The Other Side of Light

By LeRoy Brink-Bovee

2

Josh is struggling. Added to the pain of school, struggling through crippling dyslexia, is the recent death of his father. Near his breaking point, his mother sends him to complete a task that ends in a startling new way of seeing that shifts his focus outward. In a new effort to help others, he finds the beginning of healing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889604389

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The Other Side of Light

LeRoy Brink-Bovee

Copyright © 2023 LeRoy Brink-Bovee

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-452-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-438-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Chapter 1

Josh slammed the door, rattling the front window. The one over his mom's favorite bed of daisies. Should tear all the stupid flowers up, he thought. What's so important about cleaning his room, doing the dishes, picking up his clothes, or doing his homework? And did it have to be right now? It wasn't every day there was a Transformer's Marathon on TV. Didn't he have the right to escape? Hide? Forget?

She should know by now he did his best with schoolwork. Was it his fault God had wired his brain backward or sideways or upside-down or whatever? Was it his fault words moved around the page whenever he tried to capture them for reading and writing?

At least TV let him escape for a few hours, but as soon as he sat down and sang the theme into marathon liftoff, she comes into his room and stands in front of his TV and starts her list—clean room, do dishes, pick up clothes, do homework. Was he wrong to raise his voice? Was he wrong to stand up for his rights? It was his room and his time. Why couldn't she chill and let him unwind a little? Was she even human? Dad had died less than a month ago. How did she go on like everything was the same?

But no—she'd pointed out the door and said, "Josh, before this day gets any older, you need to spend a little time with Father Timothy. Confession is good for the soul. Now! Go!"

Said it just like that—before the day gets any older—as if that made sense. Josh kicked at rock cress lining the walk and stubbed his toe on a boulder hidden by fresh spring's growth.

Horse pucky! he shouted. No reason to pile up any more to confess. Only had to confess the stuff he said, not what he thought. He pushed owl-eyed glasses up his nose with the back of his wrist and tossed lank blond hair off his forehead.

He kicked a miniature Coke can along the verge where asphalt met gravel. Patches of squaw grass mounted an endless campaign to recapture the blackened territory.

Dad would have kicked back in Josh's hand-me-down recliner next to his bed and watched with him, and then—after—helped him with the schoolwork. Dead! Dad dead! It was still a punch to the stomach. He sometimes went several hours without thinking about him or missing him, then a random thought, and it started again. It felt like a physical blow, an invisible maniacal monster whaling him in the gut several times a day, just for the pleasure of remembering his dad was dead, gone, no longer among the moving, speaking, eating, sharing, kind people. How is that fair? And he needed confession?

The church was on the next block. It was simple enough—a long rectangular building with massive oak doors opening on seven shallow steps that ran the front of the building—ending at the sidewalk. Above the door, a bell tower pointed to the sky—heaven's signpost, according to Father Timothy. The simplicity ended when one walked through the door. Every window was a stained-glass Bible story that lit the air with vibrant colors. Josh paused. Walking through the doors was like entering an alternate universe. The hush that greeted him was not merely quiet, it was tomb-like. Mesmerizing, too, the way the pools of color reflected on the pews and floor. The way they seemed to move, almost…communicate. The air was expectant, cocooning him in warm, velvet stillness. He shook his head. Crazy!

He continued through the foyer into the sanctuary. Although the roof reached as high as most two-story houses, today it stretched out of sight. Wood grain glowed warm honey-orange. Forms of color and light shaped hidden figures and moved on. At the other end, a crucified Christ hung before a round window depicting Golgotha. Josh was caught entirely within its shadow. A chill chased a thought, Holy crosses, Batman! Someone ruined the bat-signal. He snickered and snorted. The sudden sound echoed like skittering feet along the walls.

He hated confession. It seemed pointless to kneel on the plush velvet stool while Father Timothy called him My son and said awe and oh and uh huh to his stream of wickedness. Sometimes he made stuff up. Just to shock the priest. Failure there too.

Today was different. Father Timothy listened in silence, and when Joshua finished, the priest did not assign penance. Joshua, he said, did you know your name is a pseudonym for Jesus?

No.

I know you have had a very hard time. I wonder if you realize how hard everything has been for your mom? She lost the love of her life, her friend, her helper, and her companion. She is working two jobs to keep your home and take care of you. I want you to think about two questions, Joshua. First, what would happen if you said only positive things and what would happen if you did things for your mom before she asked?

Was Father Timothy nagging? What? Did Mom call? Did she ask the priest to lecture him?

Josh would have slammed the confessional door; however, it's hard to slam a curtain. Balling his fists, he dove forward and pounded the foyer door. Boom! Waves of noise, first satisfying, then not, as it softened into many creatures moving restless on invisible feet. Feeling icy fingers on his neck, he pushed through.

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