Crazy Grace

I'm a member of Faithwriters, a forum for Christian writers. I hadn't participated in the Writing Challenge for a long time and decided to give it a try. Here's how it works. They give you a word, which for that week was the word "shop." You can write anything you want (fiction, non-fiction, devotion, poetry, etc.) on that topic as long as it is spritually-based. Word count is anywhere from 150-750 words, not including the title.

I wrote a story but when it came time to submit it, my monitor decided to go bonkers and I ended up having to buy a new one. Unfortunately, by the time time I got the monitor up and running I had missed the submission date so I'm posting it here instead.

Writing in an active first person voice is not my strongest forte (in fact, it's my weakest) so I wanted to challenge myself and give it a try anyway. "Crazy Grace" is my awkward attempt at writing first person.

Crazy Grace

Two beeps on the walkie talkie alert me to a possible shoplifter in the Christian bookstore. As a security guard, it amazes me the store even needs my services but such is the case.

“Who’s the perp?” I ask into the gadget I’m holding.

“In Bibles. A long-haired type with lots of tattoos,” the store manager says into her piece.

“Got it,” I respond.

I walk casually to the Bible section. With a shopping basket on my arm I try to blend in with the customers.

Sure enough. He’s there. He’s rather obvious since not too many long-haired, tattooed ruffians hang out in this area of the bookstore. The scars on his face cause a couple customers to grab their kids and head for another aisle.

“What took ya so long?” he asks not even taking his eyes off the page of the Bible he’s reading.

“Excuse me?”

“What took ya so long? I always attract the cops no matter where I go,” he says still peering into the Bible.

“I’m not a cop, just a lowly guard. How’d you know?”

“Are you kiddin’ me,” he laughs. People notice his boisterous guffaws. “I could hear your walkie talkie squawkin’ from across the room.” Putting out his hand he continues. “I’m Pete.”

“Uh, I’m Thomas.” My face scrunches up from the firmness in his shake. Good grip. Closing the Bible, he looks directly into my eyes.

“Why tail me? Don’t I got the right to shop like the other folks?”

“Well, I, I, I, uh,” I stutter not sounding too bright. “Someone in the store asked me to take a closer look. That’s all.”

“Ain’t got too many folks like me moseying around here, huh?”

“True,” I say. No reason to deny it.

“Haven’t you heard the Good Book says not to judge a book by its cover?” Again, he laughs.

“Does it really say that?”

“More or less,” he chuckles. I can’t figure out the joke.

“I’ve got a story to tell and you’re just the feller God wants to hear it. How’s about a cup of coffee?” He nods towards the Java Nook at the back of the store.

“Uhm, sure, I can spare a few minutes.” I radio the manager letting her know I’m temporarily off the floor.

We order drinks. Sitting at a petite table with a rose-colored tablecloth and glowing artificial candles, we sip coffee. My masculinity takes a beating. Thank goodness we drink from styrofoam cups instead of dainty teacups.

“My ex would like this place. She likes stuff all gussied up.”

“What’s your story? What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I spread my arms open to take in the entire store.

“God’s grace allows me to be here.”

“Say what? Are you going to preach at me?”

“Maybe. If you need it.”

“I don’t so save your breath,” I bark. Never thought I’d be preached at by a hoodlum.

I run a hand through my short-cropped hair. It’s a little warm. I loosen the button around my collar. “Okay, look. I’m not a Christian. I hang here because it’s my job. Nothing more. I don’t need religion.”

Pete slaps me on the back. “Me neither, brother. Good news. I’m not here to jabber about religion. I’m here to talk about Jesus. Sometimes I’m plain flabbergasted He wants to hang with a guy like me. But because of His grace, He does. He reached out to a loser like me and changed me forever.”

I stare at him with bulging eyes. My mouth is wide open. I stop protesting as he continues.

“I call it crazy grace cuz’ it’s crazy He offers me His grace. I don’t deserve nothin’ good from Him but He gives it to me anyway. I was bad to the bone. You name it, I probably did it at one time or ‘nother.”

I slump in the chair resting my head in my hands. Past memories, things I’m not proud about, flash through my mind. Even security guards can be bad to the bone. My recent divorce comes to mind.

“What changed you?”

“Long story short, Jesus happened.” Peter leans in closer. “I was in the slammer for a couple years, bored to tears, when someone told me quit whining and read the Bible. I did. The rest is history.”

I sip my luke-warm coffee. Crazy grace? While others shop around me, something tells me my life is about to change.