When Lightning Strikes
Read When Lightning Strikes Online
Authors: Brooke St. James
When
Lightning
Strikes
By:
Brooke St. James
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2015
Brooke St. James
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
My name is Mia Porter, and I recently celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday. One of my friends, while making a toast at my birthday dinner, described me as a chameleon—someone who was constantly changing and transforming. It's a fair description of me, at least where my physical appearance is concerned. I've always been edgy with fashion, experimenting with different haircuts and colors, and choosing clothes that pushed the envelope. I assumed his description of me as a chameleon was a polite way of saying I dressed like I fell off a circus truck.
My offbeat fashion choices might be odd for the typical middle school history teacher, but I get away with it because I work in a school that's desperate for good teachers. I also live in Austin, Texas, which as you might already know, is weird.
I grew up in a small town named Victoria. It's situated a couple hours south of Austin, San Antonio, and Houston. My family didn't leave Victoria much, though, so two hours was more like a world away.
I knew, even as a young girl that I'd move to a bigger town the first chance I got. The idea of city life appealed to me, and some of my earliest memories were playing with dolls and pretending they moved to a big city where they got a great job, had lots of friends, and went to fancy parties.
I've been in Austin for five years now, and while there were no real life balls and handsome princes, I did have a pretty good existence.
Let me back up a little.
I need to explain how I ended up in Austin in the first place. I have two older brothers. Kyle's the oldest by four years. He works in construction and is married with two boys. He and his wife love Victoria and wouldn't dream of moving.
My other brother, Cameron, is two years older than me, and like myself, was never content with small town life. We talked about it while I was in high school, and decided that I'd go to college in Austin and he'd come with me when I moved. He'd never gone to college, and didn't have plans to. He wanted to move to Austin to try to make a name for himself as a singer/songwriter, and had been thinking about it since he graduated.
We moved into an apartment together the day after I graduated high school. I started college that fall. I majored in history, and thank goodness I had a knack for the subject because college was otherwise a big blur.
I did a lot of drugs during that time, but at no point did I think I had a drug problem. My dad gave me fifty dollars one time during my freshman year and said, "You're not gonna buy drugs with it, are you?" when he handed it to me.
I remember staring at him and honestly being offended that he would even say such a thing. I honestly didn't classify myself as someone who "did drugs". Those were the people who did heroine and meth—the ones who went crazy and robbed people for a fix. Anyway, I probably
did
spend some or all of that fifty on "drugs", but at that time, I didn't see it that way. I just thought my dad was being a small-minded, small-town person who said things like
don't buy drugs
when he handed someone money. Looking back, he probably knew that's what I was going to do.
Regardless, that was a long time ago, and a lot has changed since then. I should rephrase that. A lot has changed in the last year. Ten months ago, I was in a car accident. It was a serious, head-on collision with a concrete pillar. I had to be airlifted to a hospital on the other side of Austin where I had emergency surgery.
I'm giving you the short version here, but the accident, resulting surgery, and recovery was extremely dramatic and completely life changing.
I grew up with a strict Baptist upbringing. My family went to church every time the doors opened. We went to everything they offered—Sunday school, church, Awana on Sunday night, church on Wednesday, and every single potluck and baby shower they ever threw. It seemed like we were at church as much as we were at home, and by the time I graduated high school, I was ready to do the exact opposite of that. I accepted Jesus as my savior at the age of twelve, and rededicated my life at church camp when I was fourteen, but I lost touch with God at around sixteen, and it had been a long time since I had checked in with Him or even cared what He thought. I didn't disown Him or question His existence, but I didn't acknowledge Him either—not even a little bit. He was all but forgotten by the time I was about sixteen and that lasted until my accident.
That accident, like I said, changed everything. I was in the middle of a bad reaction from taking a drug called "K" when I had the accident. I remember flashes of things at the scene and then brief flashes of the helicopter, hospital, and recovery. During that time, I was completely out of control of my own life. That feeling of utter helplessness sank into my soul in a way that's hard to describe.
It changed me.
Changed my feelings on life.
Changed my whole perspective.
I was altered from the inside in an indescribable way. I came out of that experience feeling humbled and undeserving of a love so great as the one I knew God had for me. Maybe that's what changed me. Maybe while I was close to death, I got a tiny little glimpse of His love for me in some near-heaven experience. I didn't remember anything like that happening—couldn't remember walking toward a light or anything. But I came out of that hospital with a changed perspective on life.
I knew life on this earth was fleeting, and once that sank into my soul, I found it impossible to ignore my thankfulness for the promise of something greater. That was the reason I started going back to church. I only went about half the time. Maybe it was a little leftover rebellion from my parents going to church all the time, but I definitely didn't feel obligated to go just because there was a service. I did enjoy it, though, and had met some nice people who didn't mind my offbeat style. Heck, some of them were even weirder than me.
At no point in the process of turning toward the Lord did I feel like I needed to part ways with my old friends. I never felt the need to change our relationship just because things had changed between myself and God. In fact, it was the opposite. I got the feeling that God wanted my friendships to stay intact. I remained weird and held onto my artsy group of friends who chose to love me even though I stopped doing drugs and 'hopped on the Jesus train' as they said.
I didn't mind the teasing. I was proud that I was still cool enough to hang out with them even though I was open about my beliefs. They teased me about my crazy creationist ideas, but it was good-natured and nothing I couldn't handle. I felt like God had me right where he wanted me.
My brother Cameron was still in Austin, although we didn't live together. I lived in a house with two roommates, and he lived with his girlfriend in an apartment. He performed around town quite a bit, and I tried to make it to all of his shows. Neither he nor his girlfriend were onboard with the whole church thing, but just like my other friends, they didn't give me a hard time about going as long as I didn't give them a hard time about
not
going.
When I was fourteen, and I had that experience at summer camp, I went around telling everyone they needed to repent and accept Jesus for at least a few months afterward. This more recent transformation, however, was different. Basically, the change was internal, and my friendships and general sense of humor remained unfazed.
In a nutshell, I loved Jesus, but I was still myself. I still had a beer when I went to watch my brother play music, and I still said a cuss word every now and then. I wasn't much of a cusser even when I wasn't paying attention to God, but every once in a while, I'd let one fly if I got hurt, and that hadn't changed.
Anyway, I'm by no means in the running for the best Christian on the planet, but I do love the Lord. My heart truly loves Him. I feel thankful for the hope of heaven, and look forward to going there. I'd like to think I could be used somehow, and hoped God would put me in a situation where I could share His love, but for now, I was comfortable laying low.
So there I was—a twenty-four year old, quirky, coffee loving, dry-witted, sharp-tongued, tattooed, non-conventional girl who was a bit of a history buff and happened to also love Jesus. I was almost done with my second year teaching history to 7
th
and 8
th
graders at Maxwell Middle. It was a rough school, and I questioned my choice to teach there, but I'd thoroughly enjoyed the last two years.
My accident happened late last summer, but my recovery stretched past the start of school, and they were extremely accommodating with my time off and welcomed me back with open arms as soon as I was ready. I mentioned earlier that I have a knack with history, and that's the truth. If my brain was wired for one thing, it was remembering, analyzing, and teaching historical events. American History, specifically the Civil war, was my favorite. It was a terrible war, but something about that time period was romantic and I spent a lot of time reading about it. I loved all things history, though, and could be caught doing historical research for fun on my time off.
Call it the lack of drugs or call it God, but I was ten times more productive now than I was before my accident. I'd always been able to study and retain information, but I was motivated and focused on my career for the first time, and it felt good.
In recent months, I'd considered going back to school for a masters or maybe even a doctorate so that I could trade in my middle school digs for a college teaching gig, but for now was satisfied with working with younger kids.
"Eli called me a chameleon the other night, so I thought I might as well live up to the description," I said, smiling at my brother, Cameron, and his girlfriend, Bri, as I walked up to the table.
I was meeting them for lunch at one of our favorite places, which was a farm to table, vegetarian place that was crawling with hippies. My brother and Bri were total hippies, and I fit right in with my new pastel pink hair.
"It looks gorgeous!" Bri said, reaching out to run her fingers through it and staring at it as if it might not be real.
"Thanks!" I said. "Gotta love having a roommate who's in beauty school."
Our server came by to give us a basket of bread and get our drink orders, and we were preoccupied with that for a second before I said, "I finally heard from that guy—the tattooer you suggested."
My brother smiled as he took a big bite of bread, and I scowled at him because it wasn't good news. "He gave me some options for an appointment, and the soonest one was
a month away
!"
Cameron shrugged. "So? Did you get an appointment?"
I made a face at him. "No. Aren't there other guys in Austin who could do just as good and get me in sooner?" I asked.
My brother scowled back at me. "You can't be in a hurry when you're trying to get a good tattoo," he said. "This guy just moved here from California. He's one of the best in the world. He has like half a million followers on Instagram. I heard he was so booked you had to wait six months. I can't believe you're complaining about one!" He stared at me shaking his head like he was disappointed. "You need to email him back and be thankful that it's only a month to wait. This guy's famous, Mia. People come from all over to get tattooed by him."
"It's just a little cross," I said. "I don't see how anyone could really mess that up."
My brother looked at me like I was being totally ridiculous. "We live in the same city where Patrick Mallory tattoos, Mia. You're not going anywhere else to get work done."
"I have other tattoos," I said. "Why can't I just go back to the same guy who did this other stuff?"
"Because."
I shook my head at him. "You used to love that shop on Willow," I reminded him.
"That was before this guy moved to Austin, Mia. Just trust me."
I looked at Bri with wide eyes at how impossible my brother was being. I honestly didn't see why I had to wait a month for a few simple lines and right angles.
"I'm not getting all that complicated stuff, like he gets," I said to Bri.
She rolled her eyes. "You might as well just go to the guy. He'll never let you live it down if you go get it done somewhere else—especially if they mess it up."
"You're right," he said. "You're stupid if you live in Austin and go to anyone besides Patrick Mallory for a tattoo."
"My roommate just got a tattoo done by him," our server said, as he set down our drinks. "He's the guy downtown at Seven Stones, right?"
"See?" Cameron said, looking at me with a satisfied grin. "Everybody knows who he is."
***
That conversation took place in May, and by the time my appointment rolled around in late June, I was slightly less interested in getting the tattoo. By slightly less interested I mean I totally forgot about the appointment until two hours before it was supposed to happen when the calendar on my phone warned me about it. I usually set an alarm for two days before and another for two hours before an appointment, but for some reason, I didn't set the two-day one this time and forgot about my tattoo completely. Thankfully, it was a random Wednesday afternoon in the middle of summer, and I didn't have anything else going on, so I got dressed and made my way downtown to the tattoo studio.
I was no stranger to these places. I had several piercings over the years and this would be my eighth tattoo. I was getting a simple black cross on my forearm, and even though it was my first one since the accident, I felt no conviction about it whatsoever. My parents weren't the type of Christians who'd hang out in a tattoo studio, but I was, and I didn't feel bad about it.
Okay, I felt a little bad about it, but that's just because the first thing I saw when I walked in was someone else getting a pentagram tattooed right in the middle of his back. I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer asking God if I should leave. I decided that if the same guy tattooing the pentagram was the one tattooing me, then I'd leave. Otherwise I'd stay and get my cross.
"Can I help you?" a girl said coming up to the counter.
"I have a two o'clock appointment with Patrick," I said.
She took a clipboard from a nail on the wall behind her. "I'll let him know you're here, but you should fill this out while you wait."
I took the clipboard from her. "I'm not positive if I'm getting tattooed today," I said, thinking about pentagram guy.
She looked at me with a curious expression.
"Which one's Patrick?" I asked.
She pointed down a hallway that was behind her. "He's at his station."
I smiled, but felt like a big dork. "I've never met him, and I just wanted to make sure—you know just see him and talk to him before we get started."
"He'll have a consultation with you before you get started, but you can still get your paperwork done."
I smiled and sat down with the paperwork that was just a few simple questions and a waiver. I was still looking down at it when he called my name.
"Mia?" he said from the counter. My gaze snapped up to find a tall, dark guy standing where the girl had been earlier. He was wearing a black T-shirt and, like most tattooers, he had a lot of visible tattoos. Obviously, I couldn’t see what was under his shirt, but he had quite a few showing on his arms and even his neck.
I was attracted to him instantly. He was my type of guy—someone who could make me nervous just by looking at him. He had a sharp haircut with closely cropped sides and the top, which was longer, was tossed over to one side. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, even in the fluorescent lighting of the tattoo studio.
I was smitten instantly, and found it difficult to keep my nerve. "Did you say Mia?" I asked, trying to act casual. He smiled. I swear, his smile was like a gum commercial. I think there might have been a gleaming sparkle of light reflecting off his teeth for a second. It mesmerized me, and I was so thankful he wasn't the one tattooing a pentagram.
"Follow me back," he said, gesturing for me to come. I followed him so quickly that I almost dropped the clipboard, but I managed to hold onto it. There were three guys tattooing in the area by the door, but Patrick led me to another area down the hall. There were two other guys back there, and both of them were looking down preoccupied with their own work.
Patrick gestured for me to sit down on a padded table, and he sat on a rolling chair next to me. He rifled through a drawer before coming up with a sketch of a cross. It was about three inches tall and one inch wide, and was just about the simplest design I'd ever seen in my life.
He smiled as he set it on the bench next to me. "It might be the easiest tattoo I've drawn up in a while," he said.
"I told my brother that," I said, feeling nervous. "I told him I'd probably be wasting your time with something like this, but he insisted I come to you."
"You're not wasting my time," he said, still smiling. "It's a relief to have a little one like this thrown in every now and then."
"Crosses pay the bills, bro," one of the guys said without looking up.
"That and tribal, dude. I'll bang out some crosses and tribal in my sleep." The second guy who spoke looked up with a laugh, but quickly put his head back down.
I hadn't been on a date with anyone since I got set up by one of my friends way back before my accident, and the proximity to such a handsome guy had my head spinning. I was way more nervous than I should have been for such a small tattoo.
The sketch was done on a small piece of tracing paper that was trimmed into an oval. He picked it up, and held it out for me. "Show me where you were thinking about putting it," he said.
I lined it up on my forearm and glanced at him to see how he'd react.
"Do you like that size?" he asked.
"I think I might have pictured it bigger, but this might be better."
He cocked his head a time or two as he inspected my arm. "I think that's a good size," he said. "I'm happy to do it bigger, but I think this fits that spot well."
I smiled and set the piece of tracing paper next to me. "I think it's great," I said.
Patrick went through the process of setting up, which took about ten minutes. During that time, he asked me what I did for a living, and that got us started about teaching and history.
He was busy preparing for the tattoo, so he didn't look at me the whole time we spoke. I was thankful for that, because I was relatively sure I was physically shaking. And yes, I blamed my nerves on the impending tattoo, not my attraction to Patrick Mallory.
He placed the stencil in a perfectly centered location on my forearm, and pulled back to stare at it. He gripped my arm and tilted it back and forth, studying the way it looked in its current location. "I'd be happy to adjust it, if you don't like it," he said finally, "but I think it's pretty good where it is." He lifted his chin toward the wall to his right. "Go take a look in that mirror over there and see what you think."
I hopped off the table and crossed to the mirror to take a look. I loved how the cross looked, and I told him so. Within a few minutes, I heard the familiar buzzing sound of the tattoo machine. He was wearing gloves, but I could still feel the warmth of his hands as he gripped my arm.
I looked away. "Ready?" he asked. I nodded and he made the first line. "So, you like crosses?" he asked. We glanced at each other when he asked it, and I smiled.
"Yes," I said. "I got into a car accident," I added feeling compelled to explain.
He smiled. "Oh, so you found God and whatnot?"
I felt like I was on the verge of turning into a babbling idiot, and I said a short, silent prayer asking God to help me say the right thing so I wouldn't misrepresent Him or embarrass myself. I let out a little laugh. "I guess something about almost dying makes you reevaluate," I said.
"I know a lot of people turn to God when something traumatic like that happens," he said. "You're not the only one."
His statement made me feel like he thought the idea of God was a crutch for all the weak people out there. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to defend myself—defend God, but I decided to err on the side of being quiet.
He continued to work on my arm. I asked him about the music that was playing. It was a band I recognized. They were obscure, and I could tell he was impressed that I knew about them. That got us talking about other bands and music in general. We had similar taste in music and movies, and we talked and laughed and teased each other for the next thirty minutes while he completed the simple tattoo.
He looked up at me when he was all done. It was the first time we made eye contact since we started getting along so well, and he studied my face for a long second. I could tell he was intrigued by me, and I felt my gut clinch with nervous anticipation.
He tore his gaze from mine to look at the tattoo. "I assume you know about aftercare," he said.
"I do," I assured him. I smiled as I looked down at it. "I love it. Do you like it?"
He smiled back, but then glanced down at it and said, "Men never commit evil so fully and joyfully as when they do it for religious convictions."
My smile faded. I'd been paying attention to his gorgeousness, and the quote he'd just spouted off mostly fell on deaf ears. I took a second to think about what he said. I'd heard it before. It was just the type of thing I would have quoted before my accident.
"Pascal said that." I said.
He stared at me, seeming amazed that I'd know such a thing. I couldn’t hold back a smile.
"Atheists use that quote, but Pascal was a Christian if I remember right," I said. He stared at me in disbelief and I smiled. "I like history," I said. "I like studying people and what made them tick."