Page 115 of Samson

Samson slouched. “No. You don’t need me for anything. I’m the one who needs You.”

If you want to die, you can do it yourself. If you want to fulfill the purposes I have for your life, then I want you to be free when you do it.

“This whole time I’ve been doing it for me, not you.” He leaned his head against the wall. “How can I keep getting it so wrong? So what do I do?”

You already know.

He did, but it was a hard thing to admit.

He’d used his need to stop Demir as an excuse to not forgive him.

“But he killed my daughter.”

God didn’t hesitate to put a picture in Samson’s mind of Jesus hanging on the cross.

Humanity killed my Son. And yet…

The tears came again. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll forgive him. I’ll let go.”

A weight lifted, and the tightness in his chest lessened. He breathed deeply, surprised it had been that easy. He’d found it harder to forgive Delilah.

Then it came. The urgency.

It’s time.

He stood. Now it made sense. In God’s grace, He’d given Samson the opportunity to let go of everything and be free in a way he’d never experienced his whole life. He was almost weightless as the reality of what had happened struck him. His life wasn’t his own. It was the first time in his adult life that he knew he’d given himself completely to God. If Demir died today, it wouldn’t be because of Samson’s anger or rage. He had no malice or fear or grief. His heart flooded with a surge of joy. If only he’d done this sooner.

Samson thought God had been waiting for something else, but the whole time it had been Samson He’d been waiting for.

He walked to the door and pressed his hand against it, then his ear. The certainty of God’s word that it was time had brought an expectation that the guard was approaching, but there was no sound.

He tried the door, but it was locked.

The adrenaline that had sprung into his system would need to be subdued, so he walked in a circle around the room, flexing his hands.

“When you said it was time, I thought you meant now.”

He slowed his breathing as he march across the room. Focusing on his steps.

“One, two, three, four.” Turn. “One, two, three, four.” Turn.

He thought of those he’d be leaving behind, everyone he could think of. Even the women he’d left in his wake, ignoring the shame that heated his face until it eased.

“Forgive me, Father. There’s so much I did that was wrong.”

When he ran out of names, he thought over his life and thanked God for every good thing he could think of. “The garden I was able to build to remind myself of my mom. There was so much I didn’t deserve, yet you still gave me so?—”

He heard footsteps and closed his eyes. “This is it. Lord, give me the strength and wisdom I need.”

The door opened, and the same young man stood with his rifle, pointing his flashlight so that Samson would retreat against the wall, covering his face.

“Put these on,” he said, and Samson felt the cuffs hit his chest and drop to the floor.

“You afraid I’ll throw up on you again?” he said as he crouched down to retrieve the cuffs. “Would you mind pointing that thing somewhere else?”

The light slanted away, and Samson reached around on the floor until he found the cuffs, then locked his wrists in.

“Hey,” he said when he stood, realizing this was the last chance he had to speak to the guard. He should have paid more attention. He could have done more. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Jesus is real.”

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