In May, the Reverend Tommy Mitchell’s only son turned eighteen.
Shawn’s church youth group dutifully planned and executed a party for him, at the covert request of his father, even though Shawn was two years older than anyone else in the group. He tried to enjoy himself, but he was also aware that the younger boys wanted to get away to a baseball game as soon as possible, and the younger girls seemed to do nothing but giggle amongst themselves. Even the girl who had kissed him on the cheek two years before had a boyfriend by then... and it wasn’t Shawn. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted out of his eighteenth birthday, but he knew for sure he wasn’t getting it.
During the weeks that followed, Shawn busied himself with school so that his final grades just before graduation would be as high as possible. He continued to exchange letters with Brother Jacob and Sarah, and he managed to visit at least one other church each week by saying he wanted to take a long walk on the way home from his family’s regular church. He didn’t like telling a lie, but neither did he feel the strength to openly defy his father. Not yet.
He did, however, enjoy his graduation ceremonies. He had worked hard, and had a collection of good grades to show for it, even though he missed the honor roll by a small fraction of a grade point. He even surprised himself by managing to have a fair amount of fun at the graduation dance that evening.
There were two girls in Shawn’s school whom he would have liked to date, but the right circumstances to strike up a conversation with one of them did not
materialize, and the other girl was not at the dance.
Two days later, Shawn was sitting reading a magazine in the living room of his family’s spacious suburban home on the west side of Greenville, South Carolina, when his father, with obvious purpose, sat down beside him.
“Well, son, perhaps it’s time to make some plans for the future. Have you had a chance to look at the literature about our seminary in Atlanta?”
“Yes, father, I’ve read it. It sounds like a very good seminary.”
“They’re reserving a space for you, but they won’t be able to hold it forever.
They’ll be getting lots of applications now that school is out.”
I wonder why they’re reserving a space for me? As if I didn’t know. “I’m not sure that’s the right place for me, father. If it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to consider some other options.”
The reverend took a moment to recover. “Well, um... there are some other good seminaries in the country, I guess. Um... I could get their literature for you.”
“Thank you, father. That would be great.”
Three days later Shawn had express mail packages containing the literature of five other seminaries around the country, all of them almost identical to the one in Atlanta as far as doctrine was concerned. He read them out of respect for whomever had made the long distance phone calls. As much as he dreaded the thought of defying his father, he also felt that somewhere inside himself was a line that he couldn’t cross.
That line, and its exact location somewhere between his own will, and his father’s, had often occupied Shawn’s thoughts during the last couple of years.
That line had been coming into clearer focus in recent months, and now Shawn seemed to be face to face with it. Signing up for a multi-year course of study, one that he knew was not right for him, was somewhere on the other side of that line.
A few days after the packages arrived, his father must have decided that Shawn had had enough time to read the information, as he again joined him on the couch.
The reverend went through the brochures and letters on the coffee table, organizing them to his preference. “As I understand it, these three in
Mississippi, Florida, and Texas are the best, but this place in Maine has a fairly good reputation, and this Louisiana one isn’t too bad.”
“Yes, father, they all sound like good places where I could learn a lot about the Bible.”
“So, which one do you think would be best? Remember that Atlanta may still be an option if we act quickly.”
Shawn swallowed once. “Actually, father, I’m not sure a seminary is the best place for me right now. I think it might be an important part of my education someday, but I think there are many other things I need to learn first...”
“Um... well, perhaps some courses at the local college would be a good idea. Or... did you have another good college in mind?”
“To tell you the truth, father, I’ve already found a place where I think I can learn some things that are interesting to me, even some things about the Bible and Christ’s teachings.”
“Where’s that son?” the reverend said in a dry, suspicious tone.
Shawn steeled himself. “Lyceum, in Oregon. Maybe you remember it?
The place where the car...”
The Reverend Tommy Mitchell stood up and immediately began yelling.
“YES I remember it! And it will be a cold day in HELL before any son of MINE goes to that place to learn about the BIBLE and the Lord’s teachings!
That place is doing NOTHING but the Devil’s work, and has NO place in the education of any true minister of God!...”
His father was standing in the middle of the living room, glaring at his son and waving his hands. Shawn just sat on the couch looking at him, his heart in his throat. The reverend had always been good at improvised speeches, and today was no exception.
“...And if YOU think that I paid for all those BIBLE CAMPS, all those church RETREATS, and that tour of the HOLY LAND just so YOU could tell me you’re going off to OREGON to somewhere that has NOTHING to do with OUR church, you are dead WRONG!...”
Shawn held onto that line deep inside himself. It was one of the most painful hours of his life, but he knew there was no way to avoid it. And as he listened to his father go on and on, he knew that there was nothing he could
say now. The corner had been turned. He was no longer a child, and he had decided what he was going to do. But he also knew he had to respectfully hear his father out, if for no other reason than because his father had paid for all those things he was mentioning.
“...Starting right now, TODAY, you are forbidden to have ANY contact with Lyceum or ANY other place where the Devil’s work is done! And you shall have NO further access to the resources of this family until you get your VALUES and your PRIORITIES straight!...”
Shawn realized as he sat there listening that his father had just saved him the trouble of having to work up the courage to leave home. If he had no further access to the resources of the family, then he had better not be taking up a bedroom and eating the family’s food. He had never dreamed it could be so easy.
“...And NOW I want you to go to your ROOM so that you can think about what I’ve SAID to you, and get all this NON-SENSE out of your head!”
The silence was deafening. Shawn waited a few seconds as his father continued to stare at him with wide eyes. He didn’t want to interrupt if his father had more to say. Finally he felt sure no more was forthcoming, at least not at that sitting. And he felt a strong desire that there would be no more sittings like that one.
“Yes, father,” barely came out of his throat, as he rose and dashed for his room.
After Shawn stepped into his bedroom, he closed the door ever so softly, sat down on his bed and listened to his heart pounding in his chest. His father’s words still echoed in his mind, but the literal meaning of those words was no longer of great concern to Shawn, as they all seemed to boil down to a few very simple messages. The clearest message was that turning eighteen seemed to not matter at all. He was legally an adult now, and yet in his father’s eyes he did not have the right to make any decisions about his life. He felt, deep down inside, that his father was wrong.
As Shawn began to cool off, he became aware of the clock on his desk. It was 3:15. His mother would serve dinner at 5:30, as she always did. If he was no longer entitled to use family resources, then he should be gone by then. In
order to eat the dinner his mother would serve, he would need to have some kind of further discussion with his father to agree on modifying the statement about resources. And Shawn could find no desire in himself to have another discussion with his father on any topic... at least not in the foreseeable future.
So Shawn Mitchell turned his mind to what he could do during the next two hours to prepare himself to leave home, and possibly never return. But a full twenty minutes passed before he had the slightest idea of how to begin.
He had never traveled without every detail being taken care of by his parents.
He had never gone camping without all of the gear being provided and packed by the sponsoring organization. He needed a strategy that would get him packed quickly. There would be plenty of time to think later.
Finally he decided to use a method, in reverse, that he had developed to clean his room. He started at the door and moved around his room clockwise, tossing things he wanted onto his bed. From his dresser he stacked up several changes of clothes. From his closet he pulled shirts, a sweater, a jacket, and a duffel bag. From his desk came his wallet, his personal journal, and, from deep down in a drawer under other books, his Lyceum materials. He stopped to look in his wallet. Damn! Three dollars, and several checks from his birthday that he hadn’t put in the bank yet. He sat down on the bed and felt like crying. He knew he had plenty of money in his savings account, but he wouldn’t be able to get to it after the bank closed at four o’clock, which was just minutes away.
You’ll be okay, Shawn, a little voice inside him seemed to say. He didn’t know if it had been his own imagination speaking, or... something else. But whatever it was, it gave him the courage to go on with the process.
He looked at his book shelves, and immediately grabbed his Bible. Then he looked again. A little book of wise sayings that his grandmother had given him years ago, before she died, caught his eye. He wasn’t even sure he had read more than a quarter of it. He added it to the stack.
Shawn stood in the middle of his room and looked at the pile on his bed that was already threatening to be larger than his duffel bag. Then he turned and looked at all the other things left all over his room: clothes, books, models, magazines, computer, games... Suddenly he realized, for the first time, that leaving home didn’t necessarily mean being able to pack all of your
belongings and take them with you. He knew he was on foot, at least until he got to... wherever he was going. The duffel bag would have to do. He stuffed everything into it, and could barely zip it closed.
Then another problem dawned on him. He was as ready as he knew how to make himself, on such short notice, to walk down the street to whatever awaited him, but he didn’t know how he was going to get from his room to that street. He wanted to avoid his father because he didn’t want to be yelled at again. He wanted to avoid his mother because he knew that seeing him leave would hurt her deeply. He wasn’t sure which he wanted to avoid more.
Part of him felt it shouldn’t matter. He should be able to just walk out of the house and down the street. He was legally an adult, after all. But right now he didn’t feel that he possessed that much strength. He felt like he was way out on a limb just packing to leave home. He didn’t know if he could handle much more. He had to choose the path of least resistance, he decided.
He looked out his window and saw that the back yard was empty. The screen wasn’t hard to unlatch, and his duffel bag hardly made a sound as it landed behind a bush. He re-latched the screen with sweaty, trembling hands.
Ever so slowly he opened his bedroom door, to discover by listening that his mother was in the kitchen making dinner and his father was taking a shower. He stepped out into the hallway, closed his door behind him without a sound, and crept toward the back door, his heart again pounding in his chest.
“Shawn, Honey, we’re having baked cod for dinner.”
His mother’s voice almost made him go through the ceiling as he neared the back door. She walked right by him and turned into the pantry. After standing frozen for a moment, he remembered that she had left for the grocery store not long before he and his father had had their... talk. She might not know a thing about what was happening... and judging by her mood, she didn’t. He tried to stutter out a casual response.
“Uh... g... great, Mom. Uh, I’ll be in the... the back yard.”
“Okay,
Honey.”
Not very many seconds later he found himself outside, with only a lawn between himself and the freedom of the alley that ran behind their house. He
collected his duffel bag and looked around. The bathroom window was frosted, the drapes of his parents’ bedroom were drawn, and the kitchen didn’t look out into the back yard. With his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, he walked to the back gate, opened it, slipped through, and closed it, all without daring to look back. Then he froze and listened.
Nothing.
He began to walk down the alley, and as he did so, the throbbing of his heart slowly began to return to normal. After he had gone past a few back yards, all well fenced so that no one could see his passing, he dared to glance behind him.
Still
nothing.
He was afraid that when he came to the first cross-street, his father would be there waiting for him, but no one was in sight except for a gardener busily mowing a lawn several houses down. He crossed the street and continued into the alley on the other side.
His long legs put several more blocks of the alley behind him, and he began to feel a genuine sense of freedom as he realized that even if his father began to look for him now, it could be a long time before their paths crossed.
He began to swing his duffel bag as he walked along, and his footsteps lightened until he was almost skipping.
He soon remembered that this alley would take him all the way to the industrial area near the center of town. He used to ride his bicycle along it when he was younger, but hadn’t now in years. He could clearly see in his memory several places where he and his friends had played that would now provide him with excellent hiding places, even shelters, if he needed them.
As he moved toward the center of town, the houses along the alley became poorer, and he began to see children playing in yards or in the alley itself.
There was also more trash laying around, and forgotten toys, and the fences behind the houses were sometimes barely standing, sometimes completely absent. This bothered Shawn a little, but he got used to it as he walked. An ancient man with white hair tending a tiny garden peered up at him and his lips parted in a toothless grin. Shawn smiled and waved. A little black girl about five years old looked up from her makeshift toys in a yard devoid of grass. She waved shyly. He waved back and grinned.
Shawn began to feel a sense of purpose as he walked along, a sense of being guided by unseen forces to exactly where he needed to be, in order to learn and do... whatever it was God wanted him to learn and do. And he wondered why it had taken him this long to get out into the world and see what it was like.
How can I understand Christ’s teachings if I don’t understand how the people of the world live? Shawn wondered to himself as he continued along the alley that now included an old weedy railroad track. The lower class houses were giving way to old warehouses, industrial equipment yards, and rail sidings. Suddenly Shawn realized that someone was sitting on a loading dock not far ahead, hunched over something, and looking at him. Shawn froze.
“I don’t bite, boy,” the man said in a voice that identified him as at least fifty, maybe older.
Shawn timidly began to walk forward again.
“Got anything to eat, boy?” he asked when Shawn was almost directly across from him.
“Um... no... no I don’t,” Shawn said, thinking the man was asking for a handout.
“Then get over here and help me eat these beans and hot dogs. My old stomach can’t take much of this kind of food anymore.”
Shawn stood there for a moment, confused. He had misunderstood. The transient... the gentleman on the loading ramp... was offering him something to eat. And Shawn knew he would be needing something before long. His mother was probably serving dinner at about that time. And there were only three dollars in his wallet.
“Um... thanks. I guess I could use some dinner. I... I have a little money...”
“Come on up here son and have something to eat before these hot dogs grow hair on them. You obviously need more than something to eat.”
“I... I do?” he said, unshouldering his duffel bag and setting it down on the loading ramp. Shawn saw that the old man had a very wrinkled and well tanned but kindly face.
“Yeah. You’re as green as they come, and the world’s gonna eat you up if
you don’t start getting some smarts into your head.”
I just graduated with a 3.7 grade point average. Isn’t that smarts?
“To start with, you never talk about how much money you do or don’t have with strangers. Got it? Never.”
“Um... yeah,” Shawn said as he received a cold hot dog and baked beans on a slice of bread from the man. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he finally managed to get it folded into a sandwich without losing too many of the beans, and took a bite. And he was surprised to discover that he was hungry enough, from all the excitement at home and his long walk down the alley, that it tasted quite delicious.
As he chewed, he thought about what the man had said. It began to make sense to him. If a stranger wanted to rob you, then telling him you had money was obviously ill advised. If a stranger had no money, then it would make him feel bad. “Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean,” Shawn said as he ate.
“Just leave home?”
“Yeah. Me and my dad had a big fight. I’m eighteen, but he still wants to make all the decisions about my life. Thanks,” Shawn said, receiving another sandwich.
“Sorry I don’t have anything to wash it down with. Sounds like a good time to leave home. Why’d you put up with him so long?”
“I don’t know. Just family loyalty, I guess. I haven’t been very comfortable there for the last year and a half, ever since... ever since he said something very hurtful to a girl I know.”
“Fathers often have trouble with their sons’ girlfriends. But mothers, now they’re even worse.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She only eight. But she’s a friend.”
“Eight-year-olds have a habit of growing up. But that’s neither here nor there. What you gonna do now?”
“I don’t really know. I’ll just have to take it one day at a time, I guess. Boy, my father would be mad if he heard me say that. He likes everything planned out way in advance, you know, no surprises.”
“I know the type. I was like that myself. I had it all once — wife, kids, job, house, even a lousy boat. What the Lord gives, the Lord sometimes takes away. Now I can see how little I had back then. I supervised dozens of
people, and none of them ever really listened to me like you just listened to the advise I gave you.”
“It was good advise,” Shawn said.
“Thanks, kid. You gonna stay in the mission?”
“I don’t know. Do they take people my age?”
“Sure! You’re an adult, ain’t you? All you need is an I.D. card. Opens at six. They kick you out at nine in the morning. You get a shower, two meals, and a bed, and all you have to do is sit through their Jesus thing.”
“All you have to do is sit through a church service? That’s not hard,”
Shawn said.
“Not until you’ve heard it ten or twelve times!”
“Where
are
you staying?” Shawn asked, licking the baked bean sauce off his fingers and deciding that religion was probably not a good topic to get too deeply into right then.
“I’ve got places. Picked up this dandy sleeping bag last time I had some work. I put up with the missions once in awhile to get cleaned up. A fellow promised me some work day after tomorrow. Then I’m gonna head north and spend some time in New England.”
“I might head for Oregon,” Shawn said.
“Wow!
Now
that’s a long ways. What you got in Oregon?”
Shawn wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about Lyceum with anyone. “Just an eight-year-old girl,” he said and grinned.
The man laughed out loud.
They talked for another hour, and the man gave Shawn several more pieces of advice about avoiding the police, finding places to sleep, getting free food, and other tricks of the trade. Then, as the sun found the horizon, the man headed down the railroad track to whatever awaited him.
Shawn sat on the loading dock in the gathering gloom and took stock of his life. He, Shawn Mitchell, the Reverend Tommy Mitchell’s son, who had about two thousand and some odd dollars in the bank, had just been fed by a transient. Yes, he had much to learn about the world.
He opened his duffel bag and looked at his belongings. Then he made a decision. Since he guessed that the temperature would probably not drop
below about seventy degrees all night long, and he had his coat, his duffel bag, and plenty of other things to put under and over him, he decided that he had a very good chance of surviving the night in one of the places that the man had suggested. He was curious about the mission and it’s church service, but there would be plenty of other nights for that.
As the evening light was fading from the sky, Shawn repacked his duffel, scraped the stray baked beans off the loading platform with a stick, and headed across the railroad yard toward a clump of trees.
As soon as he came near the trees, a rough voice assailed him. “It’s taken!
Find your own!”
“Uh... no problem,” he assured the unseen occupant, and headed for the second place that the man had suggested, pondering as he walked the fact that not everyone in the world was as nice as everyone else.
When he came to the warehouse that was built up off the ground on piles, he ducked down to crawl underneath and put one hand on the ground to support himself. Instantly there were hundreds of little black specs all over his hand, and many of them were biting him. He jerked his hand back and shook it fiercely, bumping his head on the wooden structure overhead. He backed out, fell in the dirt, but kept shaking and rubbing his wounded hand.
Even when he was sure all the biting things were off, his hand still stung. He grabbed his duffel and quickly placed some distance between himself and the warehouse.
It dawned on him that a flashlight would be nice. It was almost dark, and he still didn’t know where he was going to sleep. He sat down on a rock to consider his situation. Then he saw it, the place that was just right for him, as a vehicle somewhere behind him turned and momentarily shined its headlights into the yard. Directly across two tracks from him was a loading ramp, and the space underneath, about three feet high, was a completely smooth and clean concrete pad, which was normally shadowed from all the nearby street and yard lights. He quickly crossed the tracks and slipped into his selected accommodation.
Shawn felt safe under the loading ramp, especially after many minutes had passed and no other headlights had flashed his way. It took him quite a while to get settled, as he had never before attempted to make a bed on a concrete
slab. It took every piece of clothing he had brought to even begin to make it soft, and that left nothing to cover himself with. He added sleeping bag to his mental list of supplies to purchase as soon as he got to the bank.
He laid down on his makeshift bed and tried to relax. As he reviewed the events of the day in his mind, he knew he would never forget that particular day. He considered writing about it in his journal, but realized he had no pen or pencil. Soon his eyes closed and he drifted into a dream-filled sleep.
The freight train that jerked him back to consciousness was not going very fast, but he could see its wheels spinning by just a few feet from his hiding place, and he could feel the ground throbbing with its immense weight. It was gone as quickly as it came, and after a few minutes, he couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he told himself to go back to sleep.
Four more times he was awakened during the night, once by another train, twice by a sirens somewhere in the city, and once by a dog looking for something to eat. He felt sorry for the dog and wished he had something to give it.
When he finally awoke to the glow of morning in the sky, he could feel the city coming to life. The volume of traffic on the streets was beginning to increase, car doors were opening and closing as people headed for work, dogs were barking, lights coming on inside buildings, street lights going off. It occurred to him that he should slip out of his hiding place before too many railroad people came to work. He did not feel at all rested, but made himself sit up and pack his duffel bag. By seven o’clock he was heading for a grocery store that opened early.
“Ma’am, where would you like me to put my bag while I do some shopping?” he asked the clerk.
The lady clerk looked him over. “Over by the ice machine.”
“Thank
you.”
It was an extreme challenge for Shawn to shop with three dollars and forty cents to his name. He could have gotten a disposable flashlight, but nothing else. He knew he needed a comb, and that would immediately cut his money in half, but he couldn’t see going into the bank without combing his hair first.
So that left him with a dollar and a half to get breakfast.
He looked in the deli case, and he considered boxes of cereal and packages of instant breakfast. All too expensive. He considered fresh fruit, but realized he didn’t have a knife to cut it or anything to clean up with. More things were added to his mental list of supplies to get. Finally he found the solution in a corner of the store where he had never looked before, probably because his parents had never, as far as he could remember, gone there. At that hour of the morning, the day-old bakery rack was brimming with all manner of breads and pastries. He selected some muffins that were still quite moist, and that left him with enough for a small carton of milk.
Shawn paid for his treasures and headed for a nearby park. The city had now come to life all around him, but it seemed strange to Shawn that it was the same city in which he had spent most of his life. He was now looking at it with the eyes of an adult who no longer lived at home, who had just slept in the railroad yard, and who had just carefully spent his last three dollars.
Those eyes were seeing things differently than ever before.
By the time the bank opened at nine o’clock, Shawn had eaten his simple breakfast, washed his face and combed his hair in the park’s restroom, and was amongst a handful of people waiting for the doors to be unlocked. He set his duffel by the door, waited his turn, and then stepped up to the teller, bank card and withdrawal slip in hand.
“I need to take some money out of my savings account,” he said.
She accessed his account on her computer. “I’m sorry. Your account has been blocked.”
“Blocked? What does that mean?”
“It means that some person who has rights to the account has contacted the bank and indicated that no withdrawals should be made.”
Shawn was getting mad. “It’s my account. It’s been my account for years.
Every penny in it is my money!”
“Just a moment, Sir,” she said, turning around to find the accounts manager. “Mr. Brand? Would you help us out for a moment, please?”
The almost bald, immaculately suited man stepped up, and the teller explained the situation. “Can we determine who blocked the account?” she asked him.
“Yes, I know who blocked the account, because I processed the request myself. Your father called yesterday afternoon, and said you had run away from home.”
Shawn was getting very mad. “I’m an adult, and so I can go wherever I want to. All the money in that account is mine. It was given to me, or I earned it.”
“Sir, would you please keep your voice down?” Mr. Brand said.
“No, I won’t! I want you to show me where in the law it says that someone’s father can take his money away after he’s turned eighteen!”
The exchange was beginning to make so much noise that a tall, white-haired man poked his head out of a plush office, took in the situation, and walked over. “You’re Mr. Shawn Mitchell, aren’t you? Come on into my office and let’s get this all cleared up. Mr. Brand, bring me a fact sheet on Mr.
Mitchell’s account, please.”
“Thank you,” Shawn said, appreciating the use of the title ‘Mister.’
As soon as they entered the comfortable office, the bank president pulled out a seat for Shawn and said, “We want all our customers to feel that their money is safe.” At that moment the manager entered with the printout.
“Please stay, Mr. Brand. This should only take a moment. I see here that you opened this account when you were thirteen years old,” the white-haired man said, sitting at his desk. “Your father signed as your parent... Your eighteenth birthday was last month... And when did the block request come in, Mr.
Brand?”
“Yesterday afternoon, Sir.”
“Well, it looks like we’re in the wrong. Mr. Brand, a type seven account automatically changes to a type three account upon the majority of the named account holder. The fact that we didn’t automatically update our computer records is our problem, not Mr. Mitchell’s. And a type three account would not be subject to the block request.”
“But, Sir, his father is...”
“It doesn’t matter who his father is, Mr. Brand. The only exception would be if the account holder was not mentally competent. And I happen to know that Mr. Mitchell just graduated in the same class as my granddaughter, so he must be quite mentally competent.” The bank president flashed Shawn a
respectful smile. “I hope that we have reassured you that your money is safe with us, Shawn. And Mr. Brand will be adding a hundred dollars to your account as a token of our apologies. Please take care of those changes immediately, Frank, so Mr. Mitchell can complete his transaction. Would you like a cup of coffee and a doughnut while we get your account in shape? It will just take a minute.”
“Thank you,” Shawn said. “That would be nice.”
The manager left, and quickly returned with a coffee and doughnut tray, then left again.
“Now you see what bank presidents are for,” he said to Shawn as the younger man sugared his coffee and nibbled on his doughnut. “It’s easy for those who work with the details of a business to lose sight of the larger issues.
Your father might take his money out of our bank, but that would be far better than any customer feeling cheated. That’s the kind of thing that gets into the newspapers and causes a bank to go under.”
“I can see that,” Shawn said. “But I’m sure Mr. Brand did what he thought was the right thing.”
“Yes, probably. I won’t hold it against him. He’s learned his lesson, as I once did in such a situation.”
The manager poked his head in. “Everything is in shape, Sir. Mr.
Mitchell, your account is now a type three savings account, which is not subject to your parents in any way. I have added one hundred dollars to your account, and processed your withdrawal for you. Here you are.”
“Thank you,” Shawn said.
Shawn shook hands with both men, collected his duffel bag at the door, and headed for the sporting goods store, pondering the difference between the accounts manager and the bank president.
Chapter 31: An Assignment and a Problem
Armed with sleeping bag, flashlight, multi-function pocket knife, mess kit, canteen, and several other essentials, Shawn spent the next three nights in relative comfort under his loading ramp, and the next three days writing in his journal and thinking about all that had happened to him recently. He quickly became familiar with all the places where he could spend time without bothering anyone, and learned by experience that the waitresses in the cafes didn’t mind if he eat slowly and wrote in his journal, as long as he did it in the middle of the afternoon.
After four days of sleeping outside, Shawn’s nose told him that it was time to get cleaned up, and as he was still curious about the church service at the Gospel Light Mission, he decided it was time to pay them a visit.
As the sun sank toward evening, the man at the reception counter looked at Shawn’s I.D. card, asked if he had any weapons or drugs with him, and made him leave his pocket knife there. He advised Shawn to keep his belongings with him at all times.
Shawn didn’t realize how literally he should take the warning he had received. He found the bunk room and selected a free bed. While he took a luke-warm shower in the open shower stall that badly needed cleaning, his mess kit disappeared. While he was at dinner, reminding himself that he should be thankful for even instant mashed potatoes, his jacket walked away.
That was all it took. His duffel bag came with him to the church service, and he noticed that most of the other men had their belongings with them also.
The chapel was old and simple, with hard wooden pews that had been donated by some church that could finally afford upholstered ones. The service, to Shawn’s surprise, was mostly a one-man show. The preacher preached, the preacher prayed, and the preacher sang. Shawn added his voice when he knew the hymns, to the obvious delight of the preacher.
When the preacher asked for all those who had accepted Christ into their lives to come up, Shawn did not hesitate. One old man also approached the preacher, who got all the mileage he could out of having both ends of the age spectrum in the Kingdom. Shawn genuinely felt for the preacher as he tried to coax others in the audience into accepting Christ. One timid hand went up, and then another, out of about thirty men. As they came up to the front, Shawn and the old man greeted them and made them feel as welcome as they could, but the rest of the audience was getting bored, and the preacher soon had to wrap up the service.
As Shawn thoughtfully headed back toward the bunk room, the old man began to walk along beside him. “You would find your jacket in the short black man’s bag, and your cooking kit in the long-haired man’s pack, but I hope you are secure enough in the love of Christ to let those things go, and know that they will be put to good use.”
Shawn considered for a moment. “Yes, I think they need them more than I do.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But getting them back would be ugly.”
“I see what you mean,” Shawn said.
“I sense that you are not new to the Kingdom, but very new to missions.”
“You’re right. My father’s a preacher.”
“Your faith is not just because of your father,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
“No. In fact I’m going against my father’s wishes right now.”
“But not against the wishes of your father in heaven?”
Shawn thought about that question as they entered the bunk room. “I don’t pretend to know much about God’s will for me yet. I seem to be drawn toward a place where there are lots of religious people, but they are from many different faiths. My father wanted me to go to the seminary run by our church.” Shawn sat down on his bed, and the old man sat on the adjacent
one, which was not yet taken.
“Different faiths? Is there more than one Kingdom of God?”
Shawn thought. “No, I don’t think so. To my father, the place I might go does the Devil’s work.”
“Ah! The Devil’s work. Many good things are so labeled. Many bad things go unnoticed. Beware of labels.”
“Yes, I think I agree. I’ve seen my father label too many things... and too many people,” Shawn said, thinking of Sarah.
The old man was silent for a long time. Shawn put mess kit and jacket on his shopping list in his journal. He had been thinking of a more functional jacket anyway, something with a hood.
“I believe I have some work that you can help me with,” the old man said after awhile.
“I haven’t done many kinds of work yet,” Shawn said, wondering what it could be and if he was qualified.
“Kingdom work,” the old man said. “I know of a young man, almost exactly your age, who is very close to the Kingdom. I think you would be a much better witness for Christ in this situation than I, because of your age.
Are you willing?”
Even though Shawn said yes, he did not at all feel qualified. He listened to the old man describe the other young man, and the circumstances of their encounter, until the Mission staff announced that it was time for quiet and lights out.
It was a hot evening, and Shawn did not feel sleepy, so after getting ready for bed, he lay there staring at the dingy ceiling, rolling around in his mind the church service he had been to in the Mission’s chapel, all the things the old man had said, and the work he had taken on. He fell asleep wondering if he should get a cheap aluminum mess kit instead of a stainless steel one...
The following morning, the old man seemed to have disappeared, but the preacher, Reverend Walker, was on hand when Shawn stopped by the front counter to get his pocket knife.
“It was a real pleasure having you at services yesterday,” he said, shaking Shawn’s hand. “There are days when I’m the only one up there. And you’ve
got a very nice voice. Do you think you might be back with us some time? I can use all the help I can get.”
“I hope to be back sometime. I just took on some work, some Kingdom work, and I don’t know how long it will take.”
“Well bless your soul, son. You take whatever time is necessary for that kind of work. But feel free to come back if you ever need a place to stay.”
“I will, thank you.”
“By what name shall I call you, Brother?”
“Shawn.” The last name didn’t seem necessary. Or desirable.
“Christ be with you, Brother Shawn!”
“And with you, Reverend Walker,” Shawn said.
At that moment the preacher was called away to break up a minor fight between two of the men. Shawn stepped up to the counter. “Thank you very much. Here’s a donation,” Shawn said as he handed the attendant a twenty dollar bill. The attendant was so surprised that he didn’t know what to say, and just stared after Shawn as the eighteen-year-old headed out the door and into the world.
After leaving the Gospel Light Mission, Shawn replaced his mess kit at the sporting goods store, and wandered by the place where he was supposed to find the young man who was close to the Kingdom. It was in a minor business area, several blocks off the main streets of Greenville, and it contained a number of second rate but colorful shops and cafes. When he arrived at the described location, he hoped the old man had made a mistake.
The old man hadn’t told Shawn the exact nature of the place he was to look for, only that it was a little shop where the young man worked. But he had described several nearby landmarks very clearly. It was kitty corner to the adult video rental place, across the street from the soul food restaurant, and next to the herb and massage place. Shawn was definitely looking at the right business — no other shop around had the proper relationship to the other landmarks. He stood across the street and gazed at Alistair’s Occult Supplies.
Shawn didn’t go into the strange little shop that day, or the next. He wandered around town, thought about the assignment he had been given, and compared jackets in several different stores to replace the one he had lost. He
slept in the railroad yard for a night, and then returned to the mission.
Reverend Walker was glad to see him again, and Shawn gave him all the help he could during the church service. The old man who had given him the assignment was not to be seen that night. After the service, Shawn asked for a brush, and busied himself scrubbing the shower stall, to the amazement and humor of most of the other mission guests.
The next morning, Shawn helped serve breakfast, and then stayed to assist the staff in cleaning up the kitchen and dining room. But finally he wandered back to the supposed location of his assignment.
For the third time he stood across the street from the occult shop. But this time there was a difference. This time there was a small sign in one corner of the front window that said Room For Rent. Shawn felt strange, like someone, somewhere, was laying out a path for him to follow that was going to be hard to deny. He thought of Jonah. Then he crossed the street.
In the front window he could see all sorts of things that his father would not approve of: tarot cards, crystals, incense burners, strange books, rune stones, knives, candles of all shapes and colors (including black), and statues of every mythological creature imaginable. Shawn took a deep breath and opened the door.
He wandered around the shop and looked at everything. Parts of it contained new books and merchandise attractively arranged on clean shelves and tables. Other parts of it were more like a Chinese junk store, with all sorts of old things covered by dust.
“Hi!” said the red-haired fellow of about Shawn’s age who was sitting on a stool behind the counter reading a book. “Can I help you find something?
We’ve got everything you could possibly need for white magic, black magic, witchcraft, parapsychology, divination, you name it.”
Shawn cringed to himself at the list of activities the shop could supply.
“Um... I don’t know. I was sort of interested in your room for rent...”
“Hey, great! Gosh, I just put up the sign today. It’s nothing fancy. I get the apartment upstairs as part of my salary, and it’s got two bedrooms. We’d share the kitchen and bathroom. Still want to look at it? I was just hoping to make about a hundred bucks a month off of it.”
“Uh... sure,” Shawn said, hoping the other couldn’t see that his enthusiasm
wasn’t completely genuine.
The red-haired fellow led him into the back room and up an old wooden stair. “I’m Todd. There’s a stair in back too, so you can get in and out even when the shop’s closed.”
“I’m Shawn. Do you run this place all by yourself?” The stairs creaked under their feet.
“Yeah. Owner lives in Charlotte. Comes down once a week to do the ordering and such.”
They emerged into the upstairs apartment. It was fairly spacious, but just as the fellow had said, nothing about it was fancy. Both bedrooms looked over the street, and the kitchen and living room area was at the back, with an outside deck made of old boards and a rickety stair leading down into the alley. “I don’t smoke,” Todd said. “The smell is from the incense I have to burn in the shop. You get used to it after awhile.”
“I don’t smoke either,” Shawn said, but wasn’t sure he could get used to the incense. “I think it’ll do. I’ll take it... if it’s okay with you.”
“Um... no harm in giving it a try, I guess,” the red-haired lad said. “What do you do?”
Good question, Shawn thought. “I just left home. Do some volunteer work, some reading and writing. I guess I’m trying to decide what to do next.”
“Hey, welcome to the club. I’m certainly not going to retire from this little dump!”
They both laughed together. Shawn pulled out his wallet and counted out a hundred dollars. Todd looked surprised. “Jeez. I didn’t think it would be so easy. And I thought I’d get some old drunk in there.”
“I don’t drink either,” Shawn said.
“I do, a little,” Todd said. “But I’m no drunk. Well, I’d better get back to the shop. I’ll leave you to get settled. Here’s a key to the back door.”
“Thanks,” Shawn said, taking the key.
After Todd had disappeared down the creaking stairs, Shawn went into his bedroom. It suddenly struck him that it was really his, for at least a month in a way that a room had never been his before. He could keep it as clean or as dirty as he wanted, and no parent would be checking on him. The bed was no worse than those at the mission, and it also had a simple desk and a small end
table. He unpacked his duffel bag completely, and realized that for the first time since he had left home he wouldn’t have to take it everywhere he went.
He put his Lyceum books, his Bible, and the little book from his grandmother neatly on the desk, hung up his clothes in the closet, and unrolled his sleeping bag to air it out.
After getting settled, he let out a deep breath and looked around. It was a simple room... but it was everything he needed, and he was glad it would be his first home away from home.
The next several days, right up to the Fourth of July, were a time of intense study for Shawn. There he was, actually living with the young man that he had been asked to minister to, and he had no idea how to begin. So he read everything he could find in his Bible that was applicable, and he visited the library almost every day to dig through books on proselyting and missionary work, bringing several home each evening.
As much as he would have liked to avoid it, he made himself visit Todd in the occult shop once or twice a day. Doing so allowed Shawn to get familiar with the books that Todd was reading, most of which were from the shop itself. One day it was numerology, the next white witchcraft, the next astral projection. After several days had passed, Shawn could definitely agree with the old man who had given him the assignment that Todd was searching for something.
But even though Shawn went by the mission almost every day either in the morning or the evening to help out, he never saw the old man again. He would have liked to get some additional advice about his assignment, and some reassurance that he was on the right track. But he finally admitted to himself that he appeared to be on his own as far as being a witness for Christ to Todd was concerned.
One evening Shawn realized with horror that Brother Jacob and Sarah had probably written to him, but that he had no way of getting their letter, and his father had probably opened and read it already. The thought made him angry. He sat down to write a long letters to his friends at Lyceum.
The next day, Shawn helped cook and serve a spare rib and baked potato
dinner at the mission, stayed for the church service to add his singing voice to Reverend Walker’s, and then wandered back to his room over the occult shop, still wondering how to start talking to Todd about being a Christian.
As soon as Shawn had climbed the shaky stairs from the alley, Todd immediately invited him along to watch fireworks. Shawn had been so wrapped up in his reading and volunteer work that he hadn’t remembered to make any plans for Independence Day. Fireworks were always at the big park on the north side of town, and there was all kinds of food and drink available.
It would be an easy walk for the two of them, and it might present an opportunity to begin talking about the Kingdom. Shawn happily accepted the invitation.
The walk was fun and they talked about many things. Shawn spoke about his work at the mission, but that was as close as he came to talking about religion. It just seemed like the wrong occasion.
They took turns treating each other to hot dogs, sodas, funnel cakes, and freshly dipped ice cream bars. The fireworks were as good as ever, with a few new ones that neither of them could remember seeing before. It was especially fun for Shawn as it was the first time he had seen them without having to look through the windshield of the family car.
They ran home, laughing almost constantly as they dodged the cars that jammed every street as soon as the fireworks were over. Shawn wondered if his father and mother were in one of those cars, but he never spotted them.
He and Todd arrived home in good spirits, but Shawn felt no closer to being able to talk to Todd about Christ.
The next day, Shawn again haunted the library, looking for that one piece of advice that would point him in the right direction to begin his ministry. He was deep in the stacks when a large man appeared beside him, pretending to look for a book.
“Your father wants you to come home now, Shawn,” the large man said, ceasing his pretense.
Shawn could feel his face become hot and his heart start to pound. “I’m busy,” he said, and started to walk away. But as soon as he turned the first corner in the stacks, he could tell that the man was right behind him. He
started walking as fast as he could.
Shawn was angry, but didn’t want to cause a scene. He didn’t want the librarians to be mad at him and not want him to come back. He was long legged and fast, and he knew the layout of the library by heart. The large man was still following him, but there was a growing distance between them.
Suddenly Shawn realized that not one, but two men were after him. And every time Shawn turned a corner, one of them would follow him and the other would go a different way and try to cut him off. He knew it was only a matter of time before they cornered him.
A plan came to him. He headed for a part of the reference area where there was a long row of study tables arranged end to end without a break. He selected a point near the middle where no one was sitting and skidded to a stop. He knew that older adults were usually reluctant, and often completely unable, to get down on their knees. As soon as the large man turned a corner and saw him standing there, he slowly walked toward Shawn. The other man did the same from the opposite direction. When they were both only about ten feet from him, Shawn dropped to the floor, crawled under the tables, and dashed for the exit door.
He never knew if the men attempted to go under the tables or not. He didn’t care. All he knew was that after he had run around a corner, down an alley, across two streets, and onto a little-used bicycle path, no one was following him. He slowed to a walk, and after collecting his thoughts, planned a route back to his room that he felt the men would be unlikely to guess.
Even though the occult shop was open, Shawn entered the apartment from the back alley, looking in both directions first. He collapsed on his bed and thought about what had happened. He hadn’t recognized the men. If they had been anyone from his family’s regular church, he would have recognized them. And he also wondered exactly what they would have done if they had cornered him. Would the librarians have let them just kidnap him? They’d probably call the police, but not interfere directly, he decided. By the time the police got there, it would be too late. He would have been stuffed into a car and taken away.
Shawn was quietly thoughtful for the rest of the day. He didn’t think about
his assigned ministry anymore; he thought about how to get around town without being followed or cornered. He crept to the mission that evening, but didn’t feel like helping with the church service. He busied himself scrubbing showers and mopping floors, and since he had helped out so much with the services already, no one said a thing.
Shawn was glad. He needed time to think.