This is a sequel to the episode "A Winter Carol" from Touched by an Angel. It takes place in 2016, fifteen years after 9/11. The title is taken from the song "Pray Away the Rain" by the contemporary Christian songwriters Andrew and Mary Beth Jones. I included the lyrics because I felt they summed up the premise of the story. If this is considered copyright infringement, I will remove my story, without a moment's delay.
Skip the italicized forward if you want to cut to the chase.
Warning: Controversial content. If the Iraq War is a touchy subject for you, just pass this story by.
(I remember when "A Winter Carol" first aired on television as a child. It was made a few months after 9/11, when most Americans-my family included-were trying to make sense of the national tragedy and believed the official account of the events. However, more than twenty years have passed, and private investigative journalists and historians have uncovered overwhelming evidence that the Neoconservative narrative concerning weapons of mass destruction in Iraq was a politically motivated hoax to justify their ousting of Sadaam Hussein and seizure of the country's oil fields as a great investment for themselves and their superiors-bankers, lobbyists, corporations, billionaires and other oligarchs. There are even some who believe 9/11 itself could have been a Northwoods Operation orchestrated by the FBI to use Osama bin Laden and Al Queda as a scapegoat to give the U. S. government a launching pad for their enterprise.
Knowing, what we know now, my heart breaks for the character of Patrick Lewis in "A Winter Carol" as he joined the army thinking the war was for a righteous cause. I often wonder how he and his family would cope with the revelations in the years to come.)
"I wear this color for the thousands who have died believing that the Lord was on their side. I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died believing that we all were on their side." _Man in Black by Johnny Cash
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It was a cool autumn day in Newark, New Jersey. Twenty-six-year-old Benjamin "Benny" Lewis was sitting on a park bench composing a song with his guitar and notepad. He knew what he wanted to say but somehow the words escaped him. Sometimes it took a whole month of thought to find the right words and when they came, he would put aside whatever he was doing to write them down.
During his parent's divorce, Benjamin had a music teacher named Bill Harper. Bill saw Benjamin was an angry little boy, so he suggested drum lessons as an outlet for his frustrations and in time the anger turned into music. Benjamin was not only a drummer now, but a pianist, guitarist and songwriter. His mind was filled with words and melodies that danced like butterflies in a garden.
He had always wanted to go to college for music and become a teacher himself and perhaps an organizer for musical events in town to carry on Mr. Harper's legacy. His mother however disapproved saying his salary would be small and therefore it was best to find something more practical. So he worked for a computer software company and contented himself with his YouTube, Facebook and Twitter blogs and the occasional recital at church. Secretly he hoped one day, things would change.
Benjamin and Victoria had long moved from the town in New York where she served as mayor, fifteen years ago. They resided in the peninsula of New Jersey that overlooked the skyline of Manhattan. It was a small white house covered in ivy, with a cinnamon-colored roof and a garden of camellias, roses and hydrangeas, lovingly cared for by Victoria. She had retired from community service and gardening became her new obsession the way music was with Benjamin. Just as Benjamin never seemed to run out of ideas to create new music, she never tired of finding new ways to remodel the lawn.
"I'm home!" Benjamin called as he entered the house. "Mom...Mom are you there...?"
He heard silent weeping in the living room. There she was all curled up in a corner with the telephone off the hook.
"Mama...?"
She looked up at her son. Her eyes and cheeks were red and her teeth were chattering. He read her face.
"Is it Patrick...?"
She nodded silently.
Benjamin had no words-only open arms.
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Patrick had retired from military service in 2004, He became an accountant and took a wife named Marissa. They were married in the Methodist church of his childhood. How splendid they looked as they stood before the altar-him in his white uniform and hat with gold and black trimmings, adorned with medals for his glorious deeds on the battlefield, her in her long trailing white dress and veil with lacy flowers and sparkles-hands clasped, as they took partook of the sacraments of the Last Supper and made their vows to God. They had been blessed with a beautiful home and two little girls as sweet as rosebuds. One would think, Patrick's wartime experiences had never been.
But last year the trauma had finally caught up with him and he was drinking in secret. He had become nervous and jumpy and would lash out at his wife and coworkers without meaning to. He apologized profusely, promising it would never happen again, but it did, and it seemed he had no power over himself no matter how hard he tried.
The last straw was when he hollered, cleared the living room table and dashed the television against the wall. His wife pulled out a gun and said, "Get out of my house!"
"Marissa." he gasped, finally coming to himself. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."
"Get out of my house." she repeated.
Patrick took a long walk to 'breathe himself.' When he returned, he found a group of suitcases his wife had packed for him.
"There are little children here." she said. "Go find yourself an apartment to act crazy in and don't come back until you're sober."
"Marissa please..."
"If you don't get out of here right now, it's 911. I'll put a restraining order on you. I mean it."
Patrick sighed. Before he drove away, he said "Just remember...no one benefits from a war except the ruling class."
Marissa was puzzled. What did he mean by "The ruling class?"
A few months ago, Victoria and Benjamin visited Patrick, urging him to enroll himself in counselling and therapy. He went dutifully but the psychiatrist warned them he was having suicidal thoughts, and it was best to stay prepared.
That was why Benjamin read his mother's face when she received the telephone call that afternoon on yet another September 11th. The landlord said it looked as if he blown his brains out.
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The days between Patrick's death and funeral were a great confusing blur for the Lewis family. Victoria stayed in bed and let Benjamin and Marissa handle the arrangements. Benjamin waited until the body was carried out before going into the apartment and he insisted the casket remain shut-he wanted to remember his older brother the way he was-that kind young man who played sports and watched TV with him-before the war destroyed him.
Benjamin thought of that terrible day so long ago when he learned his music teacher Mr. Harper died in the Twin Towers and he destroyed his drum set in a fit of rage. Patrick had been his greatest comfort. If only Benjamin could have returned the favor-if only he could have found the right words to get through to him...
The room looked exactly as it had the day he took his leave from this world and all it's cruelties and injustices-disorderly and desolate as his mind must have been. Benjamin opened the windows to let out the stench of liquor and sprayed some air refreshener. Then he went through the various items, most of which ended up in the trash bag.
The only salvageable possessions he had brought were his Bible, iPhone, wristwatch and a few books below the nightstand. Such strange books they were with titles like 9/11: The New Pearl Harbor, The New American Century, Global Deceit, The Neocons: Their Doctrines and Agenda, Operation Northwoods, The Hegelian Dialectic, The Iraq War and the Neoconservative Lies that Got us There and The Mystery of Building 7.
Benny cringed, puzzled. Patrick had never had a head for history and politics. Why this sudden fascination? He had seldom spoken of his adventures overseas when he retired from military service. Whatever it was that happened, he really wanted to keep it to himself. Could it be, he wanted to gain a deeper understanding of his part in all this?
On the nightstand was a note.
"They wanted this war and they deceived us all. They sacrificed their own and then they slaughtered thousands overseas...all for OIL. I shot disarmed men, women and children in the streets with my squadron and laughed, believing I was cleansing Iraq from the stain of Islam because that was what we were programmed to do. They had names and voices of their own-beautiful Arabic names-and we called them by grunts and curses. We were apes-they were human.
I wish I had chosen differently a long time ago. Maybe Jesus will still save me."
Patrick
Benjamin's wounds broke afresh. He followed his natural instinct to dash one of the books against the wall and howl. Damn those conspiracy theorists! They had taken his brother's life with their paranoid beliefs! He remembered hearing some of his mother's friends express such sentiments over the years. He had always tried to wipe them out of mind. Why, oh why did Patrick have to look into them? Why couldn't he just move on with his life and be happy?
Why?
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As the coffin was lowered into the ground, a bugle played Taps and the pastor read from Revelations.
"And I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth: for the first Heaven and the first Earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I, John, saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of Heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of Heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. And he said unto me, It is finished. I am the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. I will give freely unto him who is athirst for the fountain of the water of life. He who overcometh shall inherit all things; and I shall be his God, and he shall be my son."
Victoria felt as though she were in a trance as she was given the folded flag that draped across Patrick's coffin. She had been given time to prepare but it was still so hard to believe he was truly gone. Wherever he was, she hoped he had found peace.
The next day she got up early and took a walk. Benjamin laid on the couch and tried to go to back to sleep. He had requested a week's leave of absence and wanted nothing more than to rest and reflect.
He had not thrown away his brother's books-they were hidden underneath his dresser. He told himself he didn't know why he had preserved them but secretly he felt a hidden curiosity that would not be satisfied if he pretended, they didn't exist. He tried to play the guitar, but the notes failed him, so he went back to the couch. The more he tried to think of something else, the more he thought about this horrible yet fascinating new world his brother had dug so deeply into. Could it be there was some truth to it after all and it was simply too much for Patrick to handle?
Very slowly and very carefully, he approached his room, knelt down and slid one of the books out from under the dresser. He examined it thoughtfully, then put it back. He tried to leave the room, but it was no use. He returned, picked it up and opened it...for the end of man is to know...
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Anderson, one of his former piano teachers.
"Hi, I was just on my way home from work and thought 'Why not pay one of my best students a visit?' How have you been?"
Benjamin sighed and smiled bitterly.
"I suppose you haven't heard."
"Heard what?"
Benjamin blinked back tears.
"My brother died. We just had his funeral yesterday."
Mr. Anderson gasped and stepped back. These words were like cold water poured down his back.
"Oh God...I am so sorry. I didn't know or I wouldn't have bothered you. I haven't spoken to you in almost a year. What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it. What's done is done."
"Well, I'd best be going. I had something really special to share with you but I'll catch you at a better time."
"No it's okay. Tell me what it is."
"Well...I'm friends with one of the music staff of Pace University. That's in New York City. I showed him one of your videos and he was very impressed."
Benjamin smiled. Fame had never meant much to him but it felt good to be noticed.
"Which one?"
"The one of you playing 'A Boat on the Ocean' by Maurice Ravel."
"Oh yeah. I'll never forget that. That was very intense."
"Well, he said you're really, really good-better than many of his own students. And he was wondering if you'd like to apply for a scholarship next Spring. Who knows? Maybe you can become a music instructor one day."
"Well...the thought has occurred to me. I've just been so busy."
Mr. Anderson took a card from his breast pocket.
"I understand. Here's my address and phone number. Call me when you're feeling better, and we'll talk it over."
"Thanks."
"Tell your mother I'm really sorry."
"I will."
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The wind whipped through the trees, scattering leaves of gold, orange and red like confetti in the air. A flock of silvery gray pigeons alighted on a bench to recieve seeds from an old lady. Squirrels stored their acorns in the hollows of the trees for the coming winter. A father was throwing a frisbee for his children and cocker spaniel.
Yet Victoria walked stifly and stoically through the sidewalks, unaware of her picturesque surroundings. She thought of that fateful day Patrick had announced his enlistment. She had scolded him saying he was being impulsive and untrustworthy, making such a life-altering decision without consulting her first.
"Son." she protested. "What we have to do is carry on with the lives we were living before."
"How can you tell me to do that when you can't?" he protested. "All I know is my little brother's heart is broken. My mother hasn't laughed in three months, and I can't walk into a Christmas shop and hang holly and tinsel and talk about peace on Earth when I know there isn't any. I've got to do this. All right? I'm sorry. I love you, but I've got to do it. Otherwise, I'll never be able to live with myself."
If Victoria could only turn back time, she would have said "Vengeance won't honor the friendship you had with Mr. Harper. All you will do is give power to those who instigated this terrible event."
Then again, maybe that wouldn't have dissuaded him either. He was proud and stubborn just like her. He internalized his feelings to the point of sickness, rather than come to terms with them at once. Perhaps that was why it took so long for the horrors of war to consume him.
She shook her head and whispered. "Lucky boy...For you, to strike one blow would settle all accounts in this black world, wouldn't it?"
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Two months passed and Benjamin finished two of the books his brother had stored. There were six others, but he did not care to read further. He had no words...just a deep emptiness inside. He didn't suppose he would ever fully understand the complexity of 9/11 and the machinations of the war it set in motion. But if THAT was what it was...it was small wonder living hurt too much for Patrick. Benjamin promised himself he would never mention such things to his mother-she had suffered enough. She had always been a proud American and perhaps the blue pill was better for her.
He knelt before the grave and laid a fresh bouquet.
"Benny's here." he said. "I know now...who really did it...and why...Oh God...I can't believe this is real...Why?...Why...?"
He wept until his face was flushed and his head, throat and sides ached.
"Benjamin."
Benjamin lifted his head. A man dressed in white was standing on the other side of the stone. He seemed to have come out of nowhere.
"Who are you?"
"Do you remember me?"
Benjamin studied the stranger's face.
"I... think so...Are you the man...who taught me the drums...when Mr. Harper died?"
"Yes. My name is Andrew. I am an angel sent from God."
A soft warm light seemed to emanate from his body.
Benjamin stepped back and rubbed his eyes.
"Am I hallucinating?"
"No. I'm very real."
Slowly, Benjamin's hands formed into clenched fists and a bitter smile crept across his face.
"Well...if THAT'S what you are...all I've got to say is, it's real fine of you to show up after all this!"
"Benjamin..."
"No! I won't stay to hear this! He could have stopped it but he didn't! I won't believe in a God like that! He's not my God-he's yours and you can have him."
"Benjamin..."
"JUST SHUT UP! WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!" Benjamin screamed. "I HATE YOU! OH GOD, I HATE YOU! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"
Benjamin collapsed in the grass and wept once more. A tear found its way through Andrew's eyes as well and slipped through the lashes. And what a large tear it was-so bright and radiant with the facets of a diamond that for a moment Benjamin thought maybe Andrew was more sorry for 9/11, Mr. Harper and Patrick than he was.
Andrew touched Benjamin's face and his tears disappeared. Benjamin sighed.
"Son...I was there. I was with a host of angels who entered the towers moments before they fell. I told Mr. Harper what would happen. Do you know what he said?
"Tell my family I love them more than words can say and tell Benny he's going to be a marvelous musician one day."
"He thought of ME?" exclaimed Benjamin.
"Yes...I took his hand as the floor he stood on dissolved to dust and we went whirling through the universe, singing praises to God. He didn't feel a thing."
"And what about my brother? All those terrible things he did in the war. Is he in hell?"
"I was with him too. I told him how his death would affect his family, but he was so broken, he could not understand me. All he said was 'Tell God, I'm sorry.'"
"Yes...he wrote something like that...Does that mean...he made it...?"
"Yes. Your brother is in the presence of God and that is where he needs to stay. Yes, his mind was damaged from the war, but his spirit was very much alive. It was his spirit, he heard, it was his spirit he sustained. He's not asking you to forget, he's asking you to forgive."
"God can forgive them...I won't." he sobbed.
"Have you ever heard of Stephen the Martyr? He was stoned by his enemies for bearing witness to the glory of God, yet he said 'Father, do not hold this sin against them.' Because he asked for the Spirit, he was given the power to do what he could not do on his own strength. And it is that same Spirit who is calling out to you now, 'Beloved child, let me heal your heart. Let me make you whole again.'"
Andrew laid his hand on Benjamin's shoulder. A white dove descended on them, and a great light shone and suddenly, Benjamin was all alone.
At first, he thought he must have been dreaming. But then he saw the angel's footprints in the grass and knew he was truly a messenger of God.
He would not lose his joy for life as Patrick had. He was still here and had much to live for. As long as he drew breath, he would continue to plant seeds of music to serve as a living witness of the certainty of the hope he had been given.
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When Benjamin returned, he found his mother talking to Mr. Anderson. There was a large bouquet on the coffee table, the music teacher had brought as a gesture of sympathy.
"Benny!" said Victoria. "Mr. Anderson is here. He wants to talk to you."
"I know what it's about." said Benjamin, smiling. "Is there still time to apply for the scholarship?"
"Absolutely." said Mr. Anderson. "They want you to learn a piece from three periods-Baroque, Classical and Romantic. Do you think you can get that done by April?"
"I'll try. Do they have summer scholarships as well?"
"Yes. The applications are in July."
"I'll do that then. That will give me time to prepare a Prelude and Fugue, a Sonata and a Romantic piece."
Mr. Anderson handed Benjamin a group of fliers.
"Well, I'd best be going. Here's a brochure. I wish you well. If anyone deserves to be successful, it's you."
"Thank you."
When Mr. Anderson left, Benjamin turned to his mother.
"Well...what do you think...?"
Victoria looked a little sad.
"It doesn't matter."
"Well, you've always been skeptical about me pursuing a musical career..."
"It doesn't matter." she repeated, this time a little sharply. "You'll go off and do your own thing no matter what I say..."
She left the living room and muttered under her breath.
"...Just like Patrick."
Benjamin followed her into her room.
"Mom..."
But words failed him. She was crouched over on the bed, sobbing silently. He put his arms around her and rocked her back and forth just as she had when he was a little boy. Silence was best at a time like this, and he knew her well enough to understand she would accept and support his decision when her mind was clearer.
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The next day, Benjamin took up the unfinished draft of the song he had begun before his brother's passing. He picked it out on the piano several times and tried to imagine how he would finish it. Once again, the words escaped him.
"Mom, I'm going out."
"Going where?" she asked, looking up from her knitting.
"I don't know. I just need a drive. I'll be back soon."
Benjamin's journey led him to the tip of the New Jersey peninsula that overlooked the plot of land where the skyscrapers of Manhattan stood, like a man-made forest, each with it's own unique height and design. Standing above them all was the New World Trade Center-a large blue crystal tower with tapered edges that emerged from the ground like a piece of quartz. Benjamin had only been there once; while it was exciting going up the elevator with the digital artwork and looking through the windows of the highest floor, an aching sadness gnawed at his heart as he had been there several times as a child at the restaurant of its predecessor-the restaurant where his first music teacher had breathed his last. When he exited the building, he walked pass the twin marble fountains with all the names around the edges and looked for William Harper. He was not there as he had only been a visitor not an employee. It was too much for Benjamin and he vowed never to set foot there again.
Whatever happened, he knew it was not his place to settle the score as Patrick had believed. Man's justice may have been sounded but one day they would all face God's justice and that was enough.
He took a large trunk with all the belongings he had gathered from Patrick's apartment and with a great effort, hurled it over the railings, into the ocean. It made a tremendous splash, then grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
Benjamin looked at the sky and smiled. For the first time...he was whole again.
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While Benjamin was gone, Victoria decided to take a drive herself. Her journey led her to the house of her daughter-in-law Marissa and granddaughters Grace and Lydia.
"Grandma!" shouted Lydia.
She ran across the grass and embraced her. She was four years old, wore a soft pink dress and had thick dark hair, dark eyes and a round cherubic face as sweet as a porcelain doll.
"Where's your mommy?" asked Victoria.
"She's in the house." said Lydia. "She told me I could go outside as long as I stayed in the yard and didn't talk to strangers."
"That's a good policy." said Victoria.
The two of them went inside holding hands.
Marissa was reclining on the couch looking through a family album with a disconsolate expression.
"Victoria." she said, smiling weakly.
"How are you?" said Victoria giving her a warm hug.
"Oh, just surviving."
"What have you been doing?"
"Nothing much. Just cooking and cleaning and watching over the kids."
"How are your parents?"
"They're allright. They called me yesterday...I still talk to a picture of him...I know I shouldn't...I'm just not ready to put those pictures away..."
"It's allright...Where's Grace?"
"She's upstairs. And I wish you'd speak to her. I can hardly get a word out of her."
Victoria smiled.
"I'll go to her now."
Six-year-old Grace was lying on the bed, examining one of her stuffed animals. Her room was filled with dolls and toys yet she had no interest in them.
"Hello." said Victoria.
Grace turned and nodded silently.
Victoria sat next to her.
"Would you like to take a walk with me?"
"No... I'll be all right."
"What would you like to do?"
"Just leave me alone."
Victoria got up and went to the door. But then she decided she would not be gotten rid of so easily.
"You know...," said Victoria. "When I was sixteen years old, my father died. I prayed and prayed for him to get better, but he didn't. So I blamed God."
Grace looked bewildered. Her grandmother was a devout Christian and regular churchgoer. To Grace's limited comprehension, it seemed out of character for her.
"I was so angry." said Victoria, more to herself than to Grace. "I didn't want to believe in a God who wouldn't heal my father. But my mother said God's ways are higher than our ways. She said we are not meant to know why some are taken sooner than others, all we can do is love them while we have them...and trust that God understands the bigger picture...even if we don't. You see...your father was ill too...and I knew he might die...so I prayed once more...oh how hard I prayed...but I knew he might not get better, so I prepared myself...and when it happened, I accepted it without question even though it hurt more than words could say...because...this time...I had my faith to sustain me. I still don't fully understand it, yet I cling to it nonetheless, for it gives my existence a sense of meaning and purpose, in the heart of the storm."
"Do you believe in Heaven?" asked Grace.
"Yes, I do."
Grace frowned as she picked at a thread on her blanket.
"I don't believe in Heaven."
"Well...that's okay...God understands."
Victoria bent over and kissed her granddaughter.
"Would it be all right if I came again?"
Grace nodded.
Victoria smiled and left the room, feeling just a little lighter inside.
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When Sunday came, Benjamin had a song to share at church. He ascended the podium with his guitar and adjusted the microphone.
"Thank you very much." he said. "I consider an honor and a joy to sing in the church I was raised in. I began this song, last August but couldn't finish it for reasons I don't need to get into. It's a song about a faith that has carried me through my darkest hours. I know you share this faith...I pray you will never let it die."
Before he strummed the first chord, he looked up at the ceiling and whispered, "For Patrick."
You could walk out on this storm to where I am.
And all my fears would fall away as you come in.
You have rescued me so many times before.
And Lord I know that you could do it once more.
Lord you made the skies and you made the rain.
You've been right here where I am and you know my pain.
So when you choose not to speak "Peace be still"
I know that I'll find rest in the center of your will.
God you are faithful to me.
Working in ways I cannot see.
So if I must be still and know.
It is well my soul.
When I can't pray away the rain
And you won't take away the pain
I will trust that you're working for my good.
When I cannot understand
I will hold your unseen hand
And your grace will be my strength.
I will learn to praise your name
When I can't pray away the rain.