Dixon tugged on a pair of wool trousers and lifted the suspenders over his shoulders. He poked at his large stomach. Until this day, he never paid heed to his growing midsection, having been able to conceal it under his red serge. But now … he tightened his belt … what would Ruth think of it? He chuckled. Probably, she’d continue to withhold the ice cream and refuse to serve him pie.
Outside, the Chinook wind whistled past the window. Today, his replacement would arrive with his Discharge Certificate. He rested his hands upon his desk and drew a ragged breath. His was a tainted career. But that was his own doing. He accepted it. Now it was time to move on. On to what?
A knock at the door and Dixon turned to see Pastor Perkins poking his nose around the corner. “Sergeant?”
Dixon straightened and threw his shoulders back. “Come in.”
The door swung open letting brilliant sunlight explode into the office and encompass the tall pastor.
Dixon squinted. “Seems the Chinook has made that afternoon sun even stronger. Think you can close the door?”
Pastor Perkins nodded, pressed it shut, and then stepped in front of the window. The sun still beamed through the glass, silhouetting the man’s figure.
“What can I do for you?” Dixon stepped to the side so the sun didn’t glare at him.
“I was glad to hear the commissioner gave you a pardon.” The pastor’s voice rolled like muted thunder.
Dixon shrugged his shoulders and motioned for the man to sit.
“But you don’t feel pardoned.” Pastor Perkins cocked his head to one side and threw a lopsided smile at Dixon.
“Had to give up my position.” Dixon rubbed his nose then leaned back against the desk. “Not sure what I’ll do now.”
With one smooth movement, Pastor Perkins removed his hat, sat in the chair, and crossed his left leg over his knee. He eyed Dixon for a moment as though he were a judge and this were Dixon’s trial. “It’s been a rough road for you since the death of your mother. I suspect you’ve worked hard to disassociate yourself from anything that reminded you of her, including God.”
Dixon cleared his throat. As much as he wanted to disagree, the pastor was right. And so, even as everything within him screamed to deny God, he could not deny that every conversation with those who loved the Deity carved a hole in his soul so hollow, so needy of something greater than he, so hungry for peace, that at present he longed to give up the fight.
“The Bible tells of a man who reminds me of you. His name was Saul.” The pastor leaned forward. “Jesus stopped him on a road, shining as a light from Heaven, and told Saul it was hard for him to kick against the pricks.” He lifted his hand and pointed his bony finger at Dixon. “Why do you offer vain and perilous resistance to God’s love for you? Why do you kick against His pricks like a horse might kick against a switch?”
Sucking air through lungs that suddenly felt too tight, Dixon eased off the desk, a ball of controlled anger rolling in his stomach. Would he forever be plagued by men seeking to save his soul? He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“You have received your pardon from the commissioner, but you have not accepted the pardon offered to you by the One who could free you of the condemnation you are experiencing and are destined for.”
Dixon’s gaze shot to the floor. The commissioner’s pardon gave him no peace; how then could God’s pardon?
“You could spend the rest of your life condemning yourself, feeling sorry for yourself, for your past sins, or you could accept the freedom offered you. Freedom that could open up a whole new life to you, if you are willing.”
“Pastor, I …” He choked on the words. So long had he lived with his secret that now he wanted judgment. He wanted to bear the condemnation for his foolish acts.
“There is a woman in this town who loves you. She has prayed for your salvation since the day she met you and with greater fervor since Jethro died. Will you at least consider, for her sake, accepting the forgiveness offered you?”
With a twist of his neck, Dixon walked to the back of the office. He gripped the bars of the cell where almost every Saturday he cast a drunk. Occasionally one would plead for mercy, not wanting his wife or his mother to know what he’d been doing.
But Dixon had locked himself in another cell. Did he want out?
Feet shuffled behind him.
“Sergeant, the choice is yours. God’s arms are open wide. Someday, however, you’ll leave this world and will no longer have the opportunity to call on Him. He’ll not force you.” Pastor Perkins cleared his throat. “Yet, I believe you sense Him drawing you. You’ve faced your life and have hated what you’ve seen. Are you willing to surrender it to Him?”
Solid footsteps echoed through the room. The door creaked and closed.
Dixon stood alone. Or was he? This God they spoke of, He was supposed to be everywhere. Could He be here, now, watching Him?
Beside the cell hung a mirror, and in its reflection stared dark, haunted eyes.
His eyes.
It was as though God opened his heart and let him see inside.
Brokenness. Hopelessness. Pride. Stubbornness.
All those things that kept him from finding—no, accepting—what had been offered him. The hollow, empty soul he’d become—could it be changed?
The door creaked again. “Clarence?”
He closed his eyes, and his fists tightened around the bars. Ruth must not see what he saw in his eyes. He loosened his grip. But perhaps she had already.
“I passed Pastor Perkins. He thought you might want to speak with me?” Her skirts swished behind him. “Are you all right?” The sweetness of her voice, so caring, how could he resist it?
His chin dropped to his chest, and a tremor rushed through his body. “Have I hurt you, too?”
He sensed her stiffen. It cut him to the quick.
“Have I, in my stubbornness, hurt you?” His arm muscles hardened, anticipating the accusation, the rejection, the hurt.
“You have only hurt me in that you have rejected my Lord and my Saviour. You have only hurt me in that I want for you the peace I have found, that Jethro found.”
Jethro’s eyes had changed after that Sunday in Prince Albert. Dixon could not deny that. His friend had sobered, and yet in many ways, he had become deeper, more genuine, more the hero Dixon looked up to. Could that happen to him?
Ruth’s hand touched his arm. He flinched then slowly turned to meet her gaze.
Tears glistened in her eyes. She searched his face, and he ached under her scrutiny.
Could he find the peace her husband had found? “I want to know.” The words faltered as they crawled past his lips.
“Do you believe?” Her gray eyes held hope out to him.
“Believe what?” He wanted to run, but she held him in her gaze.
“Believe that Jesus died, was buried, and rose again to pay for your sins?”
He huffed. His mother had spoken of this. Jethro had spoken of this. Even Joab. But could he believe? Could one man really wipe away the stain of sin on another man’s life? Could that man be so good that death couldn’t hold him? For so long he saw himself as a protector of this community, yet he had failed. He could not keep the Blacks from facing destruction. He couldn’t keep others from meeting their fate. But this Jesus. Joab said Jesus was a safe haven, a person who gave peace. Could this be true? If it were, then truly He was God, for no human could do this.
“It is your choice. Ask God, and He will give you faith.”
The cavernous hollow of his soul longed to be filled, and his knees weakened. He stepped away from Ruth. “I’ve spent so many years denying Him.”
“And yet, you could not escape Him, could you?”
His breathing came in short spurts as though his empty, impeded spirit turned from the truth. No, that was not right. All these years he had sought truth but denied it could be found. He’d hid behind his own pride, the same pride that had kept him from admitting his mistakes—just as Abbadon said.
His hands grasped the sides of his head. He could believe. He’d lived under self-condemnation for so long, what would it be like to be free of it? What would it be like to be forgiven?
Like a drum, his pulse beat. He ran his hands down his face and placed them on his hips. His dead spirit had not turned from truth. No. It had sought to be moved from death to life, but he had denied its desire. Now, more than ever, he wanted to move from his doomed existence to God for new life. He turned back to Ruth. “I want to believe.” Was it possible one simply chose to believe? Something stirred inside him, like a voice calling to him. “I …” he gripped her arms, “I choose to believe.” Now he knew he had to settle this matter of faith before it burned him up inside. Never had there been such an urgent matter. “I do believe.”
A grin rose on Ruth’s face, and he laughed. “I choose to believe that Jesus died for my sin. That He was buried, and that He rose again.” The words shattered the shackles about his heart. This was real—more real than anything he’d ever experienced. He had bucked against such faith, but now he felt it. “What should I do now?”
She laughed and pulled a Bible from her pocket. Opening it, she said, “The Bible says ‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.’” She squeezed his hands. “You can have that freedom from self-condemnation, just tell it to Jesus and ask Him to forgive you.”
Dixon shook as he knelt on the floor before the cell bars. How could this be? A simple act of believing could bring such joy? “Lord, I’ve done wrong. I’ve lived a wretched life.” His shoulders trembled as waves of remorse swept over him and tears poured down his face. “Please forgive me, Jesus.”
The air stilled. Not a sound could be heard, not even the wind outside. But deep within him surged a Chinook that blew away the damning clouds of guilt and filled him with the warm presence of peace.
He chuckled and waited, unsure whether the warmth would stay.
It did.
Ruth’s hand touched his shoulder.
He laid his calloused one upon hers and lifted his head to meet her blessed eyes.
She laughed softly then whispered, “Born again.”
The warmth of the sunlight coming through the window relaxed his strained muscles. His heartbeat slowed, and he filled his lungs with air, treasuring each breath in a new life. “Born again.”
The door opened and the cool of the outside flowed into the room.
“Sergeant?” Barty’s voice cracked. “Ah, did we come at a bad time?”
Dixon chuckled and rose to his feet. He turned and saw a young inspector standing behind his friend. Dixon saluted and waved the men inside. “You’re Inspector Gilroy.”
“Yes sir.” The young man removed his wool hat and drew an envelope from inside his serge. “I have a letter here from the commissioner. It contains your Discharge Certificate.”