Parts 1, 2, and 3.

No report went home about Paul and Drew. Who would believe, after all, Jerry’s story—a weak boy somehow conjuring something as bright as sunlight out of thin air? No doubt, Paul reasoned, an explanation about a rare disease would be concocted and the matter quietly shelved. In either case, it was the last he saw of Jerry at the school. Evan and Tom were too afraid to go near him.

So was Drew. They tried for a few days after the incident to meet on the playground with their balls, but for some reason, they had much less to talk about anymore. Paul noticed Drew winced every time he said hello. The meager small talk dwindled to silence. Then, a week after the fight, they stopped playing together. Paul would bounce the basketball alone from that point forward, while brushing aside the occasional tears. It was sad, but he understood why.

For a week, Paul swore that he would never again summon what he began to call The Brightness. But the isolation had begun to make him more sullen, more lethargic, which meant that after he had come home from school there would be more snappy exchanges between him and his mother when he didn’t like the dinner she microwaved, and if she asked how school was his only reply was “Why do you care?” Which meant more time in the dark closet, where only his fear, the coats, and, eventually, the brightness were his companions. He curled and wove the strings around his fingers into nets, and they would stretch as he pulled them apart like pasta. He would toss the nets into the air and they would hover in the air, glowing and brightening the closet. His eyes would follow the energy pulsing and racing through the threads. Watching the traffic of light calmed him, as if it were like a kind of meditation. It dried his tears and soon, he began to no longer mind so much if he was sent to the closet.

One day, a month after the fight with Jerry, Paul found himself in the closet again. Having thoroughly explored The Brightness as much as he could, he decided to take a look at the boxes that were stacked in the corners of the closet. He chose the bottommost box in the leftmost stack and, after some effort in pulling off the top boxes, he opened it. It was full of old, dusty books, mostly reference books like dictionaries from the 1950s and other uninteresting volumes—until he got to the last book. It seemed even older than the others, and had a gilded leather cover with no title. The gilt depicted a woven pattern that looked almost exactly like the net he had just woven a few moments before.

He opened the book. Its title page read:

Part 1, 2.

With a silent nod, Paul and Drew began to run headlong into the pack of bullies. This surprised the bullies for a second—they were used to seeing them running away at first sight—which gave the two of them enough time to rush forward and, just as they were about to enter attack range, split off and veer around the pack. The bullies were too slow to snatch them by the arm. Paul and Drew met together swiftly as soon they were behind Jerry and Evan, and together, they shoved their adversaries behind their backs and kicked them in the rear end.

Paul and Drew began to laugh triumphantly. Their laughter only lasted a second, however, because they noticed that the bullies had not, as they expected, fallen down. The plan was to run away after Jerry and Evan were sprawled face down in the mud, but no—they still stood. And before they could run, Paul felt a cold grip on his arm, one he could not pull himself out of, one that was accompanied by the hard, glaring face of Jerry’s scowl. He turned around and saw Evan and captured Drew in a similar way, but with his other harm hooked around Drew’s neck in a vise.

“Payback.” Jerry was breathing heavily and his nostrils flared.

The next few moments were a blur for Paul. Something hard hit the back of his head, and before he knew what was happening, he saw the clouds in the sky and Jerry’s face, his eyes glinting with resolve. There were blows landing on his jaw, painful explosions at point-blank range, which stung at first—he could feel himself curling in agony—but soon they began to get number. He heard Drew screaming and crying for help, but he could see nothing but that face, that smirking face, which too began to blur and swim back and forth in his vision. The light dimmed. He tasted and smelled his own blood filling his nostrils, his mouth.

Run—but he couldn’t. His legs and arms refused to provide enough lift to stand up. The darkness began to flash before his eyes.

And then—

–the bar of light flashed before him. It hung in the air, defiant and glowing white like a hot fluorescent light bulb, hovering in the space between him and Jerry’s face. Jerry did not seem to be able to see it.

There was only one thing to do. With his one free hand—how foolish of Jerry to leave a free hand—he grabbed the bar of white light as if it were a knife, and with a yell, slashed it across Jeremy’s face. He had no idea if it would do anything—how could light do anything to anyone? The impulse was as natural as it was desperate, the last remnant of his fight/flight instinct that told him, at this moment, he could not back down. No. Not after all they had tried. Not when—

The light burst in a blinding flash in front of Jerry’s face. It exploded like a supernova, a bloom of brightness that, for a moment, left Paul staring in awe. I did this. Then the shrieking began. It had an unfamiliar ring, a high-pitched pig-like squeal, and a few seconds later Paul saw that came from Jerry’s mouth. Jerry, who was clutching his fingers over his eyes. I did this. Blood seeped between his fingers, trickling down his knuckles, thickening until it painted all his fingers red.

Paul found the strength to stand, but began to feel sick in the stomach. He saw Mark standing there, agape, with Drew still lying on the ground.

“My eyes!” Jerry’s words were barely intelligible between his screams. With his hands over his bleeding eyes, he began to run blindly around the field. Evan ran to Jerry’s side and, with an arm around his shoulder, calmed him down enough to lead him away to the nurse’s office.

Paul stood in silence. He looked down at his clean hands. I did this. Pain began to pound on his head; he was still dizzy, and the pain in his belly persisted. I did this. He thought the light only came in the dark. He did not know it could be a weapon. I did this. How horrible a weapon, too. How effective.

Finally, Drew stood up. He looked at Paul from a distance. “What happened?”

Paul could only gaze at his friend in silence.

“What did you do to him? Paul!”

Paul saw Drew’s eyes—those soft, vulnerable, eyes—wide with terror. Another sharp pang stabbed his stomach. I did—he had blinded, maybe even killed someone. It made him feel sick. But he had won. Knowing that made him feel a bit better. Stronger. No longer so helpless.

Paul turned his face away from Drew. “I don’t know,” Paul said, slowly, flatly.

The bell rang. Recess was over, and without a word, Paul and Drew left the playground, separately.

Hi, it’s been a long time, I know. Just wanted everyone to know (all 3 of you) that “The Brightness” is actually finished now, with a handwritten draft. I’ll be putting up installments over the next few days as I type it in.

This story contains some violence, I should warn.

That’s all. Glad to be back!

See part 1 here.

And as he began to play with the thread, to spin it around his fingers, a feeling arose inside him–a feeling that just stopped short of words but whose meaning was clear to Paul. It was a swelling in the chest that felt like pride and relief and satisfaction all at once, a sense that what was happening before him was something unique, belonging to no one else, that he held greatness in his hand, and it felt awful and wonderful at the same time.

It’s…mine. The light is mine.

Because he was so engrossed in the light, he did not hear his mother’s footsteps approaching the closet door, and he cried out in shock when she opened the door and the light from outside flooded in. It stung his eyes and it took a moment for them to readjust, and when his vision cleared, his hands were empty and his mother was bending down, tears running down her cheeks and her eyes red and her arms outstretched. She hugged Paul–though it felt more like she was clinging to him. 
I’m sorry, mommy’s sorry, she had a bad day at work, do you know how hard it is?, please, please, I’m so sorry, I love you so much. I’ll never do it again, I promise. I love you, she said. It was not the first time that Paul had heard this, and he had no idea whether ten minutes had really passed or she had decided to let him go early, and he knew before long she would in fact do it again. But as he rested in his mother’s embrace, the thought of the light in that darkness began to feel less real than this warmth, this heat which reminded him that even though she was mean and unfair and kept locking him in that rotten closet, she was still mommy, and that somehow, the darkness she exiled him to had given him a gift. A gift that he longed to have and hold for the next time.

It’s ok, he told her, not for the first time. But he always meant it. It’s ok, cause I love you too.

***

Paul discovered that the thread of light only came in the darkness. He had tried the moment he found time alone to summon it again: by squeezing his eyes shut and thinking very, very hard, by snapping his fingers, even by blowing air into his cupped hands. Nothing would work, until he entered the closet again and shut the door. There, he discovered, he could summon more than one thread of light; he could summon two or three, and while they were as loose as yarn in his fingers, he found that they would snap themselves into a grid if he arranged them perpendicular to one another, like a tic-tac-toe board floating in the air. Near-blinding pulses of light flowed through them. When he gained the ability to summon four threads, the light was as bright as that of the bulb overhead; no corner of the closet remained unlit. He would then wind the threads around his fingers like a loom, making crisscrossed shapes between them.

And the feeling grew: This is what I can do. I’m special. The next time the teachers called him dull and the gym coach called him slow, he would just think–but I can do this.

One day, during recess, he and his friend Drew were playing with a basketball. Paul would roll it around on the ground and sometimes try his best to sit on it, holding steady for only ten seconds before slipping off its round surface. He would then roll it to Drew, who, being taller and a little stronger, dribbled it clumsily on the concrete court outside.

“My sister,” Drew said as they played, “is such a brat. She threw applesauce in my face at dinner last night! And I was yelling and she started crying and now my dad grounded me for being mean…it’s not fair!”

Paul, an only child and fatherless since the age of 2, nodded. “That sucks,” he said. Drew’s sister was only 2 years old; he had seen her at Drew’s house.

“I mean, he took away my DS too so I couldn’t even do anything in my room! Man, when I grow up…” Drew took the basketball into his hands and started looking up, as if he were staring at a much taller person standing over him–or maybe it was at the sky. “I’ll make all of them pay. Really. They can’t get away with this. I swear….”

“So whattya gonna do?”

“I’ll…” Drew paused. He dribbled the ball for a moment. His shoulders grew slack and then slumped. “I–I dunno,” he said.

“You hate them, don’t you?”

Drew shook his head. “No, I don’t. Not really.” He sat on the ball. “But she’s still a brat.”

Paul tried his best to smile. “Yeah.” He held out his hands. “Can I have the ball now?”

They chatted and tossed the ball around, when Jerome, a blond and curly-haired boy with a perpetual smirk on his face, spotted them. Paul’s heart sank. He was bringing two others with him, Evan and Tom, and both he and Drew stood up. They were fifth graders, not measly third graders like themselves, and no matter how hard Paul tried to swing at them Jerome would always grab his arm and twist it behind his back, and while he was pinned Evan and Tom would take turns pummelling his exposed body. Drew usually fared no better.

Paul and Drew stood closer together. They had talked about what they would do the next time Jerome and his posse came. As the taunting began, they nodded at each other and smiled. This time, they would win. This time, they wouldn’t have to go home with black eyes.

A New Short Story

Installments to come every other day until completion.

The closet that Paul’s mother locked him in smelled like dust and rotten mint. He smelled it after he was done screaming, crying, begging his mother to open the door; after that, his nose sharpened in the way the non-visual senses did for a blind man. It took about two minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and when they did, he figured the odor probably came from old mothballs that had long lost their potency. Sometimes when he was inside, he imagined that the tingling he felt on his fingertips, on his arms, were the feathery wings of moths brushing against his skin.

But Paul couldn’t tell, because it was too dark. All that was left for him to do was to heave some sobs–his throat had long given way to hoarseness–and wait for the door, the light, to open his eyes again. He swore from early on that he would NOT think about whatever Bad Thing it was that supposedly landed him there–coming home late from school, a bad report card on penmanship, the teaching calling again to say that he wasn’t doing the exercises in PE but playing with a ball by himself. It was the last one again this time. She had told him to think about what he had done. And again, he would refuse.

The dark still scared him, but he was used to it. He waited for a while.

Paul stood up. He felt the sleeves of shirts and coats stroke his arms. He could tell by the touch of the fabric that on his left were his mother’s old, probably moth-eaten silk blouses, and on his right were the fake fur coats that she wore during the winter, made of a harsh, spindly synthetic fur that stung his skin. One day he had wandered into the closet, when his mother hadn’t come home yet from work and he was by himself, and looked at his constant companions in the light. Now, he tried to imagine seeing them in the dark. There were the two buttons on the shirt–right, there, he had them between his fingers. There was the pocket of the fake fur coat–he dug his right hand into it, finding nothing. He knew most of the other clothes beside them too, even though none of them belonged to him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them. It made no difference. He reached impulsively for the knob of the closet door. He missed and banged his fingers on the door, sending a loud knock in the closet.

“Ten more minutes!” his mother shouted. She sounded like she was in the next room. Somewhere far away.

Paul felt the tears welling up in his eyes again. The air felt oppressive and suffocating in this darkness. He tried to reach for a light cord hanging down from the ceiling, even though he knew he couldn’t reach it with his 8-year-old height, yearning to be able to somehow find one box that he could stand on even though he knew there wasn’t one, longing for somehow, magically, a light–

A faint flicker danced in front of his eyes for less than a second. It looked like an elongated white spark, a tiny white thread that flashed just above his outstretched fingers. He knew it was light and not his eyes, because in that dazzling moment, he saw the buttons on the blouse he had touched a moment ago. He stretched out his fingers again. This time, a longer strand of white light appeared, hovering in the cup of his hand. It stayed there for about two seconds before it flickered out, enough time for him to turn around and see the fake fur coat.

He knew instinctively that something was happening–I can make light!–and he dropped his right arm to his side and then, with a spasm of his elbow, jerked his outstretched hand upward. A thread as bright as a halogen bulb materialized into view. It burned steadily and hovered in the air, even after he dropped his arm. The light’s bloom illuminated the entire closet. He saw the rows of clothes on their racks and the ceiling and the dirty brown carpet under his feet.

Gingerly, Paul reached out his hand and touched the thread. It gave way to his poke and bent its contour around his finger, like rubber. It was not hot, like he had feared. Breathing heavily, Paul pinched the thread between his thumb and his forefinger. It felt solid, but nearly weightless, like the touch of the silk of his mother’s blouse and as thin as a guitar string.

He tugged at it. It moved in the direction he commanded. He grabbed the whole thread and brought it forward to examine it. Now his chest, his hands, were plainly visible. His skin seemed to glow in the thread’s brightness.

To be continued…

A view from a hill figures prominently in the story. This is from St Andrews, Scotland, where I visited last summer.

Well, this is it: this is the promised screenplay. It’s a story about seeing ghosts at church retreats and it’s available on the Celtx Project Central Website at this link:

http://pc.celtx.com/project/0z4JRSbPERiR/view/http://celtx.com/res/hg2grbn6a17h

(Celtx is the free screenwriting program I used to write the script. It’s very easy to use and I got started immediately.)

The idea, and the first draft of the script, actually dates back almost two years, from before I moved to California. I in fact had intended to direct and shoot this script in the last church retreat I attended before I left for LA. Weather, laziness, and a lack of time prevented me from doing it and the draft of this script (twice as long!) lay handwritten inside a notebook until last month, when I signed up for a screenwriting clinic at school and had to turn in something. I chopped out half of the original script and this is the result.

What you may not have known is that I also decided, while I was on the plane back to LA, to write a prose version of this story. Prose is my native medium and it felt comfortable coming back to it. I’m curious actually to see which version people think is better–the screenplay is a month older (a first for me, as it’s my first real screenplay) and the prose version contains a few notable changes. So which one works better artistically and in terms of storytelling? You be the judge.

The screenplay, incidentally, is 10 pages, and the prose version 8 (2300 words)–the shortest work I’ve done in a long time, maybe ever. So you don’t have to suffer for long if you choose to subject yourself to it.

Anyways, enjoy. I actually have two more complete pieces of fiction that I wrote last year available too which I may or may not put up. I’m also working on a “This American Life” style radio production of this story and an earlier one, “Grace Abounding.” Stay tuned.
(more…)

Yes, yes, yes. New fiction. New science fiction, to boot! It’s been a long, long time . . . enjoy the first chapter of this homage and pastische of space operas.

Yes, the title is a parody of C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

I haven’t had this much fun writing in years.

---

The Knight, the Princess, and the Starship
Chapter One

�As you can see, Mr. Luther,� Imperial Legate Arturos said, �or should I say Captain Luther�the Empire still has use, and equipment, for you.� He leaned back in his seat and smiled crookedly, like a politician. The Legate, a balding middle-aged man with a bulky build, appeared relaxed in his small seat, but Lancelot Luther could see the ambassador’s darting gray eyes watching for every twitch of his face and his body. Diplomats were little different, and sometimes the same, as spies, so this hardly surprised Lance.

But he knew what to do. He hummed, rubbed his clean-shaven chin to make the Legate believe he was thinking, and leaned back in his chair and replied:

�Legate Arturos, sir,� Lance said, �I’m no longer a Captain in your navy. But though you serve an Empire that I no longer serve, I’m still intrigued. Saving princesses is indeed my line of work, no matter what their nationality be.� He sat up straight and spoke the final statement earnestly. �So please, no ‘Captain.’�
(more…)

Something new on the fiction front, at least.  This is chapter 1 of a 3 part story.  Here we go . . .

For those interested in the background and motivation behind this story–it’s an unusual work for me–I’ve written a brief introduction over at the Megatokyo Creative Writing Forum. Feel free to leave comments either here or there!

---

Episode 1: The Imitation of Life

The network went down before Ian’s download finished, leaving him with an incomplete file of episode 2 of Final Revelation Fighter 08. �Aw man!� He slumped in his seat, a worn padded chair provided by the dorm, which tended to rock uneasily whenever he leaned to one side or another. He had spent two hours waiting for he server’s maximum user capacity to drop so that he could enter and download the file, but just like that, the clog in the bandwidth’s artery had brought his hopes to an end. And episode one had been so good�just as John had said.

ERROR: the server 128.29.31.22 has reset.
OK?

There were no other choices. The question mark sounded so condescending, too. Ian grumbled, resigned himself, and clicked �OK.�
(more…)

We stumbled out of the car, Alan, Rachel, and I, tired from the four-hour drive to Camp Allsworth and from listening to the Mahavishnu Orchestra tape all the way there. The music was Rachel’s. She was, as far as I could tell, the only person in the entire church youth group who had even heard of the Mahavishnu Orchestra, so listening to thirty year old jazz fusion probably made her feel more sophisticated than everyone else. (That would explain the self-satisfied smile I saw on her face every time she put her head back with her eyes shut, tapping her finger to the irregular beat.) I didn’t see anything special about all the spaced-out dissonance and odd-rhythm meters, all this trippy music winding through the cramped car cabin like pipe smoke. So I had laid my head against the window, staring at the way the fields ran over hills that cascaded into mountains the father north we drove. We were coming from the Washington suburbs and the camp grounds were in central Pennsylvania, tucked away in some Appalachian valley where good Christian teenagers couldn’t find things like cable television or pornography, at least for the weekend. We couldn’t bring Walkmans either, so even Rachel’s beloved music would have to be left behind with my parents.

We had
been told to arrive at the camp around 5:00 PM. It was 5:30 when we
arrived. Being spring, the sun still shone, though it had sunken far
enough to the west when we finally reached the concrete plateau where
all the cars were parked and the other teenagers were milling about,
playing basketball at the hoops at one end or filing into the
registration cabin. The three of us stretched and yawned when we got
out of the car, and Dad helped us take our luggage out of the trunk
before he left, waving at us while the car turned around and headed
down the one-lane pass to the bottom of the hill.

“What’d
you bring this time, Alan?” I pointed at the bulging sportsbag
that he toted in his right hand, along with an oversized backpack
stuffed with whatever he had brought.

“Oh,
nothing. A volleyball, a tennis racket.” He shrugged. “Same
as every year.”

“Look
how little you bring, Peter,” Rachel said. “You look
like you’re just going to class for a day.”

“It’s
tradition. I just bring what I need, no more.” To make the
point, I shouldered my lone piece of luggage, my backpack packed with
two days’ worth of clothing, a Bible, a toothbrush, a small pillow,
and my notebook and pen. “You don’t bring that much, either .
. .”

“Eh.”
Rachel stretched and yawned again. “Yup. We’re here. Always
fun to hang out with the hoi polloi, I guess.”

“The
what?”

“It
means ‘common people,’” Alan explained. “Stop being so
pretentious.”

“It’s
my nature, Alan. I can’t help being who I am.”

“Then
stop being yourself.”

“’Can
a leopard change its spots?” Then Rachel screwed her
bespectacled eyes up in that smart-aleck, Sunday-School nerd way and
declared matter-of-factly, “Jeremiah 13:23.” I’m sure
even in church, most people would have had the impulse to hit her by
now. We had heard it all before by now, though. It was rather
endearing, actually. We three nerds all took turns being like that
after all, though I couldn’t remember the last time I was obnoxious.
Sometimes I wished I had Rachel’s brazen inability to be embarrassed.

“Your
name please?” The brunette girl sitting behind the
registration table blinked at me when I stepped forward, a pen in one
hand and another reaching for a box filled with retreat packets. I
knew that girl was Sarah Pendleton, junior, varsity track team member
at my high school. Apparently, she didn’t know or recognize me,
which was just as well.

“Peter
Tan,” I said.

“Hi,
Peter.” I was at that age when a young guy always tries hard
to listen for a note of sincerity or even friendliness when a pretty
girl says hello to him. There was no such conviction in Sarah’s
voice. “Let’s see . . . here you go.” After rifling
through the packets, she handed me the brown manila envelope that
contained my name tag, the retreat program, and a map of the camp. A
label on the envelope indicated which cabin I was to stay in for the
next two nights, as well as the “troop” I was assigned to
(that year’s theme was “Band of Brothers and Sisters: Fighting
Spiritual Warfare Together”). I was in the Bear Troop. If I
remember correctly, the other ones included the Lions, the Roaring
Lambs, and the Eagles.

When
Alan got his packet, he leaned over to see mine and smirked. “Huh.
I’m a Lion. Hear me roar.”

“Hear
me growl.” I bared my teeth and growled, more like a dog than
a bear. We grinned menacingly at each other for a moment until
Rachel came up with her own packet and watched us with an amused
glare.

“Reverting
to your primal instincts, I see.”

“What
time does the first message begin again?” I asked.

“6:30.
There’s dinner before that, at 6:00.”

“OK,
thanks.” We all looked at each other. “What do you want
to do until then?”

“I
dunno,” Alan said. “They haven’t set up the volleyball
net yet.”

“I
heard it’ll be ready by free time tomorrow,” Rachel said.

“Maybe
we should go get in line for dinner now, so we won’t have to wait,”
I suggested.

“Good
idea.” We’d been here for the past six years, and we knew if
you were foolish enough to get in line “on time”–at
6:00– you’d have to hold your tray for twenty minutes behind
everyone else before it was your turn for the cafeteria workers to
hand you your plate of beef-a-roni. (“Boyardee-riffic!”
as Alan always puts it.) We even saw the line beginning to form
outside the cafeteria building the moment we stepped out of
registration and looked out across the lot.

“Well,
Peter, isn’t it a great feeling to be right?” Rachel smiled and
waved in the direction of the cafeteria. “Let’s put our stuff
in the cabins and go.”

“That
must be how she feels every day,” Alan whispered to me. I
nodded, smiled, and said nothing as we dispersed to put down our
luggage in the various cabins. Alan and I headed in the same
direction, and Rachel headed in the other—the church
administrators were not going to make the same mistake they did last
year when the boy’s and girls’ cabins were too close and they found
Marianne and Tom cuddling together—praise the Lord, it was
whispered, that it was no more than that. We probably wouldn’t have
any more retreats if it had been.

Alan and
I were turning around and headed down the path when we spotted a
young man clutching his packet in one hand and a suitcase—yes,
a suitcase, complete with metal locks—nervously glancing around
and looking lost. His face, a pockmarked monstrosity that even my
own ugly mug couldn’t match, teemed with red welts and splotches.
His eyes were beady, almost sunken into its sockets, and he had a
flat nose that reminded one of a pig. He was looking about at all
the people walking past him when he saw us approaching.

“E-E-Excuse
me.” The boy had a reedy voice. “Do you guys now where
cabin 1-B is?”

1- C was
my cabin, Alan’s was 1-A, and 1-B was right between the two. I
pointed at the middle building in the cluster of cabins up ahead.
“1-B’s over there. I’m headed in that direction,” I
said. “Are you headed there too?”

The boy
nodded.. “Thanks,” he said. He didn’t make eye contact
with either of us, and had already started shuffling away when Alan
stepped forward (something I was often loathe to do) and extended his
hand.

“Hey,
I don’t think we’ve met,” Alan said. “I’m Alan Randall.
That’s Peter Tan.”

“Hi,”
the boy said, waving at me, not moving closer. “Jeremy Lyons.
I am kind of new, I started coming to your church a month ago.”

“Welcome.
” Alan chuckled weakly. Jeremy sighed. “Sorry. You
get that a lot don’t you?”

“Um,
it’s all right. Thanks for showing me the way.” He backed
away with his luggage toward the cabin again, as if he were eager to
get away. Neither one of us could think of anything to say to him as
he walked briskly ahead of us and disappeared into 1-B before we had
climbed our own cabins’ front steps. I felt strange, a bizarre
mixture of deja vu and sympathy, at the sight of Jeremy. Here was a
person who was actually nerdier than me.

I
hurriedly laid aside my backpack on the last empty mattress that
didn’t have an unknown, brownish splotch marring its dirty white
cover. There would be enough time enough to lay out the bedsheet and
the tiny pillow stuffed in my backpack. The four hour ride had made
me hungry—it was time to join Alan and Rachel and go eat.

I didn’t
see Jeremy for the rest of the first day—not at dinner, not at
the singing or the first sermon. I’ve largely forgotten what that
was all about. Having been to a lot of these camp retreats, it’s
become hard for me to remember what they were all about—the
most memorable moments usually have something to do with the speaker
waving his arms in an especially dramatic way when he’s imploring us
to care about whether our friends are going to hell, or when the guy
up front with the guitar says something particularly contentless.
They are memorable because they are chuckleworthy.

Besides,
none of us went for the harangues and all the other stuff that
resembled church. I endured the long car trip so that during the
second day’s five-hour free time, I could walk down the hill from the
parking lot and look out over the valley, a green rolling way guarded
by green mountains, criss-crossed by power lines and dotted with
houses seemingly transplanted out of the suburbs. I came so I could
stand on the hillside alone, and stand there together with Rachel and
Alan behind me as they bickered, stand when the temperature still
sent a shiver but was no longer winter-chilly. I could open the
zipper on my jacket, and I could listen to the kids playing
basketball accusing one another of not having passed the ball to Joe
even though he was open, but no, he wasn’t open, he was being blocked
by Matt and that maybe it was time to just throw the ball back in
bounds and play again. It all surrounded me in 360 degrees.
Everywhere you go, you are in the middle and the thick of things:
talking to Tim, who is leaning against the wooden post and whom I
haven’t talked to in a few weeks. Walking into the main assembly
hall, and picking up a guitar to strum the few chords that I know: G,
C, D, E, which are enough to play many of the songs that we sing.
Passing by the duck pond, with the squawking of those ungainly,
dissonant birds. One thing after another.

Jeremy
was sitting alone on a bench next to the pond, staring at the water.

“Hey,”
I called to him. “What’s going on?”

“Oh-”
From the way his head snapped sideways to look at me, he seemed
startled that anyone was talking to him. “Fine.”

I took a
seat next to him. He fidgeted, averting his eyes when I faced him.
“Enjoying the ducks?” Jeremy nodded. “Funny
birds, aren’t they?”

“They’re
nice. Don’t see them often where I live.”

“Where
do you live?”

“Silver
Spring, Maryland.”

“I
live in Rockville. That’s not so far.”

“Right.
That’s nice.” He turned his full attention to the ducks
again. One of them beat its wings on the water’s surface, the
chopping splashes filling the calm air.

“So,”
I said. It took a moment for me to find something else to say. I
had not yet mastered the art of small talk at that age. “Are
you having a good retreat?” I asked eventually. Jeremy said
nothing and continued to stare at the pond. “I said–”

“I
heard you the first time, Peter.” There was a note of
resentment in his voice. I was taken aback.

“Well?
Are you?” I asked.

“Well–”
He finally turned to face me again. “If I gave you an honest
answer, you might hold it against me.”

“You
don’t like it then.”

“Not
really.”

I tried
to smile. “Believe me, I had to fight to stay awake during the
messages sometimes too.”

“It’s
not that. Actually, I like those.”

“Really.
The waving arms, the hellfire, all that?”

“Sometimes
that’s what needs to be said.”

“Right,
right.” Jeremy didn’t quite seem the pious sort. But I
suppose they come in all shapes and sizes.

“So
why are you here then?” he asked me. This time he looked
straight at me with an discomfiting intensity, his dark eyes open and
fixed on mine.

“Me?”
I chuckled, trying to ease him and to alleviate me growing
nervousness. “I’ve been coming every year for a long time.”

“Out
of habit, then.”

“It’s
a good time. It’s like a two day camp.”

“That’s
all?”

“Well,
why not?” I could have given him the pat pious answer any
time. I’d always said that to my parents and to any adults in church
who asked. But I got the impression that Jeremy was the kind of
person who could see through those sort of answers.

“Well—that
seems to be honest, at least.” The faintest trace of a smile
played on his chapped lips. His shoulders lowered from their anxious
hunch.

I
shrugged in response. “Eh. It’s too much work to pretend
sometimes.” I was pleased. Things finally seemed to be
getting through to him.

“Yeah.”
Jeremy briefly looked away before he said, “Anyways, if you
want to know, it’s—a bit hard for me because–”

“Oh,
there you are, Peter!” Rachel’s voice called from behind us.
I turned around and saw her and Alan walking down the slope that rose
from the pond’s banks. “Free time’s up in an hour. You wanna
play basketball till dinner?”

“Sure.”
I stood. “Hey, Jeremy, you’re welcome to join us if you
like.”

He shook
his head. “No, thank you. I’m—fine–” I thought
I him swallow the last words, but it could have been anything—a
bird call, one of he small splahses on the lake.

The two
of them had arrived by then. “Hey,, there,” Rachel said,
waving to Jeremy. “Have we met?”

“I’m—um—no.
I’m Jeremy.” Again he looked away when he offered his
extended hand. He seemed smitten by her.

“Rachel
Huang. Pleased to meet you.” How proper and kind she could be
when she wanted. “This is Alan Randall.”

“We’ve
met,” Jeremy said. Alan nodded in agreement. “Anyway’s
we better hurry, Peter. They’re waiting for us.”

“OK.”
I began to turn away. “See you later, Jeremy.”

“Right.
‘Later. Have your fun.” His parting wave was weak and
stiffly tentative. He returned to his lake-watching. As the three
of us climbed up the hill, talking about why hills were so steep and
why there was an unexpected chill wind in the middle of April, I kept
turning back around to look at Jeremy, the silent witness to the
ducks. He receded into a splotch on the bench seemed just a part of
nature’s background as the ducks, the water, and the trees.

Playing
sports is this sweaty blur in my memory—a dash and a shuffle on
the asphalt, the ball hitting my palms. My friends and acquaintances
were no more than jumping stalks only distinguishable by the color of
their shirts. By the time the game was over, the line for dinner
already stretched from the cafeteria’s front door to the sign
outside. I looked around to find signs of Jeremy, but I didn’t see
him.

The
three of us always sat at the end of long cafeteria tables, whether
at school or at retreats. It always gave some of us side space—none
of the discomfort at sitting between two munching people. We were
settling in our spots when, far ahead, at the corner of another
table, I could see Jeremy’s pockmarked face.

“Hey,”
I said, point at him. “It’s Jeremy.”

Alan
looked in his direction. “Yeah?”

“He’s
sitting by himself,” I said.

“You
did that,” Rachel said, “till you met us.”

“Still.
He’s kind of weird, I know. But—you think he’ll mind joining
us?”

“I
wouldn’t mind.” Rachel had already begun eating. Alan nodded
in agreement.

So I
left my tray of sticky spaghetti behind and walked up the aisle, past
all the chatter and clatter, till I found myself standing over
Jeremy. He was bowed deep in prayer, his lips murmuring and probably
saying far more than grace. When he finished, he was startled to
find himself looking at me.

“Oh—hey!”

“What
are you doing all by yourself, Jeremy?”

“Ah,
nothing. Just—you know, I like to concentrate while I eat.”

“Concentrate?
On what?”

“Well–”
By his fluster, he clearly couldn’t think of a good excuse.

“You
wanna join us? I’m sitting down there.” I waved to my
friends; they waved bac.

“No,
that’s all right. I’m fine.”

“Come
on.”

“Are
you sure?”

“Yes.”

“All
right.” Jeremy carefully lifted his tray and stepped
cautiously toward our table. He decided to sit next to me, on my
left. After greeting the rest of us, we chewed silently, looking at
each other for cues that never came.

“What
school do you go to, Jeremy?” Alan finally asked.

“I’m
home-schooled,” Jeremy replied.

“Really?”
Rachel’s eyebrow was raised. It wasn’t unusual to see home-schooled
kids in our group, but it was still a minority. “How’s that?”

“It’s
really not so bad. I learn with five other kids. We’re good
friends.” He had a tight-lipped smile. “My parents sent
me here to help me, well, get along with more people.”

“I
see,” Alan said. “The three of us go to the same high
school, actually.”

“Really,”
Jeremy said. “How long have you known each other?”

“Four
years,” I said. “We went to the same middle school too.”

“That’s
nice.”

More
chewing. We were half-finished with our meals by the time someone
else spoke again.

“You
enjoying yourself?” Rachel asked Jeremy.

“Yes,
as much as I can.” He was clearly stifling his real answer.

“That’s
cool.” Alan said. “Too bad I have homework to finish
when I get back . . .”

“I
almost forgot about that, d’oh!” I said. “Please don’t
remind me.”

“Fun
induces forgetfulness,” Rachel said. “We come to
forget.”

“Shouldn’t
you be coming to remember God?” Jeremy’s question was asked in
a sharp, cutting voice that stuck out sorely from our blasé
tones. “I mean–”

“Oh,
sure! Of course.” He spoke rather hastily. “I really
like testimony time. That brings you closer to God.”

“Oh—yes.”
Jeremy seemed to wince at the mention of ‘testimony time.’

“It’s
easier to grow close to God when the air’s fresh and there aren’t so
many distraction,” Rachel said. “It’s like total
immersion. Dunked in religion.”

“That’s
not very funny,” Jeremy said.

Rachel
face fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of baptism,
or anything, or . . .” She recovered herself after taking a
breath. “Go on.”

“I
don’t see anyone after the messages talking or thinking about they
just heard. It’s like the minute it’s over, everyone just wants to
run out and play.”

“So?”
Alan asked. “We’re here to have fun too.”

“But
then what’s the point in coming to a retreat? It’s just a camp.
There’s nothing spiritual about it at all.”

“Oh
come on,” I said, trying on a bright smile. “Relax. God
doesn’t want us to be gloomy and worried all day long.”

“You
mean you aren’t scared? You aren’t sad about your friends going to
hell?”

“Well–”
Rachel paused and looked up thoughtfully. She smiled kindly. “You
know, that’s really great. You see more spiritually sensitive than
most of us.”

“It’s
not really, it’s just—well–” For someone so outwardly
pious, there was that longing, pleading look in Jeremy’s eyes as he
looked at Rachel. It’s strange, I suppose. She was the same when I
met her along with Alan, at a time when I was as lonely as Jeremy
seemed now. The way her casual irreverence came out once you became
her friend was, I supposed, what made her so interesting. Alan was
far more straightforward. He was always making fun of everyone, with
the emphasis on the “fun.”

“Hmm?”
Rachel hummed.

“It’s
just that you all don’t seem to be taking any of this seriously,”
Jeremy said.

“I
think it was Oscar Wilde who said,” she replied, “that
life’s too serious to talk seriously about.”

“But–”
Jeremy sighed and gave up, digging deep into the noodles on his
plate with his fork. I wanted to say something, but there was a
queasy fluttering in my stomach—that feeling which comes when
one considers the possibility that the hellfire preacher might be
right. Deep in my fundamentalist gut, I knew I had no right to be
having fun when there was so much at stake out there, when the souls
of my friends and neighbors were in peril. I knew that if I were a
real Christian, I’d be stopping all the kids that passed by down the
hallway and ask them if Jesus was their personal savior. That I’d
feel sad and shocked at hearing a dirty joke, not mirthful, because
it was a sign of the corrupt nature of the joker’s soul. At the same
time, I’d never get depressed if I were a real spiritual person, not
even if Sarah never recognized me, or if I got a C on the history
test, and if I somehow doubted one sweaty night that that
non-believing kid who liked to hold doors for everyone and help poor
kids with their homework was headed anywhere but Hell, there was
something really wrong with
me. That is why I never tried to think about it, but like Jeremy’s
namesake Jeremiah, he had dragged it in front of everyone. Perhaps
Jeremy was like that hated prophet, that afflicted man with a message
no one wanted to hear, despairing precisely because hew wasn’t
supposed to despair or even feel unhappy when no one listened to him.

So he continued to look glum as he finished the last strand of
spaghetti. He also had, without me noticing it until then, moved
several inches away from us. I wanted to say something, but I
couldn’t, and whenever I tried to cut through the clouds in my mind,
the more they regrouped and kept me in confused silence.

Because born-again, Bible-believing fundamental Christians are not
Mary-worshiping, priest-kowtowing Catholics, we do not have a
sacrament of confession. We have, instead, Testimony Time at
retreats: a public, rather than a private, ritual, where we sit
around a bonfire and huddle in a circle of warmth, protected by the
fire and by our neighbors from the chill winds outside. There is a
keychain, a stuffed animal, or even a twig that is passed around for
three rounds—this year it was a keychain shaped like a
cross—where, when the object is in your hand, you can tell
testify about the good things God has done for you since the last
testimony time last year. It is a time where, as the fire crackles,
the varied voices speak in hushed tones about the triumphs, the
failures, and the little redemptions in their lives. Not even
Communion every month was so solemn and so sacred a time. This was
where the real soul-baring happened before God, before the pastor,
before your friends.

“If
you sense the Spirit leading you,” Pastor Arlinson said before
we began, standing in the center of the circle, “don’t deny
Him. Let Him speak through you. Hold the keys in your hand, and
open your lips.” He stepped out, letting Eric, guitar strapped
over his shoulder, step into the center. He strummed a chord to set
the key, and then we sang, without accompaniment.

Let
us be one voice that glorifies Your name

Let
us be one voice declaring that You reign

Let
us be one voice in love and harmony

And
we pray O God, grant us unity.

Without
an instrument to guide us, we sang a little off-key. Our voices
didn’t fit together perfectly. But that was OK. We were now
ready to begin..

The key
chain rattled as it was passed from hand to hand, until it finally
stopped first at Emily. She had a whole saga to tell us: she used to
swear a lot, listen to ungodly music, stayed up past her curfew with
boys until 1:00 AM. She even did this after she was saved. But, at
this retreat, God had really spoken to her through the messages and
through the beauty of nature around her. Won’t you come back to me,
my child, He was saying. Won’t you stop sinning? She was
recommitting herself this time.

The
keychain continued to go around the circle, past Alan’s and Rachel’s
and my hands silently. We didn’t like saying anything during these
times. Our lives were not dramatic enough. Soon the first round was
over, and the second round began. It stopped again at Eric, who
stared at the fire and the sparks for a time before he began:

“First
. . . I’d like to give thanks for all the wonderful friends that God
has given me . .. .” There was something about the atmosphere
which made people slur and slow their speech to a hypnotic rhythm.
“. . . for all the opportunities to serve in the band and make
music to the Lord . . .” He shook his head, trying to hold the
tears back, but failing because I could see his eyes beginning to
glisten. “I don’t deserve you guys. For all those people that
I may have hurt or been a jerk to—I’m sorry. It’s my last
retreat, cause I’ll be graduating. I’m going to miss everyone.

“Remember
to keep—keep on on trusting in God. Seize every moment. Live
like it’s your last day on earth . . . and look forward to Heaven. I
know I’ll see all of you there.” His head was bowed, the
weight overwhelming him. His eyes and his tears were hidden in the
shadows, but when I looked at his face, and felt the fire’s heat on
my arms and legs, his words felt as warm as embraces. Even though I
couldn’t remember the last time I actually had a conversation with
him.

Next, it
was Jenny’s turn. She clutched the keys over her chest, standing up
to speak. “Hey everyone.” She giggled nervously.
“I’ve—got a few things to say about—well . . .”
Apparently the school year had not gone well for her. She was a new
believer, having gotten saved only at the last retreat, and “I
. . . I fell back int my old crowd again. I stopped doing my
devotions every night, and that’s how it started. I just want to say
to everyone, don’t let Satan tempt you to stop reading the Word and
praying every day, because it might no tbe the last thing you stop
doing . . . .” She began to choke with a sob, just a little
one, only a little louder than a hiccup. By now, the only other
sound were the chirps of the crickets and the slow, steady crackle of
the bonfire. “ . . . cause, you know, that’s when I started
going to parties and drinking and stuff . . . till one day, one
morning—I—can you believe it, me, a Christian?”
She laughed bitterly. “I woke up in a strange bed, The
stranger next to me was still snoring when I woke up next to him.”

There
might as well have been a gasp, but there was nothing. Jenny had
committed, by her own admission, a Big Sin. But this was Testimony
Time. Big Sins were forgiven here. Every story was a redemption
story, every abounding sin an moment for grace. “It was at
that moment when I hit rock bottom. I stumbled to my knees, and I
cried, and I plead with Jesus to forgive me . . .” Her voice
turned into a murmured tremolo, cracking from the crying. “And,
you now what? You know what happened? I opened my eyes, looked up,
and felt this overwhelming peace. God was saying to me, ‘I forgive
you, Jenny. I’ve died for your sin on the Cross. You’re my child
and I love you.’” And at that moment she was staring up at the
starry sky, her cheeks tinged with wet tears and with the fire’s
orange glow. There was a rapturous expression on her face, filled
with the passion that only came from being a restored sinner. “And
you know . .. even when I confessed to my friends what happened here,
they understood and forgave. I don’t know . . . what I’d do . . .
thank you everyone. Thank you.” She collapsed, sobbing in the
arms of one of those friends next to her, who was wiping her eyes
with tissues that had been prepared for this event.

I have
been to many retreats, and I remember the first time I witnessed
something like this: it was overwhelming. I felt like praising the
Lord for this elusive connection, this feeling surging through me.
It was as if my spirit and everyone’s spirits had sailed like smoke
into the air, twirling, mingling, and dancing like the smoke from the
fire, reaching for heaven. But this was my sixth retreat. Jenny’s
story was great, and I felt a little of the old magic. I had been
attentive enough to stop pulling up blades of grass and twirling them
around my fingers. But I also knew that this was probably the
highlight of the evening. Surely this was going to be hard to top.

I was
wrong about that, based on what happened next.

The
second round came to an end. I could see that everyone was becoming
restless. I saw people fidgeting and trying to shake their legs out
of numbness, and an occasional whisper between people as the keys
were being handled about. Rachel every whispered, “This looks
like a new record—just 45 minutes. Very high content this
time.” She smiled sardonically—I guess she’s immune to
most of this stuff now. Coming back year after year does that to
you.

As the
third, and final round, I assumed that we were going to be finished
soon. The next few people stood up for relatively minor things: a
good test grade earned without studying. A friendship restored after
a day or two of conflict. Round and about the keychain went.

Then, it
stopped, in Jeremy’s hands. He was sitting directly across from me
in the circle, but I had barely noticed him because he had been so
quiet for the rest of the day after dinner. But this time, he stood
up slowly, almost grandly, the firelight reflecting in the glare in
his eyes. He gripped the keychain tightly in his fist and said,

“Um—well–”
The uncertainty in his voice lasted only for a moment. What he said
afterward was not one bit shy. “I don’t know about you,”
he said in a calm, but rising voice, “but after listening to
all your stories tonight, all your so-called testimonies, I have a
few—thoughts.” He stopped, turned his head to glare at
everyone sitting in the circle. He had a commanding aura about him
that kept us all watching him in suspense.

“I’ve
only attended this group for a month or so,” he said. “Like
many of you, I was raised in a ‘good Christian home.’ But after
being around you all, especially here—I think, I think you’re
all hypocrites. Every single one of you.”

The
shock registered on peoples’ wide eyes and absolute silence.
Immediately, a surge of painful rage rushed through my blood. After
all I’d done?

“Well,”
he said, turning around, “maybe not every single one of you.”
He looked straight at me. But before I could a sigh of relief, he
continued. “Instead, some of you are so deluded by what you
think is your kindness, your goodness, you have no idea just how
condescending and insulting you really are!” He was glaring at
me. I reeled backwards.

He was
shouting now. “Look at you people, sobbing and crying and
talking about how wonderful your friends are and how God’s so
good to you. Had it ever occurred to you that there might be someone
in your group without any friends at all? And you, that harlot–”
He pointed at Jenny. “–that grade-grubber–” He pointed
at John, who had gotten the good grade without studying. “–bragging
about how you didn’t have to suffer consequences for your sins.
Thanking God that you escaped what you deserved. Maybe you call that
‘grace.’ I call that bull. I bet you enjoyed your sin, didn’t you?

“I tried to be nice to everyone in the last church group my
parents sent me to. I got cast out because I was so ugly. You’re
all a little better—most of you just ignore me. Some of you
pity me–” He swung around and looked at me, and then Rachel.
“–and think i’ts strange that I actually care about the
messages, that there are more important things than having fun.
That’s the kind of people at this retreat? What kind of Christians
are you, anyway?”

Pastor Arlinson stood up. “Hold on a minute,” he said,
but was interrupted before could continue. Jeremy was seething, and
his voice was viciously low as he spoke.

“I’ll tell you what kind you are. You’re Pharisees. You’re
the children of the devil, at a retreat for a little fun and games
with your usual friends. Whited sepulchers, Jesus called people like
you. Hypocrites. Fucking hypocrites. Yes, I’m going to say it,
because that’s the best way to describe you all. Fucking
hypocrites.” He spoke the profanity in a hoarse whisper, but
it was perfectly clear what he said. But his voice had given out,
and he stumbled to his knees.

“Goddamned fucking hypocrites!” he roared, and then
burst into uncontrollable tears.

My memory is blurred at this point. I remember a lot of commotion
and buzz, but I couldn’t hear anything becauseI was blinded by rage,
and wanted to punch Jeremy’s lights out. He was the hypocrite, not
me, damning everyone for ignoring him when he gave all kinds of signs
that he wanted to push everyone away. He had no right.

But I didn’t stew in my anger for long, because another remarkable
thing happened, one that is going to be difficult for people who
haven’t seen it to understand. Others might categorize it as mass
hysteria or hyponosis. I’m not sure. But when I opened my eyes and
my vision cleared, I saw several teens were busy comforting the
sobbing Jeremy. There was a lot of murmuring and talking, but Pastor
Arlinson had stood up and moved to the center of the circle again.
Over the hubbub, he began,

“Brothers and sisters. Despite the—strongly
worded—testimony we just heard, this is neither the place or
time to condemn–”

“He’s right! We need to repent!” Someone had
interrupted him, and when I turned to see who, it was Jenny, Jeremy’s
“harlot.” Eric then chimed in, with a tearful cry,
“Father, we have sinned against you and our brother! Forgive
us!”
“Help us,” Emily shouted, “to never
ignore another in pain.”

And on and on, until almost all the teenagers around me were either
crying or praying aloud for Jeremy, for forgiveness that we had
caused such hurt, that we were indeed hypocrites. I was bewildered,
and as much as it made me feel guilty, I couldn’t summon the same
reaction. I saw Rachel kneeling quietly, and when I leaned close to
her, I could hear her almost inaduible, soft sobs. Alan was
mumbling, “we confess our cynicism to you, Lord—you are
doing a great work among us–”

A small ring of people had gathered around the slumped Jeremy,
laying hands on him as they prayed. Well, he finally got the
attention he wanted, I thought, bu then I stopped. A cloud
covered my senses, and I had no idea where it had come from. I
looked at him. He looked broken and frail with all those people
holding him up. All that nervousness and anger had finally been
released, and he looked so limp, so exhausted. I felt compelled to
kneel and offer my own simple prayers, with all the confessing and
crying that was going on around me. “Forgive me,” i
whispered, “for assuming that he was just like me.” All
he needed, I think, was to be merely dragged out by a kind, firm
voice, the way I had been dragged out in my younger years. You run
into lots of trouble, I think, when you assume that other people are
just like you. But people break in their own special ways. And
maybe, the sound of that breaking is the sound of God, an 2000 year
old echo of the breaking bones and hammered nails of the Cross .

Everyone in my cabin, and I’m sure every other cabin, stayed long
into the night talking about what happened. The counselors didn’t
bother enforcing lights out until very late. I laid flat on my bed,
back to the pillow, talking and thinking aloud about what it had all
meant, this explosive transcendent sense of unity and spontaneous
spirituality. Was it from the Holy Spirit, or just the manipulations
of men? Our church didn’t condone those tongue-babbling,
prophesying, miracle-healing Pentecostal types, so we were toldthe
next morning that this was not a ‘charismatic’ experience. It may or
may not have been the work of God, and the proof would be what the
“fruit” was—whether people really did repent and
change in the long run because of it. We’ll see, Pastor Arlinson
said. We’ll see if lives are really altered.

The
next morning, at least, Jeremy seemed altered. He was talking to
two, three, sometimes four people at once who wanted to see how he
was doing and to offer him a hug or a handshake. He still
seemed a bit hesitant when people came up to him with their smiles
and open eyes, but he was definitely smiling in return, with a
squinty, toothy smile. And yes, I could see his lips moving
constantly. He was actually talking. And I was happy for him,
because the beautiful morning over the valley had taken away whatever
bitterness had remained. And everyone else’s, it seemed: I never saw
so any people hugging each other in a fundamentalist congregation as
I did that morning.

After I
saw some of the prettier girls leave Jeremy’s side, I walked up to
him. He greeted me with a very hesitant wave. “Um, listen–”

“No,
you listen,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe you
were right.”

“I’m
really sorry, I got so wrapped up in myself that–”

“No,
no, really. I probably needed to hear that. Everyone needed to hear
that maybe.” (Honestly, to this day, I’m not really sure. But
it seemed safe to say that.) “You feeling OK now?”

“Oh,
yeah. You know, I was proven wrong. It’s great to be proven wrong
sometimes. You’re all not so bad.”

“Heh,
now if only Rachel could be proven wrong sometimes,” I said.

“Speaking
of which, where is she?” He perked up considerably at the
sound of her name. “I think she really was trying to be nice .
.. I feel awful, really. I misunderstood all of you–”

“Oh,
just shut up and follow me.” I directed him over to Alan and
Rachel, who were standing in a corner of the main auditorium
building. Both of them ribbed him about how he finally got what he
wanted, all right. “Your cleverness and ability to rile an
audience is astounding,” she said, with mock pomp and with a
sly—but impressed smile.

Now he
looked genuinely hurt again, by the way his eyes fell. “It
wasn’t a stunt. It’s what I felt then. Really. Not now, though.”
He chuckled. “Don’t give me—any ideas.”

“You
know,” Alan said, “I’ve been feeling a little ignored
lately, a little rejected. I could use a little sympathy–”

Rachel’s
harsh glare put an end to that thought. “Humph,” she
said. “You shouldn’t feel lonely if you’re with me.”

We all
laughed. There was one more message/sermon, then lunch, and then
cleanup. Parents’ cars began filing into the lot again, the
basketball rims clanging for one lsat game, and I had my backpack all
ready to go by my side. Dad eventually arrived and Alan, Rachel, and
I said our goodbyes to Jeremy, put our stuff in the drunk, and
climbed back into our seats.

“Had
a good retreat, everyone?” Dad asked.

Rachel
yawned and nodded. “An exhausting one.”

“No
sleep at all last night,” Alan concurred.

“It
was—memorable,” I said.

We put
in the Mahavishnu Orchestra tape again, but we slept on most of the
way back home. Half asleep, the mountains, the hills, and the fields
ran past my eyes like in a dream or a vision, with all the blue notes
and snaking guitar lines churning through my head as the soundtrack.
But I could rest soundly anyway. The rhythms crashed and the cymbals
splattered, and the Hammond organ warbled, but somehow, for once, I
heard how all that jazz fit together.

Yes. Perfect.Luke looked at the sermon outline that had just come out of his printer. He leaned back in his chair, looking the paper over to make sure each major point was denoted with the right Roman numeral, subpoints with capital letters, and every subordinate point with round bullets. He whispered the headings to himself:

I: God works in the unexpected things of life.

II: What we expect from God is sometimes wrong.

III: Application: What are you expecting from God? Letting God surprise you.

(more…)