by Darrel Bird
Part 3
Bob and Rita Gentry waited, with dread in their hearts and prayers on their lips, for the phone call that would notify them of the verdict from the appellate court. Bob walked outside to the patio of their home near Seal Rock, Oregon. He looked up at the clouds and then down at the large rocks below. The waves crashed over the rocks, sending up spray that was picked up by the wind and flung against the shore.
"What went wrong, God?" he pleaded.
Bob had inherited the family farm in Kansas, from his dad. He remembered his mother's words when the old house had been torn apart by a tornado. They had crawled out of the storm cellar to view the damage, and she had said, "God will never put on us more than we can bear." They had rebuilt the house, and he finished growing up on that farm.
He had tried to make a go of it himself after his father died, and they seemed to just get by. Then the lean years came. The wheat crop withered on the stalk, then hail beat the crop into the ground. He finally gave up and sold the place before the bank got it. The kids had been young at the time, and he hated to sell the land that should have been their legacy. They landed on the Oregon coast. They had just enough money from the sale of the farm to buy a house; then they were penniless.
That was the year Steve started to get into trouble with the law. There were endless trips to Juvenile Hall in Newport, the juvenile prison, and then state prison in California. It was a constant struggle to keep their heads above water financially.
He remembered the day his son was born. He was born on Christmas day, and the nurses had put him in a Christmas stocking for the trip home from the hospital.
Now they waited for word as to whether their son would live or die.
Two hours later the call came. Their son's final appeal was denied. The death sentence would be carried out in two months. Bob tried his best to comfort his wife, but she wept in his arms as only a mother can weep. His own emotions ricocheted with jackhammer force: first anger at the boy, and then grief that shook him to the bottom of his soul. Exhaustion finally overtook him in the wee hours of the morning, and he slept for about an hour.
The next day was Sunday. Out of long years of habit, Bob started getting ready for church. He found his wife sitting in the living room, still in her nightgown, staring at nothing.
"Are you going to church?" he asked.
She just shook her head no and stared straight ahead. Bob did not know what to make if it, but said gently, "It might be better to go."
Still Rita just sat there. "You go. I don't feel like it."
"Please go with me, Rita."
She sat very still and shook her head again. She didn't look at him, but continued staring straight ahead, her gaze fixed on empty space. For the first time since they were married, his wife was distant from him. He fled from the house.
When Bob pulled into the church parking lot, he just sat behind the wheel and looked at the building. He felt as if he could not move.
"How much, Lord? How much?" he prayed.
Pastor John Swain was putting the final touches on his sermon when he heard the crunch of car tires as Bob pulled into the gravel lot. He watched out the window for a minute as Bob sat in the car, and he knew by the look on Bob's face that the verdict had come in. John knew about the boy and the trial in Texas. He had prayed fervently with Bob and Rita just the day before yesterday.
He stood and walked out the door of the church to Bob's car. He saw Bob's tear-stained face as Bob rolled the window down. The pastor gently reached in and laid his hand on Bob's shoulder.
"Bob, come on in with me. Will you do that?"
Bob nodded his head and opened the car door. They walked in, the pastor's arm across Bob's shoulder. John's heart was breaking as he walked across the gravel with his faithful parishioner. He seated Bob gently in a pew near the front. In a few minutes, the assistant pastor, along with others of the congregation, began to file in. After about fifteen minutes, Pastor Swain walked to the front of the church and picked up his microphone.
"Folks, I had a sermon prepared for you this morning, but I feel that the Holy Spirit has checked me. A family of our own, who has served here many years faithfully, has reason for grief, and I feel that we would be amiss if I conducted services as usual this morning.
"So I am going to change the Order of Service. I know this is not a thing we have ever done. But I would like you all to come to the front of the church, and we are going to pray for Bob and Rita Gentry and their son, Steve."
Pastor Swain asked Bob to come and stand in the middle. The people looked at each other, and then slowly, one by one, gathered at the front of the church. They encircled their long time parishioner and Sunday school teacher. Some who were just entering the church joined them there as well. Even though they had missed Pastor Swain's request, they instinctively knew something was afoot.
"We are going to pray and then go home. And I would like to ask you all to hold a prayer vigil for this family all day."
This was the first time the church had prayed together for so long, and so hard.
