He Wept Page #2

• Fiction
• Religion
• Short story
• Spirituality & New Age
• Drama

								


    "I want to be in that picture," Cindy said, pointing to the picture of Christ and the Children. Then she laughed, loudly.

    "Don't be like that!" Martin said. He was almost shouting. "You know that is a silly, impossible thing to ask. You know I wasn't talking about
anything like that."

   Martin couldn’t see or feel the terrible pain inside of Cindy’s heart. No one had ever really taken care of her. Her mother was dope addict, her father - - who knows? She grew up on the streets, wanting to be a child, like cared
for children. But nobody cared. She turned to prostitution to survive. But, somehow, she could see something comforting in this one picture. That’s why she always came into the church. Just to feel something good. Christ, all
accepting, drawing the children to Himself. Oh God, she wanted so much to be loved like that, just once!

   "You said anything was possible with Him, didn't you?" Cindy retorted. " Why wouldn't I want to be in that place with someone who - - "
her voice trailed off, and the cold defiant hatred returned to her eyes.

   "Oh just forget it," she said. "You don't know anything about anything! Neither does your dumb God. And with that she lit up another
cigarette, threw the match against the sanctuary wall, and blew smoke in the Pastor's face. She turned and walked quickly, flamboyantly out of the church into the chilling fog.

   Martin David was a failure. He knew it now. He despised the church; loathed the ministry; and hated Los Angeles. City of Angels! Hah! It was a
hell-hole. He had no stomach for sarcastic little tramps. Watching bitter "ladies of the night" smoke up his sanctuary and his beloved picture of Christ and the Children, was not his idea of the way to serve God. He was through! He would resign in the morning. But for now, he was just plain tired. He would lock the doors early and go to bed.

   It was three o'clock in the morning. The telephone, or his doorbell, he couldn't decipher which, kept persisting: piercing the haven of sleep he had finally fallen into. 

    Eventually, he forced himself awake, and determined that it was his door. "Oh, all right, all right!" he complained, as he opened it.

    Erick DeHaney, a police officer he knew only slightly, stood there looking terribly glum.
"Could you please come with me, Pastor?" a pained expression was etched in his face. "Someone you know has been killed. We need you to identify the body. She had your name and number on her person."

    He said more, but Martin didn't hear. He quickly dressed to go. Standing in the morgue sometime later, he watched as the technician
uncovered the form of Cindy. She had been beaten and stabbed, once in the chest. Probably by a John. Her face was still. The make-up was mostly washed away, and she
looked like a sleeping child. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen: hardly the treacherous Jezebel Martin had supposed her to be. He felt sick - - and very ashamed. But even now, no tears would come for Cindy.

   It was full into morning, by the time Martin finished with all the red-tape at the police station. He opted to walk the few blocks to the parsonage. The morning sun was burning away the fog of the night before.

    He saw the neighborhood in a different way. They were mostly just kids, these punks and prostitutes. "Why, God," he silently wondered, "why couldn't I see how young she was? Even the ones who aren't young in years - - aren't they all your children, God?" He began to know that a hurt and suffering child still lives in the soul of each tormented adult who came to him
for help "What makes my heart so hard?." he prayed.

    On impulse he went to the sanctuary, instead of going home to rest. He sat alone on one of the pews, praying: trying to shed the tears that wouldn't come.

    There was a stillness to the morning. The damp smell of lifting fog mingled with the faint aroma of Cindy's last night 's perfume. California sun streamed in the high windows, making dust streamers dance in the air. 

    Martin's attention came to rest on the picture of Christ and the Children. The green,
lush grass almost seemed to wave in the breeze. Jesus seemed alive enough, in the picture, to give the love that all tortured souls crave and need.

    The hair on his arms and back of Martin’s neck suddenly stood up.

    That tingling sensation of something beyond human understanding, surged through him. He inched closer for a better look. He'd seen that picture a thousand times. But this time it was different.

    A child leaned against the side of Jesus. Christ's arm rested around her shoulder as she looked up at Him with an angelic face filled with rapture. She was younger and smaller. But there was no mistaking that face. It
was Cindy!

    Martin dropped to his knees. He was in the presence of something strange and wonderful. Something beyond his comprehension. He was in the presence of the mercy and forgiveness of God.

    Compassion and empathy for suffering people overwhelmed him. He had been at such a loss to know the purpose of his calling - - why God had wanted him here.

    Now, at last he understood the real need -- the real message of Christ. He knew what Cindy had been asking for. It wasn't just wanting to be in the picture. It was wanting to dwell in the presence of Love! That is what he, and all his congregation needed. He must try to give love to the unloved and unlovely. That was the real purpose for his calling.

    "Oh, God forgive me, " he prayed. He crumpled, and fell prostrate; his body heaving with grief and remorse - - and with something that was the first part of a fresh, new hope . And there, on the floor, beneath the picture of Christ and The Children,
    He wept.
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