Cast a Road Before Me Read Free Page B

sense of them. The statement didn’t sound right to me. I knew the kingdom ofGod was heaven. And I knew my mom was in heaven. But I’d never heard her talk about being “born again,” whatever that was. Nicodemus apparently was as confused as I, because he questioned Jesus about what the term meant. Our pastor quoted further verses from the same chapter, and the more I heard, the more confused I became. “Please understand, dear folks,” Pastor Frasier continued, “Jesus says plainly in verses fifteen through eighteen that he is God’s only Son, and that there is no salvation but through him. You can’t be ‘religious’ enough; you can’t serve the poor enough; you can’t go to church enough or even spend time on your knees enough to save your own soul. You can only accept Jesus Christ as your Savior and Lord and live your life for him.”
    You can’t serve the poor enough
. The minister had actually said that. He might as well have accused my mother by name. He might as well have spat,
“Never good enough!”
like her horrible father. Anger caught fire and burned in the pit of my stomach. By the time his sermon was finished, my arms were crossed against my chest, my jaw set. After the final hymn, I informed my aunt and uncle they could go on home; I’d walk.
    “But chil’, there’s snow on the ground!” Aunt Eva protested.
    I tossed my head. “I don’t care; I’ll be fine in my coat. I have to speak to the pastor,
right now
.”
    Uncle Frank placed his large hands on my shoulders, his gray eyes warm. “You hear some things that disturb you?”
    I was too incensed to answer.
    “That’s all right, Jessie.” His lips curved. “You go on and talk to the pastor. I’ll take Eva home and come back for you. I’ll wait as long as you need.”
    Jeffrey Frasier was a tall man in his late fifties with an amazing head of silver hair. His hazel eyes were enlarged behind thick-framed glasses, his complexion dark. He sat behind his wide oak desk clasping long fingers, regarding me with a kind expression thatI was in no mood to reciprocate. On one corner of the desk lay a well-thumbed Bible; on the other were scattered framed pictures of his wife and grown children. I perched across from him on the edge of a worn leather chair, my throat tight with defensiveness. Now that I was in his office, I regretted my impulsive request to talk to him. I should have waited a day or two, when I wasn’t so upset.
    “Well, Jessie,” he said as he leaned back in his seat, “I’ve had lots a folks come into my office over the years, and I’ve seen that look you now wear on your face more than a few times. It seems I’ve offended you in some way.”
    I swallowed hard, resisting a sudden impulse to cry. A moment passed before I could answer. “It’s my mother,” I managed finally, twisting my hands in my lap. “You said something about Jesus being the only way to salvation. That serving the poor isn’t enough. I just don’t understand. I know Jesus was good and all that. But my mother always taught me there are many ways to God, and that each person has to find his own way. Mom’s way was through serving others. And, besides, I know Jesus helped others all the time.” A picture of Mom gently guiding the withered arm of a frail elderly woman into her coat sleeve flashed through my head. Tears bit my eyes. “My mom
died
on her way to a center for the homeless where she’d volunteered for years. She tended the lambs, just like Jesus on your stained glass window. She was such a good person, I
know
she’s in heaven. So now you’re telling me she’s
not?
”
    Sadness spread across Pastor Frasier’s face. “Ah, young Jessie. The Lord has given you much to handle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand his purpose.”
    I brushed at a tear with impatience. I did not care to hear more platitudes. “You’re not answering my question.”
    He placed two fingers against his chin, his gaze drifting to a snow-dusted oak tree