Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [126]
“Oh, Rav, come with us. I can easily get someone from the church to—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t, Dad. I just don’t want to be responsible for Summer missing out on something that was once so important to me. I’m not coming back, maybe ever. I’m not ready, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m listening.”
She had been speaking directly and quickly, as if she had something specific on her mind, and yet now Ravinia suddenly stalled.
Finally she set her cup down. “Dad, you and Mom are the reason I’m no longer on good terms with God.”
Thomas had heard that before, years ago. As it would with anyone, it triggered his defenses. He fought to keep from challenging her, defending if not himself then Grace for sure. He knew what he and his wife were: old fogies, conservatives. Some called him and his kind fundamentalists. And sure, of course they had made mistakes with Ravinia. But she couldn’t, shouldn’t, blame them.
Yet this was as close as they had gotten to any real discussion of God in years. “I’m still listening,” Thomas said.
She raised her brows. “I know you are. You’ve been saying that a lot lately, and I sense it’s true. I didn’t feel listened to a lot as a child, especially as a teenager. I mean, I know I didn’t have much to say, much of value anyway. But you and Mom had an answer for everything. Some verse or some hymn or some platitude. It didn’t have to make sense, as long as it was common knowledge. But you’re listening more and talking less these days, Dad.”
“Glad you’ve noticed. You know, the older you get, the less you’re sure about.”
“Tell me about it. But here’s what I’m saying: your faith is so simple and pure and straightforward that I can’t criticize you for it. My problem is that God seems not to care about you.”
“How can you say that, Rav? Having Summer here is a gift from God. And I have work, a decent income. We love our church. We’re fine.”
“You’re not fine! You’ve said yourself that you haven’t seen any results for your labor in years! And it hasn’t been just since you started working at ASP. I don’t see much accomplished there from my efforts either, and I don’t expect to. But what about all your years in all those pastorates? All you’ve got to show for that are horrible, petty people who took and took and took and used you and Mom up, never once giving.”
“Oh, there were those—”
“Of course there were, but they were outnumbered by the ones who wanted you as puppets, to keep things the way they had always been. For as long as I can remember, and even after I had left home, every one of your pastorates ended the same way. In disappointment. In unfairness.”
“People are human, Rav. You can’t expect—”
“You can expect better than that, at least once, somewhere along the line. Dad, I saw you give and give. You never quit, and if you ever even got discouraged, you never let on. But how long does the wilderness experience have to continue? Is it literally going to be forty years for you, and then, what, will God still not allow you to enter into any promised land?”
“The only land promised me is on the other side.”
Ravinia sighed. “A nice sentiment, but not good enough.”
“Heaven is not good enough?”
“Well, if you buy into that and it turns out to be true, I’m sure it will be wonderful for you, but I’m talking about the here and now. You should have more than two good decades left. Can’t God cut you some slack, give you a break, let a few crumbs drop off His table? Maybe you can handle this; that’s your nature. But watching from my vantage point just makes me bitter.”
Ravinia was plainly fighting emotion. Was it possible there was more?
“What is it, Rav?”
“It’s Mom. I can hardly bear to see her this way. Why her? What has she done? I mean, all right, if I’m going to be honest, she has driven me crazy over the years. It was as if she never let me grow up, be my own person. She had an answer for everything, and frankly, I never thought she used the brain God gave her. Did she ever acknowledge the other side of any issue? To