How many times had he said those words? Every day every hour? Jordan knew now, much as he'd known then, that the words were more for himself than anyone else. His mother had known the truth from the beginning. “God's calling me home, Jordan… He's calling me home.”
But Jordan and Heidi weren't ready for her to go. Hadn't God known that? Hadn't He cared?
He pulled the parka tighter, grateful he was the only person at the park that night. His mother's illness had gotten worse with each day until finally—the last day of her life—he hadn't both-ered to ride to Jericho Park. He no longer wanted to spend time talking to Jesus; he wanted to be with his mother. Wanted to cling to her and stay by her side, to will the life back into her and love the cancer out of her body.
Faith's family was with them every day, nearly all day long that last week. Faiths mother would bring dinner and her father would sit by Mom, praying for her, talking to her. Not until sometime around eight o'clock, when his mother seemed able to sleep, would the Moses family go home. After that Jordan often led Heidi to her room and prayed with her. When she was asleep he would spend an hour or so at Jericho Park, then come home and creep into his mother's room, taking her hand, kissing it as his tears fell onto the dirty knees of his jeans.
“Don't go, Mom. Stay with us. Please…”
A few times Faith had stayed with him, having been given a reprieve on her normal curfew T in light of Jordan's mother's condition.
“Can she hear you?” Faith whispered one night.
Jordan remembered feeling angry at her question. “Of course she can hear me. She's sick, but she's going to make it, Faith. God's going to heal her.”
Even after Faith had gone home, Jordan stayed at his mother's side, finally falling asleep on the floor, his hand clinging tightly to hers. He and Heidi had skipped school every day that last week, and time lost all meaning.
The morning of his mother's last day, he got up early and had a feeling she was already awake. He sat straight up on her bed-room floor and rose to his knees, peering over the top of the bed, making sure she was still breathing. When he saw that she was, he gently took her thin, bruised hand in his and smoothed his fingers over the top.
Her eyes opened and moved slowly in his direction and the shadow of a smile crossed her face. “Jordan…”
Heidi must have felt something different that morning, too, because she appeared at the bedroom door, and Jordan motioned her inside. His sister knelt beside him and he put his free arm around her as she reached over and linked her fingers between those of Jordan's and their mother's. “Hi, Mom… how're you feeling?”
Jordan had no trouble remembering his mother's face that morning, but the image of Heidi was less clear. Had she been fearful or sad or unaware? Had she known, like him, that their mother's time was running short? Did he take the time to tell her, to explain to his sister what was happening?
Jordan thought about that for a moment and decided he hadn't. Why would he have? Until that last day, he'd thought for sure God would heal her. But that morning there was a different look in his mother's eyes, a sadness and joy that Jordan still couldn't explain. As though she was about to take a much-anticipated journey and her only regret was having to say good-bye.
“Heidi…” Their mother's voice was clearer that morning. For days she would cough violently every time she tried to speak, but this time she was comfortable, at peace. “Heidi, you're so beauti-ful…you must… put Jesus first… always.”
Heidi threw herself over her mother and hugged her, weeping and wailing over the prospect of what was happening. In that moment it must have been obvious to both Jordan and Heidi: They were saying good-bye to their mother. “Don't go, Mommy, please… I love you too much.”
Heidi carried on for a long while, and Jordan could do nothing but rub her back with one hand and their mother's hand with the other while quiet tears coursed down his face. After a while Heidi sat up again and leaned into Jordan. There was silence while their mother seemed to summon what little strength remained. Jordan pulled Heidi more tightly to himself as they watched, waiting for their mother's next words.
“I love you, Jordan… you're such a good boy… so… kind.”
The memory of the moment was more vivid now than it had been since that awful morning, and Jordan felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He had cried so much that year, the year he lost his mother and Heidi and Faith. But tears had not touched him once in the time since then. Not since his move to the New Jersey boys’ camp. He was a survivor, a loner, really A smart and lonely kid who'd found a way to make it on his own.
But here, now—the memory of that last day with his mother so real he could almost touch her again—tears filled his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. His eyelids closed and he saw her as she'd looked that day so frail and weak her skin was practically translucent. She stayed very still in the bed, but her eyes darted between Heidi and Jordan. “Jesus…Jesus wants you to know…He loves you, Jordan. Keep praying, please. And one day… when you come home… I'll be waiting for you. Just like I used to wait for you here.”
When you come home… when you come home… when you come home…
Why hadn't he remembered those words until now? The last thing his mother had said to him, the last thing that made sense amid her frenetic coughing and drug-induced incoherency was an invitation. When it was his turn to go home, she'd be waiting for him. Just like she'd always waited for him when he was a boy.
The thought was sadder than anything Jordan had considered for a very long time. To think she'd been so certain of God and heaven and eternity that it really had been like going home. In her mind, the cozy house they had on Oak Street wasn't home at all, but rather a temporary stopping ground. Heaven. That was home to his mother, and her last morning on earth had been spent trying to convince Jordan of the same.
Her words rang in his heart. When you come home… when you come home…
He wouldn't have struggled with the idea back then, back when his blossoming faith had been the only life preserver in a raging sea of tragedy. Had his mother known, somehow? Back then, with death mere hours away, had she known he would grow up to be an angry, cynical man who scoffed at the mere idea of a higher power and summarily dismissed the thought of eter-nity? Had she known?
The memories faded as Jordan caught something moving behind him, off to the side. He turned and saw three shabbily dressed teenagers heading his way Just try and mess with me tonight, punks. They laughed and poked each other in the ribs as they came closer and stood in front of him, half-circling the bench.
“Okay, rich boy, what ya got for us?” The kid was tall and skinny, with ratlike eyes and bushy hair.
Jordan chuckled and let his eyes run the length of the boy and his friends. “Isn't it past your bedtime, children?”
A short boy with pants that sagged nearly to his knees kicked Jordan's shoe. “Bet we could get a couple ten spots for those leathers, what ya think?”
His redheaded, squatty companion yanked at Jordan's coat sleeve. “And a couple more for this.” He looked at his friends, and they all burst into laughter.
Jordan felt his patience waning, but just as he was about to tell them to leave a glint of light reflected on a sizable knife in the skinny kid's back pocket. Just as Jordan had known his mother was going to die that morning sixteen years ago, he knew with-out a doubt what was about to happen.
He was going to be murdered.
They would rob him, maybe strip him of his coat and shoes, and stab him right there in the park. His lip curled. So, God, is this Your way of showing You love me? For a split second he won-dered if there was time to reconsider, to analyze whether God's alleged promises might be true after all. If You're there, God, now's the time to show me. He sat up straighter and stared at the teens. “Get lost.”
The skinny one moved in closer, and his eyes narrowed, the pupils black as flint. “Don't tell us what to do.” He reached back toward the knife.
Jordan's mind r
aced in search of a plan, but all he came up with was a plea. God, if You're really there, keep me safe. I'm not… I'm not ready to go home.
“You're pretty stupid, rich guy.” The teen's bushy hair shook as he jerked the knife from his pocket and pointed it at Jordan's throat.
The sirens came at that exact instant.
They couldn't have been more than a block away by the sound of them. The kid glared at him and shoved his knife back in his pocket. Then he and the others took off, running across the street, away from Jordan and the park. Before they could get to the other side of the road, several police cars converged on the area, and officers sprang from the cars, guns drawn. Using a megaphone, one of them shouted at the boys, “Police! Drop your weapons and freeze.”
For a moment it looked as though the teens might try to out-run the officers, but then they came to a strange stop, almost as though their feet had gotten stuck in wet cement. No, that wasn't it. Almost as if someone unseen had grabbed them by their ankles. Jordan gawked at the unfolding scene as, one at a time, the teenagers dropped to the ground, their hands spread out in front of them. One of the policemen found the skinny kid's knife and tossed it to his partner. There were knives in the pockets of the other boys as well. In a matter of minutes, all three teens were whisked away in the police cars, leaving Jordan to absorb what had happened.
He had prayed to God for help…and for what felt like the first time in his life, the Lord had answered. He really and truly had answered his prayer. Not in a way that might be confused with coincidence or good vibrations or a strangely timed bout of luck. No, the teenagers being arrested seconds before they might have attacked him was something else altogether.
Even for a nonbeliever like Jordan, there was only one possi-bility. God had worked a miracle right before his eyes.
He began walking, and fifteen minutes later he was back at his apartment, assailed by doubts and doing his best to ignore whatever strange thing had happened back at the park. He must not be getting enough sleep. The teens were just punky kids. They weren't really going to harm him, were they? And if there was a God, He wouldn't have answered a prayer from someone like him. It was all just a strange set of coincidences…
Jordan put on a pair of sweats, flipped on his favorite sports channel, and sank into his leather recliner. Whatever had hap-pened back at the park didn't matter. He was determined to make good on his word to Hawkins. He had a job to do in Bethany, a ten-thousand dollar job.
And regardless of whether angels or God Himself had inter-vened on Jordan's behalf, he intended to do it.
Twenty
The walls around the Jesus statue had been up for two full days and the outcry against HOUR was building across the city with each passing moment. It was nine o'clock at night when Faith returned home exhausted from another prayer vigil. She gazed around the empty kitchen.
Another night alone.
If only Mom were here…
Faith understood, of course. Aunt Fran's recovery required her to stay off her feet at least eight weeks, and since she lived alone, Faith's mother had been adamant about going to stay with her sister. No doubt about it, Mom was where she needed to be.
Faith tossed her coat on a chair, made herself a cup of tea, and sat at the kitchen table. As she sipped the warm liquid, she closed her eyes, remembering the conversation she'd had with her mother about the legal fight and the loss of her job.
“You have to do what God's telling you, Faith. I'm completely behind you.”
Her mother had been shocked and then distraught to learn that Faith's opponent in the battle was Jordan Riley She remem-bered him fondly as the boy who had been their neighbor all those years ago. “The walls around the statue are nothing to the walls that must stand around that boy's heart. I'm so sorry I'm not there with all this going on, dear.”
“It's okay, Mom,” Faith had assured her, though she wished her mother could be with her. Especially to talk through her feelings about Jordan.
Her mother had asked about how it felt to have Jordan as an adversary. “It hurt at first,” Faith told her. “But I understand him better now. He's in too much pain to see what he's doing.”
Faith cupped her steaming mug in her hands. It was true. She held no animosity toward Jordan, just a deep sadness that the tragedies in his life had caused him to think of God as an enemy Father, am I doing the right thing? Is the Jesus statue worth all this?
I will fight the battle, daughter… Go forward in My strength, not yours…
At the reminder, Faith drew a calming breath. She had no choice but to heed the words she continued to hear deep in her heart. The battle had grown more heated than ever. There were times she felt as if the expectations of the entire town rested on her shoulders, while she herself was balanced precariously on a tightrope two miles above the city. And if that hadn't been enough to consume her mind…
Jordan was back in town.
He'd held a press conference the day before, stationing him-self in front of the walled-in statue and apparently inviting every member of the media within a three-state radius. Based on the number of vehicles that had congregated around the park for Jordan's statements, Faith was sure he considered the conference a success.
She took another sip of tea and spread the newspaper out on the table in front of her.
Like the first time she'd seen it earlier that morning, she couldn't help but laugh, even just a little. The photo on the front page was taken barely twenty-four hours after the wall went up, but citizens had begun to show their dislike for it by spray painting sentiments across the plywood. The photographer had captured Jordan speaking into a dozen microphones, the walled-up statue in the background. Taking up nearly half the photo were these words written across the wall: “God rules.”
Faith stared at the picture and marveled at the goodness of the Lord. Obviously Jordan's press conference had been in direct response to the media coverage she'd received the day before. Even the daily paper captured the fact that the public loved Faith. “Media Darling Sides with People of Bethany” one head-line read. Faith had expected to be persecuted, berated, and mocked for her stance. Instead the Lord seemed to be using her to bring the people together, to shed light on the public's right to keep the statue.
The night before, she'd watched the news segment on Jordan's press conference and winced when he made comments that seemed directed at her. “I won't smile and tell you a litany of lies intended to pacify the people.” His face had been stern. Strikingly handsome, Faith had to admit, but stern. “The truth is this: People have a right to separation of church and state.” He'd pointed to the walled statue behind him. “That wall is proof that every man, woman, and child in this country has rights, and that among those is the right to choose your own religion. Buddhists and Baptists—both are welcome in the United States and both should be welcome at Jericho Park. I can only imagine the outcry if, for instance, I donated a statue of Buddha to the people of Bethany. If a statue like that stood in the park, people would be lining up across the city to have it removed.”
Jordan's voice rang with sincerity “That's because there's a senti-ment in this land that Christianity should be endorsed by the gov-ernment.” He paused—for effect—Faith was sure.” Tolerance toward this type of public Christianity leads to an endorsement. And an endorsement will one day lead to a. mandated, state-spon-sored religion.” Jordan raised his voice. “We must preserve our freedom of religion… our freedom to choose. That's why HOUR is here in Bethany, fighting for every citizen in this country. Fighting to save us all from the tyranny of a state-sponsored religion.”
Faith had watched the entire segment and sighed at the sad-ness in her heart as she turned off the television. Could Jordan really be that far gone? Was her childhood friend really the same man speaking out against God at a press conference? She studied Jordan's newspaper photograph, looking for anything remotely familiar—the earnest eyes, gentle heart, or dimpled smile. But there was nothing except the shape of h
is face, chiseled chin, and cheekbones.
Otherwise he looked like a stranger.
Images from the prayer vigil came to mind, and Faith consid-ered the commitment of the townspeople who'd come that night. It had been obvious by their kindness that they were there as much to support her as to support the Jesus statue. If their favorite daughter were involved in the cause, then by golly they'd be involved too. Faith smiled at the memory. With each gathering the numbers grew, and people often asked what they could do to help. She thanked those who spoke with her, but the truth was frighteningly simple: They could gather the support of every-one in the state, but the decision would still be up to the judge.
Faith held her cup of tea closer to her face and let the steam warm her cheeks. It felt like days since she'd had a moment alone, time to talk with the Lord and seek His direction. She'd wanted to stay at Jericho Park after everyone was gone, to pray as she'd done when she was a young girl, back when she and Jordan would go there together. But dozens of people obviously planned to stay until she left.
She checked her watch and saw that a half hour had flown by. Surely the last of the prayer warriors had left the park by now. Faith considered the idea, pictured having the park all to herself and the chance to sit on her favorite bench and pray. Yes, it was just what she needed. The temperatures were expected to hit freezing that night so she bundled up in a full-length wool coat, gloves, and a scarf. Satisfied that she'd be warm enough she made her way out to her car. In five minutes she was back at Jericho Park.
She scouted the area before getting out of her car and found it empty. Without hesitating another moment she made her way across the familiar path toward the bench, the one closest to the Jesus statue. Her statue.