The Gate (19 page)

When I silently nodded my head in agreement, Josh said, “Let's go inside.”

As we walked into the dining room, I realized that this would be our last supper, and more than that, I also realized that this was the meal I'd really come for. The table was set with crisp white linens, fine china, elegant crystal, beautiful flowers, and an odd assortment of flatware. I was about to ask Josh about the hodgepodge of forks and knives, but then suddenly the room began to fill up with people. One by one, every chair was taken. Everyone I'd shared a meal with that week came and took their place at the table: Mom, Herb and Gerry, Grandma Great Kate—everyone was there. The room rumbled with conversation and laughter, and Mom patted the empty chair next to her as if to say, “Come, sit here by me.” So I did. Just like I would have at home.

Like everyone else I knew, I'd always had this hunger in my soul for something I could never satisfy. And what I'd come to realize was that this was it: the communion of the saints. What I was really homesick for all these years was heaven.

It was for me that they nailed Jesus to that tree.

Ahbee and Rae sat at the head of the table, and Josh took the empty seat between them. As he did, what had been impossible to understand before, now made perfect sense. The mystery of God was acted out in front of me, and for the first time in my
life I began to really appreciate the oneness and the harmony of the three. It dawned on me that I'd never talked to all three at the same time, and suddenly I wondered why. Why do I pray to one and not three? When I say my nightly prayers or when I want something tangible, I pray to the Father. Other times, when I want inspiration or wisdom, I pray to be filled with the Holy Spirit. And when I need someone to listen and encourage me, it is Jesus every time. As I saw their uniqueness and oneness more clearly, I promised myself that my prayers would be different in the future—more personal, more listening and less talking.

I was brought back to the moment when Michael came in from the kitchen with a large silver tray and placed it in front of Ahbee, Josh, and Rae. As a hush fell over the room, Josh took a large loaf of bread and broke it, while Rae poured us each a glass of sweet red wine. For a moment we all sat frozen in silence, and then Ahbee began to speak.

“Eat,” he said. “And as you do, join with us in the pain and sacrifice of love.”

The bread was bitter and dry, impossible to swallow. I looked across at the scars on Josh's hands and tears slid down my cheeks. I could not escape the thought that it was for me that they nailed him to that tree. Finally, overcome with the agony of it, I whispered what was on my heart.

“It isn't fair,” I said. “It just isn't fair.”

“It isn't fair,” said Ahbee. “It is love!”

Then he raised his glass, smiled at me, and said, “Come. Come and taste the sweet taste of forgiveness.”

We emptied our glasses, and one by one, the people I had loved and lost said their good-byes. In the end, only Ahbee, Josh, Rae, and I remained.

Josh walked up to me, cupped my face in his hands, and said, “Remember what I told you, Scout. You must learn to see the
world as I do. And when you do, you'll see that it's full of broken, frightened, hungry, and uncertain people. Some of them need healing. Some of them need holding. Some of them are hungry. Some of them are heartbroken. And all of them need saving from something, even if it's from themselves. What they need are not more words or theories but more love.

“If you want to follow me, it will cost you. You must be willing to give up a part of who you are for their sake—a part of your time, your money, and most of all, a part of yourself. When you do that, then the blind will see, the deaf will hear, and the fallen will rise up and walk in the way of Ahbee once more.

“When you see the world like I do, you'll know that sometimes it's people that need changing, and sometimes it's conditions that need changing, and more often than not, it's both. But wherever change comes, the kingdom comes as well.”

With that he smiled, gave me a bear hug, and slowly walked away.

Next Ahbee stepped forward and spoke. “I want you to have this,” he said, handing me the fork I'd used for dinner. As I looked more closely at his gift, I realized that it was part of my grandmother's silver set.

“Is this—” I began to ask.

“It is,” Ahbee answered. “You brought it with you in your lunch in second grade at Woodcliff School, and you left it in the lunchroom. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. My mom was upset that I lost one of Grandma's sterling silver forks.”

“Well, now what was lost is found, and I want you to keep it as a reminder. Remember going to your grandma's house when you were a boy?” Ahbee asked me.

I nodded.

“Do you remember what she used to say at the end of the meal? As the dishes were being cleared from the table, she'd say—”

“Keep your fork,” I interrupted. “She'd say, ‘Keep your fork!'”

“That's right! And what she meant was that something better was coming: cream pie, apple pie, cherry pie, something wonderful. And this is your reminder of the same thing. This is just a taste of heaven, something to tide you over, but keep your fork because something better is coming.”

Then we embraced, and Ahbee walked away.

Only Rae and I remained now. I looked across at her, hoping for some direction for what to do next. Sensing this, Rae said, “I'll walk you out.”

With that, we went out through the kitchen and into the driveway.

“You're leaving me too?” I asked.

“No, you can't get rid of me so easily! I am always with you. At times I've been your guardian, your guide, and even your guilty conscience. Never once, not even for a moment, have I ever left your side, nor will I. You may not see me, but in your heart you'll know I am there. But it's getting late, and you've got a drive ahead of you. You'd best be on your way.”

As I got in the car, Rae climbed into the seat beside me and said, “You might want to check the mail on your way out.”

I started the car, pulled out of the driveway, and drove down along the lake road. As we went through the back gate, Michael was standing guard. “I'll leave the gate unlatched for you, Scout,” he said as we drove by.

As I looked at him in the rearview mirror, I saw my reflection as well. I was older again. The gray had returned to my temples, and laugh lines creased my cheeks. I could see the sun setting in the distance. Streaks of orange and yellow splashed atop the ripples of the water, and the low rumble of thunder welled in the southwest.

I took Rae's advice and looked inside the mailbox with my name on it. There I found an envelope addressed to me, and inside was a note from Ahbee.

“My son,” it said, “there are things you need to learn, and things you need to teach. Let me begin with the learning. This life is the preschool for eternity. Much of what you want to know is simply beyond your ability to understand. You must take baby steps. Grasp what you can understand, grapple with what you can't, but don't let it eat you up inside. Wisdom takes time. Don't be in such a hurry. All your questions have answers, but you're not ready for all of them. That's what eternity is all about.

“When you were a child, many foods were simply too harsh, too sharp, too complex for your young palate to appreciate. If you stroll down the baby food aisle at the supermarket, you'll find strained carrots, peas, and applesauce, but you won't find things like onions or chili peppers, garlic or salsa, or mustard, or even salt. These things come with time. You need time to develop a taste and appreciation for them. If someone tried to feed them to you before you were ready, you would make a face and spit them out. It's not that it would be bad, it's just that you wouldn't be ready for them yet. And that's the way it is with life.

“Many of the things that shock you or that you find offensive now will one day prove to be the spice of life. They are the very things that molded your character, deepened your faith, challenged your thinking, and softened your heart. Think about it. Have you been closer to me and the people who matter in your life in the easy times or the hard times?

“You have done well in preschool. You have learned many things, but there is so much more to learn. So don't shrink from such things or pull back and make a face. Accept them for what they are. Embrace them. Live the salty life. Remember, as Josh has told you, ‘You are the salt of the earth.'

“And then, as for the teaching,” the letter said, “start with the inner circles. There is a natural progression to these sorts of things. When Josh sent out the disciples, they were to go from
Jerusalem, to Judea, to Samaria, to the ends of the earth, and your Jerusalem is Europa Motors.”

I knew what he meant. I had to start by talking to Ben. It wasn't going to be easy, but it was necessary. There is an old Dutch proverb that says, “If everyone swept off their own front porch, the whole world would be clean,” and I had some housecleaning to do.

“You must teach,” Ahbee wrote, “with the same patience, gentleness, and grace with which you've been taught.”

I looked over at Rae, who smiled and raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “Do you understand what the letter means?” she asked.

I nodded and said, “I understand some of it.”

“Some is enough to start,” she replied, and then ever so slowly, she began to fade from my sight. “Even though you don't see me,” she whispered, “I can still see you,” and in my heart I knew it was true. The ancient promise echoed in my memory: “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Heb. 13:5 ESV). It was and is a comforting thought.

I was alone, but I didn't feel alone. Now more than ever before, I felt like God was with me, and there was something comforting about knowing that Rae was watching over me. I crossed the bridge that spanned the creek and started to head south toward the highway. As I drove along, shadows chased the tree line, rain clouds filled the western sky, and gradually the light was swallowed up by darkness. I began to hear the raindrops dance against the windshield like the sound of a leaky faucet, and as I turned on the wipers, I realized that I had come full circle.

I was torn between going home to the ones I love and going home to the ones I'd left behind. For a few minutes I thought about turning around, but I didn't. I went home thinking that I'd keep my thoughts to myself. I wanted what had happened to have its effect on me before I tried to explain it.

As I drove back home my mind was reeling. I knew I had some things to do, but I didn't know where to start. Unbeknownst to
me, that had already been taken care of. As I pulled in the driveway I saw Dad's white Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited sitting there. I knew it was his because he has a “Support Our Troops” ribbon on the tailgate and I could see his fishing gear through the window in the back.

Besides, Dad had driven the same make, model, and color car for the past twenty years. He'd buy a new one every couple of years or so, but it was always a white Grand Cherokee with tan leather. Dad used to say, “It's nobody else's business how often I get a new car, and this way nobody knows except me and your mother.” If the truth were told, I think the only reason Mom knew that Dad was driving a new car was that, for the first few weeks at least, it didn't smell like a bait store in the back. Unlike me, Dad didn't fall in love with cars. He saw them as a tool, a way to get from point A to point B, and because he liked to be able to fish in places that were off the beaten path, the Jeep was the perfect car for him.

As I pulled in the driveway, Dad got out of his car and started walking toward me with a deliberate and determined look on his face. Before I could say a word, he started talking.

“I know what's going on, Sky, and I'm sorry. Ben told me all about it, and I want you to know this is my fault. I favored him. I made it easy for him. I apologized and made excuses for him his whole life. I gave him a pass. I let him say things and do things that I never would have let you say or do because I was reliving my life through him.”

“Wait, Dad—”

“That's part of the problem,” he said. “I've waited too long already. Your mother warned me, but I wouldn't listen. I wanted him to do what I couldn't. I always regretted not playing pro ball, not finding out how good I really was. When I had my shot with the White Sox I thought I could make it. That scout and my coach both said I had all the moves, I was a natural, it was a gift from God. So he gave me a train ticket to Chicago
and at the tryouts I was a machine. I hit everything their best pitcher threw at me, and afterwards the coach said, ‘Kid, go in the locker room and tell Red I said he should get you a locker and a uniform.'

“That's when I told him that I'd love to be on the team but I had one problem: I promised my mother I wouldn't play ball on Sunday. ‘I'll play every game on every day but Sunday,' I said, ‘and I don't even care if you dock my pay some for sitting it out on the Sabbath.'

“ ‘Listen, kid,' he said. ‘This is your shot. Think about this before you answer. Think about seeing your picture on a baseball card. You've got talent. You could maybe be somebody in this league. But if you don't play on Sunday, you won't play at all.'

“My heart sank. I wanted to play bad, real bad, but I'd promised my mother. ‘Well,' I said, ‘I'm real sorry to hear that, but I promised, so I guess I'll just have to take that train ticket home.' Inside I was hoping he'd change his mind. I was hoping I was good enough to make an exception to the rule, but evidently I wasn't.

“ ‘You don't play, we don't pay,' he said, and he turned and walked away. Brokenhearted, I hitchhiked my way back home with a lump in my throat and a pocket full of regrets. Since then, I've always felt God sort of let me down that day in Chicago. I always figured he could have softened that coach's heart. He could have made him give me a chance, but he didn't. Then Ben came along, and I thought God was making it up to me. The kid was a natural, a genuine ball player. Football, basketball, baseball—he took to sports like he was born to play, and so I treated him like he was special. The problem was, when he couldn't play ball anymore, he didn't know who he was anymore. He couldn't figure it out, and I couldn't help him, so you had to.”