The Lost Truth (2 page)

W
aking the next day in the same slouched position on the couch where I had fallen asleep watching television the night before, I glanced toward the kitchen. I could hear Janice preparing breakfast. Adjusting on the couch, I bumped the remote off the arm rest.

She glanced in from around the separating wall and said, “Good. You’re up. The pastor called and said something came up this afternoon. You have to meet him forty minutes from now.”

Letting out a sigh, I shook my head. “Today’s not a good day, Sis. The pain is really bad right now.”

She laughed. “I don’t care.”

Raising an eyebrow as I looked at her, I glared. “That’s rude.”

“You’re in pain every day, Clay. You’re
going
or you’re moving out. The choice is yours.”

“Okay. Stop it!” I snapped. “I get it.” Jerking my body over to one side to help myself get off the couch, I felt a surge of pain dig itself into my leg. “Ahh . . .” I moaned.

“Well . . . if you wouldn’t jerk your body out of anger.”

“Whatever,” I retorted as she vanished back around the separating wall. Grabbing my wood carved walking cane that was leaning against the nearby wall, I stood up and made my way into the kitchen. Leaning my cane against the wall near the table, I took a seat.

The aroma of bacon and eggs filled the air as I waited for Janice to finish the toast. Turning my head, I peered outside to see a bird out in the yard. Leaning my arms on the table, I tried to get a better look out the window. The baby blue bird’s wings were flapping, but only one seemed to be working as it struggled to lift off the ground and puttered across the grass.

“What is it?” she asked, coming over to the table and setting my breakfast down in front of me.

“It’s an injured bird.” My heart went out for the little guy. I knew his struggle. His pain.

She peered out the window at the bird. “Poor little guy. Looks like he’s struggling.”

Turning, I grabbed my cane and got up from the table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go help the bird.”

She laughed. “Really? Your food is going to get cold.”

“I don’t care. I’ll eat it in a minute.”

“You don’t have time, Clay. You have that meeting with the pastor.”

“I’ll be fine, Janice.” I made my way to the porch and down the steps. Heading around the corner of the house, I found the bird. He was still struggling and trying his hardest. Setting my cane to the side, I got down on both knees and scooped the little baby blue bird into my hands. He tried to jump and fly again, but I cupped him with my other hand so he couldn’t fall.

Bringing him to my face, I said, “I’ll take care of you.”

I heard the screen door open and shut in the distance. Janice came around the corner. “He okay?”

Bringing the bird close to my chest, I reached over and grabbed my cane with my free hand. Getting up, I brought the bird with me to the back porch.

Sitting down in my chair on the porch, I began to inspect the wing of the bird, and he kept trying to wiggle. Janice went back inside.

“I’m trying to help you!” I scolded as he wiggled more. “Just sit still!”

Bringing the underside of the injured wing up, I saw a sharp sliver-like piece of wood stuck in the wing. Cringing, I grabbed onto it and yanked. The bird wiggled and squawked as I pulled the sliver out. Setting him down on the porch, I tried to see if he could fly—but he couldn’t.

“Here,” Janice said, coming back out the door with a laundry hamper in hand.

“Go ahead and put it over the bird.” Stepping away from the bird, I watched.

She went over and got down on her knees, slowly lowering it over the bird. As she finished, she stood back up and looked at me. “What you going to name him?”

“It’s a blue jay . . . so Jay?”

She laughed. “That’s not a blue jay. That’s a baby-blue color. Blue jays are a bit darker in color I think.”

“Oh. How about Skip?”

“Kip?”

I laughed. “I said ‘Skip’ but I like Kip.” Looking at him, I said, “Kip fits.”

With a soft and sweet voice, she said, “Now that Kip’s okay . . . Can you come eat your breakfast so you can go?”

Glancing at Janice, I nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Sitting in a chair across from John in his dimly lit and stuffy office in the back of the church, I waited for him to say something. Anything would be better than the awkward silence that accompanied the memories that were pushing their way into my mind.

After five minutes, I grew weary of the silence. “So what is this, John?”

He took his glasses off and set them down on his desk as he let out a breath from his lips. Sounds of youth group cheering from the gymnasium down the hallway broke into the conversation. He stood up and shut the door. “Clay, I know you’ve been through a lot with Gail leaving and the whole—”

“Stop,” I said. “You don’t need to take me down memory lane. I lived it. I was there.”

He came and stood between me and the desk and leaned against the ledge. Folding his arms, he narrowed his eyes downward at me. I didn’t make eye contact with him. Instead, I just kept my eyes trained on an old picture that hung on the wall of when he and I went to a conference several years back.

“You blame yourself, don’t you?” His tone was direct.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Looking up into his eyes, I glared.

He leaned down into my face. Sweat beaded on his forehead and poured down the sides of his face. It was gross, but it distracted me enough to not let my mind go to the painful memories he was attempting to bring up. He shook his head and pulled back. Giving up, he walked back around the desk and took a seat in his chair. “Janice wants you to get better. I do too, Clay.”

In a mocking tone, I said, “Yep. Don’t forget
God
.” Pushing myself up from the chair, I stood up. Grabbing my cane, I continued, “God loves me so much that Gail took my baby girl and left. Also, He loves me so much that . . .” My throat began to clench as memories tried to claw their way into my mind.

“Clay.” John rose to his feet. “You can’t keep running from this pain.”

Pausing, I looked back at him. “I’m not running.” I glanced at my leg with a smirk. “Obviously, I’m not running.” Turning my back to him, I continued to the door and opened it.

Before I could leave, John got another word in. “God has a plan for your life, Clay.”

My throat finally clenched shut and my mind rushed back to the day everything changed. Not when I got in the motorcycle accident. Not when my wife left me and took my daughter. No. It was that fateful day in the trailer park. The day that my life forever changed. Turning around to face John as my anger overtook me, I hurled my cane across the room. “Don’t talk to me about God having a plan!”

He leaped out of the way as the cane hit the picture of us. The glass broke and then tumbled to the floor with the cane. Looking the pastor in his eyes, I saw the fear. The same fear I saw in his eyes back in the trailer park three years ago that crippled him into the coward he is today.

Wobbling over to the chair I was just in, I gripped the back of it as my knuckles went white. Looking the pastor in his beady little eyes, I said, “God doesn’t have
plans
, Pastor. He has an agenda. It doesn’t matter who dies or who’s in His way. He’s going to accomplish His will no matter the cost.”

“You don’t believe in God anymore, Clay?”

“Are you dense? I don’t have faith. I
know
the truth. I spent years in the church and I grew up studying the Scriptures. God’s will rules above all else. For crying out loud, even Christ asked for an alternative route and was shot down in the garden of Gethsemane.”

“You have a lot of anger toward God, don’t ya, Clay? Is it because of Missy?”

The name stung as it echoed through my ears. It was the name that haunted my existence ever since that day in the trailer park. She was only a child. Innocent. Pure. Yet she was taken. And for what? My eyes watered, and I felt my knees begin to buckle. The lump in my throat swelled. “I knew I should have had a drink before I came here.”

Coming around the chair I was previously sitting in, I took a seat and breathed.

“Nobody wanted it to happen, Clay,” John said softly as he took a seat behind his desk. “These things just happen. I wouldn’t say it was because of God’s will trumping everything else.”

Letting a sarcastic laugh escape my lips, I looked up at him. “You know how many people got saved that day in the trailer park? One life lost for five additions to the Kingdom. Seems like a good trade-off for God. Don’t ya think?”

“God just works out the bad for the good. He didn’t cause it.”

My lip tightened. “He sure didn’t work anything out for good in my life!”

“Free will is why it didn’t work out for you. Nobody forced you to pick up the bottle and ruin your life.”

“I thought this was a counseling session, not a lecture.”

“And I thought you were leaving,” he retorted as he leaned over and grabbed my cane from the floor. Setting it on the desk, he said, “I want to help you, Clay, but you have to be willing.”

“What are you going to teach me, Pastor?” I laughed, leaning back into my seat. Cocking my head, I continued, “There’s not much you can tell me that I don’t already know.”

“What about compassion?” he asked.

“I’m compassionate.”

“To whom?”

“I spent years doing the right thing . . . didn’t do a lick of good for me.” Clenching my jaw, I grabbed for my cane.

He gripped it and stopped me from pulling it away. He looked me in the eyes and said, “You never did those things because you thought you would get something out of it, Clay. You did them because you were being faithful and it was a byproduct of the relationship you had with the Lord.”

“Keyword in your sentence—
had.
” I shook my head. “You don’t know me anymore. You don’t know my prayers. You don’t know my life.”

“No. You’re right. I don’t.” He released the cane. “What I do know is you’re not the man you once where. You’re not the man your little girl, Cindy, can look up to. I don’t care if you pray at night. I don’t even care if you read your Bible every day. You can’t claim the name of Jesus and live a fruitful life from the bottom of a bottle.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Who do you think you are, John?”

“I’m the kid who grew up next door to you. You dragged me to church every Sunday whenever I stayed the night at your house. I’m the kid who was contemplating suicide, and you showed me life through Jesus. I’m getting real with you, Clay, because you’ve lost your way, and I’m afraid you’re going to die.” His eyes began to water as he shook his head. “Mrs. Elken saw you passed out in the front yard with a bottle in your hand the other night at Janice’s, man. She was our Sunday School teacher!”

Thinking back to the evening for a moment, I tried to recall it. I went out front of the house to lie down and look at the stars but ended up falling asleep. I had nothing but my underwear on. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize anyone saw me.”

“People see all the time, Clay. I don’t think you get that. There are a lot of people who ask me about you, even after all these years. They still want to know what Clay is up to. They talk about the bus ministry and the outreach you used to do.”

I shook my head. “I’ve seen things I cannot un-see.” My tone was soft and regretful. “Saw things I never wanted to see in my life.” My lips tightened and images flashed through my mind. “And these hands . . . they’ve done the unspeakable.” Bringing my hand up to my face, I cupped my mouth softly as I continued. “It was evil.” My hand fell away from my face, and I looked over to John. In a smooth and deep voice, I said, “People are scared to go to hell. Well, John, I’ve been living in one for years.”

“I can help you.”

I couldn’t help but belt out a sarcastic laugh. “You’re a
Christian
, John. You’re not supposed to say that.”

Adjusting in his seat, he thought for a moment. “Well, I meant I can help you get in touch with God.”