Sord in Prosperity - Hope Beyond the Apocalypse

EP. 136 - SCIENCE

WE WALKED TOGETHER INTO the Forest Ranger's quaint log cabin at the top of the Canyon. I thought, "Colt would like this. A Davy Crockett kind of place."

Noah dialed my home number since I could barely recall it. The Ranger stepped outside, leaving Noah and me alone in the small, dark room.

"Mom?"

"Greg? Oh, I didn't expect you to be calling so soon. Are you guys having fun?"

"Mom, we can't find Colt. He went with Noah and the other boy on a log in the river, and we can't find him. I'm in the Ranger's station."

My mother, who two years before had been rubbing her forty-year-old husband's back when his aorta burst in front of her, let out a cry that nobody would ever want to hear. The cry of losing a child from a distance. Of not being present when it happened. Of not being able to prevent it. Of never seeing him again. Of memories holding him as a newborn, nursing him, wiping his nose, scolding him, praising him. Of his baseball games and new ninth grade love.

I don't remember much about the drive home. Still in shock, my immediate thoughts were of the frightening helicopter ride from the bottom of the canyon to the Ranger's Station. I kept thinking, 'They'll find him downstream a few miles, pissed that we left him there all alone. Pissed that we thought he was a weak swimmer and drowned.'

On the way back in the truck, I got to sit in the cabin where Colt sat hours before. We stopped at that same little roadside chapel to pray. I stood before the altar, stunned, staring blankly at the small offering table. Noah grasped my arm and pulled me downward to kneel, but I wanted nothing to do with it.

"Let's pray that someone finds him alive," he commanded.

I knelt. I even prayed. But they didn't find him alive. Or dead. Indeed, they never found him at all. No clothing. No body parts. Not uncommon for that treacherous, elusive river.

I refused to attend church after that, and my mom understood why. However, a few weeks after his drowning, on a Sunday morning, Noah rang at our front door and asked to see me. Understandably, my mom was distraught at his visit, but she allowed him in anyway.

I was sitting on my bed reading a comic book and watched as he strode into our bedroom, the room I had recently shared with my presumed-dead brother.

"Greg, would you mind coming to Sunday School with me today? It would be good for both of us."

I could see the sorrow in his face, and he, no doubt, could see the confusion in mine.

From my perspective, it was an interesting proposition. I had been thinking about the Christian Science religion since it happened. I recalled the small golden locket and its Biblical passage.

Maybe if I cleared my mind and tried very hard, I could live up to its lofty maxim and bring Colt back from the dead. Or maybe a highly revered Christian Science Practitioner, those modern-day prophets who purportedly performed such miracles, could intercede on my behalf. I wanted someone to make it happen, to fulfill the illusory promises that had been made to parishioners every Sunday.

He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. I stared at Colt's empty bed, neatly made with a tuck of bedspread under the pillow. Untouched since the day we left on the adventure.

"I don't really want to go. That is, unless we can get a Practitioner to help us get Colt back."

Noah pulled back and looked puzzled.

"I don't think we can do that."

"Why not? They always say in church that people can perform miracles like that, and apparently these Practitioners are really good at it. So why don't we just go find one and get my brother undrowned, to resurrect him, just like Jesus did and just like we've learned that some people can do."