Cross Roads (10 page)

Tony wanted to change the subject. She pushed at emotions better left dormant. It had already been a long day.

“So, where do you live?” He couldn’t imagine anyone actually living in the adjacent outbuilding. It looked more like a poorly built gardening shed for tools.

“I live everywhere I am,” came the curt reply.

“No, that’s not what I meant—” he began, and she cut him off.

“I know what you meant, Anthony, but you don’t know what you ask.”

Tony didn’t know how to respond to that. Finding himself at a loss for words was not usual.

Fortunately, she rescued him. “So,” Grandmother said as she stood up and stretched, “do you have anything to eat?”

Even though he knew they were empty, he quickly checked his pockets to make sure. “No, sorry. I don’t.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled. “I have plenty.” And with that she chuckled to herself and ambled in the direction of the mud shack, light warmly emanating through its cracks and crevices. He stood up and took one more look down the length of this place as the evening’s descent muted and then began erasing its colors. From here he could see a few lights scattered unevenly, little dots of white mostly in or near the
ramshackle homestead. He was also surprised to see in the farthest distance, near the bottom end of the property, a congregation of brighter lights. He hadn’t remembered seeing any other buildings, but he hadn’t been looking for any either.

He stretched one last time, getting the sitting kinks out, walked the few feet to the entrance, and stooped to peek. It was larger inside than it had appeared from the outside, but that could be just an illusion of how she used the space. A fire burned against one wall, the smoke rising and disappearing through a rather complex sequence of coverings, probably to keep rain from dousing the flames while allowing the smoke to escape.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course, you are always welcome here!” She warmly waved him inside. He found blankets on the floor and, though taking the risk that he might be violating some protocol, sat down anyway, surprised by how soft and plush they were. She seemed to take no offense and he settled, watching as she swayed back and forth over what looked and smelled like a stew and some flatbread baking on a stone by the fire. Simple and inviting, and, he smiled to himself, without expectation.

He paused, watching her rhythmic movements between stew and bread, almost a dance. “May I ask you a question?”

“You want to know why I live here, in this ‘hovel’; I think that is the word you used, based on your civilized and educated perception?”

There was no use denying it. “Yes, I was wondering. So why?”

“It was the best you could give me.” She didn’t turn from her work.

“Excuse me? The best ‘I’ could give you? I had nothing
to do with this. I could build you something much better, but not this. How could you think…?”

“It’s all right, Anthony! I have no expectations. I am grateful to have found even this small place in your heart. I travel light”—she smiled as if at some secret thought—“and I make my home inside the simplest gifts. There is nothing to feel bad or ashamed about. I am thoroughly grateful, and being here is a joy!”

“So… because this is me, my world somehow, I have only made this small place for you? And for Jesus, I made a larger place, but it’s still only a run-down ranch house…?” He was suddenly saddened, and he wasn’t sure why.

“It is his joy, too, to be here. He gladly accepted the invitation.”

“Invitation? I don’t ever remember inviting him, or you for that matter. I’m not even sure who you are. I don’t know if I ever knew enough to invite anyone.”

Now she turned toward him, licking the spoon that she was using to stir the stew. “It wasn’t your invitation, Anthony. If it had only been left up to you, we probably would never have had the opportunity to dwell here.”

Again confused, Tony asked hesitantly, “But if not my invitation, then whose?”

“The Father’s invitation. Papa God.”

“Jesus’s Father… you mean, like God the Father?” Tony was surprised and upset. “Why would he invite you here?”

“Well, despite everything you believe about him or don’t, and by the way, almost nothing you believe about him is true… regardless, Papa God cares for you with relentless affection. That is why we are here. We share in his affection.” With that she ladled out a bowl of stew and handed it to him, along with a clean rag to use as a napkin.

Now he was angry! Here was the catch, the hidden
agenda, the reason all of this was dangerous and a lie. Whoever this woman was, and despite being drawn to her much as he was to Jesus, she had uncovered his fundamental assumption, the true heartache that he knew lived in the belly of his pain. If there was a God, he was a monster, an evil trickster who played with people’s hearts, who ran experiments to see how much suffering human beings could endure, who toyed with their longings so they opened the beginnings of trust only to have everything precious destroyed. Surprised at his own inner fury and trying to calm himself, he took a bite of her cooking. It worked. The flavors seemed to attack his ire and settle him down.

“Wow!” he exclaimed.

“Good word,
wow
, one of my favorites.” She chuckled. “You are welcome, Anthony.”

He looked at her. She was scooping out food for herself, her back to him. The fire highlighted her dignified presence and seemed to ignite an invisible perfume that wrapped the room in a sense of liturgy. It made no sense that Jesus and this woman were in any way related to the God they spoke about with such consideration. If she noticed he had tensed up, it didn’t show.

“So does this Father God live here… in my world?” he asked, a brittle edge on the words, thinking about the collection of lights at the bottom of the property.

“He doesn’t, not as a habitation anyway. Anthony, you have never made a place for him, at least not inside these walls. While he is never absent, he also waits for you in the forest, outside the walls of your heart. He is not one who forces relationship. He is too respectful.” Her demeanor was as gentle as a feather. He would have preferred hearing disappointment in her voice. That was manageable. Kindness was too slippery and intangible. As quickly as the anger had
risen he reburied it and took another bite of stew, changing the subject.

“This is spectacular! There are spices in here I don’t recognize.”

She smiled her appreciation. “Made it from scratch, secret family recipe; don’t ask.” She handed him flatbread, which he dipped and took a bite of. It, too, was unlike anything he had ever tasted.

“Well, if you opened a restaurant, you could make a killing.”

“Always the businessman, Anthony. Joy and pleasure have value only if you can turn them into commodities? Nothing like damming a river and turning it into a swamp.”

He realized how crass it had sounded and began to apologize. She raised a hand. “Anthony, don’t. I was making an observation, not a value statement. I don’t expect you to be any different than you are. I know you, but I also know how you were forged and designed, and I intend to keep calling that from the deep, from the lost.”

He again felt uncomfortable, as if she had somehow unclothed him.

“Uh, thank you, Grandmother,” he offered and again segued to another subject, hoping to find a safer one. “Speaking of food, in my state of being, you know, in a coma and all, is it necessary for me to eat?”

Her answer was quick and direct. “No! You are being sustained in the hospital through feeding tubes. That’s just not my idea of a good meal.”

Grandmother put down her bowl and leaned forward on her stool, drawing Tony’s attention. “Listen, Anthony, you are dying.”

“Well, I know that, Jesus said that we are all…”

“No, Anthony, that is not what I am talking about. You
are lying in a room at OHSU and you are approaching the event of physical death. You are dying.”

He sat back and tried to take this in. “So, is that why I’m here, because I am dying? Does everyone go through this, whatever this is… this intervention? Is it to try and do what? Save my soul?” He could feel the hairs on his neck bristle as the blood began to rise with the flow of irritation now mounting. “If you guys are God, then why don’t you do something? Why don’t you just heal me? Why don’t you send some church person up there and pray for me so that I don’t die?”

“Anthony…,” she began, but he was already standing.

“I am dying, and you are sitting here doing nothing. I may not be much, and I have obviously made a complete mess out of my life, but am I not worth anything to you? Am I not worth something? If for no other reason than that my mother loved me, and she was a good religious person, isn’t that enough? Why am I here?” His voice was rising and his temper spilling through the cracks of his fears. He was desperate for some measure of control. “Why did you bring me here? So you could flaunt in my face what a worthless piece of crap I am?”

He stooped and walked out into the early evening. Fist clenched, he began pacing along the edge of the stairway, barely visible in the flickering light cast from the fire inside. In an instant, he turned back, stooped, and reentered, this time with a purpose.

Grandmother had not moved; she just watched him with those eyes. For the second time in less than hours he could feel another dam starting to collapse inside and with every ounce of strength he possessed, he tried to hold it back. It wasn’t enough. He knew he should run, but his feet were planted and his words emerged in spits of emotion. He
was losing control. Suddenly he was shouting and waving his arms, caught between fury and desolation.

“What exactly do you want from me? Do you want me to confess my sins? Do you want me to invite Jesus into my life? Seems a little late for that, don’t you think? He seems to have found a way to be right in the middle of my mess. Don’t you realize how ashamed of myself I am? Don’t you see? I hate myself. What am I supposed to think? Now what am I supposed to do? Don’t you understand? I was hoping…” He broke down as a realization burst to the surface, sweeping over him. The audacity of it drove him once more to his knees. He covered his face with his hands as new tears coursed their way down his face. “Don’t you understand? I was hoping…” And then he said it, voiced the belief that had dominated his entire life, so deep that he was unaware of it even as he spoke it: “I was hoping… that death was the end.” He was sobbing and words could barely find their way through. “How else can I get away from what I’ve done? How can I escape myself? If what you’re saying is true, I have no hope. Don’t you see? If death is not the end, I have no hope!”

H
e awoke, still in Grandmother’s small hovel. He sat up. It was fully dark outside and the coolness of the evening slid past the hanging blankets at the entrance, sending a slight shiver down his spine. By the open fire two figures huddled in conversation. It was Jesus and Grandmother talking in hushed tones, something about a perimeter wall that had been significantly damaged during the night’s quakes. Aware he was awake, they now raised their voices to include him.

“Welcome back, Tony,” acknowledged Jesus.

“Thanks, I think. Where have I been?”

“Combination of comatose and fury,” indicated Grandmother.

“Yeah, about that, sorry.”

“Oh, please, don’t be,” reassured Jesus. “What you admitted to yourself was astounding! Don’t minimize it because you are embarrassed. We think it was profound.”

“Great!” moaned Tony and flopped back onto the blankets. “I am in love with death. How comforting.” He sat up again, a thought occurring to him. “But if that’s true, why am I fighting so hard to stay alive?”

“Because life is the normal and death the anomaly,” stated Jesus. He continued, “You were never designed or created for death, so by nature you fight it. It’s not that you are in love with death, but you are driven to give yourself to something bigger than yourself, something out of your control that might save you from your sense of guilt and shame. You ashamed yourself to death.”

“Reminds me of some others I know,” piped up Grandmother.

“Oh, now I feel so much better about myself.” Tony pulled a blanket over his head. “Just shoot me!”

“We have a better idea if you are open to listening.”

Tony slowly pulled the blanket from his head and stood up, grabbed a stool, and pulled it toward the warmth of the flames.

“I’m all ears, not that I can’t think of anything else to do and a million places I would rather be at this moment, but go ahead… not that I am going to agree or anything, and I’m still not sure any of this is believable anyway so… I’m rambling aren’t I?”

Grandmother grinned. “You just let us know when you are finished. Time is something that we have plenty of.”

“Okay, I’m done. You said you have a better idea than shooting me?”
This should be good
, he thought. God having an idea. Was that even possible? If you knew everything, how could you have an “idea”? He looked up at them looking at him. “Sorry, I’m done.”

Jesus began, “Tony, this is an invitation, not an expectation.”

“So tell me,” Tony interrupted with a sigh, “am I going to agree to this? Thought I might save us some time.”

Jesus looked at Grandmother, who nodded.

“Okay, then, let’s get on with it. What do I have to do?”

“Don’t you want to know what you are agreeing to?” asked Jesus.

“Did I freely choose to agree? I wasn’t coerced in any way?”

“You freely chose.”

“Okay, then, I believe you.” He sat back, a little surprised at himself. “I almost hate to admit it, but this not knowing is kinda growing on me. You have to understand, I never do this; I mean, I never just take a risk or trust someone without some sort of guarantee or at least a nondisclosure agreement… You don’t want an NDA, do you?”

“Never needed one before.” Jesus laughed.

“So, what do I do?”

“We… wait. We watch the fire go out.”