Long Way Gone

by Charles Martin

  The father will have none of this. Scripture says the father “ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.” A more accurate translation is “covered his face in kisses.” Pause here: I need this picture maybe more than all the rest: the father kissing the son of squalor who willfully betrayed him. Gave him the finger. How many times have I done this?

  I cannot count.

  The son protests, arm’s length; he has yet to make eye contact. “But, Dad, I’m not worthy—”

  The father waves him off, orders his servants, “Clothe my son! Bring me a ring! Carve the steaks! Raise the tent!” Servants scatter. The son stands in disbelief. “But, Abba . . .” The son has come undone. “You don’t know what all I’ve done. I’m unclean. Please forgive—”

  The father gently places his index finger under his son’s chin and lifts it. Eye to eye. He thumbs away a tear. Holds his face in both hands. “You, my son . . . are my son. Once dead, now alive. All is forgiven.”

  If you’re the parent or loved one of a prodigal, let me bolster your hope with this: the Father has yet to leave His post. His eyes still scan the horizon. And no darkness, no matter how dark, can hide the prodigal. Job said it this way: “For He [the Father] looks to the ends of the earth, and sees under the whole heavens.” This hasn’t all of a sudden changed in 2016. It’s not like God’s eyesight has grown dim.

  And despite the prodigal’s total and complete depravity, the father is not interested in making him or her a slave. Even though that’s His right. The Father is about total restoration. A complete returning to son-ship. An heir with all rights and privileges thereof.

  Maybe you’re the prodigal. Surrounded by pigs and staring at the pods. Let me say this to you—I don’t care what you’ve done, where you’ve gone, where you are, or who you’ve become, the truth is this: the sanctifying, redeeming, justifying, snatching-back-out-of-the-hand-of-the-devil blood of Jesus reaches to the far ends of the earth.

  To think otherwise makes a mockery of the atoning blood of Jesus.

  Don’t believe me? This is Paul, speaking to the Romans. Like us, they’d ventured a long way from God. Earlier, Paul called them “God haters.” He could do this because he knew a thing or two about hating God. He had held people’s jackets while they bashed Stephen’s brains out. He’d dragged Christians from their homes and executed them in front of their families. To these Romans and fellow prodigals, he said, “Our old man was crucified with Him, that our body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves of sin. For he who has died has been freed from sin.” See those words “done away with?” That means cut away. Disconnected from you. A yoke lifted off your shoulders. Permanently.

  Oftentimes Paul said things two or three times. To reinforce his point. He said, “If God is for us, who can be against us? . . . Who shall bring a charge against God’s elect?

  It is God who justifies. Who is he who condemns? It is Christ who died, and furthermore is also risen, who is even at the right hand of God, who also makes intercession for us.”

  The question is not whether we are guilty. That’s a given. We are. Welcome to earth. The question is who stands between us and our guilt. Paul continued, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.” Paul paused here, and I think it’s these words that echo out across eternity. That reach me here today as if they just left his lips. “For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:31–34, 35–37, 38–39).

  If you unpack this, nothing is excluded from this list. No exceptions.

  Don’t think I’m letting you or me off the hook. I’m not. Such unmerited grace is conditional. It requires something of you and me.

  The requirement is that we turn back. Pivot on our heels and put one foot in front of the other.

  If you’re really broken, surrounded by the wreckage of your own mess, asking, “How?” you may need this spelled out: This means you are not your abortion. Not your affair. Not the reason for your prison sentence. Not the needle holes in your arm. Not the empty bottles next to your bed. Not the shame you see in the mirror. If I’m speaking to you, and you feel as if I’ve written this just for you . . . let me welcome you to the human race. You’re officially one of us.

  I am not suggesting that turning around frees you from consequences. Or even pain. You may still go to jail. May carry some scars. May well be infected with HIV and your wife may still leave you and take the kids. But none of this prevents your return to the Father, and neither the sin that brought you here nor the consequences you face determine your eternal identity or the Father’s desire to heal your very broken heart and wrap you in His arms.

  If you remain unconvinced, the writer of Hebrews offered this encouragement: “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a host of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus.” The Charles Martin translation reads like this: “Drop the bucket and run.” Think about it: There is a host in heaven cheering you on. Pulling for you. Screaming at the top of their lungs. If you’re wondering what kind of sound that might be, the word host is described by Daniel as ten thousand by ten thousand. That’s a hundred million.

  I can hear the rebuttal. “Yeah, but, Charles, you don’t know . . .” Stop. Scripture promises us that “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” When I read that, my eye focuses on the word everyone. And if you’re one of those people who wonder how Scripture written two thousand years ago could still be true today, Jesus answered that when He said, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” When I read that, my eye focuses on the word, never.

  “So,” you ask with a disbelieving finger in the air, “Charles, are you seriously telling me that there is no place I can go that’s too far gone?” I’ve just spent three hundred pages and a year of my life attempting to say that very thing. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.

  I don’t care what the shameful voices in your head tell you, or the deafening lies that the memories whisper. I don’t care if you’re reading this from a prison cell staring at decades in the face, or from the plush comfort of first class staring out over the shimmering face of the Pacific. We’re all broken, all walk with a limp. Here is the truth about you and me: even when in a far-off country, wasted life, stripped bare, smeared, squandered, nothing but scar tissue and shameful, self-inflicted wounds, the love of the Father finds the son and daughter.

  He finds us.

  This inconceivable, mind-shattering, heart-mending, I-don’t-deserve--it reality is the singular thought out of which this book bubbled up. This crazy idea that no matter what, we can always come home. That me and my shipwrecked life and my lifetime of baggage and bad decisions didn’t and doesn’t disqualify me from Him. Paul said: “Nothing separates us.” Charles Martin says, “No gone is too far gone.” They mean the same thing. There’s hope for the broken, and this is true even if it’s our own choices that broke us. Our hope, the very anchor of our souls, is standing on the porch. And His eyes are stretching out through time and space and they are singularly focused on you. On me.

  Here’s the deal—only Jesus gets to tell you who you are. Period. Any other voice is a lie from the pit of hell. When Jesus said, “It is finished,” He wasn’t kidding. Then and there, death and sin lost all legal claim over you. “You’re no longer a slave.” “Sin has no dominion.” If the weight of you is crushing you, and you’re wondering, How can this be? let me lead you to Colossians 2. He, Jesus, “wiped out the handwriting of requirements that was against us, which was contrary to us. And
He has taken it out of the way, having nailed it to the cross.” And in doing so, He “disarmed principalities and powers . . . made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them in it.” John, brother of Jesus, said this: “See what great love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” To the Romans, Paul said simply, “We are God’s children . . . heirs with Christ.”

  You may not feel like a triumphant child of God right now, but this is the gospel of the kingdom of the righteous reign of Jesus Christ. Your enemy would have you wrap yourself in the muck and mire of rearview-mirror-shame, staple your chin to your chest, and focus on the pods. Then whisper in your ear, “You could probably get those down.” Or worse, replay the video of your leaving—for the ten thousandth time. Faith punches that joker in the teeth, kicks that video to the curb, throws off everything that hinders, focuses on the figure on the porch, and runs like the wind.

  Big difference.

  If the thought of your encounter with the Father at whom you thumbed your nose causes you to tremble, don’t. You can’t tell Him anything He doesn’t already know. When He lifts your chin—and He will lift your chin—you won’t need to say a word.

  The choice is yours. Cling to the bucket and eat the pods. Or turn for home.

  “But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him, his heart went out to him, and he ran and fell on his neck and covered his face in kisses.” What would it look like for the God of the universe to cover your face in kisses? This is the beauty and wonder and majesty, and I-just-can’t-believe-it-ness of the love of Jesus.

  And after He kisses him, the Father cups the son’s face in His hands and speaks these words, through tears and snot and laughter: “Bring out the best robe and put a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet. And bring the fatted calf here and kill it and let us eat and be merry. For this, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”

  Meaning?

  No gone is too far gone.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Which character do you most identify with: Cooper, Daley, Cooper’s dad, or Big-Big? Why?

  2. “Music washes us from the inside out. It heals what nothing else can.” Have you found that to be true in your own life? If so, share some of the lyrics and how they provided healing for you.

  3. It’s much more difficult for Cooper to forgive himself than it was for his father to forgive him. Why do you think that is?

  4. Cooper didn’t tell Daley the truth about the fire and the shooting when it happened, and he doesn’t tell her again when they reunite in Buena Vista. Nor does he tell her about his illness. His reasoning is that he loves her too much. Do you think he made the right decision?

  5. The old traditional hymns are sung and discussed throughout the book. What role do they play in the story? Do you have a favorite hymn? What do its words and melody mean to you?

  6. Cooper’s dad says, “Music cuts people free. It silences the thing that’s trying to kill us.” How does music cut each of the characters free in this novel?

  7. In the sermon he delivers when Cooper leaves, his father challenges Cooper and the listeners at the tent meeting: “Question is, what and who do you worship?” How do you think that convicted Cooper? Did it cause you to consider what and who you worship?

  8. What are some of the reasons Cooper creates in Nashville to justify not going home? Do you think they are valid? Can you identify with his struggle and his feeling that he has to make things right before he can go back to his father?

  9. After Daley learns of Cooper’s liver condition, she tells him, “I will not let the fear of what might be rob me of the promise of what can be.” How do you think aspects of her story impacted her passion to be with Cooper, despite the fear? Are there times in your life when you have let fear rob you?

  10. How does the theme of “No gone is too far gone” play out in each character’s life? Do you believe that no gone is too far gone?

  An Excerpt from When Crickets Cry

  PROLOGUE

  I pushed against the spring hinge, cracked open the screen door, and scattered two hummingbirds fighting over my feeder. The sound of their wings faded into the dogwood branches above, and it was there that the morning met me with streaks of sunkist cracking across the skyline. Seconds before, God had painted the sky a mixture of black and deep blue, then smeared it with rolling wisps of cotton and sprayed it with specks of glitter, some larger than others. I turned my head sideways, sort of corkscrewing my eyes, and decided that heaven looked like a giant granite countertop turned upside down and framing the sky. Maybe God was down here drinking His coffee too. Only difference was, He didn’t need to read the letter in my hand. He already knew what it said.

  Below me the Tallulah River spread out seamlessly into Lake Burton in a sheet of translucent, unmoving green, untouched by the antique cut-waters and Jet Skis that would split her skin and roll her to shore at 7:01 a.m. In moments, God would send the sun upward and westward where it would shine hot, and where by noon the glare off the water would be painful and picturesque.

  I stepped off the back porch, the letter clutched in my hand, and picked my barefoot way down the stone steps to the dock. I walked along the bulkhead, felt the coolness of the mist rising on my legs and face, and climbed the steps leading to the top of the dockhouse. I slid into the hammock and faced southward down the lake, looking out over my left

  knee. I looped my finger through the small brass circle tied to the end of a short string and pulled gently, rocking myself.

  If God was down here drinking His coffee, then He was on his second cup, because He’d already Windexed the sky. Only the streaks remained.

  Emma once told me that some people spend their whole lives trying to outrun God, maybe get someplace He’s never been. She shook her head and smiled, wondering why. Trouble is, she said, they spend a lifetime searching and running, and when they arrive, they find He’s already been there.

  I listened to the quiet but knew it wouldn’t last. In an hour the lake would erupt with laughing kids on inner tubes, teenagers in Ski Nautiques, and retirees in pontoon boats, replacing the Canadian geese and bream that followed a trail of Wonder Bread cast by an early morning bird lover and now spreading across the lake like the yellow brick road. By late afternoon, on the hundreds of docks stretching out into the lake, charcoal grills would simmer with the smell of hot dogs, burgers, smoked oysters, and spicy sausage. And in the yards and driveways that all leaned inward toward the lake’s surface like a huge salad bowl, folks of all ages would tumble down Slip’n Slides, throw horseshoes beneath the trees, sip mint juleps and margaritas along the water’s edge, and dangle their toes off the second stories of their boathouses. By 9:00 p.m., most every homeowner along the lake would launch the annual hour-long umbrella of sonic noise, lighting the lake in flashes of red, blue, and green rain. Parents would gaze upward; children would giggle and coo; dogs would bark and tug against their chains, digging grooves in the back sides of the trees that held them; cats would run for cover; veterans would remember; and lovers would hold hands, slip silently into the out coves, and skinny-dip beneath the safety of the water. Sounds in the symphony of freedom.

  It was Independence Day.

  Unlike the rest of Clayton, Georgia, I had no fireworks, no hot dogs, and no plans to light up the sky. My dock would lie quiet and

  dark, the grill cold with soot, old ashes, and spiderwebs. For me, freedom felt distant. Like a smell I once knew but could no longer place. If I could, I would have slept through the entire day like a modern-day Rip van Winkle, opened my eyes tomorrow, and crossed off the number on my calendar. But sleep, like freedom, came seldom and was never sound. Short fits mostly. Two to three hours at best.

  I lay on the hammock, alone with my coffee and yellowed memories. I balanced the cup on my chest and held the wrinkled, unopened envelope. Behind me, fog rose off the water and swirled in miniature twisters that spun slowly like dan
cing ghosts, up through the overhanging dogwood branches and hummingbird wings, disappearing some thirty feet in the air.

  Her handwriting on the envelope told me when to read the letter within. If I had obeyed, it would have been two years ago. I had not, and would not today. Maybe I could not. Final words are hard to hear when you know for certain they are indeed final. And I knew for certain. Four anniversaries had come and gone while I remained in this nowhere place. Even the crickets were quiet.

  I placed my hand across the letter, flattening it upon my chest, spreading the corners of the envelope like tiny paper wings around my ribs. A bitter substitute.

  Around here, folks sit in rocking chairs, sip mint juleps, and hold heated arguments about what exactly is the best time of day on the lake. At dawn, the shadows fall ahead of you, reaching out to touch the coming day. At noon, you stand on your shadows, caught somewhere between what was and what will be. At dusk, the shadows fall behind you and cover your tracks. In my experience, the folks who choose dusk usually have something to hide.

  CHAPTER 1

  She was small for her age. Probably six, maybe even seven, but looked more like four or five. A tomboy’s heart in a china doll’s body. Dressed in a short yellow dress, yellow socks, white Mary Janes, and a straw hat wrapped with a yellow ribbon that trailed down to her waist. She was pale and thin and bounced around like a mix between Eloise and Tigger. She was standing in the center of town, at the northwest corner of Main and Savannah, yelling at the top of her lungs: “Lemonaaaaaaade! Lemonaaaaaade, fifty cents!” She eyed the sidewalk and the passersby, but with no takers, she craned her neck, stretched high onto her tiptoes, and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Lemonaaaade! Lemonaaaaade, fifty cents!”

  The lemonade stand was sturdy and well worn but looked hastily made. Four four-by-four posts and half a sheet of one-inch plywood formed the table. Two six-foot two-by-fours stood upright at the back, holding up the other half of the plywood and providing posts for a banner stretched between. Somebody had sprayed the entire thing yellow, and in big block letters the banner read LEMONADE—50 CENTS—REFILLS FREE. The focal point was not the bench, the banner, the yellow Igloo cooler that held the lemonade, or even the girl, but the clear plastic container beneath. A five-gallon water jug sat front and center—her own private wishing well where the whole town apparently threw their loose bills and silent whispers.