Redemption upon Impact

Author's Note:

Redemption Upon Impact is another story I wrote when I was younger. My family had a big falling out with our church and I had a lot of hurt feelings. And let me make it abundantly clear: It was the church, not God. I felt like the church we were attending was really just a social gathering of people, not celebrating their faith, but trying to prove it. Week after week. My girlfriend at the time (who is now my wife) and her sister had to move in with my family as she had a very unstable home life. The Church thought this was completly blasphamus and these people with their hollow christian facades turned to ridculing my family and I for taking these girls in. Total opposite of the response they should have given. I realize this story is a little rough around the edges, and cutting between the two scenes was a bit of a challenge. I haven't really read it in a long time, and did as much profreading as possible, please help me with anything I missed. Thanks.

Redemption Upon Impact

Many strange things can pass through a person’s mind in a tense situation. A distant memory of a childhood summer spent at their grandparent’s house. The vivid smell of the apple scented lotion that a girlfriend spread on her legs as you drove her to your parents’ house to them for the first time. And in some extremely tense situations all that may pass through your head is the searing heat of a 9mm bullet fired from the Gloch the guy trying to steal your wallet held. He was a bit nervous. His hands were shaky. He just needed the money. The gun wasn’t even his and he’d never robbed anyone before.

My situation isn’t quite as intense as a crack-head pointing a second hand pistol in my face, but I am speeding toward the planet Earth at terminal velocity. My name is Steve. It’s my twenty-second birthday. Both of my rip cords have failed to deploy my parachute, and within the next forty-five to sixty seconds I will slam into the ground at 120 miles an hour. Oh and how’s your day going so far?

All right this is no time to panic. People have survived this sort of thing before. I need to relax. That’s how a lot of skiers have survived what should have been fatal falls. Wow. Just look at the ground. The surface is spread out for me like a giant quilt. It’s almost as if God made the bed for me knowing that I would fall into it.

God. That’s a comforting thought. He’s waiting for me when this is all over. I know he is. But… what if it’s all a lie. You know, something humanity made up because they’re afraid of death? God’s about the only thing I have going for me about now. I believe. I believe. Need to relax. Need to forget about the deafening wind in my ears and the whole about-to-die thing. Got to relax.Need to think of the happiest moment of my life. When was I the most at ease with myself and the world?

* * *

I’m not exactly sure when I lost the faith. Maybe it was a year ago, maybe five. He’s not there anymore. God has completely abandoned me. I’ve saved thousands. I’ve evangelized to packed stadiums. 20,000 plus people at a time, all jammed standing room only to hear me speak of an omnipotent deity, with love and acceptance for all who would ask for his son to live in their heart. God is nothing more than a feeling, a state of mind that gives us an excuse to relax and forget about all of our taxes and children’s bad grades for a couple days.

I’ve seen the fire in the eyes of these new believers. They’re going to save the world while under my tent. But the second a friend outside their youth group asks them where they were this weekend, their salvation and my perching become nothing more than, “Oh some church thing.”

God were you ever real? Were you ever really there for me? I’ve left my staff and fellow preachers back at the tent, before tonight’s service we’re going to sort this out. I’m standing here in this meadow with all of your creation surrounding me. You have home field advantage; I figured that would probably be the only way you might show up. So tell me God, when was it that you were actually real to me, huh? I can’t remember, but maybe you can. Tell me.

* * *

I’ve got it! That time my grandma took me to see that preacher guy under that huge white tent. I was what, fifteen, I think. My mom had just died of breast cancer, and I lost my dad to his alcoholic retreat from society. My Grandma felt that I really needed something more in my life than just an abusive and drunken father. My grades were slipping from all the hospital visits to my mom, and I was probably going to have to repeat the tenth grade. Life was tough, and being an only child and suffering through the entire ordeal alone didn’t make things any easier.

The evangelist’s name was William Shaw. That night he spoke on the hollowness of the human heart without Jesus living in it. He explained that life’s burdens were not ours to bear. They were to be given to God. God takes care of his children or his sheep or whatever. Jesus carried something for us that was really heavy and so now we don’t have to carry large things or be nailed to stuff because Jesus did it for us. At least I think that was the gist of it. There was something else about a big curtain, and another thing about a large stone that rolled and made people disappear, but I really didn’t pay much attention after that first part.

Bruises from my father, the gaping hole in my chest that my mother left in her wake, and the teachers who could never understand, they were not my burdens to bear. William Shaw turned the hammer of life around and removed every nail from my body. I was reborn that night at the altar call. A fire was inside of me, a flame which was brighter than those trying to engulf me. I was so nervous walking up to that pulpit. Hoards of teenagers moved out from their seats. Most were clustered into groups. They were with churches I supposed. They began to faction off to try and stay with their friends, but I pushed my way through the crowd as fast as I could. I think William saw that I was alone and felt sorry for me or something. As I was nearly to the pulpit the preacher, to my complete surprise, stepped down and greeted me.

Once he was in range he leaned his large African-American frame down toward me and began to whisper in a harsh tone. It was very intimidating; he was at least a foot and a half taller than me.

“What’s your name son,” he asked.

“Steven,” I answered.

“Steven I see something very different about you. You glow. You cut through the crowd like a knife. You were destined to save people son, but salvation is something that must come to you first. Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior,” he leaned back from my ear as he spoke the last sentence. He looked me square in the eye. It was such an intense look. Almost in desperation he was asking me this.
“Y-yes, I do,” I managed to respond.

“Welcome to eternity,” he smiled.

* * *

That boy was the last time I remember feeling you. That altar call started the same as all the others. The timid teenagers followed their friends down toward the front, all trying to stay together. It was as if they were afraid You were going to pour out all over their friends and they were nervous they would be missed. My gatherings began to attract a crowd of regulars. Regulars. More Christians were coming in than non-believers, most of whom I had seen last weekend one town over. Why were these people here? Did I just make them feel better about themselves? Our religion was festering on itself, rotting from the inside.

As I stared out at a crowd of luk-warm believers pushing toward the front to reaffirm their faith, I saw something that intrigued me, a flicker of light amongst the mediocrity. A boy, small and timid little white boy, cut through the sea of people in a way that would make Charlton Heston jealous. A powerful sensation came over me. I chalked it up to being You causing the hair to rise on the back of my neck, but in my current rational, I believe it was something inside of me. Either way, I had to speak to this boy. I hopped down from the stage and passed through the crowd to meet him. I could tell that he was a bit startled to see this reaction to his approach, but he kept walking.

This boy was racked with pain, and the bruises on his arms that were visible even in the dim light of the service weren’t all that gave that away. His eyes. The blue hue of them was amazing, his irises were reminiscent of the ocean and all of the secrets hidden beneath its depths. I had no time to really help him so I did the best thing I could do. I asked him if he would accept Jesus into his heart. I needed to save this boy. He was meant for something. I knew he would be responsible for the salvation of many. I felt a fire ignite in him. I knew that for the next few weeks he would feel pretty good about himself, but it wouldn’t be enough. I just hoped that maybe it would stick. Maybe this moment wouldn’t be “just a church thing.”

* * *

Life was good in the coming weeks. It was as if someone had picked up all of the marbles I had always slipped on in life. I think that those two weeks in my life were the happiest I ever had had. People asked me what had changed and I would tell them. Granted, I knew absolutely nothing about being a Christian, but I did my best to explain this wonderful feeling. I hadn’t even gone to church since I was six. Not since my mom was first diagnosed and was too tired to get up on Sunday morning after that week’s Chemo.

I started to go to church with my grandmother. She wasn’t really a key player in the congregation. Most of the elderly women there had been going since they were in the youth group. My grandma wasn’t really included in their social circles. It was tough to try and hang in there when no one gave you much more than courtesy conversation. However, my grandma was not discouraged in the least and went every Sunday. I truly felt like my life had a purpose. I woke up every morning knowing that someone was there with me. I wasn’t alone, even on those nights my father was out late.

I tried the youth group out a couple of times. If my grandma thought carving a niche out into the women of the church was hard, I may as well have been trying to dig a trench with a toothbrush to try and fit in with the youth group. Everybody knew one another. They’d all grown up together. The youth pastor was a great guy, and tried his best to include me as much as possible, but the couches in the youth room were always filled by the time I got there and no one really had the time to get to know me. Though this was not what broke the back of my faith.

* * *

Did you look after that boy? Is he what I had envisioned he would become? I doubt it. How could he be? If only he knew what I knew. Even if he didn’t become what I had hoped he would, maybe that was for the best. He might not be wasting the amount of time on you that I am. It’s getting dark. I need an answer. I need a sign now more than ever. Give me some kind of motivation. If you’re up there, this is when a miracle is supposed to happen. Jesus, Say something to me!

* * *


I remember one girl in particular, Hidie Brown, asked me, “So what’s so different about you Steve,” one day between second and third period. Hidie played piccolo in the marching band and had gone to church all of her natural life.

“Oh, well a few weeks ago my grandma took me to see this guy, Willie Shaw, preach and-,” she cut me off.

“I saw you there, rushing through the crowd like you were someone special. Let me tell you something, I go to those gatherings every other weekend with my youth group. I go down for the altar call every time. So don’t get all holier-than-thou on everybody just cause he talked to you, okay. He’s done that to me before too.” I was crushed. Completely and utterly crushed. How could someone do that to another person? The bell rang. I grabbed my Spanish book out of my locker and headed to class.

It looks like I’m going to hit that meadow over there. The wind is defining again. The sun’s setting. You know I’ve never really thought about it before now, but if I were to die I think sunset would be a good time. It’s so symbolic. Of course I have a pretty strong feeling that symbolism is going to have a field day with itself the second my face hits the dirt.

Isn’t that a huge slice of irony. There’s one of those huge white tents right over there. This is going to be icky. I hope none of those people have to see this.

You know those two weeks were great, but Jesus I just wish that I could have really talked in depth with someone about you. I wish I could have known you more and I wish I could have saved at least one person before I died you know. Helped at least one person through a difficult situation in life. I think back and you… made me truly happy in life. I’m looking forward to seeing you. It won’t be long now. “Jesus, I’M COMING!!!”

* * *
“I’M COMING,” I began to sob even before I saw the boy hit the ground not ten feet in front of me. I didn’t bother to check on him. It was obvious that he was not going to get up, but then again who’s to say miracles don’t ever happen in this world? I walked back toward the tent, toward my pulpit.