Standing Strong

by Theresa Linden

  Brother Damien took the bow from the brother who strung it. “Ever try archery?”

  “Uh, yeah. I have some experience.” Keefe studied the shiny recurve bow in the brother’s hands.

  “Then I don’t need to show you how it’s done?” Brother Damien’s tone held the hint of a challenge. He arched a brow as he offered the bow to Keefe.

  “Nope.” Keefe accepted the bow but not the challenge. The target stood a mere twenty yards away. He’d heard the scores of the others from Brother Paschal. He could easily hit a target eighty yards away, but he decided to shoot average shots today and not stand out.

  “Okay, stand back everyone. We have a new archer.” Brother Damien pointed to where Keefe should stand, the corner opposite the target, then he grabbed a handful of arrows. “Stand sideways, you know, with your body perpendicular to the target.” He modeled the pose.

  Keefe nodded, amused that Brother Damien felt the need to instruct him. Aware of everyone’s eyes on him, Keefe stood tall and relaxed as he nocked an arrow. He held the arrow lightly on the string and turned his gaze to the target, the rings of black, blue, and red around a yellow circle. Ready to disguise his skill, he shifted his focus to the black ring and then lifted and drew the bow.

  Blessed is he who takes no offense at me.

  The sudden intrusion of the verse into his mind made Keefe suck in a breath. Heart thumping, he lowered the bow and his fingers slipped, sending the arrow into the grass a few feet away.

  Laughter filled the courtyard. And words of sympathy. One or two had done the same thing themselves. Another said something about follow-through.

  But the verse. What did it mean?

  Brother Damien retrieved the arrow for Keefe and offered more advice, one hand to Keefe’s shoulder.

  Keefe nodded but couldn’t hear the advice over his own thoughts. Scandalized in Christ? For trying not to hit the target? For not giving his best? For holding back so others may win and not pushing for the victory himself? He’d had a habit of giving in, giving up, letting others claim the victory. Too worried about Papa’s reaction, he’d held back and hoped for other ways of discerning his vocation. A part of him even rejoiced in the thought that he wasn’t called because then he wouldn’t have to explain himself to Papa again. He wouldn’t have to fight to win. He didn’t want Papa upset over his life choices. He didn’t want to leave Jarret either, especially since he was so new in his faith and so susceptible to temptation. And Roland, the loner, needed him too.

  His past, his failings... He’d wanted to believe he wasn’t worthy of the calling. He’d been weak all his life, going along with Jarret’s bad ideas and making moral compromises. A man of faith didn’t do that.

  Only one receives the prize. Shoot so as to win.

  Hoping to calm the wild beating of his heart, Keefe sucked in a breath. He wiped a sweaty hand on his khakis and re-gripped the bow.

  “That’s it.” Brother Damien slapped Keefe on the shoulder and backed up. “You got it. Go, Keefe.”

  The other brothers chanted, “Go, Keefe. Go, Keefe.”

  Keefe nocked the arrow and lifted the bow, three fingers lightly holding the arrow to the string, determination flowing through him in every movement of his body and will. He’d blow all their scores away. Brother Damien had better be ready with more arrows.

  Focusing on the yellow circle in the middle of the target, Keefe drew the string toward his chin and peered down the spine of the arrow. “All my best for you, Lord,” he prayed as he relaxed his fingers and let the arrow fly.

  The arrow hit its mark and everyone cheered.

  Keefe took another arrow from Brother Damien, who stared at the target with wide eyes. He nocked the arrow and focused on the center of the target. Allowing his subconscious to guide his movements, he raised and drew the bow in one fluid movement and sent another arrow to the center of the target. And another and another until Brother Damien stood with empty hands and an open mouth and everyone else cheered and clapped.

  Feeling a strange mix of humility and pride of accomplishment, Keefe handed the bow back.

  “Wow,” Brother Damien said. “I guess I need to learn something from you.”

  Keefe dipped his head and smiled. The brothers and retreatants gathered round, including a few others that Keefe hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “If you decide to join the friary, you can be on my team.” Brother Pascal glanced at another brother and pointed first to Keefe and then himself.

  “Yeah, about that.” Ever since speaking with Brother Giles and telling him that he didn’t think he had a calling, Keefe had felt a bit guilty and fake on the retreat. “I don’t think I’m cut out—”

  “Hey, Keefe.” Brother Giles stepped from the back of a cluster of brothers. “Mind if I tell everyone why you were late?”

  “Uh...” A fresh wave of heat assailed him, and for a moment he regretted telling the friar. “I guess not.”

  The group shifted, everyone forming a circle in the corner of the courtyard.

  “Keefe would’ve been here on time. But he passed a stranger in need. A woman had pulled off the highway because of a flat tire. He wouldn’t have been the only one to pass her by, but he was the only one to turn back and help her. Her need became more important to him than his need.” He proceeded to retell the story, emphasizing how Keefe had not given up when anyone else may have. He sacrificed his time, money, and even his future to serve Christ in the moment.

  Brother Giles paused, his gaze piercing through Keefe’s veneer. “When you so willingly stop by the side of the road to help a stranger in need, you are preaching the Gospel. As Our Seraphic Father said, ‘The deeds you do may be the only sermon some persons will hear today.’” He paused again, all eyes shifting from him to Keefe now. “If the Lord calls you to this life, we would be honored to call you Brother.”

  The other friars nodded and voiced their agreement.

  Brother Charles spoke next, smiling as he almost always did, but with a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. “Don’t think about being unworthy. We’re all unworthy. Before his conversion, St. Francis made so many mistakes that he said, ‘I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, He can work through anyone.’”

  “I have a confession to make.” Brother Leopold stroked his scraggly beard. “Keefe...” Shoulders slumped, he lifted his eyes with a somewhat hangdog expression on his face. “When we worked together cleaning the friary, I got the impression you came from money, probably hadn’t worked a day in your life. I’d have bet you never even cleaned your own room. So maybe I threw more at you than I should’ve.” His shoulders bounced up and down, a sheepish shrug. “But you accepted everything with patience, which is something I still struggle to do. And maybe you do come from money, but you’re poor in spirit. You’re more worthy of this vocation than I am.” He nodded at Keefe and bowed his head.

  “The Holy Spirit has brought you here,” Brother Simon said, his long nose pointing out his childlike smile. “Let him continue to guide you. Which reminds me...” He patted the pockets of his robe. “I have a verse for you.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled them out empty. “Well, never mind. I have it here.” He tapped his forehead. “Turn often to Isaiah 41:10. ‘Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.’”

  Overcome with emotion, seeing it himself only now, Keefe covered his teary eyes with his hand. How far would he go to please the Lord? What was he willing to give up?

  Everything.

  Last fall in Italy, God had opened his eyes to His love and planted a seed in his heart, making him long for a way to return love for love. Heart aching, he’d chosen the Lord over Jarret ever since, losing their close relationship in the process. He was willing to give it all up and go all the way for Christ. He longed for a way to return God’s love. Total sacrifice of self seemed the only satisfying way.

  Then he’d
met the Franciscan friars at the Brandts’ Bed & Breakfast. Their joy and life of penance spoke to him. And the seed that had been planted in the fall, sprouted over the summer. And now, this fall, it wanted to grow more. Would he keep a lid on his faith? Would he hide behind his fears? Fear of his faith shining in the darkness for all to see, fear of others suffering if he lived his life for Christ, fear of giving his best, fear of being unworthy of this calling... No. He would not be afraid anymore.

  Wherever God called him, he would go.

  As if jolted by electricity, the hair on his arms stood up and his skin tingled. The charge traveled deep inside from head to toe and his heart now told him: God called him here.

  CHAPTER 38

  Absolution tingling through every pore in his body and to the depths of his soul, Jarret swung the oak door of the confessional open and stepped out. He couldn’t stop smiling as he strode down the aisle toward the altar. A single light shone on the crucifix that hung over the golden tabernacle, and a red candle burned nearby. The faint scent of incense permeated the cool air. Peace accompanying him, he slid into a pew and knelt to make his penance and thanksgiving. God was so good to him.

  When he finally lifted his bowed head, his heart stirred. The eyes of the Blessed Virgin statue gazed down at him. He hadn’t realized that he’d knelt on the Mary side of the altar. “Thanks,” he whispered, intensely aware that her motherly help and protection had brought him victory.

  Ready to go, Jarret glanced over his shoulder to find Papa. On the way home from the campground yesterday, guilt over standing up Father Carston had struck him, and he’d begged Papa to run him by the church. But Papa wouldn’t do it. “No, I’m taking you home. We need to get those scrapes cleaned up.” Papa had later fetched his cowboy hat from the campground but hadn’t stayed the night. And this morning, he’d come up to Jarret in the kitchen, rattling his keys. “I’ll take you up to the church now.”

  Jarret had dropped his fork and nearly lost the scrambled eggs in his mouth. Stunned by Papa’s offer and aware of the time—the confession hour—he’d shoved his late breakfast aside and taken him up on it.

  Now Papa knelt hunched over in a pew, head bowed, Stetson hanging from his clasped hands over the pew in front of him. Was he going to make a confession? It must’ve been years for him.

  Affording Papa his privacy, Jarret got up and shuffled quietly from the church. He strolled across the strip of grass alongside the church and leaned against the solitary tree. A few yellow leaves peeked out from the thick green foliage on branches that reached in every direction. The approaching autumn hung in the cool air.

  A few minutes later, Jarret sat in the grass and leaned against the tree trunk. If Papa did decide to make a confession, he might be in there for a while. Father Carston would go easy on him, the way he had on Jarret. Even today, after he’d stood him up yesterday, Father Carston had been understanding.

  Jarret had apologized as soon as he’d entered the confessional. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed my appointment yesterday.”

  No trace of anger in his voice, Father Carston had simply said, “Not to worry, Jarret. Shall we begin in the name of the Father...”

  Peace continued to swirl in Jarret’s soul. And thankfulness. Incidentally, when he’d gotten home from the campground, he’d realized that Peter hadn’t taken his journal after all. Last time he’d written in it, Jarret had stuffed it between the headboard and pillow, instead of his regular hiding spot between the mattress and the box spring. He’d almost pummeled Peter over nothing.

  Watching a squirrel dig in the grass a few yards away, Jarret toyed with the cord of the brown scapular around his neck. Without the consolation he’d experienced after Arizona, he had a feeling he was really going to need this in the years ahead. And the Sacrament of Confession. He couldn’t do it all on his own, but he didn’t have to. The Blessed Virgin would help him. God called him to surrender and trust. That’s where he’d find victory.

  Movement by the side of the church drew Jarret’s eyes.

  The side door flung open and Papa staggered out, seeming in quite the hurry. And looking shaken. A few steps later, he adjusted his Stetson and regained his typical long stride as he crossed the mostly empty parking lot toward his silver Lexus.

  KEEFE ROLLED INTO THE garage around 8:00 p.m., his head aching from having squinted into the sunset for the last stretch of the long drive home. The sight of Papa’s Lexus, Jarret’s Chrysler 300, and even the Digby’s Crown Victoria in the garage made him take a deep breath and sigh. He liked that he’d find everyone at home.

  Silence enveloped him as he stepped into the dark mudroom off the garage, though the echo of the road still rang in his ears. Deciding to talk to Papa before anyone else, he dropped his travel bag to the floor and shuffled to the front hallway. The door to Papa’s study stood open, but the only light came from the chandelier in the foyer at the far end of the hallway.

  Keefe retraced his steps, grabbed his overnight bag from the floor, and went to the back of the house. Light streamed into the family room through the windows overlooking the veranda. He looked through a window. Someone had left a tray of dishes and condiments on a table. No one was there.

  He shuffled through the long, dimly lit living room and into the great room. Light from the kitchen spilled into the formal dining room and side hallway, but he heard no voices.

  Weary and ready for a hot shower and bed, Keefe flipped on a light and climbed the stairs. He hit the light switch in his bedroom and his gaze snapped to the San Damiano crucifix in his new prayer corner. Joy sparked at the welcome sight. He liked the new arrangement of furniture, the simplicity; though it was a far cry from the bedroom he’d have at the friary.

  Keefe dropped his travel bag onto his bed and dug around for his phone and charger. It had run out of charge an hour ago. He plugged it in by his desk and called Jarret to see where everyone was.

  “Hu-hey, Keefe. Welcome home.” Then his tone turned serious. “We’re out back. Get your butt out here now. Papa’s lost his mind.”

  Keefe laughed. He plugged his phone into the charger and traipsed downstairs.

  He left the house through the door in the laundry room. As he neared the backyard, he glimpsed the flames of tiki torches farther back. Planted in the yard, two tiki torches flanked the portable archery target. Two more torches stood fifty or so yards away from it, a group gathered in their flickering light. Papa, Roland, Peter, and... Keefe squinted for a better look, glimpsing red hair. Was that Kyle? Kyle lifted a bow and faced the target.

  “Hey, there you are.” Jarret came from the shadows, bumping into Keefe, maybe intentionally. He pulled Keefe into a hug and then pushed him back and held him at arm’s length.

  “So check Papa out.” He tilted his chin in Papa’s direction and grabbed Keefe’s arm, dragging him to a circle of camp chairs around a blazing bonfire. “We really need to have that talk. And since we’re all here—”

  “What’s up with Papa tonight?” Keefe studied his surroundings.

  Christmas lights decorated the bushes in the landscaping. Nanny and Mr. Digby stood by an open barbecue grill. Mr. Digby scraped the grill grates with a big spatula while Nanny babbled on to him about something. Cans of pop and bottles of water sat in the grass around the camp chairs, a tray of dirty utensils in one chair.

  “Keefe!” Nanny shouted and hurried toward him. “We didn’t think you’d get here for another hour.”

  “Yeah, I left earlier than I thought. Didn’t want to get home too late.” He opened his arms as she drew near.

  Mr. Digby shuffled over as Nanny hugged Keefe. Not one for hugs, he offered his hand. “Welcome back. How’s the truck?” He wasn’t one for personal or sentimental comments either.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you hungry? We have plenty of leftovers.” Nanny clasped her hands and smiled.

  “No, not really. Just want to relax.”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll tell your father you’re here.” Nanny took
Mr. Digby by the arm. “Maybe he won’t mind if we head in for the night. I’d like to get those dishes washed...” Her voice trailed off as they strolled out toward the archers.

  Jarret sat in one of the camp chairs, motioned for Keefe to do the same, and grabbed the can of Coke beside the leg of the chair. “Soon as Papa picked Roland up from camping this afternoon—”

  “Wait,” Keefe interrupted. “I thought Papa went camping with Roland.”

  “Right.” Jarret took a swig of Coke. “Well, he came home early.”

  “Why?”

  Jarret froze, his look revealing he had something he needed to talk about. “We can chat later, but you’re gonna hear some rumors about me at school.”

  “What rumors?”

  A strange look passed over Jarret’s face. “Something about me and Chantelle. Just know the rumors aren’t true. And I’m gonna have to repair my image or learn to live with it. Anyway...” He flung a hand out to indicate the arrangement of camp chairs. “Papa got home and started setting up all this. Then he told me and Roland to invite our friends for a cookout.”

  Keefe would’ve liked to hear about Jarret’s dilemma now, but he respected that Jarret wanted to change the subject. “A cookout. That’s kind of nice. Right?”

  Jarret’s eyes bugged. “Not if we have to invite our friends. Who am I gonna invite? They all brought beer last time. So I told Kyle he owed me one and made him come alone. Of course Roland had to invite Peter.” He gave another bug-eyed look and a little head shake.

  The group cheered, Peter’s voice the loudest. And Kyle threw a hand in the air. The Digbys reached Papa. Papa and Roland looked Keefe’s way and started over toward the bonfire.

  “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to shoot arrows in the dark?” Keefe said.

  Jarret took a swig of his pop. “Eh, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “They could shoot each other.”