Perfect love casts out fear.
Did that mean God’s perfect love had yet to be fully installed within him? Or did it mean Jonathan had yet to learn how to walk in that love?
“Will you be okay? Money-wise, I mean?” his aunt repeated.
“I’ve few expenses and enough in the bank to keep me going for awhile.” It was true. Jonathan never spent all he earned, but had made it a habit every week to set money aside. A cushion, he called it. But in some deeper sense he always wondered if his “cushion” didn’t reveal a lack of trust in God. He countered that by telling himself Scripture also called one to be a good steward, and part of that stewardship involved saving. “I’m fine, Aunt Adel.” He wondered why there was a strain in his voice. “Please don’t worry.”
A new round of pot-banging drifted over the phone. “Gertie Eldridge is telling everyone you’ve had a nervous breakdown. She said she saw it coming—in your work habits and strange talk. It makes my blood boil; knowing that what happened this Sunday is largely due to your faithful year-long intercession and . . . .”
“You and your Ladies Auxiliary have been interceding for Christ Church for ten years. And you know it’s ‘not by might nor by power.’ No one can take credit for a sovereign move of God. And since when have you taken what Gertie says, seriously?”
“Since she’s been speaking ill of you.”
No mistaking it, Jonathan heard the catch in his aunt’s voice and knew tears weren’t far behind. He shoved a pile of dirty dishes aside and leaned against the white Formica countertop where splotches of dried gravy made it look like a child’s finger-painting. He swiped at it with a sponge. When he did, the worn, leather Bible tucked in the corner caught his eye.
Lord, why does following you have to bring pain to those we love?
“The worst part is that everyone knows how Gertie is, and still they listen. A few people actually asked me if what you have was serious, and will you recover? Can you believe it? How could people pay attention to Gertie’s foolish talk after knowing you? After knowing what you’ve done for Christ Church?”
Jonathan heard his aunt sniffle, then blow her nose. “Aunt Adel, please don’t cry.”
“I know I’m being silly . . . and self-indulgent. Your Uncle Douglas always did say I cried at the drop of a hat. Don’t pay any attention. I’ll work through this.”
Jonathan drilled his fingertips against the Formica. He never could stand when his mother cried either—and she had done a lot of that during the final year of his father’s illness. “Why don’t we go to the Beef & Brew? I’ll treat us to a couple of big juicy prime ribs. And we can wash the whole thing down with coffee and a slice of their famous cheesecake.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You wanted me to get out more. Think of it as a favor. You’d be helping me.”
“Don’t try to handle me, Jonathan. I’m too upset. I know I shouldn’t be, but Gertie has a way of pushing my buttons.”
“All the more reason we should go. It looks like we both could use an outing. What do you say?”
“I don’t know . . . .”
“C’mon.”
“Well . . . if it’s that important to you . . . I suppose so . . . but how about we make it The Cattleman instead?”
Jonathan picked up a bowl and scraped out crusted leftover stew. “You know the steaks are better at the Beef & Brew.” He placed the bowl in the dishwasher without rinsing.
“Yes, but Gertie goes to The Cattleman on Sundays, along with half the church since she’s made it the trendy thing to do. If they see you, talk to you, maybe it’ll stop all this gossip.”
He could just about hear his aunt’s mind shifting, then idling in a low, silky purr like his first car—the old, green Plymouth he had tagged “Hot Wheels”. He closed the dishwasher, then picked up his Bible and carried it into the living room. With one easy motion, he plopped down on the faded, russet-colored couch and stretched out his long, muscular legs. He felt responsible that this thing with Gertie had mushroomed so large in his aunt’s life—a Dagon with arms and legs. Jonathan knew all about idols. How things like cars or girls or lettermen’s jackets or financial security or the opinion of others could take the center stage of one’s life. Well, he’d have to help his aunt cut off those arms and legs, let her Dagon tumble to the ground where he belonged. “I’m sorry, Aunt Adel. It’s the Beef & Brew or nothing.”
“Oooh . . . honestly! Sometimes you’re as stubborn as your mother. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but your mother was one of the most stubborn people I know. There were many who swore she was half mule, and you couldn’t disprove it by me.”
“Aunt Adel . . . .”
“You could be gracious and give in and let your old aunt maybe get some peace out of it. Maybe get a little satisfaction from seeing the look on Gertie’s face . . . but no. Stubborn. Just plain stubborn.”
Jonathan removed the Bible from his lap and placed it on the coffee table, next to a brown banana peel and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“It’s still the Beef and Brew?”
“Yes.”
“All right . . . but that means you’ll have to give in on this next point. I’m paying.”
Jonathan glanced at the cheese sandwich which was supposed to be dinner. The cheese was hard and discolored around the edges. Under normal conditions it would have seen the inside of a garbage pail. But last week, he had started cutting back, had started economizing on his meals, and eating things he normally would trash. Growing up he had learned that thriftiness was preferable to hunger.
“Okay, you’re on,” he said, surprised by how much the prospect of eating a two-inch prime rib with all the trimmings, pleased him. Aunt Adel was right. It would be good to get out.
Jonathan hung his keys on the peg beneath the kitchen light switch, then walked into the small living room and settled on the couch. He had that contented feeling one gets after eating a good meal. His prime rib had been superb. So had his sides of sautéed mushrooms, baked potato and asparagus with hollandaise. He couldn’t remember enjoying a meal more. His visit with his aunt was also enjoyable, even though she was pensive, tense and spent most of the evening scanning faces—obviously in the hope that Gertie Eldridge or one of the deacons would show up, find Jonathan’s mind soundly intact, and vindicate her.
For the most part Jonathan had retained his good humor about the whole thing and had kept the conversation light by rehashing happy childhood memories, peppered with a string of pastor-jokes as fillers. By evening’s end there was a discernable difference in his aunt, evidenced by the fact she began laughing at his jokes. Still, he had sensed her need for prayer and had made a mental note to be more diligent on that score. Throughout the evening he had sensed something else, too—the Lord had a word for him.
Now, with great anticipation, Jonathan picked up his Bible from the coffee table and propped an extra pillow behind his back. He would stay with it all night if he had to. And if God hadn’t given him anything by morning, he’d continue praying—non-stop, grabbing bits and pieces of sleep only when absolutely needed. He had prayed like that for an entire week before God answered him about coming to Christ Church.
Excitement mounted. He wondered if his next assignment would be half as rewarding as Christ Church. He closed his eyes, preparing himself to alternately praise and pray so that when he sat quietly before the Lord his ears would be open to hear what the Spirit was saying. But he didn’t have to wait long. No sooner had he placed the Bible on his lap then he heard the familiar still, small voice.
Do not eat, do not wash, do not change your clothes for three days.
Cynthia stepped out of the shower and walked to the vanity, trailing wet footprints over the ceramic tile floor. She toweled off with stiff, angry motions, leaving behind red blotches and more than one area tender to the touch. She shouldn’t have invited Steve over. His all-to-eager response confirmed what she alread
y knew—their evening would be as predictable as tonight’s TV lineup. He’d bring a half-pepperoni, half-mushroom pizza, greet her with an infuriatingly sly smile and kiss on the cheek, deposit the pizza along with all his hardware—the Glock, the handcuffs, his gold detective’s shield—on the kitchen table, then go to the refrigerator and pull out a Heineken. Their conversation would be superficial, since he didn’t like talking about his work and she didn’t like talking about hers. Instead, they’d talk about the weather or their cars or the ongoing construction in their neighborhoods. He’d have three Heinekens; one with each of his three slices of pepperoni pizza. She’d have two glasses of Merlot and one slice of mushroom. Then they’d end up in her bed.
She shouldn’t have invited him.
It wasn’t fair to use him just because she had wandered the apartment all day crying like a diva in a silent film. Had she expected him to assure her she was alright by reinforcing the familiar, the predictable—to assure her she was not having a meltdown of some kind? Was indulging in food, wine and sex supposed to prove she still had a grip on the reigns of that bucking bronco that had become her life?
Yes, all of the above, but now it seemed worn, and made Cynthia feel guilty. How could she use Steve like that? And her guilt made her angry.
She was so sick and tired of feeling guilty!
Guilty over Steve, guilty over being a woman on a man’s newspaper, guilty over not seeing enough of her mom and dad or anyone else for that matter, guilty over . . . Julia.
Well, at least she could trim off one guilty layer by ending it with Steve, telling him they were through. They had never been much of an item anyway, so he wouldn’t be hurt. Then she’d plunge herself into her work. It had always been her salvation. She’d forget about all this nonsense. Get her mind on other things. Get her nose out of the obituaries and onto the trail of a good story.
Yes, that’s what she’d do. And she’d start by telling Steve it was over . . . first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 5
Jonathan stared into the mirror, hardly recognizing the image that stared back. Clumps of greasy hair stuck out in all directions. His crumpled shirt and pants looked more like grimy rags than clothing. And his breath smelled like dirty socks. When he ran his tongue across his teeth he felt plaque clinging like Elmer’s glue.
He pulled out a paper cup from his bathroom dispenser and filled it with water. He swished the water around in his mouth then held it for a minute wondering if this counted as “washing”—which God had forbidden him to do.
He quickly spit it out. When he did, he smelled body odor seeping through his shirt. He had never felt so disgusting—had never looked so disgusting. The dark stubble on his face looked like charcoal smudges. But the worst part was the hunger. The Lord had called him on many fasts, but never had Jonathan felt so ravenous, so crazed from want of food.
He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to both settle it down and take his mind off of a stomach that seemed to twist and turn and gnaw until his nerves were raw. His hands shook as they combed. How could he be this hungry after only three days?
He looked at his watch. Five more hours before he could eat . . . and wash. For two and a half days he had prayed—pleaded with God for more direction. And now that it came, Jonathan was sorry he had been so persistent. He had trouble believing the instructions. He was to walk the streets as he was. And the Lord had confirmed it.
Three times.
Even now, Jonathan would have asked for a fourth if he dared. But to ask again, when God had been so clear, would be an act of disobedience.
But what if someone saw him? How could this bring honor and glory to his precious Savior? How could walking around dirty and smelly bring anything but scorn? Lean not, lean not. That’s all he was getting. And that was the hard part, that was the temptation—wanting to slip into his own understanding, trying to figure it all out, trying to complete in the flesh what had begun in the Spirit.
He flicked off the bathroom light and went into the kitchen to retrieve his keys. There was nothing more he could do to improve his appearance, not if he wanted to continue in obedience. His one hope was that God wouldn’t keep him on the streets too long.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw his hunter green jacket draped over a kitchen chair. As he reached for it, Jonathan felt a check in his spirit. Surely, God wouldn’t mind him wearing a jacket to keep warm? If he had to stay out late, he’d need it. Evenings could be chilly. He put it on and zipped it to his neck. When he passed the small mirror in the hall and saw that the jacket made him appear a little fresher, he felt relieved. But there was still his hair and face, not to mention his mouth and body odor.
He rummaged around trying to find his baseball cap. After ten minutes, the pull of the Lord grew too strong and he gave up. With a sigh, he took fifty dollars from his dresser drawer and shoved them into his pocket. Then he walked out the apartment and headed for his car.
For over an hour, Jonathan drove aimlessly around until he found himself on the outskirts of North Oberon. He pulled into a parking garage and started walking.
Where was he going?
He felt like a fool. But then wasn’t he supposed to be a fool for Christ? To obey? To trust? No matter what? He had given his life to the Lord when he was five and was no stranger to His ways. So why was this different? Because . . . of the pain in his Aunt Adel’s voice, because of the idle talk about the stability of his mind.
Was he losing his mind?
Was Ezekiel losing his mind when he lay on his left side for three-hundred and ninety consecutive days, then turned over and lay on his right side for another forty days at God’s command? Was Hosea losing his mind when he obeyed God and married a prostitute? Was Isaiah losing his mind when he walked naked and barefoot in the streets for three years because God told him to? But he was no Ezekiel, Hosea or Isaiah. He was just an ordinary servant of God. He prayed as he walked down the street hoping to see the revealed will of God etched on some storefront, or blazing across the sky. Finally, he stopped praying and just walked.
By the time Jonathan noticed the change in the neighborhood, he was already deep into South Oberon and approaching Skid Row. Buildings peeled their paint, and many store signs were torn off or barely readable. Empty bottles and unidentifiable refuse littered the sidewalk. Here and there sheets of newspaper, blown by the wind, pressed against the battered buildings like bandages over sores. When Jonathan passed the Angus Avenue Hotel, he smelled urine. Two men stood on the hotel steps passing a bottle. In an alley, a woman was throwing up. He heard the clanking of freight cars in the distance; smelled the smoke pouring from the stacks of the Angus Glass Works; tasted the grime of two decades of South Oberon poverty, and shuddered.
God, why am I here?
Jonathan quickened his pace, heading west. He raised no eyebrows or interest as he walked. He could have been one of them, the way he looked and smelled. Only his cotton jacket gave him any air of respectability.
He stopped when he saw a woman pull a half eaten sandwich from the garbage pail and hand it to her child. He was surprised he didn’t feel revulsion; surprised to feel his hunger so voracious that he, too, would willingly eat from the garbage if his fast were up. He probed for the money in his pocket and pulled out everything except a ten, then walked over to the woman and handed it to her.
“What you expectin’ for this, Mister?” she said, holding the bills in her hand.
Jonathan looked down at the small child clinging to the woman’s tattered skirt. Under the dirt and layers of clothing, and with the short matted hair, he couldn’t tell if the child was male or female. But he saw a sore, the size of a quarter, along with a half dozen smaller sores covering the child’s scalp.
“I said, what you want for this?”
“Nothing. It’s for you and the child.”
“You don’t look like one of those do-gooders. You don’t smell like one neither.” Her harsh tone and apparent lack of gratitude startled
him. She folded the money and stuffed it between the layers of her clothing. “But I ain’t gonna ask you again. I’m just gonna take it.”
Jonathan nodded and backed away, feeling a sudden urge to flee. “God . . . God bless you.”
The woman laughed, revealing a missing bottom tooth and two chipped uppers. “You a Bible thumper?”
Jonathan nodded.
“Well, it don’t look like it’s done you much good.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help more,” he said walking away, his skin feeling like it was crawling with ants.
Before he went a block, Jonathan felt an anguish of soul. Why hadn’t he ministered to that woman and her child? Why hadn’t he spoken words of life? Why hadn’t he tried to introduce that woman to the Savior, the Provider, the Father, the Husband?
What was wrong with him?
His heart was still heavy when he came upon an area buzzing with activity. Men loitered in groups on the sidewalk; others streamed through the double-doorway of a building; a building which appeared surprisingly well maintained. Jonathan stopped and read the sign: Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter.
He was glad these homeless men had such a nice facility. Even so, he didn’t want to spend time here. It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood he wanted to be in after dark. Already, the angle of the sun told him he should head for his car. And it would take all his remaining strength to get there. He still couldn’t understand why God had brought him here.
What do you want me to do, Lord?
He was horrified at the answer, which came like a shot and hit him in the chest like Tommy Sullivan’s fast ball in his high school all-star play-offs.
Eat, bathe and spend the night here.
The tone was firm and one familiar to Jonathan. It was a tone that left no room for argument. Still, Jonathan persisted. Why, Lord? He listened a moment, but only heard the chatter of men and the scraping of feet as more and more homeless scurried to the shelter.
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