Action and Inaction — Spring Church

Note: the following text is a fictional short story. I’m a firm believer in story-telling as a way to help discuss and reveal truth, so please enjoy this fictional story during the season of Lent, as we explore what it means when we do the things we shouldn't do, and don’t do the things we should do. And know that, because Lent is a season when we look at the broken places in life, this is a fictional story that takes a hard look at the broken places in life.

Devon opened the door to his father’s office and was unsurprised to find the blinds drawn even though it was the middle of the day. Thin bars of sunlight tried to peek through the slats in the blinds, casting zebra-pattern shadows all along the desk and floor. When Devon took a breath, it was like breathing nothing but dust and silence.

“Dad?” he asked. No response. “Dad?” he tried again.

“Yes?” his father replied hoarsely. “What is it? I’m working.”

Devon pretended this was true. His father sat behind his desk, in the dark, with nothing before him, staring at a blank space on the wall where a picture might have hung. It had been nearly a month of this, and Devon wasn’t sure when, exactly, his father was sleeping.

“I’ve got a soccer game tomorrow. It’s the one celebrating the seniors, and I think I’ll get an award. I’m wondering if you could come.” Devon wasn’t actually wondering if his father was going to come anymore. He knew the answer. His father, barely visible in the dark, didn’t even turn to face Devon. His hair had grayed almost completely in only a month, lines carving deep into his face, back hunched to fit the chair.

“I’m very busy,” his father responded hollowly. “But I’ll see if I can make it.”

“Alright, dad. Mom’s making dinner if you want to come down.”

His father didn’t respond. Devon closed the door softly. He walked on quiet feet along the carpeted hallway, eyes grazing the photos on the walls. Family pictures behind glass, framed heavily—them at the coast, them at soccer practice, Devon jumping into a pool, Sophia playing the violin. An old wedding photo of his parents, his mother wearing a dress with enormous sleeves and his father with his hair slicked back, shining even through the photo.

“Devon? Devon?”

“I’m coming, Mom,” he half-yelled down the stairs. In the kitchen, his mother pulled a large pan from the oven, the steam frizzing up the ends of her hair. She wore dress pants and a crisply ironed shirt, still wearing her heels from the office.

“I could have sworn the recipe said to leave it in longer, but it’s practically burning already,” she muttered to herself. Seeing Devon standing in the doorway, she straightened and pulled three plates from the cabinet. “It’ll be ready for slicing in about three minutes. Can you go call your father?”

“He knows,” Devon responded, hands in his pockets.

“Well, I’ll set him aside a plate then,” she responded briskly, setting out three plates on the table. They’d done this dance every night for a month since Sophia had died, pretending his father would come down, serving him food he wouldn’t eat, and then cleaning up.

After eating in silence, Devon helped his mother clean the kitchen, then put his jacket on.

“Where are you going?” his mother called from the living room, like she could see through the walls and knew he was pulling on a jacket in the entryway.

“I’m going out, remember?” Devon said, trying to keep his tone light. “I told you yesterday, me and the boys are going to the Wendy’s downtown. Team meeting before state next week.”

His mother sighed loud enough to peel the wallpaper from the walls. “You know, I’d really prefer—”

“You said yesterday I could go.”

“Devon, I—”

“It’s really important! I promise I’ll drive safely.”

“It’s a Friday night. You need to stay home. Who knows what kind of people are driving right now.”

“Mom.”

“You’re staying home. Give me your keys.”

Devon walked into the living room, gave his mother his keys, and threw his jacket over the back of his couch. “You know, it might be helpful if we talked to someone about all this,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“I’m just saying. It’s a lot, and Dad—”

“Your father is fine.”

“Can I at least talk to someone?”

His mother sat perched on the edge of the couch, looking at him with firm eyes that had a very clear, very sharp edge. “That’s not how we do things.”

Upstairs, Devon lay on his bed, holding one of the photos from the wall against his stomach. In it, his mother was running to the edge of the pool. Devon was frozen in the air, jumping with his eyes closed and his mouth wide open. His father was laughing, legs in the pool, and Sophia was right beneath where Devon would land, arms up, forever yelling out something he couldn’t hear.

It had only been a month since Sophia, a sophomore in high school, had gone out on one of her first solo drives and been hit by a drunk driver, head-on. Dead on the scene. Devon didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. He kept turning toward her room, next to his, like he expected to hear her music playing. Like he expected to hear her running out, thudding on the carpet, to throw open his door and jump on his bed. Like he expected to hear her violin, which she’d just started getting better at, or her complaining when he got to drive their father’s truck before she did.