Jake Gyllenhaal leaps from one wall to the next, steadies himself and crashes into a foe with precision. Arrows whiz past his head within a hair's breath of slicing off an ear, and each of his steps fall with the swift sureness of a gazelle's, despite a harrowing battle raging around him.
Call me a sap, but when I saw the fight scenes from Disney's "Prince of Persia," I could only think of one thing:
Psalm 91.
Of course, the movie itself has nothing to do with the Bible or with the life of King David. But as I watched Gyllenhaal skirt past dangers with that winsome smile of his, all I could see was David personified, his trials and battles as told in 1st Samuel and his faith in God as told in the Psalms. When we read the Bible, we often see it through our 21st century American eyes. So sometimes it takes a fanciful movie to bring that reality home.
Why do I bring this up?
Currently I'm in the midst of personal traumas. But I can tell you with utmost certainty, Psalm 91 is true for me and has played out, day after day, week after week. Let's take a look at it:
Psalm 91
1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.[a]
2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.
9 If you say, “The LORD is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.
14 “Because he[b] loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”
And now, let's take a look at this short montage from "Prince of Persia," which is a compilation of battle scenes, sap and all. As you watch it, look past the Hollywood glitter and see this Psalm unfold in front of your eyes.
Then realize one thing:
He who promises to protect you is the same One who shielded David.
He is your fortress, in whom you can trust.
Check this out:
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Memory of Joy
Conclusion of this story series.
So as I reflect about my friendship with Joy, her sickness, her acceptance of Jesus as her Savior after a lifetime of atheism and her death, one thing occurs to me:
We can be vessels to bring God to others ... but we can't force them to accept Him. Ultimately, He has to work with them individually, and their hearts have to be open to His voice.
Joy came to mind for me in the midst of a year of battling atheists on Twitter. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I tried sharing my faith with them. Sometimes people were receptive to a discussion. Sometimes they belittled me. Sometimes they mocked me. Sometimes they crucified my character. Sometimes they became my friends.
None of them, so far, have accepted Jesus as their Savior.
Does it mean the witness is ineffective?
I used to battle inwardly with that question. But when all is said and done .. it's up to them. It's between them and God.
All we can do is present the information.
Did I do anything super special or spectacular to get Joy to change her views?
Not at all. In fact, if you look over my friendship with Joy, you'll see that she was probably the better friend to me than I was to her. I guess that what it comes down to is being willing to share.
Be ready with your answers. Know your Scripture. Immerse yourself in prayer. And if you make a concerted effort to tell others about Jesus, especially those who deny His existence, get ready for the fight of your life. But leave the miracles to God.
Can an atheist become a Christ-loving believer?
I've seen it happen.
Is it common?
No.
Does that make it any less true, special or meaningful?
Not at all.
If just one sheep of 100 is lost, you know the Shepherd seeks it until it's found. One sheep -- one person -- matters to God as much as if he or she were the only person alive. It's our responsibility to see them as He does. Everyone -- everyone -- is that dearly loved.
I don't know what will become of the atheists I met on Twitter. But I know one thing -- the atheist friend of mine named Joy is now walking with Jesus. It was her choice, her decision. It was her willingness to open her mind and heart to Him and allow Him into her life.
I had nothing to do with it, but I can tell you one thing:
I'm super excited that this isn't the end of the story of Joy. One day, the memory of Joy will become a tangible soul, standing in front of me, welcoming me home.
One day, Joy and I will be together again, bathed in the light of His glory.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, others will be there, too.
So as I reflect about my friendship with Joy, her sickness, her acceptance of Jesus as her Savior after a lifetime of atheism and her death, one thing occurs to me:
We can be vessels to bring God to others ... but we can't force them to accept Him. Ultimately, He has to work with them individually, and their hearts have to be open to His voice.
Joy came to mind for me in the midst of a year of battling atheists on Twitter. Day after day, week after week, month after month, I tried sharing my faith with them. Sometimes people were receptive to a discussion. Sometimes they belittled me. Sometimes they mocked me. Sometimes they crucified my character. Sometimes they became my friends.
None of them, so far, have accepted Jesus as their Savior.
Does it mean the witness is ineffective?
I used to battle inwardly with that question. But when all is said and done .. it's up to them. It's between them and God.
All we can do is present the information.
Did I do anything super special or spectacular to get Joy to change her views?
Not at all. In fact, if you look over my friendship with Joy, you'll see that she was probably the better friend to me than I was to her. I guess that what it comes down to is being willing to share.
Be ready with your answers. Know your Scripture. Immerse yourself in prayer. And if you make a concerted effort to tell others about Jesus, especially those who deny His existence, get ready for the fight of your life. But leave the miracles to God.
Can an atheist become a Christ-loving believer?
I've seen it happen.
Is it common?
No.
Does that make it any less true, special or meaningful?
Not at all.
If just one sheep of 100 is lost, you know the Shepherd seeks it until it's found. One sheep -- one person -- matters to God as much as if he or she were the only person alive. It's our responsibility to see them as He does. Everyone -- everyone -- is that dearly loved.
I don't know what will become of the atheists I met on Twitter. But I know one thing -- the atheist friend of mine named Joy is now walking with Jesus. It was her choice, her decision. It was her willingness to open her mind and heart to Him and allow Him into her life.
I had nothing to do with it, but I can tell you one thing:
I'm super excited that this isn't the end of the story of Joy. One day, the memory of Joy will become a tangible soul, standing in front of me, welcoming me home.
One day, Joy and I will be together again, bathed in the light of His glory.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, others will be there, too.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A Mysterious Visitor & A Message from the Grave
Fall 1997.
The Pennsylvania State Capitol.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Pretentiously ornate, the state Capitol in Pennsylvania provides a grandiose backdrop for political drama at its finest. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt and built with the dirty influence of steel magnates in the early 1900s, the building represents all that which Americans find intriguing and insidious about their politicians.
Atop a sweeping marble staircase in a high-domed Rotunda adorned with murals ... was my office.
I'd scoot up the steps in spindly heels, pass through a door into a hidden hallway and enter the press corps's domain. Our Associated Press bureau had its own room apart from reporters of other newspapers, on the right. We were central to the action, and equally easy to find.
So it was no surprise that, even from her grave, Joy found me there.
I was clicking out a story on a clunky late-90s PC when a door knock stopped me. A young man shyly peeked in.
"Can we help you?" my bureauchief asked.
"I'm looking for Heidi."
I smiled and nodded at him, expecting this to be a lawmaker's intern with a press release in hand. But when he returned my gaze, I knew this was more than about a news story.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Joy has died. She's sent me here with a letter for you. She asked me to hand-deliver it. I've driven up here from Maryland to find you."
All action in the room halted. My co-workers looked up from their keyboards at me curiously. The bureauchief coughed nervously and suggested that I take the conversation elsewhere.
Feeling dizzy, I suggested to my visitor to sit with me on a small marble bench outside the door at the top of the Rotunda stair.
He silently handed me the letter, my name on the envelope written in Joy's feminine and loopy style.
"When did she die? Why didn't I know?"
"She didn't want you to know. She just wanted to pass away quietly without sadness. She gave me this letter and expressly said you weren't to know until I saw you face to face and could hand this to you myself."
I stared open-mouthed at this kind person, amazed that he'd travel three hours and actually track me down.
"We worked together," he explained. "She was a good friend. She talked about you all the time. She wanted to make sure that you knew how much she loved you."
He stood up.
"I've done what I came to do. I'm sorry to shock you like this, but I should really leave so that you can read that alone."
I nodded. "Thank you."
He turned and trotted down the staircase. My hands shook as I opened the envelope and read Joy's message from the grave.
She wanted me to know that before she died, she'd accepted Jesus as her Savior.
She wanted me to know that I wasn't to grieve. She was in Heaven with Him.
She would see me again.
She asked that I check on her little girl from time to time.
And she said she loved me.
I sat there for about 20 minutes, staring at the beauty around me and not quite sure how to feel.
She was gone. My friend was gone.
But my atheist friend had found Jesus before she took her last breath, and she was with Him.
And I would see her again. Her handwriting, a tangible memory of her, gave me the assurance that even at that moment, she was still very much alive ... just in another realm, the spiritual realm, no longer trapped in her body of pain.
But what's the upshot of all of this?
What did I take away from my friendship with Joy and what I learned about sharing Jesus with others?
We'll talk about it tomorrow. I hope you stop by.
The Pennsylvania State Capitol.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Pretentiously ornate, the state Capitol in Pennsylvania provides a grandiose backdrop for political drama at its finest. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt and built with the dirty influence of steel magnates in the early 1900s, the building represents all that which Americans find intriguing and insidious about their politicians.
Atop a sweeping marble staircase in a high-domed Rotunda adorned with murals ... was my office.
I'd scoot up the steps in spindly heels, pass through a door into a hidden hallway and enter the press corps's domain. Our Associated Press bureau had its own room apart from reporters of other newspapers, on the right. We were central to the action, and equally easy to find.
So it was no surprise that, even from her grave, Joy found me there.
I was clicking out a story on a clunky late-90s PC when a door knock stopped me. A young man shyly peeked in.
"Can we help you?" my bureauchief asked.
"I'm looking for Heidi."
I smiled and nodded at him, expecting this to be a lawmaker's intern with a press release in hand. But when he returned my gaze, I knew this was more than about a news story.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Joy has died. She's sent me here with a letter for you. She asked me to hand-deliver it. I've driven up here from Maryland to find you."
All action in the room halted. My co-workers looked up from their keyboards at me curiously. The bureauchief coughed nervously and suggested that I take the conversation elsewhere.
Feeling dizzy, I suggested to my visitor to sit with me on a small marble bench outside the door at the top of the Rotunda stair.
He silently handed me the letter, my name on the envelope written in Joy's feminine and loopy style.
"When did she die? Why didn't I know?"
"She didn't want you to know. She just wanted to pass away quietly without sadness. She gave me this letter and expressly said you weren't to know until I saw you face to face and could hand this to you myself."
I stared open-mouthed at this kind person, amazed that he'd travel three hours and actually track me down.
"We worked together," he explained. "She was a good friend. She talked about you all the time. She wanted to make sure that you knew how much she loved you."
He stood up.
"I've done what I came to do. I'm sorry to shock you like this, but I should really leave so that you can read that alone."
I nodded. "Thank you."
He turned and trotted down the staircase. My hands shook as I opened the envelope and read Joy's message from the grave.
She wanted me to know that before she died, she'd accepted Jesus as her Savior.
She wanted me to know that I wasn't to grieve. She was in Heaven with Him.
She would see me again.
She asked that I check on her little girl from time to time.
And she said she loved me.
I sat there for about 20 minutes, staring at the beauty around me and not quite sure how to feel.
She was gone. My friend was gone.
But my atheist friend had found Jesus before she took her last breath, and she was with Him.
And I would see her again. Her handwriting, a tangible memory of her, gave me the assurance that even at that moment, she was still very much alive ... just in another realm, the spiritual realm, no longer trapped in her body of pain.
But what's the upshot of all of this?
What did I take away from my friendship with Joy and what I learned about sharing Jesus with others?
We'll talk about it tomorrow. I hope you stop by.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Eternal Conversation
March 1995.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
You could call it the winter of my discontent.
I'd just begun my nine-month probationary training period with The Associated Press in Philadelphia, and already, I was burning all ends of every candle. Stuck on a night shift, I did nothing for the first three months but take newspaper stories and boil them into "30-second broadcast snippets" that could be ripped and read on television and radio.
If you've ever seen the Karate Kid, where Ralph learns martial arts by repeated motions from chores, you'll understand why the AP requires night after night of broadcast writing for its new recruits. The goal is to churn tight copy within minutes that can be read verbatim on CNN. After that, you can sling together any story off the top of your head and call it in from the back seat of a taxi.
It was in the midst of this endless night of Journalist Purgatory that Joy called. She said she wanted to travel to see me for a weekend, even if I was working odd hours.
When she showed up at my door, I had to force myself to hide my surprise at her appearance. Joy was a skeleton. Her head was wrapped in a colorful scarf, as her beautiful thick and curly hair had long ago fallen out. She spoke feebly and in a near whisper. She laughed as she brought out three different wigs from her suitcase and modeled them, resembling a mannequin wearing a mop. Despite popping one breath mint after another, she couldn't shake a perpetual breath odor that seemed to be straight from the grave.
She listened patiently as I regaled her with tales of my psychotic editor and fellow AP staff members, whose pretentious self-opinions of their writing gifts squeezed out any earnest attempt at objectivity. She wasn't strong enough to tour the city, and she really just wanted to stay in my apartment and veg with movies on the television. She slept while I worked. After I got home and slept a few hours, she made eggs and bacon and strong coffee for me like an older sister.
And then we talked.
Her life had taken a turn for the worse. Her husband was leaving her for another woman, and she knew she only had months to live, if that.
Then came the words that I never thought I'd hear.
"I've been reading the Bible. Really reading it," she said.
"No kidding. What have you been reading, specifically?"
"John."
"John's a good book to start with."
"I love it."
"Good."
I didn't press her. I allowed her to just talk and muse, dissect it and understand it. We didn't discuss her salvation or whether she was ready to believe. We just walked around the perimeter of that while I answered her questions about John's writings.
The hours flew, and before I knew it, Joy was on her way home again.
I had no idea it would be the last time I would see her. I didn't know that our conversation had eternal repercussions.
And I was in no way prepared for what would happen the next time I heard from her.
Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of this story series.
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Breakthrough in the Backdrop of Baltimore
Part 5 of this story series ....
Baltimore Inner Harbor's perpetual carnival-like atmosphere draws both kids and grownups by throngs. During the day, the place hums with street jugglers and musicians that wow the crowds. Tourists promenade a plaza while bathed in the Chesapeake Bay's breeze. A Naval ship is always docked alongside a length of shops and restaurants. It eclipses small "water taxis" that ferry families to the Fort McHenry National Monument (where Francis Scott Key composed "The Star Spangled Banner").
Seals playing in a pool outside the National Aquarium of Baltimore bark their greetings to kiddos. And if you'd rather eat your seafood than see it, restaurants galore offer the best of Maryland cuisine.
Combine all of this with Camden Yards, home to the Baltimore Orioles, and the bar-hopping night life in the nearby historically-quaint Fell's Point, and you have a recipe for weekend bliss.
All of this was just about an hour's drive from my little apartment near the Pennsylvania/Maryland border. I loved going to Baltimore as much as I possibly could manage it.
So when Joy suggested I meet her and her sweet little girl one Saturday at the Harbor, I enthusiastically said yes.
It had been about six months since Joy shared she was sick with breast cancer. I wasn't quite prepared for the physical change she'd undergone. Gaunt and frail, she still managed to keep her energetic child under control with her Steel Magnolia voice. She was obviously struggling physically to get through the aquarium exhibits, so when she suggested that we meander to the busy shops and restaurants, I was surprised.
"Are you sure you don't want to go home?" I asked.
"No!" she protested. "We came to meet you for the day! This is fun!"
We strolled by the street performers that were entertaining crowds under colorful, wind-whipped flags. Joy, never one to shirk an opportunity to tease, elbowed me as Navy seamen passed us and exchanged flirtatious glances. We indulged in Maryland crabcakes (ahhh, the days before my allergy to shellfish) and saltwater taffy.
Then Joy suggested that we hit a kids' science store, which contained shelves of "experiments," inflatable solar systems to hang from ceilings, butterfly nets, books about the human body and all manner of create-your-own-volcano kits.
"We love this store," Joy sighed, as if she was in her own personal heaven.
"I can see why," I agreed, not yet a mother but appreciating its kid-appeal. "I can probably find Christmas presents in here for my nephew."
As her child perused collections of plastic dinosaurs and plushy dolphins, Joy walked over to a large bin containing multi-colored crystals and rocks. I watched as she gingerly fingered each one, stroking edges as if the rocks were jewels.
"What are these?"
"These," she said dramatically, "have healing powers."
I laughed.
She shot me a dirty look.
"No, really. Why are you interested in these?"
"They really do have the power to heal!" she protested. "Native American tribes believe they have energies and can provide therapy."
"Joy," I sighed. "Joy, Joy, Joy. You're an atheist. Are you listening to yourself?" I said, but then stopped laughing when I saw the hurt look on her face. "Listen," I said, quickly realizing that I'd treaded too far. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you took this so seriously."
She was holding a smooth, flat, grey stone with a $20 price tag. "Would you like me to buy one for you, too?" she asked.
I caught my breath. I was flabbergasted at both her strong desire to believe anything -- anything, except for God -- and at her earnestness in wanting to share her newfound discovery of "crystal healing" with me. But I shook my head.
"Joy, you're so sweet. That's so kind of you to offer. But, no. If you need these to feel better, get one for yourself, but I'm okay. You know I don't believe in anything like that. I believe in God's power."
She nodded and asked me to watch her child while she went to the cash register, buying the rock and a stuffed dolphin that the little girl had selected.
As I drove home from the outing, I was extremely troubled, but at the same time, hopeful.
If Joy was willing to embrace the idea of the healing power of a rock, did that mean she was not far off from considering God's existence?
Would she die without knowing Him, continuing to search for life's meaning through things like crystals? Or was she on the cusp of finally accepting something so much greater?
I didn't know ... but I resolved to pray.
And I did.
Tune in for part 6 of the tale ...
Baltimore Inner Harbor's perpetual carnival-like atmosphere draws both kids and grownups by throngs. During the day, the place hums with street jugglers and musicians that wow the crowds. Tourists promenade a plaza while bathed in the Chesapeake Bay's breeze. A Naval ship is always docked alongside a length of shops and restaurants. It eclipses small "water taxis" that ferry families to the Fort McHenry National Monument (where Francis Scott Key composed "The Star Spangled Banner").
Seals playing in a pool outside the National Aquarium of Baltimore bark their greetings to kiddos. And if you'd rather eat your seafood than see it, restaurants galore offer the best of Maryland cuisine.
Combine all of this with Camden Yards, home to the Baltimore Orioles, and the bar-hopping night life in the nearby historically-quaint Fell's Point, and you have a recipe for weekend bliss.
All of this was just about an hour's drive from my little apartment near the Pennsylvania/Maryland border. I loved going to Baltimore as much as I possibly could manage it.
So when Joy suggested I meet her and her sweet little girl one Saturday at the Harbor, I enthusiastically said yes.
It had been about six months since Joy shared she was sick with breast cancer. I wasn't quite prepared for the physical change she'd undergone. Gaunt and frail, she still managed to keep her energetic child under control with her Steel Magnolia voice. She was obviously struggling physically to get through the aquarium exhibits, so when she suggested that we meander to the busy shops and restaurants, I was surprised.
"Are you sure you don't want to go home?" I asked.
"No!" she protested. "We came to meet you for the day! This is fun!"
We strolled by the street performers that were entertaining crowds under colorful, wind-whipped flags. Joy, never one to shirk an opportunity to tease, elbowed me as Navy seamen passed us and exchanged flirtatious glances. We indulged in Maryland crabcakes (ahhh, the days before my allergy to shellfish) and saltwater taffy.
Then Joy suggested that we hit a kids' science store, which contained shelves of "experiments," inflatable solar systems to hang from ceilings, butterfly nets, books about the human body and all manner of create-your-own-volcano kits.
"We love this store," Joy sighed, as if she was in her own personal heaven.
"I can see why," I agreed, not yet a mother but appreciating its kid-appeal. "I can probably find Christmas presents in here for my nephew."
As her child perused collections of plastic dinosaurs and plushy dolphins, Joy walked over to a large bin containing multi-colored crystals and rocks. I watched as she gingerly fingered each one, stroking edges as if the rocks were jewels.
"What are these?"
"These," she said dramatically, "have healing powers."
I laughed.
She shot me a dirty look.
"No, really. Why are you interested in these?"
"They really do have the power to heal!" she protested. "Native American tribes believe they have energies and can provide therapy."
"Joy," I sighed. "Joy, Joy, Joy. You're an atheist. Are you listening to yourself?" I said, but then stopped laughing when I saw the hurt look on her face. "Listen," I said, quickly realizing that I'd treaded too far. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you took this so seriously."
She was holding a smooth, flat, grey stone with a $20 price tag. "Would you like me to buy one for you, too?" she asked.
I caught my breath. I was flabbergasted at both her strong desire to believe anything -- anything, except for God -- and at her earnestness in wanting to share her newfound discovery of "crystal healing" with me. But I shook my head.
"Joy, you're so sweet. That's so kind of you to offer. But, no. If you need these to feel better, get one for yourself, but I'm okay. You know I don't believe in anything like that. I believe in God's power."
She nodded and asked me to watch her child while she went to the cash register, buying the rock and a stuffed dolphin that the little girl had selected.
As I drove home from the outing, I was extremely troubled, but at the same time, hopeful.
If Joy was willing to embrace the idea of the healing power of a rock, did that mean she was not far off from considering God's existence?
Would she die without knowing Him, continuing to search for life's meaning through things like crystals? Or was she on the cusp of finally accepting something so much greater?
I didn't know ... but I resolved to pray.
And I did.
Tune in for part 6 of the tale ...
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Persisting Joy, Resisting Joy
Part 4 in this story series ...
I don't know about you, but I always know that someone is the truest of friends when they love me and care for me in spite of myself.
Joy was one of those friends.
Three months after my father died, I landed a job at a much larger newspaper in Pennsylvania, hugged Joy goodbye and set off for "better things" in my career. However, I was a sick kitten emotionally, sinking into the blackness of grief.
At my new job and new location, I knew no one. I could have forged new friends, and as an extrovert, that's pretty easy for me. But I chose to isolate myself. I'd wake at 6 a.m., go to work, return home by 4:30, eat dinner at 5 ... and fall asleep at 6 p.m. I'd sleep for 12 hours and repeat the cycle the next day. On weekends, I slept. And slept. And slept. I turned down offers from colleagues for weekend outings and parties ... and slept.
My slumber of sadness lasted nine months. During that time, Joy persistently called me. Sometimes I returned the message. Usually I screened my calls and listened to her plaintiff sweet voice on the machine ... and then just went back to sleep.
Joy never stopped caring about me, even when I resisted her. And when I "woke" from my depression, she was still my faithful friend. She didn't have any expectations of me or any self-involved motives. She was just kind. She was just being Joy.
I realized how much she valued our friendship, when one weekend she took a three-hour drive with her 6-year-old daughter so that they could visit me. They showed up with sleeping bags and camped out on my tiny living room floor.
Joy was not going to let go of her friendship with me, even though I'd given her every indication that I was not worth it. During her visit, she regaled me with hilarious stories of the antics of my former newsroom colleagues and of the people in the community. We talked long into the night hours about Bonnie and Clyde and speculated about their post-prison futures. We ate Chinese, toured the Civil War battlefield of Gettysburg, watched Chick Flicks and inhaled one bowl of popcorn after another.
That "slumber party" weekend woke me into realizing that even if a person doesn't know God, they can still be the kindest and most noblest of people.
I honestly can't remember if God came up as a topic of discussion that weekend. All I can tell you is that Joy was the sincerest of people, someone who cared despite our differences of belief.
Joy was my true friend.
And so when she called a few months later to tell me that she had breast cancer, I realized it was my turn to be the friend to her that she'd been to me.
Tune in for part 5 of the story ...
Monday, December 13, 2010
"Comfort and Joy"
Part 3 of this story series ...
No surprise -- the judge found "Bonnie" guilty after a week-long trial. Yes, Bonnie had opted for a judge trial over a jury trial, which amazed me. But after Joy explained Bonnie's logic that a jury of her peers would never believe her story, it made sense. That said, even Bonnie's good looks and scripted prairie-girl innocence didn't faze that Maxwell-House-drinking judge in the slightest. When he brought that gavel down, the girl was gone for years behind a wall of prison steel.
As for Joy, the trial had awakened a need for more permanency in her employment status. She was a correspondent, which is a fancy word for "freelancer" for her newspaper. My newspaper editors knew they'd glean a jewel if they could swipe her, so they offered her a full-time job with benefits as a senior reporter.
She took it.
Suddenly, I found that my competitor was in my own newsroom as a colleague. And I couldn't have been more excited.
While other women reporters looked askance at Joy's leggy size 4 body and whispered among themselves that she was probably sleeping with sources to get her scoops, I was enthralled. Joy was the epitome of the news reporter I aspired to be. Panache doesn't quite cover it, actually.
Joy could smooth-talk and coddle the toughest of sources, when other reporters would just get a grunt if they were lucky.
She'd sashay into a meeting of the county commissioners like Princess Grace on a cloud, mesmerizing men and drawing dagger looks from women. She'd whisper-talk in her femininely evocative way, oozing Southern honey to camouflage loaded, vinegar-laced questions.
And she always received the answers. To anything.
Joy made it her mission to mentor me, giving me insights not only on the local personalities, but also on human behavior in general. She taught me how to mine gems of quotes and transform the saltiest character into a sugar plum.
We never discussed God in those early months of our friendship. Every chat revolved around our profession, and Joy gave me the keys to reporting a story with style. An old Irish saying goes that, "An Irishman can tell you to go to hell and make you look forward to the trip." Pretty much, that summed up Joy, and she imparted her secrets to me on how to pull that off.
But the depth of my friendship with Joy continued to expand, after my father told me that he had less than a year to live.
At age 25, the concept of life without my father was unimagined.
Joy was there for me at every turn of my father's illness. She kept my spirits up on days when I didn't think I'd ever smile again. She'd gently encourage me and offer her shoulder for me when I didn't think I'd ever be able to put two words together on deadline. She showed me how to keep my focus on the job and compartmentalize the grief so that I could perform at top speed.
It was during this time of comfort from Joy that the whole "God subject" came up.
"What do you see happening to your dad after he passes away?" Joy suddenly asked me one day over a steaming coffee cup at a local haunt.
The question caught me off guard at first, but when I looked up from my plate of spaghetti into her gaze, I immediately knew what she was trying to ask.
"He'll be in Heaven. With God," I answered simply.
"And you really believe that, don't you?" she pressed.
"Yes. I really believe that."
Joy sighed, cast her eyes down at the coffee and tapped her index finger against the side of the cup. It was the first time I'd ever seen her drop the cool facade.
She looked back up at me.
"If that brings you comfort, you should keep believing it."
"You don't believe that?"
"No. I think this life is the end of life. There's nothing more after this. I don't think God exists. But I'm glad that you do. I'm glad you find comfort in believing that at a time like this."
I wasn't sure how to respond. She sincerely meant it, and I knew her words weren't supposed to be insulting. But I also saw that in her own way, Joy was pitying me.
And yet, she didn't know that even though I was facing my own personal tragedy, I was the one pitying her.
Tune in for part 4 of the story of how my atheist friend became a Christian ...
No surprise -- the judge found "Bonnie" guilty after a week-long trial. Yes, Bonnie had opted for a judge trial over a jury trial, which amazed me. But after Joy explained Bonnie's logic that a jury of her peers would never believe her story, it made sense. That said, even Bonnie's good looks and scripted prairie-girl innocence didn't faze that Maxwell-House-drinking judge in the slightest. When he brought that gavel down, the girl was gone for years behind a wall of prison steel.
As for Joy, the trial had awakened a need for more permanency in her employment status. She was a correspondent, which is a fancy word for "freelancer" for her newspaper. My newspaper editors knew they'd glean a jewel if they could swipe her, so they offered her a full-time job with benefits as a senior reporter.
She took it.
Suddenly, I found that my competitor was in my own newsroom as a colleague. And I couldn't have been more excited.
While other women reporters looked askance at Joy's leggy size 4 body and whispered among themselves that she was probably sleeping with sources to get her scoops, I was enthralled. Joy was the epitome of the news reporter I aspired to be. Panache doesn't quite cover it, actually.
Joy could smooth-talk and coddle the toughest of sources, when other reporters would just get a grunt if they were lucky.
She'd sashay into a meeting of the county commissioners like Princess Grace on a cloud, mesmerizing men and drawing dagger looks from women. She'd whisper-talk in her femininely evocative way, oozing Southern honey to camouflage loaded, vinegar-laced questions.
And she always received the answers. To anything.
Joy made it her mission to mentor me, giving me insights not only on the local personalities, but also on human behavior in general. She taught me how to mine gems of quotes and transform the saltiest character into a sugar plum.
We never discussed God in those early months of our friendship. Every chat revolved around our profession, and Joy gave me the keys to reporting a story with style. An old Irish saying goes that, "An Irishman can tell you to go to hell and make you look forward to the trip." Pretty much, that summed up Joy, and she imparted her secrets to me on how to pull that off.
But the depth of my friendship with Joy continued to expand, after my father told me that he had less than a year to live.
At age 25, the concept of life without my father was unimagined.
Joy was there for me at every turn of my father's illness. She kept my spirits up on days when I didn't think I'd ever smile again. She'd gently encourage me and offer her shoulder for me when I didn't think I'd ever be able to put two words together on deadline. She showed me how to keep my focus on the job and compartmentalize the grief so that I could perform at top speed.
It was during this time of comfort from Joy that the whole "God subject" came up.
"What do you see happening to your dad after he passes away?" Joy suddenly asked me one day over a steaming coffee cup at a local haunt.
The question caught me off guard at first, but when I looked up from my plate of spaghetti into her gaze, I immediately knew what she was trying to ask.
"He'll be in Heaven. With God," I answered simply.
"And you really believe that, don't you?" she pressed.
"Yes. I really believe that."
Joy sighed, cast her eyes down at the coffee and tapped her index finger against the side of the cup. It was the first time I'd ever seen her drop the cool facade.
She looked back up at me.
"If that brings you comfort, you should keep believing it."
"You don't believe that?"
"No. I think this life is the end of life. There's nothing more after this. I don't think God exists. But I'm glad that you do. I'm glad you find comfort in believing that at a time like this."
I wasn't sure how to respond. She sincerely meant it, and I knew her words weren't supposed to be insulting. But I also saw that in her own way, Joy was pitying me.
And yet, she didn't know that even though I was facing my own personal tragedy, I was the one pitying her.
Tune in for part 4 of the story of how my atheist friend became a Christian ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)