Dorian's Destiny: Altered (22 page)

“YOU SPEAK WISE WORDS, MY
SON. IT IS TRUE, I DID NOT FORSAKE YOU.”

Dorian was so pleased to hear God's Voice in
his mind again, he couldn't speak.

“IT BRINGS ME GREAT JOY TO SEE THAT YOU
UNDERSTAND THE REASON FOR ENDURING MY PERSPECTIVE OF YOUR SUICIDE.
OF COURSE YOU ARE FORGIVEN, DORIAN. I DID SO LONG AGO. YOU ONLY
NEEDED TO FORGIVE YOURSELF. NOW GO, BE REUNITED WITH YOUR EARTHLY
FATHER. HE IS ANXIOUSLY AWAITING YOUR RETURN.”

Filled to the brim with
God's Love, he rose from his kneeling position. He desired to
possess the token of his sin. Walking to where the device had been
discarded, he searched for the hilt of his knife. Running his hands
along the rugged bark, he stretched up as far as he could reach,
then down all the way to the roots with no success. Knowing this
was the correct tree, he repeated the entire process. His right
hand grazed against a large knot just below eye level. Peering at
the blemish, he spotted the hilt of his knife protruding dead
center only a quarter of an inch farther than the rest.

Extending his nails, he
removed bark from around the hilt of the knife. Gripping it firmly,
he yanked the knife free from its enclosure, bringing with it a
chunk of bark. A deep gash marred the trunk of the tree. Tucking
the forever reminder of his ultimate sin into one of his belt
loops, he headed to the cabin in hopes of retrieving his Bible. He
knew it would not be long after the nightly service that his father
would retire for the evening. He reached the cabin within seconds,
his eagerness to be reunited with his most precious possession
propelling him forward. He leaped onto the porch and swung open the
door in one seamless move. The interior of the cabin was as he left
it, minus a few inches of dust. His satchel hung from a post on the
top bunk. Reaching inside, he retrieved his Bible, thankfully
protected from the elements by the rugged leather. He slid the book
back into the satchel, headed out the door and raced back to the
church.

He slipped in unnoticed. The creaking of the
old wooden door went unheard, drowned out by the humming of a
hymnal. Leaning against the cold stone wall near the entrance, he
studied his father as he bustled about the sanctuary, tiding up
after the nightly service. His once black hair now streaked with
gray; his heart sank as he wondered how many strands had lightened
because of him. Seeing the evidence of his worry so pronounced, he
feared this reunion might be a mistake. How could his father
forgive him? Not wishing to cause him any more pain, Dorian
remained plastered to the wall until Father Murphy had extinguished
the final alter candle. He crossed his fingers for silence as he
opened the wooden door to make his escape, but the door eagerly
announced his departure. He froze, cringing, one foot in the
doorway, as the creak echoed through the church, bouncing from wall
to wall.

“Dorian?” Father Murphy called out
hopefully.

Cast in shadow Dorian
turned around.

“Dorian, is that you?” Father Murphy asked,
holding the candle out in a shaking hand.

“Yes,” he whispered,
pushing the word out past the lump forming in his throat. Rushing
to his father's side, he caught the candle as it slipped from his
excited hand. “I'm sorry if I frightened you,” he apologized,
relighting the alter candles for his father's benefit.

“Nonsense!” Father Murphy
exclaimed, grabbing his son by the shoulder. After turning him,
with more strength expected of one appearing so frail, he patted
his face. “Is it truly you, my son?”

“Yes, Father,” he assured, moved by how
easily his father used the words 'my son'. Two words he wasn't sure
he deserved anymore.

“Not an apparition, then?” Father Murphy
inquired, staring intently at him, afraid he might vanish before
his eyes.

“No.” Dorian chuckled as
his father finished confirming his solidarity.

“Well then.” Father Murphy lifted his
beaming face and hands to the heavens. “Thank you, God!” He shouted
before returning his attention and affections back to Dorian.
Placing his hands on both sides of his son's face, he pulled him in
close. “I have prayed for your return every day.” Tears streamed
down his face as he planted soggy kisses upon his son's cheeks and
brow.

Dorian accepted his affections without
complaint. He gazed down at his beaming face after finally being
released.

“Well?” Father Murphy asked expectantly,
arms folded across his chest.

“What?” Dorian asked, confused by the
question and his father's sudden seriousness.

“What took you so long to return?” Father
Murphy clarified.

Dorian stared at the floor ashamed. “I'm
sorry, Father, but I became terribly lost.”

Father Murphy wrapped his arms around him.
“But now, you are found.”

“I believe I am,” Dorian
replied, smiling weakly.

Returned to his usual
exuberant demeanor, Father Murphy beamed, “I am curious to hear
about your time away from me, but I need to do two things
first.”

“Okay.”

“First, I need to give more praise to God
for my answered prayer.”

“Oh, yes of course. If it's alright with
you, I'd like to be the one to offer prayer.” Dorian bowed his
head. “It's painful and embarrassing to admit, but I'm quite out of
practice.”

“I would love for you to offer up prayer,
thank you, my son. As far as being out of practice praying, I'm
sure you'll be fine.” Father Murphy patted him on the back. “It's
like riding a bike.”

“But I don't know how to
ride a bike,” Dorian admitted.

“True.” Father Murphy laughed, ignited the
same response in Dorian.

After their moment of
merriment passed, both men knelt in front of the altar, heads
bowed, hands clasped together. Dorian hesitated; the proximity to
the place where his life had forever changed filled him with
sadness. The last time he had knelt in this place, he sought
understanding for the state of his church and himself. Long had the
blood been wiped away from both but the stains haunted him.
Breathing in, he instituted his prayer, hoping his hesitation went
unnoticed. “He does not treat us as our sins deserve. Psalms
103:10. Thank You, Father, for staying true to Your WORD and
forgiving me when I am undeserving. Thank You also for bestowing on
my earthly father the same ability to forgive. Amen.” After a few
moments of silent prayer, Father Murphy rose from his knees with a
groan and headed for the kitchen. “Now, I must put on some coffee
if this tired old body is to stay vertical to hear your
story.”

Dorian stopped his father with a gentle hand
on the shoulder. “Wait. It was foolish of me to time my arrival so
late. Please go rest. My tale can wait until morning.”

“I am rather tired. Two services tend to
wear me out. I'm not as spry as I used to be.” Father Murphy
joked.

Dorian cringed, worried his father’s aging
had more to do with him than life’s natural course. “Let me help
you to bed, Father. We can talk in the morning after you've
rested.” He assisted his father to his room. “Would you like me to
tuck you in, like you used to do me?” He joked.

“That won't be necessary, my son. Just your
word that you'll still be here in the morning is all I need to
sleep soundly.” Father Murphy replied, patting his cheek for the
countless time.

“I promise, Father.”

Father Murphy smiled, pulling Dorian in
close for another kiss on the brow. “Goodnight. I love you, my son.
By the way, your room is just as you left it.”

“Thank you. I love you,
too.” Dorian remained in the small hall until his father shut his
bedroom door, then he retired to his old room. The room was even
smaller than he remembered. He laughed, realizing his childhood
room was probably too small to hold even the bed he slept on at
Thomas'
. He stretched out as far as his
tiny cot would allow. The gentle sound of his father snoring
soundly comforted his mind, allowing him to slip into his own
restful sleep.

The bitter aroma of fresh brewed coffee
assaulted his nose, pulling him out of his deep sleep. Forgetting
where he was, Dorian rolled to his left, completely off his cot.
“Ow!” He yelled as he braced himself before his face hit the stone
floor. A sharp pain resonated up his arms. Biting his lip to
refrain from using colorful language, he pushed himself off the
floor. Another groan escaped his mouth as his muscles protested his
attempt to stand straight. He hobbled toward the door, bent over
like a man three times his age, groaning with each careful
step.

Upon entering the kitchen, his gait had
improved, but not to the point of being unnoticeable. Apparently
his system was still in the mist of throwing its tantrum over being
denied its preferred food source.

Father Murphy smiled as his decrepit son
entered the room. “Good morning, rough night?”

“Actually, no.” Dorian
smiled through clenched teeth, his hands gripping his lower back as
he stood erect. “Appearances aside, I slept like a
rock.”

“You've never had
difficulty sleeping like a log,” Father Murphy laughed.

“True,” Dorian thought back
to the numerous times his father had literately drug him out of
bed, “but this time, I wanted to wake up before you.” He walked
over to the wood stove and placed his hand gently on his father's
shoulder. “Why don't you have a seat and let me finish making
coffee.”

“Do you know how?” Father Murphy asked
doubtfully with a half grin. “I didn't think you were paying
attention when I showed you.”

Dorian stared at the floor briefly. “Oh, you
noticed that.”

“I did. And I'm sure I
noticed even more that you may have wanted to remain unnoticed. I
particularly enjoyed your crinkled up nose every time I put on
coffee,” Father Murphy replied, mimicking his nose
crinkle.

“Yeah, the coffee smell
wasn't my favorite aroma coming from the kitchen.” He wanted to
express how badly he still despised the aroma, but he wanted to do
this small thing for his father. A little nasal discomfort was
nothing; he would endure far worse to see his father smile. “Now,
please sit.”

Father Murphy obeyed his
son, smiling as he pulled up a chair at the small wooden table.
Dorian finished preparing the coffee and soon joined his father
with two cups. He wasn't thirsty, not for coffee anyway. He just
wanted something to do with his hands besides tap the table or rub
them together.

“Pretty good coffee. Guess
you weren't completely ignoring me after all,” Father Murphy joshed
as he sipped the hot drink.

“Thanks, I had a great and determined
teacher.” Dorian smiled.

Minutes passed as he and his father remained
silent, each unsure of what to say, especially him. He had traveled
home for his father’s forgiveness and closure, but now that he sat
across from him, he didn't know where to begin.

As Dorian looked at his
father's face, he noted how much he had aged since his departure.
Lines of worry creased his forehead, while the laugh lines, once
prominent, had faded. Seeing the pain, he had caused his father,
caused the emotion he had been holding back to flood toward the
surface. He held his head in his hands as the tears poured from
eyes.

“
Dorian, what's wrong, my
son?” Father Murphy asked, his face creased with worry.

“I'm so sorry for
abandoning you, father. I didn't know what else to do. Can you ever
forgive me?”

“Please, look at me,
Dorian,” Father Murphy commanded, utilizing his fatherly tone. He
softened it when he complied. “There is no need for you to ask for
my forgiveness. I forgave you the day you left.”

Dorian looked at his father through watery
eyes. “Really?”

“Of course.” Father Murphy smiled. “Your
departure saddened me greatly, but I knew you wouldn't leave unless
you felt you had no choice.”

He grabbed his father,
hugged him tightly, and sobbed softly into his shoulder.

Father Murphy patted his back until the
intensity of the embrace became unbearable. “Son, would you mind
not hugging me quite so tightly?”

He released his father with a laugh,
“Sorry.” He sat back in his chair and wiped the wetness from his
face with his shirt sleeve.

That act switched Father
Murphy into disciplinary mood. “Dorian, don't use your sleeve to
wipe your face.”

“Sorry, father.”

“You should be,” Father
Murphy teased. “I taught you better manners than that. Speaking of
your sleeve, I've been curious where you came by such nice
clothing?”

Dorian glanced down at his clothing as he
answered his father. “From someone who helped me understand what
was happening to me.”

“Would you care to share that knowledge with
me?” Father Murphy prompted.

“No. I'm sorry. It's no
longer important anyway.” Dorian shook his head, then added
pleadingly, “Please let me explain. What happened changed me, or at
least tried, into someone I didn't want to be. For a long time, I
thought I didn't have a choice in the matter. I had left you out of
fear and then that fear turned to anger. I blamed God. Not only
that, I hated Him. I thought He had turned His back on me. When in
truth, I was the one who had turned away.” He held his head in
shame for his failure to follow one of his belief's most
fundamental principles, trust in God.

“Dorian, do you think you're the only one to
ever blame or even hate God?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know,
but I, of all people, should have more faith, shouldn't I?”