Take a Chance on Me(101)

No, Felicity’s death could never be good, but it had woken Darek up to his son. To what he could lose—what he’d lost.

He blinked back the burn in his eyes.

What he’d lost. His father was back in his head then, following him just as he had earlier when he stepped off the deck. “You think you’re the only one to lose a son? The only one who has ever had to forgive someone for killing someone he loves?”

Darek had glanced back at him, frowned.

“Has it occurred to you that God did exactly that for you? You, Darek, were His enemy. Your sin killed His Son. And yet He reached out to forgive you, if you wanted it. Even though you didn’t know how to ask. Even when you didn’t want to ask.”

Yeah, but that was different. Darek wasn’t God.

He’d told his father that too.

“You don’t have to be. Forgiveness starts with you on your knees, taking a good look inside. I know it’s hard. You’re afraid of what you’ll find. But God isn’t going to stay away from you, Darek, when you need Him. And I promise, Jesus can help you do the impossible.”

His parents’ faith always started with “on your knees.” Well, they didn’t know what it felt like to have everything ripped from them. They didn’t know what it felt like to have someone you loved betray—

No. He didn’t love Ivy. He couldn’t love Ivy, not so soon. . . .

And yet he didn’t know how else to describe it, the feeling of wholeness, of . . . well, maybe he might call it love, but . . .

Whatever he felt, it told him the truth. He’d never loved Felicity.

Darek pushed a bundle of debris into the forest, that reality burrowing deep.

Yes, if he were honest with himself, he’d only given in to her because . . .

Because Jensen was with her.

Because Darek wanted to win.

Darek closed his eyes, breathing in hard. Regardless of how Felicity felt, he’d betrayed Jensen. And then he betrayed Felicity by sleeping with her, using her. And then marrying her, knowing he had no intention of truly meaning his I do.

He let the dozer idle there, shaking, rumbling, the truth touching his bones.

He’d been blaming Jensen because it felt easier than looking at himself. Seeing his own sins.

Oh, Felicity. For a moment, he let her walk into his mind. Saw her smile at him. The times when she’d sat behind him, massaging his tired shoulders, or called his cell phone just to hear his voice. The times she’d put Tiger on the line, prompting a da-da from his tiny son.

Felicity, waiting for him to come home that first year, decorating their tiny cabin, nearly setting the place on fire cooking his favorite meal.

Yeah, he should have loved her. Maybe if he hadn’t been so angry . . . angry not only at Felicity but at himself. He’d betrayed himself, the man he’d wanted to be.

His conversation with his mother the night Tiger fell from the bunk nearly a month ago rushed back at him.

Is there forgiveness for someone who kills another man’s wife?

I hope so, for your sake.

Maybe she had been talking not only about Jensen but about Darek as well.

Unforgiveness had destroyed his life—or at least his marriage. Unforgiveness had worn a hole of anger nearly clear through him.

Maybe he was a little like the peat fires, his life turning to ash under the surface.

In fact, forgiveness is not optional. His father’s words clung to him like a burr. But maybe it wasn’t. Not if he wanted to heal. Not if he wanted to learn how to live—really live—again.

Not optional.

Not optional for Felicity. For Jensen.

For himself.

He stared out into the night, the eerie glow of fire against the darkness, setting the sky aflame.

For Ivy.

Please, Darek. . . . Trust me. Ivy’s voice. Small. Pleading.

If he were honest with himself, maybe he’d have done the same thing in Nan’s shoes. In Ivy’s. Taken a closer look to make sure Tiger was safe.

He didn’t know what had happened, but maybe . . . maybe he should at least stop to listen. To hear the truth.

Yes, if he hoped to start again, let God seed something new in his life, he’d have to let Him turn over the burning soil, lay Darek bare.

Confess. Repent.

“I’m sorry.” It felt weak, even untrue, so he shut off the motor. Let the dozer die. Listened to the wind through the mesh of the cab.

“I’m sorry.” He stared up at the eye, dusty against the night. “I . . . I’m so sorry. I . . . Oh, God, I blew it. I really . . .” He closed his eyes. It still felt so . . . trite.

On your knees.

He heard his father again, and for some crazy reason, it seemed right.

So he climbed off the dozer. Walked around to the front, where the moonlight glinted off the scoop. And there, in a puddle of reflected light, he knelt.