The beginning chapters / First draft / Unedited / Please Ignore The Little Things (I’ll be looking for an editor if anyone knows a good one)

1.

A train wreck.

She cries.  His eyes shoot wide and his face turns beat red while he clenches and unclenches his fists.  Shock. Their other kids were out for the day.  They had no idea what happened.  But they’d be back soon.  Their parents would have news to share. News no one wants to hear.  

News no family should have to hear.  

As we eventually left that house and the pastor said those magic words I had a feeling they weren’t magic after all.  It couldn’t be that cut and dry, that certain, or that structured.  I’d finally checked for myself and I realized something I hadn’t noticed before.  How had I missed it?  I’m sure there was a reason,  probably many.  Many I’ve already shared.  Before my confession, before the closet.  Before the change.  Before life finally came to my house.  

But even after the confession, I still felt like something was missing.  Something, a big thing was off in a way I couldn’t put my finger on.  In life.  In faith.   

Through all these years I’d missed it.  Ignored it.  Looked past it.  Maybe you feel it too.  In the back of your mind.  Deep within who you are.  As your heart cries out for more.  More meaning.  More depth.  More experience with what could be.  The answer that quenches that thirst, it’s been there for so many years.  

Finally, in the desert, He showed me.  After I told so many their time was up.  After leading the pastor away in handcuffs because he couldn’t be trusted.  With me.  With anyone.  Whatever it was that he claimed he followed and believed wasn’t showing through in his actions.  In the dark.  Away from the crowds.  

He was someone different.

Getting beyond the buzzwords, the fluff, the show that clouded my mind.  After finally giving up.  God showed me.  And from there, for that, I’ve never been more grateful.  I look at it as a privilege now, sharing that final news with loved ones.  Though, back then, I didn’t feel that way.  One of those meetings changed my life, forever.    

That night, with the pastor and I, the calls were made.  Kids were on their way.  Mom and dad sat, staring at the ceiling, at each other.  There were no answers that would satisfy.  Sometimes, you just know.  No matter how we shared, what we said or did, this was going to go poorly.    They weren’t prepared.  

Neither were we. But I suppose we can’t start there….

2. 

The pastor and I walked up to the house.  Concrete sidewalk, the blocks on the path uneven from the years.  It was an average suburban two story with a two car garage and a sign in the yard supporting their almost graduate while announcing his college of choice.  I guessed they wouldn’t be needing that anymore.  Seven, maybe eight on a warm spring night as the sun stayed out later and the dusk was just starting to fall.   

We went over the story more than once in the cruiser.  I parked further down the street so they wouldn’t see us sitting in a cop car rehearsing.  He’d keep it short and sweet.  I’d offer details as I could.  We’d watch the wreck, try to manage it and help direct them the best we could. 

I was in uniform, the gray just starting to show around my temples, a few more years on the job and I’d look like the chaplain.  An older man, full on gray and balding with glasses wearing khakis and a polo.  He was wringing his hands as he walked rehearsing more in his head I’m sure.  I was just thankful he was here and I didn’t have to share the news alone.    

The questions would come for the family, vocalized or not.  Questions of life, death, the unknown.   The sudden alterations to the welcome monotony that we never realize is really welcome until it’s shattered in ways we could never imagine.  Pastors knew their way around this stuff.  They could explain the how and why.  All while giving hugs and providing comfort.  They had the keys.  The answers.  The direction from the only One who directs.  Right?  

Funny, the more I talk to them, informally, away from people, away from the attention and the crowds, the opposite seems to be true.  I’m thankful for the honesty.  

We headed toward the front door. It was open.  She was in the kitchen.  Middle aged mom, t-shirt, yoga pants, hair pulled  back.  Putting away dishes, cleaning a counter.  As we hit the steps she looked up.  Immediately stopped.  Her head turned to the side, eyes questioning.  She set down the dish.  

“Jeff,”  she said in a loud and cautious tone as her voice rose just under a yell. 

He was sitting on the deck.  Walked in, tall, past athlete no doubt.  He closed the sliding glass door.  Smile turned to a frown.  He could tell.  She could tell.  The looks on our faces, the sullen conversation of body language that tells the truth about all the things our words try to hide.  We didn’t knock.  Just stood at the screen.  The chaplain gave a slight wave. 

They came to the door.  Together.  

3. 

I. Give. Up.  

I’d said it before.  In the closet, on that night.  Everything changed.  At least I thought that was true.   I guess I didn’t realize this family’s wreck would lead to another of my own. Turns out the closet, the change, that was only half the story.  Because the haze is coming.  I can’t stop it.  I can’t even see it.  But I can feel it.  Deeply.

A train wreck. Fitting analogy.  That’s what my faith is currently.  Can you begin a story with a question?  What if it’s a “Christian” story?  And what if the question begins with, what the hell? 

What if I admitted that these last weeks, this last year, I’ve been in the middle of a church service or small group, numerous times, and started out with that exact phrase.  It ended with, am I doing here?   

What the hell am I doing here?  Asked in my mind, to myself in the midst of the show, of faith practice, study, experiencing it with my wife, my kids, people I like, people I love, people I don’t even know.  People I’d prefer to avoid.  Why am I here?  In life, maybe.  But more so sitting in church.  Practicing religion.  And the only answer I can come up with even after the change, even after the God of the universe hit me over the head, is because it’s what I’m supposed to do.  Right?  It’s what I, we as believers, do?  Because we believe in God?  

Why?   How does this work?  When I really dig in, when I try to sort through the hard questions, I admit, I still can’t make sense of it.  And I’ve read the Bible more times than you, probably, maybe.  I’m still a bit judgmental.  Let’s just say I’ve read it, a lot.  And it doesn’t match.  

The things I do, the things we say, practice because of the way I thought things were supposed to be, they don’t match with scripture.  Much of it. Maybe you can help me make sense of it.  Maybe I ruin your life causing more questions in the process.   I’d like to avoid that.  You should probably stop reading now.  If you’re worried.  If that might be the case.  But the haze, the shadows, they, it, whatever it is, is coming.  For me and for you.  And I can’t stop it.  All I can do is hope to have it figured out before it arrives.  At least that’s what the pastors say.   Time is short.  We need to make a decision.  Now.  Or else.  What if we’re wrong?  

Is there a point to this?  Is this really all there is?  What exactly are we waiting for, scared of, looking forward to?  Is this what God had in mind?  Will I, will we ever find what we seem to be searching for?  Hoping for?  Expecting?  Will it ever come?  

What is it we’re waiting for, exactly?  

Maybe I’m just asking the wrong questions.  But there is one, one question that I’ve learned I’ll never ask anyone again.  Because it doesn’t seem to be the point, ever.  At least according to scripture.  According to Christ.  According to their words and actions.  Back then.  

But second, and mostly, because it caused a train wreck in my life and faith, and I’m not sure I have an answer even for myself.  Now.  That couldn’t be God’s plan.  Right?  Confusion and fear?  For those He loves?  

————–

“Can we sit?”  The chaplain asked mom with a subtle smile.  

“Of course.”  She led us into the kitchen.  Started to cry as her eyes searched us for anything. We sat at the table.  I froze.  My mind held the words but my mouth wouldn’t say them.  I couldn’t introduce the chaplain.  How could I tell the parents they could take that graduation sign down now.  Your son won’t be going to college after all.  

Thankfully, the pastor didn’t miss a step.  He recognized my hesitation and rolled with the info.  Slow.  Steady.  Honest.   

And as I watched their faces, as the conversation went, it turned from concern, to questioning, processing, understanding, sadness, more questions, and then for whatever reason as I watched them, the thought came to my mind.  

This could be my wife and I in a few years.  Now.  Whenever.  I’ve got three very real and very fragile chances at any point in my life to get this exact same news.  The news no parent should ever need to process. The news that leaves us with questions.  So many.  Many unanswerable this side of, well, whatever eternity ends up being.    

But, let’s be honest.  The only questions really worth asking these days, the ones whose answers truly matter, are the ones without any certain and final answers to speak of.  The ones that leave room for discussion, connection, mystery.  The unattainable.  The illogical.  The spiritual.  The…..truly meaningful.  The work of God. 

Right? 

4.

We left the couple and walked from the house after offering whatever help we had and whatever emotion we could muster.  That’s when the pastor let it fly, under his breath.  Quiet, quick, with a slight shake of his head he blew up my faith as he opened the cruiser door.  Innocent, I’m sure.     

“I hope he was saved.”   

I’d heard it so many times. Church speak, religious talk, the everyday of faith.  It was what I believed.  “Saved.”  But this day it stuck with me. I questioned.  Because my three very real chances to have this happen in the future were waiting at home.  And as far I knew, sensed, understood from church, religion, my kids couldn’t yet give an answer. 

That family’s child was eighteen.  One of my kids was getting close.  

What if he wasn’t?  What if my kids aren’t?  What if the worst happens and I haven’t gotten them to say it, to convert, to be “saved?”  

Maybe, just maybe,  I wasn’t myself.    

————-

I’d been baptized, made a profession, did my time in the show, serving, attended the studies, the gatherings, even had the God of the universe beat me over the head with His presence and allow me for certain to know, to feel, to see, He was there.   

Yet I had no enthusiasm, no desire, no interest really in the band, the jokes, the feel good surface talk, the fake Sunday smiles, what I saw then as the Church.  I’d prefer to be around my work friends, honesty to a fault, neighbors, authentic life in the everyday, sports families, struggle and pain, way before I’d choose to hang out with the church people.  

Though, thankfully, there are many these days I meet.  Those who connected with me over my first confession.  Those who I love and love the church.  Who vibe with God.  Who don’t change who they are or how they talk for a Sunday show or a small group gathering.  Or, maybe it’s me that’s finally changing. 

I already admitted I was the problem.    

————–

As we drove from the house, the pastor sat next to me, there was no conversation.  My head was spinning.  Clearly he was smarter.  Clearly he had more info.  Clearly he was the one with the education, knowledge, and experience. I was just some dude.   Some dude who went to church and still really didn’t want to be there.   He was “saved.”  

Until clearly he wasn’t.  Until he made an admission.  Until his life didn’t match his words.  Until I led him away in handcuffs.  

Because he lied to me.  To everyone.  He probably would answer the same question he asked everyone else with ease.  Are you saved?  “Absolutely,” he’d say.  But his body language, his example, they eventually betrayed him.    And as he was taken away after violating trust, violating someone, everyone said the same thing.  Never saw that one coming.  We thought his answer was yes.  

Is that what being saved looks like?  

After that day in the car, after the news, after the unanswerable questions and the family’s tears, after the pastor’s arrest,  I headed out west like everyone will, eventually.  I think, looking back, I was forced.  Out west.  We’ve talked about that before.  But this time it was for a different reason.  

And we all have our reasons.  

Under the sun and through the canyon walking, crawling, dragging along hoping that one day we arrive.  At the end.  As the haze follows.  As the people scream and cry at the top of their lungs.  

“Keep moving.  You can’t stop.  Get up.  Now!  It’s coming!”  

And as my feet begin to sink and the sand becomes mud, slowly, surely, I’m sucked down under while everyone tries to get me to move.   But I don’t want to move anymore.  It’s not worth it.  I’ve had enough.  Of the fight.  Of the struggle.  Of the questions.  I’ve given up.  Already.  Once.  And it changed everything.  Some for the better.  

But some, also, for the worse.  

Would you head out with me?  Into the desert.  The place where life, faith, the unanswerable and the shadows all combine to provide one hell of an experience.  Yeah, I wrote hell. Because even in a “Christian” book it’s the only way to describe it.  It’s the only word that fits.  And it is authentically me.  Even on a Sunday, and even in church.  

I’ll be honest. I don’t have all the answers, or even most of them, yet. But, it does bring to light the only question, the one question, that actually matters.  The one truth that actually changes and changed everything.  The only focus I’ll run with, waving my arms as I chase my kids while I scream at the top of my lungs as they head out west on their own journey.  

“Kids! this is the answer, this is the question, this is the focus!  Just one thing.  Take it with you.  It will lead you through, well, EVERYTHING!” I’ll chase them as far as I can. As far as God will allow.

Because this question is the one thing, the only thing, that eventually brought me back.  Crawling, walking, then sprinting back with renewed energy, vigor, and direction.  Back to God.  To life.  To adventure. Even, back to the Church. It’s time to get back to what’s important.

It’s time to take a stand.

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