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Authors: Mindy Starns Clark
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she said, walking again toward the door. “I don’t believe in heaven. Don’t believe in God.”
“Not even now, in the face of your father’s death?”
“We live, we die. End of story, far as I’m concerned.”
My heart lurched for her, and I wanted to stop everything and try to convince her how wrong she was. How could anyone not know God was real? How could anyone get through life without the daily presence of the Holy Spirit?
“God is real, Judith,” I said. “I know that as surely as I know I’m standing here, in front of you. The miracles He’s worked in my own life—”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “Save your sermons for someone else.”
We reached the doorway, and she held it open for me, dismissing me not only from the building but from our conversation as well.
“Well…” I said, grasping for something to keep us talking. “I’m sure I’ll see you later, at the house.”
“Whatever,” she replied, and then she turned and walked away, the door slowly swinging to a close behind her.
Six
Dumb, dumb, dumb, I thought as I pressed the button for the basement. Not Judith, but me . I was just dumb .
How many times in life did I have to be reminded that you don’t bring people to God by arguing or pleading with them? It takes love and support, living the right kind of life, meeting them where their needs are. The elevator door shut and I was alone, staring at my reflection as I headed down.
Judith didn’t come across as needy, I knew, but that tough exterior certainly masked a hurting soul—and my desperate preaching had probably done nothing more than push her further away from a decision for Christ. I would have to back off and change my approach. Surely, I didn’t need to be beating her over the head with a truth she wasn’t able to see!
Putting Judith out of my mind for the time being, I reached the basement, retrieved my car, and headed out into Philadelphia traffic. I went back over my conversations with Tom and then with Duane Perskie, thinking about what we knew of Wendell’s death so far—not much, but enough to draw a few conclusions.
Wendell Smythe was a diabetic who had been murdered with an overdose of insulin. That meant someone had snuck into his office through the back way, given him a lethal injection, watched him die, and then almost been caught by me in the restroom before making a getaway.
Not that unusual of a scenario for murder, of course, but this one had a catch: There had been no struggle. This murder had been committed cleanly and quietly, with only a dead body and an upturned trash can to show for it. Even the secretary, GwenHarding—who claimed she was at her desk, on the phone nearly the whole time—said she had heard no unusual sounds whatsoever coming from Wendell’s office. Assuming she was telling the truth, I thought that whoever killed Wendell must have been someone he had known and trusted, someone who could pop in through the back way and give him an insulin shot without causing any sort of disturbance.
My thoughts, of course, went to coworkers, family members, and household employees. If anyone that Wendell Smythe knew and trusted could’ve waltzed in there, offered to give him his insulin shot, and then waltzed back out, then all it would’ve taken was an extra-big dose of insulin, and he was history. Wendell was used to getting his shots from other people; he could’ve easily been tricked into sitting still for this one.
The next step, then, was for me to try to find out who in Wendell’s world usually gave him his shots. If he had a needle phobia and hated giving the shots to himself, then he had probably trained quite a few people to do it for him so that he would never be caught in a bind. I wondered who was on that list and what would be the quickest way to find out their names.
In a moment of inspiration, I pulled out my notes and dialed the home number of Wendell’s secretary, Gwen Harding. We had “bonded” a
“Not even now, in the face of your father’s death?”
“We live, we die. End of story, far as I’m concerned.”
My heart lurched for her, and I wanted to stop everything and try to convince her how wrong she was. How could anyone not know God was real? How could anyone get through life without the daily presence of the Holy Spirit?
“God is real, Judith,” I said. “I know that as surely as I know I’m standing here, in front of you. The miracles He’s worked in my own life—”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “Save your sermons for someone else.”
We reached the doorway, and she held it open for me, dismissing me not only from the building but from our conversation as well.
“Well…” I said, grasping for something to keep us talking. “I’m sure I’ll see you later, at the house.”
“Whatever,” she replied, and then she turned and walked away, the door slowly swinging to a close behind her.
Six
Dumb, dumb, dumb, I thought as I pressed the button for the basement. Not Judith, but me . I was just dumb .
How many times in life did I have to be reminded that you don’t bring people to God by arguing or pleading with them? It takes love and support, living the right kind of life, meeting them where their needs are. The elevator door shut and I was alone, staring at my reflection as I headed down.
Judith didn’t come across as needy, I knew, but that tough exterior certainly masked a hurting soul—and my desperate preaching had probably done nothing more than push her further away from a decision for Christ. I would have to back off and change my approach. Surely, I didn’t need to be beating her over the head with a truth she wasn’t able to see!
Putting Judith out of my mind for the time being, I reached the basement, retrieved my car, and headed out into Philadelphia traffic. I went back over my conversations with Tom and then with Duane Perskie, thinking about what we knew of Wendell’s death so far—not much, but enough to draw a few conclusions.
Wendell Smythe was a diabetic who had been murdered with an overdose of insulin. That meant someone had snuck into his office through the back way, given him a lethal injection, watched him die, and then almost been caught by me in the restroom before making a getaway.
Not that unusual of a scenario for murder, of course, but this one had a catch: There had been no struggle. This murder had been committed cleanly and quietly, with only a dead body and an upturned trash can to show for it. Even the secretary, GwenHarding—who claimed she was at her desk, on the phone nearly the whole time—said she had heard no unusual sounds whatsoever coming from Wendell’s office. Assuming she was telling the truth, I thought that whoever killed Wendell must have been someone he had known and trusted, someone who could pop in through the back way and give him an insulin shot without causing any sort of disturbance.
My thoughts, of course, went to coworkers, family members, and household employees. If anyone that Wendell Smythe knew and trusted could’ve waltzed in there, offered to give him his insulin shot, and then waltzed back out, then all it would’ve taken was an extra-big dose of insulin, and he was history. Wendell was used to getting his shots from other people; he could’ve easily been tricked into sitting still for this one.
The next step, then, was for me to try to find out who in Wendell’s world usually gave him his shots. If he had a needle phobia and hated giving the shots to himself, then he had probably trained quite a few people to do it for him so that he would never be caught in a bind. I wondered who was on that list and what would be the quickest way to find out their names.
In a moment of inspiration, I pulled out my notes and dialed the home number of Wendell’s secretary, Gwen Harding. We had “bonded” a
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