Parable of the Talents

It was him, my brother, a lay minister in the Church of Christian America.

In fear and surprise, I lowered my head, wondering whether he had seen me. There were about two hundred other people in the men's cafeteria that night—men of all races, ethnicities, and degrees of sanity. I sat toward the back of the cafeteria, and off to the left of the podium or pul­pit or whatever it was. After a while I looked up without raising my head. Nothing of Marc's body language indicated that he had seen me. As he warmed to his sermon, though, he did mention that he had a sister who was steeped in sin, a sister who had been raised in the way of the Lord, but who had permitted herself to be pulled down by Satan. This sis­ter had, through the influence of Satan, done him a great in­jury, he said, but he had forgiven her. He loved her. It hurt him that she would not turn from sin. It hurt him that he had had to turn from her. He shed a few tears and shook his head.  At last he said, 'Jesus Christ was your Savior yesterday. He is your Savior today. He will be your Savior forever. Your sister might desert you. Your brother might betray you. Your friends might try to pull you down into sin. But Jesus will always be there for you. So hold on to the Lord! Hold on! Stand firm in your faith. Be courageous. Be strong. Be a sol­dier of Christ. He will help you and protect you. He will raise you up and never, never, never let you down!'

When it was over, I started to slip away with the crowd. I needed to think. I had to figure out how to reach Marc out­side the CA Center. At the last minute, I went back and left a note for the lay minister with one of the servers. It said, 'Heard you preach tonight. Didn't know you were here. Need to see you. Out front tomorrow evening where dinner line forms up.' And I signed it Bennett O.

One of our brothers was named Bennett Olamina. Olam­ina was an unusual name. Someone in CA might notice it and remember it from records of the inmates at Camp Chris­tian. Also, it occurred to me that signing the name I was using, 'Cory Duran,' might be cruel. Cory was Marc's mother, after all, not mine. I didn't want to remind him of the pain of losing her or hint that she might be alive. And if I had written Lauren O., I thought Marc might decide not to come. We hadn't parted on the best of terms, after all. Per­haps it's also cruel to hint to him that one of our two youngest brothers might still be alive. Perhaps he'll know or guess that I wrote the note. But I had to use a name that would get his attention. I must see him. If he won't do any­thing else, surely he'll help me find Larkin. He can't know what happened to us. I don't believe he would have joined CA if he knew it was made up of thieves, kidnappers, slavers, and murderers. He wanted to lead, to be important, to be respected, but he had been a slave prostitute himself.  No matter how angry he was at me, he wouldn't wish me captivity and a collar. At least, I don't believe he would.

The truth is, I don't know what to believe.

An old man is letting me sleep in his garage tonight. I chopped weeds and cleared trash for him today. Now I'm content. I've spread some flat boards over the concrete and covered the boards with rags. In my sleepsack on top of these, I'm pretty comfortable. There's even a filthy old flush toilet and a sink with running water out here—a real luxury. I had a wash. Now I want to sleep, but all I can do, all I can think of is Marc in that place, Marc with those people. Maybe he was even there at the time of my first visit We might have seen each other and not known. What would he have done, I wonder, if he had recognized me?

Chapter 18

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From EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

Beware:

All too often,

We say

What we hear others say.

We think

What we're told that we think.

We see

What we're permitted to see.

Worse!

We see what we're told that we see.

Repetition and pride are the keys to this.

To hear and to see

Even an obvious lie

Again

And again and again

May be to say it,

Almost by reflex