Have I not commanded you? Be brave and have courage. Do not be afraid or discouraged for the Lord, your God, is with you.
It had been a standard practice for Esther–the woman we now examine–that no one had ever quite asked her to do. The pastor never felt a need for these handout verses. Many of the church attendees never remembered the verses they grabbed on their way out. It had become second nature to Living Hope of Christ Church, an almost ghostlike motion, that as one walked towards the creaking, slightly molded wooden doors to leave the Sunday service, it was only natural that they would grab a verse from the glass pot on their way out, in the same way it was only natural for them to open the door before they walked into it.
Now, as we first look in on Esther, it is a Saturday night and this verse is the last of 120 that she has copied down to fill the pot. Words the young woman had memorized, etched into her mind, and etched into her own hands in a way–callouses left behind for the sake of filling that little glass pot by the church door. A little collection sight where churchgoers could grab a verse, step out into the parking lot, and likely lose those little slips of paper in the rubble of fast food wrappers and junk mail piled in their cars.
When finished, she set the glass pot by the front door of her little apartment so that she would not forget it when she awoke in the morning and left for church.
Now we will look at Silk. Before you ask, yes, that was truly his name, and yes, he was awfully tired of people asking why. He was just Silk. What you need to know about Silk is not much, for he was not the type of boy people wrote short stories like this about, rather long elusive novels that we always say we will get around to reading but never do. All you need to know is this: in the year 2028, he will find the ultimate remedy for climate change that will both stop our impending doom and relieve 80% of child hunger worldwide. Don’t ask me how. Just like Silk was only a boy named Silk, I am only a voice born into the present. You won’t remember this story or my storytelling in an hour, but I promise it will echo when the time is right.
Back to Esther. Her dress was modest corduroy. For Esther was the type of girl to make herself outrageously plain. I cannot imagine the hours of deep internet scrolling it took to find such an uninteresting dress–especially a corduroy dress- that was so wholly uncatching to the eye. Many young women made quite a ritual about their Sunday best, and while Esther understood that for them, she was quite sure there was no reason for it on her part. She had never found herself to be any sort of beautiful when she was standing with freezing feet against an acrylic floor in her prodigiously tiny apartment bathroom, so how would she ever be any sort of beautiful standing in the house of the Lord?
She arrived at 7:30–the service was at 8:30–along with the other early risers. Mostly older women with nothing much else to do for the day or high school students who had a service-hour fulfillment to meet.
Her quaint voice greeted them all delicately and warmly as she held doors and unfolded chairs and wiped down tables, and, most importantly, as she set up her glass pot by the door. “Esther.”
The Pastor at Living Hope of Christ was fairly young in comparison to other church leaders in the area who all looked and sounded as if they would be meeting Jesus very soon. Scott was middle aged, curly haired, always exuberant. Above this, though, he was attentive.
“Good morning, Pastor, how are you?”
Scott had told Esther many times to call him by his name. She cringed at the thought. He did not know who Esther was. Not truly. He did not know of the things she had done before her nights were spent copying Bible verses for an overlooking church. He did not know what she had said, what she had seen, what she had done, or who she had done it to. In other words, Esther was quite sure she was unworthy of the mutual respect that a first-name basis established among two people. She rarely said anyone’s name if she could help it. She certainly could not speak the name of this man of God.
They made polite conversation which I will spare you the details of. Just as Esther made an active effort towards dressing plain, her speech was just the same. The second she talked too much, it was quite certain everyone would know who she had been. Hence, she stuck to a mental script and was taken off guard when the Pastor strayed from it.
“Excuse me?”
The two held the doors now, one on each side, as the morning service attendees began to crowd in. Esther averted her eyes from the Pastor’s wise brown eyes, unsure of what he could uncover in her own eyes if he tried.
“I only asked if you wanted to begin teaching a Bible study group for children? You do so much for this church, Esther, and we would love for you to do more if you have the time. The children would love you and we will pay you as well as we can.”
We will take a break now to return to our friend, Silk. Given what I’ve revealed to you already, it is an understatement to say Silk was intelligent and driven. He was also quite rich, even before the world-changing accomplishments. And at the time we are now observing him, he is nineteen years old and a student at a renowned Ivy League institute that he was still not entirely convinced he was accepted into even though he is now in his fourth year.
He attends Living Hope of Christ church because his parents do so. He was in a constant state of work and living up to the expectations of his parents who had come from next to nothing, so while this one-hour weekly service was a slight relief to him in terms of it being the only time he was not doing some math or chemistry assignment, it was mostly a period of immense pressure. Having to sit with his parents as they whispered throughout the service about how his pants were too short or where the other 3% went on the test he got a 97% on (yes, his parents still check his grades.) Sunday service was also a feeling of wearisome nostalgia. The last time he said a prayer was when he was nine years old. That was the last time he had the genuine feeling that there was anything in this life worth praying about.
Esther had denied the chance to teach the Bible study class. Children are extremely impressionable. If anyone is to take the duty of influencing them, how could it be her?
Sunday service is over now. It had been a sermon she hung upon every word of. She always did. But hearing the Pastor speak always had a bad aftertaste for Esther. Hearing of topics like hope and grace and goodness felt relieving in the moment, but when she was left afterwards to mull it over, she was only reminded of how little of these things she had in the past. How could a murderer have hope and grace and goodness in her heart? Esther assured herself no amount of repentance could make these words applicable to her.
More than that, how could a murderer teach children? How could a murderer create anything but destruction in these children?
Denying to teach the Bible study class was not an act of humility or bashfulness on Esther’s part. It came from the sense that she had already caused so much destruction in the world, so how could she ever be capable of anything good.
A quick intermission now, if you don’t mind, to have a discussion on the topic of murder. Esther was not intentionally a murderer. More, a circumstantial killer. It had been a night, four years ago, in a college friend’s flat. The night was full of white lines and vapors and powders and other things that are entirely not the point of this story. A boy was there, someone she degrades herself daily for not being able to remember the name of. He began spazzing. Something was wrong. Beer bottles crashed and young, dumb kids began spiralling. He was unconscious before they knew it. An overdose. And in that moment there were two options. First, to get help, and bring the police into a room of extremely illegal happenings that could put away every party member in jail at best and, at worst, could bar them all from the universities and awards and bright futures they had ahead of them. The second option was to leave and to deny, deny, deny.
Around her, fifty young men and women began to frantically choose the second option. Grabbing everything they could, leaving no evidence behind, avoiding the unconscious boy’s shallow breath, and evacuating. Some, like Esther, lingered in their moral conflict, drowning in the weight of the life that was on their hands. But slowly and surely, everyone began to leave. And, eventually, Esther did too.
The boy wasn’t found until the following Sunday–the first time Esther ever went to church. Esther wondered how long it was after she left that she finally died. And since that night, she had been dying every day, little by little.
Speaking of death, as we near the end of this story, it is very important for you to know that Silk planned on killing himself. He did not necessarily want to die, he was only overcome by the fear of living. There was his parents, and his school, and his lack of passion for everything he had built his life around. There was fear of the future, fear of his competency to face it, and the fear that he would never become anything.
This fear was all he could focus on on the Sunday service day that we have been examining thus far.
Esther walked home. She had no car, recognizing that a person such as herself was unworthy of the freedoms and responsibilities that came with having one.
She carried her now empty glass pot.
Scott the pastor was still in the church. He liked to linger a while. He liked to pray. You’ll remember now that he was an attentive man. He could read emotions well. He could practically smell fear from a mile away and he could smell it all over Esther. He prayed courage over her. He prayed she would realize how much her efforts meant to the church and to God. He prayed with the assurance that the Lord will always provide.
And the Lord will always provide.
“Heyyyyy, pretty lady.”
Esther rolled her eyes but endured it like she always did. There was a number of construction sights on the route that took her from the church back to her apartment. Though I know many things, I do not know why construction men seem to be so much more desperate for procreation than the rest of us.
Esther stayed silent, locked her eyes down, and accepted her punishment. For that is how she saw every inconvenience in her life: a well deserved punishment.
The man followed her for an uncomfortable length of time, leaving behind his work and instead prioritizing the classic game of How Uncomfortable Can You Make a Stranger. It was a game he was especially good at. He made crass jokes with overtly sexual overtones and did so with the most gruesome smile on his face.
And then the Lord provided.
Something Esther had never felt. A weird, yellowish, and bright feeling strung up inside her. It was like a twinge of anger but with something more to it. A bit of courage.
Perhaps, she thought, not everything must be a punishment. Perhaps some things can be an opportunity.
She spoke to this man. This creepy man. This man who was as fallen as her. And she told him the Good News. The Word she had never felt worthy to speak. The story she had, up to then, only been able to share through hand copied verses to people who already knew it. And she spoke it. She spoke the salvation. She spoke it all.
The construction worker at first did not listen. But then, somehow, against his own will, he did. He listened. He cried. He wiped his tears as he walked away so that the other construction men would not know he cried.
The next Sunday, Living Hope of Christ Church had a new member.
I hope you will not mind if we trail back in time again, this time only slightly. We are now back at the end of the church service and we are now with Silk.
Silk did not consider it a prayer but that’s what it was in essence when he asked for a sign. He had made his plans already for the night to come. He had written the letter to his parents. He had abstained from the thought of his mother finding his dead body. He was ready.
Unknown to himself, he was also desperate. He asked for a sign. That if, somehow, living was worth more than the fear, it would be revealed to him. But Silk, like many of us, said this prayer with more faith that it wouldn’t happen then that it would.
When the service was over, he made his way to the door. Like everyone did, he grabbed one of the paper Bible verses that were by the door on his way out. He didn’t usually read the verses he grabbed because taking a verse had become one of those things that he only did for the knowledge that other people saw him do it. But today he felt an urge to read it. A desperate, edge-of-the-cliff urge to read it.
Have I not commanded you? Be brave and have courage. Do not be afraid or discouraged for the Lord, your God, is with you.
Lydia Johnson is an aspiring writer from North Carolina. She is 17 and is involved in the theatre and writing clubs at her school. She is currently attempting to crochet a Cookie Monster.