Fiction

                                              Unlikely Tool, a Short Story 

Growing up, I had the hardest time explaining to my classmates I wasn't a Christian. Even to those who claimed they were. They’d ask, "Do you believe in God?"

     My answer: always an emphatic, "Yes."

     "Do you read your Bible?"

     "Yes."

     "You go to church?"

     "Yes."

     "See. He's a Christian. You are a Christian." Then came what always got them: "No!" We’d argue almost non-stop in the lunchroom. I think what bothered them most was, not only did I know the Bible more than any of them, I was also more moral. Some of them claimed to be sons of pastors and deacons, yet they drank, smoked, and fornicated with their girlfriends, whereas me, I didn't do those things. As they saw it, if I wasn't a Christian they certainly weren't. I made them feel uncomfortable and I enjoyed every second of it, but my heart was just as polluted as any of theirs. Paul probably says it best, "I know that in me…dwelleth no good thing." I didn't understand that truth then, but later it would haunt me, for my pride proved to be my biggest stumbling-block when I was genuinely searching for God’s salvation. He would use one of the most unlikely tools to remove my pride.

      It all started with her about nine years ago. I was seventeen. My friend Martin and I were walking the Mall, looking at everything worth seeing, from new Sean John and Roca Wear jeans at Strawbridge's and Macy's, to the new Jordans at Foot Locker. Eventually, we got to the food court. We both got a slice of pizza: pepperoni for him, steak for me. "So why'd you stop coming?" I asked. He must have known it was coming, this being the first time we’d seen each other since he stopped coming to Sunday school.

     It's like Martin was looking through me. "Put your head down," he barked as if something was about to hit me on the back of the head. "Come on, Bro!" I lowered and then cocked my head back to find two pretty white-girls walking by, carrying Strawbridge's shopping bags, flipping their hair and flirtatiously making eye contact with us while giggling. I turned back around and faced him.

     "What?" He leaned back on the chair. "Hey, I'm not racist, Bro. I like 'em all. Black, White, Latina, Asian—as long as they look good."

     "Neither am I'm," I returned. "But you didn't tell me why you stopped coming." It may have sounded like I disapproved of his dropping out, but though I missed having my best friend around, I really admired him. It was like he transformed into a totally different person, but he seemed more himself. He was like a caterpillar that had, through some metamorphosis, transformed into a butterfly, beautiful and free. A freedom I craved.

     "Coming where?" he asked.        

     “Where do you think? Sunday school.”

     For a brief moment, he looked serious. "Listen, man, it was good and all when we were kids, but now—" It was as if he couldn't finish the sentence.

     "Now what?" I asked and took a sip of my coke.

     He looked this way and that, his nose flaring. "Why you on ma grill?" he exploded. "What? You got saved or something? The last I heard, we were on that same Broad Way headin’ down to hell."

     His words burned through my heart like acid. I felt like a pretender, a fraud, an angel of darkness masquerading as an angel of light. "I never said I was," I replied and swallowed.

     I think he understood how much his words hurt me. "I'm sorry, man. I ain’t mean to flip out on you like that." He shifted his gaze from me to a train of girls passing by. "Look, I don't wanna talk about this, all right. I'm here to hangout, not to talk about spiritual stuff." Then he adjusted his fitted over his wave-cap and kicked me under the table. "Look," he whispered and pointed to my right. When I looked, I saw a gorgeous black girl, smooth and dark complexioned, sitting a few tables across from ours. I don't know what it was about her, but it's like all the beautiful women I had seen before paled in insignificance to her. "Yo," Martin whispered to me, "she checkin’ you out, Bro."

     Yeah, I remember thinking to myself, after looking over at her for a brief moment, and give my mom and dad a heart-attack? The girl was beautiful, but she wore skintight Guess jeans, a little shirt—you'd think the thing belonged to her kid sister—that barely reached her belly button—not the type you bring home to your parents, at least, not mine. But when I looked again, I saw she kept looking my way. "I can't," I said.

     "What you mean you can't?" he was getting excited. "If you don't get her digits, man, I'm telling you, you gonna hate yourself."

     Here am I trying to convince him to come back to Sunday school and he's the one convincing me? “But what do I say to her?"

     "Come on. Don't tell me you don't know how to talk to chicks? Just say, 'yo, what's up! What's your name? Let me get your number!' That's all it ever takes for me."

     "You think that'll work? I don't want to look like an idiot."

     "Yeah, it'll work. Trust me. But don't start stutterin'." I still do that sometimes when I'm nervous." If you do, she'll think you're a geek or something. Women want their men to be confident and aggressive. Hurry up. Go before she leaves!"

     I got up, shaking a little, and made as though I was going to go past her. Her table was next to the Taco Bell. I leaned on the front counter and ordered a soft taco and a large drink. After paying, I went to where she was sitting, pretending to look for somewhere to sit. I didn't pull the chair directly across from hers but the one to the right. Before pulling it, I looked over at her and said, "Are you saving this seat for someone?"

     She smiled. Her teeth were pearly white. Everything about the girl was perfect. "No," she said. That one word, coming from her lips, was like poetry to my ears, poetry that rivaled the beauty of Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey any day.

     I sat down, taking my time eating the taco, stealing glances at her every now and then. "This Taco Bell makes the best tacos. Have you ever had one?" I asked. I felt so stupid. Of all the things to talk about, I chose tacos.

     "No, I haven't," she answered. She didn't laugh. I was glad for that. 

     "Well, you should," I said, deciding to go with the flow. "They're real good. I recommend the steak."   

     "Okay, I'll keep that in mind. Thank you!" She didn't mean it. She hated Taco Bell. 

     "By the way, my name's Marcus. What's yours?"

     "Angela."

     "Angela… I like it," I said. Her name matches her face. Whenever I think Angela I will forever see that beautiful face. I chewed for roughly thirty seconds and swallowed. I knew I needed to get to the point, but I had to ease into it. "Is it alright talking with you?" I asked. "I mean, I don't want to cause any friction between you and your boyfriend."

     She finished her two egg rolls and prepared to trash her plate. "It's okay. I don't have a boyfriend," she sighed. That was my cue.

     "Really?" I exclaimed, but then the worst thing that could possibly happen happened. I spilled soda all over the table and my clothes. I thought I was going to die of humiliation. Well, I blew it. She handed me some of her unused napkins. Then she went up to the Taco Bell counter and got some more and helped me clean the table. She saw that my napkins weren't enough so she handed me some of hers. I took them, making my hand touch hers. It felt like everyone was looking at me. I wasn't sure whether or not I should have aborted the plan, considering my present state. "I was wondering," I began, clearing my throat, deciding to go for it anyway, "if maybe I can…umm…call you sometimes. You know, when you're not busy." 

     She went for her Coach handbag, pulled out a pen and paper, wrote her name and number and handed the paper to me. I tore off a piece and wrote my name and number and handed it to her. She took it and smiled at me before walking off. After she left, Martin came over. "Mark, you're the man. You made a complete fool of yourself and you still got her number. That's what I call game!"

     My heart was racing at the thought that I pulled a girl that fine; that is, until I remembered my parents. "Let's go home," I said to him, feeling a little sick. But then about half-a-dozen or mote cute Cambodian girls passed by pointing and laughing at me.

     Martin moved away from me immediately and said under his lips, "Go ahead. I'll catch up." He went after them. I miss him.

     As the weeks and months went by, Angela's feelings for me escalated. She called me nearly everyday. Often, more than three times a day. Not to say, though, that I had a problem with it. I felt the same way about her and probably called her just as often. What's more, I had a cell phone so I never had to tell my parents about her, but everything was about to change.

     It was Tuesday evening around 7:00 and we were having dinner. Kind of late for us but mom got off work late that day. My dad had just finished giving thanks for the food. "Kevin," I called to my eight-year old brother, "pass the Macaroni and cheese!" I dumped thick scoops of mashed potatoes on my plate. But he acted as if he didn't hear me. "Yo, what's wrong with you? I said pass the macaroni and cheese!" It's as if he was deaf. "I know you heard me...! Why you acting like this?"

     "Kevin, Marcus is speaking to you, Honey."

     "But, Mom, he forgot to say please."

     "Please? For what?—"

     "Just say it, Marcus," mom pleaded.

     "Forget it," I said. I reached to the middle of the table and grabbed a piece of grilled chicken with a frown on my face. I then took the bowl of corn and poured some on my plate. "Mom, can you pass the rice?"

     "Sure sweetheart." She handed it to dad and he passed it to me on his right. 

     "So did anything interesting happen today?" dad asked while forking a piece of broccoli into his mouth.

     Kevin as always seized the opportunity before anyone else could say anything and began mouthing off: "Today was show-and-tell and my friend Caliph got a new puppy, it's a retriever. His mom brought it to school so we could see and he ran around the classroom chasing us and he even went to the bathroom on the floor…"

     "I think dad said, something interesting," I sneered. "No one wants to hear about a stupid dog."

     “He’s not stupid!”

     "Marcus," mom chided.

     "Sorry," I returned. "I didn't mean to be honest."

     Kevin was hurt so dad said, "Well, I want to hear it." I knew he didn't.

     Just then, my phone, sitting next to my plate, began vibrating. "Dad, can I take it?"

     "You know this is family-time."

     "It's important," I pleaded.

     "Fine, but hurry up and get back before your food gets cold. Plus, you don't want to miss your brother's story." He had a smile on his face when he said this.

     "I'm sure he'll be all too eager to fill me in later." I took the phone and started for the kitchen.

     Just then, Kevin teased, "Run! You don't wanna keep Angela waiting."

     "Angela? Who’s Angela?" Mom asked.

     "His new girlfriend," Kevin said.

     I wanted to pull his ear off. "Did you pick up my cell? How many times have I told you never to touch my phone?"

     "It's not my fault you left it on the living-room table!"

     "Your mother asked you a question," Dad said. He's the one person I couldn't lie to.

     "Someone I met a while back at the mall."   

     "The mall…? Well, when are we going to meet her?"

      "Umm, this Sunday," I said. I had to appease him and I had to do it quickly. "She's coming to the gospel meeting." Once in the kitchen, before getting outside, I clicked the answer key. "Hi!"

     "Where were you? I was about to hang up."

     "We were having dinner."

     "I'm so sorry. I'll call back later?"

     "No. It's cool. You actually saved me. Kevin was telling another one of his stories."

     "Yeah? I bet it was hilarious. He's real funny."

     "If you say so."

     "Are you done your homework? I wanna do something."

     "Yeah, I'm done. What did you have in mind?"

     "A movie, maybe?"

     "No. We're always going to the movies."

     "Well, come over and we'll find something else to do." She said this suggestively and that wasn't the first time she's invited me to her place either. I never actually came out and said my folks wouldn't allow it; I was too embarrassed: and I certainly couldn't talk to her about God because, for one thing, I didn't feel comfortable talking about a God I didn't know personally. So I always came up with some lame excuse.

     "I don't feel like being indoors," I lied. "It's sunny out. Let's go to the park."

     "The park?—"

     "Yeah: why not? It's beautiful out. We can take a walk by the river."

     "Whatever," she returned. "You wanna meet over there or are you picking me up?"

     "I'll be by in about thirty-five minutes."

     "See you then," she had said, about to hang up.

     "Wait," I cried.

     "What?"

     "What are you doing Sunday evening, say, around seven…?"

     Sunday came—for me, too quickly. While everyone was going inside, I was waiting in the parking lot for Angela. I looked at my watch. Service started in about five more minutes and she still wasn't there. I began to think she wouldn't show up. I really hoped she wouldn't. Not that I was ashamed of her. It's just, I felt like my parents (mom in particular) just wouldn't understand. All they would see was how she talked and dressed. I was pacing back and forth. I looked at my watch again. Only three minutes until the service began. Taking a deep breath, I started heading inside. She's not coming. It's for the best. But Just as I had my hand on the doorknob, her red Mustang pulled up into the parking lot and for a moment, there, my heart stopped beating. Out came Angela wearing a close-fitting red blouse under her fitted black leather jacket, dark skin-tight blue jeans and high-heels. She took my breath away. "Marcus," she called out to me.

     I went to meet her and she threw her arms around my neck. I picked her up; turning her around, I had her back directed to the building while I faced the glass door, from which I saw dad looking at me. "I thought you changed your mind and decided not to come," I said.

     She let her arms slide down from around me, took a step back and fixed her hair, and then, looking at me with the smile that always captivated me, she said, "Sorry I’m late. It’s just that I didn't know what to wear. I don’t remember ever being at a church service before. You think I can go in like this?"

      I felt a small lump in my throat. "Of course, you look great."

     "Are you sure?” She looked inside through the windows above. “I mean, everybody's all dressed up!"

     "The people here aren't like that.” I looked at my watch again. "Let's go in," I said and took a deep breath and exhaled, "Meeting's about to start." Once inside, we hurried to the main auditorium. Nearly all the seats were filled. I looked in the center row and from the back I saw mom and Kevin. They saved us two seats—but I didn't see my dad. Just then it struck me. He was one of the preachers for the evening. And as soon as we sat down—I sat beside my mother and Angela sat at the end—the man preaching with dad got up and announced a hymn. After the second hymn, he went to the pulpit, prayed, and opened his Bible. He spoke with enthusiasm. "Welcome,” he said, flipping through his Bible. “My name is Dennis. I'm very pleased to be here to speak to you about how you can receive forgiveness of sins and come into a relationship with the God of Heaven… Now, if you please, open your Bibles to the gospel of John, chapter three, verses fourteen and fifteen…" Drawing his message from those scriptures, he spoke passionately about how people are like the Jews wandering in the wilderness in Moses' day who, having sinned against God, were bitten by the fiery serpents sent of God for judgment. He emphasized how that their only hope was the bronze serpent Moses lifted up in the wilderness. Similarly our only hope is Christ who was lifted up on the cross for our sins. His thirty minutes soon ended and he sat back down.

     After Mr. Dennis returned to his seat, my dad went up and laid his over-sized Scofield Bible on the pulpit. He looked the audience over. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying. "One Verse of scriptures, please,” he said. “Mark. Mark eight, verse thirty-six!

What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?

     "What do you value most in life, dear soul,” he said—his voice sounding like a trumpet, “Car? House? Friends? A certain relationship maybe? Whatever it is, it means a lot to you I bet…" He paused as his eyes traveled around the room, looking us over. "Well, I want to tell you from God's Word, that there is something of greater worth. If you lose this thing, you can have everything else your heart desires and you still will have nothing. What I'm speaking about is your precious soul. Everything else in this world is transient, just passing away, but your soul is eternal. Before my time is up, with God’s help, like my brother, I would like to tell you how your soul can be washed from all sin and made ready for heaven. Make no mistake about it. It's not by the waters of good works, nor the tides of church goings. No. It's by something far more precious. It's by the blood of the Lamb of God, slain for you—to cleanse you from the sins keeping you out of heaven…"

     My father’s message made me uncomfortable, probably like I made the kids at school feel. As I listened, I concluded that he was speaking to me. The verse! Angela sitting beside me! It was all so clear. This knowledge did not help me, though; his words were like fiery arrows, burning through my heart and soul. While I sank in my seat, the conviction turned to anger and frustration. I felt like I was being mocked. They made salvation sound so simple. Just believe. Accept what Christ has done for you. But it wasn't simple. If it was, I thought, I would have gotten it already.

     The meeting ended with a prayer and another hymn. I was angry. I wanted to be saved. I wanted eternal life so badly, yet I couldn't get it. I saw no justice in God. I tried following the morals I was taught. Unlike my friends, I wasn't chasing skirts. On several occasions, Angela invited me over but I didn't go. It was hard resisting, but I did. I didn't use profanity, drink, smoke, use drugs. I felt I deserved God’s grace and mercy, which was being denied me. All I could think about as we sung the last verse of the hymn was getting out. I had to leave. In there, surrounded by those people—people who had what I wanted most, but I couldn't get—I was suffocating.

     Once the singing was over, I got up. No longer was I afraid of what the Christians might make of Angela, not even mother and father. I came to a radical conclusion. If I would be lost in sin's long labyrinth, I would at least have her as companion and guide. While on my feet, I heard sniffling beside me. It was not until I looked over at her that I became conscious of Angela again, but she wouldn't look at me. When she finally faced me, I saw panic in her eyes. Is she offended by what she heard? Maybe inviting her was a mistake. "Angel, you okay?" I asked.

     "No," she answered, trembling. "I don't want to perish."

     Perish? Her words startled me. While mother was busy talking, I took her by the hand. "Kevin, tell mom that Angela's not feeling well. I'm taking her outside for some fresh air." I led her out of the auditorium, down the aisle, through the foyer, down the stairs and out on the porch. Once outdoors, she clasped her arms around me, weeping on my shoulder. "Would you like to speak to the preachers?" I asked. Deep down, as I asked that question, I dreaded Angela getting saved while I was still lost. She shook her head no. "Are you sure?" I asked. "They'll be glad to speak with you." She continued to shake her head, but she looked so mortified I decided to call my dad anyway and left her standing outside with her arms crossed. Inside, I found him greeting people. "Dad, excuse me. If you have a second, someone needs to speak with you."

     "Can't it wait?"

     "I don't think it can."

     He excused himself and followed me. "Now, what's the big rush?"

     "It's Angela." Below, through the glass doors, we saw her outside with her back turned.  

     "Is she not feeling well?"

     "It’s not that.” I felt a lump in my throat. “She wants to know how she can get saved."

     "Why don’t you call Dennis," he said while heading down.

     "No," I said. "We can't. It was against her wishes I came to you." He didn't push it. Instead, we went down the stairs, opened the door and went out. Angela heard the door open, and she turned and faced us.

     "Hi," dad said and walked up to her calmly, shaking her hands gently. "I'm Daniel, Marcus' father."

     "Hello," Angela said. After shaking his hands, she crossed her arms again, and looked away.

     "Marcus said you had some questions about what you heard."

     She pushed a few strands of hair away from her eyes. "Yes, Sir," she answered, trying not to cry. "I'm afraid I’ll die as a sinner and end up in hell."

     “It’s good you don’t want to go there because neither does God want you there. You know, that is the purpose of the gospel. It's God's good news for those who are lost.”

     “I understand that,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I understand all of that. It’s just that…you and the man said people are saved by believing but-but I don’t think I know how to believe.”

     “I don’t think that’s your problem at all. Faith is something we exercise in nearly every facet of life. When you were driving here, at some point you must have driven beside someone. Well, how did you know that that person wouldn’t abandon their lane and slam into you? You didn’t. But you had faith that that person valued living as much as you do. Otherwise, you would not have even left your home. Well, believe it or not, that’s faith in action. And faith in Christ is not another kind of faith. The only difference between the person driving next to you and faith in Christ is this: the driver driving next to you could very well have been drunk or suicidal, abandon their lane and slam into you. God, on the other hand, is absolutely holy and you will never regret trusting Him. But what it really comes down to is whether or not you think He is worthy of your trust."

     I heard that one before but it was finally starting to make sense.

     “Judgment for the sins dragging you to hell was placed on Jesus when He died on the cross. Remember the Jews in the wilderness? A look to the bronze snake on the pole and they were instantly cured from the serpents' bite. It's no different for us today who are to die under God’s judgment. Believe what took place on the cross, that Christ bore the punishment for your sins. Take God at His word that the death of His Son is sufficient to cleanse you of your sins. You’re saved. That’s all it is."

    “But how will I know that I really have it?”

    “Well, there is no mystical feeling associated with God’s salvation if that's what you're thinking. It’s simply relying on God’s promise. And the confidence is found on who God is and what He has done for you through His Son, not on the measure of your faith.”

     She turned from him, both of her hands covering her eyes. "It’s all so confusing,” she whimpered.

     Dad looked at his watch and said, "We’re having some of the Christians over for a hymn-sing. Would you like to come? We can read some scriptures together. Does that sound like something you would like to do?" She bobbed her head yes. "I'll be back," dad said to me, and went inside to get Kevin and mom.

     While everyone was in the living room, Angela and my dad were in the dining room. I was close enough to hear what was going on but I didn't go in. After about thirty minutes, they rose and I saw Angela coming with a new Bible in her hand, tear-stains on her cheeks. She still didn't get it. Looking at her watch, she said, "Thank you for having me over. It’s already past 9:00. I have to go. I don't want my parents worrying." Angela had on her jacket and was about to leave when mom walked by dad and me and embraced and kissed her. Leave it up to my mother to do the exact opposite of what I had expected. Angela didn't feel uncomfortable by mom’s emotional-outburst, she herself being an emotional person. Angela then took my reluctant hands and we headed outside. Already, there was a barrier between us. I was envious.

     I was walking her to her car parked by the street. "Are you going to be okay?" I asked, my throat dry.

     "I don't know," she answered. She lightly pressed her lips against mine, turned away, took out her keys, opened the car-door and got in. She turned on the ignition and lowered the window. "I'm sorry," she said as she prepared to drive away. "I must have embarrassed you. I bet you wish you never invited me."

     "That's not true," I said. My hands were stuffed into my pockets.

     "I'll call you tomorrow," she said.

     "Okay," I replied coolly. She drove away. Angela called back that same evening to tell me that she trusted Christ. Three years later, I would trust Christ through a birthday card from her in my dorm with this verse on it: "If [salvation is] by grace then is it no more of works".