Before I move ahead toward those possibilities, though, I have to do one last thing. Make one final good-bye. It might be the hardest thing I ever do, but I need to do it before I begin to even think of moving on.
Thank you again for all you’ve meant to me.
Yours in Christ,
Sheridan Blake
twenty-four
Weeks after Genevie told me good-bye, I could still hear one of the last things she said to me: “You’ll find your way. You’ve come this far. I know you’ll go further.”
I didn’t know how far I could go. But seven years to the day after it happened, on the monstrous anniversary of a pain-filled night that forever changed so many lives, I finally made that journey I should have made long ago.
It was a beautiful summer day with a clear canvas of blue sky stretching overhead. I found the site easily and approached it wearing dress slacks and a tie. Sweat ran down my back and neck. I carried a large bouquet of flowers in one hand and a backpack in the other.
Give me peace, Lord. That’s all I ask.
I walked up to the grave site and set my backpack down beside the large stone. Fresh flowers had already been brought today. I laid mine down gently beside them and then bent on my knees to face the girl I had helped put into the ground.
Tears blurred my eyes as I wept into my hands. Once again, I felt ashamed and scared and guilty. Everything still felt like it had happened only yesterday.
Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me for not coming here sooner.
I looked down and made out the stone-etched writing:
Amy Larsen, 1973–1992
A beloved daughter who gave hope to all she knew
Who gave hope to all she knew.
Hope.
The word haunted me. How long had I needed hope? How long had I been looking for it? How could I finally have found it through the death of a girl I killed?
Lord, there was a purpose in this, I prayed. It wasn’t just to change Mike Larsen’s life, but to change mine too. And to give us all hope…
For so long, I had run from the Lord. Yet, through a horrible mistake of mine, God had allowed me to come back to him. “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed aloud. “Thank you for giving me renewed hope.”
I see hope in the arms of a Lord who loved me. Of a Son who died for me. Of a Savior who rose again. For me, and for all.
“Thank you, Lord, for bringing me here,” I said. “After all this time.”
As I stood looking at the gravestone, something shiny caught my eye. Something was embedded in the dirt. I bent over to pull it up and discovered a little tin with a picture of the Sears Tower on it.
It was the souvenir metal case I had bought Genevie on the night of our first date.
What in the world?
My hands shook as I opened it. It had been outside for a while and was hard to pry apart. Finally the tin crackled open.
Inside lay a piece of folded paper enclosed in a zippered plastic bag. I opened it to discover a letter. Written to me.
My Dearest Sheridan,
I can only pray that this letter finds its way to you soon after graduation. I wish I could have been there by your side. Please know that in a way, I was.
I want you to know, too, that I believe everything that hap- pened these past nine months was for a purpose. God had a purpose in our meeting and in everything that happened between us. Maybe we’ll never know exactly what it was all for, but already I can see little inklings of God’s plan.
I want to thank you for allowing me to be a part of your life. I know I will never forget getting to know you, witnessing your renewal of faith, discovering the man you really are. I feel that I’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg, too.
Do you remember what you told me once? You said God could never use someone like you for his glory, not after the mistakes you’d made. But you have to understand, Sheridan—it’s not about you. It’s about honoring a Lord that saved you. You’ve been given a very special gift—seeing how God could use your awful mistake to save a man’s soul. Now you need to accept that gift and give God the glory for it.
God has plans for you. Know that, Sheridan Blake.
Have you ever heard of something called a watermark? It’s one of those subtle marks on stationery that you can’t see unless you hold it up to the light. For some reason, I think of that word when I think of you. For so long, you’ve been running from the light, Sheridan. But now your life has been held up to the light. And the mark that’s always been there is now obvious to all who know you.
No matter what you’ve done, what mistakes you’ve made, what you can’t go back and change, you still belong to Jesus, and he will never abandon you. He’s marked you for life, and that mark will never leave you.
I still hold on to the belief that you can and will do so much more. Your life is before you, Sheridan. Don’t let it pass before your eyes. Take a leap of faith and make the most out of everything that happened.
I love you. Thank you for letting me love you, and for loving me back.
Love,
Genevie
I stared at the letter to make sure it was real. It was. I read it again and as I did, I could see my hands start shaking.
All this time. This letter had been here all this time.
How did she know I’d come?
I smiled, then broke out into a chuckle.
I folded the letter back up and just stood there wiping tears from my eyes. Astonished, stunned, surprised, overjoyed—I felt all of this and more.
The letter had been the first I’d had from Genevie since her departure. We had talked over the phone numerous times, and Genevie had always seemed like her normal self. She had never pressured me, had never asked what my plans were for the future, had never seemed to want anything more than to reconnect with me and see how I was doing.
Never once had she mentioned this letter waiting for me here. When had she left it?
I slid the letter into my shirt pocket, then picked up the backpack I had brought and opened it. I pulled out a stack of folded letters bound together by a rubber band.
A year’s worth of letters, written almost weekly to a girl I had killed.
“I know you’ve heard these words,” I said. “I know the Lord has heard them too. They belong to you now.”
I placed them in the small cavity in the earth where I had found the tin. I sprinkled dirt over the letters and then picked up the tin, placing it in my backpack. I needed to return it to its rightful owner.
I looked once more at Amy’s tombstone.
“A beloved daughter who gave hope to all she knew.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I hoped Amy heard my simple words of appreciation as I walked back to my car without turning around.
I believe she did.
July 28
Dear Mr. Larsen,
I’m writing to thank you for searching me out and explaining to me what happened in your life. I know I will never be able to earn or deserve your forgiveness, but I thank you for it all the same.
There was so much I wanted to say that morning, but I was so moved by your words I couldn’t say a thing. That’s why I’m writing to you—to explain a little of what has been happening in my life.
First of all, let me say again how sorry I am about Amy. Writing it down seems so harsh, but I know I must—I am sorry for killing your daughter. I never meant for it to happen, but it did. My actions caused her death, and there is nothing I can do to bring her back or to erase the pain and suffering I’ve caused you and your family. All I can do is tell you how much I regret what I’ve done—and thank you for the for- giveness you expressed to me on Easter morning. I know you could only do it because God is with you, and I hope you continue to find peace with him.
As for me, I’ve finally come to understand that God forgives us for the mistakes we make, regardless of how wretched and wrong they are, as long as we face what we’ve done and turn back to him. That’s what I’ve been tryi
ng to do in the past months. I’ve accepted his forgiveness, and he has filled me with hope once more. I don’t deserve it. I am still so full of failures. But I see this as a new beginning. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to get back on the right track.
You need to know this: God has filled me with a peace I can’t under- stand. He has given me hope that I’ve never had before. I would say he’s given me a second chance, but he’s given me so many chances that it’s more like he’s given me a second life. Now it’s up to me to do something with it.
I never thought I would recover from the accident that took your daughter’s life. When I finally returned to Covenant College, the memories of what had happened almost overwhelmed me. I decided to write weekly letters to Amy—letters to someone who would never read them. I wasn’t even sure why. With the help of God and those letters and a woman I met, I managed to deal with my past. I know there’s no way to really make up for what I did, but at last I know some sense of peace.
I once read a poem that said the following: “Mark well this road in life; it can never be traveled again. The imprints you’ve made are all that remain.”
I look back and see very few meaningful imprints that I’ve made so far. I see a wealth of people who have come and gone in my life, but what do they remember about me? What sort of road did I travel with them?
I can’t ever erase the memories. I can never travel down the path of my youth again. But I can move on in the right direction. Perhaps I’m ready to make some imprints of lasting value.
I write this letter in a plane bound for San Francisco and, I hope, for my future. For the first time ever, I feel all packed and ready for life. My dog—his name is Barney—is even on board the plane, probably com- pletely unaware that he’s currently flying over the Rocky Mountains. I’m going to a place where one of God’s greatest answers to my prayers awaits. She doesn’t know I’m coming, so I know I’ll surprise her. I know she still loves me and still very much believes in me. I thank God for her.
I can’t wait to see what she looks like when I finally get there. Maybe I’ll knock at a door and greet her in the doorway at her office. Maybe I’ll find her sipping coffee and reading in a bookstore. I savor the very thought of seeing her again.
As far as leaving Chicago behind, I think it’s as good a time as any. My parents have seen the change in me in these past few months, and they believe something remarkable has happened. I have told them about my rekindled dreams for my music and how I feel moving will be the beginning of great things to come. My father will never understand these dreams, but I know he has always wanted the best for me. So has my mom. And they both agree that the best thing going for me is the woman who helped give me back those dreams.
I’m leaving behind a roommate. Perhaps you can keep him in your prayers. His name is Erik. He didn’t graduate—he still has one semes- ter to go. I told him he will be hearing from me. He still remains defiant in his attitude toward God. I figured that since I managed to do a good job writing letters to Amy over this past year, I would keep in contact with Erik. Maybe one of my letters will do some good. I hope so.
Mr. Larsen—your daughter’s life did give to many unexpected hope. I know you know this, and I do too. I want you to know that I thank her. I thank her for helping me find my way back to the Lord. I hope I can somehow make some sort of amends for the tragedy that linked us together. I hope for my life to be a testimony to the same Lord who never abandoned me. And I hope that someday I can tell Amy in person how truly grateful I am for all that has happened in my life.
I hope.
Sheridan Blake
the end
about the author
Travis Thrasher is a critically acclaimed and diverse novelist who lives in the western suburbs of Chicago with his wife and three daughters.
To contact Travis Thrasher, or to be placed on a mailing list to receive updates about new releases, click the "Contact" tab on his website: http://www.travisthrasher.com.
Also by Travis Thrasher
The Promise Remains
The Second Thief
Three Roads Home (which includes the novellas Somebody, In Care Of, & Still Life At Sunset)
Gun Lake
Admission
Blinded
Sky Blue
Out of the Devil's Mouth
Isolation
Ghostwriter
Every Breath You Take
Broken
Solitary
40
Gravestone
Letters From War (with Mark Schultz)
Paper Angels (with Jimmy Wayne)
The Watermark Page 18