The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  On Mondays, the advertising department did not arrive until ten. The rest of the editorial staff arrived at varying times, and the office was not officially full until after lunch. On most days, Cameron shared the quiet mornings with Clara, and Paige, of course.

  That’s why three coffees would suffice for the entire crew.

  But she also brought a dozen muffins. This way the three of them would get their pick and the rest of the muffins could be left for the later arrivals.

  Paige waved hello. Cameron held up the bag and coffee carrier and received an enthusiastic smile in reply.

  “Bring ’em in. You have a blueberry in there?”

  She did. Cameron started in on her cranberry-orange muffin.

  Paige tore the paper off the muffin and took a large bite off the bottom. Confused, Cameron lifted an eyebrow.

  “I like the tops best,” Paige explained. “They’re crustier. Eat the bottom first and get that out of the way. Then you have something to look forward to.”

  They both chewed their muffins.

  “Have a good weekend?” Paige asked.

  “I did,” Cameron answered, then waited a measured moment before adding with some emphasis, “I went to church.”

  “You did?” Paige said coolly. “Which church?”

  “The community church down at the end of Otter.”

  “Really? Franklin Community Church? Really?”

  “Really.” Cameron took her coffee and sipped at it. “You sound surprised, Paige. Surprised that I went to church, or surprised that I went to that church?”

  Paige offered up a shrug—her best noncommittal response. “I don’t know. Maybe both.”

  “Well, it felt like it was time. And I can walk there.”

  “True. That’s a great reason to find religion,” Paige said, slightly rolling her eyes.

  Cameron laughed and muffin crumbs spilled on her blouse. She brushed them away, then looked over at Paige. “Sorry.”

  “Like a few crumbs are going to make a difference in here. We have to talk to the cleaning crew. I’ve got a herd of dust bunnies under the desk.”

  “But didn’t you say that the cleaning people aren’t allowed in your office? You said they mess up your filing system.”

  “I said that? Really? Well, remind me to rescind that order. This place is a pigsty.”

  Cameron wadded up the muffin wrapper and tossed it into the trash.

  “Did you like the service at the church? How’s the new guy—Seth, isn’t it? Seth Johnson? Is that right?”

  “That’s right. Pastor Johnson. I like him. And the music is really loud. You would hate it.”

  “I don’t mind loud. But I do mind rock ’n’ roll. If you ask me, that’s what’s driving everyone crazy these days—iPods and loud music. What’s the matter with a good old-fashioned organ? Or even a piano? Do they have to have electric guitars and drums and amplifiers? Good heavens. So much noise. I go to church to be comforted.”

  Amused, Cameron cupped her hand to her ear. “What? What? I can’t hear anything at all. It wasn’t like this … it wasn’t like this at all on Saturday.”

  Paige scowled, but with good humor. “Okay, so the music is loud—just like you like it—so it drives out all the old fogies like me. Satisfied?”

  “Extremely. Don’t trust anyone over thirty. That’s their motto. They have that written over the sanctuary door.”

  “Very funny, Missy, but I don’t need to tell you that I know how old you really are.”

  It was Cameron’s turn to scowl with good humor. “Point taken. But their ‘new guy’ was really good. At least I thought he was.”

  “Was the church full? After Pastor Black left, that church was dying on the vine, or so I’ve heard. Down to a handful of people.”

  “It was pretty full. Over a few hundred people, I would guess. Lots of them younger. Some older. A few empty spots. Toward the front.”

  Paige stood and brushed the crumbs off herself, aiming, in a loose fashion, at the trash can. Very few of them actually made it in.

  “No one sits in the front two rows of any church,” Paige said. “Saved for all but the most righteous. So this young Johnson fellow was good?”

  “He was. Very understandable. No thees and thous. And he was funny.”

  “Funny,” Paige harrumphed. “Since when do preachers have to be funny?”

  Cameron fussed with the brown cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup. “Paige, can I ask you a serious question? It’s about … faith, I guess. And you’re the only person I really know in town who claims to have that.”

  “Well, sure. Ask away. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll try.”

  Cameron bit at her bottom lip as she often did when considering a hard question. “Pastor Johnson said yesterday that grace is free … and when we come to Christ for salvation, we are forgiven.”

  Paige appeared to be tussling with her answer. “Well, yes, but there’s more to it than just that. To be saved by grace, to be given grace, one has to accept the gift of forgiveness—you know, God’s gift of Jesus, His sacrifice for our sins. What he means when he says that grace is free is that there’s nothing we can do to earn it. It’s paid for by Christ’s death. Forgiveness is a gift we don’t deserve. That’s what it means to be saved by grace. But you have to … you know … you have to accept it by faith. Take the gift. Believe.”

  Cameron was nodding as Paige spoke. “I know. I get that. But what I want to ask is that he said that the best way—he may have said the only way—to fully understand grace is to be fully forgiven.”

  Paige broke a piece off of her muffin top. “Well … yes. I guess. You can experience it and extend it to others when you’ve accepted forgiveness yourself.”

  “I want to know, Paige … can a person like me be fully forgiven?”

  Paige appeared at the cusp of some emotion, perhaps tears, perhaps something else altogether. “Cameron … you can be. Of course you can be. Even the worst of sinners is not beyond God’s healing love. Sinners like me. I once heard someone say you can never be too bad for Jesus, only too good.”

  “Are you sure that’s what the Bible says?”

  “I am sure, Cameron. I would stake my life on it. I have staked my life on it.”

  “Okay, then,” Cameron said, rising from her chair and brushing more crumbs onto the floor. “Then I’m forgiven. That’s what happened. I received the grace.”

  Cameron did not tell Paige the whole story of Sunday. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t, but she didn’t. But Paige had looked pleased anyway by what she had shared, and had given her a Bible—a “newer version” is how Paige described it.

  The sermon had been about forgiveness, as Mr. Ochs had said. Cameron had nestled herself against the wooden end of the pew as she listened. The radiator on the other side of the aisle, under the pastoral scene on the Tiffany window, clanked softly, spreading a pool of warmth around her that made her feel peaceful, safe, and welcome.

  In the rack on the pew back in front of her were two smallish Bibles, a stack of visitor cards, and two yellow pencils in individual holes on either end. The pastor had encouraged everyone to read the passages with him. Cameron was not a Bible student and would have had to flip to the table of contents every time, but the pastor had called out the actual page numbers, so she was able to find them easily. Two verses stood out to her—I have swept away your sins like a cloud. I have scattered your offenses like the morning mist. Oh, return to me, for I have paid the price to set you free (Isaiah 44:22) and I am writing to you who are God’s children because your sins have been forgiven through Jesus (1 John 2:12). The words were suddenly and amazingly clear to her—not convoluted as she remembered the Bible from her youth-group days, and made clearer by the explanation that followed.

  And the
n, in no time, the message had been over.

  The pastor had stepped down from the brass pulpit to the first step of the stone altar. As he walked closer, Cameron was surprised to note just how young he was.

  He might even be younger than I am, she’d thought.

  “Every week, at the end of the service, I invite anyone who might need prayer to come meet with me in front. I am making that same invitation today. If you want prayer, please come up. And the rest of you are dismissed. Go in God’s grace.”

  Cameron had anticipated standing, gathering her things, and leaving. But she did not. She had sat and waited. The noise of several hundred people exiting and talking had soon diminished. A few people came up, shook the pastor’s hand, exchanged a few words, then left.

  In a few minutes, only Cameron had been left. The pastor had smiled at her and had walked to her pew. He’d extended his hand to her.

  “I’m Seth Johnson,” he’d said, and asked her name. “Would you like me to pray for you, Cameron?”

  Cameron had no idea why she started to weep, but she did—weeping as she had that terrible morning so long ago when the ocean swallowed her little brother and never gave him back. Weeping for all the years of living with that nightmare. She could hardly talk—no, she couldn’t talk at all through her tears—and had held her hands up and open, trying to communicate … something.

  The pastor, if he had been taken by surprise, was very good at keeping that concealed. He just sat next to her in the pew, took one of her hands in his, and began to pray quietly, saying words Cameron barely heard audibly but heard in her heart. She knew this prayer was for her and her alone. Then she felt a soft Light and an overwhelming Presence all about her, as if she were standing on a beach, arms outstretched, at daybreak in a warm summer wind that embraced her and carefully, gently made her pure as the dark clouds all around her were blown away.

  “Father God, I know You love Cameron, and that You forgive her completely, because of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Though she believes that she’s failed, Lord—by Your Spirit, let her know the beauty of Your grace and allow her to accept Your forgiveness and forgive herself. Let those who have hurt her, who are not here among us, Father, offer their forgiveness to her. Let our sister pass this forgiveness on to others. Accept her as Your treasured child. Let Your perfect peace pour into her heart and into her soul and into her mind. Heal her and make her whole in You—Your forgiven daughter. Give her a joy that she cannot contain.”

  And Cameron could only weep and weep and nod.

  That’s why she didn’t tell Paige what had happened that Sunday, when the Light filled her heart and, for the first time in her life—for the first time ever—Cameron felt free and without guilt.

  Just how could she explain that to anyone?

  He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge

  over which he himself must pass

  if he would ever reach heaven;

  for every one has need to be forgiven.

  —George Herbert

  We are all on a lifelong journey

  and the core of its meaning,

  the terrible demand of its centrality,

  is forgiving and being forgiven.

  —Martha Kilpatrick

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE BANNER OVER THE gymnasium, neatly written in blue and red poster paint, proudly declared, WELCOME TO THE FRANKLIN SCIENCE FAIR. The last two words crowded closer to each other, the I and R almost touching, so FAIR looked like FAR.

  Cameron smiled as she pulled off the sticky backing to her official nametag—CAMERON DANE. THE DERRICK. JUDGE—and applied it just above the pocket on her blouse. She still wasn’t exactly sure why she had been asked to be a judge for the event. She was not a scientist—far from it. In college, she had taken just a single science course. More than that one had not been on the list of requirements for a journalism degree. And in high school, she had barely gotten through biology and chemistry, and probably would not have made it had it not been for the generous assistance of two very smart—and very willing—boyfriends.

  But the Franklin Middle School Science Fair always included several “celebrity” judges from the community. Cameron had laughed at being put in the local “celebrity” category. Her name appeared in print, often, and apparently that was more than enough to be on the “A” list—at least in Franklin, anyway.

  “But what do I know about science?” she had complained to Paige after being asked to participate.

  “You probably know nothing at all. But if you want to be a fair judge, just evaluate the projects on the basis of how effectively they communicate their ideas. You know about communication, right?”

  Cameron hadn’t thought of that aspect. And as a result, she walked through the doors of the crowded gymnasium with a sense of purpose, wanting to do a good job.

  What she encountered when she entered dismayed her. Inside were rows and rows and rows of science exhibits—as if every eighth-grader had done one. Which, of course, they had.

  How will I ever get through all of this?

  Just as she despaired, a short woman with a nametag, clipboard, and a fierce, determined look appeared at her side. “Miss Dane? You can go directly to row one. All entries there have been preselected as finalists. Your clipboard and judge review notes are at the head table. You can just follow me.”

  The woman spoke fast. She had not stopped talking before she started walking, her low heels clacking on the wooden floor. Cameron wore soft, flat-heeled shoes for that very reason. When she attended high school, no one wearing heels was ever allowed on the golden hardwood of the gym.

  Her official judging clipboard held a sheaf of papers, each one numbered to correspond to an exhibit, each paper with a short paragraph on the scope of the project and the hypothesis being explored, as well as the name of the student scientist. The bottom third of each page was reserved for “Judge’s Comments.”

  Good grief … I have to write that much for each project?

  Another judge, from the chamber of commerce, made his way past. Cameron recognized him and offered greetings.

  “How much are you writing?” she asked as she drew in close to him, conspiratorially. “I’m not all that good with science.”

  Without smiling, he replied, “And I almost flunked out of Penn State because of freshman biology.”

  He held up his clipboard. In big bold letters, he had written GOOD JOB!!! on the first page. He turned to the second page. Wonderful research!!!

  Relieved, she grinned and nodded. “Thanks.”

  She started at one end and slowly made her way down the line. The exhibits, for the most part, were well presented. The displays included experiments in cleaning-product effectiveness, plant-growth rates with and without fertilizer, the tensile strength of various formulas of concrete mixes, all sorts of curious attempts at finding and using scientific methods to prove or illustrate some manner of everyday life.

  Impressed with several, Cameron made notes providing her insights of how well each student handled the communication process. Judging was to take place from noon to 1:30. Results would be tallied, and winners would be announced at 2:30. Judges were asked, if possible, to stay for the awards ceremony.

  She made her way down the aisle of finalists, then back up the other side. In all, some thirty exhibits were judged as having outstanding merit, and out of those thirty, five top awards would be presented. Cameron was nearly done, one exhibit left, with five minutes to spare.

  The last exhibit was complex—a model of a house, a couple of feet tall. It was a small-scale replica of a life-sized house, cut in half, showing all the construction techniques, exposing joists and rafters, all components neatly labeled and explained, with weight-to-span ratios detailed. It was a remarkably complete and intricate scale model—not proving a hypo
thesis so much as explaining hidden matters. She glanced at the nametag on the table: Chase Willis.

  Cameron’s heart took to a fast beat. Chase, of course. Ethan’s son. Chase—the boy with something behind his eyes.

  The poor kid’s gonna be living that nightmare forever.

  She looked up.

  At the rear of the table, Chase stood, his hands at his side, his blond hair neatly combed, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and khaki pants. He stood there, a small-scale replica of his father.

  “Miss Dane,” he said, his words soft, but clear and firm. “I didn’t know you were going to be a judge. I would have taken more care with my written presentation.”

  She had to smile at him.

  “Your presentation is wonderful, Chase. I have always been fascinated by models like this—that show what goes on inside of things. I helped my dad build me a big dollhouse once. We see houses all the time, but we never see what they hide.”

  “That’s why I picked this topic. I like that too.”

  A voice over the speakers announced, “Judges! You have three minutes. Please turn your evaluations in.”

  Cameron clicked her pen and wrote on Chase’s evaluation form, writing fast, but not carelessly, nearly filling in the entire bottom section reserved for judge’s comments. Since she was standing right next to the head table, she simply handed her clipboard to the short woman who had initially greeted her.

  “Well … my job is done. Good luck, Chase. You did a great job.”

  “Are you staying for the awards?” Chase asked. Cameron wasn’t sure if he was simply being polite.

  “I … I guess. I mean, I don’t have anywhere else I need to be this afternoon. And I would like to see who wins.”

  “I understand that the winner gets their picture in the newspaper,” Chase said.