The Door's Open ~ Part II

           

            Mason sat on the stool, cushioned in the atmosphere of his favorite bar and giving himself time to take it in. Take him in, that is; your average five-foot-seven, brown-haired Danny Burke. Mason sided himself for having expected anything special. He saw the extra wrinkles and crow’s feet he had expected. The man’s dull brown eyes though… couldn’t he look a little more excited?

            Maybe he’s cautious. Mason reasoned as the bartender set a frosted mug and an unopened bottle in front of them. We at least have that in common.

            Danny reached for his mug instantly. “I’m glad you’re old enough for this. Might not have been able to face this meeting without a cold one.”

            Mason watched Danny take a swig. He grabbed up his own bottle and worked out his nerves by busting the cap on the edge of the bar. As Mason tossed the cap, he felt Danny eyeing him. “I… I’ve got questions, but I’m not sure…”

“Let’s start with why now?” Mason eyed him back, hard. His eagerness- dare he say hope- wasn’t blinding him to the anger and resentment he harbored. Danny caught both in his tone, lowering his glass. “It was by accident really. An article on your motorcycle shop, your mom’s maiden name caught my eye and… well, I got curious.” 

That didn’t satisfy Mason. He threw back his first swig, savoring the rich burn down his throat. “Did Mom make you leave or you think it up all on your own?”

“All your questions come with this much disdain?”

Mason shrugged. “Better to get all the angst out.”

Danny looked him over a minute. “I choose to leave. In my eyes… life had certain expectations. You and your mom didn’t fit them.”

“A wife and a kid,” Mason put it bluntly. “Lots of people do it, I hear.”

“Not me.”  

“I oughta split your head right on this bar.” Mason massaged his fingers around his bottle. “But I’m kinda impressed you admitted it. Mom would never admit to anything.”

Danny watched the lights on the jukebox to their left. “She was hard on you too, huh.”

That was one way to put it. “The state took me when I was seven. I haven’t seen her since.”

Danny kept his eyes on the jukebox. “Foster care, huh? At least it was food and a roof.”

Mason’s stomach tightened, turning his beer sour. Yeah. A roof to hide all the monsters inside.   

“It looks like you’re doing okay for yourself.” Danny offered Mason a smile.

“I finished at the community college last year.” Mason threw in, not eager to mention the Rivers. “Majored in engineering. Started up the shop with a couple of the guys who graduated before me. A collection of Harleys really draws the eyes of tourists and guys dealing with mid-life crisis’.”

“Good,” Danny gave a chuckle. “I’d say you’re set for life.”

Silence and sipping followed, Mason trying to believe that this was real. “Your turn.”

“Contract jobs in architecture.” Danny stated. “From building and foundation to historical restoration. Most were local, some down in Virginia and the Carolinas. I vacationed out to Colorado and Idaho a few times. I like to hike in the mountains, clear my head.” He paused and stretched his collar out. Mason caught sight of the taught pink edges of a scar along the top of his shoulder. “Courtesy of a rock slide four years ago. Thankfully missed my skull.”

The scars on Mason’s legs warmed, along with the cigarette burns to his back and arms. How would Danny react to their narration? “Bounced around in foster care until I was fourteen. Then the Rivers found me.”

“And?”

That inquiry put Mason on guard. “To say they pulled me out of the gutter is an understatement. Anything I tell you is going to be an understatement of the hellholes I bounced through. And I’m never going to get over the fact that I could’ve avoided it if you’d been around.”

Danny took that barb rather graciously. “So, why meet with me?”

Question of the hour, old man. Mason looked at Danny, hunched toward his mug, knuckles working the handle. “Cuse everyone else knows where they come from. I don’t.”

Danny tapped the rim of his mug with his thumb. “Ok then. Order another round. We’ve got plenty to talk about.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

            “Wow.” Mr. Burke placed his palms on the table, giving a satisfied grin. “Now that was good!”

            “I’m so glad you liked it.” Pam smiled, taking the plate Gideon handed her. “Couldn’t have done it without my girls through.”

            Claire blushed, helping to clear the dishes from the table. They’d moved out into the living room along with the card table to make room for Mason’s dad, Danny Burke. Gideon was glad that he’d been planning to come home this weekend. He’d been keeping Mason in his prayers these last few weeks; it was nice to put a face to the prayers. A relief, if he was being honest.

            “Hunter is still ignoring him,” Mom had updated him on their last call. “But your father’s working on him. Getting him to see the positive effect it’s having on Mason.”

            “So you think this guy’s appearance is for the better?” Gideon had questioned. Mom’s long silence hadn’t been an encouraging answer. “I’m praying that God uses him for the better.”

            That was Mom, the spiritual glue of the family. It wasn’t like the arrival of Mason’s dad was anything to be tense about. It was a common occurrence in foster care. Danny Burke hadn’t shown any signs of causing trouble, and Mason was beyond the age of a custody battle. So why did Gideon feel a string of tension going about the table?

            We just want it to work out for Mason. Gideon reasoned. He deserves that.

            “…if you’re up for it.” Dad’s chipper tone caught Gideon out of his thoughts. He spotted Dad eyeballing him as the family started to dissipate. “Gideon, you care to join us?”

            Join what? Gideon’s puzzlement was satisfied when Dad had him get his box of Cuban cigars down from the top corner of the French cabinet. The only breath-taking piece of furniture he and Mom owned, passed down from her great-grandfather. Dad’s love of cigars had likewise been passed down from his grandparents. And he was inviting Gideon to have one with him!?

            Does this mean I’m now a man? Gideon wondered as he carried the box out after Dad and Mr. Burke.

            “Mason won’t be joining us?” Mr. Burke glanced back into the house.

            “You don’t argue with Pamela when it comes to washing the dishes.” Dad said, a half-smile on his face. They situated themselves on the back deck with Gideon placing the cigars on the rail beside Dad, then leaned back against it.

“That’s the way things work around here, I take?” Mr. Burke ventured with a stretch in one of the twin plastic chairs. Gideon eyed him, while Dad didn’t even look up. “What way?”

“The kids doing the work. There’s a lot of both, so I’d understand your need for it.”

Gideon wasn’t sure if that remark was made in earnest for not. Nor was he sure he liked it either way. This guy was putting his family through a lot, even if he didn’t realize it. Mom continued to fret while Hunter continued to stew, leaving Brittany to be the peacemaker, Claire the comic relief, and Shelby the constant prayer support. Gideon thought that if they were to roll all their reactions into one big bouncing ball, they’d finally get Mason’s attention about how much he mattered.

Dad merely opened the cigar box. The cutter gleamed out first, followed by the rustic-brown tobacco. Mr. Burke eyed them hungrily. “A limited opinion, I know. But one that matters to Mason.”

“True.” Dad agreed.

“And Mason matters to us.” Gideon had to throw in. Mr. Burke looked up under slanted eyebrows. “You might wanna let the adults talk this out. Might not like what I have to say.”

“Gideon’s an adult.” Dad stated, holding one of the cigars out to Gideon. “His choice, what he sees and hears.”

Gideon forced himself not to smirk and took the cigar with a newfound dignity. Their exchange put Mr. Burke’s focus back on Dad. “I’m not trying to sound rude. Only to wrap my head around it all. Ya know, what the angle is.”

Oh, it was that old song. Gideon gave the cigar a twirl through his fingers.

“The angle was our kids needed a home.” George broke out his lighter. Mr. Burke leaned in, expecting the light for his own cigar. “And you needed… what?”

Dad struck the lighter and lit his cigar first. Gideon bit back the urge to shout ‘Burn!’.

“Your wife says that happened six years ago.” Mr. Burke gestured with his cold cigar to Dad’s wheelchair. “All that money from the state probably helped with that.”

Gideon pushed himself off the rail. “You-“

“Gideon.” Dad stopped him from the ungodly words that singed the tip of his tongue. Dad remained as calm and collected as ever, puffing out a blue-gray shaft from his mouth. “My wife and I both work, Mr. Burke. And we’re level-headed enough to save what we earn for a rainy day.” He hit his cigar against his wheel to clean the ash off the end. “Or in this case, a downpour.”

Mr. Burke looked thoroughly embarrassed now. He twirled his cigar, but had to stop as George finally extended the lighter. “Suppose it wasn’t really my place to pry-“

“It wasn’t.” Dad chuckled. “But I learned something about you.”

“What?” Danny asked.

“You’re nosy, suspicious, and cynical.” Dad nodded at Danny. “Just like Mason.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

            “This’ why lip-reading is such a vital skill.” Brittany whispered next to Hunter, fogging the edge of her glasses. And giving Hunter a nauseating whiff of her breath. He was unpleasantly pinched between Britt and Claire, facing the open screen of his room’s window. It hovered above the back deck- and whatever Dad, Mr. Burke, and Gideon were discussing. A position that made Brittany’s comment about lip-reading totally pointless.

            “Personal space.” Hunter batted them both off, their nearness and his close-throated hoodie doing nothing for his claustrophobia. Besides, who wanted to know about Mason’s dad anyway.

            “Ugh, this’ useless.” Brittany pulled back, blowing her hair out of her face. “Besides, Mason sees us doing this-“

            “He’ll break the screen with our heads,” Claire finished, tapping her own mass-braided hair. “White-boy crazy. Never go near it.”

            “Yeah,” Hunter muttered. “Just share a room with it.”

            Both girls giggled at him, making their way for the door. Hunter lingered at the screen, then slumped over onto his bed. “Hey, Claire.”

            She looked back, her face already bored with the topic. Hunter's wasn’t. “You and Mason-“

            Claire waited. “Yeah?”

            “You guys were in the same home.” Hunter got to it. “What was he like?”

            “Angry.” Claire answered, stepping back in. “No direction or focus. At least when he came here, George and Pam were able to give Mason outlets for his anger. I’m hoping that with his dad here, some of it can finally go away.”

            “Or his dad can just go away.” Hunter made the callous suggestion.

            “Ugh, enough already,” Claire threw a pillow, only to sit beside him. “You’re just jealous.”

            “What?!” Hunter pushed the pillow back at her. “You’re crazy!”

            “No, I’m right.” Claire insisted, gripping the pillow. “I’m jealous too.”

            Hunter jerked his head to stare at her. “Why would you be-“

            “I’d give anything for my dad to come crashing back into my life.” She deadpanned and Hunter’s face flushed with shame. He spied the jagged white lines that ran the better length of Claire’s left arm. A car crash that’d taken both her parents and sister… didn’t seem fair for it to only leave her scars. Hunter found himself having to learn a lot about God and the plans He held for them as individuals. It was hard when you were met with some of the harshest hurdles the world had to offer. And Hunter didn’t even know the half of Mason’s. He wondered if anyone other then Mason did. And then... then there was Shelby...
            Hunter pulled something out of his pocket, needing a distraction for his hands. 

            “I can’t offer you any key foster kid wisdom here,” Claire went on. “Only that I get why Mason would want to try… wait… Hunter!”

            “I’m listening.” Hunter promised, bringing the phone closer, up to its main page.

            “That’s not yours!” Claire cried. "How'd you even get Mr. Burke's phone?"

            “Dude left it on the counter,” Hunter bobbed his head at the window they’d been eavesdropping at. “It’s not password protected. I’m… looking after it for him.”

            “You’re the only person it needs protecting from.” Claire insisted, grabbing at the corner. Hunter pulled away. “What device doesn’t have a password? Ok, contacts-“

            “I’m not listening to this!” Claire sprung up and made for the door. “I’m gonna have plausible deniability when Mr. Burke presses charges-“

            Hunter rolled his eyes… almost missing the contact that freeze-dried his blood cells. “Claire.”

            “Uh uh.” Claire got ready to bolt; until Hunter grabbed her wrist. “Claire!”

            He turned the phone for her to see the display. Her brow drew up in puzzlement. “So?”

            “He’s got only six contacts. Look at the fourth one.”

            Hunter swallowed and waited for the recognition to reach her face. She shook her head. “Hunter… it’s just a coincidence. Lots of people have that name-“

            “You wanna take that chance!” Hunter asked her, his throat dry.

            Claire resisted the worry a moment, then shook her head. “If you’re wrong, Mason’ll-“

            “I’ll take that chance.” Hunter assured her. He could handle Mason being mad at him. He couldn’t handle his family being in danger.

~~ To Be Continued ~~

The Door's Open ~ Part I

          Gideon wasn’t going to lie; he really liked Danielle. He had figured it out on their fourth date- yeah, he could be indecisive. She had been annoying him with re-organizing of the produce pyramid in the grocery store and it just kinda hit him… he liked it when she annoyed him.

            You wanna try this thing for real? He rehearsed as he crossed the lawn to the girl’s dorm. And go steady?

            Ugh, what was this the fifties? Gideon stopped at the door, catching his ringtone from his jacket pocket. He took out his phone and scanned the ID: HOME. Indecisiveness hit him again. He hadn’t taken a call from Mom or Dad yet this week. Yet… Gideon thought of Danielle again and let it go to voicemail, pushing open the door to the dorm. His cell vibrated again before it could close behind him. Gideon’s shoulders slumped, seeing it was HOME again. If he didn’t answer now, Mom would think something was wrong.

            “Hello, Mom?” Gideon sighed, stepping back out of the dorm.

            “Gideon.” Came his name from a relieved voice.

            “Claire,” Gideon let his sister hear his impatience. Was this about homework again? A guy gets into college and everyone thinks he’s a genius. “Look Claire, whatever homework crisis-“

            “Bro, please,” she snarked at him. “Listen, you need to come home.”

            Gideon’s attitude sobered. “”What’s… is Dad alright?”

            “Dad’s doing like he always do.” Claire’s voice hunkered, making Gideon wonder. “But I think Mom would do better if we were all here. Even for just a weekend.”

            A familiar understanding came over Gideon. “What’d Mason do now?”

            Claire blew out her breath. “Nothing, really. He… well...His dad called him.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

            “You got a lotta nerve!” came the hot words before the white knuckles. Mason went sideways into the fridge, the appliance shuddering at the brunt force of his muscled and lean body.

            “Hunter!” Shelby backed out of her chair, where she and Hunter had been doing homework. It was the after-dinner regime of the household under Pamela’s watchful eye as she did the dishes. George had been helping to load the dishwasher, but now he mirrored Shelby’s shock. “Hunter! Wh-“

            Mason ignored him. He turned back on his lanky foster brother, rage beginning its boil from the sting in his jaw. “Try that again and we’ll see who’s got nerve!”

            Hunter kept his fists up, glaring over Mason in disgust. “You tell ‘em yet?”

            Now they had everyone’s full attention. But in George’s typical godfather fashion, he only leaned forward, steadying the gaze of his ice-blue eyes. They were the same as Brittany’s eyes and she shared the same stare. Mason couldn’t stand up to either. He only narrowed his own sea-foam eyes on Hunter. “I gotta log my activities in a guestbook or something? My business is my business.”

            “Your business is still under this roof.” George reminded him.

            “Only every other night.” Mason squeezed in his fist. He opened his mouth again, but it was Hunter who spoke. “He’s been talking with his birth dad.”

            Mason lunged, shoving Hunter back into the wall. “You gotta problem with that?”

            “Enough!” George backed his wheelchair from the sink. “This is your mother’s kitchen, not a boxing ring.”

Pamela put down her washcloth. “Hunter, go outside.”

            Hunter looked past Mason, surprised. “Mom-“

            “Walk it off.” George ordered. “Shoot hoops, bike, but don’t come back in until that temper’s cleared.”

            Mason backed away, but Hunter made sure to shoulder Mason hard on his way out. Pamela held open the screen door, her rubber gloves dripping, as Hunter stomped through; her eyes however were on Mason.

            Don’t look so worried, Pam. Mason looked away. Only to see Shelby in her chair, shoulders hunched in to protect herself. Okay, NOW he felt bad. But Mason only set his jaw and shifted his eyes to George. “Your son’s a drama king, ya know that?”

            “Puberty’s a real killer.” George excused it, his eyes doing his tense cop thing. “What was he talking about?”

            Mason stole another glance at Pamela. “Nothing I wouldn’t have told you- eventually.”

            “Your dad really called you?” Shelby piped up from the table, trying to shake herself out of her fear bubble. Mason never told her that he called it that. He didn’t find it funny, that she scared so easily. It was just a way for him to deal with having to see her that way.

Mason sighed. “He called a few days ago, while I was at work.”

            They were all quiet a moment before George asked. “How-”

            “I don’t know.” Mason stopped him before George could box him in with twenty questions. “Guess I’ll find out when I meet him. I don’t need your permission- or approval- to do that, do I?”

            “Of course not, Mason.” Pamela moved in, the gloves peeled off so she could touch his arm. “But, if you need to talk about it-“

            Mason quivered at the warmth her hand gave him. That was Pamela; she had unruly blond curls that shared the texture of straw, wide-rimmed glasses, and the countenance of a town librarian. Warmth. And George, for all his hard-knuckle tactics, was the strength of the Rivers household. Mason had watched them, like they were one person, exhibit the same light and security over their house and kids for years. Watched. That was all; and he wasn’t making more of it now.

            “I can handle it, Pam.” Mason told her. “I want to handle it myself.”

            George nodded. “That won’t stop our prayers, though.”

            Nothing ever did. Mason supposed he could at least tell them his father’s name. He had been going to anyway. Hunter’s sucker punch however, had knocked him out of his sharing mood. You’re holding onto it, Mace. You might as well admit you’re holding onto hope… one of your last lines of it.

            “Sorry about that, Shelby.” Mason muttered to her. He slipped out of Pam’s grasp and left the kitchen, needing his room and radio to drown things out. He worked at a Harley shop and spent half his nights there… but not enough to warrant rent. His other nights he made the thirty-minute commute to crash here, at the Rivers. His only foster home to have lasted longer then seven months.

            He cut through the hall and round the stairs, only to stop short before tripping over Brittany. He scowled down at her. “Get the raw footage?”

            Brittany gave him her quiet smile, fondling her glasses; a sleeker version of her mother’s. “It’s not every day that you see Hunter Rivers fly off the rails. You gonna arrange to meet your dad?”

            George’s stare, Pam’s touch… all the reminders of Brittany’s biological right to be here. It ate at Mason, each day he was here. George and Pamela could put on as many airs as they wanted, but that didn't erase that he wasn't tied to them like Brittany and Hunter were.

            “I hope it works out.” Brittany said through her smile. “And don’t worry about Hunter, he’s just being selfish. He wants to keep his cool big brother all to himself.”

            That didn’t sound creepy at all. Mason cocked a brow at her. “He’s got Gideon for that.”

            She dropped her hand, her face faltering. “Seriously Mason, when’re you going to stop making yourself a stranger? It was understandable at the beginning, but… now, you’re just being stubborn to what God’s offering you.”

            “I returned that invitation a long time ago.” Mason told Brittany, leaving her to make it to his room. He realized that the solitude would only be temporary, since he and Hunter still shared. He’d leave later and sleep at the shop. He stretched out on his bed, sinking into its red and black comforter, sporting electric guitars. He’d unwittingly picked it out for his sixteenth birthday, giving it more then a two-second glance at Target. Pamela had noticed. She and George noticed things, the important things.

            If they can, Mason turned himself over, reaching out to twist the knob on his radio. My dad can too. I’m ready for this. I’m ready to meet him; I WANT to meet him.

            But Mason couldn’t bring himself to explain that to George or Pamela. They had done a lot for him. Sure he didn’t act like it, but Mason shuttered when he thought about the paths he might’ve ended up down if not for them. And now, he didn’t feel like repaying their efforts with pain. The pain from the fact that he’d always wanted his real family back.

            You telling me You’re into answering prayers now. Mason questioned the ceiling.

            There was a rap on the door, giving Mason a jolt. “Mason? Can I come in, bro?”

            It was Gideon. Mason propped himself on his elbows in confusion. “Enter, I guess.”

            Gideon lumbered in on the solid legs that had landed him a soccer scholarship to AU in Albany. Mason smirked. “You get kicked out already?”

            Gideon gave a dry ‘haha’. “I just got in. Claire called me.”

            “Course she did.” Mason rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “Ever the peacemaker.”

            “She’s worried.”

            “About Pam.” Mason guessed. “Doesn’t want her stressing about me.”

            “Claire worries about everybody.” Gideon pulled to his sister’s defense.

            “When we’re not having to peel her off the ceiling from a panic attack.”

            Gideon’s tone went rigid. “I’m not here to argue with you, Mason. Or to hear you bash on others.”

            “Then why?” Mason dared ask, his attention back on the ceiling. There were faint marks from where he’d spray painted it one summer.  

            “Figured you might want to talk,” Gideon shrugged, looking over Hunter’s latest posters. “And, if nothing else… I’m always here for my family.”

            Mason snorted.

            “You doubt that?”

            “You’re only here to ask me how I’m feeling,” Mason said. “And you want me to tell you, so you can report it to all the flapping ears waiting downstairs.” He gestured to the door, like the rest of the Rivers gang was piled with enlarged ears on the other side. “You want me to tell you and I can’t. Because whatever I say, you’re only gonna try and change it into what you wanna hear.”

            “You think that Mom and Dad are afraid of the truth?” Gideon’s eyes narrowed on him. “That they think that little of you? Don’t insult them!”

            “I don’t need their permission for this!” Mason reaffirmed, sitting up as the heat in his neck rose. “And I wish everybody’d quit making a big deal outta it! You feed me a couple of meals, push me through college, and you think you’re entitled to my every movement?!”

            “Not me, THEM!” Gideon finally raised his voice. Then pulled himself back, opening and closing his fists. “You don’t owe them anything and they’ll be the first to… I came up here just to, try, you know? Like we all do.”

            He turned to leave. And Mason felt a panic. “Did you want to meet your mom again?”

            Gideon stopped. His shoulders tensed a minute, but he turned back around. His eyes bore an understanding that Mason knew he couldn’t get from the George, Pam, or even Claire. Gideon sighed the weight off his shoulders. “It was more like-“

            “You had to.” Mason answered immediately. Gideon was already nodding. “Had to learn all the answers to my questions.”

            Mason’s chest deflated with mild relief. He watched Gideon leave and fell his head back into his pillow. So it wasn’t just him who kept looking back. Gideon’s mom had put him in foster care out of love when she couldn’t take care of him on her own. And Claire had come to his group home after the people who loved her were dead. 
            Him? His dad had left when he was three- the same year Mason realized his mom didn’t have a problem hurting him. He’d been introduced to the foster care system when he was seven. People thought that was the way to save him. It wasn’t. He’d seen- felt- the worst of it. Nothing’s gonna change what I went through. And I’m always going to be different from them because of it.

Humanity could smile and extend their shining hands to him all they wanted and Mason would still spot their taints hidden underneath. He’d always know about the dark places that a human could go. It was like a pair of glasses that Mason couldn’t take off. Nothing that Pam or George did was going to change what he felt, how he saw his awkward position in this randomly-patched family. They couldn’t know the memories that still shook him awake in a sweat-

            “Mason?”

            Mason jerked his head up, cheeks heating at having been caught off guard. He sat up to find Shelby at his door. His heart cringed at his self-pity. Only Shelby’s scars ran deeper then his. She’d turned thirteen in April… how many of her years had she been a prostitute? Too many. Yeah, if there was anything that topped Mason’s demons, it was Shelby. And Mason wished it wasn’t like that.

            “What is it?” he asked. Nice bedside manner there, Mace.

            Shelby lifted her hands to reveal her schoolbooks. “Help me with this biology chapter? It’s killing me.”

            Mason snorted. “So you’re solution is to ask me?”

            “You once told me that I need to focus on other things or drive myself insane,” Shelby reasoned quietly. “Help me, please?”

            The toughened and brooding antagonist softened up by a little girl. Mason groaned at how cliché he was.

~~To Be Continued~~

A Stage Apart

          He was a hypocrite for being here. But he had already gone so far as to make the drive. Even so, after grumbling and refusing the money for Erin’s registration, he now found himself $35 poorer for purchasing a measly day ticket to be here. And after telling her that she would need to get the money for this conference on her own. I feel pretty low… did that lowness drive me here, or something else?

            He didn’t know where Erin had gotten the full amount in just over three months before the conference. She was sixteen, she baby-sat when she didn’t have tests to study for, and her college fund had been off limits. He’d been surprised when she hadn’t fought him on that. Rather; :”Ok, Dad. Those are your rules. I’ll pray for the money in another way.”

            Her phrasing of that sentence had appeared off, but her demeanor much more so. Erin had been a tantrum child since she had discovered a will of her own. Arguing and biting for her way or her say. He was proud of this, of sorts. Though lately, he had been watching it fade away. Except for the fire in her eyes; it was there still, and it burned bright. Erin had bluish-gray eyes that he swore could turn red like tempered stone with she got going. Maybe that had contributed to how she had gotten the money.

            No sense in prolonging it any farther. He got out of the car, glared up into the sun, and starting walking up the sidewalk. He clicked the lock mechanism and the car beeped behind him. It sounded lonely, though there was no shortage of cars in the lot. Had they paid $35 to be here as well? Or had they been here for the entire week? That would cost them, for sure.

            He needed to be honest though. There were worse expenses then this teenage retreat that Erin had been so persistent about. Cars and college, to name the obvious few. More so, it was the nature of the retreat that had him worried. It was a nationwide event for grace brethren churches. And, apparently, Erin had been attending youth services at the one in their hometown for a while now. To be frank, it beat wildly against the agnostic views he was quick to uphold in his house.

            “Are you asking me not to go Dad, or are you telling me?” Erin had asked him when he’d first learned of her interest in going. What could he say? He believed that the world, being made of people and nothing more, would teach his children the good and the bad of it. This would instill in them firm, realistic perceptions of others and themselves.

            He heard the music while still two dorms back from the field house. These events, he was finding, were held on college campuses that were abandoned for the summer. The tall building shock waved the vibrations of sound out beyond the walls, muffled and yet not. He cringed, never a huge fan of loud music. It was hardly a parent thing; he just wanted to keep his eardrums intact. He trotted closer in the sticky July humidity, only to find little relief inside. He was met with a multi-colored crowd of backs, all pressed in toward the massive black and silver stage that spanned the far end of the indoor track.

            Every chain will break as broken hearts declare His praise.

            Noise emitted from this stage in the same shock waves he had heard outside. It pounded the walls, slammed the roof, wanting out. Lights of red, purple, blue and green swiped the rows of ecstatic kids. They circled overhead and blinded him every five seconds. He was keeping to the edge of this conjoined mass, but could still smell the close-knit heat and hype of collected youth. As he moved closer to the stage, he saw them growing tighter and deeper with every inch.

            Who can stop the Lord Almighty.

            Their voices were singing along as the chorus hit. A wave of the same words, front to back. Their energy was undeniable. Adults, sitting or standing on the sidelines, held smiled of equal energy on their faces. It had him wondering… what did Erin look like in this madness? What had they enticed to her, to get her running with them?

            “We live this life because there’s nothing else to it.” He had said so many times. “Any hopes and dreams you have are only born out of solid work.”

            He pictured the additional lecture he was gearing for her. Hard work and rational decisions. Not blind faith, Erin. Faith starts with an ‘f’ because it’s folly. There may not be a point, but what’s the point in screwing up what you have?

            In that moment, he glimpsed onto the stage. He was almost to the front now, to the far left of the lead singer. Amplifiers blocked the corners and the space for the band swam with the rapid sweeps of the lights. And, there behind the lead singer, he saw Erin playing her bass guitar.

            The God who comes to save is here to set the captives free.

            Her feet pounded with the chords that she was throwing her entire arms into. In the glimmers of light passing over her, he caught the sweat on her skin, beneath her shirt, and matting her hair to her neck. There was a smile on his lips before he could help it. He had gotten her that guitar, watched her practice with it week upon a week. That’s what she needs to be believing in! Hard work, commitment, independence…

            “Our God is the Lion,” the crowd proclaimed, the music reaching a moment of stillness. “The Lion of Judah!”

            He was startled then when Erin’s hands stopped strumming. Her head dropped, chin to chest, right hand raised in the air. Stretching, searching… for what?

            He’s roaring in power and fighting our battles.

            Erin’s head stayed down, swaying and hidden in her sweaty, clumped hair. She almost looked dead. He banished the thought, then wondered if she was, in fact, dehydrated.

            “And every knee will bow before Him!” the crowd went on singing.

            In her own exclamation, Erin’s head thrust up, joining her hand in its reach. The lights had calmed their flailing, bringing some focus to her face. He was shocked to find that it wasn’t just sweat covering her cheeks, but tears shining over them. Erin’s cheeks were red with them, her eyes closed, and lips moving.

            “The Lamb who was slain…” so the song continued, the music picking back up. Erin hesitated, staying as she was. Like she didn’t want to break from her stance.

            He stared at this portrait of his child. She looked so… exposed… fragile. Yet, unashamed. There were volumes there he couldn’t name and this frightened him. He often complimented himself on being a parent who knew his children. Matched them in openness, honesty… but this. He had never seen Erin like this. Another breathless moment, and she lowered her hand. Flawless on the wires, she jumped back into the song. But the previous image was sticking to him now. Her hand, her tears, her face…

            Was that his daughter now?

            Or was she someone else’s?

            He had barely recognized the one on stage.

            “And every knee will bow before the Lion and the Lamb.”

THE END

The Littlest Thing

My radio silence is inexcusable, and yet comes with a reason. I was recently faced with a heavy life decision of breaking off from my old job of three years and accepting a new position. I accepted this new position, but that's not what drives me to write this sunny and white Sunday morning.

It's the hardest thing to admit that you're wrong.

I was wrong in how I approach my life decisions; not only this one, but the ones before it. When I attended Grace College we had three or four motivational speakers there every week. One of them, whom I'll never recall their name, spoke this wisdom;

'Whatever you do, show the world how a Christian would do it.'

A Christian prays and pours over their Bible for the words of leading that God has for them. A Christian takes stock in the in the presence of their Heavenly Father, listening for what He has to say. Not just pausing for a few seconds when they suddenly remember, 'Oh yeah, I want God to help me out with this.'

I wasn't leaving God out of the equation... I just wasn't making Him the first component in weighing my options and life direction. But even admitting that isn't the bottom line here. I was in tears one night, my heart breaking at the realization of how I'd put God in the back seat. To which my mom said a familiar line to me;

'Honey, you are being way too hard on yourself.'

She's right (ugh, that hurts to admit too!). Me over reacting is a part of my biological make-up. Her words however, stuck with me long after my tears dried. The reason I had been crying so hard in the first place is because I felt like I was screwing up my most important relationship. This is the Holy Savior, Jesus Christ, who bled out so we'd be rescued from the same pain in Hell. Losing the chance to give Him my best- crops, effort, prayers, whatever- is something that scares me the most.

Everyone knows that one person. The one you walk on egg shells around because the slightest disturbance will set them off. Maybe I'm one of those people... I have a stopwatch to make sure people arrive on time, I slump into a corner if I'm unable to keep my word, and anyone with half a brain cell won't think of touching me when I'm in the kitchen! And if someone dog ears a book page... oh boy!!!!!!!

But now I think there's an upside to such high-strung drive.

In terms of recognizing that I need Jesus because I will never be perfect enough for Heaven, I want the littlest things to bug me. I want the kinks in God's and my relationship to hit me in the face. In the end, it does two things for me. I humbles me with the memory of my imperfection. And it also drives me to do better, BE better for my God. To treat Him the way He ought to be treated; in complete awe and devotion.

I want to be on high-alert for God. He's brought me so far already, and still has many miles to take me. In that journey, I only want to be aware, alert, and attentive to how I can grow in Him. If stressing over the little things will help me do that, then bring it on!