Divine

by Karen Kingsbury

  Nigel didn't hesitate. "The Bible says the eyes are the window to the soul." He leaned his hand on the closest table. "People who love the Lord, who receive His love, His rescue . . . their eyes change." He had never looked more handsome, his own eyes never so full of light. "Jesus eyes. That's what I call them."

  She didn't really understand, but she nodded anyway. Peace filled her because even as beautiful as Nigel was—inside and out—she didn't want to go to him. Not in the physical way she'd wanted to in the past. Rather she wanted only to learn from him. So she could have the life that Nigel so clearly had. True life. She lowered her chin, humbled. "I have more questions."

  He smiled, and a low rumble of laughter sounded in his throat. "I prayed you would."

  "Can you . . . can you talk?"

  "How long do you have?" The noise of more than a hundred people made their conversation private, even in the middle of the cafeteria.

  "All night. Clayton won't be back until—" The moment she said his name, she stopped. Her hand came to her mouth, and she shook her head. "What I mean is, the man I'm with ... he doesn't come until the afternoon and . . . he's not really anyone who—" Her words scrambled in her head and came out all wrong.

  "Mary." Nigel said her name with a calm and peace that were otherworldly. "Your secrets are safe with me. Whatever they are."

  She gulped, and his eyes told her she could trust him. "Okay."

  "You have time." Nigel's smile was the kind look of a father. "That's what you're trying to say."

  "Yes."

  "Come to class. We're talking about God's desire to rescue us.

  "Rescue?" The word played across her wounded heart like a soothing balm. Rescue? That's what she'd always needed, always wanted. Back in Jimbo's basement, later at the Lakes' home, even now with Clayton controlling and abusing her. All her life she'd needed rescuing. The word made her eyes damp, and she could only nod in response.

  "Good." Nigel looked past her to the food line. "I need to help finish up dinner." He found her eyes again. "We'll meet after class."

  "Okay." Mary watched him go. She was about to sit back down when she spotted the family again, the older woman and her daughters and her grandchildren. The three adults were clearing plates. Not just theirs, but plates from other tables also. As they worked, they'd stop and smile at the street people at each table, putting a hand on someone's shoulder or chatting for a few minutes.

  Mary pulled up her sleeves and took a few steps to the nearest table. Two older men and a few empty-eyed teenage girls sat there. They were finished eating, but no one was talking or making a move to clean the table. She leaned in and smiled at them. "All finished here?"

  Two of the girls met her eyes, and one of them nodded. Mary's heart ached for them. Was this how she'd looked when she first came here? Was it how she appeared now beneath the carefully kept hair and face and the new clothes? She cleared that table and three others, following the lead of a few volunteers as she made her way to the dirty dish bin at the back of the room.

  "Time for class!" a woman announced.

  Nigel was nowhere around, probably already at the front of his classroom, asking God for direction about what to say and how to say it. The concept was still foreign, but it had her attention. Who had she ever asked for direction or guidance? She'd spent the last few years making her own decisions, justifying them along the way.

  The auditorium-style classroom was full that night. The walls were dusty cement block, and the carpet was worn through in patches, but the hundred or so people who sat in the rows of old desks had an energy, a warmth that was undeniable.

  Mary found a seat in the back row and bowed her head when Nigel opened the night by praying for God's leading. "There are walls in this room, in these hearts." He paused, his tone rich. "Let this be the night that they fall. For everyone here. In Jesus' name ..."

  In unison the crowd said, "Amen."

  Nigel opened his eyes and grinned big at the faces that filled the room. "Tonight we talk about the martyr Stephen."

  A hand shot up in the first row. "Nigel, man, you know we ain't got that Bible talk down yet." It was a skinny white guy with a scraggly goatee. He gestured with his hands as he spoke. One entire arm was covered with dragon tattoos. "Break it down, brother."

  Nigel chuckled and gave a few understanding nods. A three-legged stool stood near the blackboard, and he pulled it up and sat on it. The corners of his mouth eased back to a serious straight line. "A martyr is someone who dies for his faith."

  The skinny guy slid down in his seat and turned his backwards baseball cap around so the bill shaded his eyes. "That's deep, man."

  "Yes." Nigel looked at a man in one of the middle rows and then at a woman a few seats from him. The way he shifted his attention around the room, they all must've felt the same. Like Nigel would've stood up there and given that lesson even if they were the only one in the room.

  "I mean, really deep." The skinny guy sat up again and made a sound with his lips, sort of like a leaking tire. "Dying for your beliefs, man? Crazy deep."

  "Giving your life to Christ, trusting Him to make you into something new is deep." Nigel was on his feet again, pacing to the other side of the room. "That's how it was for Stephen."

  Nigel went into the story, how this Stephen became a believer in Jesus and how his new faith was everything to him. "Stephen was a man full of God's grace and power."

  A Hispanic woman in the back pointed her finger in the air. "That's what I like about God." She did a rhythmic head bob and smiled at the people around her. "He's got the power!"

  A few random amens broke out across the room. Nigel was amazing. He had street people and alcoholics and drug addicts hanging on every word. Every word of a Bible story, of all things. Mary hushed her thoughts. She didn't want to miss what came next.

  Nigel grinned. "Yes, God's definitely got the power." He walked slowly to the other side of the room, taking in the eyes of several people along the way. Nigel told them that Stephen, through God's power, did great wonders and miraculous signs among the people. So miraculous, that some of the people were upset by all he was doing.

  "They tried to stand up against Stephen's wisdom." Nigel's voice was clear, passionate. "But they could not. Because it was not his own wisdom, but the wisdom of God."

  "I thought he gets killed." The skinny guy was sitting straighter now, massaging his goatee, his face a twist of confusion.

  Sadness washed over Nigel's eyes. "He does." He brought his lips together and puffed his cheeks, exhaling slowly. Clearly this part of the story was harder to tell. "The people couldn't argue with Stephen's wisdom, but they could lie about him."

  "Man—" the Hispanic woman shook her head—"people always lying."

  "That's right. The people made up a story about Stephen, and he was brought before the head court." Nigel shrugged one shoulder. "Stephen didn't stand a chance. There were plenty of false witnesses, and a crowd of people accused Stephen, pointing fingers at him."

  "I know that feeling, man." A black teenager two seats down from the skinny white guy raised his hand and nodded. He crossed his fingers and waved them in the air. "Me and my homeboy, Stephen . . . we're like this, man. Tight."

  Nigel nodded. "A lot of people are accused of things." He stood right in front of the black teen. "But not everyone handles accusation the way Stephen did." He held up his hand. "Listen to the rest of the story."

  There were nods from the class, and Nigel continued, pacing to the other end of the room. "As they were accusing Stephen and shouting lies about him, Stephen didn't yell back or cry for help. He just sat there. And everyone in the room who watched Stephen said the same thing." Nigel's steps slowed and he stopped again. "Stephen had the face of an angel."

  The face of an angel? That was it, wasn't it? The face Mary saw on the few people in her life who seemed truly content. Not always, of course, but most of the time when she would look at her grandma or Ted and Evelyn or Nigel, even the truck driver
Big Dave and the police officer who rescued her from Jimbo's basement. On all of those faces she had seen that very same thing: the face of an angel.

  Mary squirmed in her seat. Stephen had been doing good, miraculous deeds in Cod's name. A group of people started telling lies about him, and he ended up in court being accused and threatened. And he had the face of an angel? Poor Stephen. Tears nipped at her eyes, and she blinked them back.

  "Finally the court asked Stephen to speak for himself, give an answer about whether the charges against him were true." Nigel shook his head and anchored his hands on his hips. "Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't say a word about the lies or the false accusations. Instead he went on for half an hour about the faithfulness of God through time and how people throughout the ages had ignored their heavenly Father.

  "Then—" Nigel narrowed his eyes—"Stephen told it like it was. He accused his listeners of being stiff-necked."

  "Nigel?" The skinny white guy tossed his hands up.

  "Sorry." Nigel looked at him and smiled. "He accused them of being stubborn. Stubborn and disobedient."

  "1 bet that didn't go over too good." The black teen had needle tracks along the inside of both arms, but here, now, his eyes were wide and alert.

  "The people grew furious with Stephen." Nigel's voice fell again. "They began threatening him, but Stephen was full of God's Holy Spirit. He looked up and saw Jesus standing at the right hand of God. When he told the people what he saw, his words pushed them over the edge. They rushed at him, angry and shouting, and dragged him out of the city. There, they began to stone him."

  Nigel must've observed a dozen confused faces, because he moved to a table and picked up a rock the size of an orange. He turned it over in his hand for a few seconds,- then he gave it a few light upward tosses.

  Mary looked around the room. Every set of eyes was on the rock.

  "You hear the word stoned—" Nigel stared at the rock in his hands—"and you think of drugs. The street life." His eyes lifted to theirs. "Back in Stephen's day, getting stoned meant people threw rocks like this one." He stopped and faced the cement block wall at the far end of the room. Then with a sudden windup he reeled back, and with all his might he threw the rock at the wall.

  It tore through the air and smashed into the cement block. The crash brought the room to a complete and breathless silence.

  Seconds passed. Nigel turned to them. Agony was written across his face, his voice thick with passionate concern when he spoke. "That was getting stoned in Stephen's day. One after another after another . . . they threw rocks at him, and the whole time—the whole entire time—Stephen never took his eyes off Jesus. Standing there at the right hand of the Father."

  "So ... he died?" The skinny white guy tugged on the bill of his hat again.

  Around the room a few people were sniffing and wiping fingers beneath their eyes.

  "He did." Peace filled Nigel's features once more. "But he didn't die screaming for help. In fact... he died asking Jesus to forgive his enemies. And that. . ." There was a catch in Nigel's voice. He pierced his pointer finger through the air above him. "That is what it looks like to be rescued by Jesus."

  Silence settled around them like late-night fog on the Potomac.

  Finally the black teen folded his arms. "I thought he'd get a real rescue." He jutted his chin out. "You said we were talking about God's way of rescuing us, man." He set his forearms on the desk. "Stephen didn't get no rescue."

  Nigel's eyes shone so brightly that they warmed something deep inside Mary all the way in the back row. Nigel walked up to the teen and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Oh, son, but Jesus did rescue him."

  Nigel looked around the room, and his voice began to build. "Everywhere else in Scripture—when Jesus is pictured in heaven—He's seated at the right hand of the Father. Seated in the position of authority. But this time, with Stephen in big trouble—deadly trouble—Jesus was standing." Nigel held his arms up high as if he were embracing an invisible God. "One of His kids was in need, and Jesus took the position of action."

  Mary sat up straighter. Something was happening inside her, like sunshine breaking through, sending rays of light into the darkest places of her heart. When Stephen was being attacked, Jesus stood up for him. Rescued him. Emotion built inside her. How wonderful for Stephen, knowing that God was on his side. What would it feel like to know God loved you that much?

  The sunny feeling dimmed. Mary wasn't good like Stephen. How sad that she would never know that sort of love or protection from God. How could she, when her insides were as dark as night, when nothing—absolutely nothing—could clean the stench her life made.

  "I don't get it." The Hispanic woman had tears in her eyes. "But Stephen died anyway."

  Nigel turned toward her. "His work here on earth was done, and Jesus was on His feet, the first to welcome Stephen into heaven. That, my friends—" he spread his hands out before them—"is the rescue of our mighty Savior."

  A cross hung at the front of the room above the blackboard. Nigel pointed to it. "Jesus died on a cross so that He could rescue us—me and you—from everything in this world. From loneliness, hunger, homelessness, and the pain of being stoned. Even the pain of death."

  The skinny white guy crooked his hand, gang style, and slashed it through the air. "Man, why'd He go do a crazy thing like that?" Confusion sounded like anger in his voice.

  "One reason."

  Mary held her breath. She needed the answer more than she needed to breathe.

  Nigel sat back on a stool and clasped his hands. "Because Jesus loves you." He leaned forward, intensely serious. "That's what love is,- it's what love looks like." He directed his hand toward the ceiling again. "Jesus standing at the right hand of the Father, holding out a hand to us. Rescuing us. Freeing us.

  "Even when it doesn't look that way to anyone else."

  * * *

  Chapter 21

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  The story was supposed to make Emma feel better about Jesus. But it didn't.

  Of course Stephen saw Jesus standing at his rescue when he died. Stephen was a good guy. He was a follower of Christ, and in the power of God he worked miracles and signs and wonders for the people.

  But she, Emma Johnson, was not a good person. She'd rebelled against her mother. She'd violated moral codes by sleeping with boys throughout her high school years, and she'd aborted two babies. She'd left home to live with Charlie and stayed with him after she knew the truth—that he was plagued by dangerous fits of rage. And she felt crazy most of the time because of the evil voices in her head.

  On top of all that she was a drug addict, who sometimes could convince herself briefly that she was not a user, that she was a normal mother like the ones she saw at the park with their children. But really, she was nothing but a lowlife. Trash, just like the voices in her head always reminded her.

  The only way things were going to get better was by making up with Charlie. He was the father of her girls after all, and if he got the help he needed, everything about their life would turn out all right. At least with Charlie she had a home. He could learn to be patient and protective, and the girls would blossom under the care of two happy parents. Then Emma could get treatment for her drug problems.

  Mary Madison's story was gripping, no doubt. But how was it going to make Charlie change? How would it help her and her girls find a normal life? Mary had talked some about the love of Jesus, the power of Jesus. But Jesus couldn't ward off the cold in the middle of the night, could He?

  Emma didn't think so.

  Because of that, Emma lay in bed early the next morning and came up with a plan. After breakfast she dropped the girls off in day care like she'd done the last several days, then, without catching the attention of Leah in the office or anyone else at the shelter, she slipped out the front door and caught a cab.

  Fifteen minutes later she stood in front of the door of the apartment she'd shared with Charlie for the past four
years. She raised her hand and knocked.

  After nearly a minute, the door opened and there he was. "Emma . . ." Emotions played across his face: shock, joy, and finally the one she expected most—anger. "Where have you been for the last week?"

  Sobs built in Emma's chest. She worked hard to find the words. "We need help, Charlie." She held her hand out to him. "Please . . . tell me we can get help."

  The anger grew and darkened his features. He grabbed her hand, jerked her inside, and shut the door. "What'd you do, Emma?" His voice was loud, panicked. "Did you tell the cops what happened?" He let go of her hand and paced across the living room and back again. He pointed at her, his finger inches from her face. "Did you? Did you tell the cops?"

  She shook her head and shrank back, pressing herself against the door. This wasn't happening ... it couldn't be happening. She didn't come back to fight with him. "I promise, Charlie." Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. "I didn't tell the cops. No one knows anything about us."

  He stopped and raised his fist. His lips trembled, and rage turned his eyes into squinty slits. Emma could already feel the blow, already sense his knuckles crashing into her cheekbone. But at the last second, he put his hand through the wall instead. The force of the hit left a gaping hole in the plaster.

  Charlie grunted as he pulled his hand from the mess. "You're lying to me, Emma. Tell me now!" He took a step closer and shook his fist at her. His fingers were bleeding, but he didn't seem to notice. "Where have you been, and where are the girls?"

  "At some friends'. Then I went to a shelter!" Emma grabbed at her hair and covered her ears. "Stop screaming at me. We need to talk!"

  That was all Charlie needed to hear. "A shelter?" He yelled louder now. "Where you sit down and tell your troubles to some do-gooder?" He took a few steps and knocked a lamp to the floor. It shattered in a pile of glass and wires. The whole time he never took his eyes from Emma. "Of course the cops know." He turned and started toward her. "You tell someone at a shelter and you might as well have called the cops yourself!"