"The Christian worker may be Christ’s agent in drawing these children to the Saviour. By wisdom and tact he may bind them to his heart, he may give them courage and hope, and through the grace of Christ may see them transformed in character, so that of them it may be said, “Of such is the kingdom of God.” 22
George Ballard sat contentedly on his front
porch, sipping a can of beer. All was right with the world, or
at least that portion of the world he currently surveyed. The
storm damage would soon be cleared away, he and his son were home
and safe, and their wounds were healing nicely.
Whiskers, their pet brown, cocker spaniel,
lay at his feet, basking in the sun.
LuCinda slammed the screen door, cursing
as she flung herself into a lounge chair next to her father who
gazed at her in mild reproach. Taking another sip from his beer,
he turned and acidly inquired, “Fighting with your mother,
again?”
A string of profanities issued form her
mouth, as she flipped her head, scattering her hair in all directions.
This defiant gesture didn’t escape George and he wondered
what it was this time, boyfriends, her smoking, short skirts (at
least she wore skirts, he thought, most teenage girls, her age,
wore pants,) poor grades? LuCinda was a mess, he had to admit
to himself. Where had he and Grace gone wrong? Like father, like
daughter, he wondered, then shuddered. If that was the problem,
then there was scant hope for her or himself.
“What’s the matter,” pussy
cat, he teased, knowing she hated this expression.
She glared at him, and almost bared her
teeth like a lioness. No love lost between father and daughter.
Slim of figure, at the threshold of womanhood,
LuCinda Ballard, like many sixteen year old teenagers, thought
she was wiser then her parents. Darting dark blue eyes, a spring
time complexion, trimmed eye brows and well manicured and bright
red polished nails, she wore a pastel pink peek-a-boo blouse,
and a candy pink miniskirt with fish net stockings.
Her face was perpetually clouded with a
defiant look, pouting lips, perfume that rivaled the sweetest
rose, and profanity that would redden the face of a sailor.
“She thinks Jack is an slime ball,”
she hissed, doing a good improvisation of a wild cat cornered
by a pack of hungry dogs.
“Well,” he inquired, mildly, chewing
on a toothpick, not desiring to provoke her anger.
“No,” she swore for emphasis,
then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye with an impish
smirk on her face. “I wouldn’t call him a slime ball,”
she muttered, drawing out her words as if considering her boyfriend
from every angle and not sure if her declaration of denial was
exactly correct.
“He needs a hair cut and a shave,”
George ventured.
LuCinda did not immediately answer. They
had been down this road before, and, as irritated as she was,
she really didn’t feel like arguing with him, either, at
least not now. “Maybe he does, and maybe he doesn’t,”
she answered evasively. “I like him, so there.” She
flounced in her chair in defiance of what she supposed would be
his answer.
Whiskers opened one eye, wagged his tail
at LuCinda, yawned, closed his eye and went back to chasing Rumples,
the cat.
George took another sip of beer and eyed
her speculatively. “Has he laid you,” he injured.
“Daddy,” she protested, a little
too loudly, George thought. “How dare you ask such a question.
Why I’m only sixteen years old, a sweet sixteen, at that,”
she smiled with that impish smirk, as if savoring some pleasant
secret, which she knew her dad would understand.
Having answered his question in the affirmative,
George changed the subject. “So how are your school grades,
doing any better in math, this year?”
LuCinda stared at her father for a long
moment. “School won’t start until next week, were you
been lately?”
Her father smiled sheepishly at her rebuke,
“I’ve been hiking in the mountains recently, in case
you haven’t noticed.”
I hate school,” she answered emphatically.
“I hate learning. I hate math. I hate those prissy teachers.
I hate having to get up early each morning. I hate...,” she
paused, as if looking for something more to hate.
“I get the general idea,” George
said. “In other words, you don’t like school, is that
what your trying to say? Is there anything you do like.”
“Ya, I like parties, and boys, their
cool, and dates, and dances, and pretty things to ware, and...,”
she trained off.
“And what,” he coaxed. It was
surprising how much they understood each other, father and daughter.
Made from the same mold, they almost seemed to be able to read
each others thoughts. He knew what she liked and she knew he knew
and neither one was displeased at the knowledge.
“Dad,” LuCinda inquired, “what
would you and mother say if I got pregnant?”
This took George by surprise. He knew LuCinda
was sexually active, but pregnant, not his daughter, not this
early, and certainly not to that creep with the long hair and
unkempt beard. Other parents, he knew, were having problems with
their active teenagers, but he fondly hoped his LuCinda would
not make this mistake, and certainly not at sixteen. George sighed.
What could he expect. After all he wasn’t a virgin at her
age. But boys were supposed to be different, weren’t they.
He was vaguely troubled about another thing,
something that hadn’t bothered him since she was five years
old. Did she remember? Was this the reason she was acting so promiscuous
or was it just a symbol of the corrupt times. He hadn’t meant
to do it, but she was just so cute, even at this early age. She
never spoke of it, Grace didn’t know, but he would never
forgive himself. Never in a million years would he forgive himself.
His conscious had been troubling him ever since that night, vaguely
at times, and, at times like today, more acutely.
“What did you say,” he inquired.
“I said,” LuCinda said with more
then usual annoyance, “What would you and mother say if I
got pregnant.”
“O, that,” George sighed again,
pulling himself away from a long forgotten past of vivid memories
as the toothpick swiveled between his clenched teeth.
“Well, I don’t know. I hope you
are not planning to get pregnancy.”
“No, I can assure you,” she replied,
“I am not planning to get pregnant, and besides, if I did,
I know what I’d do about it.”
George looked at her quizzically but said
nothing. Better leave this subject alone, at least for the time
being. He just wasn’t in a mood to confront his daughter,
not when she was so obviously looking for a fight.
“I’ve got to go,” she suddenly
announced, as if making up her mind about something, as indeed
she had.
Once in awhile, there are defining moments
in a person’s life, and LuCinda had just crossed one. Passing
from childhood into adulthood, from a girl into a woman, she took
the reins of her life into her own hands and set out, where she
did not know, but one thing was certain, she would not look back.
She would voice no regrets. Setting her face outward and jutting
her jaw in her characteristic way, she determined to sail her
own ship on the high seas of destiny. Rejecting her safe haven,
and leaving behind her father who knew and understood her too
well, LuCinda launched out into the deep and encountered a shark.
With deliberate casualness, she rose from
her chair, blew her father a sardonic kiss of farewell, although
neither of them knew it at the time, and quietly, almost meekly
entered the house. Her decision fully made, she would not provoke
any more fights with her mother or dad. Such fights were childish,
she thought, and she was no longer a child.
Entering her room, she closed the door quietly
behind her, picked up the telephone and dialed a familiar number.
When a male voice answered, they exchanged a few words and then
she hung up.
She knew she was cute and liked all of the
attention this gave her. She flounced about the room, trying out
several different styles of walking, and flirting at herself in
the mirror, imaging the reaction of various boy friends. They
were such fools, she thought, as she selected her clothes for
that evening. Such fools to think they meant anything to her.
She cared for none of them, the idiots.
Sitting on the edge of her bed she wondered
at her thoughts. Why was she so troubled all the time. Why was
she so disturbed. They said it was nothing more then adolescent
confusion. Was it or was it something more. Her conscious bothered
her, she supposed or was it God speaking to her.
Several years earlier, Her mother and father
had taken her, and Billy, to a church revival meeting. The only
time she could ever remember attending church. She listened impassively
as the preacher talked about God, and love, and the cross. Ever
since, she couldn’t get rid of that voice. It kept troubling
her. It never left her alone. Night and day, wherever she went,
it went with her. She supposed it was God, or the Holy Spirit,
or whatever preachers called it. She didn’t like it always
telling her what to do or what not to do. It bothered her.
Why don’t you just leave me alone,
she often demanded of her conscious. I don’t need you. Yet
that gentle voice kept intruding into her mind, warning, cajoling,
pleading, softly and tenderly speaking to her of love, of better
things, of joys and happiness unrelated to pot or sex or smoking
or parties or of a thousand other things she enjoyed and would
not give up. Yet, she lingered. undecided, hesitant, afraid perhaps,
staring at the uncharted realms of darkness and unsure, really,
if she wanted to abandon that gentle pleading voice. She knew
He would not go where she wanted to go.
She was driven, torn between two alternatives.
The tension was almost unbearable at times, at times like today.
It was as if two people were standing on either side of her, pulling
at her arms in different directions. A tug of war, and she was
the tug. First this way then that. She gravitated first toward
God then away from him. Pulled back and fourth, she struggled
to maintain a precarious equilibrium. Would this insane struggle
never cease? Would she never have any sanity? Would He never stop?
He was back. Sitting on the end of her bed,
he stared at her, curiosity in his eyes, watching her every movement.
As a shadow, dimly seen, yet indistinct, he ever remained elusive,
hovering between light and shadow. He never said anything, never
did anything, just sat there staring at her, while she stared
back. It was at times like this that he appeared. Times of extreme
emotional stress, just sitting there, at the end of her bed.
When she attempted to move toward him, he
withdrew, when she moved away, he became more distinct in form.
At first, she was merely curious, playing with him, watching him
withdraw or advance, but lately, the play had given way to an
uncertainty. What did he want? Why was he here? Why did he only
appear when she was stressed and not at other times? He seemed
friendly. No sense of fear accompanied his presence, yet she felt
vaguely perplexed and troubled. While he appeared harmless, she
felt uneasy, unsettled, as if someone or something were warning
her away from him.
The voices were back.
“Stop, stop,” she shrieked inwardly,
at the voices that continued to cajole and plead with her.
She flung herself on the bed and covered
her ears, but this futile gesture had no effect, whatsoever, on
the voices in her head. They kept up their incessant struggle,
growing, if anything, even louder and more insistent.
Was this Christianity? If so, she wondered
how Christians ever kept their sanity. How could they endure this
constant struggle, this constant tension, being pulled this way
then that way.
“Stop,” she finally demanded.
The voices quieted and she lay exhausted, perspiring from the
contest.
In the quiet of the room, a soft voice spoke
to her. It told her of love, of better things. It warned her away
from the evening date. It spoke quietly to her, it seemed to calm
her fears, anxieties and troubled heart. She felt her breathing
return to normal, her heart slow while her perspiration ceased.
She listened and he spoke again. “Do
not go out tonight with Jack.” The voice seemed almost audibly
to say. “You know what will happen. You know what he will
do. Think before you take this step. Consider the consequences.
Think of your parents who love you.” It went on and on, but
she grew weary of listening.
Almost as if she were actually conversing
with the voice, she heard her mind speaking defiant words, scoffing
at the warnings, rejecting the reproofs, and belittling the expressions
of love.
“You don’t love me,” she
said out loud, “or you wouldn’t have let Dad do those
things.”
“I cried for you,” she seemed
to hear Him say.
“Then why didn’t you stop him,”
she demanded tersely, tears welling up in her eyes at the memory
of the hurt, the pain, and the dreadful dreams and headaches she
had experienced lately.
“Fathers are supposed to love their
children,” she whispered, amidst her tears. “Why did
he do those things? Why couldn’t he just keep his hands off
me? You could have stopped him, but you didn’t.” She
spoke these last words with a defiant gesture in the direction
of heaven, as if daring God to answer.
And answer He did. “I love you, LuCinda,”
He answered, unaffected by her challenge. “You are very precious
to me. I died for you. I was there when you were born, when you
were lost in the backyard that day of your fourth birthday. I
saw your father hurt you, and I was with you then.”
“But you didn’t stop him,”
she interrupted. “What kind of God are you to let him go
on. I hated you then and I hate you now. Don’t ever think
I love you,” she said with a renewed purpose, “and don’t
try to sweet talk me into loving you. No, I don’t want you,
go away and never come back. You hurt me and I can’t ever
forgive you. Never! Never in a million years will I forgive you
for what you did to me. You could have stooped him, but you let
him molest me. If that’s the kind of God you are, then you
can go to...” She paused, not daring to utter the last word.
Would He strike her dead? She held her breath, but nothing happened.
The voices were stilled. For the first time in years, she was
free of the struggle that had tormented her mind for so long.
LuCinda was at peace, but it was not the
peace of sweet communion with her heavenly Father but the false
peace of the abandoned sinner. Finally, with her mind made up,
the question settled, she rose, and finished dressing.
She couldn’t believe how happy and
exhilarated she felt. No more nagging, no more of those pleading
words of love from a God who really didn’t care for her anyway.
All gone, she almost shouted with joy. I’m at peace. Quietly
she opened the door of her room and went out into outer darkness
where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. Having separated
herself from Christ, LuCinda immediately became a child of the
Devil and a tool in his arsenal that he would yield skillfully
to lead others into confederation with himself.
