The call came as he was heading home from work. He looked at his cell phone and thought he should recognize the number. But he couldn’t quite place it. He accepted it.

“Sergeant Lawton.”

“Brent. Pastor Jonathan.”

“Hello, Pastor. What can I do for you?” Brent asked matter-of-factly.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Brent wanted to say yes, but shunned the temptation. “Not at all. Just heading home from work.”

“Good. Can you swing by the church? I know it’s a few minutes out of your way, but I’d be grateful. I’d like to get a status update on our community situation. Plus I’ve got some additional questions.”

Now Brent wished he had lied. “Sure, Pastor. Be there in ten minutes.”

Brent did an illegal U-turn at the next available intersection; one of the perks of getting to drive a squad car, he often mused. Ten minutes later he was walking through the halls of Restoration Community Church. He’d been a part of this church for—he did a quick mental calculation—twenty-seven years. Hard to believe, he thought. Then he thought about how old he was when he’d gotten saved. I’ve been a Christian longer than I haven’t been one. Time sure flies when… He stifled the rest of the thought.

Reaching the pastor’s office he knocked on the partly-opened door.

“Come on in, Brent.”

Brent pushed the door open the remainder of the way and saw the pastor take off a pair of reading glasses and set them on his desk. He got up and met Brent half way.

“Good to see you. How’re things?”

The question seemed suspicious, but Brent downplayed it as a normal ice breaker.

“Not too bad. It’s Millsville, after all. How bad could it be?”

Pastor Jonathan just smiled in response.

“How about we have a seat?”

The pastor pulled a chair back a couple feet from the front of his desk, then walked around to his own.

Brent accepted the invitation and sat down, crossing his right leg over his left.

“It’s been better than a week since we had the pleasure of time with you and Tara. That prior Thursday, if you’ll recall, we had some spiritual commotion amongst our intercessors. Well, it happened again this past Thursday. Frankly, people are getting worried. They’re convinced something’s about to happen.”

Brent nodded, but didn’t say anything. I don’t want to get into this, God. Not exactly a prayer, more of an insistence that God comply.

He didn’t.

“What’s the news from the streets? Any new details you can share to shed light on all of this?”

Great.

“As a matter of fact, yes. There has been a lot of headway made when it comes to information. Suffice it to say, the intercessors are right to feel the way they do. A week ago, Monday, Tara and Jenna came across some interesting tattoos in Pittston…”

Brent brought the pastor up to speed with everything that had happened. Almost everything. The man didn’t need to know about the strain all of this was having on his relationship with Tara … and the kids.

“You’ve had information for eight days, Brent? This church, and other churches in the community could have been praying about this for eight days!”

Brent hadn’t expected anger to rise in the man. “Not exactly eight days, Pastor. We didn’t really tie things together that quickly. Clues, but nothing solid.”

Pastor Jonathan got up from his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. He was exasperated.

“Brent, so what if it had only been five days? Two days? At what point was it going to be important enough for you to let me know this? This is not just a police investigation. In fact, based on what you’ve told me, it’s not a police investigation!”

The pastor got out from behind his desk and began to pace his office. Hands still behind his head, he bowed his head slightly, staring down at the floor as he walked. Brent could hear him begin praying in the Spirit, just above a whisper.

Brent felt guilty. Again. Now he’d let his church down. He couldn’t handle this. He got up abruptly and began to walk toward the door.

“Brent?”

Brent ignored the man and reached for the door handle. Reaching it, he turned it, opened the door, and walked out of the office.

As he headed for the church’s lobby area, he could hear the pastor gaining ground on him. Brent wasn’t so immature as to start running, though. Within a matter of seconds, the taller man, with his quicker gait reached him and placed a hand on his left shoulder.

“Brent. Stop.”

Brent did. Pastor Jonathan definitely had a commanding presence. He knew how to use the authority that had been placed in his care. The pastor moved to stand directly in front of him.

He sighed. “Brent, talk to me. Something’s eating you. What is it?”

Brent was five feet eleven inches tall and still had to look up into the eyes of the older, more sagacious man. He was one of the few men that could actually intimidate him. He hated that about himself, but really appreciated that about his pastor.

Brent put his hands on his waist, just above his gun and utility belt, and hung his head with a sigh. After a moment he forced himself to meet Pastor Jonathan’s eyes.

“Things are not going well at home because of this,” Brent finally admitted.

“Because of what, specifically?”

Brent turned away and slowly began to walk, hands still firmly placed at his waist. Now it was his turn to pace. After a couple of turns he faced his pastor again. There was a little more distance between them this time.

He could see the concern in Pastor Jonathan’s eyes. It was genuine. He was genuine.

Brent took a deep breath, his fractured ribs painfully objecting, and held it for a moment. Letting it out, he said, “I let my family down.” The corners of his mouth involuntarily drew down and began to tremble. No. Not this. Tears began to form. He sniffled and took in a rapid, deep breath and exhaled quickly. “Whoo! Sorry...” He turned away.

I can handle this. I can manage this.

He finally got enough of a grip on his emotions to continue. “They were attacked by these … people.” He did not want to say ‘people.’ “And I wasn’t there for them! They took me out first, before I could do a single thing to help!”

Rage was starting to develop within Brent again; an abhorrence that he had rarely, if ever, internalized during his five decades of life. He turned around and looked straight into Jonathan’s eyes. “I hate them, Pastor. With everything that is in me, I hate them!”

Another layer of guilt washed over him.

I failed my family. I failed my pastor. I failed my God.

The pain in his ribs was not great enough to outweigh—didn’t even compare to—the emotional pain he was feeling in that moment. He bowed over. Grabbing his knees, he began to weep in torrents. The pressure on his rib cage forced his right hand to his chest; an avalanche of pain from so many different heights and directions.

“Oh God… Oh God… Oh God…”

BRENT WAS AWARE that Pastor Jonathan was providing him with time to think and grieve. The man stood protectively a short distance away. He could hear as others entered into the hallway to find out what was going on, but his guardian assured each of the curious that the situation was going to be fine. As they returned to their duties, Brent imagined that the church staff was probably adding extra prayer to their normal routines.

Brent sniffled. By this time he was crouching against one of the walls on the balls of his feet. It was very uncomfortable, especially with the pain in his chest, but there was stability; the wall behind him lent to that. It felt good, solid.

His foundation had shifted so much since Friday night that everything in his life, good and bad, had left him off balance.

Brent took in another deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked over to his pastor who was leaning back against the opposite wall in the same squatting position. But he was praying. Watching Brent and praying.

Upon seeing Brent’s gaze, Pastor Jonathan smiled.

Genuine.

The pastor got up and approached Brent, offering his hand to help him get back on his feet. “Feel like you can manage a little more conversation?”

Brent took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, wincing in the process. He thought now was as good a time as any to take care of his lungs, so he let out a series of three coughs. They hurt, and it must have shown.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Guess I forgot to mention the fractured ribs.”

“Ouch.”

They walked back into the office and took seats. This time the pastor made use of the other guest chair in front of his desk.

Leaning toward Brent, he said, “What these people are doing is evil. It’s vile and despicable.” There was a pause, then he continued. “But, they are just as loved by God as you and me.”

Brent’s teeth involuntarily clenched.

“I’m serious. And you know it’s true. These people, loved by God, are doing unspeakable things. We don’t know what the end game is for this group, but something even more evil is on the horizon that can hopefully be prevented.”

“Prevented only if we can crack the code on that note I told you about.”

“Brent, don’t limit God to your ability to figure things out. He’s bigger than that note. He also knows what that note means. Have you asked him for wisdom with regard to figuring out its meaning?”

Guilt.

“No,” he quietly admitted.

“It’s time to start, because maybe God put that note into the hands of three police officers for a reason. Pray for the officer you work with… Tracy?”

Brent nodded.

“And for John Eldredge, as well. Interesting name, by the way.”

Brent smiled in acknowledgment. Another John Eldredge had made a huge impact on his manhood by means of a book he had written.

The pastor got up and walked to the built-in shelving units behind his desk. He looked through an impressive collection of DVDs before he found what he was looking for. Coming back to the front of his desk, he extended it to Brent to take.

“It’s called ‘Furious Love,’ and it’s important. This documentary was planned to be a God-versus-the-devil smack-down. The documentarian, Darren Wilson, wanted to watch as God showed up in different situations and proved himself against the powers of darkness. There was a sort of spiritual pride that was being brought into each encounter. But God wasn’t going to be tempted by Darren or the others he had brought into the mix.

“God did show up, though. Just not at all like Darren had expected. Watch this film with Tara and Jenna. You might want to bring our younger brother, Officer Eldredge, in for a viewing, too.”

Brent accepted the plastic case and flipped it to the back. He didn’t read it. He just stared as he touched one last subject. “Pastor, it’s going to be hard being the man you’re expecting me to be. I may have broken down in the hallway, and I may have listened to what you’ve said, but I’m still angry.”

“Brent, just by saying that, I can tell that you’re already allowing God to penetrate. Do not stop talking with him. That’s what got you into this painful fix to begin with, not those Picti people over in Pittston.”

Brent considered that and nodded. He stood up and extended his hand to the man he loved as a brother, maybe even as a second father. The pastor’s hand was strong in his own, just as another friend’s had once been; one that he missed dearly.

“I sure wish George Chamberlin was still alive.”

“Yeah. Me too, Brent. Me, too.”

Releasing Pastor Jonathan’s grip, he looked into the pastor’s reassuring eyes one last time and made for the office door. Reaching it, he paused and turned back over his shoulder.

“Pray for me. I’ve got a hurting wife who wants her husband back, and three kids who have to be wondering about their dad.”

Pastor Jonathan nodded and flashed what appeared to be a knowing smile.