by Samuel Hayes Sherwood
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Why, O Lord, do you stand far away?
Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? (Ps 10:1)
Where does the love of God go when evil seems to descend around us like a bell jar? Carl Cook was given up by his birth mother. His adoptive mother was murdered. He was abused by his stepfather. He was failed by the justice system, dismissed by the school system, and neglected by the church. Abandoned and homeless, Carl stoically faces these hurdles alone. Or is he alone? When it seems things couldn’t get worse, they do. But then a new picture starts to form on the face of the deep and he realizes that maybe— just maybe—there was a purpose. Maybe God was there all along. He just needed to have eyes that see.
The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. (Matt 6:22)
This book will answer the question that only a few like Joseph seemed to grasp—”. . . you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, . . .” (Gen 50:20)
Read Chapter 1:
I
THEY SAY, “red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.” The dark clouds of November paid no homage to the warning part as they assembled for winter’s first kiss.
Inside the dimly lit hallway, the chill was no less. Like two unwilling gladiators, they faced off, each waiting for the other to cast the first blow.
David McKinley looked him all over. He held out his hand breaking the standoff.
The boy removed the sunglasses and handed them over.
The teacher cringed. “What happened, Carl?” he asked.
“Door,” he replied stoically.
Right. David’s cheeks turned a darker shade of pink at the boy’s veiled answer. He weighed the resoluteness of his student’s face against more pressing cares. Another minute of silent reverie passed as they both wished the moment to go away. I just don’t need this right now, thought the teacher.
“There seem to be a lot of hazards in that house of yours,” he said yielding to his opponent.
Carl made no response.
“Okay, take your seat.” He handed him back his sunglasses. “Here. You may need these.”
The classroom banter was quickly snuffed out like a candle as the teacher in professorial tweed entered and marched toward the front of the room to finish writing on the board. As Carl took his seat in the back, the boys turned their heads away. A few girls shared their horror with visceral squeals. One threatening look from the teacher silenced everyone. All their shiny faces focused on the board.
“Ok, you writer wannabes,” said Mr. McKinley. “You see the sentence on the board.”
It read, “Michael sat down in the middle of the road and began to cry.”
“Start writing. You have six minutes.” David started the timer and sat down.
The class stared at the board with confused puppy dog looks as if they were asked to decode a secret message from outer space. Andy Morris raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Morris,” said Mr. McKinley.
“Write what?” he asked. The rest of the class distanced themselves from their ignorant classmate by putting their noses to the paper, but their ears were watching intently.
“Whatever you want, Mr. Morris,” he replied with a look that confirmed to everyone that, yes, there are stupid questions. “It’s all about imagination. Be creative. Just start writing.”
The blank sheet of paper in front of the red headed rotund student was like looking into a mirror.
Some started writing their names on the header in slow motion hoping that would provide enough time for an idea to come from above. Others gnarled the end of their pens waiting for an epiphany that, should it come, would frighten them as much as their teacher. Some looked for inspiration out the window. The swirling flurries looked like … well, swirling flurries. It didn’t come. Nevertheless, one by one, the teacher watched their eyes light up like an electronic game board as they began to lay ink to paper.
Then there was Carl. For him there was no delay. He was the only one off the blocks instantly. His hand was moving furiously as if his story was already written and six minutes was nowhere sufficient to hear it out. David was concerned. His pen was bearing down so hard on the paper, he assumed the paper would be in shreds or there would be an indelible copy carved on the wooden desk.
The alarm went off. The class lifted their heads in relief only to groan as a new sentence appeared on the board—”On the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape.”
“Keep writing,” he instructed. Andy Morris’s face begged for more enlightenment. “Tie the two sentences together in the same story, Andy. Six more minutes and I will give you another transitional sentence.”
Some paused long enough to forge a connection between the two seemingly random phrases. To others, the chasm to bridge was no less infinite than the east is from the west. The pen biters looked more like dumbfounded cattle chewing their cuds. But Carl’s hand never stopped moving. He glanced up at the new sentence like it of course made sense and kept going without taking a breath.
The ringing period bell was drowned out by sighs of relief. Backpacks and cellphones were grabbed with the hope of escaping with their stories, but that foolish thought quickly turned to muffled groans.
“Easy. Hold on,” Mr. McKinley raising his voice above the noise. “Bring your papers down front on your way out.”
They indexed down front with the enthusiasm of meeting a Catholic nun holding a wooden ruler in her hand. Carl’s six foot head could be seen bobbing above the rest, bringing up the rear. He looked straight ahead with no eye contact as if marching to an execution. A few girls tried to flirt some empathy only to bounce off his impenetrable force field. But David saw cracks in that armor as the boy handed in his paper. Carl turned with a little less certainty, slowly making his way out with the energy of a prize fighter who was left standing after twelve rounds, but that was about all.
David McKinley watched the enigmatic boy walk away. The faded jeans he wore everyday were creased to a frayed knife edge by uncounted meetings with a flat iron. He was sure he had seen that same sweater many days in a row. That boy had shown so much promise a year ago, he thought. Now it was hit or miss. What’s going on?
He looked wearily at the pile of writing he would have to read that weekend and markup. The one on top grabbed his attention. It was Carl’s. “Michael sat down in the middle of the road and began to cry, not because he had killed him, but because he hadn’t killed him sooner.”
What is this all about? thought David as he eased himself carefully into his wobbly swivel chair and began to read more. When he came to the non sequitur line, it read, “On the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape, but it was too late. We should have left that Friday and not waited. Then it wouldn’t have happened.”
He kept reading it over and over until he noticed a full class was staring him in the face. What do I do with this now? He wondered. School counselor? I don’t need this right now … especially now. He put Carl’s paper on the bottom of the stack and began writing on the board.
- §§
The only minute more eternal than the one before the last bell of the day was the minute before the lunch bell. Students launched out of their seats so fast drawing into question whether the speed of sound had been correctly calculated. But despite their abilities to break the sound barrier, there was one immutable low tech law they could not break. The same unnamed law that governs the grains of sand dripping from an hourglass applied to them. They had to exit one at a time.
David was not in so much of a hurry. He slunk in his chair and watched all that youthful energy drain from the room. One more morning under the belt. One more afternoon to get through. And it was his birthday. If they make a fuss … and I know who … He considered eating his baloney sandwich right there. Mary would jump on me for being antisocial, he thought as he shouldered his beat up leather satchel and started trudging toward the teacher’s lounge. And then they’ll talk the same old stuff like a worn out record. There has to be something more exciting than the weather. Or Common Core. Hey, it’s Maine. It’s November. What do you expect? Don’t like it? Move to Florida. Don’t like Common Core? Move to Russia!
David opened the door. His ill-fated prophesy did not let him down, nor did it waste any time. Oh no, he’s really going to do it. It was too late.
Howard Bates stood front and center with a lopsided chocolate cake sporting a lonely candle, clearly a failed experiment from Mrs. Merkle’s freshman home ec class.
“Happy Birthday, neighbor,” said Howie leading the cheer while his backup band of colleagues clapped with about the same excitement as pulling lunchroom duty.
I’m not your neighbor, Howie. David forced a slight nod. “Thank you,” he said as he bee lined to his table in hopes of avoiding any further festivities. But that was not to be so.
No. Howie conducted a short arrangement of Happy Birthday swinging the cake around like a baton. David’s eyes tracked the oscillating cake waiting for it plop on the floor but somehow even the candle stayed lit.
And I thought just his speaking voice was irritating, thought David. “Thank you, everyone,” David repeated and sat down, again hoping to stay any further attention. But that was not to be so either. Howard shadowed him to his table and started slicing up the cake on paper plates. Then he handed David an extra-large piece and sat down beside him. I’m sure this will be served with a generous side of self-righteousness, thought David.
David looked at his cake and then his baloney sandwich.
“Not bad, neighbor,” joked Howie as he wiped chocolate frosting off his frumpy mustache. “Try some.”
David continued to ignore him.
“Hey, what’s the matter? Forty is the new thirty, these days,” he said leaning closer to David who automatically pulled back as if magnetically repulsed.
“Right,” murmured David. Like that’s my problem. And forty is forty, you idiot. He closed his eyes and prayed that Howie would go away. It didn’t work. Let down again. He pulled out his baloney sandwich and started munching, a hint that also went unheeded.
“David,” Howie started, “I know you have some serious issues right now.”
Oh, here we go.
“We have Mary on the prayer list.”
Good job, Howie. It’s not working.
“Yes, we pray for her every week. I was discussing this with the pastor. He thought it would be nice if we could stop by and pray with you and Mary.”
Now that should really light a fire under God.
“I know you come from a family of faith …”
David started to grind his teeth. Seriously. What do you know about me, you …
“… and there is power in prayer. Whatever we ask in Jesus’ name, he will do.”
Does he really believe this stuff? Power in prayer? Jesus has left the building you moron. The tips of David’s ears were turning pink, a sign that only Mary knew was a wise time to stop. Howard didn’t.
“I know it’s hard for us to wrap our mind around, but the Bible says that all things work together for good to those who love God.”
“Really?” whispered David through his teeth. His eyes were rolling around in his head as if he were about to be possessed. He turned toward his comforter and wondered what fantasy world he was living in. All good, huh? I’ll pray you get some of that goodness. Maybe some of us aren’t such great lovers of God as you! His ears were now a light shade of red.
“Look, we have a new pastor. He’s really good. This Sunday he is going to preach a great sermon on faith and how God gives back a hundred fold if we just believe. You know the Bible says to count it all joy …”
The tips of David’s ears looked like ripe red peppers. The spring Howard had been ignorantly winding had created enough energy to lacerate anyone within the walls of Woodspring High School and it was about to snap.
Starting in a slow, tight voice, he started to unwind. “You know, Howie … If you parrot one more of those memorized scriptures in my face, you’ll be eating this chocolate cake through your nose.”
“What?” Howie arched back in fear as David looked like his head was about to rotate all the way around on his shoulders. “I … I was just trying to help …,” he stuttered.
“Help … help?” mimicked David as his scorning voice quickly crescendoed to a volume filling the room. “Surely, you jest. Just who do you think you are? Helping with all this mumbo jumbo from some book of fables? You self-righteous … maybe you need to get a hold on real life. All things are not good, Howie. Do you know that? Maybe it’s because everything is going so well for you that you are so ignorant. Isn’t that what you all say? ‘God is good?’ Until your world comes falling apart. Joy, you say? Well I should have a hell of a lot of it. Oh jubilation. I can’t stand it. My wife is lying in bed ready to flat line any moment. Oh joy, joy, joy …” he spurned. “If I get much more joy, I just won’t be able to handle it will be so wonderful. Spare me all that fake concern. I don’t need it. I can take care of my own problems without your help. And I’ve heard all about that great preacher of yours. It sounds like I couldn’t afford to join up. Why don’t you tell that church of yours to take care of its own and leave me alone. Spread that joy somewhere else. If you are so hell-bent on helping, how about that boy this morning? Carl. Isn’t he a member of your holy, God fearing church? Maybe you ought to worry less about saving my soul and work on doing something real, saving the flesh. Looks like he might be getting more joy than he wants too. Maybe you could peddle this crap to him.”
David stood up and looked around. Everyone’s heads were turned. Their mouths were wide open with half chewed food as if they had just witnessed a non-fatal murder. His head looked like it was ready to spontaneously combust.
“Sorry,” he muttered. He grabbed the other half of his baloney sandwich and slammed it in the trash can on the way out.
