Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [130]
That was hardly convincing, and he knew it. And if he wasn’t sure, he could see it in her face. “Don’t spare me, Thomas. You’re still struggling in your work, aren’t you?”
He shrugged and nodded. “I know I’m doing what I have been called to do, so I have not lost any of my resolve.”
“But you have lost the joy.”
How he wanted to deny that. She didn’t need this burden. “I just want to reach someone,” he said. “Anyone.”
He lowered his head, then had to cover his eyes when she began to sing, slowly and softly:
Sometimes I feel discouraged,
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.
If you cannot preach like Peter,
If you cannot pray like Paul,
Just tell the love of Jesus,
And say, “He died for all.”
There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.
Serenity Halfway House
A week into Brady Darby’s time at Serenity, he noticed a new spring in his step, and for the first time in years he believed he understood what hope was.
At orientation, he and the other newbies were treated like men, like adults, like the responsible citizens they were expected to become. Brady learned he would be required to be up at a certain time every day, to be showered and shaved and dressed and ready for chores immediately after breakfast. He would sweep and mop and do yard work, as well as take his turn doing kitchen duty and even laundry.
Brady wondered if anyone would rebel against this. At times it felt juvenile and confining, but he knew he had brought this on himself. With every motivational class taught by Bill and every group therapy session led by Jan, the men were encouraged, treated with respect, and expected to succeed.
That had helped during his first forty-eight hours, through all the side effects that went with the medication prescribed to treat his meth addiction. At least they didn’t expect him to kick cigarettes. The men had to smoke outside and clean up their own mess, and they were reminded often that if they failed here and were ever sentenced to a supermax facility, they would have the fun of quitting smoking without any help. No nicotine patches or gum, no counseling, no tapering off. Just cold turkey and all that that entailed.
Brady was fascinated to see men who looked like younger versions of Bill—muscled, tattooed, defined features, a deep, painful look in their eyes—turn from scowling to smiling. It was as if they were eager to please. He felt it himself.
Was it possible he could get through all these classes and courses and therapy sessions and actually graduate, get a certificate of completion? Before, that would have seemed silly, a sorry substitute for a high school diploma. But now Bill was urging the men to start thinking about getting their GEDs and then even considering junior college or a trade school.
Brady had for so long been just a druggie, he had to think about what he might do with his life in the straight world.
He envied Bill and Jan; they seemed to genuinely care for each other. Life had passed Brady by in many ways, and now he wondered if he would be attractive to any woman. Being a con had been no kind of life, but at least it was an identity. People who knew him knew him as a bad guy, a tough guy, somebody you didn’t want to mess with.
What was he now? Happy, hopeful, earnest, perhaps finally getting some traction in the real world. But who was he? There were days, he had to admit, when he felt like a sap, like the yokels he had always criticized. Dorks, stooges, nerds. He felt like a goody two-shoes, whatever that meant. Was that the price for staying out of prison and actually making something of his life? Could he be cool and respected without being a criminal?
One afternoon following a class Bill taught on maintaining one’s composure during a