A Protocol for Grace

By Christine Enking and Mark Storry

Anne Sinclair works hard to make the world a better place—especially for children. She is a child protection worker whose job isn’t her only battle. Trying, like the rest of us, to find her place in the world and give meaning to her life, she struggles with her faith, her family legacy, loss and grief, her religious and spiritual heritage, and the demons of her personal past.
Others in her life are also wrestling with crises of faith: faith in their fellow humans, faith in a social system meant to protect, faith in religion meant to guide. They cannot know that their individual paths will cross and move them toward a troubling, collective Truth—led by Grace.
Help is on the way but it will come in a way that none of them can possibly imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Enking
• Release date: Mar 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311336835

Christine Enking

About ChristineEarly on in her career, Christine worked in the for-profit industry, primarily in positions related to accounting and business. After four years of being involved in a program with Mark (her co-author) and his partners from Partners Institute (Partners In Prevention), she made the decision to go back to school. After receiving her Masters in Social Work she worked in Child Protection with parents who were involved in the system, helping them learn how to reduce the risk to their children so they could stay with their parents or, if they had been removed from the home, return them. Or, if necessary, she worked to find children a safe and permanent home apart from their parents. She concurrently worked for four years as an Adjunct Professor in the Social Work. For the next three years she worked as a curriculum developer and trainer for Child Welfare workers. She assisted in developing a curriculum on the topic of the effects of trauma on child brain development and trained social workers throughout the state. After fifteen years in Child Protection she resigned her position. She worked for a non-profit organization for two years that provided support and services for survivors of domestic violence and their children. She has continually dedicated her time and efforts to serving children and families who are faced with profound challenges everyday. In her own way, she has made a difference in the lives of children, one child at a time. Christine has an adult daughter. She is winding down her professional career and would like to become a full-time writer.About MarkFor almost 40 years, Mark’s professional career has been one of dedication to the adolescent population. He taught high school English and Humanities and was a coach and fine arts director for eight years before making a career change to adolescent and family chemical dependency counseling. He was a treatment therapist for eight years and during that time also worked as a prevention specialist in several school districts. In his capacity as an addictions counselor, Mark established a family education program at a treatment center and was its principal instructor for five years. Mark has served as a consultant for several peer-helper training and chemical abuse prevention programs and has been the director of the non-profit Partner’s Institute since 1989. Mark has also taught and counseled in alternative education for a dozen years and as an adjunct professor has taught a class on drugs and alcohol at St. Olaf College for the past twenty years. He has addressed thousands of people in workshops and seminars for students, teachers, parents, and professionals across the Upper Midwest and in Canada, and has worked in confidential small group situations with many hundreds of adolescents and adults. He is intimately familiar with the struggles of families and individuals and carries an abiding hope and respect for the ability of the young to survive and eventually thrive. He is the proud father of a son and a daughter and the grandfather of three boys. Currently semi-retired, he enjoys golf, photography, woodworking, watching soccer and movies, and is an avid reader.About Us(Written by Christine)In 1986 when my life was at a crossroads, I met Mark through an outreach prevention program called Partners In Prevention. He and his partners were instrumental in the turn my life eventually took. The people I met and the support I received from those involved in Partners provided me with the foundation I needed in order to work through the unresolved issues from my past. After surviving that initial process of confronting, dealing with, and healing from those issues, I felt like I wanted to give back. After receiving my masters and working for several years as a Child Protection Social Worker, I started to think of how I wanted to give back. The idea of writing a book seemed to be the option that most appealed to me. The characters and plot of the book began formulating in my mind and, in 1999 I finally sat down at my computer and started writing the book. I drew my inspiration from my own story, my education, and my professional experiences. I didn’t realize how cathartic the experience would be for me. I knew I was on the right track and that it was important for me to finish the book. However, I hit a wall. Although I could envision all of the characters and the storyline, I didn’t feel that I could do the project alone. I approached my very dear friend and writer, Mark. After I explained the book to him, he said he thought it was a great story with an important theme and terrific ending. He, too, brought his own perspective to the story and, between us, we were able to write a powerful narrative of human struggle.Mark tells me that he feels lucky to have been involved in writing this book. “While I do believe that my contributions have not been minor,” Mark says, “I recognize that they are only contributions and that the essence of the book existed before I ever become involved.” I say that I could not have finished the book without Mark. He has been a true friend and has been my support and inspiration both in writing this book and in life.

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A Protocol for Grace

Christine Enking and Mark Storry

Published by Christine Enking and Mark Storry

Copyright 2015 Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

For all those who make a difference in children’s lives, knowing they are our salvation or our demise.

For all the children, lost and found. And for those who lose them and those who find them.

The test of the morality of a society is what it does for its children. - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Where there is no vision, the people perish. - Proverbs

◊

Outer space is a misnomer. The vast and incomprehensible distances between pieces of matter out there are not empty. Astronomers speak of dark matter and dark energy—remnants of the creative cataclysm of the universe—that fill the infinite voids.

Inner space is no less inaccurate. The infinitely small spaces in molecules and atoms mirror the incalculable distances of apparent nothingness between visible matter in the cosmos and are, so we’re told, full of stuff—quarks, mesons, matter, energy—all just different manifestations of what fills the macrocosm.

Outer space is, however, a vacuum and sound does not travel in a vacuum. Sound waves, like humans, need air to exist. The vibrations of a rocket’s roar or a thrush’s warble or a child’s cry go heavenward only so far before they run out of air and die. Inwardly, though, sounds never cease, never die. Inside each molecule, each atom, each particle, lies another world, another universe, another infinite space. These tiny worlds existing within ours share our air and so receive our sounds. And though the envelope of Earth’s air withholds all sound from the universe out there, infinitely small is as real as infinitely large, and the sounds go inward, ever inward.

But what of cries not verbalized? What of the rapture of the poet that escapes all words or the thrill of the musician that lies just between the notes? What of the pain of a child that goes unsaid for fear of further pain? These sounds of the spirit need no air and have no boundaries. They travel to the expanses and intervals of the cosmos and the microcosm.

And who or what hears these cries of spirit?

◊

He took a deep breath before he opened the door to her room. He knew then that his wife—her mother—was fast asleep and guessed the time to be around one a.m. He walked over to her bed and threw a blue towel over the table lamp before he switched it on. Being able to watch her face was the best part.

He knelt down next to the bed and lifted his hand to her face. He heard her soft snore and steady breathing. He lightly stroked her hair and ran his finger along the side of her face. Very softly he began to speak.

Sweetheart, my sweetheart, Daddy loves you very much. You are very special to me. You are the most beautiful, wonderful little girl God ever made.

All the while he whispered to her he gently stroked her face and hair. He felt her stir and gradually become aware of his presence. She opened her eyes, blinking them in the dimmed light.

Hi, my little angel, he whispered. Daddy has come to share his love with you again, to show you how very much he loves you and how special you are. Daddy wants you to understand how special you are to God, too. Daddy has been praying to God again and God wants you to know how much He loves you. God is looking down at you right now and smiling at you and how you and I share our love together.

She didn't say anything at first. Then she sat up, resting on one of her hands and using the other to rub her eyes.

I'm tired, Daddy. You woke me up. Her voice was small and quiet.

Daddy was feeling so much love for you tonight that he had to come to show you. Now, sweetheart, you lay back and let Daddy make you feel good.

He helped her reposition herself onto her back and slowly pulled the covers off her young body. She looked up and stared at the ceiling. It was one of those textured plaster ceilings with thousands of little bumps and irregularities. She felt like she had memorized the ceiling over her bed, felt it had become like the topographical globe in her second grade classroom and that she knew every little hill and valley. There were even times when she felt like she was on the ceiling or in the ceiling, walking and crawling between those hills and valleys, exploring some strange new world.

Daddy is going to start by tickling your tummy. You know how good that feels when Daddy tickles you nice and soft.

He raised her pajama top to just below her nipples and glided his fingertips over her smooth skin, softly tickling her stomach until he felt goose bumps rising from her body. Then, ever so slowly, he moved his hand up underneath her pajama top and tickled her tiny nipples until they became hard.

She was confused by her body’s reaction to what he was doing and the crying out of some inner voice that she was too young to listen to. So she just lay there, not moving at all, paralyzed by the confusion. The duality of being bewildered her and she began to search for a new place in the ceiling to explore.

He continued to coo her with his words and, when he felt the time was right, slowly moved his hand down to her pajama bottoms. He used both his hands to raise her slender hips and pull the bottoms down to her knees.

She complied with his actions, acting more out of resignation than response. She found a particularly large bump on the ceiling this night, one she hadn't seemed to notice before in spite of her many explorations. She heard his words even though she was already far away.

God has given you a very special body and that special part of you that Daddy can touch to make you feel so good. When you feel those good feelings you are feeling the power of my love and God's love. This is the way we can share our love and be in communion in God’s holy love.

The speech had been practiced and perfected over time to the point where he had actually come to believe his own words. He moved his hand down between her legs, gently parting them. Her knees were now raised, her pajama bottoms around her ankles. He continued to stroke her and coo without stopping. He felt himself getting hard but knew he had to wait for his own gratification. He worked her gently, gradually increasing the pace of his motion, until the moment.

Her tiny body shivered in a prepubescent orgasm. The ceiling disappeared, the soft blue light became a blinding flash, and the little voice that had driven her to explore the ceiling was drowned out by the pleasure. Then, suddenly, she was back in her bed, in the dim light, and her father was whispering quietly in her ear.

Feel the power of our love, angel, and the power of God's love.

She turned her head and stared at him, wide-eyed in the dim light. In her little girl's mind she was trying to make sense of what he was saying and what he was doing, trying to make sense of what she felt and how she felt, trying to reconcile the physical pleasure with the psychic pain. She had no reason to doubt what he was saying or what he did to her but, in spite of the pleasure, in a far corner of her mind she felt a pain she could not define. And she dared not share her pain for fear of further pain.

I'm tired, Daddy, can I go back to sleep now?

He pulled her pajamas back into place, feeling slightly irritated. He forced himself to smile.

Yes, you go back to sleep and dream about how beautiful and special you are and how much Daddy loves you and how much God loves you. He pulled the covers up to her neck and tucked her in. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Good night, my little darling. Daddy loves you. God loves you.

As he walked to the door, he stopped. He returned to her bed and sat down. He leaned over her and whispered in her ear.

Honey, remember what Daddy said about how special our love sharing is and how important it is that you not tell anyone because if you do, it won't be as special as it is. This is something only God, you, and I must ever know about. Okay?

She didn’t respond. He waited until he could hear her steady breathing, letting him know she had fallen back to sleep.

He took the towel off the lamp and quietly walked to the door. He peeked out and checked the hall. The door to the bedroom he shared with his wife was still shut. He quietly went to the bathroom before going back into their bedroom.

In the bathroom he was able to relax and let himself think about his daughter and how she responded to his touch. The thought of her little face in the dim blue light experiencing her orgasm made him hard again and, alone now, he was able to gratify himself without interruption. The vision of his daughter's little body shuddering and the touch of his hand on himself resulted in an almost immediate ejaculation. After he cleaned himself and the sink he was ready to go back to his room.

When he crawled into his side of the bed he checked the clock. Usually, the whole thing took about twenty minutes. It was one twenty-five. He turned away from his wife and closed his eyes.

He thought about his daughter and played through what had happened. He smiled to himself, feeling blissful about his daughter and his love for her and how they could share this experience in the eyes of God. He also thought about his irritation when she didn’t respond the way he thought she would or, for that matter, the way he thought she should. If only she understood their love the way he did. In spite of the small voice in his head that he had stopped listening to after the first few times and in spite of the duality of mind so like the duality she struggled with in her young mind, his denial had become too strong. He convinced himself he was answering a higher calling, acting on a higher authority, no matter what anyone else may think. His love for his daughter was a wonderful gift and a terrible burden. Sometimes he tried to reason that God's purpose must be hidden from those who didn't understand, who couldn't understand.

If only she were older and could understand more about what he was doing and why. But he also knew that with age comes wisdom and he thought about the probability that she would only come to understand his deception instead. Then he would have to answer to her for his sin, the sin of betrayal committed by a father against his daughter. He forced himself to push these thoughts out of his mind.

He had never felt for his wife the closeness and deep feeling of love that he felt for his daughter. She would never understand the kind of love he and his daughter shared. No one would. And, he figured, as long as she didn't tell he wouldn't have to worry about his wife or anyone else ever finding out. And, as far as he knew, she hadn't said anything to anyone. It had been almost a year since the first time, that exquisite first time. He didn't go into her room every night, even though he wanted to. He disciplined himself. Discipline was important. All of God's gifts come with a price.

He drifted off, but restful sleep eluded him.

H◊

Anne turned on her cell phone as she was coming out of court. She had one new message, from Frances—one of the county’s foster parents—asking Anne to call her right away. She knew immediately that there must be trouble with Marcus. She dialed Frances’ number on her cell phone.

Hello? said a pleasant voice on the other end. Frances had been a foster mother for the county for over twenty years. She was good, very good. So good that it was she who most often took the placements of the more challenging children.

Frances, this is Anne. I got your message.

Oh Anne, thanks for getting back to me so soon. Marcus got into some trouble at school and they want me to come and pick him up but I have a doctor’s appointment. I’m already running late. Is there any way you can go and get him? I’ll be home about two.

Anne quickly went through her afternoon schedule in her mind: lunch, which she hardly ever got to anyway; an appointment with the county chemical dependency counselor regarding one of her clients which she could reschedule or conference by phone later today; and the pile of paperwork she had been putting off for a free afternoon like this one.

Yeah, Frances, I can manage that. I can take him out for some lunch.

"Oh, Anne, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll be back by two for sure. Can you bring him home or do you want me to meet you?

I’ll bring him home, Frances. You get to the doctor’s office.

Okay, Anne. I’ll call the school and let them know you’re on your way. Thanks again.

She was used to days like this where she thought her day would play out one way and ended up being something totally different. This proved to be one of the biggest challenges of her job—staying in the moment and running with whatever came up.

The trip to Marcus’ school was a familiar one. She had been out to talk to the staff several times so far this school year. It was always about Marcus’ anger and aggressive behavior. He was the oldest of five children and had been placed in foster care because of his mother’s chronic drug abuse. The county preferred to place siblings together but had not been able to in Marcus’ case. It was difficult enough to find a foster home that would take four siblings at once and almost impossible to find one that would take five. However, in this case, placing all five siblings together had become moot. The night Marcus and his siblings were brought into emergency placement by the police, he had gotten into a fight with his younger brother and threatened to kill him with a butcher knife. A decision was made to place him separate from his siblings.

In spite of the challenges he presented, Anne liked Marcus. She had a gift for loving difficult children. She always seemed to be able to look beyond their behavior and see them for who they really were—children. Marcus was a good example. His life was chaotic. His mother, Patrice, was constantly either high or crashing. His father was long gone. His mother’s last boyfriend, Leo, had been with her for a few months before the drug raid. Marcus said that Leo frequently let his friends come over. Marcus figured they were using drugs because he and the other kids had to stay in a bedroom while they were there. Patrice and Leo had been arrested during a midnight drug raid while Marcus and his siblings were in the house. The police broke the door down, there had been a lot of yelling and screaming, and Marcus and his younger brothers and sisters had eventually been found in a closet where Marcus had herded them. When the police opened the door they had found the younger ones crouched behind Marcus and Marcus with a baseball bat in his hand, ready to defend them if necessary. They were taken to a shelter and eventually placed in foster care.

After Anne was assigned to the case she learned much more about the young man’s turbulent life. The story had come out slowly, in bits and pieces, but Anne was patient with Marcus, letting him tell his story in his own time. He said he was angry about all his mother’s promises to quit drinking and using drugs and that he just didn’t believe her anymore. He said he didn’t want to see her anymore. She had already been in jail for two months because she couldn’t make bail and her trial was another month away.

Anne needed to work with Patrice on the child protection case in spite of her incarceration. Child Protection had substantiated maltreatment—endangerment of a child due to illegal drug possession in the presence of children—and Anne visited her in jail the day after her arrest. She was amazed at how easily Patrice was able to discount the whole incident. She briefly asked about her children, but spent most of her time criticizing the system, saying they couldn’t take care of her kids as well as she could. She was ranting and raving about how she had been set up by the cops. Anne had seen this many times before in other cases, but it never ceased to amaze and sadden her as to how, in this type of situation, parents focused on themselves and what was going to happen to them instead of what they had done to their children and what was going to happen to them.

So it was easy for her to see through Marcus and his behavior. He was a lost and lonely little boy who was having to grow up too fast, who wanted his mother and father to be there for him and their family, and he wanted to be loved. And it was easy for Anne to understand that Marcus had learned well from his mother how to blame someone else for the trouble he got into. Like her, he tried to put the attention on someone else. Like her, he would get angry and aggressive when he was afraid or hurt. And like her, he wasn’t about to show his real emotions for fear of being seen as weak. He bottled them up until the pressure became too much and he spewed them out in uncontrollable behavior.

As she walked into the school, Anne imagined him sitting in the Time Out room, alone again, afraid again, wondering what was going to be next for him. Her heart ached.

Hi, Marcus, she greeted him as she walked into the small room. She had signed in and been escorted by one of the office secretaries even though she knew the way very well.

He glanced up and when he saw it was Anne he turned in his chair, putting his back to her.

The school secretary sounded exasperated as she explained what happened.

He got into an argument with another boy in class and before the teacher could get to them he pushed the boy down and started hitting him. He’s been suspended until Monday.

Anne was annoyed at her tone of voice and her condescending attitude towards Marcus, but let it go. She would talk to the school social worker later and get all the details.

Thank you, she said, dismissing the secretary. When she left the room, Anne gently shut the door. They were alone.

Anne sat down in the chair closest to the door.

Bad day? she offered.

Marcus just sat in silence. After a moment she tried again.

I have to take you home, you know. How about we stop for a burger on the way?

He shrugged his shoulders.

She walked over to him and sat next to him, put a hand around his shoulders, and they sat there in silence for a moment.

Come on, Marcus, she eventually said, standing up and walking to the door.

He slowly rose and, with his head down, dragged his feet as he walked.

Remember your book bag.

He turned back and picked up the bag which had been fetched for him so he wouldn’t have to go back to the classroom. Once outside the room, Marcus picked up the pace and it was obvious he was ready to leave school for the day.

They drove in silence. Anne knew that, with a little time, Marcus would come around and talk to her. For now, she would just be there and wait. It was a warm spring day, the sun was shining, and there was new growth on the trees and bushes and a freshness that permeated the air. She decided to get lunch and then take Marcus to the park. With calm surroundings he might be more willing to talk. She stopped at a fast food restaurant on the way to the park. They ordered and took the food outside and sat at a table where they ate in silence.

Do you want an ice cream cone for dessert? Anne asked, breaking the silence.

Are you going to have one?

Sure. How about we get a couple of cones and then go for a walk in the park? We can feed the ducks.

Okay. That’d be better than going back to school or that foster home.

He got up and threw his garbage away and headed for the counter. Anne caught up with him and they ordered their cones, which they ate in the car on the way to the park. Anne parked along the path by the river. After walking for a little while, Anne asked him what had happened.

He deserved it, Marcus started out defensively. He was saying some crap about my mom being in jail.

She is in jail.

"Yeah but, I didn’t like him talking that way about my mom, he argued. He called her a druggie and said she don’t care about her kids and that she’s going to jail for a long time and we won’t see her no more. He said I should just get another mom cuz she won’t be able to be my mom anymore."

He picked up a rock and threw it hard at a group of ducks sitting in the grass. They scattered, flapping and quacking as they headed for the water.

Marcus! Don’t! Anne said, louder than she intended to. She walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder to make sure he didn’t throw another rock. I know you’re angry but you can’t keep trying to hurt other people or innocent ducks!

He jerked away from her hold on him.

What do you know! he screamed at her. You don’t know nothin’! Your mama never left you! Your mama don’t care about drugs more than she cares about you! You never had to live in some dumb old foster home!

Anne stood in front of him and put her hand on his shoulder.

Marcus, I am so sorry for everything that is happening to you right now. I imagine that this has been very hard for you and that you must feel pretty angry and sad.

I ain’t mad and I ain’t sad. I don’t care enough to be mad or sad. I ain’t gonna cry for that bitch! Just leave me alone!

He turned and ran. God, Anne thought, I’m not going to be able to catch him. She started running after him, calling his name.

After what seemed to her like a marathon mile, he finally stopped and fell to his knees. It took Anne a bit to catch up to him. When she was a few yards away she slowed to a walk. She could hear him before she could see his face. He was crying, sobbing into his hands, his shoulders shaking. She moved in front of him and knelt down. He shook his head back and forth as he wept.

She knelt there without touching him and let him continue to cry. Eventually he looked up at her. His face was all sweat and tears and snot.

I want my mama, he cried.

The pain in his eyes and in his voice was palpable and tore at Anne’s heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. She reached out and pulled him to her, holding him and rocking him until he was cried out. After a moment of silence he pulled away from her and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. Neither of them said anything. Eventually they got up and began walking back towards the car, Marcus with his hands in his pockets and Anne beside him.

Marcus, it’s good to let your feelings out like this instead of trying to hurt other people or ducks. I know someone you might like to talk to. His name is Paul and he works with kids like you who are having a hard time when they’re not with their parents. Think you might be willing to talk him?

Whatever, was all he said.

Do you want to go back to Frances’ house or do you want to stay in the park for a while?

I don’t want to go back yet.

"Okay, let’s go sit by the river and watch the ducks for awhile."

I didn’t want to hurt them, you know.

I know, Marcus, Anne said, putting her arm around his shoulder and giving him a squeeze. You’re a good kid. You just need to try and think about what you’re doing before you do it, okay?

Okay. They walked toward the river and found a bench to sit on.

On the bench, Anne took out her cell phone and called the chemical dependency counselor to reschedule. She also left a message for Frances saying that she wouldn’t be bringing Marcus home until three.

They sat in silence for a long time, watching the ducks and the gentle flow of the river. After awhile, she looked over at him. He had his chin in his hands and he looked composed and peaceful. A wave of gratitude washed over her. Small steps, she thought, small steps. It was all she could hope for when it came to Marcus and kids like him.

She got Marcus back to the foster home by three and then drove back to her office. She worked on her computer for an hour and made some phone calls. She checked her schedule for the next day and thought about making a plan. But she stopped herself and smiled. What was the point? It never worked out that way. It was just about being ready for whatever came up and running with it. So instead, she turned off her computer, packed up her bag and headed home.

It’ll be just another day, she thought, doing the job I love.

◊

‘One Who Leads, there is—trouble.’

The word was inexact, not unusual coming from One Who Feels.

‘Trouble?’ One Who Leads repeated the word exactly but with the vibration that implied she needed more information.

‘I can sense something greatly amiss.’

One Who Leads reached out to feel but sensed nothing. ‘Near or far, One Who Feels?’

One Who Feels paused, reaching out again. ‘I can only sense the cries of many. It is, I believe, planetary. What is near?’

‘Nothing,’ One Who Leads answered. ‘We are in Between.’

‘Then we are badly needed for I feel these cries plainly, even in Between.’

‘Can you navigate by them One Who Feels?’

‘Not in Between, One Who Leads. The cries are many and, although some even distinct, the number of them makes it garbled. And I can feel no Touchstone.’

'Of course,’ said One Who Leads. ‘We shall come into Out then.’

One Who Leads moved to her position and vibrated the command to come into Out.

◊

The Reverend James Jay Roberts III—Jimmy—was, like his father and grandfather before him, a man of God. Born and raised in the Church of God and the Foursquare Gospel of His Only Son Jesus Christ, he was steeped in the faith and traditions of the evangelists of old. The church existed out of time, as it were: a throwback to the faith and fervor of the Great Awakening, an island of 19th century thought in a 21st century world, a hefty dose of the Old Dispensation in the face of the New. James Jay Roberts I—James—had been one of the founders of the Church and James Jay Roberts II—Jim—had assumed leadership of the small band of dedicated believers and their few dozen churches when James had become too frail to carry on. Jim had been a hard man and like his father before him had not spared the rod and thus had not spoiled the child.

If you had asked Jimmy if he loved his father he would have unflinchingly confessed that that was the truth. Truth, however, was a slippery commodity in the Roberts family. There was the Truth as revealed in God’s own word, the Bible, which was beyond question; there was Truth like one could swear to in the name of God in a court of law; and there was the day-to-day truth which, as often as not in the Roberts family, was relative and conditional. That truth was about family secrets and unanswered questions, self-doubt and unexpressed feelings, and relationships void of love and intimacy. That truth. This was not out of any design to be dishonest. It had, over the years, simply arisen out of the power structure of the family and its inherent history. So Jimmy could never, in Truth, say he loved his father, but he could and often did, in Truth, say he loved him.

The dynamics of the Truth were so powerful that they simply overwhelmed any other truth. If your father beat you because he loved you, the Truth of love, God’s love obviously, somehow outweighed the beating. So, while hating his father with the same passion that he imagined God hated sin, it was easy for Jimmy to lie about the truth—that he did love his father—or perhaps it was just too hard for him to admit to the Truth of any hate. According to his father, the Truth was that hate dammed you to Hell.

He could not remember ever learning about the various truths. They just seemed to be a part of him, gleaned through some osmotic process that defied any logic. Jim would quote scripture about God’s love as he laid leather to little Jimmy’s bare bottom and little Jimmy’s young mind would work overtime trying to make sense of how painful love was. Dichotomy of mind comes easily in the face of pain. It is a survival skill. The mind separates itself from the experience, often, in fact, dispassionately observing personal trauma as if from a distance. So it was with little Jimmy. He learned to ignore his inner voice, the voice within that was filled with the pain of trying to love a man whom he hated. He learned early on to speak out of one side of his mouth, how to toe the party line, how to speak the Truth, whatever the truth might be. He could easily profess his love for his father: it was the Love of God that flowed through him and found whatever softness in his father’s hard heart that he had never seen or felt. That was the Truth. But the day-to-day truth that he could never admit to because of the overwhelming power of the Truth was that he feared and hated the man.

Jim had been absent often during Jimmy’s formative years. A preacher of some regional renown—a big fish in a small pond as it were—he was frequently gone for one- and two-week periods, traveling a few counties west or a state to the east to preach the Gospel of Christ to the unconverted in one of the churches of the Church of God and the Foursquare Gospel of His Only Son Jesus Christ or, occasionally, in tent meetings. Jim had been given the gifts of eloquent speech, a powerful voice, and a keen mind. And he, like his father James before him, used his gifts to bring lost sinners into the Fold. Jim had little time for preaching the Love of God. He was as afraid of love as little Jimmy was, having learned about it from his father the same way little Jimmy learned about it from him. He understood and knew the God of the Old Testament, the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, the colonial preacher Jonathan Edwards, and his father James, and he loved quoting Luke: For these be the days of vengeance, that all things which are written may be fulfilled. When he waved his Bible and slammed it on the pulpit and called down the wrathful judgment of God on those still in doubt about their mortal souls, it was usually enough to persuade them into the Fold. If not, it at least left them in a state of extreme fear and discomfort—right where unrepentant sinners belonged. And his God was never left in the pulpit. Jim took the wrathful God of judgment into his daily life where it manifested into intimidation in his relationships with others. Not the least with his only son.

Jimmy never remembered a time that he didn’t fear his father. His first conscious memory was of his father spanking him with a leather belt. The discipline of spankings and beatings became the norm, not only when Jimmy misbehaved or lied or failed to memorize the scripture verse for the day, but once or twice a week for those transgressions unknown or unnoticed, by commission or omission as he learned to quote. As mentioned, Jim usually quoted scripture as he administered each punishment: …if then their uncircumcised hearts be humbled, and they then accept of the punishment of their iniquity: then will I remember my covenant with Jacob…; or Let the high praises of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand; to execute vengeance upon the heathen and punishments upon the people…; or (Jimmy’s favorite because it was out of Lamentations and he knew what a lamentation was) The punishment of thine iniquity is accomplished, O daughter of Zion; he will no more carry thee away into captivity: he will visit thine iniquity, O daughter of Edom; he will discover thy sins; or (his father’s favorite) …be sure your sin will find you out.

Jim was a good provider but Jimmy (as he once confided in a confessional booth during a brief, secret, and heretical flirtation with Catholicism in his early teens) found it difficult to enjoy a delicious pot roast when he had to be more worried about being sure he used the right fork lest the wrath of God be visited upon him through his righteous and short suffering father.

When he heard it aloud from his own lips, the shock of confessing this day-to-day truth (as near as he’d ever get to admitting any of his feelings about his father) filled him with such shame and self-reproach that upon leaving the confessional he immediately cursed his apostate ways (and the Catholic Church) and returned to the fold of the Church of God and the Foursquare Gospel of His Only Son Jesus Christ, never to stray again. Such is the power of Truth. The power of Truth got deeply buried that same day, relegated to some dark and musty place in Jimmy’s subconscious, the place where he tethered his inner voice.

At age twelve Jimmy had been struck with the Holy Spirit under the preaching of his father in a revival meeting and the display thereof was awesome and terrible to those who beheld it. It became, in fact, the stuff of legend in the Church of God and the Foursquare Gospel of His Only Son Jesus Christ.

Little Jimmy never had much of a chance. Ever since he could understand human speech the message had been delivered to him that one day he would pick up where his father would leave off and carry on the spiritual calling of his sires. So, in the sawdust and musty August heat of a big canvas tent, he heard his father’s fearful altar call and, to the strains of Amazing Grace, little Jimmy rose out of his seat and began walking forward. He knew the Truth in his heart—that he was a wretch who needed to be saved, that he was lost and needed to be found. He also knew on a deeper level that his conversion experience was what was expected of him at about his age and that, in spite of the Truth of his sinful condition, his current actions were, to some extent, a performance. But the fearful Truth that bellowed from his father’s lips could not be entirely ignored. Hell’s fire and damnation awaited his mortal soul if he did not profess his faith. The burden of the family calling embittered him as he pictured himself becoming what he hated most and warred with the survival juices flowing in the face of eternal damnation. His confusion grew with each step he took.

About three rows from the front he stopped dead in his tracks. He was alone in the aisle, everyone else in the place giving way to the anointing spectacle. He paused, wanting to turn and run but knowing he couldn’t. A battle of two fears raged in him and his little survival brain quickly won. He could not go back, could not risk losing his immortal soul, could not risk disappointing a father he loved and hated. And he could not allow the family history and his destiny to falter. Yet the fear of becoming what he most hated ate at him. Frustrated with his confusion and realizing on some semiconscious level that he had become a spectacle, he suddenly threw his head back and his arms out to his sides and let go a screaming roar. It was the visceral cry of a small soul in agony,