Shattered

By Tom Cherrix

Welcome to the exciting world of the high-energy, progressive Christian rock band Olive Branch. They have it all""money, success, awards, an incredible fan base, and a good church that keeps them grounded and focused on God. They are a light to their community and to the world, and they keep getting more popular with every tour. There's just one problem""the more they try to spread their faith, the more their faith is tested. As a group, they can pass any test, but when they are divided, they fail miserably. Tonight we meet Tim Branch, cofounder and lead singer of the band, as he sits alone in a plush hotel room, surrounded by the results of their biggest failure. His partner, John E Olive, is at the hospital being treated for multiple lacerations and an apparent drug overdose. The crew and their families are asleep and blissfully unaware of the situation. Where did it all go wrong? Did it start when a young Tim ran away to become a rock and roll star? Was it when John E decided that the "good Christian boy" routine had run its course in his life? Was it when they both decided that the local church was no longer necessary? Follow Tim as he bounces between the present and the past, trying to make sense of it all. Go inside his head as he pieces the events of his life together and strives to figure out how everyone else plays into the current situation. Will he find the answers he is seeking, or will the search just reveal more questions? Find out as you dig into the truth of this scripture:

Your favor, OH LORD, made me as secure as a mountain. Then you turned away from me, and I was shattered. (Psalm 30:7, NLT)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781098004675

Book preview

1

March 2009 (New York)

Truth be told, I could never fully relax while reading or watching TV. In these moments, there were still muscles and reflexes being used to help me follow a plot or decide whether to laugh or cry at a particular situation; and deep down, that kept me tense and anxious. On top of that, there were still distractions on every side of me, some in motion and some just sitting still, that diverted my attention and made even being able to focus on the task at hand, almost impossible. Even the act of focus, whether on a printed page or a flurry of colors and action on a screen, seemed to use more of my energy than actually getting up and doing something physical. So, yes, relaxing, as most people understood it, was for me more of a chore than a blessing. It was only when I would step away from all the distractions, turn out all the lights, close my eyes, give in and let my body drop deep into bed that I would truly begin to unwind. Of course, that was just the body beginning to slow down, my mind, sensing that I was about to attempt to put it on hold, would immediately begin to search through the files of things that I may have said or done wrong, either today or when I was in third grade, or possibly things I may end up doing in the future. It would use that information to spur me into a never-ending circle of self-doubt and questions that could not be answered, but had to be asked. Eventually, I learned to push those thoughts aside and just focus on the dark. It was harder if I wasn’t really tired, so I had trained myself to do as much physical and mental activity as possible on any given day just so I would be less likely to have the energy to argue with myself while trying to go to sleep. Eventually, I would feel the questions of the mind begin to fade, the clarity of the confusion would begin to slip away, and at that moment, just before sleep takes over, I could honestly say, I am at rest. Unfortunately, in the physical, there is only a scant few seconds between being at rest and being asleep, but it is at least that one brief moment that I can claim complete peace. Of course, not long after that, the dreams come, and suddenly I’m back in action, maybe only subconsciously, but I have had many a dream that woke me up tense and convinced that I had not only been involved with the circumstances, but had physically acted them out, thus continuing my day as though it hadn’t ended. It’s funny, my body likes it when I give it rest, but my mind rebels like a small child being told they have to go sleep when they don’t feel they are ready.

Guess I won’t be sleeping tonight, the words came out of Tim’s mouth unintentionally, startling him back into his surroundings. He wondered how long he had been sitting there in silence. He looked around and suddenly remembered why he had faded out in the first place.

The bright-red carpet that covered the hotel floor had to be at least three inches thick and soft enough that you could sleep comfortably on it, if you were the type that could sleep.

The furnishings were modern, and each piece would probably set an average man back six months’ salary. The television covered one whole wall, and the sound system attached to it could probably service a small arena.

But Tim Branch didn’t feel the carpet under him as he sat on the floor; he didn’t see the musicians lip-syncing to their latest song on the TV screen or even hear the hum from the speakers positioned around the room that had been muted since everyone but him left the room. All he could feel was the pain in his heart, all he could see was the darkness crashing in around his mind, and all he could hear was the echo of John’s voice saying, Lighten up, man, you’re bringing me down! Tim let that phrase turn over in his mind a few times. He pondered the connection between the lighten up and the bringing down. He thought about the fact that when you are trying to hold someone back from doing something they want to do, you are like an anchor holding a boat in place; an anchor is heavy and, in some cases, can physically bring you down. Whereas, if you are allowing someone to do what they want freely, you are like a sail on a ship that is open to the wind, setting them free and physically letting them go. Therefore you are lightening up on them. He wondered if that phrase, which he assumed was mostly slang and probably hadn’t been popular since the sixties anyway, had actually been put together using the nautical references. It wasn’t important or anywhere near relevant at this moment, but his mind apparently thought it needed an answer on this subject immediately. He shook his head again, tried to focus, and thought about John. John Olive, his friend, a friend closer than a brother for ten years, had just been carried out on a stretcher, bleeding profusely from what looked like a thousand cuts and still twitching from the overdose that wracked his body. Tim wasn’t sure if he was bringing him down, but he knew for sure that he had let him down—big-time.

How could he have let this happen? Why did he let it get this far? Think, Tim, think! The words came out audibly, startling Tim again. But thinking was painful, there were too many things fighting for control of his thoughts, and what usually won out was the sight of John staggering from the bedroom and falling face-first through the glass-top coffee table. The scene played over and over like a DVD with a skip, and Tim could not shut it off no matter how hard he tried. He would see it from every conceivable angle, like his mind had several cameras placed around the suite just to capture that moment. It’s funny how the mind works, it’s funny how many details the eye actually captures, and it’s even funnier how many of those details we immediately dismiss if they don’t stimulate us in some way. To Tim, it was like a fireworks display; if there was only one bright explosion in the sky, that one single light was able to grab your attention and hold it. But, if there were several explosions at once, your eye searches for the one that is the brightest or has the most plumes and focuses on that one, dismissing the others in theory but still capturing them nonetheless. And then there is the finale, when there are just too many different things going on at one time and the eyes just become overwhelmed and stop being impressed at all. Tim knew not everyone thought that way, in fact, he liked the finale as much as anyone else, but this was more about how the eyes see and the mind registers the things that go on around it at any given moment in time.

Suddenly Tim longed to be back home in small-town America, watching the sunset or gazing into a clear starry sky. He longed to watch a bird soar or watch the snow fall.

He longed for any of a thousand sights that he had seen and taken for granted over the course of a lifetime. He longed to be anywhere except here, sitting on this bloodred carpet with the visual of John replaying in his mind and the thought that soon he would have to explain this to the crew and eventually to the fans. How had this happened?

Tim put his face in his hands and tried to think, to figure out if he could have done anything differently. He already knew there were a thousand things he could have done, and he really didn’t want to bring those things to mind, because it would mean dealing with his own failures, but something in his head told him that it was important to run through the events leading up to this moment.

*****

The night was like any other night on the road; they were a rock band who had paid their dues and were now reaping the benefits of years of hard work. Of course, being a Christian rock band was a little different than some of your British Invasion or boy band types, but there were still interviews with local radio stations, a meet and greet with fans, and a sound check. Then there was the sold-out show that left the entire arena roaring with applause and demanding three encores. So actually, most of the time, it was the same as being in any other band, except they tried to make it more family friendly and include a lot of prayer. Tim lived for his time on stage; he could feel electricity in his veins in every chord, he could feel a pulse in every beat, he could feel the passion in every word, he could feel the energy that came from every outstretched hand, he could feel the very presence of God. But right now, sitting alone in this hotel suite, all he could feel was desperation, heartache, conviction and the overwhelming sense that God was no longer present. Of course Tim knew that God was still around, the Bible promised him that, or at least he thought it promised that. Didn’t it say God is always nearest when we are broken and strongest when we are weak? Did Paul say it? Maybe it was Matthew? Maybe it was both. Why can’t I remember?

Tim had been taught the importance of memorizing scriptures to help himself and others in time of need without having to fumble around to find them in a moment of crisis. He had pursued it diligently and had always been good at recall, but right now he could not, for the life of him, bring anything to mind that would comfort him. How could he be drawing such a blank? The answer came quick and shot through his head like a cannon. When was the last time you opened your Bible? It wasn’t necessarily a voice that he heard, more of a feeling that translated into words. Tim didn’t care how it reached him, he just knew it was a legitimate question that needed an answer. When was it? Was it before this last tour started? Was it the winter before that, when they started recording the last album? Had it really been so long since he had dug into God’s Word? Had he really become so smug in his own intellect and understanding that he assumed he didn’t need to read it anymore? Had he given in to the trappings of the world and become everything he professed to hate? Oh, God, help me! he screamed, but God did not answer.

The aftershow routine had been about the same too—pose for a few pictures, sign autographs for the fans, come together for a quick prayer, and then off to the hotel. It was here that the routine had become distorted over the past year. The band and even the crew were like one big happy family, so it wasn’t unusual to see wives and children running around the stage before and after shows.

It also wasn’t unusual to see them all get together for meals at a local restaurant or, in the case of an outdoor festival, an aftershow barbeque. Tim and John, the founding members of the band, and the talent behind the band’s many hit songs, had both remained single, focusing on the music and marketing. Their choice to not marry had never been an issue for them or for anyone who traveled with them. There was always plenty of room at the family tables, and in the hearts, for the fearless leaders. Many in the inner circle called them that, not just because they were the front men, and not because they wrote all the songs, and not even because their surnames brought about the band’s name, Olive Branch. Tim and John were, in many ways, both fearless and leaders. They had taken a small group of musicians from a small-town church on the Eastern Shore of Maryland and turned them into a household name across the country and around the world with seemingly very little effort and almost no budget. From the beginning, they gave the glory to God and remained grounded in their home church. Even as they grew in popularity and their schedules became crowded, they were as likely to be seen at the local park for an outreach as they were to be seen on stage accepting another Dove Award. You were just as likely to see their names in the church bulletin volunteering to feed the local homeless, as you were to see their names listed on the Hot 100 music charts. So why since the beginning of this last tour did Tim and John start to fade away? Why did they make commitments to the church and then cancel at the last minute or not show at all? Why did they disappear immediately after every show and avoid the meals and fellowship time? And why was John being hauled out of his hotel on a stretcher at 2:00 a.m.? Right now only God, Tim, and John held those answers, and John wasn’t able to talk, Tim didn’t know what to say, and he was pretty sure at this moment, God didn’t want to talk to him about it. Or maybe He did. Tim didn’t know anymore, and that made him feel even worse, so he sat on the floor and cried until he thought there could be no more tears left, then he cried some more. Tim had never felt more alone in his whole life.

None of the crew was staying on the top floor that night, so they hadn’t heard the commotion. They were all probably asleep, with their wives and kids safe and warm by their sides, and that seemed right. They weren’t perfect, they all had their ups and downs, their highlights and lowlights, but they were all good people and didn’t need to see this. He really wanted someone he loved to be here now, to talk to them, to have them tell him that everything was going to be okay, but no one who fit that description was anywhere on the top floor. Why hadn’t he invited any of the crew to the party? That was a stupid question, Tim said to no one in particular. The reason was simple, he and John were afraid that the crew would not get along with their new friends and would bring the party down asking questions and doing their church thing. For the first time since this tour began, Tim actually listened to himself, and he couldn’t believe his ears. He felt like he had just been punched in the gut, and before he knew it, he was vocalizing his thoughts, quietly at first, then with growing intensity and anger.

"You were afraid of what your friends might do? The questions they might ask? You were afraid they wouldn’t like your new friends? Oh, you mean the ones who brought the drugs to the party? You mean the women who came to the party because they followed the drugs and weren’t quite as ‘uptight’ as the wives of the crew!

Of course they wouldn’t like them, and you know why! You wouldn’t have liked them either if you had been thinking straight! You knew that the people who love you would have tried to talk you out of hanging with your new friends…and you just couldn’t have that, could you! You knew what you were doing, you had it all under control, you knew how close to the edge you could get before you fell off! Now look at yourself, almighty Tim Branch, you’re a stubborn, lying, prideful hypocrite, you’re a devil hiding behind the musical talent God gave you, and now you’re falling off that high and mighty seat you put yourself on without a friend in the world to catch you before you hit the bottom! By the time the last syllable left his lips, Tim was all but screaming into the air, fists pounding on his legs, tears pouring from his eyes like a torrent, and his heart breaking in what seemed like a thousand pieces. He instinctively picked up a heavy, half-full glass sitting next to him and hurled it at the TV. The screen exploded, and shards of glass filled the air for the second time that night. And then…silence. A silence so deafening that Tim could hear his own pulse as it pumped through his head at a dangerous pace. He sat there for a few more minutes, trying to breathe, trying to slow down his heart rate, and trying to get some perspective.

A gentle knock on the door broke the stillness. Tim felt his heartbeat spike again and a lump move into his throat. Who could that be? All their friends had run off as soon as John fell, and Tim knew he wouldn’t see them again, thank the Lord. The police officer that showed up with the ambulance had seen this situation a thousand times before and didn’t seem real happy about writing the report. He asked a few routine questions and left quickly. The night manager seemed the most upset because of the damage, but even he seemed to understand that this was all par for the course with musicians. Tim was struck with the absurdity of it—all these people living in a world where broken furniture, drug abuse, and bloody bodies were a normal part of their daily life; how could that be normal? How could these situations ever become typical in the daily routine of any human being? How could nobody care? But wait, Tim thought, hadn’t one of the medical crew looked at him a little funny? Did Tim see disappointment in her eyes? How did Tim catch that, and why was he just thinking about it now? Had that look from a random paramedic been something his eyes caught but at the time dismissed because there were other fireworks going off at that moment? He wasn’t sure right now, but he knew someone was knocking at his door in the middle of the night, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer it.

He waited to see if they would go away, but when the second and then third round of knocks came, each with increasing urgency, he got up and quietly walked to the door. He peered through the peephole, and his already racing heart took another step up. It was Ron and Stacy Williams. Ron was a tall man with dark hair, dark eyes, a build like a woodsman, and a heart that went out to anyone in need. He was the guitar tech for the band when they were on tour and an accomplished musician who wrote and recorded his own music during his downtime. Tim always thought that if anyone could make it in the world of music, it was Ron. He and Stacy had met during high school, been accepted to the same college for the arts, and been married at the beginning of their sophomore year. Stacy was a good foot shorter than Ron, light hair, light eyes, a smile that lit up a room when she entered, and a love of children.

In the eyes of most of the people they came in contact with, theirs was a fairy-tale marriage full of sunshine and smiles. Tim however knew differently, as he had been a counselor and small-group leader to Ron when he first came to the church. Ron had confided about the many struggles and trials that he and Stacy went through in the early years and the difficulties trying to have children that nearly cost them their marriage. Tim and the church had rallied around the young couple and encouraged them in their faith. Amazingly the next year saw them still without children, but with a newfound love and commitment to each other that surpassed many who had been believers for decades. Now, at only twenty-seven years of age, it was truly hard to find a couple more focused on God and more willing to help others to find that same focus than these two. And now, for reasons that Tim could not yet process, here they were together on the other side of his door in the wee hours of the morning. Tim knew he wasn’t ready to face them, not now, but a sledgehammer of conviction was beating on his head, and he knew that they were just what he needed. He looked in the mirror attached to the back of the door and noticed that he look liked he had aged ten years over the last couple of hours. His thick brown hair was both matted to his head and at the same time sticking out in several directions. His eyes, which he always thought were unusual because they changed colors based on the lighting and his mood, were now just large white and red circles with black dots in the middle. His skin was pale and seemed to be stretched rather tightly over his bones. He quickly thought that if the circumstances were different, his current look would be great at Halloween, but this wasn’t Halloween, and this was not a good look for any day or any time. The world takes a toll on the flesh, he thought. Tim wasn’t sure how long he had been thinking all these things, but another round of intense knocks on the door told him he had run out of time to think. He ran his fingers quickly through his hair, wiped his eyes and his nose, knowing it wasn’t really going to help, and slowly opened the door.

By the look on their faces, Tim knew they were seeing him like he saw himself just a second ago—haggard and beaten down. He thought maybe he could play it off and tell them they woke him out of a deep sleep, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the lie. Before he knew what was happening, the couple had peeled their eyes away from Tim, exchanged a knowing glance at each other, nodded their heads in some internal agreement, and began to enter the room. Tim wanted to stop them, wanted to keep them from going into the living room and seeing the mess, but all he could do was lower his head and move out of the way. Ron and Stacy stopped just inside the doorway, turned to Tim, and looked at him for what seemed like an eternity. Tim was used to being the one to use silence and eye contact as a way to get people to open up to him, but right now he was on the other side, and it wasn’t very comfortable. He didn’t know what to say or if he should say anything at all. Predictably, his mind began to sift through scenarios that might help ease them into a conversation. He wanted to ask them how things were going with the ministry, with Ron’s music, ask them if there was any luck with the pregnancy or how the new car they bought was running. He wanted to make them comfortable enough to open up to him, to trust him, to see that everything was going to be okay. But suddenly, the scenarios dried up, Tim felt a deep darkness swallow up all his thoughts, and where just a few seconds before there was confusion, there was now nothing.

Finally, Ron broke the silence and let Tim off the hook. He didn’t say much, in fact he only said five words in the form of a question: Do you want to talk?

It was a simple question, one Tim had asked others, including Ron thousands of times, but this time it was directed at him. Tim could feel his legs no longer wanting to support him, and he instinctively leaned against the nearest wall, burning tears were already welling up in his eyes again, and his throat felt like he hadn’t had any water in forty days. He tried to maintain some sort of composure; he was, after all, the fearless leader and couldn’t let them see him falling apart. Inside his head, or maybe deep in his heart and this time in a voice that was as clear as if it was his own, he heard, Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. That was in Proverbs, wasn’t it? Yes…yes, it was; a scripture finally came to him! Not the revelation he was hoping for, but something from the Word of God! A correction, a rebuke, a word right on time! Tim felt a stirring in his soul that he hadn’t felt in quite a while, and he wasn’t about to let it go. He swallowed the lump in his parched throat and thought about how terrible his own pride tasted. He slowly pushed off of the wall and noticed that his knees were once again cooperating. He took a step toward Ron and Stacy, grabbed them both in a big bear hug, and as the next round of tears began to flow, he whispered, "Yes, I want to talk. I really want to talk."

2

July 1996 (Maryland)

Tim jumped out of the back of the old Chevy pickup and grabbed his things. His things included one tattered green duffel bag and one slightly-less-tattered guitar case. The duffel bag had been his dad’s while he was in the military, but Tim hadn’t kept it initially as an homage to his father—or so he told himself. Instead he kept it because it held his stuff, and it was easy to carry…that was all. Besides, at sixteen years old, when he had been secretly planning to run away in the middle of the night, he didn’t think it was wise to ask for his parents’ Samsonite.

But that was six years ago, and a lot had changed—at least in Tim’s world. As a teenager, he dreamed of going to Los Angeles and taking the rock and roll world by storm. He dreamed of becoming the next overnight sensation, the next where did this kid come from?, and the next person who would change the course of music for a generation. His sound was fresh, original, and just what the music industry needed—according to his friends in Maryland anyway. He wasn’t necessarily a technical player in the sense that while he could hammer out a run of chords that sounded really good running through a distortion pedal, his fingering work during solos needed a lot of help. Tim didn’t care about that, he knew that with the right backup band and enough mixing, he could still be better than most of the watered-down musicians he heard on the radio these days. He also knew that, without the hassles of school and parents, he would have a lot more time to practice and would be even better.

His parents, of course, didn’t share his vision of world domination using an electric guitar as a sword, but in Tim’s eyes, neither of them really had a vision of anything. His dad was a career Army man who just couldn’t seem to fit into the outside world, and his mom was a throwback to an era where people thought you should be born, grow up, raise a family, and die in the same house—or at least within the same town. Unfortunately, moving around with his dad in the military had thwarted that plan for her, but as soon as he retired, she was instrumental in pushing him back to this area to regrow their roots. Tim sometimes wondered if he had been adopted or, even more likely, switched at the hospital. Neither one of them had any interest in real music; if they were in the car, Dad would occasionally listen to country music, but mostly he just liked it to be quiet, while Mom loved her Gospel music and hymns. Dad was the disciplinarian, who didn’t like to see anyone just sitting around doing nothing, while Mom was the energetic nurturer who would smother Tim with her hugs, cookies, and scriptures. In any case, he decided at a young age that he would not let his parents’ muddled outlook on life stifle the burning desire in his heart. He would have to get out of this environment—and fast.

Of course fast was a relative term to a teenager. The time spent listening to music alone in his room went fast, while the time sitting at the dinner table listening to his dad drone on about what was wrong with the world seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace. The time spent jamming in his friend Bill’s garage went fast, while the time sitting at a desk at school did not. Time was certainly a strange phenomenon that Tim could not quite grasp, but he also couldn’t stop it. As his sixteenth birthday rapidly approached, and things only got worse at home, from a teenage rock star’s perspective anyway, he knew the time had come to make a break. He decided to wait until after his party; he assumed he would get some cash, and that would be useful on the road. He hadn’t thought much beyond the actual leaving of the house, but the act of leaving was the focus, and he couldn’t really wrap his young mind around the rest. He just knew he would leave, head west, and send a postcard from LA. So, after the last of the aunts and uncles had gone and his parents had retired to their room to fall asleep watching the news, Tim set his plan in motion.

First, it was down to the basement for Dad’s old duffel bag. It sat in a dusty corner and held a variety of sports balls and equipment that never got used. As he emptied the contents onto the floor, it struck Tim that he had never really given this bag much thought. He began to think about where that bag had been in the twenty-five years it had belonged to SSgt. David Branch, US Army. He could almost see his dad grabbing it as he jumped off a copter landing in a hot spot in Vietnam or hauling it off a troop carrier while on R & R somewhere in Europe. At some point in time, this bag probably carried things essential to his dad’s survival, and Tim thought it was interesting that it was about to do the same for him. Of course the essentials needed for surviving in a foreign jungle were much different from those needed to survive on the roads of the United States, but at sixteen, Tim didn’t see much of a difference. So he packed a few changes of clothes, a couple of pictures of his family and friends, a knife, for protection against the weirdos his mom had told him about, his notebook of songs, and his guitar. Surely this is all a young musician on the road would need, right?

Food, Tim said out loud and quickly put his hand over his mouth. He was definitely going to need sustenance.

Besides the forty dollars he had gotten for his birthday, Tim had been able to sweet-talk his mom out of another twenty over the last few weeks and had forty saved from chores he had done. A total of one hundred dollars, which seemed like a lot to him, but he understood that eating out for every meal was going to be expensive. Again, he really didn’t know how expensive it was going to be, he just knew that the family didn’t eat out that often because Dad was always saying how ridiculously expensive everything is. So as quietly as he could, he made his way back upstairs, prepared a few sandwiches, and ransacked the pantry for anything that would stay fresh and not have to be heated up. Now he was ready.

He walked past his parents’ bedroom and listened; Dad was already snoring…or was it Mom. That struck Tim as funny, and he had to stifle a laugh. He realized at that moment that he was going to miss them, and for the first time, he actually thought about the fact that they were going to miss him. For a split second, his conscience made him hesitate; his dad was going to be angry, his mom was going to be worried, and that put a pause in his step. He hadn’t really thought about the feelings that were going to be involved and how his parents would handle their son being gone. Not to mention the rest of his family and friends. But all of that was quickly washed away by his heart, a heart that longed to get moving toward the dream that his parents had tried to crush for so long.

He made his way quietly back to his room and took one last look around. He glanced at the desk where he had done more songwriting than homework, and something caught his eye. Under stacks of music magazines was the Bible his mom had bought for him, according to her, the day she found out she was pregnant with Tim. She was very devoted to God and had apparently read to him from it from the day he was brought home. He remembered how they used to go to church as a family and he had proudly taken his Bible to Sunday school for a couple of months when he was six or seven. But like everything else in that house, the commitment was not there for long, and as his dad grew more disillusioned with the world and religion, all that had stopped. Tim didn’t mind not getting up early on Sunday and not dressing in itchy church clothes, so he never complained, but right now that book brought a warm feeling to his stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have God on my side while I’m traveling, he said out loud, then clapped his hand over his mouth again before he woke anybody up. His dad seemed to be able to hear a mouse sneeze in the house across the street even while he was in a deep sleep, so Tim didn’t think he’d have any trouble hearing voices in the next room. He pushed the Bible down into the bag, blew a ceremonious farewell kiss to his old life, and quietly climbed out of his window into the dark.

Yep, that had been six long years ago, and now he stood on the same sidewalk where he had begun his journey, looking at the house that by all outward appearances looked exactly the same as when he had walked away from it as a teenager. The grass was still meticulously maintained, in fact he thought his dad must have just cut it recently as the air had that fresh-cut grass smell. He wondered if Dad still had that junky old push mower, the one that was hard to start, had two bad wheels, and blew smoke and lawn clippings back at whoever was pushing it. Tim had vivid memories of flying sticks and pine cones that made the chore of grass cutting more like walking through a warzone. They had a decent-sized yard, as did most people who lived in this area, not quite full-on country, like the large farm-type yards, but by no means jammed next to each other like in the city.

Tim did notice that the yard looked smaller now, maybe because he had grown, or maybe because he hadn’t had to cut it with the mutant push mower for a few years. He also noticed the heat. Not just the heat, but the humidity; man, the mugginess of the summer in this place was something he had maybe not forgotten, but definitely had pushed out of his mind. It was the type of heat where a man can jump out of the shower, dry off, and start sweating just by getting dressed. In any case, the rest of the house and land looked exactly the same. There was the gray siding, the black shutters, Mom’s flowers everywhere, a hummingbird feeder on a pole by the window and in the backyard but visible from the road, a shed that should have fallen down before he left but was somehow still standing. He had come home.

In his mind, Tim saw visuals of a thousand random thoughts go rushing by, and his heart struggled to keep up with the emotions that each one brought. He had wanted to get away from this place so bad, but now that he was back, he thought he may never want to leave again. He couldn’t help comparing himself to the Prodigal Son in the Bible, a wayward youth, returning home full of life lessons and a humble attitude, and that gave him a warm feeling inside. Unfortunately, unlike the Bible account, his father was not running out to greet him and ready to celebrate his return.

In fact, at this point, he wondered if his dad would even let him back in the house. Tim suddenly felt a twinge of fear poke him in the heart. Maybe he had made a mistake in coming back, maybe it was just best to let time and distance heal the wounds. Maybe he should just stick out his thumb and head out again. No! he said out loud and with a little more volume than he intended. No, he whispered, as he closed his eyes and did something he had done a lot of lately, he began to pray. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk and began to silently ask God for wisdom, for peace, for strength. He was oblivious to the rays of the sinking afternoon sun, oblivious to the laughter of the kids playing in the park a couple of blocks away, oblivious to the car full of teenagers that rode by, briefly stared at him, and then decided he wasn’t interesting enough to hold their attention. Tim was consumed in a conversation with his Heavenly Father, and nothing else mattered.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, but as he felt the fear dissipate into a sea of peace, he opened his eyes and realized he was no longer standing there alone. His parents had come out of the house and were standing just a few feet away.

Tim knew he had to say something, but nothing would come out. A lifetime of emotion was caught up in his throat and sat there like a lump of clay.

3

March 2009 (New York)

Ron and Stacy watched as Tim stepped back from the hug and seemed to forcefully swallow a lump in his throat. They watched as he wiped first his eyes, then his nose on his shirt. It hadn’t escaped their notice that there was blood on the shirt, but they both had come to the conclusion that it would be best to not push the issue until Tim could pull himself together and fill in some of the details.

The details came quick and sporadic, like a machine gun being fired at random targets with no real focus, and many of them were drowned out in fits of tears that literally choked off the words. Even the things that did make it out of his mouth were not centered around just tonight and were in no real chronological order. In the space of about twenty minutes, Tim had replayed memories from his childhood, from his early days with the band, and from the incident tonight. From what Ron could make out, it seemed that Tim and John had had some sort of disagreement tonight, John had gone into the bedroom with some of their new friends, had maybe been drinking or taking something he shouldn’t have been, and then somehow ended up falling into the coffee table. The rest of the story was obviously important, but the bottom line seemed to be that Tim was in trouble, which meant the entire ministry was in trouble.

Ron had always looked at Tim as sort of a mentor, as someone he could turn to whenever life threw him a curveball he couldn’t hit. Tim had been his rock during the early years in the church, through his marriage to Stacy, and had been a constant encouragement as Ron pursued his musical ministry. Tonight he saw Tim for what he was—human, made of flesh, and capable of falling to the temptations of man. Ron knew that their roles had suddenly been reversed, and it was time to reach out and show the same mercy and grace that Tim had shown him all these years. God has a wonderful way of working all things together for good to those who love Him, and Ron saw this not as so much a tragedy, but as an opportunity to let God work through him.

Suddenly, Tim fell silent. It was as if the machine gun had run out of ammo, or maybe just jammed up. In either case, Tim’s head was hanging limp, and sweat-soaked strands of hair covered his face. His hands were curled into tight fists, and his whole body seemed to be trembling. He was still standing but looked as though he could really use a seat.

Ron gripped Stacy’s hand, reached his free hand out to Tim, and quietly said, Let’s sit down and see if we can sort this out.

Tim slowly uncurled his fists and, without lifting his head, hesitantly reached out a shaking hand to Ron. The three of them moved into the living room like a small line of grade school students lining up for a field trip or a fire drill.

Ron and Stacy both drew in a shocked breath as they rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the mess left by the earlier events.

It wasn’t just the large shattered coffee table, the large shattered TV, or the thousands of shards of glass that littered the floor, or even the blood that could be seen everywhere, even on the red carpet—although that would have been enough. They both noticed several other things that looked out of place, at least in a room shared by two single Christian men. On one end table, there were several half-empty liquor bottles. There were at least a half dozen drinking glasses strewn about with varying levels of liquid in them. One glass had cigarette butts floating in it, and a couple others were smeared with bright lipstick. In one of the large chairs, Ron noticed a bag that had a large wad of cash haphazardly stuffed into it and a small open case with metal instruments in it that he didn’t recognize. His mind likened it to something doctors might carry if they still did house calls.

Ron led Tim to another chair and helped to ease him down into the plush fabric. Tim lifted his head for the first time since finishing his story and seemed to slowly become aware of his surroundings. A look that seemed to be a combination of humiliation and fear crept over Tim’s face, and his head immediately fell to his chest as another wave of tears burst from his eyes. Ron and Stacy took places on the couch facing him and waited…and prayed.

Ron could usually keep his mind focused and block out distractions during his prayer time, but now he was actually distracted by the silence. They were too high up to be bothered by street noise, if there was any at this time of night. There was no ticking of a clock since everything was now digital. Ron thought there should at least be a cricket chirping, but he figured the hotel was too fancy to have crickets…or maybe the critters had to stay on the lower floors. That thought must have put a smile on his face because the next second, he felt the sharp poke of his wife’s elbow in his side. He looked over, and she was giving him the Get focused look. He felt himself blush and immediately returned his mind to the task at hand. She knew him all too well, and he loved her deeply for it.

This is what I have become. It was Tim’s voice that broke the silence, soft and cracking on every syllable. His eyes were red and puffy, but they had a sparkle that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. In fact, now that Ron thought about it, that sparkle had not been there for a long time. He felt a wave of shame and guilt wash over him. They were friends, they were brothers, why hadn’t he paid attention and reached out before it came to this?

Do you know what a hypocrite looks like? Tim again, his voice was more controlled and introspective now.

No, not really…, was all Ron could come up with.

Of course you don’t, and you know why?

Suddenly Ron and, by association, Stacy had become the interviewees for a job they had no experience in, and this time all Ron could say was, No…

Tim continued before Ron could say anything else. In Tim’s mind, the question was rhetorical, and he didn’t want to lose his train of thought. "Because you can only truly know what a hypocrite looks like if you can get inside of them…in their hearts and in their minds. We see lots of politicians saying they are honest, then we catch them with their hands in the cookie jar, and we call them a hypocrite. We hear celebrities talk about how concerned they are for animal rights, but we find out they have a closet full of fur coats, and we call them hypocrites.

We hear professional athletes swearing they don’t take performance-enhancing drugs, then find out they are loaded with them—hypocrites. But in reality, those people are not hypocrites, they are just liars, and unfortunately, we expect them to act that way, it’s the way our culture thinks. We hear them say one thing, and then we see them do another, so we catch them in their lie. Eventually whatever they say or do will go away, and we move on to the next big thing that the media decides needs to catch our eye.

Ron wasn’t sure where any of this was going, but he could see a determination building in Tim’s face. He was going to have his say whether he and Stacy listened or not. So they both settled back and listened.

No, a true hypocrite is one that can do all the right things in public, and maybe even everything right in private. I mean, there are cameras everywhere these days, there are websites where you can get all the information you need on a person…and even stuff you don’t need. Reporters can dig even deeper, and supposedly the government can pretty much listen in on any conversation you have and can use a satellite in space to take a picture of you sleeping in your recliner with the curtains closed. But nothing we have on this earth can truly tap into just what the mind is thinking or what the heart is feeling. So, a true hypocrite is one that can pass the public test and the electronic search test and still harbor the wrong thoughts in his mind and in his heart. Right?

Ummmm… was all that Ron could come up with. His mind was having a hard time processing this train of thought while trying to focus on how to get to the bottom of what had happened here.

Tim didn’t give him time to answer anyway; he was on a roll and apparently didn’t want to be stopped. He wasn’t even looking at them, he had picked a spot on the wall above and behind them and seemed to be trying to bore a hole through it with his eyes. Later Ron and Stacy would reflect on the conversation and realize that Tim may not have been talking to them at all. The whole conversation seemed to be more of a confession to God than a story to his friends.

I am a hypocrite. Look at me, and you now know what a hypocrite looks like. Not because of what you see here—by my own definition, that just makes me a liar, but because of what I was thinking and feeling that brought me to this place, this time, and this mess.

But, Tim, what did happen here? We want to know, we want to help. It was Stacy that finally got a word in. Ron knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long; she was the true counselor of the two with the wisdom of a scholar and the heart of a saint. He truly loved that part of her as well.

Tim broke his stare, blinked a couple of times as if to try to focus in on the voice that spoke to him, and as a tired grin began to spread across his face, he said, Don’t you see what happened here?

Ron looked to Stacy, hoping she had an answer to the question. He could see in her eyes that she did not, and that wasn’t good…because he didn’t have a clue. It occurred briefly to Ron that if they had truly been at an interview, the interviewer would have thrown them both out by now, saying, Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

Once again, Tim took them off the hook by answering his own question. A miracle happened here.

4

July 1996 (Maryland)

"It’s a miracle!" Betty Branch cried as she took the few steps remaining between them and hugged her son with the strength of a grizzly bear.

The force of his mother’s attack sent the duffel bag slamming to the ground. Tim’s guitar was saved because it was slung over his back, but he was afraid it may have been hugged out of tune. None of that mattered at this moment however; the only thing on Tim’s mind was how good it felt to be home, how good it felt to get a hug from his mom, and yes, how good it was to see his dad. His dad, SSgt. Branch, US Army, tough guy, disciplinarian, and groundskeeper at casa de Branch. Tim was still wondering just how his dad was going to react to him being here, but at this point, it was too late to do anything about it. Even if he wanted to run, he couldn’t; his mom had still not released him from the hug.

At the urging of Pastor Bob, Tim had sent a few postcards and written a few letters so his parents knew he was alive, but otherwise he had not stayed in contact like a good son should. And he hadn’t told them he was coming home either. So, taking all this into account, how was Dad going to react? Before he could get an answer to that mystery, he still had to contend with being trapped in his mother’s arms. It was at this point he realized that he was actually involved in a one-way hug. Betty had her arms wrapped so tightly around him so fast, that he didn’t have time to respond, and now his arms were pinned to his side. He had grown a little taller since he left and was a little more filled out due to a steady exercise routine, but there was no way he was going to be able to break the grip that Betty Branch had on him. And in reality, Tim didn’t want to ruin the moment, so he just stood there feeling the warmth of her tears begin to soak through his T-shirt. He closed his eyes and felt relief crash around him like a tidal wave. As the first of his own tears began to spill from his eyes, he silently thanked God for bringing him home.

As if she had heard Tim’s thoughts, Betty lifted her head from his chest and cried out, Thank the Lord you’re home, I knew He would bring you back, I just knew it! Then her face was once again buried in his chest, sobbing, and whispering words that Tim could not make out.

It made Tim feel good that his mom had not lost her faith. It made him feel even better that he couldn’t wait to tell her the story of how he had found his own faith, but before all that, Tim knew there was Dad to deal with. Would he even want to talk to Tim or let him back in the house? And if he did let him speak, would he criticize Tim’s views and try to crush his dreams like he had done all those years before? Just because his mom was excited to see him, that was no guarantee that Tim was still welcome in the place he abandoned six years ago.

He let that thought fade as he slowly struggled out of his mom’s hug. She wasn’t a big lady, but she was strong. She spent years washing clothes by hand and was always busy gardening and helping Dad take care of the yard by pulling the weeds by hand.

She thought automated washing machines, dishwashers, and weed whackers were tools the devil invented to make people lazy. Okay, she never actually said that, but she was way more comfortable doing things by hand rather than letting a machine do it for her. Thinking about the devil’s tools made Tim smile a little and, once again, being inside his mind and not in the moment, almost got him in trouble. He was able to subdue the thought and his smile as he was finally able to pry one of his mother’s arms from around him.

He was supposed to be thinking about how his dad was going to react, but at the same time, he was reminding himself that things were different now. Tim no longer lived or died by what others thought of him; he was mature, or at least more mature than when he left, he was willing to own up to his mistakes and even ask forgiveness for them, but he was no longer willing to let his past or his mistakes be his identity. He loved his parents with all his heart, but Jesus was now first and foremost…and nothing could take that away!

Why did you say no? It was David Branch’s raspy voice that broke the moment and the last of the grip that Tim’s mom had on him.

Huh? Tim turned his head toward his dad and blurted the word, or noise, or whatever it was before he realized he had even heard the question.

Tim remembered that his dad wasn’t one for slang or useless words, so Tim quickly searched his internal vocabulary for a response that was clearer and more pronounced, but before he could find it, David was already talking. I heard you say no. That’s when I looked out the window and saw you standing on the sidewalk.

Good ol’ dad, apparently his hearing was still as sharp as ever. Tim let a smile break across his face, shrugged, and said, It’s a long story.

David stared at Tim for what seemed like an eternity, those dark eyes seeming to reach right down into Tim’s soul, almost looking for something. Then, just as it seemed it was time for Tim to say something, his dad folded his arms, narrowed his eyes, and said, I’ve got time.

So there it was, in that one brusque statement, David Branch had opened a door. It seemed on the surface that he was trying to see just what Tim’s intentions were, but deep down, Tim knew that his dad was welcoming him home.

Although still a little tentative about how this reunion was going to turn out, Tim felt a load of anxiety six years in the making begin to fall from his shoulders. He felt relief begin to wash over him, and for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he felt at home.

Then suddenly his mom’s arms were wrapped around him again. She was singing Happy Birthday in a quiet shaky voice. Yes, today was Tim’s birthday, and how very like his mom to not forget. He felt a little uncomfortable being sang to, especially out here in the front yard, but he knew it was important to her, so he let it go. Dad didn’t join in, but that was okay too.

The second the serenade was over, however, David took charge of the situation. I think we’ve given the neighbors enough to gossip about for now, why don’t we get inside?

Tim couldn’t quite place it, but something was different in his dad’s delivery of that suggestion. It may just have been the tone or the volume of it that threw Tim off; maybe his dad had mellowed a bit over the last few years. But then it struck him…although David had taken charge, he had made a suggestion, and technically, now that Tim had a second to process it, he realized it was a question, not a command!

He had asked them to agree with him, not told them to agree with him. Tim wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it too long. Right now, his mom was dragging him through the door of the place he called home. Wait, was Dad holding the door for them as they walked through? Not that holding a door for your family is anything noteworthy in the average household, but in the Branch clan, this was as rare a sight as a man laying his jacket over a puddle for a woman to cross. Suddenly Tim wasn’t sure he was home at all, maybe he was still in the back of some pickup sleeping and dreaming of the world he wanted to be in. A knot formed in his stomach.

As Tim stepped into the foyer that started at the front door and ended in the kitchen, he was immediately overtaken with a wide range of emotions and memories. Everything was exactly the same, the same table where his dad threw his keys down when he came home, the same lamp on that table, and the same green area rug underneath the table. Even the walls were the same, the faded white paint was still highlighted by borders of ivy leaves his mother had hand painted around the top. Tim noticed several areas where the wall paint was chipped, reminders of all the times he had run into these walls with his guitar or baseball bat or whatever else a clumsy kid could run into walls with. Tim seemed to remember each one in vivid detail as if the events happened only yesterday. This scratch was from when he came home from practice and was mad with his bandmates because they didn’t like the song he wrote. This dent was from the time he came home from the pickup baseball game and was so excited because he hit the winning run.