“To make an example of you. Look—I know. It’s ridiculous, right? But these people—I’ve run into a few of them in meetings. They’re vicious. Your beliefs are like a disease whose time has come and gone. Sorta like smallpox.”
Grace smooths out the fold in her skirt, then looks over at the photos displayed on the shelves. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this sort of thing,” she says.
“Really? In your teaching career?”
“No. With my spiritual walk. Or . . . in regard to my faith. The word spiritual can mean a little bit of anything these days.”
I’m not following her. “How do you mean you’ve seen this sort of thing?”
“There’s a reason I’m living here and not with my parents. A reason you haven’t seen my mother or father tonight. It’s because they’re not a part of my life anymore. Nor my grandfather’s.”
“Why?” I ask.
Her eyes search for something that’s surely not going to be found in this living room. She’s wondering what exactly to tell me, something I can understand.
“My parents—my father, in particular—wasn’t a big fan when my grandfather found Jesus. Gramps called it his Damascus Road experience. I think they thought he was crazy, to be honest. I was fourteen and believed my parents. I didn’t know the relationship my father had with his father. So when I told them years later that I had discovered what Gramps had—that God had finally yanked me off the road I was on—they tried to convince me that I was being foolish. They even blamed both my grandparents. It became ugly and they simply couldn’t deal with it. We see them from time to time—they haven’t completely cut the cord—but they’re pretty bitter.”
I’m curious how she made this discovery—how God supposedly “yanked” her off the road she was on. But I know it will come out just like her revelations about her parents. I won’t need to ask. It will be natural and normal.
“There was one time after an argument,” Grace says. “My father and grandfather argued at a dinner and my father stormed off. My mother, like always, came to his defense, and I swear I’ve never seen her more angry in my life. It was scary. And like you said about this lawsuit and these people, the anger on my mother’s face was just nuts. It was almost . . . I know I might sound crazy saying this.”
“What?”
“Demonic?”
I laugh, not because I don’t believe her but because of course she’s not crazy.
“You should’ve seen Judge Nettles, who I used to work for,” I say. “Talk about demonic. It was like the girl from The Exorcist had grown up and become a man and now was a judge for the Ninth Circuit.”
“The Ninth Circuit?” Grace asks.
“An inflated and supposedly important group of courts that mostly exist to hear appeals. The circuit courts are right below the Supreme Court. I now call it the Ninth Circuit of Hell.”
This doesn’t make her laugh like I thought it would.
For a few moments, we talk about the schedule and the upcoming order of events. What I plan to do next, what I still need from her, suggestions on what she can do before showing up in court, whether I’ll file any motions before the trial. She’s listening but she’s also somewhere else, the anxiety rising up on her face like water over a drowning soul.
“Can I ask you a question, Tom? And can you be completely honest?”
I nod. “Of course. Anything.”
“How do we stop them?”
There’s only one answer I can give her.
“We win.”
17
Crossing the Threshold
A POST FOR WAITING FOR GODOT
by Amy Ryan
Optimistic people make me nervous. They always have, and it seems like they always will.
I used to believe it was because their sense of naiveté, crossed with their ignorance, allowed them to carry a smile like someone sniffing gas or glue or something even worse. I would take this belief and then wrap words around it like gloves around a boxer’s hands. Now I realize the words were more like those horrible little appetizers served at Super Bowl parties. The cocktail franks wrapped in bacon. They might taste yummy going down, but there’s nothing good for you in digesting them.
Yes, I just compared my former blog to bacon-wrapped Lit’l Smokies.
I’ve also come to realize something else. Something even less attractive than digesting mystery meat.
My dislike and distrust of enthusiastic and idealistic people only comes from the sense of despair and disillusion I’ve always carried around with me. These haven’t been just simple attitudes I’ve picked up in twenty-seven years of living. They’re more like my right and left hands, the two things that have spent so much time typing and searching and clicking on the computer.
Now, however, I find myself fascinated with optimism. I want to learn about it just like I want to figure out my faith. Could they possibly be tied together, as closely related as a right and left hand? Or are they more like a head and a heart? Do you need one in order to move or break the other?
The heart is the place where faith is found, while the head figures out how to process the joy that comes from it. So if I have faith, I should have optimism and joy. Right?
So then why do I still see the gray on days of sky-blue ceilings? How come I spot the cracks on yellow-brick roads?
Does happiness come the longer you’re on this road of faith? Or is it more like a symptom of how truly you believe?
I’ve recently discovered a woman who is a testament to an optimistic soul. She seems to love her job as a teacher and her role in shaping students’ lives. She appears to view the tough parts of teaching history to high schoolers as a blessing and an opportunity.
The more I learn about this teacher, the more intrigued I become. Intrigue, of course, is crucial for any writer, especially a journalist or a blogger. You have to be interested enough to observe and ask questions and observe more and then give the results.
I’ve embarked on a journey toward discovering what this thing called faith means, and I’m not going to be taking this journey by myself. I’ll be heading down this road with others. In particular, at least for a while, I’ll be walking alongside this woman. Or at least trailing shortly behind her.
What is faith, and how is it shown in one’s life?
What if that faith suddenly finds someone at a crossroads?
And what if that faith suddenly finds itself in the crosshairs of an enemy who doesn’t want to have anything to do with it?
What will happen to this faith and to the soul who holds it?
18
IT TAKES ME twenty minutes after waking up to discover I can’t get online. I generally put the coffee on and then open my laptop to retrieve e-mails and see the news and start thinking about the day ahead. For some reason I can’t connect this morning.
Bet I know the reason.
I don’t bother to check the Wi-Fi connection or call my Internet service provider to report an outage. All I do is go over to the kitchen counter near the phone and the fridge. The bills are in several stacks but in no particular order except for the absolutely pressing bills on the far left. It turns out the phone and Internet service bill should’ve been in that pile, since I discover yesterday was the day they’d turn off my service if I didn’t pay.
I shake my head and curse, then take the bill and make the call. I have to go through an automated system and say a series of yeses and nos and other words into the lifeless line. I always hate doing this because I’ll grow impatient when they start to say, “Would you like to add a premium service—?” and then I’ll say no and the computer won’t understand and I’ll keep saying yes and no louder and louder. I’ve always imagined a neighbor overhearing me and thinking I might have lost my mind.
It takes fifteen minutes to pay the $280 I owe. The bill is usually around seventy bucks, but I haven’t paid it for a couple of months.
“You know why they call them ‘late fees’? That’s ’cause it’s la
te bloomers like you who pay them. It’s absolutely the dumbest way to waste your money.”
I can hear my father’s words. If you asked him, he would tell you this is actually how he believes he encourages me. He only wants me to get out of debt and succeed. So he says. I think he loves being able to stand over somebody and then step on them and start to preach. Instead of having a soapbox, my father has me. The marks from his heels are still imprinted on my chest.
I check the other bills to see if there’s anything else I have to pay right away. I’m waiting on the next check to arrive—even though it’s only been four days since my last payment. That money vanished like a magician’s rabbit. I’ve learned in the last few years which bills have to be paid. Your Internet provider is one that has to be paid. Otherwise they just flip the switch and leave you unconnected.
It takes a lot longer for the town to cut off your water or the electric company to cut off power. Even mortgage payments can be delayed. But only by a few months. Then they start using the foreclosure word on you.
DirecTV. Have another ten days to pay that one. Medical, medical, college loan, credit card, another credit card—all of these can wait awhile.
I used to love thinking about money. Now it’s like your old clunker of a car. You hate to drive it or even think about it but you have no choice. You need it to get around.
The schedule on my computer screen reminds me that I have an appointment at ten this morning to earn some of that precious, annoying money. It’s my side job, something I’ve managed to pick up part-time that actually is pretty flexible and pretty well paying, too.
So far there’s nothing new on Grace’s case. No more e-mails or concerns or changes. I haven’t gotten any freak-out voice mails or texts, though I still expect some of those to come.
Ressie is looking at me as if she’s just waiting to bolt from the front door again.
“Uh-uh,” I tell her. “I’m keeping my eyes on you. You’re not escaping again.”
She seems to understand and follows me into the kitchen as I eat a bowl of cereal. I offer her a flake—not just any flake but the Raisin Nut Bran kind—but Ressie just sniffs it and then looks back up at me.
“Listen, sweetheart. Soon I’ll have to go to generic brands. It’ll be Nutty Raisins & Stuff that you’ll be getting. And trust me, it won’t be this good.”
The dog isn’t persuaded by my closing argument. She just keeps looking up at me with eyes that seem to say, I still remember when you gave me some of that sausage McMuffin.
I shake my head.
“Always the same with you, huh? You always just want to take, take, take. But what about me? What about my needs?”
It’s eight in the morning and I’m being clever with a dog. I shouldn’t even say clever—mildly amusing is more like it. For no one other than myself.
I scoop a mouthful of cereal and shut myself up. For the moment.
I’ve been meeting with this group of three pre-law students for the past four months. I hate saying that I’m tutoring them since that just sounds so sixth-grade math homework. But yeah, I guess I am indeed tutoring them.
The three students make quite the trio. They’re already waiting for me in the library conference room we always meet in. I greet them and pretend I still see myself as one of them. I can’t be that much older than these first-year law students, can I?
And the dreams they still hold inside their bellies can’t actually be missing from mine, can they?
“Hi, Mr. Endler.”
I’ve told Brock not to call me this, but his genes and upbringing force him to. He’s a young man who seems less like a lawyer than an offensive lineman, with big shoulders and an even bigger neck that looks the way mine might if I were wearing a neck brace. Brock’s a bright kid, but that doesn’t mean his career should be law. It’s obvious he’s pursuing this because his father is a lawyer and his mother has pushed him into it.
Martin Yip is a friendly guy usually wearing a happy-go-lucky expression. His family is from some city in China he’s given me the name of three different times, and each time I’ve misheard it. Now I’m too embarrassed to ask again. And while he’s always so positive and always doing everything he can for this study group—helping to organize the times and checking out the conference room in the library—I know Martin has some issues with his parents. Once the subject came up and he shared a little more than usual, expressing frustration with his father, who doesn’t understand him.
I think again about the blog post by Josh Wheaton and make a mental note to ask Martin about the connection.
Rosario is our token female. She’s a loud and energetic Latina who’s full of questions. Poor Martin and Brock can barely keep up with this young woman’s mind. She’s a powerhouse. I know she’s not here to get help eventually passing the bar. No, this is only extra credit for her. She’s here to pick the brain of someone who graduated at the top of his class from a prestigious university. Rosario’s done her homework. So while Martin and Brock are trying to get their minds around common-law statutes, Rosario will be asking me about comparative legal linguistics.
When I sit down and catch the tail end of the conversation the three of them are having, I find the snippets I hear both amusing and intriguing. So far I’ve heard four reality television shows mentioned. Survivor, Dancing with the Stars, The Voice, and The Amazing Race. Brock and Rosario are trying to make their case. For something.
“Okay—are we practicing opening arguments and using TV shows as examples?” I ask.
“No, but that’s far more interesting than this conversation,” Rosario says.
“You just know I have the better point,” Brock says.
“No, you haven’t made a single good point yet,” she tells him.
Martin is sitting between them looking a bit lost, like some divorce lawyer between two feuding spouses.
“And what points are we trying to make?” I ask.
Both of them start talking and keep getting louder, and I just hold up my hand.
“Okay, Martin—what are you guys discussing?”
He looks a bit reluctant to speak, but the other two let him. “We’re arguing which reality TV show would be the toughest to win.”
I shake my head. “And what are your choices?”
“Survivor,” Brock says. “Without a doubt.”
“That’s because he wouldn’t be able to eat,” Rosario says.
“That’s a lot harder than some dancing or singing competition.”
“I say The Voice would be harder,” Rosario says. “You have to make it through all those rounds and prove you have insane talent, and then you have to get America to fall in love with you. Way harder then making it in the wilderness, voting off jerks and lying to each other.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Brock says.
I’m five minutes late and suddenly I’ve walked into the sort of late-night after-party discussion I used to have at my frat house.
“So what about you, then?” I ask Martin.
“He doesn’t watch reality TV,” Rosario says.
“No?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so,” Brock says.
I’m used to the way these two can overtalk the young man. I clear my throat twice as loud as I might normally and look at Martin. “So what do you think?”
Martin pauses and then looks back at me with a very serious face. I’m expecting the bright young man to say something like he doesn’t have time for television or he enjoys watching history videos of his native country or something. Rosario and Brock both stare at him, waiting for wisdom.
“The most difficult to win would be The Bachelor,” he says.
“You don’t win The Bachelor,” Rosario cries out with complete bewilderment. “It’s a dating show.”
“I know,” Martin replies in his direct and subdued tone.
“So then why’d you mention it?”
Martin looks over at Rosario. “Because the love of your life might be the
most impossible thing to find in the world.”
“Yes, but there’s no winning or losing.”
Martin gives her a mischievous grin. “No? I think you win just to get on a show with twenty-five beautiful women. Then if you actually fall in love, you win the best prize one could ever find.”
Rosario and Brock both start laughing at the gravity with which Martin says this. I can’t help but chuckle myself.
“Okay, Romeo,” I tell him. “We need to talk about some law.”
“We are,” Rosario says. “The laws of attraction.”
Brock groans and Martin laughs.
They’re a good group to spend time with studying legalese. But I have to remember that our time is limited.
“Listen—I’m going to trial soon, so we need to make this time count.”
They all ask me what for, but I tell them I’ll share soon enough. “It’s an interesting case, but you know what’s far more interesting? Health law.”
“You sound like you’re talking to a class of junior high kids,” Rosario says.
“Oh, I’m sorry. And here I thought you guys were just talking about reality TV shows.”
She says a low “Ooohhh.”
“Didn’t we already go over health law?” Brock asks.
“No, our last session was on tax law,” Martin says, much to Brock’s thank-you-very-much chagrin.
Even though it’s a nice way to earn a little extra money, I know I’m helping these three out. Or at least Brock and Martin. It’s nice to know I can do that in my profession. Not many lawyers seem to be able to say the same these days.
At the end of our session as the students are getting ready to leave, I mention to Martin about seeing his name in the blog.
“I shared a class with Josh Wheaton,” Martin tells me.
He says it in one of those ways that makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. It isn’t like Martin not to want to linger around after our time to talk. Today, however, he seems preoccupied. No, not just that, but anxious.
If the soft-spoken and good-natured guy who stood up in Wheaton’s classroom doesn’t want to say anything about it, I gotta respect his decision. I’m sure there are reasons. I’m sure he’ll share if and when the time comes. I just have to make certain I’m not too busy to hear it.
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