Divine (27 page)

Every man except Nigel Townsend.

Sometimes as the hours passed with Clayton she would count down the minutes until she could see Nigel again. She didn't have feelings for him like before. This time she had questions. More questions than she could hold in her head. Questions about God and the love Nigel talked about so often during her visits. If Clayton didn't love her, if no man had ever really loved her, then maybe she needed to know more about Nigel's Jesus. Maybe all these years she really had been missing the greatest love of all. The love that had put the warmth in her grandma's smile and the oceans of peace in the eyes of Evelyn and Ted and Nigel. It was possible, wasn't it?

One Thursday, when Clayton left her at four o'clock, Mary didn't hesitate. He wouldn't come back until the next day after lunch, which meant she had the whole night to herself. This time she dressed in jeans and a green blouse. She had nothing to prove, no reason to make Nigel think she was doing better than she was. Her goal was simple now. She wanted as many answers as Nigel could give her.

That evening as the driver sped through the streets of Washington, DC, for the first time Mary thought of Clayton for who he really was. Like a week-old bandage being ripped off an old wound, she felt her heart pull away from him. If only she could break free from him completely, convince herself that she didn't need him. Then she would never again think of killing herself. She could bid him good-bye and leave for good.

If she could do that, she could call her grandma and go to her without fear. Until then, she didn't dare involve the one family member she had left—or Nigel, for that matter. That's why all her visits had to take place at night. For everyone's safety.

She arrived at the center just as dinner was being served. Quietly, she took a seat at one of the tables in the back of the room. It really was a wonderful thing Nigel was doing here, the way he helped the people of DC. She looked around the room. Some of the faces were familiar, people who had come for a meal back when she worked here.

A tableful of people caught her eye, especially an older woman and two younger women. A mother and her daughters, maybe. Mary squinted, trying to remember. Yes, that was it. A mother and her daughters, and the two toddlers sitting at the table were the little girls of one of the young women. The five of them made up a family, one who lived on the streets. Mary studied them—their easy way of laughing, the light in their eyes. Something was different about them, something Mary couldn't quite figure out.

Mary kept watching them, the way the young mother helped her children butter their bread. The details were coming back. The week before Mary left, Nigel had just found them housing. An apartment a few blocks away. And the women had started attending Nigel's classes. Her thoughts stalled and she blinked. Was that it? Had this family found the love Nigel talked so intensely about?

She narrowed her eyes, studying their faces, their expressions. That's when she saw it. They weren't only familiar because they'd been coming to the mission back when Mary was here. They were familiar because of the look in their eyes. The same look her grandma and Nigel and Evelyn and Ted had.

Goose bumps rose on Mary's arms, and at the same time she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped and turned, and there he was. Nigel. Standing behind her, grinning at her as if he were seeing a long-lost daughter for the first time in a decade.

Mary stood and put her hand on his arm. Hugging him here in front of a cafeteria full of people would be awkward. Some of them would remember how she had once felt about the man, how shamelessly she'd tried to gain his affection. She dropped her hand back to her side and looked deep into his heart. But she kept her distance. "What is it about the eyes?" She glanced back at the table of women and then at Nigel again. "Those women . . . Grandma Peggy." Her voice fell. "You. There's something different about the eyes."

Nigel didn't hesitate. "The Bible says the eyes are the window to the soul." He leaned his hand on the closest table. "People who love the Lord, who receive His love, His rescue . . . their eyes change." He had never looked more handsome, his own eyes never so full of light. "Jesus eyes. That's what I call them."

She didn't really understand, but she nodded anyway. Peace filled her because even as beautiful as Nigel was—inside and out—she didn't want to go to him. Not in the physical way she'd wanted to in the past. Rather she wanted only to learn from him. So she could have the life that Nigel so clearly had. True life. She lowered her chin, humbled. "I have more questions."

He smiled, and a low rumble of laughter sounded in his throat. "I prayed you would."

"Can you . . . can you talk?"

"How long do you have?" The noise of more than a hundred people made their conversation private, even in the middle of the cafeteria.

"All night. Clayton won't be back until—" The moment she said his name, she stopped. Her hand came to her mouth, and she shook her head. "What I mean is, the man I'm with ... he doesn't come until the afternoon and . . . he's not really anyone who—" Her words scrambled in her head and came out all wrong.

"Mary." Nigel said her name with a calm and peace that were otherworldly. "Your secrets are safe with me. Whatever they are."

She gulped, and his eyes told her she could trust him. "Okay."

"You have time." Nigel's smile was the kind look of a father. "That's what you're trying to say."

"Yes."

"Come to class. We're talking about God's desire to rescue us.

"Rescue?"
The word played across her wounded heart like a soothing balm.
Rescue?
That's what she'd always needed, always wanted. Back in Jimbo's basement, later at the Lakes' home, even now with Clayton controlling and abusing her. All her life she'd needed rescuing. The word made her eyes damp, and she could only nod in response.

"Good." Nigel looked past her to the food line. "I need to help finish up dinner." He found her eyes again. "We'll meet after class."

"Okay." Mary watched him go. She was about to sit back down when she spotted the family again, the older woman and her daughters and her grandchildren. The three adults were clearing plates. Not just theirs, but plates from other tables also. As they worked, they'd stop and smile at the street people at each table, putting a hand on someone's shoulder or chatting for a few minutes.

Mary pulled up her sleeves and took a few steps to the nearest table. Two older men and a few empty-eyed teenage girls sat there. They were finished eating, but no one was talking or making a move to clean the table. She leaned in and smiled at them. "All finished here?"

Two of the girls met her eyes, and one of them nodded. Mary's heart ached for them. Was this how she'd looked when she first came here? Was it how she appeared now beneath the carefully kept hair and face and the new clothes? She cleared that table and three others, following the lead of a few volunteers as she made her way to the dirty dish bin at the back of the room.

"Time for class!" a woman announced.

Nigel was nowhere around, probably already at the front of his classroom, asking God for direction about what to say and how to say it. The concept was still foreign, but it had her attention. Who had she ever asked for direction or guidance? She'd spent the last few years making her own decisions, justifying them along the way.

The auditorium-style classroom was full that night. The walls were dusty cement block, and the carpet was worn through in patches, but the hundred or so people who sat in the rows of old desks had an energy, a warmth that was undeniable.

Mary found a seat in the back row and bowed her head when Nigel opened the night by praying for God's leading. "There are walls in this room, in these hearts." He paused, his tone rich. "Let this be the night that they fall. For everyone here. In Jesus' name ..."

In unison the crowd said, "Amen."

Nigel opened his eyes and grinned big at the faces that filled the room. "Tonight we talk about the martyr Stephen."

A hand shot up in the first row. "Nigel, man, you know we ain't got that Bible talk down yet." It was a skinny white guy with a scraggly goatee. He gestured with his hands as he spoke. One entire arm was covered with dragon tattoos. "Break it down, brother."

Nigel chuckled and gave a few understanding nods. A three-legged stool stood near the blackboard, and he pulled it up and sat on it. The corners of his mouth eased back to a serious straight line. "A martyr is someone who dies for his faith."

The skinny guy slid down in his seat and turned his backwards baseball cap around so the bill shaded his eyes. "That's deep, man."

"Yes." Nigel looked at a man in one of the middle rows and then at a woman a few seats from him. The way he shifted his attention around the room, they all must've felt the same. Like Nigel would've stood up there and given that lesson even if they were the only one in the room.

"I mean, really deep." The skinny guy sat up again and made a sound with his lips, sort of like a leaking tire. "Dying for your beliefs, man? Crazy deep."

"Giving your life to Christ, trusting Him to make you into something new is deep." Nigel was on his feet again, pacing to the other side of the room. "That's how it was for Stephen."

Nigel went into the story, how this Stephen became a believer in Jesus and how his new faith was everything to him. "Stephen was a man full of God's grace and power."

A Hispanic woman in the back pointed her finger in the air. "That's what I like about God." She did a rhythmic head bob and smiled at the people around her. "He's got the
power!"

A
few random amens broke out across the room. Nigel was amazing. He had street people and alcoholics and drug addicts hanging on every word. Every word of a Bible story, of all things. Mary hushed her thoughts. She didn't want to miss what came next.

Nigel grinned. "Yes, God's definitely got the power." He walked slowly to the other side of the room, taking in the eyes of several people along the way. Nigel told them that Stephen, through God's power, did great wonders and miraculous signs among the people. So miraculous, that some of the people were upset by all he was doing.

"They tried to stand up against Stephen's wisdom." Nigel's voice was clear, passionate. "But they could not. Because it was not his own wisdom, but the wisdom of God."

"I thought he gets killed." The skinny guy was sitting straighter now, massaging his goatee, his face a twist of confusion.

Sadness washed over Nigel's eyes. "He does." He brought his lips together and puffed his cheeks, exhaling slowly. Clearly this part of the story was harder to tell. "The people couldn't argue with Stephen's wisdom, but they could lie about him."

"Man—" the Hispanic woman shook her head—"people always lying."

"That's right. The people made up a story about Stephen, and he was brought before the head court." Nigel shrugged one shoulder. "Stephen didn't stand a chance. There were plenty of false witnesses, and a crowd of people accused Stephen, pointing fingers at him."

"I know that feeling, man." A black teenager two seats down from the skinny white guy raised his hand and nodded. He crossed his fingers and waved them in the air. "Me and my homeboy, Stephen . . . we're like this, man. Tight."

Nigel nodded. "A lot of people are accused of things." He stood right in front of the black teen. "But not everyone handles accusation the way Stephen did." He held up his hand. "Listen to the rest of the story."

There were nods from the class, and Nigel continued, pacing to the other end of the room. "As they were accusing Stephen and shouting lies about him, Stephen didn't yell back or cry for help. He just sat there. And everyone in the room who watched Stephen said the same thing." Nigel's steps slowed and he stopped again. "Stephen had the face of an angel."

The face of an angel? That was it, wasn't it? The face Mary saw on the few people in her life who seemed truly content. Not always, of course, but most of the time when she would look at her grandma or Ted and Evelyn or Nigel, even the truck driver Big Dave and the police officer who rescued her from Jimbo's basement. On all of those faces she had seen that very same thing: the face of an angel.

Mary squirmed in her seat. Stephen had been doing good, miraculous deeds in Cod's name. A group of people started telling lies about him, and he ended up in court being accused and threatened. And he had the face of an angel? Poor Stephen. Tears nipped at her eyes, and she blinked them back.

"Finally the court asked Stephen to speak for himself, give an answer about whether the charges against him were true." Nigel shook his head and anchored his hands on his hips. "Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't say a word about the lies or the false accusations. Instead he went on for half an hour about the faithfulness of God through time and how people throughout the ages had ignored their heavenly Father.

"Then—" Nigel narrowed his eyes—"Stephen told it like it was. He accused his listeners of being stiff-necked."

"Nigel?" The skinny white guy tossed his hands up.

"Sorry." Nigel looked at him and smiled. "He accused them of being stubborn. Stubborn and disobedient."

"1 bet that didn't go over too good." The black teen had needle tracks along the inside of both arms, but here, now, his eyes were wide and alert.

"The people grew furious with Stephen." Nigel's voice fell again. "They began threatening him, but Stephen was full of God's Holy Spirit. He looked up and saw Jesus
standing
at the right hand of God. When he told the people what he saw, his words pushed them over the edge. They rushed at him, angry and shouting, and dragged him out of the city. There, they began to stone him."