God's Not Dead 2 (24 page)

NOBODY ELSE WOULD
ever get it. They might see the toy and laugh and wonder why in the world she has a
Dark Knight
Batman bobblehead in a gift bag. But Amy knows that her mother won’t wonder. Especially after reading the note in the bag.

She hopes that she’ll actually be able to see her mother in person to tell her the words she wants to say instead of having to write a summary of them in a note.

She drives fifteen minutes out of the town of Hope Springs to where the house still stands. The place Amy grew up in and couldn’t wait to leave.

It’s been too long.

The message is clear, despite any attempts to mend the relationship. But God works in mysterious ways, as they say, and Amy
knows there can still be plenty of mysteries to solve. All she can do is reach out like she’s doing.

She pulls the car up to the curb with the evening light fading, then picks up the bag with the silly bobblehead and climbs out of the car. Even in the dim glow of sunset, Amy can see the wrinkles on the house. The paint is duller and the cracks in the porch more pronounced. Wooden steps groan underneath her feet. Soon she’s knocking on the door, knowing the doorbell probably still doesn’t work.

More knocks. More. Then she tries the doorbell.

She’s home. I know she’s home.

The car in the driveway and the open blinds prove that her mother is home. But she would have looked to see who’s at the door. And if Mom saw her, Amy knows she probably would do exactly what she’s doing.

Nothing.

Amy tries one more time, this time speaking out.

“Mom, I know you’re there. I want to talk. I need to talk.”

She waits. Her heart beats once. Then again.

Amy places the gift bag right in front of the door, then starts to walk back to the car. If this were a movie, the door would open and her mother would be standing there, tears streaming from her eyes, a look of regret and longing all over her face. They would rush to each other and embrace, and then the happily ever after would commence with the credits and the wonderful closing song.

The only door that opens is the one to her car. Amy climbs in and starts up the engine. She glances back to the porch and the front door. The gift bag still sits there in front of the unopened entrance. She drives off.

A voice begins to whisper to her, second-guessing the bobblehead thing. Amy refuses to go back, however.

I was sixteen and stubborn.

Today she saw a sixteen-year-old standing up for something she believed in. All Amy did when she was sixteen was blow up the very loose and broken bridge that connected her to her mother. Over something so stupid.

The small things are probably the very things that the devil chooses to use to create the big holes in our lives.

Amy thinks about that ridiculous George W. Bush bobblehead that her mother received from work more as a gag gift than anything else. There was that one day arguing again. Every day was an argument, and this was a big one, and Amy started talking about Hurricane Katrina and the obvious reality of there not being a God because what God could ever have allowed such a thing. Since her mother didn’t have a bobblehead of God on the shelf, Amy could only find the Bush one to throw at her mother’s head.

It missed and burst apart against the wall.

That was the true beginning of the end. The time when Amy said “enough” and wanted to get away from her mother and her beliefs and her hopes and her dreams when all of them resembled New Orleans in the midst of that devastating disaster.

Amy drives home and turns on the radio and wonders what sort of song will play on the Christian station. It’s a slow song she hasn’t heard before, so she listens and turns it up and hears them singing about the Prince of Peace.

“You heard my prayer,” the singer says.

Amy knows she hasn’t offered many of those. She has only prayed when things were at their bleakest. She still doesn’t
know
 
—make that
believe
 
—that God is hearing them. That God hears those prayers.

The singer says otherwise.

Amy thinks about the note she wrote, and then she asks God to allow her mother to read it. To be open to it. To accept it. And to somehow, in some way, mend this relationship. “Please let her know I mean it,” Amy prays.

It’s been too long and it’s been too silent and it’s been too much.

But maybe her mother will understand when she reads it.

Dear Mother,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for thinking I knew more when I knew far less.

Forgive me for cutting the cord and never even bothering to say good-bye.

I’ve written thousands upon thousands of words, but I’ll never be able to write enough to replace the time and the memories I’ve kept from you. I know that, and I hope God can allow us to have a little more time and create a few more memories in this life.

Today I saw a sixteen-year-old girl stand up for what she believed. It made me think of another sixteen-year-old standing up to her mother. The difference, however, was that one did it out of love and the other did it out of hate.

I never knew of the freedom you could have in believing that Jesus died for you. That he’s real and that he came to atone for our sins. In my mind, God was missing, just like my father. And in my mind, anything that stood for the faith you had needed to stay away from me.

Hurricane Katrina wasn’t just a terrible natural disaster wreaking havoc on those poor folks in New Orleans. It was a symbol of the flooding of my faith. I couldn’t find a bobblehead of George W. Bush to give you, so Batman has to do.

Youth is wasted on the young, so they say. Sometimes I think faith is wasted on the young too. It sure was for me. And I regret that.

But I do know this:

God’s not dead, and he’s also not done with you and me yet.

Your daughter wants to learn what it’s like to start loving you, Mom.

Sincerely,

Amy

THE LARGE CUPCAKE
takes up most of the small plate it’s on. There’s one lit candle on top of it. Grace sets the dish on the table in front of her grandfather.

“Happy birthday, Gramps,” she says. “Sorry it’s not much of a celebration.”

“And sorry I barged in for the cupcakes,” I tell him.

The wrinkles curl up as he grins. “Anytime you let me near icing, it’s a celebration.”

Walter blows out the candle and then Grace gives him a spoon while she takes another. My cupcake
 
—resembling the ugly puppy nobody wants to take out of the cage
 
—hovers on the plate I’m standing in front of.

“Where’s yours?” I ask her.

“These have like a thousand calories in them. And since I’m
not Miss Gym Fanatic or anything, I decide to be careful with what I eat. Unless, of course, it’s Chinese.”

Even though it looks sad, my cupcake is absolutely delicious. I work on it while Grace and her grandfather talk about the day we just had and her feelings about tomorrow.

“You know what I was just doing in my room before dinner?” she says to Walter. “I was praying. It’s funny
 
—I feel like Jesus isn’t letting me feel his presence lately. Usually it’s like I can almost reach out and
touch
him, but right now? It’s like he’s a million miles away. And I can’t make out a word of what he’s saying. If he’s even saying anything at all.”

Wisdom often demonstrates itself through careful pauses or silence, and this is one of those times. Walter finishes his bite while considering the words of his granddaughter.

“Grace, you of all people should realize something when you’re going through really hard times. Remember: the teacher is
always quiet
during the test.”

It takes a millisecond to come up with a witty response. It takes a lifetime to come up with a wise one.

We talk for a few more moments before hearing something outside. I assume it’s just chatter from the television. Grace seems to know it’s something else, so she goes to the front entrance and stares through a side window.

“Oh my . . .”

She moves over to the family room and pulls back the curtains while Walter and I follow her.

“What’s going on out there?” Walter asks as he leans toward the window and looks out into the dark evening.

Grace seems too surprised to say anything. I stare out and see a group of seven or eight students standing there, each one holding
a lit candle. Then a few of them lift up hand-lettered placards. I read them in order.

We’re Not Allowed

To Speak to You

But Nobody Said

We Couldn’t Sing

I notice that Brooke is one of the teenagers holding a card. Her friends are with her.

A high voice begins to sing. The others join in. Even I know the song: “How Great Thou Art.”

Grace doesn’t move, her gaze fixed, her hand wiping the tears from her eyes. It’s a bit surreal, this tiny choir glowing in the darkness and giving Grace and her grandfather a little encouragement. These teenagers singing their souls out to their Savior and God and telling him how great he is.

I find myself wondering what I’m doing here. Really and truly. The feeling of seeing these students standing up for something they believe in is surreal.

Walter goes over and puts his arm around Grace.

“See that?” he says. “Looks like the teacher decided to no longer be quiet.”

She nods and chuckles and leans into his chest.

“That’s your reward this side of heaven,” Walter tells her. “The rest may have to wait.”

“It’s enough,” Grace says.

After the mini concert is over and the cupcakes are finished and I’ve had two cups of coffee, we bid Walter good night and
happy birthday before he goes to bed. That’s my cue to take off as well.

I remember what Grace said about saving my words for tomorrow, about not acting out an epilogue here. I get that. What I still don’t fully get is why I’m here and why she doesn’t seem to mind and how natural this feels and how we have barely spoken about the trial.

Grace gives me my bag full of subs. Nothing caps off a night like being handed a bunch of hoagies. We talk for a few minutes about Brooke and the rest of the students and how much their gesture meant to Grace. I slowly make my way to the door.

“You have a funny look on your face,” Grace says.

“I do?”

Grace nods. “Yeah. It’s
 
—I haven’t seen that one before. And you have quite a few to choose from.”

“Is it a good look?”

“I think so. But . . . I’m not sure.”

“You should
never
be too sure with lawyers.”

She laughs. The entryway feels very quiet with the two of us just standing here.

“Tom, look, I’m not
 
—”

“Hold on,” I say as I raise a hand to halt where she’s going. “Look, I’m only
 
—just hear me out for a sec, okay? Let me talk as just Tom and not the esteemed Thomas Endler, attorney-at-law.”

“Oh, is that guy supposed to be ‘esteemed’?”

“No. I sure hope not. Look
 
—it’s just . . . I had this girlfriend, years ago. The one I told you about. Seems like about fifty years ago but it wasn’t that long. I remember
 
—she loved having a good time. She was like one of those crazy parties you attend in college that you’ll be talking about years later. Except she relived it way too many times. She was . . . to be honest, she was quite a mess.
But I loved her. I did. She broke my heart. But all that said
 
—and I’m not trying for sympathy here, so don’t look like that
 
—I remember a promise I told her. Early on, before things got bad. I promised her something.”

“What’s that?” Grace glances up at me and I can see this outline of her pretty, innocent face.

“You ever hear of a group called Bloc Party?” I ask.

I see no trace of knowledge in her expression as she shakes her head.

“They were one of our favorite bands. My ex loved all sorts of alternative groups, and we went to lots of concerts. One of their songs has this lyric that says, ‘I made a vow to carry you home.’ I told her this. That was our song, which, actually, is quite sad. But she was the party and I was the designated driver. At least for a while. And I carried her home many nights.”

The face that looks up at me seems sad and empathetic. “You didn’t make that vow with me, you know,” she says.

“I know. It’s just
 
—I don’t know. I felt like I let her down.”

“But you didn’t break up with her,” Grace says.

“No.”

“It was her choosing.”

“Yeah.” I glance over to the staircase, half-expecting Walter to be watching. “But I know there was more I could have done.”

“Was this girl like some kind of case you were trying?”

I shake my head. “Of course not.”

“Didn’t you tell me you didn’t like to lose?”

“Yeah, sure, but this wasn’t about winning or losing,” I say.

“It wasn’t?”

Whoa. Does she already know me that well? Am I that easy to read?

A little while ago, Grace took out her ponytail. The way her hair
spills over onto her shoulder makes me feel like I’m in some kind of dumb-male stupor. Her smile seems to spin around me like a lasso.

“I mention that song because I’ve thought about that with this trial. It’s like
 
—it’s weird, but I feel like I’m trying to do the same thing, you know? To carry you home. And I’m just afraid
 
—”

“You’re a good guy, Tom,” she interrupts.

Suddenly I realize this woman is beautiful because she cares. She’s not being something for some kind of cause. She’s real. She’s genuine. She’s the one showing goodness. And goodness knows there’s no way I could ever even remotely show a fraction of that.

“You’re the good one. I shouldn’t be having to defend you, Grace.”

“We’re all in courtrooms. Our whole lives are one big trial.”

“That’s encouraging,” I say with a little laugh. “Can’t our lives be more like making those crazy salty caramel coconut-pecan cupcakes?”

She smiles at me as if she’s allowing my junior high sarcasm in her high school classroom.

“I find it encouraging to realize we’re on trial every single day. That’s what this thing is all about. The thing I
can’t
fully share in my classroom. Yes, we’re in that courtroom, but we’re not the defendant. He was already judged guilty and sentenced for us. We just have to accept the sentence and know that because of him we can be free.”

I laugh.

“What?”

“Normally I’d say some kind of wisecrack because deep down I’d be cynical about everything you said.”

“But you’re not?” Grace asks.

“No. ’Cause you believe this with such sincerity. And it’s
 
—well, frankly I’m inspired.”

“I am too, Tom. That’s why I can’t
not
tell the truth.”