The Shepherd’s Song Read online

  “If you’re there, God,” he said, “it might be a good time to show me.”

  Still nothing. The doors of the church stayed closed. He shrugged and continued down the sidewalk toward home.

  He smiled at the thought of God showing himself. When he was eight, a family across town had taken him to Sunday School. In the Bible stories he had heard, God was always appearing to people—once in a burning bush, another time in a pillar of fire. The family had eventually moved away, and he’d felt that wanting again—wanting to be back in Sunday School, to hear stories that made him hope for something more. Those stories seemed like fairy tales to him now. He pulled the jacket tighter against the cold. He felt the paper crinkle in the pocket.

  Chris turned the corner to Market Street, which was crowded for a Friday evening. In the midst of the sea of dark-colored hats and scarves ahead of him, he caught sight of a spot of red. The red circle of color pulled him like a magnet as it bobbed up and down.

  Chris stepped up his pace and watched the red circle. As he drew closer, he realized it was a hat, a red beret, and he could see that it was worn by a girl, a young woman, really. Her long brown hair hung out from beneath the beret, and her tweed jacket fit perfectly. Polyester/wool/acrylic he suspected—definitely “dry clean only.” He strained not to lose her in the crowd.

  The snow let up and changed to a drizzle. The evening was dreary, but Chris felt more alive as he pursued the red beret. Then, when he thought he had lost her, he stopped, almost brushing against her as she entered a building. He watched her glide through the glass doors, and he paused just long enough to read the sign outside—HOLY GROUNDS COFFEE SHOP.

  A little corny. But, still, it looked peaceful and warm inside.

  Chris went through the doors and at once noticed the aroma of freshly ground coffee. It was as if he had never experienced the smell before. The pitiful can of grocery brand coffee in his apartment had dulled his senses and left him out of touch with the real thing. He inhaled deeply and looked around the room.

  There was a brightness and warmth and color that drew him in and made him breathe deeper. Signs above the counter had exotic names: Sumatra, Kona, Java, Mocha. Then there were specialty drinks like Love-Your-Neighbor Latte and Capernaum Cappuccino. There was a whole new vocabulary here.

  He had walked home from the dry cleaner’s every day for the last five months and had never noticed this place. How could all this have been going on without him?

  He watched the girl in the red beret as she ordered. Her face was radiant and full of energy, her cheeks rosy with the blush of the cold evening air. She was all movement as he stood watching her. She shed her jacket and waved to a few friends.

  He backed up against the wall, not ready to come in completely but not wanting to be left outside any longer. The chatter of voices and soft music playing beckoned him, but fear stopped him. Haunting voices of Hayville and rejection filled his mind.

  As he watched, the barista placed a cup of coffee in her hand. She stood for a moment, pulling out her wallet to pay. As she passed the bills over, she glanced his way. Then looked again. Then smiled. He watched her gather her change and drop it into the tip jar. She laughed with the girl behind the counter, then moved toward a table with her coffee.

  His knees felt weak. She had smiled at him. He looked around to make sure it wasn’t for another person. No, the smile was for him.

  He watched as she settled alone at a small iron table. She leaned over her cup and breathed deeply, taking in the smell and steam rising from the cup. Chris stood like a zombie, the living dead.

  He had read one time about moving from darkness into light. It was dangerous to move too quickly. The eye could only adjust so much to light. He thought it was the same thing with possibilities. There had been none in his life for so long that he had forgotten that choices existed.

  He watched the girl rifle through her brown satchel. Her hair gleamed in the lamplight of the coffee shop. She pulled out a box of stationery and a pen. She sat staring off for a moment, then began to write.

  It had been years since he’d had a real conversation with anyone besides Mr. Tomasi.

  He practiced in his mind what he would say.

  “Hello.” No, too formal.

  “Hi.” That was better.

  He had the opening word. But then what? It might be a mistake to say anything at all. Maybe he should leave. He glanced at the door. He felt that ache again and put his hand on his chest. There was the paper, still in the pocket.

  He pulled it out and unfolded it. Mrs. McConnell’s handwriting was sure and concise. The words were clear and had been written with such conviction that he could feel the imprint of the writing even on the back.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want, he read. Each word had been printed neatly and carefully. She had believed the promise on the paper. Maybe he could, too.

  He looked around at the people in the shop—some alone, others engrossed in a book or computer, some chatting in small groups or laughing and enjoying one another’s company.

  As he thought of the psalm, memories flooded him—memories of Sunday School and the simplicity of faith. The picture of Jesus carrying a lamb across his shoulders. He remembered the color and fun and an intensity of smells and tastes. Back then everything had been possible. He had loved God then for a season. When had he become so cynical? So alone?

  He smelled the coffee and realized the waste that his life had become.

  “I shall not want,” he said.

  There was that ache. Chris was suddenly overcome with wanting, and there was so much right in front of him. It was as if God was there, waiting for him to accept the richness of the world. Maybe he had been too hard on God. Maybe God was more than the dark, empty church he passed by every day.

  He moved to the counter and was taken in by the bounty of pastries—apple-nut muffins, blueberry scones, chocolate-chip Danish. They were all color and texture, some covered with chocolate icing, others drizzled with glaze—a doughnut covered with red sprinkles. He felt like he had as a boy, pressing his nose up against the glass window of a toy store.

  “I want . . .” he said. He thought of the hard-earned money in his pocket. He had more than enough for the week, but he was still afraid to spend it. Afraid there might not be more. Afraid of hunger. The fear of wanting made him live in want.

  “Yes?” the girl behind the counter said, eyebrows raised.

  There was too much choice. An abundance. He felt panic rising in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might just leave.

  “I shall not want,” he said under his breath, almost like a battle cry. In his mind he held the image of the shepherd carrying the sheep and the kind expression of love on the shepherd’s face. He wanted that love. He prayed for the first time in his adult life the simple prayer of a child. Help me.

  The world opened, and light flooded in, bringing a million choices.

  “Cappuccino.” The word popped out, like he had said it all his life. “Cappuccino,” he said again, just because it felt so good to make a choice. “Yes, I want a Capernaum Cappuccino.”

  He let out a sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed, and though it seemed like such a small thing, he felt like he had just climbed Mount Everest.

  The girl seemed relieved. “Okay. Anything else?”

  He looked at the pastries. A chocolate Danish caught his attention; glistening sugar and deep rich chocolate pieces made his mouth water. “And a chocolate-chip Danish,” he said, ignoring the price.

  He was filled with warmth and felt as giddy as a child.

  He waited for his order, watching the girl in the red beret.

  “Her name’s Pam,” the girl behind the counter said as she handed him a steaming cup.

  He blushed.

  “I saw you looking.”

  He nodded.

  “She likes the raspberry scones,” the girl said with a smile.

  Chris watched Pam stir her coffee.

 
; Okay, God, he prayed for the second time, let’s go.

  He ordered again. “I’ll take a raspberry scone.”

  He paid for his order and stood for a moment with the small bag of pastries and his steaming cup of coffee. He was drawn to the table, the red beret showing the way like a beacon. Past the other tables, across what felt like the longest room in the world, he walked until he came to her table and caught his breath.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Chris.”

  She stopped stirring her coffee and looked up at him. She had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. His heart skipped.

  Then something amazing happened.

  She smiled. This time it could only be for him.

  “Hi,” she answered. “Pam.”

  She pulled aside the satchel and offered him the empty seat beside her.

  Chris put his things down and took off the coat. He smoothed his worn flannel shirt, unashamed, sat down beside her, and breathed deep, experiencing it all. The smells. The tastes. The sound of her voice.

  He looked at the letter she was writing. Dear Deke was at the top of the page.

  “Is that to your boyfriend?” Chris asked.

  She shook her head no.

  “My brother, Deke, is in Iraq. I’m sending him a letter.”

  Chris let out a sigh of relief. Brother—not boyfriend. He suddenly loved her brother!

  She lifted her pen and looked at him, not like his customers who looked through him. He pulled the pastries out of the bag. They were rich and inviting: the warm golden scone with flecks of sugar, deep-red raspberry oozing from the side, and the plump Danish with slightly melted chocolate chips dotting the top.

  “Have one.”

  “Thanks.” Pam looked at the raspberry scone. “Julie must have told you what I like.”

  Chris nodded.

  “I like to come here sometimes,” she said. “My apartment gets lonely. You know what I mean?”

  Chris nodded. He did.

  He fingered the white paper in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something I found.” Chris thought of Mrs. McConnell and how pleased she would be to think of her Bible verses being given away. He wanted to give something to Pam. “You could send this to your brother.”

  Chris handed her the paper. There was a little coffee on the edge, but she didn’t seem to notice. She opened it.

  “Psalm 23. Cool. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “I remember it from when I was little,” Chris said.

  “Me, too.” She looked down at the paper. “It always makes me feel loved.”

  “Me, too,” Chris said. And he realized it was true.

  “So, I can send it to my brother?”

  Chris nodded. He watched her fold the paper and put it into the pink envelope.

  “Nice coat,” she said, nodding to the borrowed peacoat.

  “It’s not mine,” Chris said. He wanted to be Chris, not someone else. He wanted her to know him as he was.

  Surrounded by sounds, smells, tastes, and the fullness of life, he was overwhelmed with God’s love for him.

  He remembered what he’d had said to God as he walked home earlier: “If you’re there, it might be a good time to show me.” He smiled when he thought of the burning bush and the pillar of fire. That probably would have scared him to death. For him, God had shown up with a red beret and a cup of coffee.

  Soft light wrapped the table. The world seemed full of possibilities and hope. Chris felt a love and acceptance that had nothing to do with the pretty girl smiling at him from across the table. He was loved by God, a God who wanted him to have an abundant life.

  Tomorrow he would be back at the dry cleaner’s, invisible again to the customers, but not invisible to God. And he was no longer empty. Inside, a spark of hope, of new possibilities, was growing. The ache was gone.

  Chris felt his world shifting like sand beneath his feet, just like one time when a school trip had taken him to the ocean. He hadn’t thought of the ocean in years, but suddenly he could almost taste the salt air and hear the seabirds cry above him.

  He prayed a prayer, his third in over a decade, but the best prayer that he could imagine. Thank you, God.

  TELL ME what you remember, Private Johnson.”

  Dr. Mitchell sat down on the camp stool beside Deke Johnson’s cot. Deke’s large hands moved restlessly on his lap. His gray-green eyes were questioning and thoughtful. He knew he was in the medical unit and that he had been hurt in a mission.

  “Nothing.” Deke tried hard to remember, but his thoughts were confusing—like bits of paper blowing around in the tornado that was his mind. He could remember last week just fine, but the events of the past few days escaped him.

  He lifted his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Take your time.”

  Deke closed his eyes for a moment. A few scattered images came to mind.

  “A clothesline . . . ,” he said, “with a sheet.”

  “Good. Tell me about the sheet.”

  “It was white, crisp, snapping in the breeze. It reminded me . . .” Deke lapsed into silence. Some dark thought was lurking, coming closer.

  “Go on. What did it remind you of?”

  Deke moved his thoughts away from the darkness. He looked out the window of the hospital at the square of blue sky and blinked.

  “My mother in Montana and Pam, my sister. My mother hated clothes dryers, and she always hung the sheets out on the clothesline in the backyard. Pam and I played in the middle of the sheets, like a fort or a hiding place.”

  The memory came to him like a dream. The sun through the aspen trees. The laughter of children as they ran carefree in the tall green grass and between the sheets. The sheets, clean and white on a line held by a cross of beams.

  “The sun came through the sheets,” Deke began. “Pam . . .”

  He stopped and gazed out the window. The scene in his mind evaporated.

  “Pam? Tell me about Pam.”

  “Pam’s my little sister. She lives in Baltimore now. She’s in nursing school. I just got a letter from her last week.”

  Deke closed his eyes, remembering. Mail call was the best time of the day. His friend Tater got his usual weekly letter from his parents. Tater would read the letter misty-eyed, complain of allergies, then stow the letter away under his bed. Deke had gotten Pam’s letter in a pink envelope, and the guys had razzed him about it.

  “Cool it, guys. It’s from my sister.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Tater had said, blowing him a kiss.

  He missed his friend. Where was Tater? Tater was the youngest in the unit, straight out of high school. A red-faced, sandy-haired combination of kid and soldier from North Carolina, always touching the cross that he wore around his neck with his dog tag. Before each mission, Tater would kiss the cross. There was something innocent and trusting about that gesture.

  Deke was afraid to ask about Tater. Something about the question was dangerous.

  Deke thought about his letter from Pam and the paper inside—the twenty-third psalm.

  “Pam sent me a psalm—the one about the green pastures. ‘He makes me lie down in green pastures.’ ”

  As many times as Deke had read the twenty-third psalm, he hadn’t thought about that verse before. But Tater had. When Deke told Tater about the psalm, Tater recited the whole thing from memory.

  Deke could remember Tater’s comment. “He makes me lie down in green pastures—not tan like here—tan sand, tan fatigues, tan tents, tan everything!”

  “Even the chow is tan,” Deke had added.

  Tater had laughed, then looked away. “Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I’m not here—that I’m in a place, a green place, with cool breezes and tall grass blowing in the wind. But when I open my eyes, I’m still here.”

  “Tell me more about the psalm,” the doctor said, breaking his thoughts. “Where is it now?”

  “The psalm was in my pocket. I had it
when . . .”

  Dark thoughts came closer. Panic started rising.

  “When . . .”

  The small panic in his chest grew. Deke tried to remember more. He began to sweat. His hands increased their nervous movement.

  “I don’t remember what happened . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Take some deep breaths, Private.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Breathe! In and out. In and out.”

  Deke tried to breathe normally, but he gasped air in and exhaled erratically.

  “No more!”

  “Then let’s take a break,” the doctor said, calmly.

  Deke lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  Dr. Mitchell closed his notebook and left silently.

  * * *

  “GOOD MORNING, Private Johnson.”

  “Hi, Doc.” Deke looked up from his crossword puzzle.

  Dr. Mitchell sat in his usual spot by the cot. In a soft voice he asked, “Is anything coming back?”

  Deke hesitated. He put the puzzle book down and looked at the doctor. The doctor’s kind eyes invited him to talk.

  “I remember the morning of the patrol.”

  Deke’s hands began to move rhythmically against the sheets.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It was early when we left—before dawn. A routine mounted security patrol. Tater and the others were griping, like always.” Deke smiled at the memory of the constant complaining. “We had been on two or three patrols a day, every day, all month. I was exhausted and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. The whole unit was.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got a call about suspected insurgents in an apartment building in town.”

  The doctor waited, then said, “Go on.”

  “We parked the Strykers in front of the building. Tater and I dismounted, and Sergeant Donald motioned us inside to check it out. I remember walking into the apartment. I remember the room. Cockroaches everywhere. Dirty clothes on the floor. Food in the sink. The sour smell.”

  Deke’s hands moved faster.

  “I remember Tater kissing his cross, like he always did. Then we heard popping outside. Bullets hit the window, and glass shattered into the room. We hit the ground. We just lay there for a minute catching our breath. Tater kept kissing that stupid cross, like he wanted God to come and help us.”