How’s our mystery man?” Tom asked.
“In a coma,” Whit answered, then moved to the vending machine to get a cup of coffee. He slid the coins into the slot and watched as the cup dropped and slowly filled with the dark brown liquid. “He has a bad heart.”
Tom shook his head. “That’s too bad. Are you planning to spend the night here?”
“I think I should. Don’t you?”
Tom shrugged. “I can stay with him for a while if you get tired.”
“Thanks.”
The two men looked at each other with a deep understanding. They were both affected by the stranger and all he had said. His words hadn’t been idle or the ramblings of a lunatic. He had spoken calmly and asked them a simple question that cut to the very heart of their Christianity. The Bible spoke of entertaining angels una
ware. Whit and Tom took the notion seriously. And even if the stranger wasn’t an angel, his words seemed to come from heavenly places.
“We canceled the contest,” Tom said. “I used the rest of the time talking to the kids and their parents. Some of them were pretty upset. I guess we were all just trying to figure out what to make of what he said.”
“Did any of you come to a conclusion?” Whit picked up the cup of coffee and blew the steam across the top.
“No. There wasn’t much to say—everyone felt bad—we all wished we had done more to help him.” Tom shuffled uneasily. “I think most of us got to wondering about his question. You know, what does it mean to follow Jesus?”
“Me, too.”
They stood in silence again. The hospital hallway was empty.
“Let’s pray, Tom.”
Tom agreed and the two men bowed their heads then and there. They didn’t say much out loud, except to ask God to heal the stranger and to help them understand the meaning behind the evening’s events.
When they finished, Tom held up the coat in his hand. It was plain brown, torn, and grease-smeared. “I found this in the back of the auditorium. I think it’s his.”
Whit took it. “Thanks for everything, Tom.”
“Oh, and I brought your car. Third row back from the front entrance.” Tom handed him the extra set of keys Whit kept at the shop for emergencies. “I’ll get a lift back from Donnie Armstrong. He’s an orderly downstairs. His shift is about to end. Good kid. Used to be in my Sunday school class.”
Whit nodded. He remembered Donnie.
“You call me if you want me to come back. I mean it. I’ll stay.”
“I will.” Whit watched his friend walk down the hallway with a renewed feeling of gratitude.
Back in the intensive care unit, the stranger remained unconscious. Whit sat down with his coffee and realized that the stranger’s coat might have some identification in the pockets. He checked the outside ones first, discovering only a fragment of an old sandwich and some plastic-wrapped saltine crackers. His fingers felt the inside breast pocket and made contact with a small paper bag that had been carefully folded down to a rectangle. Whit opened the bag: It held three letters. Each one was addressed to Raymond Clark. In the upper left-hand corner, above an address in Columbus, Ohio, was the name of Christine Holt.
Whit slipped out of the room to phone Captain Wilkins.
“Raymond Clark of Connellsville,” Captain Wilkins confirmed an hour later over the phone. “His wife’s name was Mary. Christine Holt is his daughter. Holt is her married name. We’ve been trying to reach her in Columbus, but haven’t had much success. I think the Columbus police are going to send someone around to the address you gave me. I’ll let you know if we learn any more.”
“Joe,” Whit said slowly, his speech a little slurred from his weariness, “if it’s a matter of money…I mean, if his daughter needs help to get here…leave it to me.”
“If you say so,” Captain Wilkins said. They hung up. Whit was aware of a surge of activity down the hall—in the intensive care unit— and felt a sick feeling go through his stomach. He walked quickly and then found himself running back to Raymond Clark’s bed. Two nurses were at its side, adjusting equipment and checking his vital signs.
“Promise me…” Raymond Clark was saying when Whit arrived.
“He’s talking?” Whit asked, surprised.
“Stay back, Mr. Whittaker,” one of the nurses said.
“Promise me,” Raymond Clark said again. His voice was a harsh whisper.
Whit got as close to the bed as he could without getting in the nurses’ way.
“Promise you what?” Whit asked gently. “Mr. Clark?”
Raymond Clark turned his head slightly. His eyes were red and wet, but he fixed them on Whit. “You’re a kind man. My daughter. Promise me you’ll tell her where I am.”
“I promise,” Whit said. “In fact, we found her letters in your coat pocket. We’re going to bring her to see you as fast as we can.”
“She won’t…” his voice trailed off to a mumble, then returned with, “…in time. I know. I’m not afraid. Do you see Him? Jesus is…” his voice trailed off again.
Raymond Clark slowly closed his eyes. The green line on the heart monitor machine stopped bouncing and went flat across the screen. The room was filled with the sound of a solitary, unending beep.
The nurses and doctors were powerless to save his life.
“Go home and get some sleep,” Dr. Morton advised Whit later in the waiting lounge. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Whit rubbed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep and the tears that wouldn’t fall. Nothing you can do, Whit thought again and again as he drove home. In a few hours another Sunday morning would arrive in Odyssey. People would get up and go to church like they always did, unaware—or uncaring—about the Raymond Clarks in the world who had slept hungry the night before…or died.
Nothing you can do, Dr. Morton had said.
Whit brought his car to a halt in his driveway and leaned against the steering wheel.
Well, he thought, we’ll just see about that….
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCY WALKED INTO THE sanctuary of Odyssey Community Church and scanned the half-filled pews. It was still early. Most of the congregation hadn’t wandered in from their various Sunday school classes. Lucy clutched her Bible and noticed smudges of white powder on the cover. She smiled to herself. It was baby powder from changing David Kemper’s diapers in the nursery.
Karen Crosby waved from her normal spot on the pew on the side of the church. She was sitting with Jack, Matt, and Oscar—The Three Musketeers, Lucy called them, because they’d been together so much lately. Lucy strolled over and slid in next to the gang.
“Where’ve you been?” Karen asked. “You weren’t in Sunday school.”
Lucy held out her white fingers. “Nursery.”
“Something’s going on,” Matt said.
“What do you mean?”
Jack leaned forward. “Mr. Whittaker wasn’t in Sunday school. Mrs. Winger covered for him.”
Oscar piped in, “When we asked if he was sick, she said no and not to ask any questions because we’d find out in church. Isn’t that weird? Mr. Whittaker never misses teaching his class.”
“I think it has something to do with the man,” Karen said.
“The one who barged in on the contest last night,” Jack clarified, as if Lucy had already forgotten the incident.
Oscar looked around nervously, then said: “I heard he was a lunatic and they took him away to the asylum.”
“I heard he was once the pastor of this church and came back because they fired him,” Jack said.
“Cut it out,” Lucy said. “You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But something happened,” Karen affirmed.
Mr. Shelton started playing a hymn on the organ as a signal for all talking to stop. The sanctuary slowly filled up with the regular church attendees and a few people Lucy didn’t recognize. During the first hymn, Pastor Henderson walked up to his chair behind the pulpit. Whit followed and sat down in the guest chair next to it.
“See? I told you,” Jack said, gesturing to Whit.
Whit looked tired, as if he’d been sick or up all night. Lucy tried to take in the eyes beneath the wild white hair. They were puffy. And his normal smiling expression seemed undone by a sad droop in his mustache.
The church service proceeded as usual, with hymns, Scripture readings, announcements, and the offering. After the collection plates had been passed, another hymn was sung as a lead-in to the pastor’s sermon. The hymn was “Take My Life and Let It Be.” As the last note of the hymn echoed through the church, Pastor Henderson stepped up to the pulpit. He spoke in a tone so serious that Lucy instinctively drew her arms around herself. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining us. I’m sure by now most of you have heard about what happened at Whit’s End las
t night. But just in case you haven’t, allow me a minute to explain.”
He went on to tell the congregation about the Bible contest at Whit’s End, how it had been interrupted by the stranger, what he said before he collapsed, and how he was taken to the hospital where he later died.
Lucy put her hand over her mouth as she gasped along with others in the congregation. She didn’t know what she expected to have happened to the stranger, but she never expected for him to die.
The pastor continued, “John Whittaker, who was with the stranger until the end, has asked to talk to the church this morning. After hearing what he wants to say, I believe it’s the best thing for all of us. Please give him your full attention. Whit?”
“Thank you, Pastor Henderson,” Whit said when he reached the pulpit. He spoke so softly that Lucy had to strain her ears to hear him. “I’m grateful to those of you who were at Whit’s End last night—and to those of you who prayed for Raymond Clark. That was his name. We still don’t have all the details about him, but I understand he has a daughter who is being notified.”
Whit clutched the pulpit as if it was the only thing stopping him from falling over. Lucy felt an unfamiliar tightness in her chest.
Surveying the audience, Whit continued, “The appearance of Mr. Clark at Whit’s End last night startled us all. It’s not very often we have a complete stranger come in, looking like he did and talking the way he talked. But I have to tell you honestly: His words hit me right here—” Whit put his hand over his heart. “And when I think that those were nearly the last words he spoke before he died, they hit me even harder.
“Do you know what he asked us? He wanted to know what it means when we say we’re followers of Jesus. What difference does it make to our lives? Ask anyone who heard him. He wasn’t harsh or judgmental. He simply asked the question, then pointed out how different following Jesus is from how we normally live our lives. I wish I could ignore Mr. Clark and his words—it’d be easier that way—but I can’t. What he said was true. What he asked was something we should all be asking ourselves every day of our lives. What does it mean to follow Jesus? What would change in my life if I truly walked in His steps?”
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