Page 107 of Conrad

Conrad walked over, spotted the unfinished piano-bench parts. “I don’t know. I keep making wrong turns, finding myself back where I was?—”

“You talking about the panic attacks?”

He looked over at his father.

“Please. I’m your father.”

Right. “Yes. They’re still happening. And my worst fear is that it will hit me during a game. Which only makes it worse because the more you panic about a panic attack, the more likely it’ll happen.”

He looked away, unwilling to see that truth land on his father’s face.

But his dad bent back over the piano leg. “I’m not going to pretend that you don’t have a good reason for them. But the reason you feel so panicked now is that you still care what people think about you. Let’s be honest—that’s superficial. The only person whose opinion should matter is God’s. So what does he say about you?”

Conrad picked up a piano leg, found a rough spot, and found a scrap of sandpaper. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. He’s already shown you. He loves you. And he doesn’t love you less today than he did when you were first saved. You’ve already walked into God’s love. Are already living in the abundance of it. So stop acting like you’re going to lose it.”

“In other words, stop panicking?”

His father looked up and met his eyes. “In a word, yes, although I know that’s easy for me to say. I don’t step out on the ice two or three times a week for a game, playing my heart out so that people can yell at me when I mess up.”

Conrad shrugged.

“Good game on Sunday, by the way. When’s your next game?”

“Wednesday. No physical practice today, but we’re reviewing tape later. Then I need to head back out for tonight’s practice with the Ice Hawks.”

“The EmPowerPlay team.”

“I’m helping out.”

“Good for you. I wasn’t sure you’d ever coach again after . . .” He made a face. “Well, good for you.”

“Yeah, well, Jeremy Johnson is on the team, although I haven’t seen him yet.”

His father’s smile dimmed. “Joe is in the hospital. Infection in his leg. Got a staph infection. Our church is praying.”

Conrad stilled.

His father put down the sandpaper. Walked over and put his hands on Conrad’s shoulders. “This is not your fault.”

“It is, actually.”

“The initial accident, sure—you had a role to play. But Joe has forgiven you, and so has God. I was there, Conrad. I remember you going in to apologize.”

“I mouthed words, but I remember being pretty angry, mostly at myself.”

“Defensive. I remember.” His father considered him. “I know it doesn’t feel right to forgive yourself, but you should . . . and then let it make you a better person.”

“It just feels like I can’t untangle myself from the guilt.”

His father nodded. “Like Reuben.”

“Reuben?”

“Joseph’s oldest brother.”

“Joseph from the Bible? As in the coat of many colors?”

---