Chapter 2: Oliver

Tension. It's that resistance you feel when you pull the door toward you on those familiar blue boxes in order to mail a letter. You pull it toward you and feel the tension. Once your treasure is dropped it snaps shut as if to say it is done – gone – no turning back. It is irretrievable. Oliver certainly feels the tension when he opens that door to his uncertain future. It is cold and pouring rain but all he experiences is that uneasy tension that you feel in the pit of your stomach. Sometimes, when we are honest, we admit that feeling is fear.

Oliver has done the thing which scares him most and there is even a witness to his act of bravery and his disease. He felt her presence and he turned to see her watching this painful process. The man who never forgot his umbrella, who always had a topcoat stood exposed to the elements but most of all he was exposed to her.

Not knowing quite what else to do, Oliver turned and walked away into the night. He should have felt the bitter cold. He should have felt his rain-soaked clothing. He did not. Now the only thing he felt was numb. He crossed the parking lot, found his car, and drove away from the hospital. He couldn't drive away from his thoughts. The rhythmic thumping of wiper blades could not drown the words that went back and forth and back and forth in his mind. "Then what are you afraid of?"

Just as the rain had penetrated every inch of his clothing, the events of the evening permeated every fiber of his being. Clouds that had gathered and rumbled in the distance, some for decades, had finally come together and burst. A previously written letter to a missing wife – a previously mailed letter to a dispossessed grandson – a previously lost letter about a seemingly abandoned child all collide creating the perfect storm – a perfectly needed storm. Just as a dry and parched earth longs for water, each letter was filled with a longing to be quenched yet held by those who feared the rain itself.

It is easy to identify dry ground when you are standing on it. It is more difficult when you are the ground itself. Oliver O'Toole found himself standing on and a part of that desert in need of rain. And tonight – it poured and he was afraid of what may grow from it.

So much of the day resulted in lovely reunions and reconciliations leaving everyone feeling refreshed. It was beautiful to behold. And in the midst of this celebration all is restored and well. He smiles. She chuckles. They stroll.

"But, we can't all be poets, can we?"

A harmless comment.

A rhetorical question.

No. Had she read – his letter – his most personal thoughts – his confession?

Her words are like unexpected rolling thunder that causes the windows of his soul to shake.

All he really wants is the assurance that she has not looked through the pane into his life. Then he could just leave that letter neatly tucked away. Let's leave it there. It can wait – until another day – another week – another year.

She immediately and clearly states she has not nor would she do such a thing.

Good.

A nervous smile slips to his lips and now he is certain that she is about to say that she is sorry she ever meddled in his life. She is going to admit that she was wrong. She is going to issue that apology. He dares to challenge her. "Because," he interrupts. Go ahead and say because it was none of your business. Affirm that the letter is his and his alone. That she has no hold on, no right to any of him. Say, "I was wrong. You were right." Then all is safe and the storm will cease.

Instead she plows through his parched life with words that break through and cut deeply at the weeds that are choking the life out of him. Each phrase is like rumbling thunder getting ever closer. He can't bear to look at her, he can't bear to turn away. "Oh God, help."

Her eyes plead with him not out of some insatiable curiosity but out of unrequited affection for him. He knows it. No, she has not seen the contents of his letter but she has certainly seen enough. She has not seen the letter but she clearly sees him.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Her lips quiver and so does he.

He is a man standing in an arid wasteland afraid of rain.

And now he goes home – drenched.

He exits his car. It is still raining. He tries to dry the seat of the car with his pocket handkerchief to no avail. It too is wet. He enters his house through the backdoor and stands dripping on the tile floor. He starts to go forward but he hesitates. Does he remove his shoes and walk in wet sock feet? Finally, he gives up and drips his way to his bath.

Showered and changed and wet clothes hung to dry, he pours a hot cup of tea and sits by the window. It is still raining. He is certain there was a Bible verse that his grandfather would quote for such a time as this but he can't think clearly.

He sips his tea. It is warm. He is torn between thinking of Holly and trying not to think of and long for the comfort of those big pleading eyes that stood within arm's reach of him tonight. He is not free to indulge those thoughts. But for a brief moment he thinks of dancing with her, of feeling safe with her, of being affirmed by her, of being loved by her. He can almost feel her arms around him now.

But he has a wife and he has sent a letter and finally now he will have answers.

In all honesty he isn't certain what he fears the most – reconciliation or divorce. Either way he can no longer stay in the desert. He is surely withering away from lack of rain. Now, it pours.

He rises to choose a book from bookcase – some classic work of literature to distract him. He starts to pull The Man in The Iron Mask and instead manages to topple a half dozen books including an old photo album. He feels clumsy and foolish. He is aggravated with himself. He adeptly returns each book to its rightful spot except the photo album. These are pictures both precious and painful. A note tumbles from the book and lands at his feet. He reaches down and retrieves the yellowed stationary from the vibrant oriental rug.

Dear Ollie,

I wish I could be there for your first day of school. I would walk with you. We had a grand time on Boulder Creek this summer. I look forward to seeing you at Thanksgiving. I want to hear all about your new teacher and all your new friends.

Sometimes when we face something new or uncertain, we may feel afraid. You may be a little scared now. That is alright. Remember what the Bible teaches us. "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind."

Thinking of my boy,

Grandfather

The letter causes a flood of memories. He looks around the room as if he half expected his grandfather to be somewhere within the four walls. For a moment he can hear his grandfather's calming voice. But no. No one is there. He is alone.

Oliver starts to return the album to the crowded shelf when he thinks better of it. Instead he leaves it on the coffee table. Maybe he will find a more fitting place for it. The note he slips into the pocket of his robe.

He gives up on finding answers tonight, takes the tea cup to the kitchen, and makes his way to the bedroom. He can hear Ardis saying, "Well, Oliver you begin by doing the thing that scares you the most. When you face up to the scary, the rest is easy." It doesn't feel easy. It too feels frightening.

"Then what are you afraid of?" bounces in his brain. Does the answer even matter? The die is cast. The letter is mailed. Life goes on.

He begins to remove his robe when he searches the pocket for the treasured letter. He carefully places his robe across the foot of his bed and crawls beneath clean white sheets. The woolen blanket feels good on this cold, dreary night. He reads the letter once more before carefully laying it on the bedside table and turning off the light.

Lying in the dark room, he can hear the rain continue to fall gently outside. He remembers the calm, reassuring presence of his grandparents and the love they exemplified. These are such warm and hopeful recollections. His thoughts shift to the flirtatious, free spirit of a beautiful redhead and the possibilities of life together he thought she embodied. How different his marriage to her was from that of his beloved grandparents. These thoughts hurt and leave him empty. His heart thinks of the worried but welcoming eyes of his coworker and he is confused by his own longing. Tension. He must listen once more for the voice of his grandfather, "Ollie, God did not give you a spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind."

He must muster courage. He must not wallow in this spirit of fear and confusion. He is empowered to love, but his love must be pure and true. He must think, but he must think clearly and soundly.

It is still raining. He listens to the rain. He listens for peace. He listens for his Father's voice and for the rain of grace to wash away the fears of the day.

He sleeps.