The Gift.

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government will be upon His shoulders…"

The voice of Pastor Mark trails off as I complete the rest of the scripture in my head.

And He will be called Wonderful!

This particular part of the bible verse used to be my favorite. Once it was December, as a growing child, I would endlessly chant it around the house. It was kind of a Christmas mantra to me in those days.

But now, none of these things make any sense to me. I press my fingers to my forehead, waiting for the glorious Christmas service to just end. I don't know why I decided to attend in the first place. Since I have basically sworn off anything called church since the day beloved Jesus took my family away from me.

I’ve asked Him several times why he chose to do that. But of course, He did not give me any answers. And since he decided to go quiet on me, I decided to stay away from Him too.

After a couple of carol songs and dancing, the church service finally ends. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I stand up and make my way out of the pews, not bothering to wait for the Love Feast and before anyone starts to question me about not coming to church for so many months.

I successfully get to the exit of the church building, almost make it to the parking lot when someone calls my name from behind.

"Steve?"

Oh, goodness!

I freeze on a spot before turning around slowly. I place a fake smile on my face.

"Sister Grace," I say with faux excitement, "it's been a very long time. How are you?"

I call her Sister Grace, not because she's older than me or something — I'm actually two years older — but because she is one of those church sisters. You can see it all over her, that she needs to be called "sister". A couple of months ago, though, I never had to add sister to her name.

She smiles back at me. "I'm very well. How have you been? I don't think I've seen you in church for like"— she looks up as if counting in her head —"seven months now?"

Wow, she really counts well. I haven't been to church in exactly seven months. Someone has been keeping track, after all.

"Yeah, I've been doing stuff here and there," I say.

"Hm, stuff." She nods. "You know, you can never be too busy for God."

I let out a nervous chuckle and scratch the back of my neck. I am not ready for anyone to preach to me. I have heard all and different kinds of preaching all my life. My parents were Pastors before God took them away.

"Anyway," she continues with her catchy smile back on her face, "you're staying for the Love Feast, yeah?"

"Actually, no." I shake my head. "I have a couple of other stuff to do." I cringe at my baseless excuse.

"I think those stuffs can wait. You should stay for this Love Feast. I have a feeling it will be miraculously different."

I scoff. Miraculously indeed.

I stopped believing in miracles a long time ago. But of course, I don't tell her that. I don't want any more questions. Instead, I say, "Maybe some other time. I really have to go."

I turn to go. Walk only few steps forward before I feel her grab my arm. Still holding onto my arm, she stands in front of me. "Steve, I think you should stay." Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

I shake my head. "I have to go. I'll uh…see you."

She squeezes my arm. "Please, Steve. Stay."

I stare at her small hand on my arm and then at her face. Her eyes are pleading with me to stay back, and for a second, I almost give in. Almost. Until the picture of my parents in that fatal accident flashes before my eyes. I shake head, suppressing the tears that are about to fall.

"I'm sorry, Grace. I can't." I gently release my hand from her grip. Then turn around and walk away.

Once upon a time, I had a crush on Grace Makinwa and we were almost a thing. That was before my parents died and I cut everyone off. It was only seven months ago, but it feels like seven years.

I inhale a sharp breath and feel its chills run down my nose as I unlock the door of my car. I should head home. Home, even though it is as lonely as lonely itself, is where I am going.

I hop into my car and turn on the ignition. Swiftly, I drive out of the church parking lot. From the corner of my eye, I look into the mirror and see that Grace is no longer standing there. She's gone. Just like everybody else.

I sigh and keep going. Five minutes into driving, when I take a turn to the road the leads to Third Mainland Bridge, the silence in the car begins to mock me, so I turn on the radio. The first song that plays is a song by Chris Tomlin— Noel. I roll my eyes. There has to be a radio station that is not all Christmassy today, so I keep changing it.

I fiddle with the tuner of the car’s radio for almost ten minutes and realize there is nothing non-Christmassy. Frustrated, I groan and bang my head against the headrest lightly. It takes a few seconds for me to remember that I can connect my phone through Bluetooth. Now, where did I put my phone? I touch my pockets, not there. My eyes dart around my car as I try to recall where I put it last.

Did I leave it in church? But I did not even take it out. I take my eyes off the road for a bit, trying to find my phone. Yes, I cut everyone off, but my life practically depends on that phone. It is not even just about finding non-Christmas songs anymore.

But where on earth—

The next thing I know, there’s a loud honk from a vehicle in front of me or wherever. There’s the tires and brakes of my car screeching against the road. I hold the steering wheel firmly as I swerve to the right so fast that my life legit flashes before my eyes. I swear, I was a baby and twenty-five years old all in one second.

I start seeing everything in circles and lose count of how many times the car rolls. When the car finally comes to a halt, the first thing that hits me is a splitting head ache. Then, I open my eyes slowly and see the puffed-up air bag out of its hidden position. Next, through my blurry vision, the smoke coming from the hood of the car is visible. I know I’m supposed to move, but I can’t. My body is frozen to that particular spot because I am trying to process what just happened.

My memory is still clouded when I hear a knock on the window and someone shouting my name. I don’t respond, so the person forcefully opens the door and, with the help of some other people, pulls me out of the car. I’m still dazed as the people pull me away from the scene and into an ambulance.

In there, the paramedics start giving me first aid treatment, checking for any injuries.

“Feel any pain elsewhere apart from your head?” one of them asks.
I nod my head slowly.
He — I figure — asks, “Where?”
I mumble incoherent words and he nods like he understands.
I wince a little as he dabs the back of my neck with something that stings. Some other people in the ambulance help in fixing other parts of my body. I know I am injured and can somehow feel the pain, but I am so shocked that it makes me numb.

Once the paramedics are done treating me, it starts coming back to me in bits. My head hurts and I keel over, digging my fingers into my temples. One minute, I was driving and looking for my phone, and the next, I was involved in a car crash.

“How are you feeling, Steve?” someone asks. It’s a female voice that sounds very familiar. I turn to look at the face of the person speaking, but I can only see the male paramedic smiling down at me. Does he by any chance sound a lot like my mother?

I furrow my brows and respond, “Yes, I’m fine. I think.”

“You should have listened to Grace, you know? You should have stayed back.”

I process what she or he just said and want to agree, but I shake my head. “No. The church is no longer a place for me.”

“But you went there, didn’t you? Why?”

I think of a good excuse, which, of course, I don’t have, and say, “Nothing. I just wanted to honor my dead parents. It’s what they’d want.” Maybe this is the reason I went for the Christmas service, maybe. But I know that deep down, it isn’t. There is another reason I went to church today— a reason I don’t want to admit.

“Is that it, Steve?” This time, this question comes in my dad’s cool but strict voice. I look around me again and see that it’s just the paramedics sitting around me, waiting for me to fully recover. But then, who is talking to me?

“Who are you, anyway?” I ask defensively. “How’d you even know my name?”

“Before you were formed in your mother’s womb, I knew you. And as for who I am, you will know soon enough,” he replies. And this time, it isn’t in my mom or dad’s voice. It’s in a very different voice. A voice that holds an authority you can’t deny.

“What do you want from me?”

“Oh, nothing. But I bet you have a lot of things to tell me.”

“Me? How’d you know that?” I raise a brow and look around to make sure the paramedics don’t think I’m going crazy or something. Fortunately, they are not paying me any attention.

“Aren’t you wondering how you got here?”

“Well, not really…” I trail off. “I know how I got here.”

“Oh, good then. How?”

“I was driving home from church and then I wanted to connect my phone to the speakers so I could play something other than Christmas songs, because Jesus, who’s the one we used to celebrate during the season, took my parents away from me,” I say in one breath.

“Jesus took your parents away from you?”

“Yes!” I scream, not caring if anyone can hear me. “Jesus took my parents away from me when they were so devoted to Him. He took them away. He says He’s the savior, but He couldn’t save my innocent parents!”

“And because of that, you’re angry at Him?”

“Yes. And that’s why I wanted to change the songs so bad. That’s why Christmas holds no meaning to me anymore.”

“Before now, what did Christmas mean to you?” His voice is still calm. Asking me questions without being accusive.

I scoff. “The Birth of Christ, our eternal savior who couldn’t save my parents.”

“Have you ever thought about why you’re a survivor?”

I shrug. “Because God probably wanted me to suffer and die of loneliness.”

“But you didn’t die, did you? You’re here now, and you even survived a crash that could have taken your life. Do you think you’re still…alone?”

“I…” This time, I am not sure of how to answer him.

“Don’t you think that there’s reason you’re still here?”
I gulp down saliva. “I don’t…”
“Well, you’re a survivor because some never took His eyes off you. He’s watched you from the day you born. He’s watching you now.”

“Haven’t felt like anyone cared enough to watch me in so many months now,” I say with a humorless chuckle.

“Now I’m telling you that someone cares. And He sent others to care too. Remember Grace?”

I nod. “Yes, of course.”

“She’s been praying endlessly for you. Pastor Mark and his family, too: they have been praying. All of them. Even your grandparents and some of your friends at school.”

My eyes go wide. All those people have been praying for me? How did I miss that? Maybe because I cut everyone off.

“Think on all these things we have discussed today, Steven Orji. And maybe you’ll finally admit the real reason you went to church today,” he says. “I trust that you will?”

“I will. But how do you know all these things about me?” I ask, looking around, trying to put a face to the person I have been speaking to for the past minutes? Hours? I find nobody. My brows furrow in confusion. “Where are you?”

“I am the way, the truth and the life. And wherever you are, there I also am.”

“But—”

The sound of the vehicle coming to a halt cuts me off and one of the paramedic guys says, “We’re here.”

The door slides open quickly in front of me and I am ushered out.

“Thanks,” I say, looking around me. Trying to figure out where I am. It looks so familiar, like I have just been here.

“Anytime, Steve. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say and turn around, but to my surprise, the ambulance is…gone? And there’s no sign of it anywhere.

Huh?

I look down at my arm and see it’s in a cast. I feel something poking me in my back. Using my freehand to check, I realize it’s my phone. It’s been there all this time.  Scratching the back of my head multiple times, I try to decipher what just happened. I take slow steps towards wherever. I try to put two and two together. The voice, the people in it. Little by little, the words of the voice that spoke to me starts coming back. Then I figure out…

Whoa.

It’s not until I hear a familiar voice say, “Steve? You came back?” that I look up and finally realize I’m in front of the church I was driving away from a few hours ago.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, my mind still in a daze.

“Thank God!” she squeals. She races towards me and engulfs me in a hug, taking note of my arm that’s in a cast. I hug her back with my one arm. “God really answers prayers.”

“He does,” I reply.

When we pull away, I look down at her and smile. “Grace, I just experienced the weirdest thing. You won’t believe it.”

She grins. “Try me.”

“Okay, but first, I hope the Love Feast isn’t over yet?”

“Of course not. You’re right on time.”

We make to start going, but I stop and turn to look at her again. “Thank you, Grace. For everything.”

She nods vigorously and tucks her hand in my free hand. “Thank God.”

As we walk together, I narrate to her what she calls the strangest story ever, but I call it a Gift. I used to think that Christmas gifts were only material stuff you could see. But mine, this year, is definitely something I never saw coming.

~Ifebode.