Debbie came in through the kitchen when she got home, stopped in the living room where her parents were watching tv, said hello, waited. Her dad was asleep in his recliner, Sunday truly his day to rest after working in the diner six days a week. Her mom looked up from her knitting.

"Hello, honey, how was youth group?"

Fellowship, Mom, it's Youth Fellowship. "Pretty good. Pastor Frank had a guest, a visitor from Denver. He was pretty nice." That's nice, dear.

"That's nice, dear."

Life with a mom who didn't believe and didn't really seem to care. Oh well.

"I'm going to bed. I want to read for a while."

"Ok, honey, sleep well."

"Night, Mom. Tell Daddy good-night for me, 'k?"

"Alright dear."

Debbie looked at the clock at the far end of of the hall in despair. Two more minutes, she thought, two more minutes and we'd be done. Two more minutes and time to quit, to put away the volleyball equipment and head upstairs and then she wouldn't be where she was heading: to serve. She hated serving, not just the fact that everyone in the room would be looking directly at her, but that her serve would do one of two things, the only two things her serves ever did. Either she would hit a low, almost straight shot directly into the net — probably the lower part of the net and perhaps even under it, something she had done more than a few times — or she would hit a beautiful, high arc that sailed at least ten feet out-of-bounds. Either way, not only would she forfeit serve but she would also hurt her hand and maybe her arm as well.

Prologue

June 1980

The pain in his legs is gone. His body is numb, beyond sensation; his mind has followed, for the same reason: too much, too much. On his knees for hours, imploring God for mercy, digging deep into himself for proof of the faith that would save his baby's life, kneeling and praying and begging God to spare his child — O Father, as You spared Abraham's child — knowing God had not spared His own Son, knowing God might take his child as well. His daughter, sweet and beautiful, Rachel Marie, so beautiful and dying from the moment she emerged into the fallen world. Born frail, born so ill and helpless, but not hopeless — Do not lose hope, brother, keep faith in God and He will grant his miraculous mercy — but God appears to have a more difficult test of faith in mind for him.

Melissa, the wife chosen for him by Brother Ezekial, given to him to bear his children and be his partner in the great work of salvation, Melissa sits in the straight-back wooden chair, the baby in a light blanket on her lap. Melissa, weak herself from almost two days of labor, weak from bleeding that still has not stopped, weak from sitting in the chair with her baby in her lap, one hand lifted in supplication and the other resting on her daughter's tiny, fragile chest; lightly on the chest, the breath coming so difficult. Melissa, her face closed and locked: in prayer, in shock, in grief? He can not tell, no longer looks at her. She sits only inches from him, their dying daughter in her lap, asking God for a miracle — he can only believe she was asking God what he had been asking for — their daughter and an abyss of fear and grief between them.

But fear is wrong. Fear speaks only of faithlessness, of human pride, of a lack of trust in God's mercy, God's will. Your Father loves you, brother, and His will for you, for your daughter, is not for us to question but to give worship and thanks. Thanks. For hours, with his knees screaming in pain, his leg muscles cramping, quivering, his back wanting to collapse on the floor (and weep and weep, he refused to acknowledge how much pain he felt in body in mind, simply kneel and pray and believe); for hours, desperate to find the core stone of faith he knew must be there. If he could find that faith, that tiny bit of belief that confirmed all he had been learning the past four years with the Family, God would hear his prayers and grant him his miracle. If he could find that faith.

this is the first draft, far from complete, of an attempt at a graphic novel. i know almost nothing about real samurai or being a warrior, so that'll need some research. but the novel is not about samurai. why samurai matter at all will be clear early on. anyway, this is an experiment and i'm enjoying it.

a prison cell: one of those classic views, from above, at an angle so we see him sitting on his cot, head in his hands, shadows of the bars striping the room. a black-and-white view of a man on death row, sitting up in the darkness of the night.

It was his shoes that did it. Hideous things, ugly just for the sake of being ugly. Bad enough they would be manufactured and sold; worse that anyone would purchase and wear them.

from behind, a close-up of his hand holding his head, fingers digging into his close-shorn scalp