“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Amy tells her.
“Yeah, me too. My father actually told me, ‘We need to move on.’ Like I got a traffic ticket or something. It’s just . . .” The girl sighs and looks down at her chicken sandwich.
“I can’t imagine what all of you are dealing with.”
“Marlene’s been a super-awesome friend. But even she doesn’t truly understand. She invites me over to her house and is always like, ‘Give your parents a little more time.’ She just doesn’t get them. My mother is so obsessed with me getting into Stanford. Still. After everything that happened. I don’t even want to go to college anymore. Honestly.”
Amy initially thought about bringing her digital recorder to this meeting, but now she’s glad she didn’t. This no longer feels like an interview. She’s talking to a young woman who is still very much grieving an incredible loss.
“So you said Ms. Wesley was helping you out?”
“Yeah. But nothing big or official, you know? I saw her at the coffee shop and sat down and we like had the most amazing talk. This was a few days before the thing in class, I guess. It was incredible. You ever meet with someone and suddenly think, ‘I wish I had her for a mother’?”
Ah. The cruel, cruel hand of irony suddenly showing up and slapping Amy in the face.
“If you only knew,” Amy says.
“Then you understand. She was just there and listening and let me talk about everything. I told Ms. Wesley that my parents were completely over Carter’s death and they wanted me to be as well. They’re like, ‘He’s gone forever and there’s nothing we can do.’ Like two drones hovering over me telling me to just move on. But everything in my life suddenly felt turned upside down. Marlene’s like the only friend I have that isn’t absolutely self-absorbed.”
“She’s a strong kid,” Amy says.
“I told Ms. Wesley the same thing I’d like to tell my parents—that the only thing I know for sure is that I’m never going to see my brother again. Everybody’s asked me if there’s something they can do. The truth is, no one can do anything because the only thing I really want is five more minutes to tell my brother how I felt about him.”
An urge to share her own story with Brooke nudges at her, but Amy remains quiet. There might be a time and a place, but it’s not this moment.
“Ms. Wesley asked me if Carter believed there was something more after death. To be honest, I don’t know if he did. I don’t know if I do. We talked about it. She said it’s natural for everybody to think about these things, that it’s normal to ask questions and try to find answers. When I eventually asked her why nothing ever seems to get to her, Ms. Wesley said in the same manner she always does that it’s Jesus who allows her to be that way.”
“And that’s when you two began talking about faith?”
Brooke shakes her head. “No. It wasn’t some big discussion or anything. When Ms. Wesley said that at the coffee shop, it just seemed natural. Like, ‘Yeah, this is who I am.’ So I had a lot more questions about that. I didn’t think—I really didn’t think anything of it when I asked that question in class. I guess I should have been a lot more careful.”
“Did you end up talking with the principal or anybody else?”
Brooke nods, her dark hair bobbing back and forth. She becomes more animated thinking about it. “Principal Kinney called me into her office and told me Ms. Wesley had been put under disciplinary review and her classes had been reassigned and all this stuff and that I couldn’t have any contact with her. Either at school or away from it. She had spoken to my parents, who agreed with her. I was like, ‘Do I even have a say in it?’”
“How’d she respond?”
“With a big, fat no,” Brooke says. “She said I didn’t do anything wrong, and I told her Ms. Wesley didn’t either. I felt like some lawyer representing her. Which I hope she gets someone awesome because she did nothing illegal or improper or whatever. Principal Kinney told me not to discuss this with anybody.”
Amy nods and raises her eyebrows. “Looks like you really took her advice.”
“I’ve never been someone to get into trouble or break the rules. That was Carter. But I just—I don’t know. Maybe it’s him whispering these crazy thoughts in my ear or something. I just know Ms. Wesley didn’t do anything wrong. She answered a simple question of mine.”
“So you’ve decided to fight back? That was quite the demonstration at school.”
“It’s made lots of headlines,” Brooke says, unable to hide her delight. “My parents are absolutely mortified.”
“Do you plan on doing anything more?”
“Absolutely. So—are you gonna help Ms. Wesley? Write some kind of piece on her or something?”
“I would like to talk with her and maybe share her story,” Amy says.
“That’s great.”
“I’d encourage you—when your opportunity comes, tell the truth.”
For a moment, the girl looks around the restaurant. “Well, everyone is telling me to stay out of it.”
“What’s your heart telling you?”
Amy can tell she’s not asking anything the young woman hasn’t already asked herself.
It’s easier to rush to judgment than to stand firm in your faith. Amy knows.
She used to be the one rushing and judging all the time.
12
“THE THING ABOUT YOU, Thomas, is you’re like one of those scrappy boxers who has no place inside the ring, much less fighting a champion. But you’re so tenacious you eventually beat your opponent simply out of pure stubborn will.”
Professor Grover’s comment comes back to haunt me every now and then. I used to think about it all the time whenever I had a mountain to start climbing. Even back when every day felt like trekking up Mt. Everest bit by bit, I’d think about his comment from my first year of law school. It was both high praise and sharp criticism. I didn’t carry the pedigree or the polish of others, but—to go with the professor’s metaphor—I could certainly land a knockout punch.
I’m three hours into my research and feeling like I’m simply warming up. I’m still in shorts and my nearly faded-to-white Arctic Monkeys T-shirt. The pot of coffee is gone and the few flakes of cereal I missed are now stuck to the dry bowl. This is the glory of working at home instead of going into my office and risking seeing my “partner.” I’m working magic on my MacBook. At least magic in my own mind.
“The key isn’t knowing everything but knowing the important things.”
Not Professor Grover this time. I hear this voice in my head often even if I try to permanently mute it. Fathers have that way about them, don’t they? You have to listen to them one way or the other. Either out of love or hate, their words still stick.
I started out learning about Grace and seeing what I might be able to find online. I’m not looking at the latest buzz related to this particular incident but just stuff about her in general. I do the same for the principal of the school, then look up anything I can find on the superintendent and other names mentioned in the report I have. I even find the Facebook page of the student named Brooke who asked the initial question.
From here I start to go off on tangents. Somehow I find myself looking at several articles about the student Jack referred to who made a stand against a professor at Hadleigh University a year ago. A stand that he won. There’s way more coverage of the story than I realized, but I know a year ago I was still dealing with my mother’s death and my big life change. I’m sure I saw someone saying or posting or texting God’s Not Dead somewhere, but the last word in that phrase still made me reel a bit.
Here’s a question, God. It’s not whether you’re up there. But if you really can read minds, then why did you take my mother instead of my father?
I come across a guest blog from none other than the student himself, Josh Wheaton. The article is dated only a few weeks ago.
One Year Later . . . And God’s Still Not Dead
by Josh Wheaton
&
nbsp; Recently I was asked by someone if I still believed God’s Not Dead. It was a stranger who recognized me in a classroom. I wasn’t sure if he had been in that class with Professor Radisson or simply knew me from my 15 minutes of fame. I smiled and told him I still believed it. “I think that was God testing me for bigger things in the future,” I said.
I truly believe this. It’s something I’ve seen unfold in my life in the last year. Different parts of my life have seemed to be cut by some mysterious set of scissors, while other parts have been sewn onto my heart and soul in such a way that they feel like they can never be torn away.
I feel the doors opening to some kind of ministry. What kind, I don’t know. But it’s the kind of thing where your goal isn’t to fill stadiums by standing behind a podium. The goal is to fill others’ lives by being there and connecting with them. To allow Jesus to come into their hearts and fill them with hope.
So much happened that semester last year when I decided to make a stand. It was pretty simple, to be honest. I just rejected a professor’s statement when he said that “with our permission” he would bypass the “senseless debate” about God’s existence altogether and jump to the conclusion that “there is no God.”
Only he didn’t get my permission before he required me—and the rest of the class—to write down “God is dead” on a sheet of paper and sign it. His classroom, his rules, he said. But I couldn’t write that or sign that, and therefore I had to defend my position.
Something began that day, and I know I had nothing to do with it. The Holy Spirit was moving in that classroom and on our college campus. I felt him give me courage and strength. God gave me wisdom. I know it wasn’t me. This wasn’t about me. A quiet and friendly student from China named Martin Yip proved exactly this. Martin was perhaps the least likely student to make a stand with me in Professor Radisson’s classroom.
Yet he was the first to stand and say, “God’s not dead.”
I’ve gotten undeserved credit since everything happened. But honestly, Martin is the one who really made the stand. He inspired the rest of the students to stand with him.
Out of everything, I saw God work in my friend’s life. Despite having a family who threatened to cut off their ties with him, despite his own personal doubts, despite his head urging him to do the logical thing, Martin’s heart opened up and allowed Christ into it.
It’s not a cliché to say that if you only reach one, you’ve done something worthwhile.
I’m inspired by men who are starting Acts 2 churches—getting people together who love each other, who strive to get the message of Christ out to the community, who gather together regularly to pray for each other, and who equip others to do these things. This is what the early church was like, and I believe there are many places these churches can be planted. I don’t want to worry about numbers and buildings and speakers.
I’m thinking of Martin Yip standing up and supporting me. I see reaching out and being a community somewhere in the darkness of this country.
So a year later, God is still alive. He’s more alive in my life than he ever has been. I’m still in college, but I see the path before me. I’m envisioning ten years down the road and many other Martin Yips that I’ll be able to come across.
God has enabled me to inspire others to stand. I don’t want to stop doing that. I want to keep it going.
Stay strong and ask God for courage to stay standing.
I click off the screen and sigh. The kid’s passion is admirable. I get it and get why so many rallied around him. But fervor can be found everywhere these days. Think of any kind of issue or hobby or belief you want, and you’ll find a group on Facebook you can join for it. Segments of society that merge and make each other feel great.
Clicking through the responses, I’m seeing links to many articles that come to Wheaton’s defense while others mock him without even trying to be subtle. A pro-Wheaton post starts with the attention-grabbing headline “Nietzsche Is Alive & Well (and Teaching in Your Backyard!).” An anti-Wheaton post starts with a crude statement about how some guys just need to start going on dates.
Scanning back over the blog, it suddenly dawns on me about the name I read. Martin Yip.
I know that guy. I mentor that kid.
Next time I see him I’ll have to ask him if he’s still friends with Josh Wheaton.
I make lists and notes the way I always have. It would take someone from NASA to decipher what they actually mean. I have info on everybody I can think of—what they’re like, where they might be coming from, all the facts I can get. I put them into boxes because that’s how people will perceive them. If this happens to go to trial—something I definitely hope won’t happen—then a jury is going to really use those boxes.
Take Principal Ruth Kinney, for example. It takes five minutes to figure her out.
I see her and instantly think of one word: drive. She’s probably wanted to lead her whole life. I don’t bother looking, but I bet she’s a firstborn with several siblings whom she’s been directing her whole life. She’s an attractive woman who looks in her midforties but is probably more like fifty. I notice she doesn’t have some traditional route for becoming principal. It turns out she’s got a story behind her, since most of her professional life took place in the financial world.
An article I come across online—USA Today—is about the changing face of high school principals. They use Ruth Kinney as an example of a successful businesswoman who decides to give back to her community and to students.
“I had reached a bar of success that many would be satisfied with, and while I certainly was proud of all my accomplishments I knew there were many more things I could do,” Ruth says in the interview from several years ago. “I thought back to the high school I went to in Hope Springs, of the growing nature of our city, of the progressive spirit in our country that I could help bring to an institution hungry for growth and change.”
Classy, calculated, captivating. That’s the box I’d put Principal Kinney in.
But there’s more, isn’t there?
The story always has more to tell than the face value and the sound bites, so I keep searching. I turn the Thom Yorke album I’m listening to on iTunes a little louder. I can feel the deep bass in the headphones that don’t need to cancel nearby noise in this empty house but do so anyway.
I get an idea and type Ruth Kinney divorce.
Sure enough, there’s a technical document on an Illinois site that lists Ruth Donna Kinney and Niles Parker Davis with divorce hearings. It’s dated seven years ago, a year before Ruth decided to quit the financial world and go into education.
I continue working like this, knowing that someone somewhere is probably doing the same thing about me. Googling Thomas William Endler. They’ll find plenty. About my career and my parents and my sister and the story of my life.
Ressie changes positions on the couch beside me, going from a comatose ball to now just a resting stance.
I bet nobody knows about her. So there. Something the world doesn’t know about Thomas Endler.
I have around twenty pages of notes. They’re ammunition for the battle ahead. How much I’ll need them remains to be determined. It’s just nice to be acting a little bit like the former Tom, that hungry guy who believed he could affect the life of one person by convincing others.
It’s ironic now that I’m going to have to convince those others that a woman’s beliefs are legitimate and acceptable.
The good thing is that I don’t have to include myself in that mix.
13
“THANK YOU for taking the time to talk about the incident that happened in Ms. Wesley’s class.”
The junior named Legend looks five hundred miles away. Amy thinks his hairstyle resembles a mop. She’s not sure that’s in style now, but then again she knows it’s basically an anything-goes sort of world.
Who’d name their kid Legend in the first place?
“Where are the cameras?” he asks.
&n
bsp; Instead of McDonald’s, Legend wanted to meet Amy after school at the Crownstone Buffet. He’s already got a loaded plate of basically every known food group, while Amy is content to sip her diet soda.
“Cameras?” she asks with genuine surprise. “This is just a casual interview. I write a blog.”
The dark eyes look at her only for a moment before spinning around like some kind of amusement ride. Legend doesn’t seem nervous but rather completely unsure what he should focus on. “You wanted to talk about what happened in history class.”
“That’s correct.”
There seems to be a pause button. Perhaps a mute button. Some kind of disconnect as Legend wolfs down a few bites and then just scans the room like he’s waiting for someone to join them.
How can this kid be in an AP History class?
“Can you talk about what exactly happened?” Amy asks.
“Sure.”
She waits for a moment as he scoops up a small mountain of macaroni and cheese. Legend seems pretty satisfied with his answer. Amy has always wondered what dining at Crownstone Buffet might be like. Now she can cross this off the bucket list of things she never really wanted in the first place.
“So do you want to share what happened?” she eventually asks. “Like go into detail?”
“Okay. Yeah, sure. We were like talking about Gandhi and Martin Luther and Oprah and then Jesus came up.”
“Do you mean Martin Luther King Jr.?” Amy asks.
“Yeah, probably.”
“Were you really talking about Oprah?”
Legend has a forkful of coleslaw he’s about to devour. “I think so. But I might be wrong.”
Amy’s journalism classes in college didn’t quite prepare her for all-you-can-eat meals with teenagers.
“And how did the subject of Jesus come up?”
Legend’s eyes wander up to the ceiling, and as Amy waits, she knows this was a bad idea. You never know when an interview will prove to be a home run, but too often it turns out to be wasted time.
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