Monday, September 12, 6:50 a.m. CDT

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Allen Barr turned his dusty, dimpled grey Ford Taurus left off of NW 39th Street into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. He circled around to the back of the store because at this time of day the front parking was always taken. He was ten minutes early for his meeting, but past experience told him that it could take that long to find an open table.

After finding a spot, he turned the key and pulled it out. The car answered by rumbling for a few seconds. Then it knocked a little before finally settling into a long series of clicks.

That can’t be good, Allen thought. Then again, what can you do? Unless the car fairies come down in the middle of the night to fix it, it’s just going to have to keep complaining every time I shut it down.

Since his divorce three years ago, money was extremely tight. Alimony and child support took a significant portion of his paycheck each month. But he didn’t begrudge it. He was still madly in love with his wife, and he knew that he was the reason they weren’t together.

And his kids—they were the light of his life. Two girls and a boy, all under ten. He was striving to rebuild a relationship with them, and so far it seemed to be working.

No, Allen didn’t care how much of his check they took or how hard he would have to work. The entire blame for his current life’s situation fell on his own shoulders. He had made his bed . . .

Two men in flannel jackets and gimme caps walked out the front doors of the donut shop, the second one holding the door for Allen, who nodded his thanks and stepped in.

There are few things like the smell of a donut shop, he thought as he deeply inhaled the thick, doughy sweetness. Quickly scanning the restaurant, he saw two tables open with only one customer in front of him. This just might work out!

When it was his turn, he ordered an iced chocolate bismark, a strawberry cheese Danish, and two coffees. After paying, he said, “Thanks, Lenny,” not expecting any response. In return, he received just what he hadn’t expected. In fact, it was the same response he received every day from the store manager.

Lenny is not a man who is happy in his work, Allen mused. Lord, bring some happiness into his life. Bring somebody or something. Lenny needs a little boost of love.

A two-seater was open, and Allen took the seat facing the door. He set the Danish and a coffee on the table in front of the other chair. Marty would complain that he paid again, but Allen felt it was only right. After all, Allen was the reason they were here. He was the one with the problem. He was the one who had blown his life. He was the one who had destroyed his family. Having Marty there to hold him accountable during the rebuilding process was certainly worth a Danish and a cup of coffee a day.

About five tables away was a four-top. A member of Oklahoma City’s finest was seated in each chair. Allen watched until one of them caught his eye. Almost imperceptibly, Allen nodded and gave a thumbs-up. The officer nodded in response and turned back to the conversation.

The first time he had seen Officer Donny Marden in the donut shop, he had almost turned and walked back out. But then he thought, That’s what the old Allen would do. Man up! So he had instead walked straight up to the man and introduced himself. Marden vaguely remembered him and seemed a little suspicious of the interruption. But after Allen described his journey and the changes he had made, the policeman had actually stood up, shaken his hand, and wished him luck.

That was huge for Allen, because Officer Marden had technically been the one who had pulled the pin on the grenade that blew up his life—although Allen knew that when it came down to it, it was all his own fault. It was Officer Marden who had pulled him over that night on I-44. It was he who had given Allen the field sobriety test. It was Officer Marden who had put the cuffs on him. But it was Allen himself who had fifteen minutes earlier gotten in the car knowing full well that he already had two DUIs behind him.

That arrest had cost him his license and ninety days in jail. It was also the final shove that sent his job and his marriage plunging into the abyss. In the weeks that followed his arrest, he spun so far down into depression that alcoholic homelessness or suicide seemed his only options. Not that there was much difference—one just being a slower way to reach the same end.

One day, as he sat in that county cell wallowing in self-pity over what he had made of his life, he heard a voice from the other side of the bars.

“Allen? Allen Barr?”

Without answering, he looked to his left and saw a man with a gentle face and biceps the size of his own thighs.

“Hey, Allen, I’m Larry Soady—one of the chaplains here. Sorry it took me a few days to get over to you. How’re you holding up?”

Allen looked around his small cell, then back at the chaplain. “Now that’s a stupid question.”

Chaplain Soady smiled. “Yeah, I guess life looks a little brighter from this side of the bars. Anyway, I just came by to see if there was anything I could do for you?”

“Get me my family back. Get me my job back. Get me out of this place.”

The smile stayed on Soady’s face. “Well, my friend, I can’t help you with those things, but maybe I know someone who can.”

Allen’s anger flared. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it all before. ‘Jesus loves me, this I know’; ‘There’s no sin too great’; ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ Yada, yada, yada. Just stow it! You can keep your Jesus and all your happy little promises that go along with him. My philosophy is God helps those who help themselves.”

Soady tapped his wedding ring on the bars and said, “Maybe it’s time to start thinking about a new philosophy. Listen, anytime you want to talk, shoot me a kite and I’ll be here.”

Over the next two weeks, Chaplain Soady came by every couple days—always with a smile on his face, always unfazed by Allen’s attitude. Finally, either by sheer determination or maybe pure stubbornness, he wore down Allen’s defenses.

“Okay, Larry, talk to me. Tell me what I need to hear,” he said skeptically one day when they were sitting at a table in the common area. The television was so loud that all the other prisoners were talking even louder just to be heard. Allen leaned in so he could hear.

“I don’t know who you’re thinking Jesus is,” Larry began. “I don’t know if you think He’s just waiting for you to screw up again so that He can come down on you. I don’t know if you think you’re beyond His reach because of how you’ve messed up your life. But John 1:17 says, ‘For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.’ Jesus isn’t about the rules. You get right with Him, and the rules take care of themselves. He’s about grace. Do you know what grace means?”

“I know it’s ‘amazing,’” Allen said with an uncomfortable chuckle.

“It is that. Grace just means getting what you don’t deserve. Like winning the lottery without ever having bought a ticket. Through Jesus, everyone has won a ticket-free lottery. But not for money—for something better, something bigger. Money’s going to get spent or stolen or absorbed into the bottomless pit of the IRS. But the prize we’ve won never fades or is lost. And it’s one of the few things the government can’t put its hands on—eternal life.”

“You know, Larry, that’s great for when I die. Great to know that I don’t just fade into oblivion. But look where I’m at! I’ve got nothing! I need a here-and-now Jesus, not just a Jesus who’s waiting at the finish line.”

Larry’s trademark smile crept back onto his face. “That’s just the thing, buddy! He’s full of grace and truth. It’s the truth that keeps us going here. He has all the right answers. A life following Him is a life following the path that your Creator created you for. So no matter how bad your life gets, no matter what problems come your way, you can still have peace, joy, contentment. How? Because you’re following the Truth. So you know you’re not alone. You know you’re doing the right thing.”

Twenty minutes later, in the noise of that common area, Allen was praying for the first time in his life. It was a prayer asking for forgiveness from God. It was a prayer that confessed his belief that Jesus Christ had died and rose again for him. It was a prayer committing himself to trying with everything he had to live the way the Lord wanted him to.

Allen took a sip of his coffee and looked around the donut shop. I wish I could say things have been rosy since then. But at least I’m making progress. And I know God loves me, and that gives me a peace like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

The front door pinged, and Allen looked over, expecting to see Marty. It was just two stoner teens looking like they wanted to feed a craving. Checking his watch, he saw that it was five after. Strange, Marty’s never late.

Upon Allen’s release, Chaplain Soady had connected him with a church that had an Alcoholics Anonymous–like program. The twelve steps were pretty much the same, but they put the name Jesus down as their Higher Power. Marty, sober for eighteen years, had become Allen’s sponsor. Now, even when the temptation to drink again was at its worst, through prayer and picturing Marty sitting across from him in this donut shop, he was able to fight through it.

The door pinged again and Allen looked up, again expecting to see Marty. Instead, it was a young man with olive skin and jet-black hair. He was carrying something, and when Allen looked to see what it was, his whole world suddenly shifted into slow motion.

The man shouted something unintelligible as he turned his back to Allen. The automatic weapon in his hands began firing at the table with the police. Officer Marden’s throat burst open, and more rounds shook the three other officers to the ground.

For an instant, Allen wondered if this was just someone who had it in for the police. But he had seen the news reports of the other attacks, and when the gunman continued firing at the other tables, he knew this wasn’t revenge—it was jihad.

I can’t let this happen! Three steps and I’m on him! Lord, give me strength!

As he launched up and took the first step, the faces of his beautiful daughters and precious little son flashed in his mind. Lord, protect them. Keep them. They’re yours.

In his second step, he saw his wife. Forgive me, sweetheart. I pray you find the Jesus I have, then pass Him on to the kids.

As he took his third step and reached his arms out to grab the gunman, something slammed into his back. He pitched forward and fell onto the shooter’s legs. Two more shots sounded from behind him as Allen hit the ground, and the young gunman collapsed on top of him.

The pain in his chest was unbearable, and he was feeling incredibly cold. The other body was pulled off him, and someone was talking to him. Although he knew that man was speaking English, none of the words were making sense to him.

And they seem to be getting smaller . . . shrinking, drifting, fading . . . fading. Pain’s fading. Oh, Jesus . . . fading. I’m fading. . . . I’m fading. . . .