Sorry I’m late,” announced Coach Chamberlin as he walked into the small, windowless in-school suspension room. He stopped and stared at the lone occupant. “Brent?” His eyebrows pinched together in a disappointed wince. “Tell me what you did.”

“I don’t suppose starting with ‘it wasn’t totally my fault’ is going to make much difference.”

“I’d say that’s a pretty good assumption.”

As if it were a part of his story, Brent sighed for the hundredth time before speaking. He looked down at his notebook, unwilling to look into the eyes of yet another displeased person. “I punched Galen Todd.”

“I see. And I’m assuming that he did or said something that made you feel like he deserved it. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why are you the only one sitting in this room with me?”

“Galen was totally suspended.”

“Totally, huh?” The coach shook his head. “Okay, Brent. It looks like it will probably be just you and me for the next two days. Next week, though, I’m sure it will be a different story. You’re not the only one in this school who lands in a seat before Mr. McClaren.

“Brent, just because you’re one of my key players doesn’t mean you’re going to get any special privileges. You understand that, don’t you?”

Brent gave a slow nod.

Coach Chamberlin sat down in a chair behind a small table at the head of the room that served as a workstation. “You’d better get started on any homework that you have. There’s no sleeping, so fight the urge to lay your head on your arms. Believe it or not, in-school suspension is a form of punishment, and the days are going to feel long even with homework to do.”

“It already feels long,” replied Brent.

The coach looked at Brent, obviously searching for the right words. Finding them, he said, “I’m going to invade your personal space a little bit with a question. You’ve resisted telling me before, and I think that had something to do with your teammates always being in proximity. But the basketball season is over. It’s just you and me, now.”

Tension developed throughout Brent’s neck and back, knowing where his coach’s words were heading.

“Something’s wrong. And, while you may think of me as just another authority figure doing his job, I want you to know that I really do care. If I can, I want to help.” He paused to allow his last statement to have a little impact. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Does it have something to do with life at home? Here at school?”

Brent looked up at his coach, a wary look touching his eyes. Would it hurt to trust this man? Could he just lay things out and expect someone like him to understand? He looked down at his notebook again. He’d risk it. His pride was pretty much demolished anyway.

“Coach, it has to do with a lot of things. Home, school, you name it. But I don’t think you’ll understand. God sure doesn’t seem to.” He shook his head. “I’m into something that even I don’t understand; something that I can’t get out of.”

“I’m listening,” said Coach Chamberlin. He stood and pulled his chair out from behind the table. Placing it a couple of feet away from Brent, he straddled it and sat down, the back of the chair providing an arm rest.

“Coach, I really don’t want to talk about this.” Brent began to choke up, tears pooling in his eyes.

“Brent, it’s okay. You may not believe it, but you’re with a friend.”

Brent rubbed away the tears before they fell. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” How he wanted to get up and run. The heel of his left foot began tapping the floor nervously.

“Try me.”

“Coach, I’m lost. I’m lost, and I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid … and …” Brent stopped. His tongue seized. He had actually believed he could follow through. He fought in his mind for clarity. I can’t, he thought to himself. I’ve still got too much to lose. This could get me cut from the team.

Brent looked up, his red eyes showing the stress behind the tears. “I’m sorry, Coach. I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t tell you.” His eyes trailed downward again.

“Okay, Brent. Relax. I’m not going to force it.” He began to get up to move back to his work area, but paused and sat back down.

“Brent? You said something a minute ago. I’m going to ask about it because you brought it up. You mentioned God.”

“Oh … yeah … him. What about it?”

“Do you believe in him?”

“I’m forced to believe in him. I don’t really have the luxury of not believing.”

“What do you mean? Are your parents forcing their beliefs on you?”

Brent released a cynical laugh. “My parents? Nuh-uh. They could use some religion, if you ask me. Coach, the reason that I can’t explain what I’m going through is the same reason I can’t tell you how I know there’s a God.”

“Okay,” Coach Chamberlin continued, “Let me ask you this, then.” Again he paused, obviously making sure that he had Brent’s full attention. Brent’s eyes met his again. “If you were to die tonight, would you go to Heaven?”

Brent looked up into his coach’s eyes, stunned. “What?”

“Would you?”

“I … uhh …” How was he supposed to respond to this? He panicked, searching within himself for some way out. This was cutting too close. “Yeah … I mean … I don’t…” Brent looked down again, knowing the next words out of his mouth were going to be a lie. “Yes,” he said firmly. And seemingly without the ability to keep his mouth closed, he followed it up with, “I hope.”

“Let me ask it another way. If you were to die tonight and found yourself standing before the throne of God … If he were to look you in the eyes and ask, ‘Why should I let you into my Heaven?’ what would you say?”

What the… Brent was at a total loss. If he were standing on a log in the middle of a lake he couldn’t have been more off balance than he was now. “Coach, I …” He stopped. He took a deep breath and spoke the only truthful answer that he could manage. “I’ve … I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t mean to hurt people. I …” He couldn’t find any more words. I what? I … what? He was staggered by his inability to produce another sentence. That was his best argument? That was the single statement that he could give to God as his defense against Hell?

Brent looked up again into the eyes of his coach, his own registering fear. He could see that Coach Chamberlin recognized it.

“Brent, listen to me…”

“Coach … Coach, I…” Brent’s thoughts were a torrent of emotions, of horrified realization.

“Brent. Shhh…It’s okay.”

Brent looked back and forth in his coach’s eyes, looking for something—anything—that would steal his panic away. He wasn’t seeing it.

“Brent,” Coach Chamberlin said more insistently. “It’s okay. Focus on what I’m saying.”

The fog in Brent’s mind seemed to clear a little bit.

“Brent, what are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, Brent. Tonight. What are you doing this evening?”

“I, uhh, I’m grounded. I’m grounded for two weeks. I’m not doing anything.”

“Brent, my wife and I are going to an event called Freedom Rings. I’d like for you to come with us.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. What is it?”

“It’s kind of a get-together of people from all sorts of different backgrounds and life challenges. There will be music, someone will talk about the Bible…”

Brent cut him off. “Church?”

“Not exactly. It started off as something small, about a dozen guys and gals. They wanted to get together as a group, where no one would criticize them for their lack of Bible knowledge or the way they wore their hair or their clothes. They especially didn’t want to be looked down upon because of the situations that most of them had in their lives.

“The man who pulled the group together wanted to let these people know that God wasn’t concerned with what they looked like or where they came from, just that God cared about each of them as individuals, that he cared about them in spite of the messes that they’d landed themselves in.

“This little group grew. It now has more than 700 attendees.”

“When did you start going?” asked Brent, obviously captured by what he’d just been told.

“Brent, I was part of that original small group.” Coach Chamberlin let that register before he continued. “You’re not the only one who knows what desperation is.”

4:55 P.M.

SHARON LAWTON STOOD in her kitchen making preparations for dinner. Crisp, green vegetables, strewn about the counter space, were washed and ready to be chopped up for a salad. She was just opening a cabinet to pull out a large serving bowl when the phone rang. She grabbed the bowl, set it down in the midst of the scattered greens, then reached for the phone.

“Lawton residence.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lawton. It’s George Chamberlin, Brent’s basketball coach.”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Chamberlin. What can I do for you?” Sharon asked, already preparing herself for another dose of bad news from the school.

“Is Brent available?”

“I believe he is. Will you hold for a moment?”

“Yes, ma’am. Happy to,” the coach replied.

Sharon set the phone down on a chair beside the kitchen counter and walked into the living room. As she approached the foot of the staircase leading to the second story of their large suburban home, she could hear Lydia laughing. Brent was saying something to her, but Sharon couldn’t make it out. For all of the conflicts that periodically raged through the family, she was grateful that her children, at least, had a good relationship. Looking up the stairs she called out, “Brent!”

“Yeah?” Brent called out.

Miffed, Sharon put her hands on her hips. “Brenton Nathaniel, do you mind stepping out of your room when you answer me?”

Brent stepped from his bedroom and walked to the top of the stairs. His face had a look of indignation, with a trace of humor about the eyes. “Yes, Mom. What is it, Mom?”

“You’re asking for it,” Sharon threatened lightheartedly. “Coach Chamberlin is on the phone for you.”

Brent’s eyes changed; the humor fading. “What does he want?”

“I didn’t ask.”

She watched as Brent took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then proceed down the stairs. Turning to follow Brent as he passed, she returned to the kitchen and her food preparations.

“Hello?” Sharon heard him say after taking up the phone. “Hi, Coach.”

Pause.

“Yes, I remember.”

Pause.

“I don’t know. Besides, like I said,” Brent turned to look at his mom, “I’m grounded. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t go anyway.”

Pause.

“No … I didn’t ask.” Brent sighed. “Okay. Hold on.”

Brent covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his left hand, pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “Mom, Coach wants me to go to some church-like thing with him and his wife tonight. I told him I doubted that I could go, but he wanted me to ask you anyway.”

Sharon finished cleaning the seeds out of a bell pepper and then turned to look at her son. “Brent, even if you weren’t grounded I don’t think I’d say yes to something like that. Your coach seems like a decent man, but I don’t know him well enough to say yes to you going to some religious meeting. I don’t want you to get mixed up with some sort of cult-like group.”

4:57 P.M.

THE IRONY OF his mom’s statement caught Brent short. Cult, Mom? If you only knew what I’m already involved in. He could have laughed if things hadn’t become so serious.

“So, I should tell him no?” Brent asked.

“I’m afraid so,” she replied as she began to slice the pepper into long strips.

Brent put the phone back to his ear. “Coach, my mom says I can’t go.” There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then his coach responded.

“Okay, Brent. I’m sorry to hear that, but I will be praying for you.”

Not knowing exactly how to take that, Brent replied with, “Thanks, Coach.”

“Have a good evening, and I will see you…”

“Brent?” His mom interrupted.

“Coach, can you hold on a sec?”

“Sure.”

Turning to look at his mom, Brent saw her wiping her hands and stepping toward him. “Can I speak with him for a moment?” she asked as she reached for the phone.

Brent didn’t reply. He just relinquished control of the phone and listened.

“Coach Chamberlin? It’s Mrs. Lawton again. Exactly what is it that you’re wanting Brent to attend with you tonight?”

Brent cringed. He wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to go to the meeting tonight, and his mother had been the perfect excuse not to. Now, completely out of character, his mom seemed to be taking away a perfectly legitimate excuse. In a million years, he couldn’t have fathomed that his mom would have stepped out of her introverted nature like this, taking the initiative to talk with someone she didn’t really know.

“And where is it?”

Pause.

“Mmm-hmm. Yes, I know the area,” she replied. “And what time would he be back home?”

Oh no, Brent thought. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Okay,” she said into the phone. “He said that your wife will be going as well, is that right?”

Pause.

“Mmm-hmm.” She laughed at something that Coach Chamberlin said. “Sure, that’d be great. I’d enjoy meeting her sometime.”

Pause.

Another laugh. “I’m sure we will.”

Pause.

“No, no problem at all. He’s free to go if he’d like. I’ll give him back to you right now. Have a good night, Mr. Chamberlin.” Brent’s mom handed him the phone. “If you want to go, you can.”

With utter lack of enthusiasm, Brent responded, “Great. Thanks, Mom.”

Taking back the phone and putting it to his ear, Brent said, “Coach, it looks like I can go. What should I wear?”

“What are you wearing right now?”

“Umm … a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt.”

“That sounds good to me,” was the response.

Confused, Brent replied, “To church?”

Coach Chamberlin let out a small laugh. “It’s not church. I already told you that. My wife and I are going to eat a quick meal, and then we’ll head out to pick you up. We should be at your house a little bit after six o’clock.”

Brent let him know that would be fine, then they said their goodbyes. Hanging up the phone, he walked back through the living room and went back upstairs.

What had just happened? And what had he gotten himself into?