Free Missing Witness by Craig Parshall

here…”
    â€œI know that. And I respect the fact that you’re a man, and you’ve got to make decisions on your own. I just want to be around with you. To help out. If I can,” the father said, struggling for some words of encouragement for his son.
    â€œYeah, you tried to help. You stuck me in the hospital. I was going to kick the drug stuff myself anyway. I did not have an addiction problem. Anyway, it’s my life. My choices, you don’t understand that.”
    â€œSure,” Joppa said, now with some irritation in his voice, “it’s your life. But you can’t expect me to just sit in the dugout watching you self-destruct. I’m not going to do that. I love you too much for that. It feels like a no-win situation—”
    â€œLook, Dad. It’s okay. I’m fine. I don’t think talking about this is going to solve anything. I’m okay. I’ve got a couple of part-time jobs. Enough money to pay the rent. And groceries. You’ve done your dad thing. You’ve checked in on me. So let’s just call it a day.”
    â€œBobby, just remember I love you. So just try and stop by sometime. Just call me once in a while. Anytime. Okay?” Joppa struggled to keep his composure.
    â€œSure. Right. Thanks for calling.”
    There was a click at the other end.
    Joppa looked at the receiver and ran his hands through his hair. He shook his head and stretched his other hand out, making an empty gesture to the air, in helplessness.
    He wanted to get down on his knees right there and pray to God for some insight on how to reach his son.
    But then he had not been on speaking terms with God for some time. That, of course, reminded him of the hypocrisy—of being a Christian minister who, himself, did not commune with God.
    Back in seminary, he had felt a mysterious, all-powerful tug to spiritual things. Once he let go of baseball, Jonathan thought that ministry would fill the inner abyss. And…for a while, it seemed so. But then, as he readthe Bible and studied theology and the writing of the church fathers, there was a change. He felt hemmed in. Surrounded. It was all becoming much too personal. Though it felt like God was closing in, Jonathan managed to keep it out there.
    After Carol’s death, it had started with his leaving his pastorate at the vibrant First Evangelical Church of Charlotte to accept the position at the smaller, stodgy Safe Harbor Community Church in the Outer Banks. He would continue helping other people—and do it in the name of God. But whatever urge he once had to seek that place where God could truly be known—and be revealed—that was now past.
    So now, with the telephone still in his hand—and the obnoxious tones of a disconnected line beeping on the other end—Jonathan Joppa had no spiritual mountain to climb, no burning bush to consult. He could only hang up the phone. And struggle against the rush of tears.

12
    W ILL AND F IONA ARRIVED AT THE S UNSET B ISTRO long after the dinner rush had begun to wane. They were given a table by the window, overlooking the Pamlico Sound. The restaurant was an oak-paneled affair with mounted trophy fish on every wall.
    Will’s eye was captured by the last sliver of crimson light along the water. Fiona was lost in the seafood dinner before her. Her strange new affinity to seafood seemed to accompany her pregnancy.
    Fiona stopped eating, remembering something. “Tell me how your conference went with Reverend Joppa’s other attorney.”
    â€œBoggs Beckford. The poor guy really took a hit in this auto accident. He was wrapped up in casts.”
    â€œWhat was his feeling about the case? Do you think you’re going to take it?”
    â€œSomething interesting happened today. Jonathan Joppa called me. The court contacted both parties to the probate trial. The local judge who’s handling the case has scheduled a pretrial conference for tomorrow