head home yet; I need some warmth.
Crossing the warped threshold has me wondering why the man drove me back here. The waning glow of a streetlamp sneaks in through the tall, narrow windows. Blades of intersecting light criss-cross the darkened sanctuary. The pulpit sits vacant, a vanishing point in the far reaches of the shadows.
Collapsing into a pew midway, I close my eyes and drift for a moment. Remember who you are .
Who am I? That’s the question that begs most earnestly for an answer. It’s the focal point of the resonating doubt in my heart. Who I am makes the difference; it’s everything. I can’t function until I’m sure of who I am.
If I believe I’m a frail, useless man, left to his own devices in a faithless world, then I will wither away as I hew my life out of the crumbling dirt of the earth. It’s bitter and coarse, but it’s easy.
The alternative—that I’m a man of God—remains an intellectual belief but doesn’t resound in the depths of my soul. It used to, but I’m so tired. If anything can sum up this valley of despair, it’s that I’m exhausted.
Leaning forward, I rest my chapped brow on the pew in front of me. My mind is too scattered…too fragmented for prayer. I don’t want the burden of having to think for a while.
Behind me, the heavy brass knob turns with a rattle and the door opens with a gust of frigid air. I turn with a start to see a boy standing in the frame, the weak light casting a pale glow on his features.
A mop of hair hangs over his forehead. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his oversized work coat, never taking his wary eyes off of me.
“Have you come to finish what you started?” Fatigue strangles my best attempts to move away.
The boy’s brow rises and his mouth hangs open as if he’s struck in genuine surprise. Taking a step back to leave, he seems to reconsider and moves forward. Looking down, he says, “No. I’m done burning.”
Burning? What does he mean? Isn’t he one of the boys from before? Then it clicks with me—the fires of late. Could he be the one they call “Johnny Arson”?’
We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before I ask him to come in and shut the door. I’m not sure why I do this; I have little reference of who he is or what he wants. I only know that he looks tired. Maybe he recognizes this in me; maybe we have an understanding.
The boy shoves the door closed but remains near it, hands still crammed into his pockets.
“You’re welcome to sit down, son.” I nod toward a pew on the other side of the aisle.
The boy hesitates and then moves to sit one row back.
“Do you need somebody to talk to?” I’m not sure what else to say, but sense he needs an outlet.
The boy continues to look down at his feet as he scuffs the toe of his boot back and forth across a worn floorboard. “How did you know I was the one?”
“The one who started the fires?” My face aches with each syllable.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“I didn’t know. I thought you were someone else when you stepped in.” I pause to readjust the bent frames of my glasses. “Are the fires the reason you’re here?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think anyone would look for me here, I guess.”
Of all the haunts or hideouts he might have chosen, he wandered into my church. The subtle providence in all of this isn’t lost on me. He’s not here to give his life to the Lord, but this could still be a turning point for him. Who knows what ripple effect a chance encounter might have? Remember who you are .
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he mumbles, not looking up.
“Do you have a home situation?”
The boy rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t connect with mine. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Not a good one? Do you live with your parents?” I try to coax dialogue from him, but realize it’s a fine line and it’s easy to push too hard.
“Just my mom. Dad’s not around. Never has been.” He cuts himself off, as if he has
Crossing the warped threshold has me wondering why the man drove me back here. The waning glow of a streetlamp sneaks in through the tall, narrow windows. Blades of intersecting light criss-cross the darkened sanctuary. The pulpit sits vacant, a vanishing point in the far reaches of the shadows.
Collapsing into a pew midway, I close my eyes and drift for a moment. Remember who you are .
Who am I? That’s the question that begs most earnestly for an answer. It’s the focal point of the resonating doubt in my heart. Who I am makes the difference; it’s everything. I can’t function until I’m sure of who I am.
If I believe I’m a frail, useless man, left to his own devices in a faithless world, then I will wither away as I hew my life out of the crumbling dirt of the earth. It’s bitter and coarse, but it’s easy.
The alternative—that I’m a man of God—remains an intellectual belief but doesn’t resound in the depths of my soul. It used to, but I’m so tired. If anything can sum up this valley of despair, it’s that I’m exhausted.
Leaning forward, I rest my chapped brow on the pew in front of me. My mind is too scattered…too fragmented for prayer. I don’t want the burden of having to think for a while.
Behind me, the heavy brass knob turns with a rattle and the door opens with a gust of frigid air. I turn with a start to see a boy standing in the frame, the weak light casting a pale glow on his features.
A mop of hair hangs over his forehead. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his oversized work coat, never taking his wary eyes off of me.
“Have you come to finish what you started?” Fatigue strangles my best attempts to move away.
The boy’s brow rises and his mouth hangs open as if he’s struck in genuine surprise. Taking a step back to leave, he seems to reconsider and moves forward. Looking down, he says, “No. I’m done burning.”
Burning? What does he mean? Isn’t he one of the boys from before? Then it clicks with me—the fires of late. Could he be the one they call “Johnny Arson”?’
We stare at each other for several awkward seconds before I ask him to come in and shut the door. I’m not sure why I do this; I have little reference of who he is or what he wants. I only know that he looks tired. Maybe he recognizes this in me; maybe we have an understanding.
The boy shoves the door closed but remains near it, hands still crammed into his pockets.
“You’re welcome to sit down, son.” I nod toward a pew on the other side of the aisle.
The boy hesitates and then moves to sit one row back.
“Do you need somebody to talk to?” I’m not sure what else to say, but sense he needs an outlet.
The boy continues to look down at his feet as he scuffs the toe of his boot back and forth across a worn floorboard. “How did you know I was the one?”
“The one who started the fires?” My face aches with each syllable.
“Yeah.” He nods.
“I didn’t know. I thought you were someone else when you stepped in.” I pause to readjust the bent frames of my glasses. “Are the fires the reason you’re here?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think anyone would look for me here, I guess.”
Of all the haunts or hideouts he might have chosen, he wandered into my church. The subtle providence in all of this isn’t lost on me. He’s not here to give his life to the Lord, but this could still be a turning point for him. Who knows what ripple effect a chance encounter might have? Remember who you are .
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” he mumbles, not looking up.
“Do you have a home situation?”
The boy rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t connect with mine. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Not a good one? Do you live with your parents?” I try to coax dialogue from him, but realize it’s a fine line and it’s easy to push too hard.
“Just my mom. Dad’s not around. Never has been.” He cuts himself off, as if he has
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