[The old farmhouse looks the same today as it did twenty years ago. The fence is more rickety, and the red paint on the barn is chipping. But the house itself looks like a relic from a simpler time, and its owner the personification of a simple man.
Bill Bradford sits across from me smoking a cob pipe. The smoke smells sweet, and I watch as wisps of it drift across his leathery face. A pair of round glasses rests on his large nose. His face is wrinkled in the best way, full of deep lines plowed by years of laughter.
Bill offers to lend me an extra pipe. At first, I decline. This is the same man who once gave me a stern talking to in high school after I was caught sneaking around beneath the football field bleachers… with his daughter. A shotgun (unloaded, as I later learned) might have been involved.
But Bill insists, and soon we’re both puffing away and talking about old times. I have an early flight to Europe tomorrow, and have set up several interviews with those still willing to talk with me. But before I consult any more experts or men in high places, I feel compelled to first talk with Bill. A rancher and a pastor, as well as a good many other things, he is who I always picture when I hear the phrase ‘A good man’.
And right now, that’s the kind of man I’d like to hear from.]
Bill: So what’s the scoop kid?
[I should mention now Bill’s love of cheap jokes and expressive humor. His face is serious for all of three seconds before breaking into a laugh]
Eric: Well, ha, I guess that’s what I’m here to find out.
Bill: You don’t think…
[Bill points to himself with mock-disbelief in his eyes]
Eric: No Bill… I don’t think you have anything to do with what’s going on.
Bill: Boy, that’s a relief. I’m a sleepwalker, you know? And without Jill around these days, well, ain’t no telling what I get up to at night. I actually woke up in this chair a few weeks ago.
Eric: No kidding?
Bill: Honest to God. Fell asleep in my bed, woke up in this chair with coffee already brewing in the kitchen.
[Bill slaps his leg and keels over with laughter. It’s impossible not to laugh with him]
Eric: Oh man. God, I haven’t laughed like that in a while.
Bill: I’m here all week, ha. Seriously. If I go somewhere and Sammy finds out, boy, there is hell to pay. Though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.
[I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man, but when Bill brings up his daughter Samantha, I can’t help but feel my cheeks get red. If Bill notices, he doesn’t say anything]
Eric: How is Sam doing these days?
Bill: She’s good. Real good. She runs the farm now, for the most part. I try to help where I can, but, well, I ain’t the man I used to be.
No, I mostly just try to keep in touch with folks these days. I’m not preaching anymore; did you know that?
Eric: I’d heard from my folks.
Bill: Good people, your parents. I still see them every Sunday. Your father and I are on the board together.
Eric: I imagine it’s like seating the two most obnoxious kids in class next to each other.
Bill: HA! That’s, well, that about sums it up.
Eric: Tell me, with everything that’s happened and is happening, what’s the mood like in church?
Bill: Oof, well… it’s not been great, as I’m sure you can imagine. Sam’s friend… you remember Jaqueline?
[I smile sadly and nod my head. The biggest hang-up in my adolescent pursuit of Samantha wasn’t her father; it was always her best friend, Jaqueline. The two were practically inseparable.]
Bill: Well, she had her second child two weeks ago. And…
[I’m struck by the sight of a speechless Bill. It’s not something I’d ever thought I’d see. After a few moments, he cocks his head and coughs]
Bill: Anyways, like I said. I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve been leading prayer meetings every morning since the new year began. But… If I’m being honest, half the time I don’t even know what to pray for.
Eric: What do you mean?
Bill: I mean… well… I’ve read the Bible and preached my whole life. But my whole life has been good years. Sure, I’ve had troubles, and the last decade or two has felt particularly sour. But, hell, give my life’s story to any apostle or early disciple of Christ, and they’d probably think I’m one of the most blessed men alive: Good family. Loving wife. Great kids. Stability. Security. Wealth. I really have been blessed beyond measure. These last hundred-odd years have, by my reckoning, been one of, if not the best times to be alive, without question.
But now… it seems those times really have come to an end, and I’m alive to witness it. And I don’t know what to pray for. I ask God to heal those kids, or heal the mothers. I ask him to stop this. But I can’t see the whole picture. Times are changing, and I feel too small and too old to ask for anything other than that the Lord’s will be done.
Eric: Do you think this is God’s doing?
Bill: I don’t know. See, people, consciously or not, like to think the God of the Old Testament died; that jealous, bitter, angry, wrathful God, that’s who Jesus replaced. It’s what the hippie converts taught, and it’s what I grew up on.
But then I actually read the book, and you know what I found? God was always right. When the people you love more than anything, more than life itself, act wrongly—idiotically… that sparks a special kind of anger. A righteous anger. Every time Israel wandered, they got what they deserved. The only good times were when they didn’t.
Now, what I said about my years being good was true. For me. But not for the whole world. We’ve done a lot of evil in this golden age. And sin has a way of staining the soul. And if enough souls are stained…
Eric: What are you trying to say, Bill?
Bill: Just—Gah… Call it what you want. The collective unconscious. The Spiritual realm. Some Metaphysical plane. Doesn’t matter to me, but I can’t help but feel that on some all-encompassing layer, the spirit of man has given up; Or failed, in some way. Our sins have accumulated. Something’s gone wrong, and it isn’t something we’re capable of just… fixing, you know? This all feels… it feels like it’s above us, somehow.
Ha, not to be morbid, but my grandson used this phrase the other day, and I found it hilarious. Know what it was?
Eric: Tell me.
Bill: “Lost the plot”. That’s what he said. I can’t remember the context. But… I think that about sums up our modern problem. We’ve just lost the plot.
Eric: How do we get it back?
Bill: I don’t know if we can. I, well, I can give you the pastor answer: Repent. Seek God. Make amends. And that is what I would say to anyone asking my advice, personally. But above that, collectively… I really don’t know.
Eric: It sounds like we’re out of luck then.
Bill: Well, the good news is that I believe in a God who’s a good storyteller. And he never loses the plot, understand? He is the plot, by my reckoning.
Eric: That may be true, Bill. Though I can’t say I’m a big fan of where he’s taking the story right now.
Bill: Ha, you said it.
[Bill’s eyes wander over my shoulder, and a new kind of smile crosses his face—a sort of smirk. I turn; coming down the long gravel drive is a beat-up truck: the frame’s rusted and the paint is patchy and faded, just like it was all those years ago.
Sam parks the truck, brakes groaning and creaking. She smiles at me as she hops out, a near-perfect replica of the smirk still plastered on her father’s face.]
Sam: So, your bosses have you on old-fart-interview duty now, huh?
Eric: Technically, I’m self-employed at the moment.
Sam: Oh, I see. So, you just like talking to old farts?
Eric: Not particularly. There is something about this one, though.
Bill: That would be the indigestion.
[The three of us share a laugh. Sam slaps her father’s shoulder and opens the front door.]
Sam: You sticking around? No telling who all’s showing up for dinner; what’s one more stray?
Eric: I’d love to, but I need to get going. My flight leaves in a few hours.
Sam: Hmph. Well, it was good to see you, Eric.
Eric: You too, Sam.
[Sam heads inside as I stand and shake Bill’s hand. He’s got a wry look in his eye.]
Bill: You sure you can’t stay?
Eric: I really need to get going, take care of some things before I leave.
Bill: Right. It’s just…
Eric: What?
Bill: Don’t…
[Bill lays a hand on my shoulder. I feel the memories at the time; I don’t think them—A million images of church and prayer and hands.]
Bill: With all that’s going on… just make sure life doesn’t get in the way of living, you hear?
[I can’t find the words, so I just nod my head and turn to go. But then, something stops me.]
Eric: Hey, Bill…
Bill: Hm?
Eric: When exactly was that sleepwalking episode?
Bill: That what now?
Eric: Sleepwalking. You said—
Bill: Oh right right. Hell, it was about a month ago now?
Eric: Can you remember the date?
Bill: Well… let’s see. It was about mid-December, I think. Almost Christmas, but not quite?
Eric: Does… does the thirteenth sound about right?
Bill: Yeah, it was probably around there somewhere. The family started pouring in the weekend before Christmas, and this happened a handful of days before that.
Eric: Are you aware that December thirteenth is, officially, the agreed-upon day that the defective births began?
Bill: No. I had no idea.
Eric: Do you believe in coincidences, Bill?
[Bill smiles]
Bill: My God is the author of the cosmos.
There’s no such thing as coincidence.
O my stars Brody!! You need to be writing sun up to sun down. So good! My favorite so far!