{Jon}

When Bea heard Jon come in, she shot down the hall in her footed pyjamas, holding out a storybook. "Jonee, read to me?"

Jon hung up his jacket, feeling his dad standing on the mat right behind him. "I'm tired Honey Bee," he said finally.

Her face fell.

Jon looked down on her bent head, remembering when she had been small as Liam. She had been his favorite even then. He sighed. "Just one, okay?"

Her smile beamed again. "Okay."

They sat together on her bed, the blankets over their feet. Bea burrowed under Jon's arm to use his body as a pillow. The storm of Jon's emotions smoothed out as he read. One story turned into three, and Tabby climbed into her bed across the room to listen, too. Three stories turned into five before Jon realized Bea's breathing was slow and deep, her little body totally relaxed against him.

"Is she asleep?" he said softly to Tabby.

"Yup." Tabby got up and turned out the lights.

Jon eased Bea onto her pillows, tucking her blankets in tight. He brushed her hair back from her soft cheek. The idea of someone hitting Bea, or making her afraid jolted him with anger. He would want to be big enough to protect her and hit back hard.

The thing was, Cary wasn't big. Jon couldn't stop seeing the narrow wings of Cary's shoulder blades making his skin ripple hot red and purple and black.

Jon showered and brushed his teeth, then went into his room and shut the door. When his father knocked, he stayed silent, pretending to be asleep. He couldn't erase what he knew: God let people get hurt. Whoever that made him, he could never go back to being the shiny pastor's kid he had been.

Jon rolled over, slapping his pillow back into shape.

Jesus was in the room, leaning against Jon's desk.

Jon suddenly realized whom he was really angry with. Not his dad. Not Todd or Kurtis or the worship committee. Not even Cary's father. The person he wanted to hurt the most was standing with his bare, scarred feet on Jon's bedroom carpet.

Jon glared at Jesus. "What did you come here for?"

Jesus' face was covered with shadow. His eyes glittered in the city light falling through the window. "I came to answer," he said. "For what I've done."

The pile of things Jon was angry at Jesus for was heavy and hot on his head. "That's a lot."

Jesus was silent. The scar on the hand resting on Jon's desk shone in the moonlight.

Jon said the filthiest thing he could think of. "Cary's dad beat the shit out of him and you watched him do it. You watched."

"Jon."

The guitar string started ringing in his chest.

"Come here," Jesus said.

Jon put his feet on the floor and took a step toward Jesus, trembling.

Jesus lifted his shirt off his waistband. "Put your hand here."

There was a hole open, dark, in Jesus' side. Jon swallowed and put out his hand.

Jesus tore open. Jon's ears and eyes and mouth were full of his blood, and there was a terrible, bone-shaking cry. Jesus was full of all of it: Todd hurting him and the lies sticking to him at church, his dad's grief and Cary's stripes and more and more—all the suffering in the world. That cry went on without breath until Jon's legs couldn't hold him anymore.

Falling on his knees, Jon hid his face on Jesus' feet, covering his ears. "What is it? What is that noise?"

It was suddenly silent, and dark. He felt Jesus wrap his arms around his body, so close he could feel the warmth of Jesus' breath when he spoke. "It's me."

The frayed edge of the cry was in his whisper. Jon turned his face to the sound of Jesus' voice. His teeth were chattering. "You were saying something—what were you saying?"

He started up when he heard Jesus' answer, falling out of his bed with a thud. He curled there gasping and crying, his cheek against the carpet where Jesus put his feet. His ears were still ringing.

Jesus said: "It is finished."

///

The next morning Jon woke up before the sun had done more than pale the night sky. He laid in bed, but couldn't fall back asleep. He felt raw—like he'd been scraped with salt—and his eyes were still puffy from crying. He gave up and got out of bed, digging his Bible out of a pile of comics to take it to the kitchen.

His ribbon opened to the story of Jesus' friend Lazarus, who was sick. Jon bent over its open pages while he waited for his toast to pop. Jesus' friends travelled to bring him the news of Lazarus' illness, but Jesus stayed another two days, teaching and healing. When he finally set out to see his friend, Lazarus' sisters met him on the way, weeping because their brother was dead. The story said that Jesus wept.

Jon stared at those two words: Jesus wept. Jesus knew he had the power to raise Lazarus back to life. He probably knew he was hours away from seeing his friend again, alive. So why did he cry?

The toaster popped with a 'chunk.' Jon got up and spread the toast with butter and honey. He ate it while standing at the counter, watching the clouds shout with pink and orange in the light of sunrise.

He heard Jesus' terrible cry. It had been like standing next to the amp at a rock concert, the bass shaking his guts. Jon couldn't match the Jesus he'd seen last night with the Jesus he'd thought he knew. The Jesus he'd thought he knew was big enough to overcome sin and death and make everything new: no pain, no tears.

Jon finished his toast, tasting honey in his mouth. His forehead wrinkled, seeing the other Jesus in his memory again. That Jesus was full of pain and tears. He was carrying it all. He was that big.

Jon drew a breath and knuckled his eyes. If he could just quit crying all the time. Cary didn't cry. As if in response to this thought, he heard:

Cary has scars where his tears used to be.

Jon pressed his hand over his mouth. I didn't want to know that Jesus. I didn't want you to tell me that.

Jesus didn't speak again. Jon put another piece of toast in the toaster and waited, watching the twisty wires glow red with heat. Something popped in his brain—a completely new thought. He was supposed to do what Jesus did. Not say a bunch of wise stuff and smile all the time at his perfect life. Stuff hurt Jesus and he cried. He took other people's hurt and carried it for them.

He could do that for Cary, if he still wanted to be Cary's friend. Cary couldn't cry and Jon could. He could do what Jesus did.

Jon bowed, gripping the counter. He couldn't say it, the "yes" Jesus wanted him to say. He was stretched so thin from holding everything, he thought he might just tear apart. Don't you get tired of feeling so freaking helpless and hurting so much all the time?

Jesus was quiet, but Jon knew the answer. He'd heard Jesus' cry and seen how much he could hold.

Jon ate his toast and his mouth was dry as the crumbs. Everything spread in front of him, clear in the daylight.

Cary was suspended for a week and half. That was enough time for Jon to find new friends who didn't have such heavy problems, or get a hobby and join a sports team, or whatever. Anything would be easier than being Cary's friend.

It wasn't like he could even do anything to help, just keep his mouth shut and watch it happen. Just cry some more. Jesus, he was sick of crying.

{Pete}

When Pete got up, he found Jon at the kitchen table. He drew in his breath, feeling the sting of Jon's words from just hours ago. He hadn't expected to have to face his son so soon.

Pete tried to smile. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." Jon shut his book and pushed it aside. His Bible. Pete's heart lifted--it had been weeks since he'd noticed Jon reading it.

"Should I make us some eggs and toast?"

Jon shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I already had toast."

Pete got out the frying pan and started heating the oil. He made his voice light. "The school called. Cary's teacher was wondering if you could take him his homework today."

Jon was quiet, moving crumbs on his plate with his finger. "To his house?"

"I guess so."

Jon spread his hand on the table. "Yes. Yeah I can." He crossed his arms tight over his hoodie, looking up at the window. "I guess he doesn't have a lot of other friends to do that for him."

"I guess not."

When the eggs were done, Pete set the plates at the table and sat next to his son. He bowed his head and said grace. Jon bowed his head next to him. When he said 'Amen,' Jon lifted his fork and started to eat, still silent.

"It's good to see you reading your Bible," Pete said tentatively.

Jon chewed and swallowed. "I'm not losing my faith, dad." Color rose in Jon's face. "I know Jesus is real. I still believe the things you taught me. That's not what's going on."

Pete stayed quiet while they ate. He hoped Jon would say more, but he didn't want to set him off.

Jon set his fork down. "What happens to you if I stop coming to church?"

Pete's heart sank and he grabbed on tight to his awareness of Jesus' presence. He could not lose this son too.

Careful to keep how much it mattered out of his voice, he said, "Nothing Jon. You are your own person. You're old enough to make your own choices." He tipped his head and decided to risk it. "I hope you wouldn't make a decision like that because you were afraid of someone like Todd."

Jon made a face. "No. I would have quit going weeks ago."

Pete waited, watching his son try to find the words to explain. Jon said, "I just think people in the church don't know what it's like in the real world, how bad it can be. How bad people can be hurt."

Jon rolled his shoulders like they ached. "They don't wanna know. The kids I hang out with are invisible to them. But they're hurt and lost and I know Jesus cares about that. I know He does." He looked at his dad, his eyebrows pulled down low.

"I'm glad you care about that." Pete said. "Don't discount the church completely, Jon. There are good people there."

Jon shoved back from the table and took his dishes to the sink. "You have to say that. You're the pastor."

Pete laughed a little, sitting back. Something was different about Jon today, something had broken him open a crack and he almost recognized the Jon from before under all the anger and doubt.

Jon ran the water for their dishes. "Will the Board be angry with you if I quit?"

Pete's mouth made a flat little smile. "Not for that, no."

Jon frowned as he washed his dishes, then set his plate on the drying rack to drip. "Why do you keep doing it? You could build houses, or sell cars, or something and be way happier."

"You could be right, son." Pete shrugged. "That's not what God called me to do. I'm doing it for him."

Jon shook his head, clearly unhappy with that answer.

"And I love the church, Jon. She's the Bride. She's God's plan to be Christ in the world. There's no plan B."

"The church doesn't look anything like him." Jon's voice was rough with emotion. "I would follow him anywhere. I couldn't care less if I never see a church again."

"Would you follow him into a church?" Pete asked carefully.

Jon drew back, shutting his eyes. "You think Jesus loves the church?"

"I know he does."

Jon's eyes were still closed. For a moment nothing was hidden in his face; he looked so hurt and troubled Pete had to resist the urge to put his arms around him.

Jon's voice was small, like he was talking to himself. "I just don't see how he can hold so much hurt and keep loving people." His sigh shook his body and he turned to go.

"Jon?"

His son looked back warily.

Pete's smile had happiness and sadness mixed up together. "Thanks for the talk."

A corner of Jon's mouth lifted in return. Pete watched him go, praying for him as Jon went. He remembered Jon as a little boy—how he used to climb onto his lap to plant a big kiss in his beard. He remembered how precious Jon's "Love you, Daddy" had been then. And how much easier it had been to get.

*So I tried to write here about the Jesus I met in the middle of some dark stuff in my own life, a Person with us in suffering. What did you think? I tagged this story 'supernatural' because maybe this Jesus seems as real as the wizarding world of Harry Potter, and that's okay. He makes a good story and good stories are always true.*

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