Redemption's Road Page 3

  I nodded and sighed. “No, I know it’s not. I can’t go back, Ellie. I’ll send you pounds of coffee and call you every day if you need me to. My days of standing barefoot on a stage, with the Strat on my shoulder and sweat dripping off me, are over.

  “But you’ll do that for ten people while you talk about faith?”

  “I don’t do it in my jog bra”—I pointed at her with my spoon—“And there’s more than ten, I’ll have you know.”

  Ellie dropped her head. “I miss you. I can’t get it right without you.”

  “You’ve gotten it right every night without me for years. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. The audience goes crazy for you. Regal Crimson sells out every show. You can do it.”

  “I don’t write the songs, Bek, you do.”

  That was a fact. Ellie couldn’t write music to save her soul. Her gift was bringing a song to life with vocals that couldn’t be matched.

  “Well then, I’ll write the songs, and you give them a voice. Every time you sing one of my songs, I’m right there beside you.” My sister needed to be grounded, and I knew how to do it. “Close your eyes.” When I let go the first few notes of “Amazing Grace,” Ellie relaxed and joined in on the harmony. By the time we finished, a slow clap had begun around the room from the six other patrons and the staff who’d stopped to listen.

  That last time we sang together had been over a year ago. Ellie’s schedule had been too crazy for her to visit, and I hadn’t gone to her. My only sibling knew she could call me day or night, at any hour. I tried to be cognizant of where she was in the world and the time zone. Sending her a text before she hit the stage was my way of telling her I was right there with her, in spirit.

  The loft smelled of the soup Karmen was fixing. I tuned my guitar and stopped to make a small adjustment. “I have no idea what this one is called yet. It’s not done, but I’ve got the chorus.” Pick against the strings, I launched into the melody. Tank tapped her foot and bobbed her head, while Karmen danced in the kitchen. Both were good signs for the unnamed composition.

  Tank sat up and clapped. “She’s going to love that.”

  “I’m not really happy with the bridge yet.”

  Tank tilted her head. “Did you write with her voice in mind, or just write the song?”

  “I put down what came to me for this. No one in mind, though.” I shrugged. Tank joined me in the window seat. She picked up the score, and I could see her pulling it apart, note by note.

  She pointed to the second line. “Here. Make that a flat and draw it out into this note.” She handed the score back to me. I looked at what she had suggested and strummed through the bridge again, adding a few other adjustments.

  “I like it. Thanks, Tank.”

  “You just make sure you let Ellie know I was thinking about her when I made it perfect.”

  Tank didn’t mean anything by it, and I was sure she wasn’t considering how words like that cut Karmen to the bone. I heard metal clatter into my sink and looked up to see my best friend’s back turned to us. A glance over at Tank confirmed that she was oblivious to Karmen’s pain or her affection. I wanted to shake both of them. I could see how they fit together, one too afraid to say anything and the other too afraid to let go of something unlikely to happen. Ellie was a free spirit with zero intentions of settling down. Karmen lacked the courage to tell Tank how she felt about her. And there we sat.

  Even with her back to us, I could picture Karmen’s expression as well as if I were standing toe to toe with her, sullen with a hint of defeat. If I only had a way to pull the blinders off Tank. You can lead a horse to water…

  “That smells fantastic, Karmen. Is that your green curry recipe?”

  “It is. Perfect for these sub-zero temperatures. Another ten minutes and we’ll eat. The bread should be done about then as well.” Karmen stirred the soup, grabbed a small, metal spoon, and ladled up some for me to sample.

  Blowing across the hot liquid, I tasted it and laughed when a bit dribbled down my chin.

  She shook her head. “You’re worse than my five-year-old niece.”

  Karmen handed me a towel. The spill had made it all the way to my black T-shirt. “Guilty as charged. That soup is spectacular, and I’m likely to eat an entire loaf of bread myself.”

  “Good thing I made extra then. Tank, can you grab the butter?”

  Tank rounded the corner and grabbed the glass dish off the sideboard. “One of my favorite things in the world is home-baked bread slathered with Amish butter.” She held it up. “Butter that isn’t kept in the fridge and melts, well, like butta.”

  My phone pinged, and I swiped the screen to see the incoming text. That simple message meant everything and tore at my heart, exactly as the woman who’d sent it knew it would.

  1 Corinthians 13. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a patient woman, Rhebekka.

  No one in my life had been more patient with me than Naomi, not even my grandparents. It was one of the reasons I would always love her, even as I couldn’t let myself be with her again. The large grandfather clock in the corner told me what time it was in the Rockies. I knew she’d be getting ready for Sunday services. My reply was even shorter.

  Patient and persistent. Peace be with you.

  “Soup’s on.” Karmen moved around the kitchen, setting out bowls. From our local artisan potter, each was unique and beautiful. I’d handpicked a different color for each bowl and plate, not satisfied with having a bland matching set. I wanted eclectic, and Rhen produced some beautiful pieces that I took great pride in.

  When the hot bread was pulled from the oven, my stomach told my friends exactly how hungry I was. Karmen clicked her tongue. “Holy cow, if you’re that hungry, I might not have made enough.”

  “Jesus fed five thousand with two fish and five loaves. I think we’ve got plenty. Karmen, thank you for cooking.” I hugged her and kissed her forehead, whispering against her skin. “You’re worth the chance. Either she’ll see someday, or you’ll let someone else in.”

  She clutched me tighter and patted my back. That conversation was over for the time being.

  Chapter Three

  MONDAY’S TASK WAS PREPARATION for game night with my youth group, the after-school program I’d started. Some evenings, we dug through the massive trunk and pulled out various board games. Once a week, during the second hour, we played ArchAngel, a virtual-reality game. Daniel, formerly Daniella, was the electronics tech from my tour days and the game coding wizard who’d built the virtual world of good versus evil that I used in my youth ministry.

  The main character, ArchAngel Michael, wore a long, white leather duster and the helmet of salvation, while wielding the sword of the spirit. The other armaments mentioned in Ephesians, could be garnered during special challenges. Michael would vanquish foes while bringing light where there was darkness. The clever coding allowed me to program in lessons each week. Participants wore virtual-reality headsets and could play individually or in teams if I chose. The lesson I’d prepared delved into the topic of temptation.

  The bell over the door chimed and the herd poured in. I looked at my watch. “Right on time.”

  Seven bedraggled teenagers, laden with bookbags of every shape, made their way to the snacks. I high-fived, hugged, and fist-bumped each with their chosen greeting.

  “Get something to eat, then get that homework out.” That was the rule, no games until the schoolwork was done. With the prospect of ArchAngel on the horizon, it was easy to convince them to finish up. “If you need help, shout hallelujah, and I’ll be around.”

  “Pastor, I have an essay I need help with.” Alton Britton opened his bookbag.

  “And how do we ask?” I smiled at the gangly teen with hair in his eyes.

  A sigh left his lips. “Hallelujah?”

  “Are you asking or telling me?” I quirked my mouth as if I was puzzled. Every meeting, one or more of the participants did their best to get under my skin. If they knew that only my parents or Naomi coul
d accomplish that, they’d realize how futile the effort was. For everyone else, I had infinite patience.

  Alton smiled and shouted, “Hallelujah,” with his hand in the air.

  “Excellent.” I made my way to him, as he opened a jug of chocolate milk and poured a generous glass.

  “I have to write an essay about something.” Alton drained the glass before filling it again.

  I straddled a backward chair to sit beside him in our recreation room. “Tell me something you feel strongly about.”

  He ran his hands through his hair in deep thought. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, let’s look at it another way. What’s something that pisses you off?”

  Titters went around the room at my language. I was dealing with kids who had issues, and I connected with them on their level. I’d sat down with the parents of the participants, and they knew who and what I was. They knew how I interacted with the kids, and I respected their parental limits. I could see the wheels spinning in Alton’s head. He cracked his knuckles.

  “It pisses me off how people treat my brother.”

  “Okay, that’s something we could work with. What do you want people to know about Darren?”

  “He has autism; he’s not stupid. He knows when people make fun of him. People hear the word autistic and think they can catch it or something. That’s stupid. Darren’s just different. He’s really smart. He can do math problems that I can’t, and he’s nine.”

  “Then I think you’ve found your subject. Myths and facts about autism.” I waited and watched the idea take form in Alton’s mind. When he let out a small smile, I knew he had it.

  Alton pulled a notebook from his bag. “My mom did tons of research after he was diagnosed. She still does. I could talk to his doctor. This will be easy.”

  “Get on it.” I held my fist up. We touched and pulled back with the explosion motion.

  Five tables were set up around the room. Each had at least one or two of the kids ensconced in a chair, most with some form of homework out. My job was to walk around and see if anyone needed help or to validate an answer. In the process, I also evaluated the mood and attitude of each. I had my sensitive kids and my tough ones. A motley crew of emotional hurricanes—my hurricanes.

  A few were actually working on their homework, while others scrolled on their phones. I tapped my watch. “Twenty minutes, minions. Tonight’s ArchAngel night. If you want to play, you’ve got to pay. And don’t try to BS me. You know your teachers send me your assignments.” While I poured a cup of coffee, phones clattered to the table and books slapped open. No one wanted to miss one minute of life as a virtual warrior angel.

  I sipped and walked around, correcting where I could and rewarding them when they got it right on their own. Amanda, one of my tougher nuts to crack, was broody.

  “There’s a new Metallica video out.” I frequently used music as a conversation starter with her.

  Amanda shrugged, not uttering a word. Her mom had recently been deployed back to the Middle East. Sixteen and full of fear, she turned her distress inward. Never much one to discuss her feelings, she shared her thoughts with me through her journal. We’d come up with this idea together. She would free write her thoughts without fear of judgment from me over grammar, spelling, or prose. She would leave it for me to read while they played games. I would read and comment on her thoughts, attempting to direct her anger and fear toward something positive she could focus on. Sometimes it was a line of scripture or a poem I found that related. Sometimes it was nothing more than acknowledging the unknown. I would leave the journal on her book bag for her to find as she left.

  “I heard you’re helping direct the school theater performance. That’s cool.”

  Amanda looked up to me with surprise. I had her.

  She quirked a sideways grin at me. “Mrs. Hambrick said she thought I’d be good at it, since I catch things better than most.”

  I watched her spin her pen on the table. Talking about herself was another thing I’d discovered she found uncomfortable. “I think Mrs. Hambrick is right. You’ll do a good job of keeping track of the timing and marks the performers will need. Unless I miss my guess, you already have the dialogue memorized.” Another grin and a nod from my impressionable lamb.

  That was really all I needed to say for her to know I cared about the everyday things she had going on. I could, and would, help her deal with her anxiety over her mother’s deployment without making a big deal about it. Her thoughts would play out in a bold and angry blue script on the lined page. My responses would be returned in my chicken scratch with a black pen. I touched the cover of the black and white composition notebook, and she nodded.

  With a slight roll of my arm, I glanced at the watch I wore on the underside of my wrist. It made it easier for me to keep track of time without appearing like I was watching the clock during my sermons. I clapped my hands.

  “Okay, five minutes to finish up. Meet me in the VR arena.”

  Seven teenagers yelled, “Hallelujah,” as I left the room.

  The VR arena was nothing more than an empty, twenty-by-twenty space backstage that I’d set aside when I renovated part of the old theater. It’d likely been the green room in the past. Ten pairs of headsets and gloves hung from hooks that once held costumes. I fired up the state-of-the-art computer server that housed ArchAngel and waited, while everyone burst into the room and donned their equipment. My avengers had arrived.

  “Okay everyone, when we left off last week…” I oriented everyone to the particular lesson I wanted to emphasize, temptation.

  I donned my own VR headset, which allowed me to see the actions of every player. My focus wasn’t to participate but to facilitate and watch the decision-making process of each participant. The players could gain another piece of armor each week. In this session, they were working toward the breastplate of righteousness.

  Ten minutes into the game, I pressed a key that initiated a challenge and uttered the words they both loved and loathed. “Boss fight!”

  They pushed up their headsets and sat on the floor. I opened The Message, the version of the Bible that put scripture into contemporary language the kids could relate to. I read to them from the fourth chapter of Matthew. When I’d finished, the boss fight began. The players stood and put their headsets back on. My character, an ancient, winged book with ribbons tucked between the pages, appeared in their world.

  “Jesus faced three temptations by the devil. What were they?”

  The beauty of this game was that each individual player chose their answers without the others seeing if they’d gotten it right or not. There was no shame in getting it wrong, only a teachable moment. I watched the seven small boxes pop up on my computer screen. I was pleased that they’d all gotten the right answers: creating bread from stones, bowing down to Satan, and throwing himself off a cliff to see if angels would catch him.

  “Jesus knew that nothing the devil could offer him was worth turning his back on God. The rewards would have been temporary. In the end, God’s chosen one would have lost out on the ultimate prize, thus costing the entire human race their salvation. Enter code, the test.”

  I watched with pride, as each of the seven ArchAngels on my screen took up the breastplate of righteousness while wielding the sword of the spirit.

  After another ten minutes, I hit pause and ended play. I chuckled at the groans of frustration. “Next week, same place.”

  While the kids fought with the foes in the game, I’d read through Amanda’s short entry.

  What if she’s afraid?

  My response was slightly longer, but still short and to the point. Then we pray for her with this thought, Psalms 27. So, with Him on my side, I’m fearless, afraid of no one and nothing.

  The kids grabbed their bags and made their way to the door, where their parents waited to pick them up. I saw Amanda’s mother, Lynn, and lifted my pinky and thumb to the side of my face to symbolize a phone call. She nodded discretely and put her
arm around Amanda as they went through the door. The teenager had two mothers, something that made her stand out in our small community. I kept a close eye on her and communicated frequently with her parents. Amanda showed every sign that she too was gay, or at least bisexual. The family regularly attended Sunday services, and both mothers had approached me about her. Yesterday, they’d been busy putting the major on a plane to defend our country.

  Stay close to them, Lord.

  ***

  Later that evening, when I made my call to Lynn, I told her my plan. We agreed to keep a close eye on the sullen sixteen-year-old. Lynn struggled with parenting on her own while she managed one of the local resorts. Sydney had been in the Air National Guard for decades and had recently been promoted. Several deployments, each up to six months, had strained the relationship between Lynn and Amanda. I worked with them in family counseling to help them develop coping skills. I wanted to do something special for them, so I sent Daniel a text to call me. An hour later, my cell rang.

  “Daniel, oh sentinel of God, good to hear from you. Any news in your world?”

  “Your sister dumped the dickhead.”

  I could hear the sneer in Daniel’s voice. He never liked any of the men, and very few of the women, my sister dated.

  “I need to call her, huh?”

  “That would be a thought, but you didn’t contact me for that. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to create a face lens for me.”

  Daniel’s laugh belted out from my speakerphone, as I poured coffee into my pan to heat.

  “Seriously? I’m working the stage scene for your sister’s multimillion-dollar tour, and you want me to turn you into a bunny rabbit?”

  Though he couldn’t see it, I rolled my eyes. “No techno-whiz, I need you to recreate the helmet of salvation, and the breastplate of righteousness, like you have in ArchAngel. It’s important.”