Paul was a virtual stranger to Ian. There was no way the young man would accept his help if he offered it uninvited. He had to leave it in God’s hands. That was the hardest thing to do. Why had God cursed him with knowing about Ian? What was the point of this lesson? Was this, after all, the moral of his angelic vision—futility? Impotence? Hadn’t God done enough to impress that message upon him already?
In the end, all Paul could do was pray: “Take care of him, God. Help him find his way.”
Faith
There is a popular mythology about climbing mountains. An entire genre of inspirational books recounts a dangerous summit climb and the spiritual lessons gained from it. When they prepare for a summit push, mountaineers imagine the sense of elation and accomplishment at the peak. They imagine moments of reverence and spiritual revelation. But when they actually get there, most climbers are filled with nothing so much as a sense of exhaustion and the knowledge that a long and difficult journey still lies ahead. The mountain steadfastly refuses to conform to the stories we impose upon it.
Paul was riding the back of an elephant as it went charging through the sanctuary of the church. He was afraid the animal might knock over the pews like so many dominoes. He pulled on the reins, trying to gain control, when he heard music playing. A generic cell phone ringtone.
“What?”
Paul sat straight up in bed. He looked at the clock. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Where was his cell phone? Paul rolled out of bed and went running toward the sound, nearly tripping over an end table along the way. He managed to reach the phone, in the kitchen, just before the voice mail picked up.
“Hello?” he said in a groggy voice.
“Hi, um, Paul? I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Ian. Ian Finnerty. You drove me home that one time.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is. I’m kind of… in jail. I didn’t know who else to call.”
This was not a call Paul ever, in his life, imagined he would be getting—the 2:00 a.m. “come bail me out of jail” call. God was really testing him with this angel. Paul got dressed, drove to the ATM half asleep, and took out $200 in cash. Then he drove to a part of town he rarely had cause to visit, especially not at 2:00 a.m. with a wallet full of cash.
Well, on the upside, now I know where the jail is, for future reference, he thought.
Ian sat in one corner of the cell with his feet on the long wooden bench and his knees curled up to his chest. His head was tilted down, hiding his face behind his long hair. It was the same position in which Paul had found him weeks ago sitting on the floor of the pavilion. The institutional green walls gave everything a pallid other-worldly appearance. Paul allowed himself a momentary daydream. If an angel ever did come to earth, maybe men would put it
in a zoo for family entertainment and scientific study. It might look something like this.
“Hello, Ian,” Paul said.
Ian glanced up. He blushed slightly. His eyebrows came up in the center, making his eyes appear larger, like a faun’s.
“I kept your number,” he said with an embarrassed smile. His expression was that of a wounded child and automatically generated sympathy. Paul wondered if this look was a well-rehearsed gambit by someone aware of his own beauty and accustomed to making use of it. If it was, it hardly lessened the effect.
Paul responded with his best imitation of a school teacher. “First time I’ve been called in the middle of the night to bail someone out of jail,” he said.
“It’s always an adventure with me. You said I could call at 2:00 a.m.…. I guess you didn’t think I would.”
“Why didn’t you call one of your friends?”
Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I’ve burned a few bridges.”
Paul sighed. “I’d like to be your friend,” he said, “but I have to know something.”
“What?”
“You’re sitting in a jail cell. Is this rock bottom for you, or do you have farther to go? Because if you do, I’m not sure I want to watch it.”
Ian’s eyes welled up. He pressed his lips together into a thin line. He didn’t look away, nor did he answer.
“I can bail you out,” Paul said. “I brought money. And I want to help you. But if you just want to get out of here so you can drink yourself to death, I’m not going to be part of that. You’re better off here.”
The tears escaped down Ian’s cheeks, and he pulled his knees in tighter toward his chest. “I’ve tried,” he said. “I want to stop. I really do.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yeah.”