During my first few months in Bradleyville there was one person who could raise my spirits: Thomas Bradley, town patriarch and war hero. His father, Jonathan, founded the town by building the sawmill on the banks of the Cumberland River a year before Thomas was born. Upon his daddy’s death in 1955, Thomas had inherited the mill and so was boss to my uncle and most of the men in town. Fortunately, everybody loved Thomas.
Thomas was fifty-seven when I met him, which sounded pretty old to me, but he was spry, feisty, and quick-witted. He wasn’t a large man, but his presence lit up a room like an electrical charge. Thomas would regale me with a story, and his blue eyes would twinkle until I laughed in spite of myself. He was many things to me—wise, proud, and at the same time, humble enough to want to spend time with a bereft sixteen-year-old. What’s more, he publicly cemented our special friendship by inviting me to call him by his first name. Many times during that first summer Thomas treated me to a milkshake at Tull’s Drugstore, where he met almost daily with his two oldest friends, Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins. Never could two people argue like he and Mr. Lewellyn, both pumping their egos by seeking to outdo the other. Theirs was a most enigmatic friendship.
Thomas’s pride sprang from not only his daddy’s accomplishments, but his own. You couldn’t be acquainted with him for five minutes without hearing he was thrice decorated in two wars—the Second World War and Korea. That fact would earn him respect in any town, but in an isolated burg like Bradleyville, his feats—abroad and at home—ran legendary. All the same, while I admired his bravery, he and I learned early in our friendship not to discuss war, for the strategy of battle coursed as hotly through his veins as abhorrence to violence ran through mine.
It was Thomas who opened my eyes to the fact that my aunt and uncle needed me as much as I needed them. Not that Henry could ever be replaced, but they did view me as “another child brought to them by heaven,” as he put it. From the outset, they lavished me with love and displayed only patient understanding at my self-absorption.
Although my aunt and uncle cared for me with one mind, the two of them were as different as night and day. Whereas Uncle Frank was carefully spoken, quiet and constrained, Aunt Eva was chatty, easily set off, her freckled hands often flitting to pat red curls into their ill-contained bun. If gossip was the official sport of Bradleyville, Aunt Eva was the referee. “Now So-and-So, sittin’ two pews in front of us,” she’d whisper before church started, “I tell you he’s had the hardest time with….” And she’d go on to tell me of So-and-So’s wife or child or physical ailment—until she’d catch herself and abruptly snap her lips shut. “There I am, at it again,” she’d breathe, eyes tilting skyward. “‘Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles.’ Proverbs 21:23. Forgive me, Lord.”
Looking back on my first summer in Bradleyville is like staring into a deep, dark hole. Often, alone in my bedroom, I would cry until my tears ran dry. Weekdays, Aunt Eva was busy at the post office, and Uncle Frank worked at the sawmill. To keep me busy while they were gone, my aunt and uncle had made a point to introduce me to girls my age, and they all tried to be my friends. They’d invite me over for an afternoon or to slumber parties, but I rarely said yes. My grief was sucking me dry; I had no energy for people.
When I wasn’t crying, I spent hours slumped upon my bed, trying to sort things out. I was obsessed with the harsh finality that my mother’s life, so charismatic and unselfish, had been cut short within an instant. She’d been only thirty-five years old. The memories of her death were enough to wrench me from nightmarish sleep, sweat-drenched and shaking. How to describe that mindless, wobbly-kneed run ending at the twisted crunch of metal that had been our car? My mother inside, bent and bloodied, with no way to reach her because the doors were flattened, handles gone.
“Sweet chil’, only Jesus can help you through your grief,” Aunt Eva would croon to me. “I know, because he surely helped me when we lost Henry. I’d sat in church every Sunday since movin’ here, but not until Henry died did I accept Jesus as my Savior. That terrible loss drove me to my knees.”
I knew she was trying to help. But her words of faith and encouragement sounded like such platitudes, even though I didn’t doubt she bore deep sorrow—over Henry’s death and my mother’s. I didn’t mean to be selfish, but I couldn’t believe anyone really understood the depth of my pain, not even Jesus himself. Besides, I didn’t want Jesus to “help me through my grief.”
I just wanted my mother back.
In the fall, I began my junior year of high school. Bradleyville’s high school was a fraction of the size I was used to attending, consisting of one small building on the same campus as the elementary school. I flailed my way through eleventh grade, barely able to concentrate in class. Eventually, I had to repeat the whole year. The nightmares still pursued me, and grief over my mother had swelled into a smoldering resentment against God for taking her from me. Although Mom had taught me to pray when I was young, I no longer cared to talk to God. As far as I was concerned, my mother was the best person who’d ever walked on this earth; yet he’d let her die, while criminals and all manner of selfish, nasty people still lived.
Every Sunday I went to church with my aunt and uncle, fixing my eyes upon our pastor, Jeffrey Frasier, during his sermons but hearing little. The Bellinghams were joyful in their worship, and I admired their faith. Sometimes I wished I had what they did, for they seemed well grounded and content. I’d look at them and then think of Mei Zheng and her children, praying to Buddha. As my mother would say, both families had certainly found their ways to God. There had been times, when I was serving at Hope Center alongside my mom, that I’d felt close to him too. But now he seemed so distant, his ways impenetrable. My anger at him left me feeling all the more alone.
One Sunday about a month after Christmas—which was the hardest day I’d faced to date in Bradleyville—Pastor Frasier preached from the third chapter of John about a man named Nicodemus. “Verily, verily I say unto thee,” he quoted Jesus as saying to Nicodemus, “except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” For some reason, those words penetrated my distant thoughts, and I frowned, trying to make sense of them. The statement didn’t sound right to me. I knew the kingdom of God was heaven. And I knew my mom was in heaven. But I’d never heard her talk about being “born again,” whatever that was. Nicodemus apparently was as confused as I, because he questioned Jesus about what the term meant. Our pastor quoted further verses from the same chapter, and the more I heard, the more confused I became. “Please understand, dear folks,” Pastor Frasier continued, “Jesus says plainly in verses fifteen through eighteen that he is God’s only Son, and that there is no salvation but through him. You can’t be ‘religious’ enough; you can’t serve the poor enough; you can’t go to church enough or even spend time on your knees enough to save your own soul. You can only accept Jesus Christ as your Savior and Lord and live your life for him.”
You can’t serve the poor enough. The minister had actually said that. He might as well have accused my mother by name. He might as well have spat, “Never good enough!” like her horrible father. Anger caught fire and burned in the pit of my stomach. By the time his sermon was finished, my arms were crossed against my chest, my jaw set. After the final hymn, I informed my aunt and uncle they could go on home; I’d walk.
“But chil’, there’s snow on the ground!” Aunt Eva protested.
I tossed my head. “I don’t care; I’ll be fine in my coat. I have to speak to the pastor, right now.”
Uncle Frank placed his large hands on my shoulders, his gray eyes warm. “You hear some things that disturb you?”
I was too incensed to answer.
“That’s all right, Jessie.” His lips curved. “You go on and talk to the pastor. I’ll take Eva home and come back for you. I’ll wait as long as you need.”
Jeffrey Frasier was a tall man in his late fifties with an amazing head of silver hair. His hazel eyes were enlarged
behind thick-framed glasses, his complexion dark. He sat behind his wide oak desk clasping long fingers, regarding me with a kind expression that I was in no mood to reciprocate. On one corner of the desk lay a well-thumbed Bible; on the other were scattered framed pictures of his wife and grown children. I perched across from him on the edge of a worn leather chair, my throat tight with defensiveness. Now that I was in his office, I regretted my impulsive request to talk to him. I should have waited a day or two, when I wasn’t so upset.
“Well, Jessie,” he said as he leaned back in his seat, “I’ve had lots a folks come into my office over the years, and I’ve seen that look you now wear on your face more than a few times. It seems I’ve offended you in some way.”
I swallowed hard, resisting a sudden impulse to cry. A moment passed before I could answer. “It’s my mother,” I managed finally, twisting my hands in my lap. “You said something about Jesus being the only way to salvation. That serving the poor isn’t enough. I just don’t understand. I know Jesus was good and all that. But my mother always taught me there are many ways to God, and that each person has to find his own way. Mom’s way was through serving others. And, besides, I know Jesus helped others all the time.” A picture of Mom gently guiding the withered arm of a frail elderly woman into her coat sleeve flashed through my head. Tears bit my eyes. “My mom died on her way to a center for the homeless where she’d volunteered for years. She tended the lambs, just like Jesus on your stained glass window. She was such a good person, I know she’s in heaven. So now you’re telling me she’s not?”
Sadness spread across Pastor Frasier’s face. “Ah, young Jessie. The Lord has given you much to handle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand his purpose.”
I brushed at a tear with impatience. I did not care to hear more platitudes. “You’re not answering my question.”
He placed two fingers against his chin, his gaze drifting to a snow-dusted oak tree outside the window. Then his eyes closed, and I sensed he was praying. He turned back to me with an apologetic smile. “I did not preach this sermon to purposely speak against your mother, you know,” he said gently. “Even if it might seem that way to you right now.”
The compassion in his eyes surprised me. “I know.”
He nodded briefly. “Okay. Well, then. Seems to me there are two issues here. One is your mother. But the most important is you. What do you need to do to find salvation?”
“No, it’s the same issue, because I can’t separate us like that. She was everything to me, and she did nothing but give to people. You don’t know how much she was respected at the Center; you just don’t know.” My words began to tumble over themselves. “And she was very loving and patient with me. I’ve always wanted to be just like her. She worked really hard at the Center because she always felt like she wasn’t good enough, that she had to do more. She never said it, but I think she felt she had this stain on her soul. It wasn’t really there, of course, but she thought it was. I think it’s because of the way her father treated her.”
My mouth shut abruptly, and I eyed Pastor Frasier with a vague wariness. I’d never intended to say so much.
“We all have ‘stains on our soul,’ as you put it, Jessie. Even the best among us. Not because someone here on earth tells us we’re not good enough, but because God says through his Word that we’ve all sinned and fallen short of his plans for us.” He gazed at me, judging my response. “Is that somethin’ you can agree with?”
“Well, I guess. Otherwise, I suppose we wouldn’t need to seek God.”
His face creased into a smile. “Well, see there. We’re not on complete opposite ends of the pole.”
My resentment lifted a little. It was hard to stay angry at this man.
“Let me ask you somethin’.” He shifted in his chair, searching for the right words. “Do you think that by her service to others your mother was able to cleanse that stain away?”
His question took me by surprise. I leaned back slowly, pressing my arched shoulders against the cool leather. “Absolutely.”
He showed no response to the indignant tone of my voice. “What tells you that?”
“Because she kept doing it. If it hadn’t worked, she’d have … done something else.”
“I see.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Suddenly, he seemed weighted, tired. “Will this also be your ‘way to God,’ Jessie?”
I thought for a moment. “I plan to help people, if that’s what you mean. I’ll never be as good at it as Mom was. Probably never work that hard. But as for finding God, yes, I think that’s what it will take for me.” If I was ever ready to talk to him again. “I do believe in him,” I added, as if I’d spoken the thought aloud. “I’m a good person. Now I’m even coming to church every Sunday. What more could you ask?” I lifted both shoulders in a deprecating shrug, smiling ruefully. “But that’s not the problem, anyway. I didn’t come here to talk about me. I came because I felt you’d attacked my mom, and I just … I couldn’t let that be.” My throat tightened. “I can’t believe the things you said in your sermon, because if they are true, all her work—even her death—would be for nothing.”
“Jessie,” Pastor Frasier leaned across his desk, “please understand me. Nothin’ I ever say—in a sermon or anywhere else—will be aimed against your mother. Only God can judge how she lived her life. So I leave her in God’s hands. All right? My sermons are preached for those of us still on this earth. For myself, for you, for the person sittin’ in the front pew and the back. And I’ll tell you somethin’, Jessie. I believe God brought you in here today for both of us. First—you. He’s placed within your heart a yearnin’ for the truth—a yearnin’ that you may not even fully discern yet. I pray he’ll give me the words you need to hear so you can find that truth. As for me, it seems he’s brought you here to reinforce my burden for this town.”
I frowned, uncomprehending.
He regarded me thoughtfully. “I’m not quite sure what God has in mind, but I feel he’s promptin’ me to tell you this.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Although you’re a newcomer in Bradleyville, Jessie, you—with your view of salvation—are a lot like other people in this town. I suppose you’ve heard how Jonathan Bradley pulled up stakes from Albertsville and moved here when it was nothin’ but countryside? He was a wonderful Christian man, fed up with the immorality around him. He said God told him to build a town, and by gum, that’s what he did. This was a town whose very foundation was Christian. My own father was the first preacher, here in this church. Later, the Baptist church was built as more folks came. In the young days of this town, folks lived their lives centered on Christ.” Absently, he rubbed a nick on the edge of his desk. “But now that a generation’s gone by, things have changed. People still go to church and talk about bein’ Christian. And they still raise their children under strict biblical principles. The problem is, Jessie, they think this is enough. They’ve lost sight of what it means to have Christ as Lord of their lives. Now, I’m not talkin’ ‘bout everybody. Your aunt and uncle, Alice Eder, Martha Plott, and others are still firmly centered. But many more are not. That’s why I preached my sermon today. And that’s why I’m in deep prayer over this town. Because, Jessie, I’ll tell ya somethin’ I’ve learned. Bein’ good and servin’ others and goin’ to church are all things we should do. But when the fryin’ pan meets the flame, these things alone won’t sustain you. For in choosin’ to do only those things and not embrace Jesus Christ as our own Savior, we’re choosin’ to remain lords of our own lives.”
Two minutes ago I’d been nearly mollified. Now, fresh defensiveness rose within me. How dare this man make such judgments. “Uh-huh.” I managed a stiff smile. “Okay. I see where your beliefs are. But as I told you, Mom saw the good in many different ways to God. And so … I’ll respect your beliefs, as I hope you’ll respect mine.” I stood, abruptly ending the discussion, then felt a twinge of remorse as disappointment flicked across his face. “I’m sorry to leave,” I added, my ba
ck still stiff, “but my uncle’s waiting for me so … I better go.”
“All right, Jessie.” The pastor rose gracefully. “I’ve filled your ear enough for one day anyway.” He ushered me out of his office, then walked me down the hall and back into the sanctuary, where Uncle Frank sat with his head bowed, praying.
chapter 4
That afternoon in Bradleyville, an elderly widow fussed over the ivy plant on her kitchen table, watering it with care and wiping imagined dust from its leaves. That done, she shuffled across the black-and-white checked floor, her plastic watering can cradled in both hands. Humming the chorus of a hymn under her breath, she drew up before her small pots of herbs lining the window sill. A flash of red out in the street caught her eye, and she turned to set the watering can down on a nearby counter. Peering through lace curtains, she saw two neighbor boys throwing a ball back and forth. “Crazy kids,” she chuckled to herself, “out in the cold.”
She picked up the watering can in her right hand, gently pulling aside the leaves of a basil plant with her left to allow room for watering. She smiled, thinking how much she enjoyed the savory taste of sweet basil in spaghetti. Without realizing it, she started humming again.
What happened next came without warning. The cheery kitchen and plants faded, and a vision sprang to the widow’s mind, as clearly as though the horrifying scene was spread before her. A vision of blackness. Violence. Death. Amid the raging bodies, she could see the features of only one face. The presence of this face, and the expression upon it, stunned her with fear and disbelief.
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