Peace of Mind

yourself.

Introduction

The doctrine of the Trinity is probably the most complex and confusing topic to grasp of the Holy Bible. According to the doctrine, the Father is God, the Son is God, and the Spirit is God; but there is only one true God. Many scholars today have difficulty explaining the doctrine, mainly because they try to explain it through a human perspective when they should use God’s perspective. The idea that three is one and one is three creates a conundrum few can comprehend. In order to fully understand the Trinity, God’s wisdom and knowledge are required.

On January 2, 2016, an angel of the Lord comes to me in a vision and says, You repented … now you will remember. Write down your story and life memories with dates, times, and titles. Though it may seem to go nowhere, it will lead to everlasting life. For you will learn more about yourself and what you do not know in one, two, and three.

Apparently, not only was my repentance important to me, it is important to others who read this. I also get a sense that God wants me to reflect and remember who I was in the beginning; and what he expects of me at the end.

The angel also says, Balance … tell what must be told, and show what must be shown. Your mission will be revealed to you when you see the rainbow in the sky. That will be a sign of God’s covenant with you when the three become one. When will this rainbow come? And what is this mission the angel speaks of?

The Bible teaches that repentance is the key to salvation; the key to everlasting life; the key to the Kingdom of God. If you humble yourself before the Lord, the key to the Kingdom of God is within your grasp; and if done three times over, you can rule the Kingdom of God. It sounds perplexing, but God says it can be done. And if God wants me to do it this way, then I will, because He is the Way.

Let us begin with the person who inadvertently caused this story to be written, the person who provoked me to reflect back on my past and question my sense of being, the person who caused this sudden exploration of truth within me: Kim Kapula …

Chapter 1

The Reality of My Situation

Under the dim light of the dining room chandelier, I shape a new circle every five seconds. Placing the red pen to the side of the paper, I admire my work with a sense of satisfaction ... and accomplishment. I pick up the paper and bring it to my nose so I can sense it ... so I can feel it: the perfection of a circle drawn freehand. It’s art ... And it’s my masterpiece.

As I get up from the table, still holding the paper, my reflection in the television seems distant. The distance scares me sometimes. Watching myself as I stand in silence — my uneven right shoulder that constantly hurts, my crooked posture, my messy hair and itchy beard — makes me feel ... stretched ... and thin. Maybe the reflection makes me look that way. Bringing the paper close again, I inhale the fresh scent of heavyweight paper. It awakens my body like a beautiful autumn day, and I sigh. But that day didn’t last long ... My smile slowly disappears. I drop the paper to my side and cry out to my reflection, "Tonight ... tonight is the night I usually spend with Boxy. But now ... I have no one to be with."

I pace in circles, the hardwood floor creaking beneath my sneakers, and wonder, Now what do I do?

My cell phone goes off, alerting me that a text message was received. I grab the phone off the table.

Are you coming tonight? I could use some company. :)

It can only be one person ... Sensing her smile come through my phone, I immediately reply.

I’ll be there in one hour. :)

The dim light of the iron chandelier shines on over five hundred perfectly drawn circles as I run upstairs to get ready — for the chase.

●

Friday, March 13, 2009, 12 a.m.

What am I?

Tonight, I take a ride to the Dive Bar in Newark, New Jersey, to get my mind off a couple of things. My girlfriend moved to North Carolina to open her own bake shop, and I lost my job at K-Rock. So I visit the one person who can make me feel better and put a smile on my face. The only one who can take my sadness away …

Crazy as it sounds, her smile is like a drug. Just one look, and you’re quickly removed from reality and all its problems. Her smile takes me to an exotic world I never want to leave. It makes me feel good, a feeling I rarely get. And that’s all I care about now, feeling good.

Two in the morning, and I’m sitting on the cold, wet ground outside the Dive. A light drizzle soaks my jeans and sweatshirt. She’s sitting on an ancient iron and wood bench propped against the building, smoking her flavored cigarette and staring at her watch. The bench makes an ominous cracking sound with every movement she makes. Behind her head, two neon beer signs inside the bar glow through the window. The Miller Lite sign flickers weakly. She doesn’t have much time to hang with me because she needs to get back inside and clean up. Sitting with her privately for two minutes is pleasant, despite the raindrops trickling down my scalp; inside, she has no time for me.

In three or four more drags, she will have to go inside. She blinks at me with an exhausted expression on her face, takes a drag, and reluctantly says, It will always be difficult for me, having to work here three nights a week till four o’clock, just to wake up at six, get the boys ready for school, drop them off, and be at school myself at nine. Pausing to take a second drag, she flicks the cigarette. A few ashes fall on me, and I enjoy the benefits of secondhand smoke. I don’t know how to keep goin’ some days.

Babe, if you ever need help, call me, I tell her instantly. "You only live seven blocks away. If there’s something I can do to make your life easier, don’t hesitate — just call."

She taps off the ashes against the bench’s rusted armrest and takes another drag. I need to find a man.

I smile jokingly. What about me? What am I, chopped liver?

She takes one last inhale and crushes the cigarette in the ashtray under the bench. No, she says without thought. "You’re just a boy."

So here I am, sitting in the rain, wet hair, wet clothes, while she is sitting on a dry bench smoking her cigarette. I come here to get my mind off a couple of things, and she tells me, You’re just a boy. Gets up, and goes inside like nothing happened.

I feel like I just got bitch-slapped, kicked to the curb, and left outside in the rain. Let me rephrase that. I just got bitch-slapped, kicked to the curb, and left outside in the rain.

The rain I sopped up adds five pounds to my weight. When I grab the iron armrest to pull myself up, it splits from the wood. I fall against the side of the window, and the Miller Lite sign dies out completely. So I guess I break that too.

I take a deep breath and manage the walk of shame back into the bar, feeling like a fool. Of course the bar stool I was sitting on is now occupied by a fat older gentlemen who seems like he already had a few too many. So I find a new home at the end of the bar where no one can see me. Seems fitting ... I feel like I’ve been sent to the back of the line — again.

I’m supposed to stay till four to help her close, but feeling the way I do, I’m not in the mood. From the end of the bar I watch her as she engages in friendly conversation with the regulars. That’s okay, I think. She works on tips alone. She has no choice but to be friendly so she can go home with decent pay for the night. Who knows, maybe her friendly demeanor is an act. Maybe she’s nice to me so I will leave her a good tip. Then again, she could be naturally friendly. I will probably never know. She won’t give me a chance to know.

Some days I feel like I have to take a number just to be served and have a moment to chat with her. Every guy here has his eye on her. I feel like I have to compete with them to get her full attention, and boy — it’s exhausting.

But it doesn’t matter ... Leaving a generous tip on the bar, I give her a goodbye wave and follow the straight line of autographed pictures of Babe Ruth, Joe Namath, and others I never met toward to the door.

She comes out from behind the bar with her exotic smile. You leavin’, Mark?

I pause. Yeah ... I’m starting to get tired. Sorry I can’t close with you tonight.

She puts her hand on my arm. "Ohhh — do you have to go?"

I stare into her sad eyes, feeling the warm touch of her hand.

Coming closer, she whispers, What if that crazy girl comes in? I’m afraid she’ll shoot me in the head if we’re the last two here.

Ya know, I say with some exaggeration, "just thinking about that crazy Zoey makes me exhausted. But I doubt she’ll show up. I think that nightmare is officially over with. Thank god."

She laughs as she caresses my arm. I hope so.

Goose bumps rise on my skin, and I put my hands in my damp pockets. Sorry I won’t be able to stick around. I feel like I’m about to pass out any moment.

Giving me a hug and kiss on the cheek, she says, It’s okay. My friend Steve is here. He’ll stay with me tonight.

I’ll bet he’ll stay, I think. Who wouldn’t? She can get the entire state to keep her company if she wants. And as much as I hate to admit it, I think my friend Lee is right. I think I am jealous. Of course I will never admit that to him or anyone else, but I’ll admit it to myself.

Give me a call or text me later in the week, I say. Whenever you have time.

She tilts her head to the side with a smile, consciously cute. Okay. Thanks for hangin’ with me, she says with her sweet tone. Be careful going home.

Pulling my car keys out, I say, You be careful too, Kim. We’ll talk soon, baby.

The rain has slowed to a light drizzle, but every step back to my car feels like the walk of shame all over again. I feel like shit, and I can’t believe I left her a big tip after that comment she made. What the hell was I thinking?

After getting into the car, I sit there trying to filter my thoughts about what transpired. I stare at the fog rising from the street, the crescent moon lying low beyond the trees, every second getting more annoyed about what she said. With a deep sigh, I start the car. Driving away, I see the bar in my rearview mirror. I’m sure she’s already forgotten I was there. But I haven’t forgotten about her. Her fragrance is part of my sweatshirt now.

Her words keep going through my head like a gunshot: Bang! You’re just a boy ... This isn’t the first time I heard those four words. I interrogate myself in the rearview mirror, turning the windshield wipers on. Is it the way I dress? Swipe! Is it the way I act? Swipe! Is it because I still live at home? Swipe! Because I’m not married? Swipe! Am I immature in some ways? Swipe! Do I have bad breath? Swipe! What is it? Swipe!

Giving up on an answer, I nod. I don’t know, I answer. And the fact that I don’t have any answers doesn’t surprise me. I never have answers for anything.

Suddenly I’m home. The twenty-five-minute drive felt like five seconds. After brushing my teeth, I study my face in the bathroom mirror. I find myself searching for flaws that would make her say what she did, but the mirror shows none. Staring at my reflection, I ask myself, Now what do I do?

With little energy, I crawl into bed, and rock my leg back and forth. The ceiling fan slowly turns, echoing her words. She basically summed up my whole life in four words. Does she know something I don’t? I think. Hearing those words come from someone I consider a friend is upsetting. But I’m not disappointed in her. She just told me what she sees in me. I’m disappointed in myself for allowing this situation to happen. Or maybe this is payback for when I summed up her life at the park. Not sure …

The one thing I can say about tonight, she did a good job making me forget about Boxy and work. And she made money from it too ... I want my tip back, I think. Many thoughts keep racing in my head, but the one thing I do remember before falling asleep is — how did I get to this point?

Chapter 2

The Wonder Years

As I was growing up, I always said to myself, The past is the past, and it should just — stay there. I was determined I would not reminisce on the old days ... until I heard those four words repeating like a scratched record in my head. You’re just a boy ... Then I was compelled to reexamine my life. But if it was not for God and the friend He has given me, I never would have known why Kim and others view me that way.

In the beginning, I was baptized as a Roman Catholic. I knew of God, but I did not know God. I never paid much attention to Sunday mass and my religion studies in school. My knowledge of the Bible did not come until the day I changed, the day I learned so much of myself and the Lord. And despite my many years of study, beginning when I was thirty-three years old, that day was just the start of a long journey down a narrow road to God.

● ● ●

1981-1983

A Lonesome Youth

I grew up on the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey. Literally mean streets; I grew up three blocks from the projects. People were always loitering outside the convenience store or apartment complex across the street from my house. Every day loud music would blare from some apartment or car, so loud someone would call in the cops. And every thud from the bass speaker knocked a paint chip off the siding of the poorly maintained apartments. Paint chips flew everywhere, rising knee-high, making the sidewalk narrower and narrower every day that passed. And lying on the paint chips were cigarette butts, beer cans, and smelly trash bags of rotten food circled by flies. Sometimes the flies would circle the occasional homeless drunk passed out in an open alleyway. But that was the unique décor of Newark, New Jersey.

When teenagers weren’t playing caps on Oliver Street, they loved buying old, run-down, shitty cars and souping them up with expensive car stereos and bass speakers. And as each house rumbled off its foundation when these cars with their stereos turned up drove by, cop cars would fly up and down the streets issuing tickets for noise pollution. Other times the cops would be trying to capture some criminal running from the law. And when that happened, I always got scared and ran back to my house and hid in the basement. Staying inside was for the better; the streets smelled like dead rats and the air full of smog. Never a sunny day ...

My father, mother, older brother, and I lived on the second floor of a two-family brick and yellow-sided house. Not a big home: two bedrooms, one bath, and a basement where I hung out most of the time. I was a very quiet and shy boy, and I had good reason: We were the only white family living in that community ... There I was, a skinny white boy living three blocks from the projects in a town predominately Hispanic and black. So yeah — it’s safe to say I was shitting bricks half the time.

I always looked for support and safety from my brother. But that never worked out to my advantage because we used to beat each other up. Or should I say, he’d beat me up. A lot ...

●

Tuesday, November 8, 1983, 9 a.m.

A Toothbrush Beating

While I’m brushing my teeth, my brother comes at me with his usual obnoxious tone and shoves me aside. "Hey, stick boy! Where’s my toothbrush?"

"It’s in your hand, idiot!"

"This ain’t my toothbrush, buttface, you’re using my toothbrush!"

Now why would I use your stupid toothbrush if I have my own? I say sarcastically.

"I don’t know ... But I know my toothbrush isn’t pink with a heart on the handle that says I Love Bugs Bunny. He laughs at my embarrassment. Gimme back my toothbrush, stick boy!"

Then we’re both on the floor wrestling for the toothbrush, beating each other up using old-school wedgies and noogies on the head. We’re kept from destroying each other when my father yells out, "Knock it off! Both of you! Get ready for school! Now!" We both quickly scamper off in different directions ...

My mother has a photo of my brother and me. I was about seven years old that winter, and my brother ten. I felt like a loser wearing my brother’s ole hand-me-down clothes: droopy red pants, a baggy blue jacket, and a blue hat with a stupid pom-pom that flapped back and forth in the wind. My brother was sporting his brand-new New Jersey Jets jacket and matching hat. In the photo, we were wrestling each other in the snow, and I must have lost. I was the only person covered in snow, my pants fallen to my ankles and my underwear wedged in my butt crack, which must have prompted my mother to take the photo. In essence, I was on my own from that point forward.

The school I attended was St. Mary’s, grades kindergarten to eighth. I was a Catholic boy all the way. I had five pairs of gray slacks, five pairs of white button-down shirts, five pairs of a maroon sleeveless vest with the school logo sewn on it, and my favorite, five pairs of an ugly, green-striped, pin-on tie. I would rather have hung myself from my pin-on tie than go to school dressed like that; but if you look beyond the uniform, I was pretty cute from kindergarten to fourth grade.

When fifth grade came, things started to go downhill. That’s when I developed an interest in girls. But puberty kicked in, in the form of pimples on my face, and girls had no interest in me. Still I remember my first crush. Lisa Locke ... She was the prettiest girl in class. The question was, How do I get her interested in me? I wasn’t going to walk straight up to her and let her know I like her. That’s a recipe for disaster. So I decided to take another course; I decided to play a game I called You have a secret admirer.

●

Tuesday, January 28, 1986, 7 a.m.

A Special Delivery

In the drugstore, I decide to get her a greeting card. The card just says Thinking of You on the cover in colorful letters, and I have to write something inside. Something thoughtful. Something that expresses me, and my feelings toward her. Sitting here pondering, the gears inside my head quickly turn as I tap my pencil against my cheek and rock my leg under the kitchen table. What should I say? And then it hits me. The light bulb in my head burns out, my genius is so bright. I’ll write from your secret admirer. Genius, I tell you.

I get to school early so I can drop the card on her desk without anyone seeing me. I have to do anything and everything possible to get inside school before it opens to students. So I use my ninja skills. I learned them from watching Saturday morning cartoons on TV. Of course I’m not wearing black from head to toe with nunchucks on my belt, but as I creep along the wall, I imagine I am.

I hide against the school wall, waiting for someone to leave so I can slip inside. My mission is vital and the card must be delivered on time before the school bell rings at eight o’clock. As I sit outside and wait, a teacher opens the door and leaves. I run inside before the door seals shut and crouch behind a fake plant by the principal’s office, unnoticed and unscathed. As I peek through the dusty green plastic leaves, I scan for intruders, hoping my cover isn’t blown. My mission is almost complete. Using my ninja tactics, I quickly make haste, running in utter silence down the hall to fifth grade class, crouching below windows so no one can see me. I’m almost there. My heart pounds and sweat drips from my face as I creep along the wall. Then — I make it inside the classroom. The message is delivered successfully with thirty seconds to spare.

But there’s one problem I didn’t anticipate. The card is on her desk and I’m the only one in class. I want her to think I put it there, but I don’t want her to think I put it there. So I have to make the other kids think I came in with them. So I do the obvious — I hide inside the closet.

Crammed between a spider web and an old coat musty with the smell of mothballs, I wait until the school bell rings and everyone files into class. I quietly hang my stuff up in the closet and slowly push it open so the others will think I came in with them. And it works! I fool them.

After a few minutes, Lisa sees the card on her desk, opens it, and slowly scans the class. When she looks my way, I casually whistle to myself without a care in the world. And that works too. Now that she has no idea who left the card, it’s only a matter of time before I tell her I left the card.

●

Valentine’s Day is coming up. I figure this is the perfect opportunity to tell her I’m her secret admirer, and I decide to get her a bracelet to go along with the surprise. When the day arrives, I somehow get the courage to go up to her and give her my gift. I think I feel the hands of God pushing me toward her. Or it could be someone in class, since everyone is pushing each other over exchanging gifts. But before I know it, I go from the back of the classroom to the front — instantly.

I present my gift to her. She opens it and sees the bracelet and note inside. The note simply says, I’m your secret admirer. She looks at me with a smile, her dimples widening, and with a toss of her blond ponytail sits back down. I quietly smile back in shyness, as the pimple on the side of my nose blushes red. She must not know what to say, because a week passes and she never says anything to me about the gift or the fact I am her secret admirer. So I sit and wait ... Not until a month later does she respond. And it happens during recess outside in the schoolyard.

On a crisp winter day we all play ball with each other, a game called Keep Away, girls against boys. The point is to keep the ball from the opposing team. If anyone chases you for the ball, you just run or throw it to another member on your team. It sounds simple and fun. Just not that particular day ...

Lisa has the ball, so I chase her to retrieve it. I have her cornered between the six-foot-high steel fence with her back toward me when she quickly turns around and slaps me hard in the face. My nose spouts blood, and I run to the bathroom to wash up. My face, nose, and pimple throb for the rest of the day.

She doesn’t seem concerned about it. Everyone in class can see blood everywhere, everyone except her. After awhile, I think that is her way of saying I don’t like you! She doesn’t apologize to me until weeks later. And the only reason she apologizes is because I ask her to. She never gives me a sincere apology. She never thanks me for the bracelet. She never says anything about me being her secret admirer. She never says anything ... She just turns her back on me and leaves. She keeps the bracelet though. And for the first time ever, I feel like the biggest fool.

●

1988-1990

Pick a Name, Any Name

I decide to stay away from girls for a while. I realize hanging with the guys is just as difficult when seventh and eighth grade comes along. Kids are brutal to me. Actually, we are brutal to each other. Constant name-calling is a daily routine in my school. We call one kid Big Ears, for obvious reasons. Another kid we call Football Head because his head is shaped like a football. Another we call Couch Head because his hair is fluffy and soft. Any imperfections are a recipe for ridicule till graduation. The self-esteem levels in class are on the floor. Everyone makes fun of everybody ...

When it’s my turn, there is a huge laundry list of names they call me. I am called Big Nose, Giraffe Neck, Big Nerd, Dork, Geek, Pencil Neck, Pepperoni Face, et cetera. You name it, I am called it. And how do I respond to them? With silence ... I’m afraid to dish it out. I don’t know how to stand up for myself. What’s even more funny is that teachers will join in on the name-calling too.

●

Wednesday, April 5, 1989, 11 a.m.

My First Sin

I need to finish a class assignment. Unable to find a pencil in my pouch, I quickly check through my notebooks, and come up short. Leaning toward my neighbor and hoping the teacher won’t see me, I whisper, "Psst! Angela? Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

She turns toward me with her finger over her mouth. "Shhh! No talking in class, remember?"

I eye the teacher, hoping she doesn’t see me. "I know. But I just need to borrow a pencil."

Ignoring me, Angela continues her school work like the Goody Two-shoes that she is.

I turn to the person behind me. "Bobby? Do you have a — "

Sister Maryanne catches me in the act. "Mark? Would you please stand up and explain why you are talking in class?" she says, holding the pointer at the blackboard.

With the eyes of twenty-five classmates staring deep into my soul and Christ on His cross waiting for an answer, I feel like I just committed my first sin. Taking a deep swallow, I feel my throat close up. Slowly I stand, avoiding eye contact with everyone by looking at the floor. With my hands folded in front of me, I sway back and forth. I’m sorry, Sister. I just needed a pencil so I could do my work, I softly say.

With a smile followed by a touch of condescending laughter, she says something I will never forget. Why, Mark? You don’t need a pencil to write with. Just use that big nose of yours. That should work just fine.

As everyone points and laughs at me, I sink back down. I can’t believe a teacher said that to me. A nun, for that matter ... You would think the teacher would be the person I can turn to. The one I could trust. She can’t stop the constant name-calling in class, so she decided to join in on the fun; but it’s never fun when the joke is on you.

Anyway, we all go nuts making fun of each other. This is how we thirteen-year-olds deal with our problems: by humiliating each other. Boys will be boys, as the saying goes. But the combination of puberty and being made fun of constantly is the likely cause of my depression and why I choose to stay by myself. And as a result of my depression, my grades start to fall considerably.

The worst report card I receive is two Fs, four Ds, and one C. So you can imagine how infuriated my father is. The first time I’m afraid of him is when he sits down with me to talk about my grades.

●

Friday, December 15, 1989, 7 p.m.

The Three Bangs

It’s been a week since I got my report card. Because he was pissed off, my mother asked my father to wait awhile before talking to me. Now I’m sitting in the kitchen chair with my hands folded as I cry, and my father is pacing behind me. I feel his eyes burn through me. My mother stands motionless between the green wall tile and matching refrigerator. Her eyes say she wants to comfort me but can’t. The same way I’m confined to the kitchen chair, my mother is confined to her corner. All she can do ... is watch. And as she watches, my brother snickers, You’re in trouble. You’re in trouble. Before he can say it a third time, my father slams the bedroom door on him, shutting him out.

The hair on the back on my neck stands up as he breathes heavily down on me. His shadow engulfs me. Then — the yelling starts. How could you let this happen? Bang! What’s wrong with you? Bang! Should we send you to another school? Bang! At the end of every sentence, he pounds the table hard with his fist. Every time he hits the table, I feel him hitting me, like a nail being pounded, and I sink deeper and deeper in the ground with every sentence.

I don’t want to go to another school. I want to stay with my friends. That is the only thing I say because he is busy yelling at me, and I have no choice but to listen. My mother watches in the background, unable to help as she too just listens.

At the end, they decide to get me an after-school tutor. The tutoring keeps me out of the house and away from my father. When I am home, I try to avoid him as much as possible.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I told my father I wanted to stay at that school. My friends were always brutal to me. Transferring out might have been the right thing to do. Speaking of my friends, the two that cause the most trouble are Paul and Jose; but I’m not any angel either.

Throwing rocks at abandoned buildings, chucking bottles into the street, stuffing shaving cream in car mufflers to make the car backfire comprise our daily routine. I don’t always enjoy it. I do it because this is what I’m expected to do. I’m fourteen and in the eighth grade. I have to do what is necessary to keep whatever friends I have. If I’m an angel all the time, I’ll be sitting home crying every day because I have no friends. So if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. That’s the motto of adolescence.

Fighting is also part of our regular routine. Especially for Jose ... He always gets into fights outside of school while I stand by as the designated backup plan, just in case. But the backup plan never has to be used, because I am the biggest chicken out there. I do anything and everything possible to avoid any confrontations that might result in physical harm. But Jose is a human magnet for trouble ...

●

Wednesday, February 7, 1990, 4 p.m.

The Railroad Crossing

One day Jose and Paul come to my house unannounced. Jose’s signature door knock is enough to rile up my father. It’s bad enough my father has to endure the constant thud, thud from the music across the street. But when the thud, thud turns to a louder thump-thud at the front door, trouble seems imminent.

I scramble outside before my father wonders what all the ruckus is about. Jose stands with Paul, ready for a mission. Paul’s bike was stolen by three guys, Jose says, punching his hand into his fist, and I know who took it. He pauses. "Sonny ... and the others. I never liked him since the first day we met. I might need some backup. Wanna come?"

Paul, tight-lipped and silent, is shaking. His eye glasses fall off his face and one lens cracks on the stoop. Nervously he picks them up and forces a smile.

Okay, I say in a show of support for Paul. Let’s go find ’em.

I close and lock the front door. While we’re marching down the street, I keep saying to myself, God, I hope we don’t find them. Because I know what will happen if we do.

After an hour of walking up and down the streets and throwing stones at an old condemned warehouse, breaking the windows, we get to the railroad tracks near the school. As we’re crossing them, out of the corner of my eye I notice three kids half a block away. Two are walking while the other rides a bike. At that distance I can’t tell if it’s Paul’s bike or not. I stand there on the tracks watching these guys while Paul and Jose walk down the street ahead of me. I hesitate, picking at my lip and staring at a pile of stones next to the tracks, and wonder if I should say something. Jose’s checking the street corner ahead when Paul stops and turns around. See anything, Mark?

I glance sideways down the tracks; the three kids are gone. With a spurt of relief, I kick the stones out of their pile and run between Jose and Paul, throwing my arms over their shoulders. My bodyweight pushes them across the street, heading in the opposite direction, and I make sure they both feel my disappointment. "Nooo ... Nothin’ yet. I pause. But I can’t wait till we do." I continue to push them down the street. This is why Jose’s backup plan never has to be used. When trouble arises, I always steer them in the opposite direction.

After awhile, we call it quits and go home. Walking home, I feel … ashamed. Ashamed because I was afraid of getting hurt, and I chose not to stick up for a friend of mine. Friends are supposed to stick up for each other when the chips are down. I failed miserably, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

Just before I get to the brick stairs leading to my front door, I hear and feel my left shoe squish something, and smell dog shit. Covering my nose with my arm, I scrape my shoe against a corner of the brick. While some comes off, the scent clings to me like we’re one and the same. The one thing I can’t scrape off is my own failure.

●

My feet felt like heavy cement blocks. My friend was robbed, and he deserved restitution. Instead, I paid him back with my cowardice. God expects everyone to stand up and fight against injustice, not run away from it. Even though the criminals got away with the crime, I was the guilty one.

I only told my friend Lee about that day, and God as I ask for His forgiveness. And not only did I fail God, I failed as a human being made in His image.

● ● ●

Time goes on. Graduation time is here, and I’m the most excited of everyone. Yeah, I got slapped in the face, yelled at by my dad, failed a bunch of classes, but who doesn’t go through that? You can’t expect to grow up overnight. We were all troublemakers and proud of it. That’s what we do best.

But after nine long years there, all I want to do is forget about St. Mary’s and move on to better things. During the summer I lose contact with all my friends, but I take the loss as an omen that things will be better in high school. Only