God's Not Dead 2 (16 page)

Seeing in Color

A POST FOR
WAITING FOR GODOT

by Amy Ryan

We’re all color-blind when it comes to professing our views. We only see the black-and-white when the world is so full of grays.

A few allow some red to seep in, but blue and gold and purple would paint pictures so much more beautiful.

We mark our messages in Sharpies that won’t come off of dry-erase boards. Our views. Set in some kind of stone we built. Tiny altars to ourselves.

All while the truth stares at us. Wondering when we’ll look up and see the promise. That rainbow, the mark of the one who can move mountains.

Yet most don’t look up but only down. Staring at the shoes we spent so long picking out that scrape a line in the sand while we forget about the beauty of the sea in front of us.

We remain pale under the golden sun. Sunblocked. Sedated with our stern belief. With our rightness. And our rights.

MEETING WITH MY TUTORING GROUP
on a Saturday is unusual, but they’ve agreed to get together this morning since I’ll be in court next week. I guess all my wisdom about law is really
that
valuable.

Or maybe these students have no lives.

I can tell Martin Yip is still not himself. His usual curiosity seems muted this morning. He’s the last to leave our conference room, so I casually ask him what’s going on.

“Nothing,” Martin says.

It’s one of the least convincing “nothing” responses I’ve ever heard. Especially since he’s barely moving toward the doorway.

“You’re acting like some girl broke up with you. But I don’t remember you having a girlfriend.”

“I don’t, which is a very good thing. I wouldn’t be able to afford her.”

“My friend,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “You will never be able to afford ‘her,’ whoever ‘her’ might be.”

Martin turns to me and looks desperate.

“My father has cut me off,” he says. “He showed up at my dorm room and demanded that I come back home with him. I refused, and he
 
—he slapped me and said my entire family was disowning me. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I cannot pay my tuition even though I’m working two jobs. I’m not sleeping. I can’t even afford groceries. I just
 
—I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t expect this. For a tiny moment I’m at a loss for what to say.

“I’m sorry to burden you with this,” Martin says.

“No, no
 
—don’t apologize. I’m sorry to hear about all of this. Why did your father do it?”

“Because
 
—because I told him I had become a Christian. That I had found faith. I told him there was a God. I told you I was in the same class as Josh Wheaton, the student who stood up to the professor. That was how it all happened. Or
 
—I should say how God orchestrated it to happen.”

I nod. I think again of the article I read where Josh mentioned that Martin was the first one in his class to join him in declaring, “God’s not dead.”

“I just thought
 
—I assumed my father would respect me. He’s always admired stepping out and taking chances. Coming to school in America was one of those chances I took.”

“There’s no way to communicate any more with your father? For him to see your side?”

Martin only shakes his head.

“Have you talked about this with anybody else?”
Like someone who believes what you believe?

“No. It just happened and I
 
—it’s not like any of my fellow students would care.”

“What about
 
—I don’t know
 
—” For some reason I think of the pastor on the jury. “What about going to see your pastor? Do you go to a regular church?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Then why don’t you go there? Talk to someone who might know what to do.”

“I thought you might have some advice.”

How about you tell your meddling father where he can go?

“I’m good at knowing about the law,” I tell him as I lean on the edge of the table. “But I’m bad at anything to do with fathers and sons.”

“You don’t get along with your father?”

“Nope. My situation is kind of the opposite of yours. But
 
—like all family dysfunction
 
—it’s complicated.”

“This isn’t. It’s really simple. He’s cut me off and I’m done.”

I pat him on the back this time. “Listen, Martin. You’re a smart guy. Go talk to your pastor and see what advice he gives. Let me ask around
 
—there might be a cheaper place to stay. And listen
 
—forget about paying me anything for the tutoring.”

“Mr. Endler
 
—I can’t do that.”

I shake my head. “What you can’t do is call me that. I already told you guys. Mr. Endler is my father. And I don’t want to be him.”

We head outside the library to the stormy clouds resembling a sky full of how Martin’s feeling. As I follow him to the parking lot, I grab my wallet and see what’s in it. Sometimes I actually have cash. Today is one of those lucky days.

“Here
 
—take this,” I tell him.

“Please
 
—I can’t
 
—no
 
—”

He looks like I’ve just handed over a dirty, leaking diaper.

“Martin
 
—it’s forty bucks. Actually, it’s only thirty. Take it. Get some groceries. Don’t go to the fancy organic-fresh, name-brand place where lettuce costs thirty bucks. Go find a place you can get some real food.”

The poor guy looks like he might actually cry.

“You’re trying your best, you know?” I say. “That’s all you can do. I’ll see if I can help out however I can. But reach out to others.”

Boy, it’s way easier to give advice than to take it.

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

I nod. “I know fathers can be cruel. I’m sorry for that. We need to start a fight club.”

“Where we beat each other up?”

“No,” I say. “Where we beat our fathers up.”

This finally gets through. I see Martin laughing as he gets into his car.

When I get in mine, I wonder what it would be like to have a child. No, to have a
son
. Would I be the same unforgiving sort who would completely destroy the relationship by the time the kid became an adult? Or might it be possible to have one of those rare father-son bonds that I’ve seen only a few of my friends have?

Having any child in this world these days is dangerous. It’s hard to imagine. But then again, I can’t even seem to find someone I’d like to go on a second date with.

That makes me think of Grace. I quickly try to ditch the thought, however. Thinking like that won’t help her or the case or my mind-set or my life.

Maybe
I
need to go see that pastor.

I turn up the radio station in the car to play over my thoughts. It never seems to work, however.

THE FIGURE ON THE STREET
is as still as one of the trees lining the pavement. Amy sees him standing there, watching her, and can’t help but jump a bit. His smile doesn’t provide any comfort. It actually scares her a little.

“I’m sorry I’m just waiting out here like a stalker,” Marc says.

“What are you doing?”

“You moved.”

“You broke up with me. Did you expect me to leave a forwarding address?”

He begins to walk down the sidewalk toward her. Amy thinks about heading back inside or maybe getting in the car and leaving without another word. But she stays there, next to her car, keys in her hand. She might need to use them to gouge out his eyes or something like that.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” he tells her, up close now.

“And I’ve been trying to send you a message.”

“Okay, fine. I got it. Message received loud and clear.”

Then what are you doing here?

Marc’s face looks tired and a bit swollen, the way it used to after he’d gone on one of those weekend-long “boys’ trips.” The kind of debauchery she didn’t want or need or even understand.

“I know you’re angry,” he says. “So let’s talk.”

“Marc, I’m not ‘angry.’ I was angry after you told me I meant
nothing
to you. But more than that, I was hurt. I’m neither of those things now.”

“So what are you?”

“I’m over it.”

He inches closer. Amy backs up against her car, refusing to let him touch her.

“Mina said she’s seen you lately.”

Amy nods. She glances around to see if anybody is nearby. She’s not worried about Marc being violent or anything like that. She just doesn’t want to create some kind of scene.

“You look great,” Marc adds, studying her like he always used to do. “Your hair looks great.”

There was a time when she loved those looks he gave. It took his leaving for her to realize she wasn’t a piece of art in a room locked away for only him to look at. She had no price tag on her, no value that could go up and down.

“You abandoned me, Marc. I really
 
—
really
 
—got this one wrong.”

“What do you mean? What did you get wrong?”

The dimple she used to love now just seems like an empty pocket on a smug face.

“I got you wrong. I got us wrong. I needed a wake-up call, and God certainly sent me one.”

“God did, huh?”

His smile makes her seriously want to hit him. “Marc
 
—I’m going to tell you this once. I don’t need your condescending airs. I don’t need you looking me over like I’m a car on display. And I certainly don’t need your attitude about anything I might feel or think or believe in. Do you understand?”

He fakes backing up while he mouths an
ooh
.

“I’m serious, Marc. Don’t come around. I’ll get a restraining order.”

“Really? It doesn’t look like you’d have the money to do that.”

“I know people,” she says.

Which is sort of true but not really true. But that doesn’t matter.

“I’m just trying to repair the bridge. In case you want to
 
—”

“There’s no
bridge
that you can build between us. There’s an ocean ten times greater than the Pacific. Do you hear me? It’s a black hole that Matthew McConaughey couldn’t fly out of.”

Marc is no longer grinning. He tightens his lips and looks down at the sidewalk.

“Leave,” she tells him again.

This time he does exactly that.

Amy watches him go and vows to do something about him if he calls or texts or comes to see her again.

You left me to die, but I didn’t. The only thing that died was any possible feeling I might have for you.

She gets in her car and drives to the coffee shop where she’ll work for a while. Amy is strong and leaving the scene and forgetting about what just happened. It only takes about five minutes before she begins to cry.

GRACE KNOWS
I’m coming over around dinnertime. She doesn’t know I’m carrying dinner with me. I knock on the door with my right hand while the plastic bag in my left feels like I’m bringing dinner for a dozen. The backpack over my shoulder contains the important stuff.

“What’s all this?” she asks after the door opens.

“I brought a giant bag of food . . . and an armful of files.”

“I think I can smell both of them,” Grace jokes.

“Church-versus-state cases or Chinese food? I say we eat first.”

“I say you’re a genius.”

I can’t help but notice the ponytail and jeans. She seems younger than before, even though she’s already years beneath me. The number of years doesn’t matter, I’ve come to realize. What
makes people attractive is the way they look at things and the humor they carry and their ability to turn up the music really loud.

Soon I realize there’s another thing: their ability to eat takeout straight out of a container.

Grace and I sit on barstools across from each other at the island in the middle of the kitchen. It’s not a massive kitchen, but it’s large and well used. In front of us are about eight boxes.

“How did you know I like Chinese?” Grace asks me while taking a bite.

We’re both using the chopsticks that came with the meal. I finish my mouthful before talking. “Greasy, fried, salty, and spicy . . . What’s
not
to like?”

“Have you tried this one? What is that?”

I nod since I’ve tried all of them. “It’s Szechuan chicken.”

The ordering was a bit chaotic since I called and spoke to a lady whom I couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand me. I kept suggesting things and she sounded like she didn’t know what I was saying, so I changed it to something else. She was probably born and raised in Hope Springs and just happened to be a really good businessperson.

“I need to try an egg roll,” Grace says.

She’s looking cute in her black T-shirt that says
Hillsong United
. I haven’t heard of them but am guessing they’re probably a Christian band. As we eat, I keep looking over my shoulder to the open doorway that leads into the living room. “Does Walter wanna join us?” I ask. “There’s certainly enough food.”

Grace just shakes her head.

“You can go tell him it’s fine if he doesn’t know how to eat with chopsticks,” I say.

“He’s hiding in his room.”

“What? How come?”

“He’s treating this like a
date
. Which should give you some idea of what my social life is like.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t worry. I won’t tell. It falls under attorney-client privilege.”

There’s a very natural smile widening over her face. I love seeing this and so far haven’t seen it much since being around her. I want to tell her this, to say it really fits her, to encourage her to use it to her advantage. But I remain silent with a mouth full of kung pao something-or-other.

For a few moments, we talk about simple nonessentials, not to fill up time but simply to try and get to know each other a little more. Small talk is tedious, but talking about the small things that matter isn’t. Eventually we coast down the conversational street and head up the driveway to something a little more important.

Grace is the one who initiates it. Perhaps that’s because I’m still eating enough for several people.

“So . . . is this what you always saw yourself doing? The lawyer thing?”

“No,” I tell her with a deadpan face. “I wanted to be Batman.”

It’s nice to hear the laugh echo in the kitchen.

“Did you ever want to be anything other than a teacher?” I ask.

“I didn’t know, honestly. After I went to college, everything changed.”

I figure she’s talking about her faith. She must be. That’s the reason I’m here, the reason she’s living with her grandfather, the reason her parents are nowhere to be found.

“Is that when you found faith?”

Grace is folding together the top of a half-full box of Chinese food as she smiles. “That phrase
 
—‘found faith.’ It’s so general.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say. “Is college when you decided Kanye was right when he said, ‘Jesus walks’?”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Grace says with the deadpan face this time.

“Oh, you know I’m kidding.”

“No, I just can’t believe you’d ever listen to Kanye West.”

I hold one of the chopsticks in each hand and say, “Touchdown.” But then I tell her I really want to know what went on in college. How did something so big happen to her?

“You never expect some kind of divine appointment to arrive, you know?” Grace says. “One evening in college, I was walking home from class. It was dark and I was struggling. With a lot of things. And I was scared. And alone. And I turned the corner and right there in front of me was a church. It had this old sign out front.”

I’m tempted to say one of the ten witty comments that go through my head, but I force my lips to stay shut.

“It was dim and hard to read. I think only one of the bulbs still worked in the thing. But it just stopped me in my tracks. The sign said, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ And as I read it, I could hear the Lord speaking to me. I couldn’t get that question out of my head for days. That was the start of a journey that didn’t end until I found the answer.”

“And what was the answer?” I lean over and rest my elbows on the island, expecting a long story about faith and miracles and God talking to her.

“Win the case and I’ll tell you,” Grace says before grabbing a couple of boxes of food to put into the fridge.

Women are all the same. They reel you in and pull you close enough just so you can flap and feel the hook and wait for something to happen. Then they unhook you and throw you into a bucket and go do something else.

I’m so tired I’ve brought out my reading glasses. I’m usually vain enough to only use them when I’m alone, but I can’t hold out anymore. We’ve been reading documents and reports and files as the lights in the living room have seemed to be slowly dimming with each half hour. There are some true
aha
moments for me, and I’m not talking about that group from England that sang “Take on Me.”

“You know, before I started researching this case, I didn’t know the term ‘separation of church and state’ never appears anywhere in the Constitution,” I say.

“Really?” Grace asks in genuine surprise. “I might need to reconsider lawyers.”

She’s on the couch with her legs stretched out and the rest of her leaning on the arm.

“I’ve always known it means that government can neither compel nor prohibit religious exercise, but still. I guess I always assumed it was somewhere in there.”

Grace looks down at one of the reports in her hands.

I continue. “Congress intended that religion may be recognized and accommodated only if it doesn’t compel people to participate and engage in religious exercises against their will. That’s what they wanted. But this was the same Congress that proclaimed a national day of prayer after signing the Constitution.”

I’m going through this really long report from a periodical
entitled
Equity & Excellence in Education
. The report is called “Christian Privilege and the Promotion of ‘Secular’ and Not-So ‘Secular’ Mainline Christianity in Public Schooling and in the Larger Society.” Talk about bad titles. It’s dense stuff that I’ve already gone through once and highlighted.

“Listen to this,” Grace says. “This is from
Paul Michael Herring v. Dr. John Key, Superintendent of Pike County Schools
. The Jewish parents of four public high school students sued the Alabama school system, stating their children’s religious freedom was being violated. An official press release issued by the ACLU back in 1997 lists over a dozen allegations claiming students, teachers, and school officials were persecuting the children for being Jewish. Here’s how it starts: ‘The American Civil Liberties Union of Alabama, which represents the family, argues that the Pike County School Board and administrators violated the constitutional right of the students to freely exercise their religion. In addition, the lawsuit says the district failed to stop the harassment, intimidation, and threats to the students. . . .’”

Grace puts down the paper and gives me this look of disbelief. “All of these things,” she says. “I didn’t do any of these.”

“I know.”

“So why are we even looking at this?”

“Because it’s the ACLU representing a plaintiff in a civil suit. Except in this case, it was a whole bunch of plaintiffs.”

“What eventually happened?” she asks.

“They won, but the original family who sued eventually moved after still feeling the persecution.”

“Well, that’s wonderful to hear,” she says in a grim tone.

There are more case files and transcripts to look over, and I feel like I’m back in law school. The only thing is that this time it’s
not Sienna I’m studying with. It’s someone very far away from the shores of Sienna.

Which is a very good thing.

I’m tired and wish I could ask for a glass of wine, but I’m guessing Grace doesn’t have any.

How ’bout you, Walter? Got any whiskey or moonshine hidden around the house?

Eventually I toss one of the files across the room. I’ve read enough. “Kane doesn’t make mistakes.”

“But didn’t you prove bias? With Principal Kinney and Mrs. Rizzo?”

My glance goes over to the wall, then the ceiling.

I didn’t prove anything.

“Those are jabs. We need a knockout punch.” I look over at her. “Why did you feel so compelled to bring up Jesus in a history class, Grace?”

“I didn’t. Brooke did. But why
shouldn’t
I have?”

I rub my nose, tired and knowing this woman isn’t about to back down. Good for her and bad for her lawyer.

“Look, I’m not here to debate the
 
—”

“No, Tom, listen
 
—I think you’re missing the point. This isn’t about faith. This is about history.”

Her ponytail bounces back and forth and makes me even more tired.

No, it’s about saving your job and paycheck and allowing me to get one as well.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” she says. “I mean, I’m not the law expert here, but it seems like maybe we’re making the wrong argument.”

“I don’t follow,” I say.

“Their whole attack
 
—it’s about me ‘preaching in class.’ But
I didn’t. The things we’ve looked at
 
—I’ve done none of those. I’m not reading the Bible over the intercom like one of the Supreme Court cases. I didn’t post the Ten Commandments. I didn’t put up a nativity scene. And heaven forbid did I actually
pray
.”

“They’ll say you were preaching. You cited Scripture and talked about Jesus’ teachings as if they were just like any other verifiable fact.”

“But what if they are just that?” She uncrosses her legs and drapes them over the side of the couch, then leans toward me. “Just because certain facts happen to be recorded in the Bible doesn’t mean they stop being facts. We can separate the fact-based elements of Jesus’ life from the faith-based elements. In my classroom, I didn’t talk about Jesus as my Lord and Savior. All I did was comment on quotations attributed to Jesus, the man.”

I feel a kung pao go off in my head.

“And I did this during AP History,” Grace says. “There was nothing wrong with the context.”

I’m nodding now, leaning over in my chair and getting her line of thought. So I continue phrasing it out loud. “Any rule saying you can talk about every human being who ever existed
except for
Jesus is discriminatory. The school board can’t institute it.”

“And every credible historian admits Jesus existed. There’s just too much evidence to say otherwise.”

Maybe it’s been that simple all along. Sometimes the simplest tactic is dangerous. In this case, however, I think it’s direct and decisive. “Grace, I love it. That’s our defense: Jesus as a historic figure like everybody else. And you know what?”

Her eyes are wide and she’s waiting for me to finish my thought.

“Kane won’t be able to attack it. He can’t rewrite the history books. Right?”

She jumps up and walks to a bookshelf behind us, then searches the rows for a moment, eventually pulling out a title. She hands me the book, called
Man, Myth, Messiah
by someone named Rice Broocks.

“You’ve got more reading to do,” Grace says, just like any good high school teacher might tell her student.