The events of last night swirled in his mind, the haunted faces of the teenagers creating a specter in his mind. Duane’s weary voice echoed like a harbinger. Ian’s distant contempt—or was it something else—hammered panic.

Travis’s image formed in clear, 3D color as James recalled this morning’s visit. He’d felt compelled to tell Travis of Drew Abbott’s suicide, but he hadn’t been prepared for Travis’s reaction. Sure, he’d seemed a little stunned by it before his mouth had finally twisted into that odd little smile of his, but that quirky grin was the only normalcy in the conversation.

“Killed himself huh? What he do, jump off a grain elevator, a radio tower? The boy was always lookin’ for new heights if you know what I mean.”

“Shot himself.”

Travis’s smile disappeared, and he stared as if it were going to take some time to digest, but then he just shrugged. “Oh. Doesn’t surprise me either way. Coulda seen that train wreck coming.”

Coulda seen that coming? Travis’s words from this morning slammed into focus.

What had Travis been alluding to? Had he seen the boy’s despair for what it was? Could Travis, who rarely was able to read people’s intentions, have seen beneath this boy’s exterior arrogance and understood there was something desperate running deep within the boy’s heart? How was that possible? Even professionals had difficulty determining such utter depression without penetrating assessment.

James shook the memory from his mind and dropped to his knees at the altar steps. He gazed up at the familiar image of Jesus. Where had God been while Drew took his own life? Where had God been when Travis decided to head to the Pearce farm? Where was God now? So many people needed Him. James, included. His heart swelled with the loss of his passion, his life, his calling, his God.

He closed his eyes as tears blurred his vision. The moisture seeped from his closed lids, wet his face. “Please, please answer me,” he prayed. “I need answers.”

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. He looked up with a start.

Pastor John Barrow looked down at James, the same joy-filled expression on his face that James remembered from childhood. “I was told I might find you here,” Pastor Barrow said. “We got a new church you know, bricks and stucco. Much warmer than this old place.”

James launched himself into the man’s embrace. Relief washed over him as he buried his face in Pastor Barrow’s neck and accepted the man’s welcome. Pastor Barrow’s hugs had always inspired comfort. As a young boy and then a troubled, depressed teen, James had often wondered how the pastor’s one-armed embraces could feel infinitely more reassuring than his own father’s two-armed ones, which so often felt forced and obligatory. Decades later, the consolation in John Barrow’s embrace had not diminished.

He pulled away from the pastor’s friendly welcome and smiled. His smile remained as he followed the pastor to the new parsonage. Perhaps the newness of the building was a corollary to the renewal of the faith he so desperately needed. His heart clutched at the hope before James had a chance to extinguish it.