Joshua came to a stop. Brent did as well. Turning toward each other, Joshua said, “Brent, I invite honest discourse with my friends. There are two things that are very refreshing to me: faith and an honest heart. Do you think that, just because you don’t vocalize what you are feeling, your anguish is not known by me? I know everything about you. Better that you admit to me what you’re feeling than for you to self-counsel. Remember, the Holy Spirit is your Counselor and your Comforter. I—and by I, I mean We, the Three-in-One—am here to be relied upon by you, as much as I am here to be obeyed.”
Brent knew that he had just been given permission to be completely open with God. In that moment Brent thought back to the time of his greatest and most desperate need for the Lord—for Joshua. He had been sixteen-years-old and without hope. His occult practices and family problems had made for a deadly concoction from which he drank deeply every day. His resulting suicidal tendencies had pushed him to the brink of death.
Back then, he had been weighed down with anger at God for not protecting him from the maniacal voices he had to deal with every day—voices that turned out to be the very demons that had lured him into his witchcraft practices in the first place.
Just like his grandfather before him, he had lashed out at God for not seeming to care. Now, this same God was granting him the opportunity to lay everything out on the table.
“I feel as though you haven’t really been caring a lot lately about what I’ve been going through.”
“Brent, first, let’s take care of one of your most-ingrained challenges. You are relying on your feelings to gauge what is true. I didn’t design your feelings as a measuring device for truth.”
“Then what’s the point of feeling that something is wrong?”
“You almost had the answer to your question with that question. Your feelings are like a barometer or a thermometer. They allow you to know how you are gauging the things going on around you. If someone congratulates you for doing well, you feel happy. If someone criticizes you for doing wrong, you feel bad. But what if someone criticizes you and you were in the right? You still feel bad, not good. Feelings come from your mind, formed by both the conscious and subconscious. They are perceptions of things that are happening to you or to others. Sometimes your emotions are based on truth, but they are not reliable for knowing the truth.
“Now, your feelings as they relate to me; let’s take a look at some of those. You are angry because of your car. You are frustrated because of your employment situation. You are bitter and hurt because of how your mamaw died and the timing. All of these feelings do not relay the truth about any of the situations that you have been encountering. If you knew the complete truth—which you never will in total—you would have completely different emotions. You would, in fact, be encouraged.”
For the first time since stepping foot in Joshua’s “board room,” Brent felt the rise of anger. “I would be encouraged? Really? How could that possibly be true?”
“Brenton, son of dust, know that I do not owe you any answers. I am sovereign, and I am right in how I handle things. All things will work out for your good because of your love for me. However, since I brought you here to have a conversation, I am going to give you a little bit of clarity.
“Your job frustrations are eventually going to lead you into a career that is going to be more fulfilling and more challenging than you can possibly imagine. I have a purpose for you within that career for which you were created. I will block certain employment choices of yours in order to direct you to where you and I want you to be.
“Your lack of a car is only for a time. It was good that you did not travel to Kentucky for your mamaw’s funeral on your own. You need your family and they will need you.”
Brent’s perspectives on things were being rocked to the core. He felt unbalanced and humbled. But in his mind he wasn’t even close to hearing a satisfying conclusion.
“And the timing of my mamaw’s death? How she died?”
“Brent, there are other stories going on besides your own.”
Anger spiked again.
“Other stories? What’s that supposed to mean? That woman was the most important person in my life! What’s wrong with allowing her to live? Others are allowed to live past a hundred years old, and you couldn’t see clear to have her live another decade or two?”
“Tell me, son of dust, at what age would it have been appropriate for me to bring her home?”
“I don’t know. Eighty?”
“And when she reached that age and died, would you have been happy?”
“Happier.”
“What if I had chosen a more drawn-out death for your mamaw? What if you had been on the other side of the planet when she began to die? What if her pain had been so severe that every breath she took had been pure anguish? Should I have caused her to endure more just so that you could fly home and drive to her hospital bed to say goodbye?”
“You are God! You don’t have to let things go that way! You’re supposed to be the one who knows how to time all events so that they happen to people’s benefit!”
“Brent, your emotions are dictating your way of thinking again. You and your grandmother were not created merely for each other’s benefit. The way that I time things are not merely for your benefit. While I love humanity beyond your ability to comprehend, all the people that exist and how I time specific outcomes in people’s lives are to my benefit. Sometimes you are going to be joy-filled because of how I orchestrate, and at other times, you are not. And you must also know that the Enemy has his hands in things, as well. He, too, is an agent of free will, doing what he can to destroy.”
“That’s it? ‘You’re either going to like it or you’re not?’ or ‘That bad devil sure can mess things up?’ Those sure sound like cop-outs to me.”
Joshua smiled a kind, knowing smile. “And, that is why I called you here. I’m going to give you the opportunity to prove that your ways are better than my own. You, my dear Brent, are about to have an experience that you will never forget.”
It was pushing eleven o’clock and I was nowhere near finishing my story, so I suggested that Tara and I go for a walk around our neighborhood.
Tara quietly went upstairs to the second story of our home and found that our daughter, Jenna, was still awake reading. Since it wasn’t a school night, she didn’t have any sleep restrictions as long as she didn’t venture out of her room. Tara told her that we were going for a walk and that she was in charge of the house. Since both Jamie and Amy were sound asleep, Jenna wasn’t likely to step into dictator mode.
Once out the front door, we headed up the sidewalk of Belmeadow Drive, hand-in-hand. The night was warm and beautiful—the perfect night to take a leisurely stroll.
For a few minutes, we just enjoyed cricket song and the occasional lightning bug twinkling in the dark. I enjoy this neighborhood. Just the right combination of space and community.
Tara released my hand and put her arm around my waist. When she felt the lump of metal and composite materials pressed against my back, she let a soft giggle escape her lips, shook her head, and took my hand in hers once again.
“Hey, now,” I said. “Gotta protect my woman.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “So, did Joshua whisk you off to somewhere else or did you stay in the ‘board room’?”
“Neither. I woke up. It was morning. The sun was shining into the upstairs bedroom, and it was too bright to allow me to remain sleeping. I hadn’t thought to pull down the blind before going to bed.
“As I didn’t think I’d be able to re-enter my ‘dream’ by pulling down the blind, I elected to just go downstairs. Needless to say, my conversation with Joshua sparked a lot of thoughts as my day kicked off.”
BRENT WALKED DOWNSTAIRS and through the halls toward the kitchen. He heard talking, which meant that he would be sharing the breakfast table.
Last night’s experience with Joshua—that is, if it hadn’t all
been just a dream—added an additional measure of anxiety. As if the day’s coming events weren’t already inducing enough distress. Red flags went up right away as he recognized the emotion.
If Joshua was Jesus, should he be experiencing any fear? After all, Scripture clearly stated that “God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”
Was that an indicator that the Joshua encounter wasn’t from God after all? On the other hand, his anxiety may have been generated by what Joshua had said was going to happen: “…an experience that you will not forget.” There was a spike in his heart rate. Was he talking about an experience that was going to happen today? When his mamaw’s body arrived at the house?
Walking into the kitchen, he went to the wash basin to clean himself up before getting something to eat. The mirror on the wall before him was completely covered by a black cloth. For a moment it confused him. Then he remembered his papaw’s funeral.
It was an old Appalachian superstition. If the body of a dead person is laid within the home for viewing, all the mirrors within the house needed to be covered, lest anyone see his own reflection that day and be the next individual marked to die.
Brent’s heart sank. He hated many of the mountain traditions, but this was one of the worst. It was too close to being occult-oriented for his taste. He was tempted to pull the cloth off of the mirror, but restrained himself. He’d be upsetting someone by doing that, and until he found out who…
“Good morning, Brent.”
Brent turned to see his Uncle Mark walking in from the back dining area with an empty cereal bowl.
“Good morning, Uncle Mark.”
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
Uncle Mark placed his cereal bowl in the plastic wash tub and walked toward Brent. He looked into Brent’s eyes with compassion. “I didn’t get a chance to say anything last night, but I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry for your loss. I only got to know her over the past several years, but she was a pretty remarkable woman.”
Brent’s Uncle Mark had married his Aunt Susan about six years prior. Both of them had been divorced, neither of them with children.
Brent liked him and it was refreshing to hear someone make such a simple, yet heartfelt, statement. The previous evening on the front porch, it seemed to Brent that his kinfolk were too wrapped up in themselves to even remember that there was a greatly-loved woman whose presence was missing. And that woman was probably alone, lying in some stainless-steel drawer in a morgue. Even at present, Brent resented how their discussions had steered away from her and into random and meaningless conversations.
“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that. Who covered the mirrors?” It was an abrupt question, but tact wasn’t exactly at the forefront of Brent’s psyche at the moment.
“Oh yeah. That.” Uncle Mark shook his head. “Well, old Mrs. Pike from up the hollow came knocking on the door at the break of dawn. Woke your aunt and me up. I opened the door, and just as quickly as I did, she announced who she was and that it was her spiritual duty to make sure that ‘Hannah Moore’s family not encounter any more undue tragedy.’ She had a bunch of large towels already under her arm. She walked through the house with your aunt and me tagging along, making sure she didn’t do anything…out of sorts.”
Brent simply nodded his head. Now he especially wanted to pull those stupid rags down. “Guess I’d better say good morning to everyone.”
Mark nodded his head, then walked back into the dining area, Brent following.
It turned out that Brent was the last one to wake up again. Apparently, everyone else had been awakened by Mrs. Pike’s less-than-stealthy walkthrough of the house.
Brent finished his bowl of cereal while listening as his parents, sister, aunt, and uncle talked. If the question had been asked, it occurred before he came downstairs. So, he was forced to ask, if only for his own knowledge.
“Umm…what time will Mamaw be brought home…here?”
He noticed Lydia turn toward Aunt Susan as if to hear the answer for the first time herself.
“The hearse is supposed to be here around two o’clock this afternoon.”
Brent’s heart felt as though a hand had reached through his chest and squeezed it. The situation was becoming far too real.
Lydia asked the next question. “Do we need to get dressed up? I don’t know what to expect.”
Brent’s sister had only been six years old when their papaw passed away, and though Brent had been three years older, he still couldn’t remember too much.
“No, Honey,” their mom began. “Your jeans and that shirt are just fine. This isn’t going to be anything formal. Family and friends from the area are going to stop in throughout the day and say their goodbyes. You don’t actually have to be here if you don’t wish. You won’t know most of the people anyway.”
That was good enough for Brent. He didn’t even want to be around when the hearse arrived.
“Brent,” said his dad, “your mamaw’s sons—Uncles Carson, Joe, and David—will naturally be carrying the coffin and helping to bring her inside the house. Your Aunt Susan thought that you would also want to…help…her…”
The suggestion startled Brent. Should I? Am I supposed to want to? “I…uhh…okay. Yeah, I’ll do…that.”
Brent looked to his Aunt Susan who gave him a sad smile and a nod of her head.
“Excuse me,” said Brent. He picked up his bowl, walked it into the kitchen and placed it on the counter, then walked out the front door and onto the porch.
He needed to breathe.
It was going to be another hot day in the mountains. It was barely 7:30 a.m., and it was already getting muggy. Opening the front door once again, he leaned in and grabbed his tennis shoes. He slipped them on and walked down the steps onto the grass. It wasn’t long before his feet began to feel the wetness of the dew penetrating his socks.
Reaching the road, he turned around and faced the old farmhouse. He loved the place. He put his hands into his pockets, sighed deeply, and allowed himself to daydream. Memories flooded his mind. He could almost see his mamaw sitting on the green and white wood bench on the porch, waving to him. He could see her coming out the side door with a large empty basket or a big bucket, heading into the gardens to pick vegetables. Upon seeing him, she would wave him over and he would join her. He knew that he was being invited to hold the basket while she picked the best-looking of the crops.
No one in his life ever made him feel more accepted, more included. He felt her love and acceptance all the time, even back during his dark times. The times before she became his hero.
Brent’s reverie was broken when he saw his sister walk out the front door. Seeing him, she walked down the steps and out to where he was standing.
“What are you going to do today?” she asked.
“Hadn’t really thought about it. Just don’t want the afternoon to get here.”
“Yeah.” Lydia turned to face the house, too. “I love it here.”
“I did, too.”
“I still do. Even today. This place… Did you ever see the Anne of Green Gables movies?”
She couldn’t have provided a better explanation for what he felt for this place. “Yeah...” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “…but that stays our secret.” He couldn’t help but grin in that moment. Talk about a chick flick! Still, it was a great story and matched the moment well.
“Green Gables,” she began, “was where Anne always ended up coming home to in the novels. It was always home, even after years of having been away. There was something ever dear to her about the place, even after Matthew and Marilla passed away.”
“It was who Matthew and Marilla were,” added Brent, “that always made the place worth coming back to.”
“I wanted to come out here and let you know that it’s because of who Mamaw and Papaw were that you’ll one day look at this place differently than you do right now.” With those words Lydia lean
ed over and gave Brent a kiss on his left cheek. “Now, take me to Papaw’s secret place.”
I’ve always liked your sister. What a heart of empathy she has. Too bad she’s stationed in Okinawa.”
I smiled.
Tara and I were still holding hands. It wasn’t very often that we went for walks like this. Her desire to hear my story—to listen to my story—meant a lot to me. I think she’s a better person than I. If I gave her half the attention…
“Brent?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for giving me your story. You have no idea how much this means to me. This is a wonderful gift. I’m so glad that I didn’t dump you way back when.”
I laughed out loud! See? See why I like her so much?
“So, did you and Lydia venture back up to your papaw’s secret prayer place?”
“Yep. We sure did. In fact, we made a picnic, of a sort, out of it. The whole time we were up there, I mentally debated on whether to tell Lydia about my conversation with Joshua. In the end, I kept quiet about it.
“Did the two of you talk about anything significant?”
“To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what we talked about. I think Lydia was deliberately keeping me distracted from what was to come that afternoon.”
“Did it work?”
“A little. The problem is that distractions have a tendency to make time pass more quickly.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Before I knew it, we had to get back down to the farmhouse. It was getting close to the time of the hearse’s arrival.”
As I said those words, I know that Tara felt my hand tense. If I felt it, she sure did.
Telling this story was creating an amalgam of emotional experiences for me that I didn’t expect at the outset. I relived some of the anger that I’d had toward God, some of the pain of losing my grandmother, some of the compassion of my relatives… And I was once again experiencing the dread of some of those events from so long ago. Conveying the account to Tara was becoming pretty taxing.
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