A Time to Die

Ribbons! Long ones, short ones, ones for every mood." He does a little dance to the singsong rhythm. "Thin ones, thick ones, and ones to tie your shoes!

You shouldn’t be placing hope in our lives, Parvin. That’s my point. I don’t know the answers of the future, but your confidence and hope need to be in God.

This isn't how it should be, God. Thousands of graves marking thousands of lives--so much focus on death. Did the gravediggers spend their lives just serving the dead? How many Numbers ticked away for the sake of carving headstones no one would read? As I stare at this scene, I decide I don't want a headstone when I die. I don't even want to be buried. I want to disappear--save that chunk of earth for people to live on. This land I stand on is worthless now. No one can build a house here. No one can plant gardens or start a new village. Is that what the people buried beneath me would have wanted? Earth wasn't intended to hold only dead bodies. I stand. God, I need to live.

Don't think about me." "I always think about you.

There once was a time when only God knew the day you'd die.

My faith isn’t in time, it’s in God.” “Then why are you hesitant to help your people? Why do you insist on pawning off the hard jobs to others? Tell me”—he leans forward again—“what is your purpose here?” I fumble for an answer. “To ask you questions. And to help Wilbur Sherrod with his work.” He shakes his head with a patient blink. “As much as I relish discussing Wilbur Sherrod’s skill with design, I must redirect you. Why are you here? In the world. The big picture.” I stare at him. He stares back, waiting, calm. I’m ruffled. “A-Actually, that’s one of my questions for you. How do I find out God’s plan for my life?” “He doesn’t have one.” My head jerks. “What do you mean? He’s God. Doesn’t He have a specific purpose for everything? Everyone? For me?” At this, the Preacher laughs. “Purpose?” he asks when he takes a breath. “Life is meaningless.” Anger just short of panic threatens to block my throat. “No, it’s not. He has a plan, I know it.” “What is it?” I throw my arms up. “I was hoping you’d help me find out. Is it to save Radicals? Write my biography? Start life over in Ivanhoe? Keep Mrs. Newton company? What is it?” “Tell me, are you a pregnant virgin?” My breath seizes and I’m in front of Trevor Rain again, answering whether or not I’ve been kissed. It’s so embarrassing I struggle against the urge to laugh. “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, I’m not pregnant, but yes . . .” I swallow. “I’m a . . .” He spares me. “Have you spoken to a burning bush?” My eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?” “I’m just pointing out that if God has a specific plan for your life, He’ll tell you like he told Mary and Moses. But the disturbing truth is, you have to decide what you want, just decide it with prayer.” I stand limp. Defeated. “I don’t know what I want.” “If you were in a ditch with your life seeping out of you, what’s the one thing you’d want? What do you want today?

Look out!” I gasp, lifting my hand to hit the black and green snake. “Calm down. It’s my tattoo.