A Touch of Grace

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then we’d have to follow their rules, and we can’t do that.”

“Isaiah House has no rules?” She scribbled something else on her notepad.

“We have plenty. Biblical rules, not rules of the government.”

“So let me make sure I have this right. Anyone who comes to Isaiah House for help is required to attend all the religious elements of the program. The Bible study, prayer groups and chapel. Is that correct?”

Ian had enough experience with opposition to know she was fishing for a negative angle, but all he could do was answer honestly and let God take care of the results.

“The only way to get people to change their lives is to change their hearts.”

A smile, the first one he’d seen, softened the line of her mouth.

“Wasn’t there a recent lawsuit filed against Isaiah House for expecting a man to attend a Bible study in exchange for a meal at the soup kitchen?”

No big news there. “Yes, but the courts refused to hear it.”

“Were you guilty?”

“If you’re asking if we require chapel or Bible classes to utilize our services, the answer is yes.” His easy admission seemed to catch her off guard. Good. She’d been trying to catch him off guard from the get-go. “People can’t change their hearts unless their minds are changed.”

“You change their minds through Bible study? Isn’t that brainwashing?”

Ian fought against rolling his eyes. Brainwashing. Please.

“The Bible teaches that we are transformed by a renewing of our minds. As a person replaces his old destructive thoughts with God’s word, he’s reprogrammed to think in productive, healthy ways.”

Did that sound as stiff and religious as he feared?

“Reprogrammed. I see.” She started to wander about the small room, gnawing on the end of her pen.

The chapel door swooshed open and a teenage girl stepped out, head down, a Kleenex clutched in one hand. Ian groaned inwardly. Chrissy. The one person in the mission who did not need to be confronted by a news camera.

Before he had a chance to stop her, Gretchen walked up to the girl and said, “I’m Gretchen Barker with Channel Eleven News. Could I have a word with you?”

Chrissy’s eyes widened. She started trembling, her gaze darting desperately around the room in search of escape. They landed on Ian.

“Ian?” she croaked out.

Ian sprang into action, stepping between Chrissy and the camera. Jaw hard enough to snap, he bit out one word. “No.”

Gretchen stared up at him, clearly startled by the sudden change in his mild demeanor. “Why not?”

“Our residents have a right to privacy.”

“Can’t she speak for herself?”

“No.”

For a matter of seconds, Ian and Gretchen stared, locked in a battle of wills. There were some things in this mission that no one, certainly not a news reporter, needed to know.

Behind him, the chapel door opened and closed. Ian relaxed a little. Chrissy had escaped back to the safety of the chapel out of range of the prying camera.

Gretchen was none too pleased at his interference. Eyes arcing green fire, she continued to stare at him for several long challenging seconds. Let her think what she would. Ian refused to budge.

Finally, she snapped her notebook shut. “All right then.” She turned to her videographer and hitched her head toward the door. “I think we have plenty for this first time.”

The shock of her words rattled Ian’s brain.

First time? Did that mean she’d be back for more?

At seven o’clock Ian readied his notes for the evening chapel service. Tonight he’d speak on spiritual freedom, one of his favorite topics. Maybe the reminder would lift this heaviness from his spirit. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense of failure over Maddy and the worry about her sister’s sudden interest in Isaiah House. He’d done nothing illegal, but the news media could make or break a ministry. From Gretchen’s attitude, he feared she wanted to do the latter.

He left his office and started through the dayroom to the chapel.

“Hey, Ian,” one of the residents called. “You’re on TV.”

The Barracuda’s report. The woman didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Though he’d thought of little else all afternoon, he hadn’t expected the story to be aired this soon.

“You’re famous, man,” another called. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Do I look good?” he joked in return, coming to stand behind a long couch which faced the only television in the building. He leaned his legs against the slick vinyl fabric.

“That lady reporter must have thought so. She stuck around here long enough.”

Accustomed to their good-natured teasing, Ian chuckled. “I don’t think she was here because of my pretty face.”

“Must have been the shoes.”

Henry, whose shaved head was furrowed like a cornfield, said, “Yeah, that’s it, man. The shoes.”

“I think she was looking for me.” Raoul was a street-savvy seventeen-year-old with a missing front tooth and a wicked sense of humor. “I sure do like blondes.”

Ian thumped the teen on the shoulder. “She’s too old for you.”

“But not for you.”

Henry’s comment made him uncomfortable, though he didn’t know why. They were always ribbing him over his single status. Some day he hoped to find the right woman, but Gretchen Barker? Come on. Definitely not his type.

He frowned the teen into silence. “Be quiet so we can hear the story.”

The knot in his shoulder started acting up again. Though he was praying against a hatchet job, he didn’t have much hope.

The segment opened with the words of Isaiah 58 superimposed over a nice shot of the property. Gretchen’s warm, modulated voice-over introduced the mission and Ian. As the story proceeded, the tension in Ian’s shoulders slowly relaxed. Gretchen was doing a pretty decent job. The piece unfolded, straightforward, objective, clear, even if he did look more like a mission resident than the director.