The Seat Beside Me (32 page)

Tina nodded, understanding completely. “People can get hung up on window dressing and ceremony instead of zoning in on a relationship with Him. And the hard times? Even though I don’t like them any more than the next person, I know the struggles I’ve had have made me stronger because they’ve forced me to turn to Him. ‘For when I am weak, then I am strong.’ ”

He applauded softly. “Bravo, Miss McKutcheon. It’s nice to know Mally was sitting next to a Bible-knowing woman.”

Tina stopped midchew.
Here we go
 …

“Did I say something wrong?”

With difficulty she swallowed. “Can I be totally honest with you, Mr. Carpelli?”

“It’s what I’d prefer.”

Tina pushed her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. She looked down at them, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I have a confession to make. When Mallory asked me about God, even though I knew it was the perfect time for me to share with her, even though I knew it was my duty to do just that, I … I …”

“You chickened out?”

She looked up. “Yes.”

He nodded knowingly, and she waited to hear some much needed words of comfort. Surely this nice gentleman would make her feel better. She did not expect—

“Are you ashamed of God?”

Tina blinked. “No, of course not.”

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

She thought an answer would rush to her lips, but it didn’t. Why
didn’t
she do it?

His hand bridged the gap between them a second time, but this time it made contact with hers. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to come down so hard on you, Miss McKutcheon. The truth is, I’ve been where you are. I’ve felt that regret, that shame at my own cowardice.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I share it now.”

“Now?”

He withdrew his hand and fingered the handle of his coffee cup, shaking his head. “We’re some Christians, you and me. God gave us a chance to reach His lovely child, Mallory, and we each chickened out.”

No!
Tina’s head started shaking in rhythm with his. “She asked you too?”

His head stopped. “Yes, ma’am. When she was visiting, she was ripe to hear all of it—and I knew that but said little. Oh, I told her to pray for guidance, that sort of thing. But that’s safe stuff—pabulum I could feed a baby. But I didn’t tell her about Jesus and heaven and hell; I didn’t tell her it was vitally important for her to make a decision in His favor. I thought there would be more time. Plus …” He looked up, his eyes drawn in an awful self-indulgence. “I didn’t want to turn her off. We were having such a glorious visit. She was so open. We had great talks. I didn’t want her to clam up and think I was a fanatic.”

“Or have her reject it—and me.”

He let out a laugh. “And there we have it, folks! Reasons number one and two why people don’t share the gospel with others.”

Tina was struck by his choice of words. “You said, ‘share the gospel.’ A lot of people don’t know what that means. There are so many terms we believers use all the time that other people hear and block out because they don’t understand the lingo.”

“And we’re not good at making it clear, are we? We like our lingo: our calls to be ‘born again,’ ‘Jesus saves,’ and ‘repent.’ It’s like a physicist trying to tell a layman about gravity using the lingo of science. When all he has to say—all most people want to hear in
order to believe in gravity—is that it pulls us toward the earth and prevents us from flying off into space.”

Something clicked into place. “So what people want to hear about God and faith is what’s in it for them?”

“Exactly. In words they can understand. That’s what Mallory wanted to know.”

It sounded easy. “So what should we have said—without using the lingo?”

Mr. Carpelli ate a bite of cinnamon roll, deep in thought. “I think it comes down to the facts.”

“Which are?”

“There is a God and He loves us.”

Tina remembered Mallory’s final question. “Mallory wondered about that. She asked if God knew about her and cared about her.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing. The pilot interrupted. We took off. We—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Mr. Carpelli’s shoulders sagged with the weight of it. “All she had was generic talk of God. She didn’t know about Jesus. And now …”

Tina felt her own weight. “Why is it so hard to say the J-word? I can say God all over the place, but Jesus? His name catches in my throat.”

“Because when we say His name, we’re taking a stand. Just saying God is a good thing, but again, it’s easy.” He looked up. “I’ve heard that over 96 percent of the world believes in God. There’s no risk leaving it there.”

“But how do we explain that Jesus is God’s Son, and that He was born with the sole purpose of dying for those sins we keep doing—on a cross? It’s the most horrendous way to die. People have a hard time understanding such a sacrifice.”

“Because they wouldn’t think of doing it themselves.”

Tina suddenly thought of Henry Smith. “The hero … the man
in the water who saved us and sacrificed …”

“Perhaps he achieved a bit of perfection in that last act?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“I’m sure God and the angels celebrated.”

“And Jesus.”

He smiled. “And Jesus.” He warmed their coffee from the carafe. “All you just said about Jesus was good. It was said simply. Directly. But you can’t leave Him hanging on that cross. You have to get to the victory part.”

“Easter.”

“Resurrection. Rising from the dead. Coming alive like we will come alive in heaven—”

“If we believe in Jesus.” Tina pegged her finger into the table. “That’s the crux of it. That’s what gets hard. Saying that Jesus is
the
way to heaven. Not
a
way. The
only
way.” She thought of one of the verses she’d memorized. “In John 14:6, Jesus says, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ ”

“Pretty blatant. Pretty clear.”

“Hard.”

“Vitally important.”

She couldn’t disagree with that one.

Mr. Carpelli looked past her, and she could see an idea forming behind his eyebrows. “So do we not give people like my Mally the punch line because we’re afraid of their reaction?”

“What?”

He looked right at her. “Does a stand-up comic not give the punch line because he’s afraid the audience won’t laugh at his joke? No. He goes for it. If they laugh, fine. If they don’t? What’s he out? A little effort?”

Tina liked this image and immediately got the connection. “And a person’s salvation—their eternal, forever-after life in heaven—is no laughing matter. No joke.”

“And just because there’s a chance people won’t respond how we want them to, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t say it. Go for it.”

Tina agreed. But there was a small hitch. “The danger is in saying too much too soon. You and I both know that we never stop learning. There are definitely different levels of understanding all this—and it has nothing to do with chronological age. A person can be eighty and be a kindergartner in the school of faith, yet a ten-year-old can already grasp the essence of what we’ve said. So we need to be aware of our listeners’ levels of understanding. You don’t explain calculus to a person who’s only ready for arithmetic.”

“Point taken. And you don’t take it personally if they don’t kneel at your feet and want to pray with you on the spot—” he lifted his hands in a mock hallelujah stance—“and give their life to the Lord!”

“Lingo city,” Tina said. “But your point is good. Free will prevails. We need to realize that maybe we’re only supposed to plant a seed. Maybe it’s up to someone else to do the watering or the fertilizing—”

“Or the harvesting. All are equally important.”

“At least we’ll know we did the right thing.”

“Gave it our best.”

“Yet even if our hands tremble and our voice wavers while we stumble over the words, or even if our timing isn’t perfect, God can use our efforts. But He
cannot
use our silence.”

Mr. Carpelli stared at her. Then he smiled. “That’s very profound, Miss McKutcheon. You’ve hit it square.”

They shared a moment of silence and both took deep breaths. Their time together had been so intense. And then, as if in concert, they made one final connection and acknowledged it to each other with a look.

“But Mallory.” Tina said.

“Did we fail her?”

“Did she choose Jesus?”

“Is she in heaven?”

This second silence spoke their answer. They didn’t know. Only God knew.

Tina hugged Vincent Carpelli in the parking lot. They both seemed hesitant to let go.

When they parted he had a worried look. “I just realized we never talked about the crash. Your ordeal. And I don’t know anything about you. Are you married? Do you have kids? What do you do for a living?”

Tina laughed. “We did the opposite of most people, Mr. Carpelli. We bypassed the small talk and got right to the important stuff.”

“Indeed we did. But I still want to know more.” He hesitated just a moment. “I’d like to be your friend, Miss McKutcheon.”

She squeezed his hand. “My friends call me Tina.”

Merry felt herself swimming toward the surface.
There’s the light! Swim toward the light
. She was nearly out of air. Just a few more feet.

She opened her eyes, and the mental water dissipated. She found herself in a hospital bed. Pale walls. A TV looming near the ceiling. But the picture on the wall … it was all wrong.
I have a desert scene, not this barn, this meadow. Why did they change—

Then she remembered. She’d been at the funeral. She went home. She got tired of pretending. She’d tried to die.

An old man with thinning hair peeked in the door to her room and did a double take. “Hey, you’re awake.”

A name clicked. “George?” Now she was really confused. Hadn’t he been discharged too? Sure, he had. She’d met him in the hospital on his way out and had seen him at the funeral.

He came to the side of her bed. “That was a close one.”

He knows
. She looked away. She didn’t want him seeing her like this. Weak. Pathetic. Not when he seemed so strong and together.

He took her hand, enveloping it between his. “Don’t look away, Miss Merry. I’m not judging you. I’m just glad I found you.”

It took a moment to sink in. “
You
found me?”

He nodded and let go of her hand, needing his own to be free when he talked. “Now if that wasn’t a weird one. I was heating myself a pan of chili when I saw a Christmas ad on TV.”

“It’s past Christmas.”

“I know. That’s what got my attention. And when they said, ‘Merry Christmas’ I thought of you—Merry. And then my gut started acting up—and I hadn’t even eaten the chili yet—and I knew something wasn’t right. So I looked up your address and went to check on you.” He waggled a finger next to his nose. “You didn’t look too good the other day when I first met you in the hospital hall out here. You were putting on an act.”

“I was?”

“Weren’t you?”

He was smart. “I was.”

“Thought so.”

She creased the end of the sheet. “I thought if I pretended …” It was hard to explain.

“The pain would go away? Or the people would go away, or the guilt would go away?”

She looked up. “How do you know all that?”

He hesitated, then glanced at the door. “I’ve been where you are.”

She didn’t understand.

He let out a sigh. “Truth be told, I was on Flight 1382, heading to Phoenix to kill myself.” He sighed again. “There, I said it.”

A slew of questions came to mind. Unsure which should be asked first, Merry chose a statement. “But you lived.”

He laughed. “Nobody can tell me God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

Her next offering was delicate. “Do you still … you know …?”

“Want to die?”

Merry nodded.

“Nope. And neither do you.”

She shook her head. “You presume too much.”

He shrugged and turned toward the door. “Suit yourself.”

“What?”

He stopped and faced her. “You heard me. If you’re going to hold on to this notion of killing yourself, then I’m done with you. I did my good deed for the day in getting you in here—once. I’m not going to stand around and watch you do it again.”

Merry sat up in bed. Her head seemed a beat behind the movement. “That’s pretty cold.”

“Yeah? Well, so be it. I figure I’ve earned the luxury of bluntness by sitting in your shoes—in more ways than one.”

He had a point. Who else in the world would understand the scope of her ordeal—the crash
and
the suicide attempt? “What happened in your life that made you give up on living?”

“My wife died.”

“I’m sorry.” His loss reminded her of her own. Tears pushed their way to the edges of her eyes. She was relieved he didn’t notice—or didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry too. Irma and me were chocolate and peanut butter, cheesecake and cherries, Oreos and milk.”

“I’m seeing a pattern here.”

“Probably do. Our life together was the sweetest dessert.”

She smiled in spite of her pain. “George, that’s quite romantic.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah? Well, even I have my moments. Had. With Irma, that is. Without her, well … I felt like a dried-up scone with no butter.”

“Felt? What made you feel differently?”

“Living when so many had died.” He pointed at a tear that sat on the ledge of her cheek. “Don’t go crying on me, Miss Merry. I know your situation is different, you losing your hubby and boy, but in a way it’s the same.” He returned to her bedside. “We lived, you and me. Through huge odds, five of us lived. There’s got to be a reason for it.”

“I can’t think of what it would be.”

He looked past her. “Well, when you think about it … I think I lived so I could save
you
. How can I throw that back in God’s face?”

“Then why am I supposed to live?”

He studied the ceiling. “To be my friend?” He spread his arms as if presenting himself as a gift.

She had to smile. “Thanks, George. Thanks for being there for me. But I’m not sure what kind of friend I’ll be.”