Chapter 26
On Tuesday, Anson looked from his clipboard to the players lined up along the bleachers.
Their voices formed a low murmur, punctuated by occasional laughter or the squeak of a sneaker against the maple flooring.
These forty boys would compete for the twenty-four spots available on Many Oaks High School’s basketball teams. Every player from last year’s varsity team, save for those who’d graduated, stood on the sideline with one exception: Carter.
A senior so invested in basketball normally would’ve been first in the gym, bent on intimidating the lower classmen and defending his position as the first-string power forward. If Carter didn’t show, Tommy Pine, who’d played on the JV team for two years, was primed to move up.
Anson slipped his phone from his pocket to check for messages from the senior. He found a text waiting for him, but it was from Blaze, confirming Friday for their date.
Even the excitement of that didn’t temper his concern over Carter’s tardiness. Where are you? he texted.
Coach Thierry blew his whistle and explained how the four days of tryouts would work. Then Anson stepped forward, introduced himself, and forced himself to focus on the students who’d shown up instead of the one who hadn’t.
On Wednesday, Carter missed tryouts again, still with no word.
That officially disqualified him from the team.
First the drinking, then the candle, and now this?
Anson suspected Carter was dealing with something big, and he’d counted on having the basketball season to get to the bottom of it.
Now that his only interaction with Carter would be at church, a lot more rode on his testimony.
After practice, Anson stopped home for dinner before continuing to Rooted. Following a similar lesson plan for both youth groups meant sharing his testimony with the younger kids would help him refine his talk before Branching Out.
Except, the closer the evening came to the lesson time, the tighter a fraying rope twisted in his gut. He sent a prayer heavenward as he took his place up front.
Blaze’s lips tipped up in an encouraging smile.
Mercy sat beside her, wide eyes blinking behind her thick glasses. Next came Hadley, who hadn’t made a decision for Christ yet. He wasn’t sure about some of the others.
As he looked at them, praying his story would help them, the room quieted. He peered at the timeline he’d jotted down to serve as his notes.
Greg had encouraged him to share about himself, and maybe his nerves proved just how overdue this was.
He eased into it with background about his decision to trust Christ as a child and discovering basketball in elementary school.
When he mentioned how his dad’s job had brought their family to Many Oaks, Blaze flinched.
She alone recognized what he’d omitted—Gury.
His story had enough impactful elements without talking about his brother.
At least, that’s what he decided when he wrote his timeline.
He was too far into the story to second-guess that decision now.
“As a junior, I was offered a full-ride basketball scholarship by one of the best college teams in the country. Aside from my parents, my coach was my biggest supporter. He and his wife took me and my parents to dinner to celebrate. The food that night was amazing, but in retrospect, I wonder if what I tasted was the flavor of dreams coming true. I was on my way to playing professionally and beyond excited about it.”
Wonder glossed over some of the kids’ eyes.
“But it went to my head. My senior year, I was team captain. I believed I deserved to be, but the other guys didn’t respect me. It got so bad, one of my teammates and I almost came to blows over it.”
Hadley toyed with the long ends of her hair. One boy cringed. Another nodded.
“Coach Voss pulled me aside, and I couldn’t believe I was the one in trouble.
I argued I was doing everything right.” He raised his finger the way Coach had.
“‘But your heart is wrong,’ he said. Since he knew I was a believer, he talked about how God values our hearts and is a lot more gracious and forgiving than I was being with my teammates. I learned a lot from Coach Voss, especially that year. He had a bunch of little sayings he repeated like, ‘responses trump reactions,’ and ‘go out trying.’ Those pop in my head and guide me to this day.”
A flood of bittersweet memories tightened his throat.
He took a few extra beats, staring down at his notes before he trusted his voice.
“But toward the end of the season, our entire team, myself included, was in an accident coming home from a game.” Flashes of chaos and darkness rippled behind his eyes. “Coach Voss died.”
Gasps sounded around the room. These kids would’ve been toddlers at the time.
“Everyone was hurt, some worse than others. My shoulder was dislocated and I was banged up, but the hardest part for me was the spiritual and emotional aspect. I still miss Coach Voss.”
But Coach was gone, and these kids needed to hear the end of Anson’s story.
“At Coach’s funeral, people kept talking about how well he lived his life.
Former players and guys who’d been in his Bible study shared about how he helped them when they were headed down a bad path.
That’s when I realized I didn’t want my life to be about basketball.
I felt very strongly that God was calling me to pick up Coach’s legacy and run with it.
The athletic accomplishments I’d been chasing wouldn’t last. Only a relationship with God does.
I backed out of the scholarship and went to seminary instead. ”
He skimmed the last couple of words he’d scribbled down and abandoned the paper on the lectern.
“These days, I work here, and I’m a basketball coach at the high school.
I still don’t get everything right. Just like Coach used to, God corrects me—usually through His Word or His people—and sends me back out to try again.
Now, it’s my honor to invite other people onto the team.
“But that metaphor can go too far. God cares about you beyond simply wanting to make you better. He wants you to be part of His family. When you’re in a scary or sad situation, you don’t have to fix everything yourself.
You can trust Him. He’s a coach and a friend and a savior.
” Anson paused and surveyed his audience.
Tate, the most hyperactive of the bunch, bounced his leg, but even he watched Anson. Meanwhile, Blaze smiled.
“Does anyone have questions about my story?”
Hadley blurted out hers before he could call on her. “What was the fight about? The one with your teammate?”
“How to do a drill.”
“Did you see your coach die?”
“No, I didn’t.” He pointed to another student, hoping he’d pipe up before Hadley reloaded.
The boy asked about the accident too, as did the two students afterward. He’d captured their attention, but perhaps he’d failed to point it toward the Lord.
Testimonies could be powerful, but this might not have been the time or the place for his.
Blaze could listen to Anson field the students’ questions all night.
For years, he seemed too uptight to relate to anyone, let alone a child. Yet his talk had been inspiring. His commitment to building a heavenly legacy, one that involved these kids he had no familial connection to, made her breath catch.
She saw his dedication in action as he worked through their blunt questions about his hard experiences. He answered without chastisement.
“What does it mean to be part of God’s family?” Jasper asked.
Anson’s shoulders lowered a fraction. “I’m glad you asked that.” He went on to answer with empathy and grace. And a Bible verse.
How in the world could she take that hot seat in two weeks?
Maybe Anson would help with the Q&A following her testimony. Or maybe that part could be optional.
“Okay.” Anson’s voice broke through her thoughts. “We’re going to break into small groups. Girls, you’re up front with Blaze. Guys, let’s circle up in back.”
And just like that, five middle schoolers pulled their chairs closer, as if she could teach them something. Blaze glanced down at the discussion questions Anson had given her and read the first one. “Anson talked about thinking of God like a coach. How do you think of God?”
Painful silence stretched.
Hadley chewed the corner of her mouth as she eyed the other girls. Mercy picked at her nails. The remaining three looked anywhere but at Blaze.
As a distant authority figure probably wasn’t the kind of answer she ought to share with the kids. The Lord was more to her than that, but when Anson talked about God being more than a coach waiting for her to do better, she’d needed the reminder.
You don’t go alone. You don’t have to make situations better for yourself. You can trust Him.
Promises like those had drawn her to Christ in the first place. She’d been overwhelmed by her failures and the sense of doom that she’d end up like her mother. She’d needed a loving savior like the one Pastor Greg—and now Anson—described.
Blaze steeled her nerves, ready to muddle through an answer about being grateful for God as her savior, when Mercy spoke up. “Sometimes the Bible calls Him Father, doesn’t it? I like that one.”
“Father is a good one.” Praying it wouldn’t backfire, she risked another question. “In what ways is God like a father?”
She hadn’t meant to put Mercy on the spot, but before she mentioned that anyone could answer, her sister piped up again.
“Once, I was playing outside with a friend, and she said that if anything bad happened to her, her father would come rescue her. I didn’t believe her, because we were all the way in my yard, not at her house, but she was like, ‘I’ll prove it.
’ And she screamed so loud.” Mercy held a hand near her ear.
“Then her dad walked out into her backyard looking for her. She waved at him and said she was fine, and he went back to whatever. And I was, like, kind of jealous, but that’s the kind of dad God is, I think.
He’s always watching, and He’ll take care of me. ”
“That’s really sweet, Mercy.” And heartbreaking, because Mercy had never met her earthly father—neither sister even knew his name.
“My dad wouldn’t hear me scream.” Hadley folded her hands and twisted her arms as if to turn inside out. “He lives in Alabama.”
“I didn’t have a good dad either,” Blaze said.
“He left when I was really little.” Should she leave it at that or share more?
“Mercy’s right that the Bible calls God Father, but I think any of the things we compare Him to—like coaches or fathers—don’t fully express who He is.
If He’s like any of those things, He’s also better than we can imagine.
When we believe in Him, He really does take care of us.
Maybe not always the way we want Him to in the moment, but in the way that’s best for us. ”
The girls fell silent, but their little smiles said they’d been listening. She resumed the pre-written questions. The boys finished up, and Blaze hurried to lead the closing prayer—she’d never gone longer than the boys’ group before. Maybe she was finally hitting her stride as a youth leader.
After her “amen,” the girls hopped up, and Blaze reached to get her purse from beneath her seat. When she straightened, someone bumped her arm.
Hadley. The girl had been seated across from her moments ago, but now she occupied the chair next to Blaze. “What if I want God to be my father too?”
Blaze almost choked on surprise and a fresh surge of insecurity.
“If you’re right that He’s better than any dad I can imagine, He’s the one I’ve always wanted.”
Blaze glanced at Anson. Should she hand this conversation over to him? But Anson had assigned the girls to her, and Hadley had sought her out.
Blaze cleared her throat. “You can ask Him to come into your life. You can trust Him with your heart and tell Him you want a relationship with Him. Want to pray with me to do that?”
Hadley nodded.
The youth room grew louder by the moment, but Blaze folded her hands and bowed her head with a reverence she hadn’t felt since her early days as a believer.
For the minute she and Hadley prayed together, holy ground spread beneath them.
Hadley wouldn’t be the only one walking away from this changed.
When Blaze opened her watery eyes, Hadley smothered her with a hug. As she returned the embrace, Blaze spotted Anson watching. She grinned and nodded, and when he dipped his head, she knew without a doubt that he was thanking God right along with her.