God's Not Dead 2

by Travis Thrasher

  “Does your client know that her lawyer is way out of his league? These new witnesses—what did you do, google writers and speakers who argue for the existence of God?”

  Again I nod and show no emotion except complete seriousness. “Actually, you’re right; I totally did that. That was after watching your hero on television.”

  Kane indulges me with a sarcastic “And who might that be?”

  “Lionel Hutz. Your TV doppelgänger.”

  He looks around the mostly empty courtroom and then seems to stretch the muscles in his face.

  “I’m sure that’s a very, very funny joke. But you see—in my world, I’m a master at litigation, not pop culture.”

  Before I can tell him where the name is from, Kane turns and heads out of the room. I figure he wouldn’t find it amusing in the least even though I still think The Simpsons reference is funny.

  It’s either get ticked or get stupid.

  I’d rather be the latter when it comes to Kane’s superiority complex.

  It takes me a few minutes to find Grace, and when I do I stop and just watch her. She’s near the stone wall and the metal railing underneath the dome, overlooking the main floor below. You can see four sculptures from where she’s standing, and each one is a female figure sitting in a cloth-draped chair.

  I stop because I can see Grace’s hands clasped together and her eyes shut. It’s no secret what she’s doing.

  A few moments later, when she opens them again and continues looking down on the floor below, I walk over and stand next to her to look down too.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “‘Good’?” Grace asks in surprise.

  “Yeah. If you had said you were doing okay, I’d know you were lying. And we can’t have any dishonesty between us. Right?”

  “So how are you doing?” she asks.

  “I just had a nice chat with Kane. So honestly? I suddenly have this terrible headache.”

  This makes her laugh.

  I glance down and then point at one of the sculptures. “I bet you know all about those, right?”

  She nods. I’m sure she’s told quite a few classes what the limestone statues represent.

  “Okay, so test me,” I say. “The lady holding a thing of wheat—that’s for farming, right?”

  “Agriculture,” she says.

  “Same thing. And the one holding the scroll over her lap. That’s for literature.”

  “Art,” she corrects me again.

  “The woman with the sledgehammer. I’ve always thought that should be for law, but it’s not, right?”

  “That one is industry.”

  “Yes, of course. So the last lady holding the sword—that’s the law, right?”

  Grace looks at it and nods. “It’s justice.”

  “Ah. An entirely different thing, then.”

  I’m joking, of course.

  “Do you think justice will show up in our case?”

  “I don’t know. But since I’m not a praying sort of guy, you better keep them up. Every little bit helps.”

  “You know, just because you’re not a ‘praying sort of guy,’ that doesn’t mean you can’t pray. They’re always heard—even from derelicts like you.”

  I laugh and follow as she heads down the stairs.

  We still have time to figure out something new for our case strategy.

  And maybe pray.

  41

  SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW. A year after being diagnosed with cancer, Amy still hasn’t told her mother. Perhaps there’s no reason to do so now. Perhaps she can let it go like the other hundred things every single day that she never says anything about. But this was a big one. She’s tried. She’s called and left messages. But relationships are like plants in the middle of summer. If you don’t water them and look out for them, they’ll die. It’s that simple. You have to pay attention.

  And I stopped paying attention.

  After the strange mishap with the guy on the jury, and after the trial was adjourned till tomorrow, Amy finds herself wanting to get away from the dwindling protesters and the passionate teenagers full of faith. She doesn’t want to see anybody from this case. All she wants to do is ask someone some questions. Someone who knows her.

  Amy tries her mother’s phone again. Every ring is like hearing the puncture of a tire on her car. On the fourth ring, she gets a voice mail, a familiar one, the same one that’s been there for a whole year. She thinks about leaving a message, but she just clicks off the phone. What else is there to say that hasn’t already been said?

  “Mom, I need to talk.”

  Check.

  “Mom, please call me; I’m in trouble.”

  Check.

  “Are you there?”

  Check.

  “Mom, I don’t get it. What did I do?”

  Check.

  A late-night curse-filled message.

  Checkmate.

  Mom will know she called. But the truth is that Mom has moved on. Maybe she had to move on. All those times of trying and all those times Amy wasn’t there. Mom knows what this is like because she used to be the one calling and leaving messages while Amy thought she was too big and too busy for her neurotic and needy mother. Words had been expressed—some written in e-mails, some texted, some spoken out loud. Just like the kind of malicious words Amy used to write on a daily basis as if they satisfied some kind of addiction. Poison can come in all varieties, and the kind Amy was addicted to came out in her blogs.

  Maybe her mother has really and truly had enough.

  But just like an addict who’s gotten clean, Amy can feel the withdrawal. The need to fill those places that the hate and cynicism used to fill. She had hoped or thought or maybe just wished a bit that hearing Mom’s voice could perhaps . . . just possibly . . .

  She pulled over to get gas before making the call but hasn’t even gotten out of her car yet. The tank is half-full. Or half-empty, depending on how you look at it.

  Or maybe you’re just stuck in the middle like you were back at the courthouse, in between two camps of people like you’ve always been. Good old In-Between Amy.

  She wonders if God sees her this way. He’s up there and the devil is down there and she’s stuck in the middle doing neither of them any good. At least she used to be a warrior for one of them, right? Even if it hadn’t actually been for the right side.

  Go see the pastor Mina told you about.

  It seems so pedestrian. So cliché. So needy. She’d rather go see a shrink and get a prescription for something.

  Go see him.

  A truck behind her honks, jolting her. She starts up the car and leaves. She finds the address of the church she e-mailed to herself.

  What else is there to do?

  Her options are continuing to shut on her. She might as well take one that’s still open.

  Church of the Redeemer is off the main road, perched on a small hill. It’s an older church, the kind that appears to be a relic of the past with its stained-glass windows and steeple. Nowadays so many churches seem to be connected buildings situated around a parking lot that look equipped to handle a Super Bowl. Amy finds the small parking lot. It’s Monday afternoon, so there are only a handful of cars parked in the lot.

  It still takes her time to find the office she’s looking for. Nobody was at the welcome desk or the reception area, so Amy finds a directory and spots his name on it. Reverend David Hill. Room 204. She heads upstairs and goes down one hallway, then another, to eventually find the door.

  It’s closed. The glass window to the side of the door is dark. She knocks, then tries opening the door, but it’s locked.

  Well, there you go, Amy. This is what God’s telling you.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Amy would be startled except for the fact that the voice sounds almost soothing. When she turns and sees the friendly, dark face looking at her, she realizes the accent sounds African. Maybe
Kenyan. He’s holding a couple bags of garbage.

  “I’m looking for Pastor Dave. But I guess he’s not here. Obviously.”

  The man nods and walks closer. He has comforting eyes that don’t move from hers.

  “My ex-boyfriend’s sister, Mina, told me Pastor Dave was wonderful and I should come see him.”

  “Well, I’m sorry; he’s not here. He won’t be back until after next week.”

  “Oh, okay.” She suddenly feels very stupid being in this hallway looking for someone who doesn’t even know her. “Thanks.”

  As she turns to go, he speaks again. “You know—they call me a bit of a neat freak around here. I don’t mind taking out the trash when it’s necessary. We have a custodian who tells me he’ll do it, but I really don’t mind. But if you need to talk, I’m actually a minister.”

  She normally would say no. But something about this man—something about the fact that he’s holding those trash bags and grinning and acting like he has all the time in the world—tells her that she should talk to him. That she needs to talk to him.

  “I’m Reverend Jude,” he says in his thick accent as he extends his hand after putting the bags of garbage down.

  “Amy,” she says.

  They walk downstairs, and he leads her into a small chapel. It has a stained-glass window at the back, behind the pulpit. There are two rows of pews on each side. The reverend sits down in the back pew and offers her the space next to him.

  “It’s so quiet here,” Amy says.

  He nods. “I love to come here at this time and look at the colors on the wall. Isn’t it amazing how they almost twinkle at you?”

  Amy stares up at the glass and finds herself a bit lost in it.

  “So why did your friend of your ex or the sister of your boyfriend—?”

  “My ex-boyfriend’s sister,” Amy clarifies.

  Jude just laughs a low, good-natured chuckle. “Yes. Good thing we have that cleared up.”

  “I’m sorry. I like editing everybody. That’s why I hate my own messy life.”

  “And why is your life messy?”

  Amy begins to tell the reverend her story. About growing up with no faith and getting older and beginning to resent it. About her mother resenting her resentment. About learning that she had cancer and being dumped and then seeing God somewhere in the middle.

  “Everything—it happened so fast—and all of a sudden I just found myself alone and all I could do was pray and ask God for help,” she says.

  Amy recounts her recent months—about the cancer going into remission, about her doctor dying of ALS, about all the emptiness that makes her wonder if her faith was ever real to begin with.

  “Why would you wonder that?” Reverend Jude says.

  “It’s because—I’m struggling to believe. I’ve examined the facts. I know Jesus existed, but my worldly brain seems to be at war with my heart on the faith side.”

  The scolding that used to come from her mother in moments like this is nowhere to be found. Neither is an impatience to get to the point or to move on to something else. The man seems quite content to stay in this pew with her for hours. He takes a moment before responding, then speaks clearly and softly and slowly.

  “Actually, I think you already do believe, Amy. And the proof is that you’re here. Do you know how many men and women are threatened by the idea of walking through the doors of a church? Or how many procrastinate in doing so? And that’s on a Sunday morning. But you’re here on a Monday afternoon, of all times. That’s admirable.”

  “Maybe not,” she says. “Maybe I’m just trying to hide from as many people as possible.”

  Jude laughs. “I believe you’re not willing to put God back on the shelf now that your cancer is gone. He won’t let you dismiss the thought of him.”

  She nods. She knows he’s right.

  But what if I want to put God back on the shelf?

  It’s almost like the reverend can read her mind. “I believe part of you senses Jesus’ presence and wishes he would just go away and leave you alone sometimes,” he says.

  Bingo.

  “I have to admit,” she says, “I’ve had that thought.”

  “Of course. You know the thing Satan loves more than a noisy crowd yelling and screaming?”

  “What?”

  “Silence. Complete and utter silence. The kind you might have in the middle of a lake, sitting in a small boat with a fishing pole in your hand. This lazy, let-the-world-pass sort of quiet. When we stop caring and stop feeling those nudges coming from God—well, that’s when things get dangerous.”

  “I just—I feel like God was there when I needed him. But now—I don’t know—it’s like maybe he has better things to do than worry about me. Maybe it’s better if he leaves me alone.”

  Jude shakes his head and smiles. “He loves you too much to do that.”

  She’s never thought of it that way.

  Loving someone so much they won’t let go.

  It’s like the opposite of what Marc is doing. He’s lonely and needy and for some reason wants what the holes in his heart can’t have. But God chasing after her? The God of the universe—the maker of the sun and the moon and the stars, the giver of life and the one who knows and sees all?

  How can he want anything to do with me?

  “I’ve just been—I’ve sort of been floating in the middle of the ocean for the last year,” Amy tells the reverend. “It’s like—like I was saved after my plane went down but I’m still lost at sea wondering what to do next.”

  “That can happen,” Jude says. “And it’s good that you are reaching out to someone as esteemed as Reverend Dave.”

  The humor on his face and the wry tone of his voice make her think he’s teasing or maybe having an inside joke.

  “It’s time to stop floating, Amy. It’s time to stop waiting for God to blow you back to shore. I think it’s time you start paddling to find dry land yourself.”

  Another thing she’s never thought of before. She always assumed if God did the first part, he would continue the job.

  He’s put me here and is allowing me to continue the job.

  “Do you know something, Amy? God delights in using us in ways we never dreamed of . . . and in giving us things we never even knew we wanted. We just have to give him the chance.”

  They talk for a few more moments, and Amy eventually admits out loud that it was probably a God thing that she ran into Jude. “Thank you for everything you’ve said.”

  Reverend Jude laughs. “I don’t know about a ‘God thing.’ Reverend Dave was serving jury duty this week. And as it turned out, he had to be rushed to the hospital this afternoon. He and his appendix decided to get a very quick and nasty divorce.”

  Amy can almost feel her mouth flopping open and staying that way. “He was on a jury?” she asks, thinking of the guy whom the paramedics had to come and take away on a gurney.

  “Yes. A big-profile case.”

  She laughs. She laughs so hard that tears start to form in her eyes.

  “What is it?” Jude asks.

  “That thing you said about God delighting? I can sure see it now. He’s just loving this.”

  Do you trust him enough to give him a chance?

  God is certainly showing his sense of humor to her.

  “The thing God loves is us, Amy. He loves us. That fact will never change.”

  42

  SINCE I PICKED UP Grace today and brought her to the courthouse simply to save her the headache of dealing with any wandering reporters, I drive her back to her house after Pastor Dave’s dramatic departure. We’ve talked about the case on the way. She’s uncertain as always and wonders what the jurors are thinking and what the impact will be if we end up having to get another jury member. I don’t want to go over the cliff of despair with her right now. I’m still her lawyer and need to be positive. I need to believe, at least in front of her. Later on tonight I’ll have a nice, festive pity party.

  “We don’t kn
ow if the pastor is gone or not,” I tell her. “But we have to operate as if he will be.”

  “And what does that mean?” she asks in the seat next to me.

  I look over and notice for the first time that Grace doesn’t wear much makeup. She doesn’t need it to look good. She has near-perfect skin, few lines around the eyes.

  And why are you thinking about this?

  I focus back on the street in front of us. “I think it means we just keep to the plan.”

  “I thought you said there’s no plan,” Grace says.

  “Yes. Absolutely. So we stick to that.”

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  “You know I’m joking.”

  “This isn’t a joking matter, you know.”

  I look and see her eyes swollen with doubt. “I know it’s not. That’s why I brought in the two new witnesses. They’re going to help.”

  “But? You sound like you have a but somewhere in there.”

  “But there still needs to be some kind of aha. The arguments—I don’t know. It’s like they’ve all heard this. The biggest excitement came from the guy keeling over today. And that’s not good.”

  “Do you think the other witness will help?”

  “Jim Wallace is going to help, for sure. He makes a strong case and has an interesting backstory. But I don’t want the jurors thinking they’re hearing some teacher blabber on.”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  I laugh. “Yes, but I’m sure you never blabber. Or yabber. Or blather. Or jibber-jabber.”

  “Are you done?” she asks.

  “Chatter. Gabble.”

  She ignores my third-grade humor as we arrive at her house. I park in front of it and leave the car running. Grace looks at me and I suddenly feel a bit lost as to what I should say or do.

  “Would you . . . Are you hungry or anything?” Grace asks.

  I look at her, the blonde hair brushing her cheeks, the uncertainty all over her face. It’s such an obvious thing, this moment, and I know I need to just admit it. Even if I’m the only one feeling it. “Hey, listen—I should tell you something.”

  “No, look, Tom—I wasn’t trying to—that invite wasn’t meant to be anything—”