God's Not Dead 2 (10 page)

IT TAKES ME
twenty minutes after waking up to discover I can’t get online. I generally put the coffee on and then open my laptop to retrieve e-mails and see the news and start thinking about the day ahead. For some reason I can’t connect this morning.

Bet I know the reason.

I don’t bother to check the Wi-Fi connection or call my Internet service provider to report an outage. All I do is go over to the kitchen counter near the phone and the fridge. The bills are in several stacks but in no particular order except for the absolutely pressing bills on the far left. It turns out the phone and Internet service bill should’ve been in that pile, since I discover yesterday was the day they’d turn off my service if I didn’t pay.

I shake my head and curse, then take the bill and make the call.
I have to go through an automated system and say a series of yeses and nos and other words into the lifeless line. I always hate doing this because I’ll grow impatient when they start to say, “Would you like to add a premium service
 
—?” and then I’ll say no and the computer won’t understand and I’ll keep saying yes and no louder and louder. I’ve always imagined a neighbor overhearing me and thinking I might have lost my mind.

It takes fifteen minutes to pay the $280 I owe. The bill is usually around seventy bucks, but I haven’t paid it for a couple of months.

“You know why they call them ‘late fees’? That’s ’cause it’s late bloomers like you who pay them. It’s absolutely the dumbest way to waste your money.”

I can hear my father’s words. If you asked him, he would tell you this is actually how he believes he encourages me. He only wants me to get out of debt and succeed. So he says. I think he loves being able to stand over somebody and then step on them and start to preach. Instead of having a soapbox, my father has me. The marks from his heels are still imprinted on my chest.

I check the other bills to see if there’s anything else I have to pay right away. I’m waiting on the next check to arrive
 
—even though it’s only been four days since my last payment. That money vanished like a magician’s rabbit. I’ve learned in the last few years which bills have to be paid. Your Internet provider is one that has to be paid. Otherwise they just flip the switch and leave you unconnected.

It takes a lot longer for the town to cut off your water or the electric company to cut off power. Even mortgage payments can be delayed. But only by a few months. Then they start using the
foreclosure
word on you.

DirecTV. Have another ten days to pay that one. Medical, medical,
college loan, credit card, another credit card
 
—all of these can wait awhile.

I used to love thinking about money. Now it’s like your old clunker of a car. You hate to drive it or even think about it but you have no choice. You need it to get around.

The schedule on my computer screen reminds me that I have an appointment at ten this morning to earn some of that precious, annoying money. It’s my side job, something I’ve managed to pick up part-time that actually is pretty flexible and pretty well paying, too.

So far there’s nothing new on Grace’s case. No more e-mails or concerns or changes. I haven’t gotten any freak-out voice mails or texts, though I still expect some of those to come.

Ressie is looking at me as if she’s just waiting to bolt from the front door again.

“Uh-uh,” I tell her. “I’m keeping my eyes on you. You’re not escaping again.”

She seems to understand and follows me into the kitchen as I eat a bowl of cereal. I offer her a flake
 
—not just
any
flake but the Raisin Nut Bran kind
 
—but Ressie just sniffs it and then looks back up at me.

“Listen, sweetheart. Soon I’ll have to go to generic brands. It’ll be Nutty Raisins & Stuff that you’ll be getting. And trust me, it won’t be this good.”

The dog isn’t persuaded by my closing argument. She just keeps looking up at me with eyes that seem to say,
I still remember when you gave me some of that sausage McMuffin.

I shake my head.

“Always the same with you, huh? You always just want to take, take, take. But what about me? What about
my
needs?”

It’s eight in the morning and I’m being clever with a dog.
I shouldn’t even say
clever
 
—mildly amusing is more like it. For no one other than myself.

I scoop a mouthful of cereal and shut myself up. For the moment.

I’ve been meeting with this group of three pre-law students for the past four months. I hate saying that I’m tutoring them since that just sounds so sixth-grade math homework. But yeah, I guess I am indeed tutoring them.

The three students make quite the trio. They’re already waiting for me in the library conference room we always meet in. I greet them and pretend I still see myself as one of them. I can’t be that much older than these first-year law students, can I?

And the dreams they still hold inside their bellies can’t actually be missing from mine, can they?

“Hi, Mr. Endler.”

I’ve told Brock not to call me this, but his genes and upbringing force him to. He’s a young man who seems less like a lawyer than an offensive lineman, with big shoulders and an even bigger neck that looks the way mine might if I were wearing a neck brace. Brock’s a bright kid, but that doesn’t mean his career should be law. It’s obvious he’s pursuing this because his father is a lawyer and his mother has pushed him into it.

Martin Yip is a friendly guy usually wearing a happy-go-lucky expression. His family is from some city in China he’s given me the name of three different times, and each time I’ve misheard it. Now I’m too embarrassed to ask again. And while he’s always so positive and always doing everything he can for this study group
 
—helping to organize the times and checking out the conference room in the library
 
—I know Martin has some issues with his parents. Once the
subject came up and he shared a little more than usual, expressing frustration with his father, who doesn’t understand him.

I think again about the blog post by Josh Wheaton and make a mental note to ask Martin about the connection.

Rosario is our token female. She’s a loud and energetic Latina who’s full of questions. Poor Martin and Brock can barely keep up with this young woman’s mind. She’s a powerhouse. I know she’s not here to get help eventually passing the bar. No, this is only extra credit for her. She’s here to pick the brain of someone who graduated at the top of his class from a prestigious university. Rosario’s done her homework. So while Martin and Brock are trying to get their minds around common-law statutes, Rosario will be asking me about comparative legal linguistics.

When I sit down and catch the tail end of the conversation the three of them are having, I find the snippets I hear both amusing and intriguing. So far I’ve heard four reality television shows mentioned.
Survivor
,
Dancing with the Stars
,
The Voice
, and
The Amazing Race
. Brock and Rosario are trying to make their case. For
something
.

“Okay
 
—are we practicing opening arguments and using TV shows as examples?” I ask.

“No, but
that’s
far more interesting than this conversation,” Rosario says.

“You just know I have the better point,” Brock says.

“No, you haven’t made a single good point yet,” she tells him.

Martin is sitting between them looking a bit lost, like some divorce lawyer between two feuding spouses.

“And what points are we trying to make?” I ask.

Both of them start talking and keep getting louder, and I just hold up my hand.

“Okay, Martin
 
—what are you guys discussing?”

He looks a bit reluctant to speak, but the other two let him. “We’re arguing which reality TV show would be the toughest to win.”

I shake my head. “And what are your choices?”

“
Survivor
,” Brock says. “Without a doubt.”

“That’s because he wouldn’t be able to eat,” Rosario says.

“That’s a lot harder than some dancing or singing competition.”

“I say
The Voice
would be harder,” Rosario says. “You have to make it through all those rounds and prove you have insane talent, and
then
you have to get America to fall in love with you.
Way
harder then making it in the wilderness, voting off jerks and lying to each other.”

“You don’t
have
to lie,” Brock says.

I’m five minutes late and suddenly I’ve walked into the sort of late-night after-party discussion I used to have at my frat house.

“So what about you, then?” I ask Martin.

“He doesn’t watch reality TV,” Rosario says.

“No?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so,” Brock says.

I’m used to the way these two can overtalk the young man. I clear my throat twice as loud as I might normally and look at Martin. “So what do you think?”

Martin pauses and then looks back at me with a very serious face. I’m expecting the bright young man to say something like he doesn’t have time for television or he enjoys watching history videos of his native country or something. Rosario and Brock both stare at him, waiting for wisdom.

“The most difficult to win would be
The Bachelor
,” he says.

“You don’t win
The Bachelor
,” Rosario cries out with complete bewilderment. “It’s a dating show.”

“I know,” Martin replies in his direct and subdued tone.

“So then why’d you mention it?”

Martin looks over at Rosario. “Because the love of your life might be the most impossible thing to find in the world.”

“Yes, but there’s no winning or losing.”

Martin gives her a mischievous grin. “No? I think you win just to get on a show with twenty-five beautiful women. Then if you actually fall in love, you win the best prize one could ever find.”

Rosario and Brock both start laughing at the gravity with which Martin says this. I can’t help but chuckle myself.

“Okay, Romeo,” I tell him. “We need to talk about some law.”

“We are,” Rosario says. “The laws of attraction.”

Brock groans and Martin laughs.

They’re a good group to spend time with studying legalese. But I have to remember that our time is limited.

“Listen
 
—I’m going to trial soon, so we need to make this time count.”

They all ask me what for, but I tell them I’ll share soon enough. “It’s an interesting case, but you know what’s far more interesting? Health law.”

“You sound like you’re talking to a class of junior high kids,” Rosario says.

“Oh, I’m sorry. And here I thought you guys were just talking about reality TV shows.”

She says a low “Ooohhh.”

“Didn’t we already go over health law?” Brock asks.

“No, our last session was on tax law,” Martin says, much to Brock’s thank-you-very-much chagrin.

Even though it’s a nice way to earn a little extra money, I know I’m helping these three out. Or at least Brock and Martin. It’s nice
to know I can do that in my profession. Not many lawyers seem to be able to say the same these days.

At the end of our session as the students are getting ready to leave, I mention to Martin about seeing his name in the blog.

“I shared a class with Josh Wheaton,” Martin tells me.

He says it in one of those ways that makes it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. It isn’t like Martin not to want to linger around after our time to talk. Today, however, he seems preoccupied. No, not just that, but anxious.

If the soft-spoken and good-natured guy who stood up in Wheaton’s classroom doesn’t want to say anything about it, I gotta respect his decision. I’m sure there are reasons. I’m sure he’ll share if and when the time comes. I just have to make certain I’m not too busy to hear it.

THE TEXT COMES
as a surprise. The good news for Amy is that it’s not another text from Marc asking her to call him or come see him. Nor is it someone contacting her about a medical bill.

It’s Michael Tait of Newsboys, who doesn’t exactly have all the time in the world.

Just finished a show in London and all the God’s Not Dead signs reminded me of that show in Hope Springs. A reminder to see how you’re doing.

Amy stares at her phone, somewhere in the middle of freaking out and wanting to sob. She never was a big Newsboys fan, but now that she has this connection to the band, she knows she’s a bit starstruck.

No, not starstruck
 
—devoted.

To have someone like Michael texting her to check up when her own mother neglects to do so is quite a feeling.

A year ago, when Newsboys was in town for a big show at Citicorp Arena, Amy managed to get inside via a guy she knew running security. This allowed her to find her way backstage to the green room, where the four members of the group were getting ready for the concert. They wondered what she was doing there but for some reason didn’t object to her ambush of an interview. That’s what she thrived on doing back then for
The New Left
. She could never have predicted how the conversation would go.

“So when you’re pressed, you cite a bunch of ancient scribblings and say, ‘Don’t worry; it’s all in here’?”

She was so smug, so self-righteous. Yet none of them acted defensive at all. They spoke as if they were sharing a simple truth about how something works or giving directions someplace. Very matter-of-fact. Very it-is-what-it-is.

Jeff, the keyboardist and bassist for the band, answered her cynical question and then asked one of his own. “They may be ancient, but they’re not ‘scribblings.’ God gave us an instruction manual. And it’s where we draw our strength. It’s where we find our hope. Tell me, where do you get your hope from?”

That was all it took. Amy was walking wounded, trying to put on her best performance so nobody could see the fragile soul inside. She had just learned she had cancer, and everything she had been building with her career and her life with Marc had suddenly crumbled apart. She was ignoring the pain and putting up a nice contemptuous facade. Until that question.

“Where do you get your hope from?”

Amy knew there was no answer she could give.

I have no hope. I don’t have a place to go in order to even try to find it. I’m not sure I even believe in this idea called hope.

Amy broke down. And then she did the only thing she could do. She had to show there was a reason for these tears. She was tough and she wasn’t weak and she wanted them to know why she was crying. So she told them.

“I’m dying.”

She hoped that would make them back off, shake them off the holy thrones she believed they were sitting on, make them speechless. They certainly weren’t miracle workers.

But a miracle would indeed happen in that back room in the arena next to a table full of sodas and waters and snacks and red and green Skittles.

The response came from another band member named Duncan. It was gentle and heartfelt and exactly what Amy needed to hear.

“You’re not really here to trash us, are you? I mean, maybe that’s what you would’ve done. . . . But you’re here sort of hoping that maybe this stuff is real, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t true, of course. But then again, a part of her deep down suddenly wondered. Why was she here? Of all the places she could have gone and all the things she could have been doing
 
—knowing she was dying and needing to focus on that and not her career mocking Christians
 
—why had she gotten backstage to see the guys from Newsboys?

In that moment, the four guys sitting across from her weren’t part of a band. They were just young men talking with her.

“How do you know that?” she asked Duncan.

“It just felt like God was putting it on my heart . . . and he wanted you to know it.”

Amy babbled in disbelief but only got affirming smiles.

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “And he’s just the drummer.”

And then they prayed for her. And Amy’s war against God and his followers stopped. She heard the prayers of the band members and looked at each of them as they circled her with their heads down and their eyes closed.

The prayers they gave weren’t words of condemnation. No. Her blog had enough of that for all of them. The haters and the online trolls . . . Amy had been one of them. She had relished that role. But there was something she finally witnessed in that green room that was truly breathtaking and beautiful.

Love.

“Lord,” Michael Tait prayed, “we don’t know what your plan is for Amy, but if it’s your will, we ask that you save her. That you heal her. But either way, we ask that you send your Holy Spirit upon her right now. Let her know that she is loved and that it’s you who loves her.”

She felt like a child again, weeping but loved and cared for.

She felt
known
.

“Lord, let Amy know that you give her the strength to deal with the trials she’s facing . . . and that you’ll be with her every step of the way.”

Almost a year later, Amy is still here. She’s still alive.

One of the songs the guys sang that night is called “We Believe.”

“Do you believe, Amy?”

So in one sense, the text from Michael shouldn’t come as a surprise. Any more than the response the band gave her when she sneaked into their room before the concert.

The real surprise is that God actually loves her and sent his Son to die for the mistakes of every single person in this world. Including her.

Do I believe that?

Amy thinks she does. And maybe that’s the most surprising thing of all.

So how am I doing?

She texts Michael back, telling him that she’s in remission and that God has answered the band’s prayers. She thanks him for asking how she’s doing, then thanks all of them for having prayed for her this past year.

Before she wishes him well and says good-bye, she says one more thing.

I’d love your continued prayers. Like everybody else, I can use them.

Amy heard someone tell her in the last few months that the prayers of a righteous person are powerful and effective. So says the Bible. The Newsboys might not call themselves righteous, but in Amy’s eyes they certainly are.

Don’t stop praying. I still need it, guys.