measured, healthy amounts. If anything, he found it more intense. Everyone wanted to be the best. Best student. Best servant. Best Christian. They got caught up in it, pressing and pushing until they forgot whom it was they were trying to please.
Like Ethan.
Dynah was leaning down over the cart, her long blonde French braid swinging gently. She glanced his way and then focused her attention on the books again. Selecting one, she turned and reached up, pushing a book aside and sliding the one she held into its proper place.
She stood there for a long moment, her hand still resting on the shelf. “I haven’t done it yet,” she said in a flat tone. She glanced at him, eyes flashing briefly.
Joe winced.
Turning her back on him, Dynah took hold of the cart and wheeled it down the aisle. Pausing, she looked up and then wheeled it back a few feet, shelving two more books. She had to concentrate. She had to get it right.
Joe followed. “Shelve that issue, would you, please?” he said softly. “I’m concerned about you.”
She shoved another book into place, looked at it, pulled it out, pushed a book to one side, and shoved it in again. He saw her hand tremble slightly as she ran her finger over the letters and numbers, rereading them to make sure she had put the book in the right place.
Leaning against the metal shelf, he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Did you see Ethan this morning?”
“No. We talked on the phone. He said he’d be busy today. He’s got classes and work. And he has to prepare for the Bible study tonight.”
Joe knew she was making excuses for Ethan. She was isolating herself against the hurt. Anger stirred. Frenetic activity seemed to be Ethan’s forte. And safety valve. When he didn’t want to face something, he served, mightily, as for the Lord. But not really. It was easier to teach God’s Word than to live it.
Pushing his hands into his pockets, Joe admonished himself. He had no right to criticize, even in the privacy of his mind. Sorry, Lord. He’s Yours, I know. And he’s doing the best he can. But I wish he’d open his eyes and take a good look at Dynah and see what’s happening to her.
Joe felt caught between two people he loved. He’d spent hours over the past few months listening to Ethan vent his anger and disappointment and disillusionment.
“I’d like to kill him!” Ethan had said again last night, crying at the power of his rage. “I’d like to hunt that animal down and kill him with my bare hands for what he did.”
Joe hadn’t felt it would be productive to say he shared the same feelings. When he’d seen Dynah’s face that dark January night, the wounded, demolished look in her eyes, emotions he had thought long washed away with his rebirth in Christ returned full force. Heat like the fires of hell surged through his blood. His heart pounded. He shook with the power of anger, a killing, bloodthirsty wrath. It was the kind of emotion he used to feel when he was a teenager running with a rough crowd in Los Angeles.
Civilization was a thin veneer.
God knew.
Maybe Christianity was the same way.
He’d wondered about that a lot over the past weeks as he struggled with his own feelings, facing some he hadn’t dared face before.
“I still love her,” Ethan said, tormented. “I mean, I look at her, and she’s so beautiful, but I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” He shook his head. “She looks the same. She’s still Dynah, but every time I touch her, I get this sick feeling, Joe. I know what happened isn’t her fault. I know it in my head. But it doesn’t help. I mean, what if she has AIDS?”
Dynah’s pregnancy added new dimensions to Ethan’s confusion, while focusing his anger. With the rapist gone and little chance of his being apprehended, there was only one person on whom to focus his wrath: the child Dynah carried.
“It’s not a child,” Ethan had erupted in rage last night. “Don’t tell me it is! This thing she carries is an
Like Ethan.
Dynah was leaning down over the cart, her long blonde French braid swinging gently. She glanced his way and then focused her attention on the books again. Selecting one, she turned and reached up, pushing a book aside and sliding the one she held into its proper place.
She stood there for a long moment, her hand still resting on the shelf. “I haven’t done it yet,” she said in a flat tone. She glanced at him, eyes flashing briefly.
Joe winced.
Turning her back on him, Dynah took hold of the cart and wheeled it down the aisle. Pausing, she looked up and then wheeled it back a few feet, shelving two more books. She had to concentrate. She had to get it right.
Joe followed. “Shelve that issue, would you, please?” he said softly. “I’m concerned about you.”
She shoved another book into place, looked at it, pulled it out, pushed a book to one side, and shoved it in again. He saw her hand tremble slightly as she ran her finger over the letters and numbers, rereading them to make sure she had put the book in the right place.
Leaning against the metal shelf, he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Did you see Ethan this morning?”
“No. We talked on the phone. He said he’d be busy today. He’s got classes and work. And he has to prepare for the Bible study tonight.”
Joe knew she was making excuses for Ethan. She was isolating herself against the hurt. Anger stirred. Frenetic activity seemed to be Ethan’s forte. And safety valve. When he didn’t want to face something, he served, mightily, as for the Lord. But not really. It was easier to teach God’s Word than to live it.
Pushing his hands into his pockets, Joe admonished himself. He had no right to criticize, even in the privacy of his mind. Sorry, Lord. He’s Yours, I know. And he’s doing the best he can. But I wish he’d open his eyes and take a good look at Dynah and see what’s happening to her.
Joe felt caught between two people he loved. He’d spent hours over the past few months listening to Ethan vent his anger and disappointment and disillusionment.
“I’d like to kill him!” Ethan had said again last night, crying at the power of his rage. “I’d like to hunt that animal down and kill him with my bare hands for what he did.”
Joe hadn’t felt it would be productive to say he shared the same feelings. When he’d seen Dynah’s face that dark January night, the wounded, demolished look in her eyes, emotions he had thought long washed away with his rebirth in Christ returned full force. Heat like the fires of hell surged through his blood. His heart pounded. He shook with the power of anger, a killing, bloodthirsty wrath. It was the kind of emotion he used to feel when he was a teenager running with a rough crowd in Los Angeles.
Civilization was a thin veneer.
God knew.
Maybe Christianity was the same way.
He’d wondered about that a lot over the past weeks as he struggled with his own feelings, facing some he hadn’t dared face before.
“I still love her,” Ethan said, tormented. “I mean, I look at her, and she’s so beautiful, but I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” He shook his head. “She looks the same. She’s still Dynah, but every time I touch her, I get this sick feeling, Joe. I know what happened isn’t her fault. I know it in my head. But it doesn’t help. I mean, what if she has AIDS?”
Dynah’s pregnancy added new dimensions to Ethan’s confusion, while focusing his anger. With the rapist gone and little chance of his being apprehended, there was only one person on whom to focus his wrath: the child Dynah carried.
“It’s not a child,” Ethan had erupted in rage last night. “Don’t tell me it is! This thing she carries is an
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