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“Darren! Darren—don’t!”
Brad moaned and tossed on his pillow. His mother’s anguished screams filled his mind. He was a four-year-old again, hiding behind the couch as his parents fought.
There was a heavy, scraping sound, like heavy furniture being moved. Then another shrill scream, and a heavy crash, like someone falling to the floor.
More screams, worse than before, and the sound of heavy blows.
His dad’s voice was thick, bleared, and rang out to the accompaniment of his mother’s sobs. “I told you what I’d do if my dinner was cold again,” he announced. “You’ve only got yourself to blame! I work my hands raw to put food on this table. The least you can do is make sure it’s hot when I get home!”
“Oh don’t!” his mother screamed, and his child-self clapped his hands over his ears again.
Brad moaned and tossed on his bed, and dug his face into the pillow.
His parent’s living room melted, changed. The shouting faded to silence. The dull yellow lamplight gradually lightened to a wintry sky.
He was standing on the little stoop outside their back door. It was bitterly cold, but his mom was sitting on the steps, her shoulders slumped against the railing. And at seven years old, he knew what was wrong – when his Mom was crashing, she got so sleepy she practically passed out.
It was hard to move her, but he’d had practice; he opened the door, grabbed her feet, and slowly dragged her back inside again.
He had to stop and catch his breath. His Mom lay there on the kitchen floor with her arms splayed out, unconscious. Her face was gray, her lips were shriveled and dry, and her teeth were brown.
She looked older than his grandmother.
He’d crouched down and put his hand to her cheek, grieving for her. For the mother he should’ve had, and didn’t. A hard lump burned in his throat.
He moaned in his sleep, hunched his shoulders over and settled onto his side.
The nightmare convulsed again, and now he was standing on a windswept hillside with his grandmother. It was cold and overcast, and he couldn’t feel his fingers.
His grandmother had looked down at him, and for once, the look in her eyes had been soft. “You can cry, boy,” she whispered, and squeezed his hand. But he’d cried himself dry long before he’d ever met his grandmother.
A minister stood in front of a big hole, and was praying over his mother’s casket. And he had bowed his head, but he wasn’t praying. He looked down into the hole and decided that there was no God, in spite of what his grandmother told him. No one could look down on that raw, gaping hole in the ground and believe in such a thing.
But he frowned, and thrashed, and prayed in his sleep.
Why.
Why.
Why.
Brad tossed, turned over on his back, and settled down with a sigh.
The dream vanished – and then began playing all over again. Brad gasped in his sleep, and thrashed.
No, no. No more.
He was back in his parent’s living room. “Darren! Darren – don’t!”
His mother’s screams began again, and once again, he was a terrified four-year-old hiding behind the couch.
But this time, the dream was different. This time, he sensed the presence of a new participant. He raised his brows, and his eyes rolled underneath their lids.
There was light in the room now, not the dull yellow light of the lamp, but brilliant light – blue-white, dazzling. It blotted out the sight of his parents fighting, blotted out the sounds of his father’s shouts and his mother’s screams. It drowned everything else into oblivion – even his fear.
He saw his four-year-old self hiding behind the couch. And he saw a man standing beside him. The man reached down and put his hand on his head. He saw his child-self look up and smile.
He felt the old pain pouring out of his heart like black smoke, to be instantly swallowed up by the light.
Joy flooded his heart, and he didn’t know why.
The light filled his whole mind, and the dream changed again. Gradually it resolved to the little stoop outside their back door. Once again, it was cold, and his Mom was slumped against the railing, in the throes of withdrawal.
And the light surged in like the sea. It streamed through the bare oak branches, consumed the ugly black railing, the concrete steps, his mother, and even him. And the man was there again, and looked down at him.
Unreasoning joy swelled in his heart, strained it, threatened to burst it – and the man laughed.
The old pain and the heavy grief burst out of his chest and flew away over the housetop like a flock of wild birds. And the joy threatened to overcome him.
An answering joy radiated from the man’s face, and Brad looked at him in wonder.
The light blotted everything out and made his mind go white and blank. Then shape and color slowly returned. Once again, he and his grandmother were on the gray, windswept hill, and the minister prayed, and his child self looked down into the gaping hole in the ground. But now the man came and stood at his side, and wiped the face of the hillside with his hands. Light blurred the minister, blotted out the casket, filled the hole with light as if with water.
And then another white shape came and stood beside the man. Brad looked at the face that slowly resolved through the whiteness, the familiar eyes, and the smiling mouth – not shriveled now, not blighted, but young and radiant with life.
He fell to the ground and hugged his knees and moaned, crying like he’d never cried before – deep, wracking sobs. And the bitter anger spiraled up through his chest, was expelled with those sobs, and consumed by the light.
Brad woke sobbing. He sat up and reached wildly into the air with both his hands. The joy still glowed in his heart like a star.
But his apartment was dark and still. It had been a dream.
Brad sat in the dark, wide-eyed and panting. No, not just a dream. Because the old hurt, the old pain and fear were gone, as if the sea had poured through him and washed them away.
Even his doubt was gone.
He got up and turned on the light. He scrabbled over his bedside table for the one souvenir he’d brought from the green hill country: the plain brown book from his hotel room table.
He took it, and it fell open to a spot near the back. He looked down, and read:
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.”
Brad stared at the page through tear-filled eyes. The words pierced him, in their terrible beauty; his heart had been broken by joy, and emptied of grief, and now it was tender enough to be filled.
He bowed his head, and shook it in wonder. “You are real,” he prayed in amazement. “I can’t explain how, but I feel Your presence, and I know You’re real.”
He shook his head. “The pain is gone. It’s gone. I don’t know how – what did You do? – but I guess that part doesn’t matter. The point is, I asked if you were real, and You showed me. I believe now.”
Tears filled his eyes. “I may weaken later, but take my heart now, if you want it. It’s not much, but I’ll give it to You.”
The joy came again, an echo of the joy in his dream, and he had the sense, somehow, that God was smiling. Brad closed his eyes and warmed himself in that glow. Then a new thought prodded him, and he smiled wryly.
Brad Williams – the Christian.
Who would’ve thought.
