Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

  “I … uh … I can’t,” Dalton stammered. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “You’re still our pastor. This is what we want,” Carla said.

  “What do you think, honey?” Samantha asked Dalton.

  “Okay. If you’re sure?” He turned to the Connors.

  “We’re sure.” Matt clutched Carla’s hand and they both nodded.

  “We’re here to lighten your load,” Samantha said. “If that means Dalton will head the service, then so be it.”

  Saturday

  “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to Myself, that where I am you may be also …” John 14:1-3

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Charity

  _________________________________________________________

  Saturday, 10:30 a.m.

  Saint Luke’s Community Church

  Dalton stared at the morning sun streaming through a stained glass window above the baptismal. The light magnified a depiction of Christ carrying a baby ewe, producing rainbows throughout the nave. Such a striking paradox. The same sun who blessed them with beauty today, just days before, had mercilessly cursed the planet.

  Weeks would pass until authorities would be able to assess the EMP’s devastation. McCormick’s residents were meeting this afternoon at City Hall with the mayor and the town council. Most of his flock would probably be there too. Hopefully the cooler heads in city leadership would help panicked citizens with what they were facing. Time would tell.

  He hadn’t thought much about the catastrophe until now. Finding Grace and putting his family back together had taken priority. As the community endured a fourth powerless day, reality took its toll. Unless the authorities managed to get the lights back on, things would only get harder.

  The service would begin in thirty minutes. Dalton sat in his favorite chair on the platform, reading Charity Connor’s memorial program. Manually typed, he hoped the dedication about her brief earthly life would bless her family.

  “I found some old typewriters in the basement,” Sammy had told everyone at Thursday’s meeting. “We’ll create programs the old fashioned way. Do I have any volunteers?”

  Dalton thought about raising his hand but the laborious amount of hunting and pecking required would have only slowed things down, and besides, the church office no longer stocked White-Out, an ingredient he’d definitely need.

  As it turned out, he’d been relegated with a team of nimble-fingered men folding handouts at the back of the table, before passing them to Dot Wigglesworth and some ladies, who sketched a flower on each cover. They’d chosen the American Daisy, Charity’s favorite. Several teens from Gordy’s youth group added colored-pencil embellishments. The finished products looked amazing. The Connors would be touched by the church family’s love.

  Though the nave gleamed from natural lighting, oil candles had been positioned throughout the sanctuary, casting golden glows, reminding him of the church’s rich liturgical heritage. A container of fuel oil, discovered in the basement, resurrected dead wicks from the 1980’s. Some ladies from the Tuesday morning Bible group felt that adding the glowing aesthetics would soften the sorrow.

  Dalton studied the Paschal light, flickering white orbs across the little casket. Traditionally lit at Easter, it welcomed Christ’s presence. A wave of warm comfort flooded his heart. You are with us, Lord ... Your light still shines in the darkest places ...

  Today, lighting the Paschal seemed appropriate, even in August.

  Congregants filed in, finding seats. Keeping the coffin closed had been decided by Matt. He and Carla should not have to bear an entire service with the face of their little angel “sleeping” near the altar.

  Amanda Benson laid pink roses over the casket, then paused, her face contorted with grief. Behind her a few parishioners trickled in, waiting to pay their respects.

  Dalton set aside the program and lowered his face into his hands. He steepled his fingers over his nose and prayed a few moments before standing.

  He walked down a side aisle to the vestibule where he found Sammy waiting. Her beauty brightened the dark room as she clutched a stack of pamphlets.

  “How can I help?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m feeling anxious.”

  “About the service?” His brow furrowed. “You’ve taken care of everything.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m scared, Dalton. We’re well past the seventy-two hour mark that Gordy warned us about. It didn’t hit me until we arrived this morning and I began lighting the candles. Gordy believes people will go crazy. A mob mentality will form and there will be looting. Do you think he’s right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Her eyes searched his. “Why are you so calm?”

  “I’m trying to hold it together, for all of our sakes.”

  He yearned to hold her but reached for her hand instead.

  She didn’t pull away, but stared at the front door. “I’m praying this will be a day of comfort for the Connors.” She gazed at the anteroom’s vaulted ceiling. “Let this be a good day, God.”

  ***

  Seated again on the platform, Dalton stared as congregants gathered. He glanced at Matt and Carla in the front row, clinging to one another. Carla stared at the casket while Matt looked away.

  Members from Matt and Carla’s family were noticeably absent though Carla’s sister, Jan, had managed to come in from Phoenix. She’d taken back roads as all major highways were shut down, due to looting in the city.

  Dalton caressed his mother’s name imprinted on her Bible. Would the passage he’d chosen offer some comfort? If Grace was in that box, would a Bible verse help him? He wasn’t sure it would.

  An acappella group finished singing the Sunday-school favorite, Jesus Loves Me, then took seats on the platform. That was Dalton’s cue. He hugged the Bible like an old friend and walked to the pulpit.

  Those sitting in the pews gave him their full attention. Some smiled, others nodded their heads. A few stray tears escaped as he scanned the congregation.

  With no microphone, he spoke loudly. “Let me begin by telling you something about Charity Connor.” Dalton’s voice boomed, then echoed. He glanced up, surprised. How like God to provide the cavernous ceiling that amplified his words.

  He looked at the small casket. “Though barely seven years old, she loved Jesus with all her heart. She suffered terribly in this life yet never stopped believing. We could learn a lot from this little girl.

  “I once saw her gazing at that window.” Dalton pointed to the stained glass near the piano depicting Jesus blessing the children. “She seemed awe-struck by it. Something about that artwork imprinted on her heart.”

  Dalton opened the Bible. “Let’s read a passage in Romans,” he said. “It’s been typed on your program.” Though some rustled through paper pamphlets, most opened their Bibles. Even the younger folks.

  “The Spirit helps us in our weaknesses,” he read. “For we do not know what to pray, but the Spirit, Himself, intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words ...” Dalton looked up, scanned the room. Everyone seemed to be listening intently. “Sometimes when our prayers seem inadequate, the Spirit of God can groan our agonies to the Father. This is one of those times.”

  Dalton caught Matt’s gaze and paused. Sorrow warped Matt’s face.

  “We don’t know how to pray, let alone what to say.” Dalton cleared his throat, then looked at the congregation. “Some of us may ask, ‘Why would God allow this? Why would He take this precious child?”

  He looked at Sammy who huddled with Grace, holding her hand. Their eyes met and she nodded, gifting him encouragement as she had for almost two decades.

  “On this side of heaven, there is no answer to a que
stion like this,” he continued. “There never will be. It’s best not to offer a mourning family answers as to why. They never help.

  “But there is something we can do. God makes it clear we are to come along side the broken-hearted. The Lord reminded me this morning of a verse in Ecclesiastes. Please turn to chapter four.” Once again the sanctuary exploded with the sound of rustling paper.

  “As a minister, I have used this portion of scripture for weddings. This is the first time I’ve chosen it for a funeral.

  “‘Two people are better off than one,’” Dalton read. “‘If one falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.’

  “What is Solomon saying? Does anyone know?” The pews remained silent, his question, rhetorical. “The passage is obvious. We need each other.

  “Look at this, brothers and sisters.” Dalton’s voice notched. “‘Three are even better … a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.’”

  Dalton closed the Bible and looked at the crowd affectionately. This might be the last time he’d speak to them as their pastor. He’d been unsure about conducting this service. But now he was thankful that Matt had insisted he officiate. He needed to see his flock as people and not numbers in an attendance log. Today they had become precious to him. The lights had shut off but a new light inside could not be snuffed out.

  He turned to face the Connors. “Today we grieve with you,” he told them. “Tomorrow we walk with you. You will not be alone. That cord I just read about is knotted with the love of God’s people.”

  He descended the steps around Charity’s casket, and stood in front of Matt and Carla.

  He took hold of their hands. “We … all of us here…” Dalton paused and looked up at the congregation. “are so deeply sorry for your loss.” Tears gathered. His eyes locked with Matt’s. “I … am so sorry. No matter what happens, brother, I’m here for you.”

  Still gripping their hands, Dalton looked at the parishioners. “In fact, we’re all here for you, aren’t we, folks? Heads nodded. Some people called out promises to do so. Matt and Carla wept.

  Dalton hugged them each a long time.

  He returned to the pulpit and announced, “Please join us outside for the committal rite. Ushers will be at the exits with flowers. Take a few for the next part of the service.”

  ***

  Dalton surveyed the crowd. Mourners, holding hundreds of blooms, huddled around the heartbroken family. Upstaged by a myriad of colors, washed in resplendent glory, the historic graveyard resembled Monet's Giverny Garden in springtime. The floral fragrance permeated the air, filling the cemetery with what was surely the scent of heaven.

  People stood behind the family who sat on folding chairs in front of the coffin. Grace clutched a white daisy with one hand and squeezed Dalton’s hand with the other. Four pallbearers, including Gordy, lowered Charity into a six-foot grave. Once the coffin reached the ground, the ropes were removed and tossed aside.

  Dalton attempted to hand off Grace to Samantha.

  “No, Daddy!” she shouted. The crowd glanced their way.

  Sammy bent over to whisper. “It’ll be okay, Grace,” she said. “Daddy needs to speak to the people.”

  “No! I want to be with, Daddy.” Grace’s face reflected an unusual stubbornness. She was usually so compliant. Dalton gave Sammy a puzzled look.

  She shrugged. “She’s missing her friend. Let her stand with you, honey.”

  With his seven-year-old clinging to his side, Dalton faced the congregation. “We are all made from dust, and to dust we all return,” he said, looking down into the deep hole. “Like this precious little girl, each of us here will someday make our own journey to God.” He looked into Matt’s and Carla’s eyes, searching their faces. “This is your hope. You will see her again.”

  He invited everyone to drop their flowers onto Charity’s casket. The crowd formed a line winding through hundred-year-old tombstones. One by one, they filed past, dropping blossoms onto the coffin.

  Plop … plop … Each flower echoed sadness. As the line dwindled, the sounds were muffled by the growing mountain of blossoms.

  Betty Roark began singing My Hope is Built on Nothing Less. When she launched into the chorus, the congregation joined her. “On Christ, the Solid Rock, I stand, all other ground is sinking sand. All other ground is sinking sand.”

  Dalton closed his eyes, remembering his own mother singing the classic hymn. She played it and others on their Steinway during the rare times when his father was away. Songs like this always brought peace to his heart.

  When darkness veils His lovely face,

  I rest on His unchanging grace;

  In every high and stormy gale,

  My anchor holds within the veil.

  On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;

  all other ground is sinking sand.

  More often than Dalton liked to admit, darkness had shrouded God’s face. Especially during the last eight months of his drug addiction. But in one moment, in a dank cell, God rent the curtain, allowing Dalton to enter boldly to the throne room and find a Father who truly loved him. Then today, just as quickly, that same Father used an old hymn to show him his future.

  He gazed at the clouds above. The song’s profound words stirred him with purpose. In the days and weeks ahead, people would need an anchor. A raging storm bore upon them that would leave a wake of chaos and terror. Friendship with the Father and believing He loved each of them would help to quell its vicious path of destruction. All would need a loving Father waiting behind the veil.

  The congregation had coalesced into a cohesive hum, while Betty, who knew every word from every hymn, continued to sing. Dalton smiled, his eyes misted, observing the people, compassion flowed. These dear ones, especially these grief-stricken parents, would need his help, even if that meant as a layperson and not a minister. Without an anchored faith within the veil, they’d go under, helpless and floundering, swallowed by fear.

  He perused the crowd and noticed Deidra, her face nodding toward him, tears falling into her clutched hankie.

  He looked for Brad Sanders, hoping for a similar response. When their eyes met, Sanders returned a scowl.

  Dalton smiled back, rejecting the man’s disdain. The same God who had softened Dalton’s stony heart, just days before, could do the same for anyone. Even Brad. Only God’s light could penetrate man’s deepest darkness. He was living proof of that. Dalton had found grace in the shadows.

  The End

  I appreciate your help…

  _________________________________________________________

  Since I am new author, getting the word out about Grace In The Shadows has been a bit of a challenge. If you enjoyed the book, would you mind leaving a review on Amazon? I would really appreciate it. Go to this link. Thank you!

  To Those I Hold Dear

  More Dedications and Acknowledgments

  To my children: Natalie Meyer, Bethany Nasont, Amanda D’Amico, and Luke Ruiz. I am blessed to be your mother. Each of you holds a piece of my heart. There are no words adequate to describe how you have enriched my life.

  To my sister, Elizabeth Conkle (Beth), who walked my husband and myself through the hardest season of our lives. We love you, Sis!

  To the A-Team: Alan Meyer, Adam Nasont and Andrew D’Amico. I could have not have asked for better husbands for my girls. I thank God for each of you.

  To my grandchildren, five little reasons I enjoy life more these days: Elijah, David, Matthew, Emma Grace*, and Daisy Joy. The best part of getting old is grandchildren—hands down!

  To my sisters in Christ: Jenny Vanderhoof, Mary Siemens, Cathy Crumley, Nancy Breckenridge, Barbara Mertz, Rocky Cleary, Ralaine Fagone, and Jan Coyne. Thank you for letting me laugh with you, cry with you, and pray with you. You are kindred spirits and true friends.

  To ten dear writers: Susie Bessinger, Toni Weymouth, Carrie Padgett, Terell Byrd, Ralaine Fagone
, Twyla Smith, Elizabeth Hiett, Sheri Humphreys, Phyllis Brown, and Bethany Paige. Week after week, I developed my craft in this safe and accepting environment. I couldn’t have done this without you!

  *To Emma Grace: As you get older, you might wonder why your Mimi was the only one in the family who called you “Grace.” That is for a reason. Besides one of the character’s names, the amazing theme of Grace is woven throughout this book. When you learn a life of Grace, your life will never be the same.

  I wish to acknowledge my pastor, Father Carlos Raines, who gave me a wealth of knowledge about the liturgical style of worship. Father Carlos was my go-to guy for High Church. Thank you, Father Carlos, for your love and support through a very dark, yet redemptive time in my life. Thank you--Saint James Anglican Church family for being a “safe” place to heal.

  I am grateful for the “grace” writings of Wayne Jacobsen, Steve McVey, Brennan Manning and others who have been traveling companions along the journey of grace. Similar to Dalton Baxter, I too, struggle with a performance-based life. These authors have given me great insight into the truth of the Gospel.

  Thank you Bethany Shumate, a writer in her own right, my neighbor and dear friend, who muddled through my first drafts with red pen in hand. You encouraged me to keep going when I wanted to quit.

  I cannot forget Alisha Lamp, a recovering addict, who helped me to understand opiate addiction, especially with OxyContin. God has done an amazing redemptive work in her life. She is currently helping other addicts as a substance abuse counselor as she earns a Bachelors Degree in Social Work at Fresno Pacific University.

  Author’s Op-Ed