Abdiel

The alarm blared in Jared’s ears, such an antagonizing sound. The slam of hand on clock was audible from the kitchen, where his mother already toiled over the aging stove. Jared stared the ceiling for a full minute, breathing slowly as he prepared himself for a tiresome morning. He wondered to himself about the injustice of feeling so old at only 15.

Sunday was always as such in this Baptist household, a ritual Jared despised. He hated giving up his day off to attempt wrangling young children into a Sunday School class, laboring to keep them quiet as his father droned on about the Scriptures. Jared had no vendetta against the Gospel, but one can only hear the same stories so many times before the repetition begins to wear down the faith. Generations of clergy were in his blood, however, so Jared continued to aid his father in the ministry.

From a young age, it was very clear to everyone that Jared Calhoun was gifted with a rare intelligence. His ability to absorb information was uncanny, and his analytical mind was much too clever for his father’s liking. From experience, the old preacher knew that intelligence and religion did not mix well. Years of attempting to avoid the life of a clergyman had taught him all the tricks of delinquency, and his son would not be allowed to succumb to such temptations. Therefore, Jared spent every waking moment while not at school with his face forced into The Good Book, and his ears filled with all manner of hellish stories. Preventative medicine of sorts, from a father obsessed with salvation.

Abdiel had never aspired to become a preacher. He despised his father and everything to do with the Ministry. If Abdiel had been born a few decades later, he might have been diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder; so great was his determination to deny his father. One might wonder why a man once so adamant in his denial of the Ministry would return, and join the clergy no less. Why would a man who hated everything to do with this business of  “Saving Souls” return to carry the torch? The answer lies buried within his own memory, lost to the pages of time. Some stains are difficult to wash clean.