The Man Who Lived
Chapter 4
Harry sat on a cushioned table wearing nothing but a pair of orange, athletic shorts.
"Hmmm," mumbled a grey-haired gentleman in healer's robes as he waved his wand around Harry's right shoulder.
"What is it?" asked Harry.
But instead of answering, the senior healer turned his head slightly and spoke to Constance Goodbottie.
"Tell me again what steps you took."
"I cast 'Resanesco' on the joint, along with administering Grade 1 healing and pain potions," she answered. "An hour later, my diagnostic spell indicated a 75% recovery in the patient's injury. At that point, I told him that he could expect to experience some soreness for another twenty-four hours, but that if he still felt pain today, then he needed to come see me. That was, obviously, before I knew about this morning's physical."
"Can he fly for me or not, Reximillian?" growled out Coach Barker.
Harry held his breath waiting to hear the answer himself.
He'd been in 'The Repair Shop' – what the players called the infirmary - of the National Team's stadium for the past half-hour. With all of the poking and prodding that Healer Squintly had been doing, he felt like some kind of bug in a science experiment.
"Well, I'm detecting the slightest bit of inflammation," said Squintly before turning back to Harry. "You're feeling no discomfort?"
"No. None. Whatever spells and potions Healer Goodbottie used, they worked perfectly as far as I'm concerned."
He glanced at Constance, who gave him a small smile. Squintly was the senior healer for both the English National Team and the entire BIQL. Each healer that was assigned to the individual teams practiced medicine under his authority. In essence, he was Goodbottie's boss.
"So, is he cleared or not?" asked Bulldog.
"Well, I'd like to have a follow-up in a couple of days but…yes, I'll clear him to play."
Harry immediately glanced at Constance, who had a wide smile on her face and was nodding her head slightly. He smiled back at her.
"You hear that, Potter?" said Barker. "You're officially on the squad. Now, don't cock things up, got it?"
"Yes, Coach."
"We're gonna need you at your best if we're gonna make it out of Group Play."
"I won't let you down."
Bulldog gave him a nasty smile.
"It won't be me you'd be letting down, Potter. It'll be an entire nation."
A few minutes later, Harry was dressed and leaving the Repair Shop when he saw Constance in the hallway. She was leaning against the opposite wall but stood up straight when she saw him. She was smiling as she approached him.
"Congratulations, Harry. England's finally got a chance with you on the team. You'll be great. I know it."
Harry chuckled.
"I think I like your motivational style much more than Bulldog's."
Constance smiled.
"I also wanted to say, 'Thank you.' For what you said in there to Squintly. Thanks for supporting me."
"Hey, that's what friends do. And I actually meant it. I didn't have to lie at all. I think you're a great healer."
They were suddenly interrupted by a flash of light, and when they turned, they saw a photographer with a camera in front of his face and Newsome 'Nuisance' Beekman walking their way. He was a rail-thin, beady-eyed man with a long, pointy nose and a wispy mustache.
"What do want, Beekman?" Harry asked.
"How about a quote for our readers, Harry?"
"Sure. Never pet a burning dog."
Nuisance gave an oily smile.
"I meant, a quote regarding you making the National Team. How does it feel?"
"How do I feel? Well, given that there's been no announcement about me making the team, then I feel mostly confused – by your question."
"Come on, Harry. You know the official announcement will be made later today. Why make me wait? I mean, it's a shoe-in, right? After your performance on Sunday, it's a given that you'll get one of the two spots."
Harry, along with three other, English-born seekers, had been practicing with the National Team for the past year. Four seekers trying out for two spots – a starter and reserve.
"What are you doing here anyway, Beekman? I'm pretty sure this area is restricted to team personnel only."
Nuisance gave his same oily smile again.
"I'm the press, Harry. Nothing is restricted for me."
"See you around, Beekman," said Harry before turning and walking away.
"Oh, you can count on that, Harry," Nuisance called out. "You can count on that."
oOo
Later that afternoon, Harry was back at the stadium in a large conference room as the official announcement of the National Team's roster was made. Coach Barker and all the players were seated behind long tables, available to take questions from reporters. Harry wasn't surprised that most of the inquiries were directed at him. As the man who defeated Voldemort, the attention always seemed to be focused on him. He didn't particularly like it, but it was something he'd learned to deal with.
"Harry, what are your hopes going into the tournament?" asked a reporter from Quidditch Weekly.
"The same every time I put on a uniform – whether it's the orange of Chudley or the white and red of England. I expect to win."
There were a few sounds of scoffing and laughter from the press corps.
"You can't be serious, can you? England has never won the World Cup. They've only made it out of Group Play once in the last three decades, and that was eight years ago when they got trounced in the first round by Transylvania 390 to 10. And you expect to win?"
"Look, I'm very familiar with England's history on the international stage. We all are – because you lot never let us forget. But this team – the team that's sitting up here – has never played in the World Cup before. Sure, some of the of the individual players have, but as a team, no. So, we're not going to be defined by other teams' past performances. That's got nothing to do with us."
A moment later, the communication's director pointed at another reporter.
Nuisance stood up and directed a smile at Harry.
"Newsom Beekman, Lead Quidditch Reporter for the Daily Prophet. I've got a question for Harry."
Harry looked at Beekman with steely eyes, mentally preparing himself for anything.
"Harry, you have a history of accomplishing the miraculous. Surviving the Killing curse, defeating 'You Know Who'…leading the Cannons to a championship." Chuckles could be heard around the conference room. "And you just made it clear that you expect to pull off another miracle."
Harry didn't respond. He was going to make Beekman ask an actual question.
"How do you do it, Harry? How do you handle the pressure? How do you stand up under the immense weight of the hopes of an entire fan base – or, in this case, an entire nation – that expects you to, once again, be their savior? Aren't you afraid that one day you finally break under all the strain?"
Harry didn't answer straight away. He simply stared at Nuisance for a few moments.
"If I didn't know you better, Beekman, I'd think that you actually want that to happen."
The two men smiled at each other, but there was no warmth in either of them.
"Not at all, Harry. As a reporter, I'm supposed to be unbiased, but, honestly, as an Englishmen, I root for our team. So, I want you to do well."
"Of course, you do."
"But either way, I'll have one helluva story. So…your answers?"
"No. I'm not afraid that I'll one day break under the strain. Because I'm not the only one holding it up." He then lifted both hands, motioning to his left and to his right. "When we take the pitch, I'm not the only one out there. This is a team game, and I've got the best teammates in the world. We all carry the weight."
oOo
"Harry, are you alright?" asked Ginny. "You don't look so great."
Harry had his elbow on the kitchen table and was resting his cheek on his palm with his eyes closed. A cup of steaming coffee and a full plate of food was in front of him. Upon hearing Ginny's voice, he lifted his head and blinked his eyes several times.
"Yeah? Then, I look just like I feel."
"What's wrong?"
"Just…haven't been sleeping well."
The truth was that, for the past three nights, Harry was only getting a few hours of sleep. He had hoped that, after yesterday's official announcement about him making the National Team, the empty feeling would go away. But it hadn't, and he still didn't understand what was causing it. But it was clearly keeping him up at night, and he knew that he needed to resolve the problem quickly. He'd received the newest training schedule from Coach Barker yesterday, and starting later that morning, the team would be practicing virtually every day until the World Cup's Group Play began in two weeks. He needed to get his rest if he was going to perform well. While it was true that he did make the team, there was no guarantee that he'd be the starting seeker. Jonas Cartwright was the other seeker on the team, and he was about a decade older than Harry with much more experience – especially on the international stage, which Harry knew was a factor prized by Bulldog.
"Want me to head to Diagon Alley today? I can pick you up some sleeping draughts."
"Nah, I hate the way I feel afterward. Not rested at all. More like a zombie."
"Okay, well let me know if you change your mind."
It was then that Kreacher popped in with that morning's Daily Prophet.
"This just arrived, Mistress Ginny," he said before handing it to her.
As Harry drank some coffee, Ginny unfolded the paper. Harry glanced over to see the front-page headline: 'England's Savior Again?' Below the headline was a photo of Harry from yesterday's news conference. He just rolled his eyes at the sight and started on his breakfast.
For the next ten minutes, Harry continued to eat while Ginny commented on what she was reading, with him mindlessly responding every once in a while with a 'Uh huh' or 'That's nice.' That had been their morning routine for the past six months, ever since she'd unofficially moved in with him. It had, in fact, been she who had paid for the subscription to the Daily Prophet, for Harry refused to read it.
When Ginny hadn't made a comment in over a minute, Harry put down his fork and glanced at his fiancée. He noticed that her face was red and she was clenching her jaws, her eyes glaring down at the paper. She then turned her glare towards him, but she didn't say a word.
"What is it?" asked Harry.
But she didn't respond, instead getting up from the table and storming out of the kitchen.
"What in the world?" he whispered to himself.
He pulled the paper over to himself and immediately let out a sigh. On the front page of the 'Lifestyle' section were two side-by-side photographs of Harry and Constance Goodbottie. One of them was her kissing Harry after the Cannons won the League Cup three nights ago, and the other was from yesterday – he and her talking and laughing together outside of the 'Repair Shop' after his physical. The headline above the photos read: 'Potter's 'Naughty' Playmate?' with a byline by Newsome Beekman.
Harry gritted his teeth as he read the article.
'Last month, Wizarding Britain was left atwitter with the news that Harry Potter – seeker for the BIQL Champion Chudley Cannons and the man credited with defeating 'You Know Who' – had proposed to Ginevra Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. However, all may not be right with the high-flying power couple. Potter has recently been seen in the company of his once-rumored paramour, Constance 'Naughty' Goodbottie, the Cannons team healer…'
Harry didn't bother to read the rest. He knew what it would say and that it would be nothing but speculation, rumors, and innuendo. He immediately stood and went looking for Ginny. He found her in their bedroom, sitting on the bed, her fists tightly clenched.
"This is why I don't like you reading that garbage," he said calmy. "It's full of nothing but lies. You know that."
She just glared at him, her eyes glistening with tears.
"Nothing in that article was true," he continued. "Constance and I are just friends."
"So, you didn't see her yesterday?"
"No, that part was true. I did see her. Squintly requested she be present at the physical since she's the one that treated my shoulder injury."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why keep it from me if you're just friends?"
Not for the first time, Harry regretted ever having come clean with Ginny about his past relationships. During their eighteen months apart, they'd both dated other people, and, a couple of months ago, after they had gotten back together, she'd asked him about who he'd been with. He knew at the time that he should have lied and said no one, but he'd always thought that honesty was the best policy – especially with those you love. He didn't want to be guilty of the very thing that he accused Dumbledore of. Now, he wasn't so sure.
"I didn't keep it from you, Ginny. It didn't even cross my mind to mention it. That's how little I thought of the situation. I saw dozens of other people yesterday, and I didn't mention them to you either."
"I don't care that you saw dozens of other people, Harry. But I do care that you saw someone that you once had sex with, that you're still attracted to."
"I'm not attracted to her. We are just friends."
"So, you don't still find her the least bit attractive anymore?"
'It's a trap!' immediately yelled a voice in Harry's head. Of course, he still thought Constance was an attractive woman. Even a blind man could see that she was, but there was no chance that he was going to admit that to Ginny.
"No. Not at all."
"I don't want you talking to her anymore."
"I don't – other than as a player talking to his team healer. That's it. She and I don't have lunch together or go out for drinks. Anything like that. Not since you and I got back together. I've never cheated on you, Ginny. Never. Not once. Not even back when we dated the first time. And I never will. The photo from yesterday was taken right after the physical, out in the hall. Right after that, she and I went our separate ways."
Ginny didn't respond. She blinked her eyes a couple of times and then looked away. It appeared that the steam had left her a bit.
"Ginny, what's going on with you? I know you've got a temper, but I've never seen you jealous like this. You weren't like this the first time we were together."
"Yeah, well, that was before you broke up with me. And broke my heart."
Harry moved from the doorway and sat next to her on the bed. He tentatively reached out and put his hand on top of hers and inwardly sighed in relief when she didn't jerk hers away.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but I've explained this to you already. I didn't break up with you because I wanted to date other women. That wasn't it at all. Just…my head wasn't right. I wasn't in any place to be in a serious relationship. I had to get my life sorted out. That's all."
Ginny nodded.
"I know. It's just…I get so angry when I see with you her."
"What can I do to help you with this? To make you more at ease? Just tell me and I'll do it."
"You could ask for a trade to a different team, away from her," Ginny said with a small smile.
"Okay," Harry replied, his face serious. "If that's what we need…if that's what you need, I'll do it."
"What?! Harry, I was kidding. I can't ask you to do that."
"Well, I'm not kidding. I'll do it if you need me to. You're more important to me than playing for the Cannons could ever be."
"Really? You'd really give that up for me?"
Harry gazed into her eyes and nodded.
"In a heartbeat."
"Well, I don't want you to," she said with a warm smile. "Just knowing that you would is enough for me. Now, come here."
An hour later, Harry quickly got dressed and ran to the floo network. Bulldog would never let him hear the end of it if he was late for Quidditch practice.
oOo
"Thanks for seeing me on short notice."
"I'm glad that I could fit you in," replied Eugenia, motioning toward the chair across from her. "It's good to see you again, Harry. I would ask how you're doing, but I've got a pretty good idea if you felt like you needed to speak with me. What exactly did you want to discuss?"
It was mid-afternoon when practice ended, and at that point, Harry had taken a chance and dropped by Eugenia Hartwell's office unannounced. Fortunately, she'd had a cancelation and was, therefore, able to see him.
Harry took the offered seat and then exhaled deeply.
"I've been having trouble sleeping," he started, and then he told her about his last three nights, including the feelings of emptiness that had commenced after the championship match.
"Look, I'm not saying that I'm unhappy because, well, when I look at my life I have absolutely nothing to be unhappy about. In fact," he then rubbed his forehead and let out a frustrated laugh, "I honestly can't find anything to complain about. I've got everything I want. That's why I'm so confused. I've just got this hollow feeling inside. A sense of unease. That's the best that I can describe it. Like my life is missing something. And it just came on recently."
He pulled out the piece of notebook paper from his back pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the desk toward her.
"I still remember what you said when you asked me those three questions."
"Which was?"
"You said that, until a person could answer all three questions in a real and satisfactory way, they'd most likely be filled with discontentment."
"That's right. I stand by that."
"Well, for the past three years, my focus was on what I'd written there. I had it taped to my bathroom mirror and looked at every single day, reminding myself of what I wanted. Hermione says that I'm a Type A personality. Do you know what that is?"
Eugenia smiled. "Yes, I do."
"She said that I'm probably feeling empty because I accomplished my goal, and now I need another one. Could it be that simple?"
"Possibly."
Harry furrowed his brow and sighed.
"So, I spend two and a half years working for this goal, and I only get six hours of enjoyment before I start feeling empty? Really? Is that normal?"
"Well, to be honest, it does seem a bit short. I'd think that normally you'd allow yourself to enjoy the fruits of your labor a bit longer than that before searching out your next goal."
"So, that's your advice? That I just find a new goal to pursue?"
"That is life, Harry. It's not static. We humans are constantly growing and evolving. As we mature, our values and, consequently, our desires change. Your biggest desire as a ten-year-old was probably a lot different than your desires now, right? Which will be different than when your forty and when your eighty."
"Okay, let's say you're right. Let's say that tonight I come up with three new answers. I revolve my identity, my purpose, and my destiny around some new goal. Let's say, for example, winning the World Cup. And that becomes my focus. As I see it, one of two things happens. Either I fail at that purpose, which I can guarantee you won't leave me feeling content. Or, best case scenario, I do succeed. But even if I do succeed, now, I don't even know that I'll have more than a day of happiness before the empty feeling comes back. So, either way, succeed or fail, I'll be back to square one."
By the time he was finished, his voice was raised.
"You sound frustrated."
"It's because I bloody-well am," he said with some heat. He then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Sorry. I'm not mad at you."
"I know, and it's okay. You know this is a safe place for you to express your feelings."
"So, is this what you're saying the rest of my life is going to be like? Me constantly searching for the next 'big thing.' Constantly striving. Never content."
"I hope not."
"You hope not. Not real encouraging."
"I would recommend that, regardless of how you decide to answer those questions, you revolve them around something that is truly meaningful to you. Not something shallow or fleeting. Hopefully, something that won't change."
"What do you suggest?"
"I can't answer that for you, Harry. Every person is different. What is meaningful to me might not be meaningful to you."
"Fantastic," he said after a sigh.
"My advice is to do some soul-searching. Ask yourself what you value most in life. What are the things you consider most important? And if you're struggling to find the answer, then ask your friends to help. Ask them how they see you as a person. What they believe your strongest values are. It might be eye-opening. Or, if you need more assistance, I do have some personality tests and interest inventories that you could take that might give you some insight. But you need to find out what you value the most. And, then, I'd recommend revolving your three answers around that one thing. Perhaps that's why winning a championship didn't truly fulfill you. Perhaps, it's because it's not what you value the most."
oOo
"A stonemason?" asked the man behind the bar.
Harry nodded. He was standing in a small, dimly lit tavern. It was late afternoon, at least an hour before the dinner rush, so there were only a couple of customers sitting at a table in a far corner.
"You must mean Cranston Gold. Only stonemason in Godric's Hollow for the past…oh, three or four decades I suppose. Took over from his father."
"That sounds right," said Harry. "The man I'm looking for, both his father and grandfather were stonemasons, too."
"It's definitely Gold, then. He lives over on Glory Lane. Number 3, I think. Could be 4. Doesn't matter, because you'll know it when you see it. His old stonemason shop is right next door. So, you can't miss it."
"I appreciate it."
"You may not be able to talk with him, though."
"Why's that?"
"Hear he's ill. Seriously ill."
'Of course, he is,' thought Harry. 'With my luck, I'm surprised he's not dead.'
After getting directions to Glory Lane, Harry thanked the bar-keeper and exited the tavern into the bright, summer sunlight.
He honestly still wasn't ever sure why he was in Godric's Hollow. Ever since the previous day's counseling session with Eugenia, he'd been pondering her words. He'd been doing his best to follow her advice to discover what he truly valued the most. Eventually, he realized that it wasn't anything to do with Quidditch at all, but rather his relationships with his loved ones – Ginny, Teddy, Hermione, and Ron. But what kind of goals could he revolve around that? It didn't make much sense to him. And, despite the fact that he'd come to a conclusion about what he valued most, the hollow feeling hadn't gone away. It had dogged him the previous evening and throughout that day's Quidditch practice, as well.
Additionally, for some reason, he couldn't stop thinking about Dumbledore's story, specifically about the stonemason who was ultimately responsible for putting the epitaph on his parents' tombstone. He didn't know what he expected to learn from the Muggle, but something inside of him was compelling him to talk to the man. Perhaps it was his Auror training coming out - the belief that you followed every clue to the very end, no matter how futile it may seem. It was either that or because he simply didn't know what else to do.
He made his way through the cobblestone streets of the village, bypassing quaint cottages on his left and right. Eventually, he found Glory Lane and then Mr. Gold's cottage. There was indeed an old shop next to it, with a faded sign over the closed doors and shuttered windows. He opened the short, wooden gate and then headed up the stone walkway to the front door - a door that Harry could tell had once been painted bright yellow. But the weather and time had taken their toll. He felt a bit foolish as he approached the door because, truthfully, he didn't know what he was going to say the man. He honestly didn't even know why he was there.
Harry lifted his hand to knock but paused. He questioned whether he should even disturb the man given that he might, indeed, be seriously ill. After a moment, he swallowed and dropped his hand to his side. He shook his head slightly before turning and walking away. 'Leave the man in peace,' he thought. He was halfway down the path when he heard to door open behind him.
"Can I help you?"
Harry turned to see a tall, middle-aged man – his thin, brown-hair going gray – standing at the threshold.
"Mr. Gold?" Harry asked, his brow furrowed. The man didn't look ill. He also assumed that the stonemason would be much older.
The man gave a small smile.
"Depends on which one you're looking for."
Harry walked back up the path. When he stopped near the door, he could see that the man's eyes were wet, as if he'd been crying.
"The stonemason, from the 80s."
"That would be my father. Cranston," the man answered with a small nod. Harry noticed a genuine, warm smile on the man's face. "I'm his son, Festus," he continued while extended his hand. "Or Fes, whichever you prefer."
"I'm Harry," he said, shaking the man's hand.
"Nice to meet you, Harry. Would you like to come in?"
"I…I don't know. I just found out your father's ill. I don't want to intrude."
"He is…but come on in, anyway. Something brought you here. Might as well see it through."
Harry nodded tentatively and stepped into the cottage. It was small, and its furnishings were old. However, everything was also neat and orderly, clearly taken care of. There was a cozy feel to the place.
"Can I get you some tea or something else to drink? asked Festus as Harry sat down in an armchair.
"No. I don't want be a bother."
"It's no bother," said Festus with a smile. "I'll just get my sister to make it." He then nodded his chin to the other side of the den.
Harry looked in that direction and could see a kitchen table through on open doorway. He suddenly heard someone turn on the faucet and the sound of some dishes clinking together.
"Uh, no, no thank you," he said, turning back to Festus.
"Okay, So, what exactly did you want to see my father about?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He let out a small laugh and shook his head.
"I honestly don't know. I just…I found out recently that he did something for my parents many years ago. And…I guess I just wanted to talk to him about it."
"Well, Dad, he's…he's in no condition to talk."
Harry nodded in understanding.
"But I do believe that he can still hear us speaking to him. In fact, it might do him some good to hear a story from the past. If you're willing."
Harry inwardly sighed. He'd come there for some kind of answer, not to speak with an uncommunicative person. But he didn't want to be rude so he nodded instead.
Festus led Harry into a back bedroom, but Harry paused at the door and swallowed hard. Lying on the bed was one of the frailest looking people Harry had ever seen. Cranston's hands – resting on top of the sheet – were nothing but skin and bone. His blue veins were pronounced and highly visible under his thin, pale skin. His face looked skeletal, with dark circles under the eyes and a sickly tone all over. His mouth was slightly parted, and Harry could hear him wheezing softly with each breath. The man looked like he was moments away from death. Harry had seen plenty of dead people in his life, but he wasn't sure that he'd ever seen anyone that was going through the slow process of actually dying. It unnerved him.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Some form of dementia," answered Festus in a normal tone. "His mind was the first thing to go. Apparently, now, his brain is in such a bad state that it can no longer tell his body how to function. So, it's shutting down, too."
"And the doctors can't do anything?"
Festus shook his head.
"Just palliative care. We're now just doing our best to keep him comfortable until the Lord calls him home."
'Death sucks,' Harry thought to himself, with images of his parents, Sirius, Fred and many others instantly coming to mind. "It really sucks."
"I'm sorry," he said instead.
Festus gave him a sad smile and nodded.
"Me, too. I know that this isn't the way he'd want to go. And it's certainly not the way we want to remember him." Festus coughed and pointed to a chair near the bed. "Feel free to sit. Do you mind if I listen?"
"No. Of course not. He's your father."
While Harry sat in the chair, Festus took a seat in a different chair on the opposite side of the bed.
Harry cleared his throat and looked down at the floor for a moment, because he didn't even know how to start. Eventually, he collected his thoughts and brought his eyes up to Cranston's face.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Gold. My name is Harry Potter," he began. "I was born in Godric's Hollow in 1980, and I lived here with my parents for the next fifteen months."
And for the next ten minutes, he told the dying man the entire story. He started with him visiting his parents' grave on Sunday night, then flashbacked to Mr. Gold's grandfather crafting the headstone for Kendra Dumbledore, and ended the tale with the events that occurred a few days after Halloween in 1981. He omitted the magical parts, of course.
"I honestly don't know why I'm here. I…I don't know…I guess I just wondered if you remembered that happening. Doing that for my parents. Well, that and…on Sunday, when I found out the epitaph was a verse from the Bible, I went out and bought one of my own. I read the section where the verse came from, but I didn't truly understand it all. So, maybe…maybe I came here hoping that you could explain it to me."
After several moments of silence, he took his eyes from Mr. Gold and looked across the bed at Festus.
"I guess that's it. I don't think I have anything else to say."
"Thank you for sharing that with me, Harry. I don't think I'd ever heard that story before. I helped Dad in his shop when I was growing up, but I left home in '78. I suppose that's why I don't remember your parents. So, I don't think there's much I can add on that topic."
"That's alright."
"I can, however, answer any questions you have about the Bible."
"You're a Christian?"
Harry knew that he shouldn't have been that surprised, given that Festus' father was also Christian. That was how it worked, right? Children followed the faith of their parents? But he had to admit that, so far, this man was nothing like the Dursleys. Maybe his aunt and uncle weren't really Christians after all.
"I am. I'm a pastor, as a matter of fact."
"What – like a vicar?"
"Something similar, yes. But the church I pastor isn't a part of the Church of England. Therefore, some of the terminology we use is different."
Harry nodded, but more out of habit than any real understanding. The entire religion and church thing was a complete mystery to him. It was then that his conversation with Hermione came to mind.
"Actually, I do have a question, if you don't mind."
"By all means."
"Well, this weekend, my best friend and I were discussing this whole matter and she said a few things. Do you – Christians, I mean – actually believe that Jesus was God?"
Festus immediately nodded.
"We do, but it's more than that. We believe that He is God. We believe that He is still alive."
"Then, if he's still alive, where is he?"
"In Heaven, sitting at the right hand of His Father."
"His father? So, is there more than one God, then?"
Festus smiled.
"It can be confusing, huh? But, no, according to the Bible, there is only one God. However, He is a trinitarian God, which is just a fancy word that, in this context, means 'three persons.' The Bible states that God is of one essence, but that He consists of three Persons: the Father, the Son – Jesus, and the Holy Spirit."
Harry furrowed his brow.
"I know," continued Festus. "It's one of the many areas of the Bible that, even as a pastor, I can't truly explain. Even to this day, I can't really get my mind wrapped around it. And the reason is because there is nothing in this world that even comes close to being analogous to that. And I've heard them all. That the Trinity is similar to a cluster of grapes or that it's similar to a family composed of a husband, wife, and child. But all of those analogies end up breaking down. None of them adequately convey His trinitarian aspect. But the important thing to remember is that there is just one God -" and at that point he held up his hand and crisscrossed his index, middle, and ring fingers "- and that He is one."
Harry thought about that for a moment before continuing.
"My friend, she's the smartest person I know. To be honest, she's the smartest person anyone knows. I asked her if she believes that Jesus is God, and she said no. She said that she's read the Bible and that there's nothing in it that convinces her of that. She said that he was just a good man - a wise and kind teacher - but not God. So, then, why do you believe it's true?"
Festus nodded.
"There are a lot of reasons why I believe it. But the biggest reason is because Jesus, Himself, said He was."
"Really?"
"He did. So, let's think about that, shall we? If I told you right now, Harry, that I'm God, you probably wouldn't believe me. And rightly so – because I'm not. You'd most likely think that I was either out of my mind or simply lying to you. Correct?"
Harry nodded.
"Well, we can apply that same logic to Jesus. He claimed over and over to be the Son of God. So, one response to His claim of divinity is to view Him as a lunatic. A man completely out of His mind who thought He was God, even though He wasn't. A second option is that He was an outright liar. That He knew He wasn't God, but out of evil, manipulative desires, He told people that He was anyway. But, regardless of whichever of those two options you choose, you cannot say that he was a good man and wise teacher. Because wise teachers aren't insane, and good men don't lie about being God. So, I don't want to be too hard on your friend, but she clearly hasn't thought through her beliefs about Jesus if that's what she thinks of Him. Because Jesus' words themselves make that option impossible."
Harry didn't speak. He was simply analyzing everything Festus had just said. He'd have to think it over in more detail later on, but, just on the surface, he couldn't find anything faulty with the man's logic. More so, he'd just proven that Hermione was wrong about Jesus, which was shocking in and of itself. He could probably count on one hand the number of times that she had ever been wrong about anything.
"Of course, there is a third option," continued Festus, his face now more earnest than ever. "The third option is that Jesus really is who He said He is. That He truly is God in the flesh. The Lord of lords and the King of kings. So, now that you know that Jesus claimed to be God, the ball is in your court, Harry. You're going to have to decide – which is He? A lunatic, a liar…or Lord?"
Harry thought for a moment before responding.
"The issue is that you're assuming that I even care about making a decision. I've lived my entire life without answering the question of who Jesus was. So, why should I bother with it now?"
Festus smiled.
"You're right. I am assuming. Because I know very little about you. However, in your story earlier you mentioned that you visited your parents' gravesite because you felt hollow or empty inside. Correct? Well, while I may not know you personally, I do know what's in the hearts of men. And the reason I know is because God, in His Word, talks about it. That hollow feeling inside of you is your soul desiring a relationship with Jesus.
"A British theologian from the last century once said, 'If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.' Is that what you've discovered, Harry? That nothing in this world truly satisfies you?"
Harry didn't answer. He simply swallowed hard, but he never took his eyes off the man sitting across from him. It was as if the pastor was, suddenly, staring straight into him. As if his mind was laid bare before him.
"Fifteen hundred years earlier, another theologian, Augustine, said it the same: 'You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in You.'
"And here are the words of Jesus, Himself, hundreds of years before that: 'Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.'
"Rest for you soul. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"
Harry still didn't speak, but he did give the slightest nod of his head. He seemed to be breathing more deeply than before, and he could feel his heart beating heavily in his chest.
"I truly believe that's what you're searching for, Harry. Rest for your soul. And you can have it. Jesus came down from Heaven to pay the penalty of our sins. That's what His death on the cross was about. He was paying the penalty for our rebellion against God. And with His sacrifice, He bridged the gap between us and the Father so that we can have a relationship with Him now and forevermore. He came to be your Lord and Savior, Harry. You just have to decide – do you believe that Jesus is who He says He is."
"How can I decide something like that?" Harry asked, his brows furrowed. "I don't know anything about him."
"You mentioned that you bought a Bible a few days ago, right?"
"I did."
"Everything you need in order to know Jesus…all the knowledge you need for salvation is in that book. You don't have to join some special church or club to gain advanced insight. There are no extra pamphlets or books with further teachings that I'm hiding from you. Just read your Bible, and ask God to open your mind to the truth of it."
"Pastor Gold, I don't even know where to start."
The older man smiled.
"It's a good thing I'm here, then. And, please, call me 'Festus' or 'Fes.' You've never read the Bible before? Never attended any type of Christian church?"
"Never."
Festus immediately turned and grabbed an old Bible that was on the bedside table. Its cover was faded and worn. He stood and walked to Harry's side of the bed, kneeling down next to him.
"In that case, I'd recommend that you start in the book of John. It's the fourth book of the New Testament."
He opened the Bible to the table of contents and pointed out to Harry the location of John's account of the gospel. He then flipped the pages until he came to its first page. He rested his hand lightly on the page in front of him.
"Here's a pointer for you, okay?"
Harry nodded.
"Jesus routinely spoke in parables and analogies. But He was almost always talking about spiritual concepts, okay? So, when you're reading and you come across Him discussing seemingly strange things like being born again, or that He's the living water or the bread of life, or that you must drink His blood, don't let that confuse you. He's not being literal. He's simply trying to convey deep spiritual truths using earthly analogies." At that point, Festus took his hand from the Bible and motioned it toward Harry's chest. "He's talking about soul matters."
"Rest for my soul," said Harry, barely above a whisper.
"That's right, Harry. He's offering you rest for your soul."