He almost produced a contemptuous laugh. Of course things were serious. He’d been trying to kill himself, for Pete’s sake! And that brought up another question…
Why had the compulsion to kill himself suddenly subsided over the past week? “Subsided” was probably the wrong word. Eased, maybe. He still wasn’t happy. He still wanted out of the existence called his life and rid of all the bad things that continued to happen.
Case in point—last night.
Brent had arrived at his school on time for warm-ups before the basketball game against rival Jackson High. He had entered the season as a starting forward, and he thought he was doing well…at least well enough, all things considered. But as soon as he was done suiting up in the locker room, Coach Chamberlin called out to him and waved him into his office.
“What’s up, Coach?”
“Brent, I’m sitting you down tonight.”
Stunned, Brent responded with, “What? I’m out?”
“Not ‘out.’ Sitting. You won’t be starting. Randall will be taking your place tonight.”
“Coach … I’m … Can I ask why?”
“Brent, have a seat.”
Brent remained standing.
Coach Chamberlin looked straight into his eyes, pointed to the gray, vinyl-covered office chair and again said, “Brent, have a seat.”
Brent complied. He hadn’t been trying to make a statement by his refusal; he’d just felt stuck in place.
“Brent, you know me. In the two seasons that you’ve played for me, have I ever been unfair to you, or for that matter, unfair to any of the members of this team?”
Brent hadn’t had to think about that. Everyone knew that George Chamberlin was a player’s coach. He was tough in practices, and he made sure that everyone pulled his weight, but he gave no one on the team a reason to dislike him for showing favoritism.
Brent liked the man. He had from the very start of his first practice with him. In fact, if it hadn’t been for this coach he would never have found himself as a starter.
In that moment, he had remembered the day that the coach had taken him aside in the midst of one preseason practice and told him he was going to feel a little extra pain in his legs over the coming weeks. When Brent had asked why, Coach Chamberlin had responded, “Because I’m going to stretch you. I see something in you that can help this team, but it’s going to take some extra effort on your part … and mine. Are you willing?”
Brent had exuberantly said yes.
“Well?” His coach’s voice brought him back to the moment.
“No, sir,” said Brent. “I’ve never seen you be unfair to any of us.”
“I hoped that was still the case. Brent, something’s wrong. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way that you’ve pulled back from what used to be strong interaction with your teammates. And, I can see it in your game.
“I don’t have the luxury of waiting for you to pull yourself out of whatever’s been beating you down. Randall has been working as hard as anyone on this team, and he deserves a shot. And, right now—and maybe it’s only for right now—you are the weak link in my lineup.”
Brent tensed, clenching his jaw.
“Can you talk about what’s going on? Can I help you somehow?”
Brent wasn’t prepared for any of the conversation at hand, let alone such a direct question. “Umm … No, sir. I’ll be fine. Just haven’t been feeling well for a while, but I think I’m getting over it.” He got up. “Did you already tell Randall?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll let him know.” He had turned to go, and then hesitated. Turning back, he’d looked into Coach Chamberlin’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
“Brent, you’re not a disappointment to me. I can see that there’s something internal going on that’s had a negative effect on you and your game. Once it’s behind you, you can earn your starting position back. But it’s not a given. It will have to be earned again. You okay with that?”
“Yes, Coach. Thanks.”
With that, Brent had walked back into the locker room and informed Randall that he was about to have his first-ever start in a basketball game; their biggest game.
On the way home from their biggest loss, his parents had apparently decided not to prod him with the why-didn’t-you-start question. That was appreciated. In the midst of all the other stuff that happened at home, he still found evidences that his parents cared.
He had spent a restless, and somewhat silent, night in bed. He slept in until about 9:45 a.m.; then he got up, ate a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, and headed outside. He didn’t know what he was going to do with his day, but he didn’t want to stay inside to figure it out.
In the light of day, with the sun shining down on the snow-frosted lawn, he felt like he could think about his life situations without the fear he dealt with at night. He knew he didn’t have any choice but to start trying to think things through.
To what end? He couldn’t fathom.
He reached into his left coat pocket and pulled out the tiny book he had found in the attic Thursday after school. His mom had asked him to take the rest of the Christmas decorations that she had just packed and put them with the others that his dad had put away the evening before.
After the struggle of getting those awkward boxes into the attic, which really wasn’t much more than a crawl space, he had noticed his dad’s old military duffel bag. His dad had been in the Navy, and every once in a while, as a kid, Brent would rifle through it and try on his dad’s old uniforms and medals. He’d also examine the little trinkets that had been collected during his dad’s tours of duty abroad.
Brent pulled the bag over into an area where a single 60- watt bulb suspended in the rafters could shine down into its contents. It had been several years, so he opened it and stuck his hand in, looking for evidence of happier times. He felt his way down toward the bottom, looking for what he used to call his dad’s “Popeye hat.”
As a little boy, he couldn’t believe that his dad had Popeye the Sailor’s hat. He remembered the awe that he had felt. What had he been, six, maybe seven, years old?
Brent found it again and pulled it out. He knew that it used to be snow white in color, but it had yellowed a bit with the years. Staring at it, he recalled that it was because of this funny-looking hat that he had first tried spinach. Big mistake. Wrong thing to ask for. That experience had been so bad that he never wore Popeye’s hat again.
The memory brought another smile to Brent’s face.
Putting the hat back into the bag, his hand hit something that felt too hard to be clothing. As he turned his hand to grip it, he realized that it was a book. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a United States Department of the Navy-issued New Testament. He sat in the cold and just stared at it. It stirred something within him, and he couldn’t bring himself to put it back into the bag. So, it had come down the ladder with him and into the warmth of the house.
He slept with the little book lying beside him on his night stand. There was a slight feeling of comfort knowing that it was close. Because of that, he had decided that the next morning he’d do some reading.
Walking down the length of the driveway he looked at the New Testament that he grasped in his right hand. It felt as though he held some sort of small weapon. Odd. Even if it were true, he still didn’t have a clue as to how it could be used.
He walked a few blocks up the street to a neighboring park where he knew there was an area of picnic tables. There wouldn’t be anyone crazy enough to be sitting around in this weather, so despite the chill, there, he would begin reading.
SUNDAY,
JANUARY 18 – 12:35 A.M.
BRENT LAY IN bed thinking about how he’d failed yet again. My lot in life, he reflected. Early in the day, he had sat in the cold for nearly half an hour trying to figure out what to read in that tiny book. When he finally settled on starting at the beginning, he was faced with a litany of unpronounceable names. Eve
ry name “begat” another name.
Determining that there would be little help from the “begat”-ting chapter, he had skipped ahead. He’d found some areas where Jesus seemed to be talking, text that was printed in red. He’d figured that maybe reading Jesus’ words would bring the answers that he was seeking. After all, the founder of Christianity should know the most about spiritual things, including unseen evil beings.
He had come upon a couple passages where Jesus dealt with possessed people and cast the demons out; which strangely unnerved him. However, seeing as how Jesus didn’t seem to be all that interested in showing up with him at the park, Brent couldn’t see how this man would be able to tell his demons to depart.
They are demons, aren’t they? I’ve got demons in me.
Searching further in the small black book for answers, he’d become frustrated with words that he didn’t understand. And the uncommon words that he was able to figure out were foreign in today’s world. What he would do for a little modern English.
I’ll never make sense of this, he’d determined. When had the book been written? He looked at the copyright page of the book and saw that it was originally published in 1611. No wonder he couldn’t understand half of what he read. With another sigh, he closed the book and treaded back home.
With his harassing spirits having paid their very brief and, again, restrained visit for the night, Brent waited for sleep to overtake him. He whispered a small prayer before drifting off…
“God, where are you? Do you even care? I need help.”
Brent sat nervously in the high school principal’s office. Mr. McClaren had gone to the assistant principal’s office where Galen Todd was receiving his punishment, leaving Brent feeling anxious and alone. His parents were going to let him have it. Again.
Galen was a kid he’d been having fights with for the past few years—fights that oftentimes got out of hand. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had started their conflicts back in junior high school. Regardless, they didn’t like each other, and rarely did it take more than a wrong look in one or the other’s direction for words to let loose. Such was the case this day.
Brent had been in the lunchroom eating when Galen had passed by his table. This time it had come to more than words, and they’d been caught. Again.
Undoubtedly, this would result in a minimum of multiple detentions and a letter home. But he knew in his gut that they had both stepped over a line this time that would net them some suspension time.
Brent touched his lip for the umpteenth time, wondering if it looked as fat as it felt. Man, am I going to get it. He hoped against hope for detention. He could forge his dad’s signature on the letter—proof that the issue had been dealt with at home. He could also develop an excuse for why he was spending non-basketball-related time at the school.
You’re not going to get that lucky this time, and you know it.
Brent wanted to yell. Why had he let Galen goad him into another fight? At least he won’t fare any better.
Mr. McClaren walked back into his office, pulled the door closed behind him, and sat down behind his desk.
“Brent, seriously, what is it with you? You’re a bright kid; you’re smarter than this.”
“I don’t know, Mr. McClaren. I’m kicking myself now,” responded Brent, hoping that his sorrow-filled tone might somehow lessen the blow he knew was coming.
Mr. McClaren leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes for a moment and made a few of his habitual, Morse-Code-sounding hums. Then he sat back up and rested his folded hands on the desk.
“I’m afraid I can’t be lenient this time.” He looked Brent directly in the eyes. “Brent, I like you. You’re a pretty good kid. And when you’re not around Galen, you’re a model student. But, that doesn’t reduce the need for this punishment. It only makes it harder for me to exact it.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to suspend you. The two of you are getting five days each. But, since Mr. Harris caught Galen starting the conflict, he’s going to be sent home to serve his. Yours will be served here at the school.”
“Sounds like he’s still getting the better deal,” remarked Brent.
“Only if his parents don’t care. With five days out of school, they will count against his total absences. Yours won’t. But your days here at the school will probably feel a lot like confinement. You’ll do your homework, you’ll get to eat lunch if you bring something with you, and you’ll come out of it without having fallen very far behind in your studies. I doubt the same will be said of Galen.”
“And my parents?”
“We’ve already called your mom.”
Brent sighed. That figures.
“Brent, you can make this time worthwhile, or you can rebel against it. It’s all up to you.” Mr. McClaren handed Brent an envelope with what was probably the terms of his suspension. It had Mr. and Mrs. Lawton scribbled on the front.
“You’re probably already aware, but Mr. Chamberlin is in charge of in-school suspensions. You’ll report to him first thing in the morning.”
“Mr. Chamberlin? ... Coach Chamberlin?”
“That’s right,” confirmed the principal.
Brent dropped his head and brought his hands up to his face. Great, Brent inwardly moaned. This just keeps getting better and better.
1:15 P.M.
“WHAT IS IT with you? Another fight?”
“Mom, don’t get bent out of shape. You heard Mr. McClaren say that I didn’t start it. It was Galen.”
They were on their way home in his mom’s car, and Brent was getting an earful.
“Don’t even try it, Brent! I also heard Mr. McClaren say that you willingly retaliated. You could have left well enough alone.”
Brent shook his head and sighed. This was a fight he wouldn’t win, and when his dad got home from work he’d hear it all again.
“Yeah, Mom, whatever you say.”
His mom ignored the comment, probably thinking that it would make an even stronger point.
After a few minutes, they were back at home. He had a few hours before ‘final judgment’ fell upon him, so he went straight up to his room, closed the door, dropped his books on his desk, and allowed himself to fall backward onto his bed.
“My life sucks! I hate this!” he exclaimed. “Everything is going wrong!” He slammed his arms down on the mattress.
His thoughts progressed toward a conclusion that he didn’t want to consider. Maybe the voices were right. What if he did take the power offered to him? Could things—would things—change for the better? The thought made him uneasy. He rolled out of bed and stood up as if the mere idea might cause his ‘visitors’ to return.
This is crazy. Stop being an idiot.
Brent pulled the chair out from under his desk and sat down. He may be suspended, but that didn’t diminish the amount of homework he had to get done. Pulling his American History book out of the pile that he had brought home, he began to read.
THURSDAY,
MARCH 26 – 12:04 A.M.
BRENT LAY ON his back in bed. His hands were folded beneath his head as he thought about these latest events in his life.
It had been a long day. As expected, Brent’s dad had come home and “heard about it” from his mom. Brent had listened through his closed door as his dad put up a weak defense on his behalf.
“He’s a teenage boy, for crying out loud! Boys get into fights! Quit trying to baby him!” his father proclaimed.
His mom stood her ground, and then he heard his dad start up the stairs.
Upon reaching his door, his dad gave a couple of soft knocks and entered his room. Then Brent received the obligatory right-versus-wrong speech, followed by what Brent thought was a bit of an over-the-top grounding. Two weeks of no T.V., no phone, and no going out.
Now he lay consumed in his customary darkness from hell, feeling angry at the world.
“That punk is going to get it,” Brent voiced un
der his breath. He’d had it with Galen. The next opportunity he had, he’d make sure that Galen got the message: Don’t even breathe near me, or you’ll suffer.
“That’s it, Brent. That’a boy.”
Brent groaned. It was them.
“Ready now, Brent? Ready for the help we can give you?”
12:07 A.M.
HANNAH AWOKE AND sat up in bed. She was wide awake and alert, and she knew immediately what that meant. This time she didn’t waste a second with questions. She just began praying.
There wasn’t a twinge of anger for the interruption of her rest. She held no resentment toward the boy whose life was causing so much loss of sleep. She loved him and she used that love to fuel what she needed to do.
How many times had she also thought about walking over to her son’s home to use the phone to call her grandson? But each time that the thought entered her mind she dismissed it, feeling a check in her spirit, and knowing that her calls of concern might just add to the boy’s troubles.
No, this war would be won by God. His plan. His methods. She would not meddle beyond her simple obedience to God’s calls to act.
Hannah swung her legs out of bed, dropped a pillow on the floor, and knelt down to pray.
12:08 A.M.
BRENT KNEW THAT he was getting weaker, getting closer to caving in to the promptings of the voices. Of course, now, many of the promptings were coming from memory, as the beings continued to, seemingly, get ‘muzzled.’ He could not figure out what was causing them to suddenly stop prodding him. There was neither rhyme nor reason to it.
But the voices were clever. They knew what to say before they were silenced.
This night was no different, especially with what had happened at the school earlier and with his subsequent grounding. He was torqued-off at the world, and he wanted to be able to force some sort of recompense.
Deliver Us From Darkness Page 4