And the Shofar Blew

  Samuel wept.

  Paul wept, too. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, Samuel.”

  The tears kept coming, streaming down Samuel’s withered cheek. Tears of joy, tears of hope fulfilled.

  Paul’s shoulders sagged. He clasped his hands over his bowed head and continued to weep. “I’ve used every blessing God gave me for my own purposes. I have no right to ask you to forgive me, not after the way I’ve treated you all these years.”

  “I forgave you, Paul, a long, long time ago. So did Abby. She told me to keep praying for you the day she died.”

  Paul raised his head and stared at him.

  Samuel smiled. “Just see to it that you treat me better in the future!”

  Nodding, Paul closed his eyes and released his breath. “I promise.” A man reprieved and pardoned. When Paul opened his eyes again, Samuel was struck by the tenderness in them. He wasn’t looking through Samuel to the appointment beyond, but was here, in the moment, unhurried and thankful.

  Oh, Abby, I wish you were here to see Paul Hudson now. We weren’t wrong about him after all. The boy sits, humbled and repentant. Only God could manage this miracle. Only the Holy Spirit.

  Samuel leaned back in his chair, absently rubbing the ache in his hip. “What will you do about Valley New Life Center?”

  “I’m going to confess my sins to the congregation Sunday morning and step down from leadership.”

  Oh. Paul meant to waste no time. “Maybe they’ll listen to you. The world seems less safe these days. Some are awakening to the fact that they aren’t in control of their lives.” He considered. “But don’t be too quick to walk away, Paul. Who will guide them in the days ahead?”

  “I’m unfit for the pastorate.”

  “Peter denied Christ three times, and yet, the Lord used him mightily.”

  “Peter didn’t manipulate people to get where he wanted to go. He didn’t commit adultery with another man’s wife.”

  It was a few seconds before Samuel got his breath back.

  “I’m going to need prayer, Samuel. All I can get. If you’re willing. It’ll help me knowing you’re praying for me.” He smiled. “ ‘The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.’ ”

  “What specifically are you asking for?”

  “That fear won’t get the upper hand. That I won’t weaken. That I’ll hear and speak the words the Lord wants me to speak. I’ve been a people pleaser all my life. Now, I want to be a God pleaser.”

  Samuel nodded. “I have prayed for you for years, Paul.” He leaned forward and held out his hand. “The only difference now is I will be praying with you.”

  Paul spent another hour with Samuel. Samuel told him about Stephen Decker’s home group, and Paul didn’t have to wonder why. He felt convicted. He’d done his best to destroy Decker’s reputation when the contractor refused to compromise his principles. They’d been friends in the beginning, then adversaries, later enemies. Maybe he could make amends, with Samuel as mediator. Maybe.

  On the way home, Paul stopped by Reka Wilson’s house. Her car was parked in the driveway. He rang the doorbell and waited. He heard someone approaching, then silence. He wondered if Reka was looking out at him through the peephole. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t answer her door. He rang the bell again and waited. No answer. He walked slowly back to his car and wrote a brief, heartfelt note.

  I’m ashamed for the position I put you in, Reka. You played a part in bringing me to my senses. You’ve always been a true and loyal friend. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me someday. May God bless you for all your years of faithful service to Him. And to me. Paul Hudson

  He tucked it into her door.

  On the way home, he wondered if he’d live long enough to make amends to all the people he’d hurt.

  Samuel Mason’s old DeSoto was parked in front of the house. Timothy was home.

  Cold with fear and shame, Paul pulled into the garage. He closed the door and sat for a long time in silence, hands still gripping the wheel. He could imagine what his son would have to say. Paul felt sick—deep-down, gutter-soul sick—over what he’d done to his son. He’d followed in his father’s footsteps, pushing, bullying, expecting more and more. Instead of running away as Paul had, Timothy had rebelled. He’d stood up and called his father a hypocrite. And been exiled for it. Paul had been relieved, even thankful that Timothy wasn’t around to embarrass him anymore. Worse, Timothy had sensed something was wrong with his parents’ marriage the last time he was home.

  Whatever Timothy had to say, he’d listen. He’d let his son vent. If Timothy wanted to take a punch, so be it.

  After a brief prayer, Paul got out of his car and went into the house. He heard voices in the family room. Timothy hadn’t come alone. He’d brought his grandmother with him. His mother glanced up when he entered the room. Eunice looked away and wiped her cheeks.

  Timothy stood. “Dad.” He said the word respectfully, as though acknowledging his authority. And then he held out his hand. It struck Paul that his son knew more about grace at nineteen than he did at forty-four. He took Timothy’s hand and gripped it tightly. His throat was too tight to speak.

  His son wasn’t a boy anymore. He had a look of maturity about him despite the jeans and T-shirt and shoulder-length hair. It wasn’t the broader shoulders and arms or the deeply tanned skin that hard work in the sun had brought on. It was in his carriage, his expression.

  Eunice looked up, her eyes glassy with tears, her cheeks pale. “Your son has something to tell you.” She made a soft choking sound and fled the room.

  “Why don’t you go and see if she’s okay, Grams?”

  Paul’s mother rose without a word and left them alone in the room.

  “Can we sit?” Timothy said.

  “Sure. Of course.”

  They sat facing one another like strangers.

  Paul waited. All the years he’d cajoled, managed, and manipulated people and he didn’t have a clue how to talk with his own son. His own father had never been able to talk with him unless he was giving orders. Even during those last years when Paul had thought they were close, Paul realized his father had been working him, pointing him down a path Paul had never intended to go. Still, he couldn’t blame his father. Paul knew he was accountable for his own sins and would be paying for them on Judgment Day if Jesus hadn’t already paid the price on the cross. He was redeemed. It was time to live a redeemed life.

  His stomach was tight with tension. What was it his son had to say to him?

  “Did your grandmother tell you about . . . ?” He didn’t know how to say it—or if he should.

  “I know, Dad. It was the blonde, wasn’t it? The one who kissed you on the way out of church.”

  Paul felt the heat fill his cheeks. “Yes.”

  “She was a piece of work. I had to leave. I knew if I didn’t, I’d cause trouble. It was all I could do not to beat your head in.” Tim gave a sardonic smile. “I didn’t dare because I knew Mom would want to know why. She didn’t have a clue what was going on, and if I told her, she still wouldn’t have approved of patricide.”

  “Your mother’s always believed the best about people.”

  “She’s not naïve anymore.”

  Paul winced, knowing the fault of her lost innocence could be laid at his feet. He had used her sweetness against her, talking his way around every question she’d ever raised. “You wouldn’t have gotten through to me if you’d used a baseball bat, Tim. I was running with a head full of pride.”

  Tim tilted his head and studied him. “Mom said you flew back East and tracked her down. I guess that means you’re going to try to patch things up.”

  “I’m going to give it everything I’ve got, Tim. I love your mother.”

  “How could anyone not love her?” He shook his head, his expression full of pity and disappointment.

  The silence stretched again.

  “I didn’t come to throw stones, Dad. I came to tell you and Mom I’v
e enlisted. I thought it might be better to tell you in person than over a telephone.” He grimaced, glancing toward the hallway where Euny had gone. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Paul couldn’t have been more shocked if a terrorist armed with a machine gun had walked into his living room. “Enlisted?” The war hit home.

  “In the Marines.”

  Paul shut his eyes.

  “Ever since 9/11, I’ve been thinking about our country and what freedom costs. And I’ve been thinking about times in history when people have turned their backs on evil and the consequences that came from that. Where would we be if men hadn’t enlisted to fight Hitler? I’ve been praying over this for a long time, Dad. And I’ve had others praying for me as well. It hasn’t been an easy decision.”

  Shaken, Paul looked at his son. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “Not completely. I don’t have to know everything. I just have to move forward in the direction I believe God is leading me.”

  Into war?

  “I know America isn’t doing everything right, but we have Christian foundations and the freedom to speak and worship as we choose. Maybe God is showing mercy because we still do. Every time there’s a disaster, Americans are the first to pitch in and help. God has allowed us to prosper, and we’ve tried to help other countries. And not always for political reasons or oil. The kindness we’ve shown other nations might be the only reason God hasn’t taken action against us for all the things we’re doing wrong.”

  Timothy stood and paced. “You’ve got to know, Dad. There are a lot of kids my age who don’t have any idea who Jesus Christ is. My roommate’s a good example. He grew up believing Christmas was all about Santa Claus, a pile of presents under a decorated tree, and a January vacation in Vail, Colorado. He’d never set foot in a church until I took him. God was ousted from the schools back in the sixties, and now we’ve got a generation that’s never heard the gospel. Where better to spread it than among the men going out to fight for our country?”

  Help him, God. “They won’t let you preach in the Marines, Son. You’re not going to end up a chaplain. You’ll end up a grunt carrying a rifle.”

  “I’m not talking about preaching, Dad. I’m talking about sharing my faith. I’ll use words if I have to.” He gave a lopsided grin. “Although I asked for language school. My high school counselor said I have an aptitude for it.”

  Oh, the naiveté of youth. Or was Paul’s own faith so weak he couldn’t trust the Lord to work through a nineteen-year-old boy in a war zone? Would he be cannon fodder? “Did you sign any papers?” Maybe there was still a way out.

  “Yes. I gave my boss two weeks’ notice. I’ll have a week after that before I’m to go to the induction center in Los Angeles. I wanted it settled before I came here to talk to you and Mom. For obvious reasons.”

  There would be no way to talk him out of it. Or get him out of it. Timothy’s next stop would be boot camp, then specialized training and orders.

  Oh, Lord, You gave me nineteen years of opportunity, and I let them pass me by. And now Tim may never come home.

  “This kind of war isn’t going to be won just with guns, Dad. It’s going to be won with truth. Where better to minister truth than in the military ranks? Maybe I’ll even be able to witness to those who’ve swallowed the lie that murdering people will get them the reward of seventy virgins!”

  A military missionary? Was there such a thing?

  “You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you? You think I’m being stupid.”

  Paul realized his silence had given Timothy the wrong impression. And no wonder, considering their relationship over the years. Paul knew he had been a lousy father. Despite all his good intentions and promises to himself, he had followed his father’s example in more ways than one. Unreasonable demands for perfection. Bouts of verbal abuse followed by long periods of indifference. Did Timothy hunger for his acceptance and approval the same way he had craved them from his father?

  Paul wanted to make his feelings clear before it was too late. “No. I’m proud of you for living your convictions. And if anyone’s been stupid, it’s been me for all the years I’ve wasted avoiding my son. And now, there’s so little time.” His voice broke. A week. Seven short days. After all the wasted years.

  “You say that as though I’m going off to get myself killed.”

  Paul’s eyes burned. “I hope not.”

  Timothy smiled gently. “It’s okay, Dad. Whatever happens, I’ll be all right. It’s not like we’re saying good-bye forever, you know.”

  Paul didn’t want to let another opportunity slip away. “Would you mind if your mother and I came down and spent some time with you before you have to report?”

  Tim looked pleased. “Sure. I’d like that.” He stood. “I was going to go over and see Samuel. I want him to know about my decision before he hears about it from someone else. And then there’s the car. I’m hoping he’ll keep it in storage for me.”

  “If he can’t, we will.”

  “Thanks.” He took his keys out of his pocket. Pausing in the doorway, he looked back, troubled. “You think we can get Mom to promise she won’t cry the whole week?”

  “I’ll try, Son. I can’t promise.” He was perilously close to tears himself.

  The front door opened and closed. Paul heard the DeSoto start up.

  Poor Eunice. What must she be feeling? In the last few days, she’d walked in on her unfaithful husband, and now she’d come home to receive the news that her only son was going off to war.

  His mother came down the hallway. She barely grazed him with a look. “I’m going out for a long walk.” She opened the door. “Eunice said you’re preaching on Sunday.”

  “Yes.”

  She closed the door firmly behind her.

  He couldn’t expect his mother to believe he’d suddenly changed overnight. She’d probably heard plenty of empty promises from his father.

  He went down the hall and opened the door to the guest room. His mother’s suitcase was open on the bed he’d been sleeping in. He closed it and put it on the couch, stripped the bed, and changed the sheets. Then he moved the few things he would need over the next few days into his office. He’d sleep on the couch.

  Timothy’s room was as it had always been. Eunice had seen to that. She had always hoped their son would come home. Paul realized now the only way Timothy would’ve done that was by personal invitation from his father. Paul put his hands over his face. How much pain had he caused his wife over the years? She’d weathered his neglect and endured his persecution. She’d even given up her son. Adultery was her crown of thorns.

  The door of the master bedroom was closed. Paul tapped on the door. “Eunice? May I come in?”

  “The door’s unlocked.”

  She was sitting in her reading chair near the windows, the drapes open so the sun filtered through the lace curtains. She looked like an angel, even with eyes puffy from crying.

  “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t look at him. “I just called Samuel to tell him I didn’t feel up to coming by today.”

  “Tim’s headed over there.”

  “I saw him go.” Her voice was choked.

  Paul came into the room and shoved his hands into his pockets. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Like a truck ran over me. Twice.”

  He’d driven the first one. “I’m sorry.” He wondered if she was asking her-self the same questions he was asking himself. “Do you think Tim did it to get my attention?”

  Her face crumpled. “I don’t know.” She bent over, sobbing. “I don’t know.”

  The sight of her grief filled him to overflowing with sorrow. He took his hands from his pockets and went to her, hunkering and putting his hands on the arms of the chair. “I’d take his place if I could.”

  Her weeping softened. She studied him. Then she drew in a shaky breath and leaned back. “You’re too old.” She pulled another tissue angrily from the box in
her lap. “I’ve cried enough for a lifetime over the past few days. I’m sick of crying. Just when I think I’m dry, the sea rises.” She blew her nose noisily, glaring at him. She wadded up the tissue in a tight fist. Did she want to hit him? He would let her. “Get up, Paul.”

  At least she didn’t say, “Get out.”

  He straightened and moved away, standing near the windows, hands in his pockets again.

  She sniffed and took a shaky breath. “Knowing Tim, I think he did just as he said. I think he heard the news, got down on his knees and prayed, then got up and did exactly what he believed God was telling him to do.” Her voice wobbled. She pressed her lips together, her chin trembling. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I just have to hope and pray . . . ” She gave up and cried again.

  Paul sat on the edge of their bed, staring at his loafers. He wasn’t going to offer any platitudes or pretend he knew what God was thinking.

  “God is faithful,” she said softly. “Even when we’re not.” She dropped the damp tissue into the wastebasket and yanked out another.

  Paul could think of nothing to say that would bring her comfort. His heart ached for her. If she would have allowed, he would’ve held her.

  “Reka called. She said you left her a note. She said she was sorry she didn’t open the door, but she just didn’t feel up to talking to you. She said she hoped you and I would be able to work things out. She’ll be praying for us.”

  The silence stretched, but he didn’t try to fill it. The mantle of regret was heavy.

  “I know you’re feeling guilty now, Paul. Timothy isn’t a little boy anymore. He makes his own decisions.” She looked at him. She pressed her fingertips against her lips for a moment, then folded her hands in her lap. “Samuel told me you came by earlier. He said you asked for his forgiveness. He said you two talked for almost two hours.” Her blue eyes were so soft and luminous. “Your visit meant a lot to him.”

  “He could’ve been the best friend I ever had.”