The Dream

CHAPTER 3

The bus's red flashing lights bounced off the pavement littered with puddles from the downpour of the night before. My feet splashed through them as I ran to catch the bus. A faint mist hug over the curb, grasping onto the faces of the wet grass. I could feel the weight of the fog on my face as I ran through and grabbed ahold of the railing leading up the steps.

The heavy glare of Ms. Stanley weighed down on me like a block of bricks upon my lowered head.

"Late again, Mr. Mercer."

I didn't even bother with an excuse today.

The doors slammed shut into the back of my backpack, heaving me forward into the stairs. My knee smashed into the edge of the top step. I managed to refrain from cursing and bit my tongue. I could taste the salty iron streaming in my mouth.

I limped towards one of the open seats near the front and plopped down. I hated riding the bus. I road the bus every morning and sometimes in the afternoon. Most of the time my friend Gabe would swing by my place after football and drop me off, other times I hug out at his place until my mother picked me up later that evening when she got off work. I hated riding the bus. I was a senior, Captain of the football team and Quarterback, and I had to ride the bus. You can't be cool when you ride the bus. More lies that ignorant adolescents believe in, myself included. I pleaded with my parents for weeks to let me get my license so I could drive myself to school instead of riding the bus. The answer was always "no", but eventually I think my pleading weared them down as they finally conceded to my request, but with one stipulation: "You must wait until you're 18, you must maintain a B or above in all your classes, you will get a part-time job to pay for your gas and leisure activities, or do extra chores around the house to earn this money, and then we will let you get your license." Thinking I had finally made some ground I slid in, "And a car?" I tried my best attempt at a promising smile. No luck. "We'll talk when we get there." They both said simultaneously as if they had already discussed this without me knowing. It turns out, they had. But with all the medical bills streaming in from the hospital, my mother taking on a second job, and my father being away on business even more to try and make some extra cash, my hopes of getting a car were zilch. I resented them for that for a long time. I never understood why my father had to travel so much. I didn't know why my mother had to work two jobs. I didn't know why my little sister was the one in the hospital, fighting for her life, and I wasn't. I was the bad one, not her. She was always so sweet and had a smile on her face. Why was she sick? Why not someone else? Why not me?

I grew up going to church with my parents. They both said it was important to learn about God and his love for us. That he had sent his only son to die for us so that we may have eternal life with him in heaven. I never understood that either. Why would God, if he were so great and loving, let his only son die for a bunch of people he didn't even know? What kind of a father would let his son die? All I knew was, I didn't want anything to do with a God that let children like my little sister be in pain. Where was God when my sister was having a seizure? Where was God when children were dying, people were hungry on the streets, and natural disasters were taking place? What kind of a God allows for those things to happen?

I didn't always feel that way. I believed in God once. I had prayed the prayer of salvation and asked Jesus to come into my life and save me, to turn me from my ways, and repented of my sins. I was eight when I accepted Christ into my life. And for many years my faith grew and I loved God with all of my heart. I attended church camps, Vacation Bible Schools, went on two mission trips. One was to Mexico and I got to help construct a new home for a family. We fed children at an orphanage, and helped clean up the streets. The other was to Haiti after the terrible earthquake happened in 2010. I was fifteen at the time. My parents were weary of letting me go on my own, but the group counselor and mission trips coordinator reassured them that I would be in good company. That was the beginning of my turn from God.

You would think that going on a mission trip would change your perspective on life for the better, and draw you closer to God, but not me. All I saw was death, heartache, and suffering. Thousands had lost their homes, were living on the broken streets or on fallen building rubble. Thousands had died or were presumed dead because they hadn't been seen or found in several weeks. When I went, it was a few months after the quake had hit. Many other large organizations like the United Nations, or World Health Organization, and non-profits had come to the aid of the Haitian people. And even several months later, it was still a mess. I was optimistic in the beginning. I was excited and full of hope and energy that I was going to share with the people how much God loved them, and that there was hope even in the mist of this disaster. And for the most part, I maintained this attitude. But then one day, there was a loud commotion and a large group of UN workers were congregated around this one pile of rubble. They were trying to pry up the loose stone and concrete with crowbars, fallen trees, just about anything they could use as a lever. I went up to help when I heard crying. It was faint so I thought I must have been mistaken. But as I got closer, knelt down to the rubble, I could hear him crying.

"There's a child trapped down there!" I yelled over the commotion.

I grabbed ahold of one of the tree trunks and started pulling with a group of men to lift this large chunk of concrete. It tumbled to the side with a loud clang. In its stead were hundreds of pieces of obliterated shards of concrete, building foundations, and street rubble. This was going to take forever! And it did. But still, I had hope. I was fueled with new inspiration and purpose. We labored all day and night to free that child. I kept calling out to him, telling him to hold on, that we were coming, just a little bit longer. But as the hours ticked by, the child's cries began to lose their vitality, and not much longer after, went silent.

I continued to cry out for the child, reassuring him that we were close, but we hadn't even broken half way through the debris and we still had no idea where he was. A few days later, we managed to pull the child's body from the rubble. He couldn't have been any more than six years old. He had cuts all over his arms and legs, a large gash across his forehead, but surprisingly, no broken bones. He was still holding onto a little stuffed animal in his clenched hands. The report was that he died of dehydration or suffocated. Either way, he hadn't made it.

I sobbed for three hours that night in my comfy hotel room away from the destruction. I remember having my Bible out on my bed, and trying to find Scripture to reassure me, and to give me hope. But every page I turned to told me about God's love and how he will never leave us nor forsake us. I cursed God that night. Probably the first time I ever did so, but certainly not the last. I screamed at the top of my lungs at the walls and ceiling, blaming God for the death of that little boy, for the destruction that hit Haiti, for all the people's lives that were lost. I blamed God for not doing anything.

"You could have saved him!" I yelled. "But you didn't. I promised him..."

I lost my voice for several days after that night. I continued to help for the remaining two days I was set to be there, but my spirit had been broken. The boy had died and there was nothing I could have done to save him. When I had needed God the most, when that little boy needed him the most, he failed us. My hope turned to despair. My joy to hatred. And the light that was living within me became dark. My mind was made up. I saw enough destruction to think I knew the truth. I went to Haiti a God-lover and a people-lover, but returned hopeless, lost, and a me-lover. I knew the truth now. There was no God. There never was. No God, who claimed to love his children, would allow such suffering. All we have in this life is the here and now, and all the pain and misery the world brings with it. All we have is ourselves and to have fun while we can before our time here is up, because once you're dead, there's nothing. No God, no afterlife, no hope, no new beginning. I was wrong.

Author's Note:

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