PRECIOUS LORD

The sky matched John Stewart's mood. After a night of soul searching and reflection, the new day greeted him with a somber countenance. Gray clouds mocked him as he walked his neighborhood for what could very well be the last time. Instead of pouring out a cleansing rain, they instead dripped precipitation on him like a child's runny nose. The atmosphere reflected the dour expressions that met him on his walk. Lennox Avenue was only 10 blocks from his apartment. On a normal day, those blocks strolled by in one large blur. This evening, however, each block stretched for miles.

From a distance he saw the havoc inflicted upon the venerable old red brick building. It's southern wall gaped a large hole. The roof caved in at the mid-section. All the windows broke out in a jagged mosaic of colored glass. Stewart's heart sank in chest as he viewed the wreckage. How many times had coming to this place uplifted his spirit, especially the difficult days following the funeral? No matter how terrible the week had been, he would find refuge inside the red structure. Sure, its seats were worn and the floor creaked like an old man's bones, but no other place offered the chance to wipe clean the slate of the previous week's trials and tribulations.

As he moved farther down the sidewalk, his ears picked up the sounds of people singing and clapping. He could not help but grin. The pounding bass line and snappy snare beats created a rhythm for his last few steps. A large green tent had been erected to serve as a temporary sanctuary for the members of New Salem Baptist Church. Stewart instantly recognized the reason for the commotion. Pastor Sterling's dynamic baritone rang out as he lead the congregation through the opening praise:

Hold to His hand, God's unchanging hand
Build Your hopes on things eternal
Hold to God's unchanging hand

Trust in Him who will not leave you
What so ever years may bring
If by earthly friends forsaken
Still, more closely to Him cling

Hold to His hand, God's unchanging hand
Build Your hopes on things eternal
Hold to God's unchanging hand

Stewart saw Al McGee sitting in his customary seat in the second row just to the right of the pulpit. McGee's face lit up as he saw the strapping male he helped mentor into manhood take a seat by him.

McGee grasped Stewart's hand heartily. "I'm so thankful you made it, John. As you can see, the old place is in shambles."

Stewart's jaw tightened. The invasion had cost him so much. He was drained physically, emotionally, and now his spirit was on the verge of being drained as well.

McGee continued, "John, I know that your life as superhero doesn't leave a lot of room for friends and family, but do you think you could help us? I know how much this place once meant to you, so I..."

Stewart didn't answer. His head fell a bit as he wrestled for the words to say. "How can I help these people when I'm not sure I can even help myself," he thought. He sighed, "Mr. McGee, Al, I don't think..."

His reply was cut short as Pastor Sterling once again addressed the congregation. His head glistened as small beads of perspiration popped up along his brow. Although his head was draped completely in silver, the preacher had the energy of man half his age. Stewart remembered how he always welcomed him into his office to just talk. Many times they wouldn't say anything. Stewart would just sit in his office doing his homework. Moreover, Sterling made sure that the young man always had some change in his pocket.

"Friends, recent events have tested our resolve, our commitment, and our faith. Yes, the loss of our building was devastating. Many of you have even wondered why God would allow such a horrible thing as that invasion to take place. Eventhough I can't give you a simple, easy answer, I can tell you that God has not left us nor forsaken us."

Stewart listened intently as many in the congregation nodded their agreement with "amen". He looked around. Old and young alike sat riveted in the chairs. A newcomer might think that this tent was their normal meeting place.

"I understand that many of you lost loved ones and friends during that horrible episode. We try to comprehend why things happen the way they do. When we can't, we get angry. We get angry at the ones who took our loved ones away. Mad at the loved ones for leaving. We even get upset with ourselves for being unable to prevent the situation from occurring. And when we really get down deep, I mean down beneath that phony exterior we like to show to the public. You know, the one where we make sure everyone thinks we're keepin' it real. Underneath all that, our anger is actually pointed at God."

John Stewart's vision narrowed. He leaned uncomfortably forward in his chair.

"I know that no one in here would ever admit to being mad at God. After all, how can you be mad at God? Yet, if we carefully examine our attitudes, we would discover that those 'O Lord, if only' statements make subtle accusations against God for not doing things the way we think best. But I believe that God can take even our worst pain, fears, and sorrows and still cause the Sun to shine on a cloudy day."

Even as many in the congregation started shouting out praises, John Stewart's mind tortured itself. He remembered the anger at being tricked into providing information to the invaders. His heart broke at seeing his teammate fly into the arms of their leader as the Lantern was led away in chains. He cursed himself for being so gullible and trusting. His head pounded in confusion as she freed him out of his shackles and gave him back his ring. His excitement in defeating the alien adversaries and their winged captain quickly dissipated when he met her on that hilltop:

"John, I'm so sorry for betraying the earth. I know everyone hates me
now. So, I've decided to leave and never come back."

"Not everyone hates you. I... I don't hate you."

She caressed his cheek with her hand. Tears rolled down her face.
"You have such a large heart, John Stewart. It should belong to
someone worthy of it. Not someone who would break it."

"I'm sure we can do something... work things out..."

"No, Lantern. The damage has been done. It's time for me to go. But
I want you to know the truth." She paused to fight back the sobs. "I
don't love him, John. I love YOU."

She turned her back to him and flew off into the clouds. He wanted to fly after her. He wanted to bring her back. But he stood still like a lifeless stone. He tried to sight her among those clouds but to no avail. He stood there. He just stood there. And for the first time since his mother died, John Stewart cried.

Reverend Sterling continued. "Many of us feel our lives are as broken as that building across the way. We don't see any future or any hope. We stumble in complete darkness. There is no light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. BUT I have good news for you. There is a light for us. A light that penetrates all darkness. Turn in your Bibles to Psalm 119:105. Let us read together."

Your word is a lamp to my feet
And a light to my path

John Stewart's eyes widened as heard the verse. Psalm 119:105. 119:105. Those were the numbers imprinted in his book. Psalm 119:105 was the first scripture he memorized as a child.

"Normally, I don't do this. However, I see a face in the crowd that I've not seen in quite a while. As a boy, he and his mother would perform a piece for us. And if I could impose upon him, I think everyone here will be blessed. Brother Stewart, John, I hope you don't mind..."

Stewart's eyes turned as big as saucers. Reverend Sterling couldn't want him to perform that song. How many years had it been? He sat there for what seemed and eternity. He felt every gaze knife through him. But how could he refuse? Pastor Sterling had never refused to help him no matter the circumstance or hour.

He blinked twice as approached the old piano. Somehow it had survived the building's demise. It's once lustrous finish was badly faded. Several of the keys were chipped and or possessed cracks. No doubt that it probably could use a good tuning.

As he settled onto the hard wooden bench, he felt that familiar hump in the middle. He chuckled to himself. That hump developed from the rather large frame of Brother Jones, the choir director. His grin quickly turned upside down as he lightly tapped the keys. He knew what song Pastor Sterling wanted him to perform. He and his mother would sing it every first Sunday. They would share the bench together. She played the melody. He played the rhythm.. Since his legs were too short to reach, she worked the foot pedals.

He took a nervous breath and started playing. The congregation fell deathly quiet. He missed the notes on the first bar. He smiled wistfully as some in the chairs offered encouragement, "That's okay baby." "Take your time." "Help him, Lord."

He flashed a quick look at Mr. Mcgee who slightly nodded. He took another breath, but as he reached to stroke the keys, he felt an odd presence. His memory quickly returned to watching his mother place his hands on the keys and guiding them to the correct chords.

"John, let it go. Let it go," whispered a reassuring tone. "John, I love you. I always have and always will. Now let it go.

He uttered a small prayer and began playing. His hands trembled as they massaged the keys, but he hit every note. The assembly started rocking slowly in their seats as they heard the piano ring out the timeless standard. John Stewart added to the ensemble. His bass voice strong and pure:

Precious Lord, take my hand,

Lead me on, let me stand,

I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;

Through the storm, through the night,

Lead me on to the light:

Take my hand, precious Lord,

Lead me home.

Al McGee watched. Tears slowly rolled down his reddened cheeks. His eyes closed as he listened to his beloved former student begin to find that peace he sought for so long. Unknown McGee, a slim figure took residence next to him

"I never knew that he could play and sing," a voice startled McGee back to the fore.

"Oh, yes... yes! It's been so long! Whatever happened during the invasion really hurt him. I think tonight he will finally be at peace."

"I hope so. I hope so," the figure said under its breath.

McGee turned to get a better view of his conversation mate. A full scarf covered its head, and dark glasses obscured the eyes.

"Do you know, John?"

The figure didn't respond; it's vision fixed upon Stewart.

When my way grows drear,

Precious Lord, linger near,

When my life is almost gone,

At the river I stand,

Guide my feet, hold my hand:

Take my hand, precious Lord,

Lead me home.

As the final note faded into the night, John Stewart rested his hands on the piano and sobbed uncontrollably. There were no dry eyes in the tent. Pastor Sterling and Al McGee went to the piano and wrapped comforting arms around the supine hero. McGee glanced back to his seat, but the slim figure was already headed for the exit. In the figure's seat he spotted a small bird. McGee smiled to himself. All would indeed be well for John.