A Touch of Grace. Linda Goodnight

something in her attitude today made him uneasy.

      “Everything depends on your cooperation. The more open you are with us, the better we can represent you to the public.” As she spoke, Gretchen’s gaze raced around the room, missing nothing. Not that there was all that much to see. Couches and a table, a tiny reception area with a pay phone, a TV and a few plants potted and tended by Roger. “The one thing I can promise you is to be fair. My stories are honest portrayals from the inside of ministries. The public has a right to know what they’re supporting.”

      “I can’t argue that, but I’m not really prepared for anything extensive today. I’m pretty busy.” He glanced at his watch. “Could we schedule another time?”

      Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Have something to hide, Reverend?”

      He was gonna let that pass. For now.

      “Nope.” He slouched against the reception desk, sliding one hand in his pocket. Feeling the little fish key chain calmed the jitters that had invaded his stomach. “But I don’t allow anything to jeopardize the recovery of my people, either. I’m sure you understand.”

      “Your people?” She emphasized the word as though it was loaded with insidious intent.

      Ian liked to be cooperative, usually enjoyed sharing his vision for the mission with others, but he wasn’t interested in playing word games with a reporter looking to catch him in a slip of the tongue to boost her TV ratings.

      “Look, Miss Barker, I’m a straightforward kind of guy. If you have questions to ask, ask them.” He smiled, hoping to soften her bulldog attitude with a little friendliness. “Why don’t we have this conversation in my office? I could offer you an ice-cold orange soda.”

      He would have had better luck selling sand in Saudi Arabia. Gretchen didn’t ease off.

      “Here is better.” She flipped open a small spiral notebook. “Let’s get started. Tell me about the mission. What exactly do you do?”

      “Easy question.” He smiled again. Might as well be nice about it. As his mother often said, he’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And Gretchen Barker definitely needed some sweetening.

      He pointed to the large framed poster on one wall and moved in that direction. Gretchen followed. “Isaiah 58 is our mission statement. The scripture tells it all.”

      The same words were engraved on a plaque outside each entrance.

      The photojournalist focused in on the Bible verses and then turned the camera back to Ian. In T-shirt and baseball cap, Ian figured he didn’t look much like a preacher. And that was okay by him, considering the people he ministered to. Teenagers were far more likely to talk to jeans and T-shirt than a suit and tie.

      “Jesus commanded that we serve others. Isaiah House tries to do that. Mostly, our outreach is to runaways and street kids, but anyone who comes through that door gets all the help we can give them.”

      “Very commendable,” she murmured in a voice that was less than impressed. Her sharp, intelligent eyes studied his face, and Ian got the sense that she wanted to find fault. What had he done to earn her animosity? Was it because of Maddy? Or did she dislike ministries in general?

      He gave it another shot. “Kids on the street need a place to go, a safe haven where they can get help. That’s what matters to us. Isaiah House is not three hots and a cot, as the street people call a regular shelter. We help lost people, particularly teens, find their way again.”

      “Interesting,” she said, as she furiously scribbled notes. “Would you mind telling our viewers about your program? What do you do that makes you different from any other shelter?”

      “Lots of things.”

      Eyes narrowed, she shot him that sharp look again. “Care to articulate?”

      Ian wished he’d had time to prepare. Isaiah House wasn’t a shelter, per se. It was so much more. But every time he tried to express his vision, he came off like a fanatic. And the last thing he needed was to sound like a nut on television.

      The photographer had moved away to point the camera down a side hall. Roger limped in their direction, carrying a stack of towels. When he spotted the camera, he did an about-face, disappearing as fast as his hip could take him back toward the dining room. Ian couldn’t hide the smile.

      “I suppose our most important difference is this—we minister to the whole person, not only the physical. Humans are three parts—mind, spirit and body. If one is out of order, the rest suffer.”

      “Is there more emphasis on the spiritual aspect than the others?”

      He paused to consider the motive behind the odd question, choosing his words carefully. “We use a balanced approach.”

      “Do you consider it balanced to require chapel twice a day, along with a Bible study and a prayer group?”

      Okay. Now he saw where she was headed. Here was his opportunity to share his rationale, not only with her, but with a wide TV audience. “Yes. I do.”

      But before he could explain further, she interrupted him with another question.

      “Can you discuss where the mission gets its operational funds?”

      Money. Dismay filtered over him like a fog. To the press, ministries were about money, not helping people. The whole idea tore him up. No man in pursuit of wealth would choose to deal with the troubled castoffs of society. Why couldn’t the public and the press understand that?

      “We depend entirely upon donations.”

      “What about government funding?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because then we’d have to follow their rules, and we can’t do that.”

      “Isaiah House has no rules?” She scribbled something else on her notepad.

      “We have plenty. Biblical rules, not rules of the government.”

      “So let me make sure I have this right. Anyone who comes to Isaiah House for help is required to attend all the religious elements of the program. The Bible study, prayer groups and chapel. Is that correct?”

      Ian had enough experience with opposition to know she was fishing for a negative angle, but all he could do was answer honestly and let God take care of the results.

      “The only way to get people to change their lives is to change their hearts.”

      A smile, the first one he’d seen, softened the line of her mouth.

      “Wasn’t there a recent lawsuit filed against Isaiah House for expecting a man to attend a Bible study in exchange for a meal at the soup kitchen?”

      No big news there. “Yes, but the courts refused to hear it.”

      “Were you guilty?”

      “If you’re asking if we require chapel or Bible classes to utilize our services, the answer is yes.” His easy admission seemed to catch her off guard. Good. She’d been trying to catch him off guard from the get-go. “People can’t change their hearts unless their minds are changed.”

      “You change their minds through Bible study? Isn’t that brainwashing?”

      Ian fought against rolling his eyes. Brainwashing. Please.

      “The Bible teaches that we are transformed by a renewing of our minds. As a person replaces his old destructive thoughts with God’s word, he’s reprogrammed to think in productive, healthy ways.”

      Did that sound as stiff and religious as he feared?

      “Reprogrammed. I see.” She started to wander about the small room, gnawing on the end of her pen.

      The chapel door swooshed open and a teenage girl stepped out, head down, a Kleenex