Echoes of Newtown. Blake Fite
a quick mask of bravado, he descended the hill. In an instant, Rascal was overcome with deep loneliness. (There wasn’t much he dreaded more than being alone.) His pace quickened. The sooner this is over, the better.
As he got closer, he could see the building was some sort of museum. On the wall, he identified the form of two young soldiers constructed from a jumble of tile pieces. Beside them was a high-ranking Confederate officer. He inched closer and closer until he could read the name at the bottom of the mosaic: R. Hudson. Hmm … never heard of him.
Just to the right of the mosaic was a spear as long as he’d ever seen. Rascal removed his bifocals (a pair he’d found and adopted) and used them to catch the last beam of sunlight to illuminate the plaque below, which read:
Flint spear, 48” long, crafted by Choctaw tribe. Used for survival. In memory of Papa Joe and Mama Doris.
May God continue to shine His light on your descendants.
Just then, the spear took on a glow and shrunk to only a 10” long knife. Thinking it was the sunbeam caught in his glasses, Rascal grasped his bifocals in his fist. But the glow only grew. Without thinking, Rascal tucked the short knife in his suspenders and ran back to the orphanage. About halfway up the hill, his chest swelled with a feeling he didn’t recognize. It was a courage not his own. Wow, what is this thing? he asked himself as he ran.
Billy’s House
When the clouds at the old Picket pond faded into the darkness, Billy sat up and planned his next move. I wonder if Uncle John has rummaged up his dinner. I could sneak in, find a few scraps and get to bed without making a fuss. If he’s anywhere near as drunk as he was at the lumber yard a few days back, I want nothin’ to do with him tonight.
A few days earlier, Uncle John had thrown a few punches in the direction of the local lumber dealer who had overcharged John in error.
“It was an honest mistake, John. You know me,” the salesman said. Then, FWAP! Uncle John’s fist flew right past the man’s ear, striking a pile of cow skins behind the counter.
I don’t need that old man, Billy thought, as he gathered himself and headed to the Vogt homestead. From one hundred yards off, he saw his uncle on the front porch with his walking stick, drinking whiskey next to his rusty old knife at arm’s reach. Who knows what he’ll say, Billy thought.
A few yards closer, Billy remembered the way his uncle used to be before the war—warm, smart, mannerly—and the way the women of the town would gaze at Aunt Sunny in envy as her husband walked her home hand in hand. I guess that man is dead somewhere inside the Uncle John I’m stuck with, Billy thought as he stepped onto the property.
Uncle John looked up from his stupor. So much for sneaking in, Billy thought.
“You don’t get it, do ya, kid?” Uncle John mumbled.
Surprised at the comment, Billy stopped on the porch. “Sir?”
“You’re chosen, kid,” Uncle John said.
“What?!” Billy said. “Chosen? Who chose me?” he continued. “Uncle John!” Billy said with urgency, trying to keep his uncle awake just a moment longer to explain. “You’ve never told me about Mother. What do you mean chosen?” Billy said with no response from Uncle John. “Awe, it’s no use,” Billy mumbled.
He watched his uncle’s eyes close, marking the end of their exchange. As Uncle John faded from consciousness, his fist gently opened, revealing a shred of folded paper clearly aged by the years. Billy froze, took a second to strategize, then in one swift movement grabbed the note and ran straight up to his room without dinner. Maybe it’s from Ma, Billy thought. It wasn’t.
The note, written in the hand of his grandfather, read as follows:
The most rewarding part of man is feet without a doubt.
They carry the load of him along as he journeys and goes about.
One-foot steps out by faith to lead him to and fro.
The other keeps a vigil behind to guard him where he wants to go.
All his nerves go to his feet as a signal for health or pain.
They can feel the smallest grain of sand, temperature of the rain.
They’re the humblest part of him. They obey his command.
Christ chose them for example to be washed instead of hands.
So, when I get to Christ himself; it’s going to be so neat.
I don’t want to be at His head. I want to be at his feet.
God stuff?! Billy rolled his eyes at the letter, ignoring his disappointment. That was another one of his tricks. If you look disappointment in the face, you usually stumble into sadness, and Billy had no use for sadness. Grandpa was into God stuff, too, I guess. He re-folded the paper and blew out the light by his bed.
In bed, Billy caught himself murmuring, “One-foot steps out by faith … Awwe, shoot. That dang poem is stuck in my head!”
Billy set his eyes on the stars shining through his bedroom window and imagined his mother downstairs straightening the house while his father sharpened the knives. Why does it have to be this way?
All at once, a new thought entered his mind as if to answer his question. It doesn’t!
Billy shot up in bed stirred by visions of the new railroad and whispered to himself, “That’s it! I’m getting out of here. If Uncle John knows so much about me—wye, it’s time I learn a little about my own self.” Returning to his pillow, he said, “Tomorrow, is the first day of the rest of my life.”
Resolved to plan his escape, Billy fell asleep.
Ask Yourself
1 1.How do you define family? What did Jesus say about family?
2 2.Can you relate to Rascal’s fear of being alone? Please explain.
3 3.Why did Billy care about being chosen?
4 4.Why does Billy want to know more about his mother? Himself?
Outdoor Survival Tips: Share the Plan
Be sure to give your trip itinerary to someone who is not going with you on your adventure. Include estimated timelines and resources (like friends you’ll visit along the way and stopping points). In case you experience an unexpected hardship on your journey, sharing the plan could mean the difference between life and death!
Follow Billy’s Journey
Chapter Two
Staunton, Virginia, or Bust
Preparation for the Journey
Dear Ma and Pa,
People wonder how I can miss my Ma having never known her. Honestly, I don’t have an answer for them, but I sure know I miss you. And, Pa, I best apologize for my anger. Sometimes, I miss you so hard I just want to punch a picket that God took you away from me. Now, I know that fence picket didn’t do no harm to me, but I guess sadness just comes out like that every so often.
You taught me to be kind, and I’m tryin’. Good ‘ol Rascal keeps me honest when I get a hot head.
The way I remember it, you never threw a punch at no one ‘less they were being unmannerly toward a woman or some such. Uncle John tells me you