Meals from Mars Read online

  Change always begins with conversation. Meals from Mars is a conversation starter for those willing to dialogue. Ben Sciacca is a trusted voice filled with the compassion necessary to see gospel-centered change become reality in our social frameworks.

  D. A. HORTON

  Author of Bound to Be Free

  Most Americans today are aware of the national divide that is pulling us apart at the seams. However, few are aware of how deep and complex this divide really is. Many choose to attribute it to race, class, or culture, but the issue defies all one-dimensional explanations. Meals from Mars brilliantly explores the many facets of this issue as it unfolds the compelling story of how two men and their families navigate these stormy waters. This novel is a useful and necessary tool to help the church begin to rediscover what keeps us from fully functioning as the Body of Christ.

  CARL ELLIS JR.

  Author of Free at Last: The Gospel in the African American Experience

  Ben Sciacca has invited us into an important metropolitan tale full of jukes and intrigue. He cleverly weaves the relevant issues of our day with a fast urban plot, which forces thought-provoking self-examination regardless of how you view the matter of lives or lives that matter.

  JOHN WELLS

  Rap artist The Tonic from The Cross Movement; president/CEO of Cross Movement Records and Issachar Media

  Meals from Mars is truly a story America needs to hear. In an entertaining and powerfully engaging way, Ben Sciacca leads us to better understand the challenges of many of the racial tensions facing our nation. Even better, he shows us a glimpse of transformation that can happen in the context of unlikely relationships. I can’t wait to give this book to all my friends.

  DANNY WUERFFEL

  1996 Heisman Trophy winner and executive director of Desire Street Ministries (Atlanta, Georgia)

  Meals from Mars is a masterfully compelling narrative that proves helpful in illustrating the difficult nuances of race in America. Sciacca humanizes the struggles of the urban poor and challenges the reader to charitably consider alternative worldviews. Meals from Mars invites you to join an American journey, involving the usual suspects, that promises to spark unusually beneficial dialogue.

  JASON COOK

  Associate pastor of preaching, Fellowship Memphis

  Conversations about racial tension are often tough for a number of reasons. It becomes easy to talk past one another when the conversation is reduced to arguments about abstract principles divorced from actual names and faces. Meals from Mars doesn’t allow that to happen. An eagerness to speak is replaced with silence as you find empathy and sympathy rising up out of nowhere. I couldn’t put it down. Such an amazing read. A great primer for getting anyone engaged in this conversation.

  JOHN ONWUCHEKWA

  Lead pastor, Cornerstone Church, Atlanta

  NavPress is the publishing ministry of The Navigators, an international Christian organization and leader in personal spiritual development. NavPress is committed to helping people grow spiritually and enjoy lives of meaning and hope through personal and group resources that are biblically rooted, culturally relevant, and highly practical.

  For a free catalog go to www.NavPress.com.

  Meals from Mars: A Parable of Prejudice and Providence

  Copyright © 2017 by Ben Sciacca. All rights reserved.

  A NavPress resource published in alliance with Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  NAVPRESS and the NAVPRESS logo are registered trademarks of NavPress, The Navigators, Colorado Springs, CO. TYNDALE is a registered trademark of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Absence of ® in connection with marks of NavPress or other parties does not indicate an absence of registration of those marks.

  The Team:

  Don Pape, Publisher

  David Zimmerman, Acquisitions Editor

  Daniel Farrell, Designer

  Cover photograph of businessman copyright © Bulent Ince/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of man in hoodie copyright © Paul Bradbury/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected] or call 800-323-9400.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-63146-544-4

  Build: 2017-07-18 15:05:00

  For my beloved wife, Sara. I’m so grateful for you and your fierce love for me, our family, and our city.

  (Jeremiah 29:7)

  Contents

  1: The End

  2: The Samaritan

  3: The Errand

  4: The Delivery

  5: The Detective

  6: The Drama

  7: The Cold

  8: The Investigation

  9: The Cabin

  10: The Visit

  11: The Introductions

  12: The Fear

  13: The Education

  14: The Confusion

  15: The Dawn

  16: The Discovery

  17: The Lecture

  18: The Meal

  19: The Intruder

  20: The Decision

  21: The Call

  22: The Surrender

  23: The Beginning

  Afterword

  For Discussion

  Additional Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  THE END

  1:12 p.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving

  “STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

  Clouds of steam billowed from under the crumpled hood of the Lexus. Glass from the driver-side rear window lay strewn along the road, sparkling like diamonds on the glistening blacktop. Two police SUVs encircled the wreckage, their lights ricocheting around the snow-laden trees that hugged the edges of the road.

  Jim slowly lifted his aching head and squinted through the window at the scene outside the car. Through the iced front windshield he could see the shadowy silhouettes of three officers with drawn pistols. They shielded themselves behind their open car doors. A thick hot strand of blood meandered slowly down Jim’s face from a ragged cut above his left eye. His head throbbed.

  One of the police officers was bellowing something, but Jim couldn’t make out the words. He slowly rolled his eyes over to the driver seat to see if Malik was okay.

  Malik was alert, wide-eyed, as the red and blue lights refracted onto his face like a kaleidoscope. His hair was littered with broken glass. Clouds of breath emerged from his open mouth in the frozen air. An abrasion on the side of his face was spotted with blood. Probably the airbag. He glanced for a moment at Jim out of the corner of his eye before leaning forward and fumbling around the brake pedal.

  “Come on, Malik,” Jim said with a hoarse whisper. “It’s all over now, son.”

  Malik ignored Jim. His eyes flashed as his hand found what he was looking for. As he pulled the black handgun from the floorboards, he groaned.

  Jim looked at the gun, now resting in the young man’s lap, and then at Malik. “Think, son,” Jim said, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This is not a good idea. It’s over.”

  Malik frowned as he stared out the window.

  “Get out of the vehicle with your hands in the air. Now!” the officer hollered again.

  “Yo
u’re right, Jim,” Malik said in a near whisper. “It is all over—for me at least.”

  Jim swallowed and shot a nervous look at the police cars. Malik continued to stare out the front window with a grim face.

  “Just give me the gun, Malik,” Jim said. He placed his open hand in front of Malik’s chest. “Those men outside will kill you if you step out with that.”

  Malik exhaled a deep sigh but said nothing.

  “Give me the gun, Malik, and we both walk out of here alive today.”

  Malik took a long look at the gun in his hand. He shook his head. “Man, too much has happened. Too much. I’m dead no matter what.” A slight smile emerged at the corner of his lips as a lone tear fell from his eye. He stuffed the gun into the front waistband of his pants. The handle was barely visible. He pressed the button to unlock his door.

  Jim grasped frantically for Malik’s shirt, but the young man opened the door and stepped out of the car into the frigid air before he could catch him.

  2

  THE SAMARITAN

  Twenty hours earlier

  MARY BETH FROWNED. Her face was taut as she applied eye shadow with quick deliberate strokes. “I don’t know why it has to be you, Jim. And tonight? Why tonight?”

  Jim sighed and leaned on the door frame of their bedroom as his wife continued to put on her face in the bathroom. She was thin, pretty. She wore a bright red dress, and her dark black hair was pulled into a braid that rested between her bare shoulders. At age thirty-four she looked surprisingly young, but her slightly strained expression always suggested it was requiring great concentration to hold all the facets of her face together.

  “I didn’t think our turn would ever come,” he said with a sigh. “You and I are way down the list, and, well, I just figured we were safe to avoid actually having to do something like this.”

  “We?” Mary Beth said with a slight sneer. “I’m not going down there. It’s almost five o’clock. And you’re not going down there either, Jim. I’m sure it can wait till morning.”

  Jim shook his head. “No it can’t. These folks have already been waiting for a week. They’re hungry, honey. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving in three days and we’re heading out of town. I don’t want to do it, but—”

  “Then don’t,” his wife said plainly. “I’m sure Pat and Sally can go. Don’t they usually do this errand?”

  “They do, but they’re traveling to see Pat’s family.”

  “What about Ed? He’s single. I’m sure he’s free tonight.”

  “He’s in Italy.”

  Mary Beth exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Well isn’t that convenient? Did no one think about this before they skipped town?”

  “Look. I’ve given this tons of thought. There’s seriously no one else, baby. I’m sorry.” Jim rounded the corner and stepped into the bathroom where Mary Beth was leaning into the mirror and applying some lipstick. “The trunk is already full of groceries. If I get going, I bet I can be back by seven.”

  “It’ll be dark. I don’t like that. Besides, seven is pushing it. My parents are coming at eight. Isn’t that reason enough to wait?” She looked hopefully at Jim’s reflection in the mirror.

  “We’ve been discussing this whole thing on and off for the last two hours. I need to go. There are refrigerated things in my trunk. I have the address. If all goes well, I’ll be back with plenty of time to help you get set up for your parents tonight. But I need to go. Now.”

  Mary Beth shot a glance at her husband and frowned again. She shook her head slightly.

  “Always the do-gooder, aren’t you? I don’t think this family—whoever they are—would starve if they got these groceries tomorrow. You have no idea how the thought of you going down into that neighborhood at night makes me worry. This really frustrates me.”

  Jim jostled the car keys in his pocket. “I’m nervous too, hon. But I’m going. Don’t even worry about this. I don’t want you to stress out our little girl there.” He smiled as he stole a glance at the tiny bump in his wife’s belly.

  Jim and Mary Beth had been married for four years, but neither of them had wanted children until Jim’s law practice took off. Both sets of parents had told them that having kids before establishing financial stability would be a mistake. But Jim’s career had taken off, and they were able to buy the house in Stone Brook that they wanted. It was only practical to start trying for kids. Mary Beth was six months along with their firstborn, a girl. They planned to call her Katelyn.

  Jim took another step into the bathroom and placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders. The two stared at each other in the mirror. He lowered his hands slowly down her sides and then gently placed his arms around her stomach. She smiled just slightly.

  “I’ll be home at seven, dear,” Jim said before placing a soft kiss on her neck.

  She flinched slightly. “That tickles.”

  “You look beautiful tonight.”

  “Hurry home, Jim,” she said, placing her hands on his. “And bring a coat. It’s supposed to drop below freezing tonight.”

  “You got it!” Jim said. He snagged his North Face fleece off the coat rack in the corner of the room. “You need anything at all, just call me. Okay?”

  “Okay, honey. See you soon. Please be careful—are you going to bring your gun?”

  Jim laughed. “What? My hunting rifle? Come on, dear. I don’t think so.”

  “My dad used to bring a gun when he drove to that side of town. And I know for a fact that Daddy was never down there when it was dark.”

  “Honey, I’m dropping off a turkey—not hunting for one. I’ll be fine.” Jim’s voice betrayed a slight hint of annoyance. “Goodbye. I love you.”

  With that Jim spun on his heels and headed down the stairs to the garage. Mary Beth sat down on the bed and played with her large diamond wedding ring, rolling it with her thumb while she stared at the floor. She heard the garage door open beneath her. With slow steps she walked to the bedroom window and gently pulled back one of the curtains just in time to see Jim’s black Lexus move down the driveway, onto the street, and out of sight.

  3

  THE ERRAND

  5:30 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving

  MALIK RUBBED HIS HANDS TOGETHER, placed them over his mouth, and blew two sharp breaths before stuffing them into the goose-down pockets of his black jacket. He glanced at the thermostat on the wall. Forty-seven degrees. He pulled his stocking cap over his ears and grimaced. A book of world history was open in his lap.

  Malik was a tall and lanky kid. Lighter-skinned than his brother and sisters, he had kind brown eyes and a shy smile. He was working on a mustache, and a tuft of black hair protruded from his chin. At eighteen years of age he was unusually quiet and kept mostly to himself. Most of his conversations took place via text messages on his phone.

  “Malik!”

  He looked up from his book. “Yeah, Grandma. I’m comin’.”

  His grandmother’s apartment was small and plain. The living room had two old brown couches with tufts of stuffing that erupted from the cushions here and there in little geysers. Her carpet was stained and weatherworn from years of traffic. The walls were papered with a violet floral pattern. Pictures of Malik’s mother and her sister and brother hung on the wall. An old television sat atop a wooden end table in the corner of the living room. There were cartoons playing, and his younger brother and sisters sat on the floor, watching the show as they devoured handfuls of popcorn from a large orange bowl.

  Malik wandered into the kitchen. His grandmother smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with joy. Her aged hands and the blue apron she was wearing were covered with flour. Malik was always amazed by the miraculous meals his grandmother created in such a tiny space. With just the two of them standing in the kitchen together, it felt crowded.

  “Baby,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry, but I’m gonna need you to run to the store.”

  “Okay. What’cha need?”

  “If I’m gonna make those biscuits
you like, then I’m gonna need some more butter and milk.” She shook her head. “I thought we’d have what we needed.”

  “It’s no problem,” he said with a grin of his own. “I can go. That all you need?”

  “I think so, baby. Now let me get you some money.” She left the kitchen and headed toward her bedroom.

  Malik’s cell phone chirped. He pulled it out of his pocket to check a text message from his friend Brenden.

  Shots poppin’ on 44th. Them field Boyz aint playin.

  Malik frowned and glanced out the window as he put his phone back in his pocket. The apartments behind them were silhouetted in a wall of orange and purple fire—the sun was almost gone for the day. He mumbled something under his breath and walked into the bedroom he shared with his brother Jamal. Looking over his shoulder to see if his grandmother or one of his little siblings was nearby, he opened his closet. Stretching up high on his tiptoes, he felt around under a pile of sweatshirts on his top shelf until he found what he was looking for. He took one more look toward the door—Jamal was nosey and often appeared out of nowhere—before pulling down a black handgun. He stuffed it quickly in the back of his pants.

  “Malik!” His grandmother hollered again. “Where’d you go, son?”

  “I’m here. Just one sec.”

  He reappeared in the living room to find his grandmother leafing through her billfold. She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “That should cover things. If there’s anything left over, grab yourself a candy bar or something.”

  Malik resented the fact that his grandmother had to live like this. She worked as a custodian for a big white church on the other side of town. His mom hadn’t been home for two months; she had gone to live with her boyfriend a few blocks down the street after his grandmother had put her out for stealing again. Now she was housing Malik and the other three kids until his mom got her life together. They’d been living there for the last six months. Putting food on the table had strained her so much that she was two months behind on the heat bill. This last week they were feeling the harsh cold after the temperatures had plummeted into the low thirties.