Wesley Clayburn, "Clay," is a man with deep personal pain and significant failure who can no longer cope with his life. He is thrown together with a young woman who has immediate and profound needs of her own. The circumstances are unusual and intense. Relationships had always been a disaster for them...could that change? Could they become what each other has needed?
excerpt from Part II...
He had known for years the deep sadness inside him was not there because he had done something wrong. The source was much deeper. Somehow, she had touched those raw emotional nerves that he had never been able to identify. Clay suspected that some of his issues may have gone back to his early childhood days. He grew up on a ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California. It was a small community where everyone knew each other, and thanks to the party line, much of their business. It was a close community and certainly not very private. The small country school he attended was the central gathering place for social events, and a clearing house for all the latest gossip.
Clay was eight years old in 1970, when his mother informed him that she and his father were not going to live together any longer. She would be moving and he would be staying on the farm with his father. This news rocked his world. Not only was it devastating to Clay, it was major news in the whole community. Everyone was talking about it. Even the kids he had grown up with at school were whispering to each other and making comments to him. He would see teachers talking to each other, sadly shaking their heads as they looked at him. He was unusually perceptive for a boy his age. He was not imagining things. They really were talking about him and what was happening.
One kid in particular said to him one morning; “I hear your dad and mom are splitting up.” He was promptly scolded by one of his other friends, to which the kid responded, “Well, its true, isn’t it…they are, aren’t they?” Clay was not angry. Instead, he felt a deep, dark sadness descend upon him. It didn’t leave. It was like being under water a bit too long, and feeling that panic when you need to breathe, but can’t. It was a suffocating feeling.
Divorce was just not as common in the sixties, and certainly not in this rural conservative location. A deep shame enveloped him. It changed his personality. He became withdrawn and quiet, where he had once been a happy-go-lucky kid. His school work was not as good, and he day dreamed. He began to see on his report cards comments like, Clay is a very nice boy, but he stares out the window a lot. Life would never be the same after that crisis in his young life. So in the summer between his third and fourth grade of school, the much talked about divorce became reality. His mother was gone.
Clay’s family were mostly Methodists, but they sometimes attended a country church less than a mile from his home. New Hope was a conservative church that was more about taking care of the diverse families in the farming community, who weren’t Catholics, than about following a particular denomination. He knew it was some kind of Baptist church, but that meant nothing to him. He went because he had no choice…it was what they did on Sunday. But he had always enjoyed it. Mixing with neighbors, the Sunday school program, the singing and picnics on the grounds were all very pleasant things in his life.
His favorite, however, was the Vacation Bible School they held for a week each summer. He had always envied his Catholic classmates, who once a week got to ride a bus into town for something they called catechism. They all complained about it, but it sure looked like fun to him. He was protestant by birth, so that was not going to happen. Vacation Bible School was his way of making up for the loss he felt in missing out on catechism. It was a whole morning of games, crafts, snacks and learning Bible stories. It was a wonderful time for him, and a welcome relief from weeding cotton and carrying syphon pipe for irrigation. It was also a diversion from the sadness of not having his mother at home.
In 1972, the summer Clay was ten years old, following his fourth grade in school, the pastor of the little church made a point to talk to him personally. “Clay,” he said, “can I talk to you for a few minutes at the end of Bible School today? I’ll run you home afterwards.”
“Sure,” he said. He had no idea what the preacher had in mind, but he was pretty sure he had done nothing to be in real trouble.
When the day’s activities were over, Pastor Matt found Clay outside on the playground and asked him to come inside with him. It was a very traditional building with wooden pews and pictures of Jesus scattered around that showed him in what looked like a dress and long flowing hair. Clay had always been a bit uncomfortable with those images. Though he would never admit it, he personally viewed Jesus as being a bit more like a cowboy. There was no church office in the small building, so they took a seat on a couple of wooden chairs in the back.
“Clay,” Pastor Matt began, “I’ve notice something about you that I believe is unique. You have a way of looking at people as though you are seeing inside them. I’ve also noticed that folks are not uncomfortable with the way you look at them. In fact, they seem to find a certain comfort with you. That is very unusual in a boy your age. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Clay thought the answer, but didn’t speak it. In truth, he had no idea what the preacher was talking about. He felt a bit nervous with him saying those things. It was like now he had a responsibility to be a certain way. He just wanted to be him…Clay.
excerpt from Part II...
He had known for years the deep sadness inside him was not there because he had done something wrong. The source was much deeper. Somehow, she had touched those raw emotional nerves that he had never been able to identify. Clay suspected that some of his issues may have gone back to his early childhood days. He grew up on a ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California. It was a small community where everyone knew each other, and thanks to the party line, much of their business. It was a close community and certainly not very private. The small country school he attended was the central gathering place for social events, and a clearing house for all the latest gossip.
Clay was eight years old in 1970, when his mother informed him that she and his father were not going to live together any longer. She would be moving and he would be staying on the farm with his father. This news rocked his world. Not only was it devastating to Clay, it was major news in the whole community. Everyone was talking about it. Even the kids he had grown up with at school were whispering to each other and making comments to him. He would see teachers talking to each other, sadly shaking their heads as they looked at him. He was unusually perceptive for a boy his age. He was not imagining things. They really were talking about him and what was happening.
One kid in particular said to him one morning; “I hear your dad and mom are splitting up.” He was promptly scolded by one of his other friends, to which the kid responded, “Well, its true, isn’t it…they are, aren’t they?” Clay was not angry. Instead, he felt a deep, dark sadness descend upon him. It didn’t leave. It was like being under water a bit too long, and feeling that panic when you need to breathe, but can’t. It was a suffocating feeling.
Divorce was just not as common in the sixties, and certainly not in this rural conservative location. A deep shame enveloped him. It changed his personality. He became withdrawn and quiet, where he had once been a happy-go-lucky kid. His school work was not as good, and he day dreamed. He began to see on his report cards comments like, Clay is a very nice boy, but he stares out the window a lot. Life would never be the same after that crisis in his young life. So in the summer between his third and fourth grade of school, the much talked about divorce became reality. His mother was gone.
Clay’s family were mostly Methodists, but they sometimes attended a country church less than a mile from his home. New Hope was a conservative church that was more about taking care of the diverse families in the farming community, who weren’t Catholics, than about following a particular denomination. He knew it was some kind of Baptist church, but that meant nothing to him. He went because he had no choice…it was what they did on Sunday. But he had always enjoyed it. Mixing with neighbors, the Sunday school program, the singing and picnics on the grounds were all very pleasant things in his life.
His favorite, however, was the Vacation Bible School they held for a week each summer. He had always envied his Catholic classmates, who once a week got to ride a bus into town for something they called catechism. They all complained about it, but it sure looked like fun to him. He was protestant by birth, so that was not going to happen. Vacation Bible School was his way of making up for the loss he felt in missing out on catechism. It was a whole morning of games, crafts, snacks and learning Bible stories. It was a wonderful time for him, and a welcome relief from weeding cotton and carrying syphon pipe for irrigation. It was also a diversion from the sadness of not having his mother at home.
In 1972, the summer Clay was ten years old, following his fourth grade in school, the pastor of the little church made a point to talk to him personally. “Clay,” he said, “can I talk to you for a few minutes at the end of Bible School today? I’ll run you home afterwards.”
“Sure,” he said. He had no idea what the preacher had in mind, but he was pretty sure he had done nothing to be in real trouble.
When the day’s activities were over, Pastor Matt found Clay outside on the playground and asked him to come inside with him. It was a very traditional building with wooden pews and pictures of Jesus scattered around that showed him in what looked like a dress and long flowing hair. Clay had always been a bit uncomfortable with those images. Though he would never admit it, he personally viewed Jesus as being a bit more like a cowboy. There was no church office in the small building, so they took a seat on a couple of wooden chairs in the back.
“Clay,” Pastor Matt began, “I’ve notice something about you that I believe is unique. You have a way of looking at people as though you are seeing inside them. I’ve also noticed that folks are not uncomfortable with the way you look at them. In fact, they seem to find a certain comfort with you. That is very unusual in a boy your age. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Clay thought the answer, but didn’t speak it. In truth, he had no idea what the preacher was talking about. He felt a bit nervous with him saying those things. It was like now he had a responsibility to be a certain way. He just wanted to be him…Clay.
