by Randy Alcorn
She’d changed so much in the months since he’d seen her, as much as Doc’s Molly. It hadn’t been that long. Had it? Carly was looking the other way, at nothing, but Jake had the distinct impression she’d seen him.
“Welcome, Jake. We’ve got a box seat for you.” Sue pointed at the aisle seat, next to Little Finn.
“Thanks.” He looked straight ahead to the cross-shaped pulpit, only two steps up and a few feet away. He fidgeted uncomfortably at his closeness to that cross. Little Finn chattered on, explaining everything to Jake, including where they put the overhead projector on Sunday mornings, where the choir sang, and countless other details that would fascinate only him. Finn pointed with pride to the basketball hoops, on the sides, raised up so they were hardly noticeable on solemn occasions. Finney invited Jake to church several times, but he never pushed it, sensing his discomfort. He’d invited him to play basketball here many times, but Jake always had an excuse even for that.
He found himself wishing he could go one on one with Finney under those hoops right now. Sorry I never came here to play ball with you, old buddy. If I had another chance, I would.
An older man led some songs, including several he said were Finney’s favorites. One of the few Jake recognized was “Amazing Grace.” Two men and women stood up, accompanied by a synthesizer, and sang an upbeat song with the words “This I know, my God is for me, this I know,” and another, “You’re my Anchor beyond the veil.”
The room darkened abruptly and projected images, accompanied by energetic music, appeared on the huge screen. Jake watched the black and white images of Finney as a young child. Memories of Finney’s mom and that old house surged through him. There was Finney on what looked like the first day of school, smiling that inimitable ear-to-ear smile. Everyone burst out laughing, Jake along with them.
Now three little boys took over the screen, hair mussed, T-shirts stained, looking like a band of ragamuffins. Trouble waiting to happen. They stood by playground monkey bars, posing and pretending they weren’t. Jake remembered the exact day. It was his eleventh birthday. His stained T-shirt was from the strawberry shortcake his mom made at his request. After gobbling it down, they’d climbed over the cyclone fence onto the old school playground just a block from Jake’s house. His mother followed the long way around and took this picture.
His mother—Jake realized he hadn’t talked to his mother since the accident. Hadn’t told her about Doc and Finney. She’d probably read about it, or heard the story circulating in the retirement home. Maybe Janet had called her. He felt ashamed.
Jake refocused on the slides, seeing Finney at his grade school graduation, he and Doc seeming to creep into every picture, often clowning around. There they were in a dozen other pictures, then with the high school football team, state champs. Their proudest moment. Now Finney donned a uniform, standing proudly beside two other young and virile soldiers. Jake looked at himself, the young man sandwiched between Finney and Doc. It was so long ago, yet only yesterday. There he was again, standing beside Finney and Sue at their wedding. And there was Jenny as a little girl. Little Jenny. Jake felt the lump in his throat. He glanced at Sue and saw the strange blend of joy and pain in her eyes.
Now there was little Angela on the screen beside Jenny, then Little Finn in both girl’s arms. The family of five in slide after slide, until suddenly, abruptly, it was only the four of them. Jenny wouldn’t appear in any more pictures, a silent testimony to the tragedy.
There was the family of four on vacations, at sporting events, on the back lawn, everywhere. And there…Finney and Jake and Doc on a hunting trip, standing together. Another hunter had taken it. The three of them again after playing football in the mud, just a few years ago. Finney with one of the young pregnant girls they’d taken in. Finney holding a baby. Finney playing ball with minority kids in the inner city. And finally, a slide of text only, New Century Schoolbook font, Jake and no one else noticed. It said, “Well done my good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
The slide projector shut off, the lights slowly came up, and the audience erupted into applause, spontaneous thunderous applause. Jake joined it, knowing the applause wasn’t for whoever put together the presentation. The applause was for Finney. For a man who’d lived well. A man who’d kept his promises to his family. A man who’d been there for those who needed him. Impossibly, Jake felt warmed and chilled in the same moment.
Alan Weber got up behind the pulpit, eyes red and puffy. He paused, gaining composure, voice slightly cracking. “Finney was a good friend. I’m going to say some things on Finney’s behalf, what I think he’d say if he could step back and join us here today.”
Jake braced himself, wishing he could be just about any place else.
“In his final illness, D. L. Moody said, ‘Soon you will read in the newspaper that I am dead. Don’t believe it for a moment. I will be more alive than ever before.’ Well, folks, you read in the newspaper this week that Finney Keels is dead. Don’t believe it for a moment. Finney is more alive than ever before.” Affirming murmurs rose from all over the auditorium.
If only I could believe that.
“You and I have a hard time imagining life after death, don’t we? Picture two twins in their mother’s womb, debating about what’s outside. The one says, ‘There’s a whole world out there—grassy meadows and mountains and streams, horses and dogs and cats and giraffes, and huge blue-green oceans with whales and dolphins and fish of every color. And there’s people like us, only much bigger, and they can walk, run, and jump, and play games like football and baseball. There’s skyscrapers and stadiums and freeways. And soon we’re going to leave here and join them in that world.’ His twin brother scrunches up his face, looks at him and says, ‘Are you crazy? Get real. There’s no life after birth!’” Laughter rippled through the audience.
“The point is, reality isn’t determined by the limits of our ability to believe or understand, is it? Life after birth is real, even if unborn children can’t imagine it. Life after death is real even if we can’t imagine it.”
But how do you know it’s real? How do you know we’re not just zeroes, coming from nowhere and going nowhere? How do you know we’re not just annihilated or reincarnated or absorbed into the cosmos, or whatever? How can you possibly know?
“I want to make four brief statements about death.” Jake looked at his watch and fidgeted. “First, life’s greatest certainty is death. The statistics never change. Of those who are born, 100 percent die.”
Now there’s an encouraging thought.
“Second, death will come whether or not you’re prepared for it. Talking about death won’t hasten it. Denying death won’t delay it. Psalm 39 says, ‘Each man’s life is but a breath.’ The only question is whether or not you and I are ready when death comes.”
Okay, okay, we get the point!
“Third, death is not an end. It’s a transition. Death dissolves the bond between spirit and body. Ecclesiastes 12:7 says, ‘The dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.’ Death is simply a doorway to another world.
“If I were to suddenly walk out this door,” Alan pointed to a door on the left side of the auditorium, “you’d no longer be able to see me, but would you conclude I no longer existed? Of course not. I would simply have moved out of your sight. Finney has walked out the door, moved out of our sight. That’s all.”
You can’t know that. Is death a door? Maybe it’s just a hole.
“My final point is this—death will bring us face to face with our Creator. There is a God, and all of us will stand before him. Hebrews 9:27 says, ‘Man is destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.’ The fundamental issue for each of us will be whether our name is written in the Lamb’s book of life. This will determine whether we spend eternity in heaven or hell.”
Jake cringed at the word. Can’t you guys preach just one sermon without talking about hell?
“In the front
of his Bible Finney wrote these words spoken by Jim Elliot, a missionary killed taking the gospel to a tribe in Ecuador: ‘He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.’”
Alan paused, looking across the auditorium. Suddenly Jake thought he was looking right at him. “Make no mistake, friends. Finney was no fool.”
Jake felt pulled two directions, as if two forces greater than himself waged war within him.
“The Bible says one day ‘each of us will give an account of himself to God.’ Finney was ready for that day. He lived his life in light of eternity. So should we all.”
Alan paused, fighting a wave of emotion that threatened to take his voice for a ride. “I already miss Finney. We had lunch together every Tuesday. I look forward to seeing him again on the other side.” Alan’s voice finally broke. “The certainty of that reunion is what makes the parting bearable.”
Certainty? How can you say that? You don’t know. No one can know.
“Let me end with a true story. Alfred Nobel was a Swedish chemist who made his fortune inventing dynamite and other powerful explosives, bought by governments to produce weapons. When Nobel’s brother died, one newspaper accidentally printed Alfred’s obituary instead. It described him as a man who got rich helping people kill each other in unprecedented quantities. Shaken from this assessment of his life, Nobel resolved to use his fortune to reward accomplishments that benefited humanity, including what we now know as the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Nobel had a rare opportunity—to look at the assessment of his life at its end, but to still be alive and have opportunity to change that assessment. Let’s put ourselves in Nobel’s place. Let’s read our own obituary, not as written in the newspaper by uninformed or biased men, but as an onlooking angel might write it, from heaven’s point of view. Let’s examine it carefully. Then, remembering Finney’s example, let’s use the rest of our lives here to edit that obituary into what we really want it to say.”
Jake watched Weber sit down, unsure how to assess the man. Then a tall young man with an incredible voice got up and sang, “May all who come behind us find us faithful.” This song especially touched Sue.
Finally, they stood and sang a song Jake hadn’t heard before, but which made him think of marching into battle, fighting for some great cause. “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Again, someone said it was one of Finney’s favorites. Jake felt strange to be unfamiliar with “favorites” of one of the two closest friends he’d ever had. He knew Finney tried often to bring him into this part of his life, but he’d always resisted. This religious stuff just wasn’t Jake, and never would be.
Almost an hour after the service, to his surprise Jake found himself still at the church. Person after person introduced himself and expressed his sympathy. Little Finn wouldn’t let go of Jake. He introduced him to everyone and gave him the grand tour that included his Sunday school class, where his dad taught the high school group, where his mom went to women’s Bible study, and on and on. When they reemerged from the quiet recesses of the church building, people still lingered. Many were chatting and laughing and still wiping away tears.
Sue and Angela were next to Alan Weber, still talking to everyone who wanted to talk, and clearly a lot of people did. Jake found himself drawn to the pictures and memorabilia on the tables. He quietly fingered various objects of importance to Finney, including an old baseball glove from his childhood, now Little Finn’s. Jake looked closely at a certain place in the lower part of the webbing. There it was. His faded signature, and Doc’s. Each had signed the other’s glove when they played together in Little League.
It’s the end of an era. No more Sunday afternoon football. No more hunting trips. No more excursions in Doc’s latest spotless macho vehicle. No more howling games of Wolfenstein 3-D on Finney’s computer. No more Doc. No more Finney. He needed a drink. Or a long nap. Maybe both.
Come tomorrow, I’ll get some distance from all this. Jake had no way of knowing how wrong he was.
Those still remaining in the church were reluctant to leave. You’d think they’d want to get as far away from death as possible.
But there was something compelling about this day, this place, this service, and especially this life—Finney’s life—that made people want to linger, to contemplate, to evaluate, to anticipate. For the first time Jake could ever remember, he wanted to stay in a place like this, if only for the moment. He felt simultaneously repulsed and drawn by what he’d experienced here. Part of him resented the smug aura of certainty about the inherently uncertain realm of death. Yet another part was drawn to the inexplicable faith held on to so resolutely by Finney and his friends.
Yes, he’d stay here a few minutes more. If for no other reason, he knew the world awaiting him outside was harsher and a good deal less hopeful than this one. And he also knew this unexpected “ring of truth” feeling that had descended on him the last two hours would abruptly disappear when tomorrow, Monday, he reentered what was for him the real world.
CHAPTER SIX
Jake Woods pulled up to his favorite row of parking meters on Morrison, two blocks from the front door of the Tribune. He hadn’t been here since a week ago Friday. It was now the eighth day since the accident.
He popped in six quarters, buying himself three hours. He could pay for all day parking at one of the drive in structures, but enjoyed this mandatory break from his desk every three hours. The fresh air and sights and sounds invigorated him, rewarding him with fresh perspective. Sometimes he moved the car a space or two, but if no space was available he’d leave it where it was. The parking patrol knew his car and rarely enforced the “new space” rule as long as he kept the meter fed.
Jake walked pensively to the old brownish marble archway defining the front door of the Tribune, stepping gingerly because of his sore back, neck, and midsection. Much as he wanted to bury himself in his work once again, he dreaded this day. He hated special attention, and above all he hated pity. He prepared himself for sympathetic looks and understanding nods.
Jake took a deep breath and walked in the door. The first eyes to meet him were Joe’s. Loud mouthed, cocky Joe, the security guard, who was also friendly Joe, proud to work at the Tribune, proud to call Jake by his first name.
“Hello, Mr. Woods,” Joe said in a kind and respectful voice, totally unlike his real one.
Here we go. “Hi, Joe. What’s up?”
Jake didn’t want an answer, and Joe didn’t offer one. He pulled his security pass out of his front right pants pocket and clipped it to his shirt pocket. Only visitors had to wear passes until three years ago, but after a series of threatening incidents everyone had to now, still another concession to the social deterioration of a city once considered safe and honest. The face on the pass was three years younger and a lot less worn than the face Jake wore today.
Elaine, the receptionist, caught his eye and said, “Good to have you back, Jake.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m so sorry about your friends.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jake said, with a bitter edge that cut the air like a scalpel. Elaine bit her lip, wishing she’d said the right thing. She didn’t realize there was no right thing to say to Jake Woods this moment.
Jake walked the thirty feet to the elevator, people stepping out of his way as if he were a leper. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea in that Cecil B. DeMille movie. It bothered him when people spoke to him and it bothered him when they didn’t.
Two other reporters waited outside the elevator. Doug Jarmer from sports, the other guy a business reporter. Jake couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care to try. Back in the old days, before the Tribune bought out the Herald, he knew every-body. But when the Herald reporters got assimilated, Jake gave up. He knew most of the faces, and from reading bylines, a lot of the names. He just didn’t bother trying to match them up any more. The larger newspaper permitted a selective anonymity that suited Jake.
Mr. Business was the first to talk. “Jake. How are your friends’ f
amilies?”
“They’re fine,” Jake said, lying. He knew how stupid it sounded, so he added, “Obviously it’s tough on them. But they’ll make it.”
“How ’bout you? I guess you got beat up pretty bad, huh?”
“Just some cuts and bruises. I’m fine.”
Why should I be fine, when Doc and Finney are dead? It made him think of Vietnam.
The elevator ride, usually quick, was interminable.
When they reached the third floor, the others stepped out quickly. Jake emerged slowly, scanning and soaking in the closest thing to home he’d had the last few years. The newsroom.
The excited buzz of this place at once comforted and exhilarated him. It burst with activity and motion, some serious and urgent, some casual and playful, all weaving together into an unequaled rhythm. Paper dominated the landscape and scented the air. Not just newspaper, but notepads, fax paper, copy paper, magazines, letters, brown wrapping paper, manila envelopes, small paper packages. Pieces of paper thumbtacked to corkboard, taped to computers, hung on walls. Blue, green, red, and gold paper desperately trying to get attention by their contrast to the ubiquitous white. Yellow phone books, Rosetta Stones unlocking the outside world, punctuated the horizon. It was a world of words and ideas and contacts and deadlines and production and influence and impact. It was Jake’s world. He was glad to be back. He had only to get through this day, he thought, and things would be normal again.
Well over a hundred low-partitioned cubicles were linked together, cookie cutter workspaces that took on individualized looks by various knickknacks, photos and degrees of disorder. Over three hundred reporters shared the newsroom, many occupying the same desk on different shifts or different days. Some, like Jake, commanded sole ownership of their work spaces. To the uninitiated the newsroom was a hopeless maze. You had to take careful bearings to make it back to where you started. To Jake it was as familiar as the home he grew up in.