“When did the softness leave your touch, I don’t recall, don’t recall.” John paused, then continued to softly sing, hesitantly plunking piano keys. He was alone in his music room, part of his private quarters within the Passion Ministry compound. He had pianos in several rooms but the concert grand was best suited to fine-tuning songs. He lived modestly for a rock star, preferring to use his money for others, but several years ago, John had splurged on a Steinway. Sunlight streamed across the piano’s mahogany lid, burnishing its ebony surface to a startling peacock blue.
Though originally shaped by the craggy landscape of Scotland—its Highland accent sometimes still coloring his voice—John felt at one with his Washington State home. Towering around the vast compound were the mute coniferous sentinels of the Olympic Peninsula. It was there, under the protective sheath of the curling, dappled light, confused and astounded, that he had finally dared mine the courage to exhume his soul and ask why. Why had he, a twenty-one-year-old singer/songwriter better known for his movie-star looks and furious temper, been chosen for the divine burden? The Lord’s blessing or Christ’s curse?
Today, though exhausted and in pain, he felt doubly blessed. After an absence of several months—during which he had prayed, fasted and, a first for him, abstained from sex—the stigmata had reappeared six weeks ago in the recording studio. John was closer to Christ than ever; each visitation of the marks, each experience in that ancient Constantinople church, convinced him of His presence within.
Years of suffering and enlightenment had persuaded John that he was the embodiment of Jesus Christ. With an effort, he transformed his agony to authority. A heavenly muse was creating his music and his messages; all he had to do was deliver.
John leaned on the piano and listened to his failing body, concerned for the future of his son and his Ministry. Comforted by his surroundings, he prayed for greater strength.
Taking a deep breath, he stretched his neck and slid off the piano bench. With the arrival of the stigmata, first came pain and joy and later, intermittently, a new vitality sparked and sputtered into his brain cells, heightening his awareness. It was as though his perception sharpened, coiling more tightly yet extending further, providing him with a sixth sense, especially where Jimmy was concerned. More confirmation that God’s favor was linked directly with his ten-year-old.
A cool ripple wafted across the back of his neck, arousing his apprehension. Something, some current of life had changed, deformed. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, he perceived danger. He’d have to be more vigilant. Letting Jimmy attend lessons outside the compound was folly. No, not folly, perilous. He shouldn’t have let Maggie convince him. From now on, the boy’s independence would be severely restricted.
Soothed by that decision, he returned to writing. Notes trickled into his brain. A sad ballad, a lament. No driving drum beats, plenty of spiraling strings. A title: Don’t Recall. Perfect. “And what,” he whispered, “do I need for the bridge?”
A noise outside interrupted him. He grinned and swung round to face the door as his son, Jimmy, bounded into the room, accompanied by his little dog, Darby.
“Hi, Father,” Jimmy said, plopping down beside John on the piano bench. “Whatchya playing? Something new?”
John ruffled his son’s dark hair. “Yeah,” he responded. “How was school?”
Jimmy plunked out a few notes. “Totally excellent. We got split into groups to do some science experiments.” He banged middle ‘C’ three times. “Glynne and I had to show the surface tension of water. It was way cool. We used matchsticks and dish soap.” He glanced up through his glasses. “You shoulda seen the matchsticks fly when they hit the soapy water, Father.” He mimicked the sound of a racing engine. “Glynne was so surprised, she fell off her chair. Like this!” Giggling, he slid off the bench and crashed to the floor. Darby raced over, barking loudly. “How’d you like that for surface tension?”
John leaned back against the piano keys and laughed, while Jimmy and Darby wrestled on the floor. It’s so good to see him healthy and having fun. Suddenly, John was stung by a prick of guilt for planning to restrict Jimmy’s movements beyond the compound.
What was the right thing to do? He wished he knew.
