bluntly this morning. Go bury your wife, grieve with your family, lean on your friends and loved ones for support. But don’t try to take the law into your own hands.” He paused, relaxed his shoulders, and gave a quick nod. “Good day, sir, and again, my sympathies. Rest assured, your wife’s killer will be found and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And if a jury of his peers finds him guilty, you will obtain justice whether he receives the death penalty or life imprisonment. And that must be enough. That’s how society behaves.”
The lecture ended, and a sullen Jackson stared at the knot in the wooden floor. Chief King moved to the door, then turned back to face Jackson.
“I do understand where you’re coming from, but if you’re using the Bible to justify your plans for revenge, remember that vengeance is the Lord’s work. Not yours.”
The verbal jab stung. Jackson countered with what he thought would be the last word.
“But the Bible says no thing about what tools He might use to exact His vengeance.”
The contemptuous police chief snorted and flung it back in Jackson’s face.
“Don’t be a tool, Mister Stone.”
4
Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool.
The stinging words echoed in Jackson’s mind, and he sat immobile on his brother’s couch ever since the tongue-lashing by Chief King.
No more than five minutes passed since the policeman’s departure. Patrick and Sheila had gone back to their bedroom to continue getting ready for visitation and the funeral. A morning of mourning was already off to a horrible start.
The doorbell rang again.
Jackson grew angry at the thought that the policeman might be returning with another sharp retort. He flung the door open. The scowl etched on his face gave way to one of surprise, then sorrow.
It was Belle Rive Baptist Church Pastor Robert Armstrong, who would soon be conducting the services for Angela.
“Oh, God, Brother Armstrong. I’m so, so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Jackson’s hateful countenance momentarily startled the preacher, but he was used to harsh, sometimes volatile emotions in these situations. Instead of inviting himself into the house, he invited Jackson out. Jackson closed the door, and they headed down the street at an unhurried pace, bathed in the sun’s growing warmth.
“Maybe I deserved that.” Jackson told the preacher about King’s warning as they strolled. “But Angela didn’t.
“She didn’t deserve this ending . I don’t understand why . . . how . . . God could allow this to happen.”
Armstrong nodded, having counseled other grief-stricken members of the congregation. He knew well the difficult lifestyle adjustments Jackson would face for the next few months, perhaps even years. Many mourners would question their faith; some would turn their backs on their religion; others would grasp even tighter to their beliefs to try and hold onto their sanity.
Friends and family often were not enough for the bereaved. Armstrong recommended Jackson attend a Christian-based grief support group, and suggested several close to his home.
“Most people, even Christians, have a hard time with issues surrounding their loss and God. Where was God? Why didn’t he stop this? She’s in heaven? I don't want her in heaven—I want her here. In a grief group, you hear such comments. You talk to people who have suffered similar losses in their lives, find support and comfort, and learn some useful coping mechanisms.”
Armstrong gave Jackson a few gentle pats on the back.
“This isn’t something you have to do right away. Let’s just get you and the family through the day. We’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. And then we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m here for you Jack—your family, your church family, we’re all here for you.”
They walked silently for a couple of minutes, Jackson deep in thought. He’d already taken his
The lecture ended, and a sullen Jackson stared at the knot in the wooden floor. Chief King moved to the door, then turned back to face Jackson.
“I do understand where you’re coming from, but if you’re using the Bible to justify your plans for revenge, remember that vengeance is the Lord’s work. Not yours.”
The verbal jab stung. Jackson countered with what he thought would be the last word.
“But the Bible says no thing about what tools He might use to exact His vengeance.”
The contemptuous police chief snorted and flung it back in Jackson’s face.
“Don’t be a tool, Mister Stone.”
4
Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool. Don’t be a tool.
The stinging words echoed in Jackson’s mind, and he sat immobile on his brother’s couch ever since the tongue-lashing by Chief King.
No more than five minutes passed since the policeman’s departure. Patrick and Sheila had gone back to their bedroom to continue getting ready for visitation and the funeral. A morning of mourning was already off to a horrible start.
The doorbell rang again.
Jackson grew angry at the thought that the policeman might be returning with another sharp retort. He flung the door open. The scowl etched on his face gave way to one of surprise, then sorrow.
It was Belle Rive Baptist Church Pastor Robert Armstrong, who would soon be conducting the services for Angela.
“Oh, God, Brother Armstrong. I’m so, so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Jackson’s hateful countenance momentarily startled the preacher, but he was used to harsh, sometimes volatile emotions in these situations. Instead of inviting himself into the house, he invited Jackson out. Jackson closed the door, and they headed down the street at an unhurried pace, bathed in the sun’s growing warmth.
“Maybe I deserved that.” Jackson told the preacher about King’s warning as they strolled. “But Angela didn’t.
“She didn’t deserve this ending . I don’t understand why . . . how . . . God could allow this to happen.”
Armstrong nodded, having counseled other grief-stricken members of the congregation. He knew well the difficult lifestyle adjustments Jackson would face for the next few months, perhaps even years. Many mourners would question their faith; some would turn their backs on their religion; others would grasp even tighter to their beliefs to try and hold onto their sanity.
Friends and family often were not enough for the bereaved. Armstrong recommended Jackson attend a Christian-based grief support group, and suggested several close to his home.
“Most people, even Christians, have a hard time with issues surrounding their loss and God. Where was God? Why didn’t he stop this? She’s in heaven? I don't want her in heaven—I want her here. In a grief group, you hear such comments. You talk to people who have suffered similar losses in their lives, find support and comfort, and learn some useful coping mechanisms.”
Armstrong gave Jackson a few gentle pats on the back.
“This isn’t something you have to do right away. Let’s just get you and the family through the day. We’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. And then we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m here for you Jack—your family, your church family, we’re all here for you.”
They walked silently for a couple of minutes, Jackson deep in thought. He’d already taken his
Similar Books
