“I went to three different high schools before I finally did for good what each tried to do: get rid of me,” he said.
I looked at the young man before me. He had a full beard that hid a youthful face; broad shoulders that seemed capable of holding more than I could imagine.
He bowed his back when speaking words that might make him appear weak, looking away before keeping his eyes closed for a moment too long. In these slow blinks, he revealed a tiredness from carrying a cross that seemed heavier than what his age should bear.
His tattoos told stories I will never hear, but his voice told me one that I will never forget.
“Get rid of you?” I asked.
“After getting kicked out of three high schools, I knew fitting in was not going to be my path. I was angry, most of the time not even knowing what I was angry about,” he said.
He stared at me with firm intensity, his eyes were so dark that I imagined if he cried, his tears would pour of dark blood.
“I wasn’t my brother, or my father. Heck, I wasn’t even my grandpa…. I never got to really know him. My dad told me everyone thought Grandpa would outlive all the sinners because he never did anything wrong. The only mistake he ever made was being in the right place at the wrong time.”
“How were you not like the men in your family?” I asked.
“They were good, or at least they acted good. I tried to act good, but I knew I was bad… I was a bad actor… and they knew it,” he said with a slight smirk.
He took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his hair — thick waves that matched the color of his eyes.
“I was tired of disappointing myself, and even more tired of disappointing others. I convinced myself that I could finish the job so many had tried and failed… maybe for once I could follow through with something,” he said.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Well, you’re standing here listening to me, so I clearly didn’t succeed. That’s something I’ve learned in all this: some things are greater than pain… one of those things is love,” he said.
I was not expecting him to use the word ‘love’; it didn’t seem to be a natural word that came easily off his lips. And yet, when he said it, it was as if ‘love’ pulled on a deep root, one that had known seasons of hardened drought.
He could tell I was confused.
“Ma’am, I’ll just save you the guessing,” he said. “I took the blade my dad bought me to skin my first deer to my wrist. Before the first drop of blood hit the floor, I knew I didn’t want to die.”
I grabbed the note I wrote for my dad to read once he found me and ran to his bedroom door. He should have been asleep,” he said. “He was always sleeping by then.”
He stopped talking.
“And?” I asked.
“Stupid, but I didn’t want to wake him. We hadn’t been on the best terms. He was tired of my crap, and I was just tired.”
He shook his head and looked down, making a sliding motion with his hand: “I slid the note under his door and went back to my bedroom, closed the door behind me, and sat on my bed knowing I was about to pass out.”
He clasped his hands together like a child saying bedtime prayers, gripping them tight until his fingers were white and red.
“I heard him before I saw him — Dad came bolting out of his bedroom so fast that you would’ve thought the house was on fire.” His eyes dampened and lowered.
“‘No!’ I heard him scream. In all the yellings I got from that man, they were nothing like that scream… nothing.”
I saw a tear fall onto his knuckles. He didn’t look up. He didn’t wipe away a tear. He just watched it slip down his clasped hands onto the countertop… another soon followed.
“In one hand, my dad had my note, stained with blood. In the other, he had my wrist, trying to stop the blood.”
The young man unclasped his hands and turned over his right hand. There was a tattoo that cuffed his wrist… I couldn’t make out what it said, but I knew what it covered.
“I don’t remember much after that. It wasn’t until I got home from the hospital that I saw that my door was broken,” he said, chuckling and shaking his head. “My dad busted through my door. The damn thing was unlocked.”
He bowed his back and wiped his eyes. “I’d been such an ass to my dad. We hadn’t been doing a lot talking before that night. Some yelling, yeah, but talking… no. Yet, he busted a door and two knuckles to get to me.”
He picked up his ballcap and put it back on his head. “That was seven years ago. I don’t live at home anymore, but I see my dad nearly every day… we started our own business together,” he said, pointing to the logo on his cap.
I didn’t have the right words, so I remained quiet. I reached out and held his hand. It was warm and calloused.
Squeezing my hand, he said, “Thank you, ma’am… I don’t know you, but now you know more about me than most. Guess I just needed someone to talk to, and God gave me you. I never knew my mom.” His face flushed. “Not saying you’re that old.”
“Well, I think we both know that I’m that old,” I said lightly. “My guess is you’re close to the same age as one of my boys. If it’s okay, I’ll add you to my prayers tonight. I don’t know if you know Jesus, but…”
Before I could finish my sentence, he smiled the first and last smile I would ever see on him.
“Ma’am, I know Jesus. I met Him that night. He woke up Dad. He broke my door, and He healed me… He healed me and my dad. We both met Him that night,” he said.
I wiped tears from my cheek.
“The day I got my own apartment, my dad gave me a gift,” he said. “I didn’t know he had kept that note from that night, but he did. Dad took a corner of the blood-stained page and cut it out into a small cross. He wrote over the stain: PAID IN FULL. I framed it, and it hangs on my wall.”
He left soon after. I never even got his name. I don’t think I was supposed to — what I got was more than I anticipated, and a reminder of what I’ll never forget: the power of love and the power of the blood of Jesus.
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. For more inspirational articles, follow ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.