Sherry set the cup down, spilling a splash of coffee on her thumbs. “A few sleepless nights? No, I don’t think so, Father. I wouldn’t call being locked in a box while your parents are butchered above you and then living through 8 years of nightmares a few restless nights!”

The priest didn’t flinch at the words. “Let me tell you a story, Sherry. I think it may bring this into perspective for you.

“One day not too many years ago, near the end of World War II, a common man – a doctor – was detained and brought to a detention camp with his wife. His twelve-year-old son was in the safekeeping of his grandmother, or so the doctor thought. In reality his captor, an obsessed man named Karadzic, had also found the boy. Bent upon breaking the doctor’s spirit, they placed the man in a cell adjacent to two other cells – one holding his wife and the other holding his son. Of course, he did not know his son was in captivity – he still thought he was safe with his grandmother.

“The wife’s and son’s mouths were strapped shut and each day all three were brutally tortured. The doctor was told that the screams from the cell on his left were his wife’s screams, and those on the right were the screams of a vagrant child, picked from the streets. He was told that if he ordered the child’s death, both he and his wife would be spared, and if he refused, they would bot be killed on the eve of the seventh day.

“The doctor wept continually, agonizing over the groans of pain from his wife’s cell. He knew he could spare her with the death of one stray child. Karadzic intended on dragging the son’s body in after the doctor had ordered his execution, in the hopes of breaking his mind.

“But the doctor could not order the child’s death. On the seventh day both he and his wife received a bullet to the head, and the boy was released.” The priest paused and swallowed. “So the doctor gave his and his wife’s lives for another, not even knowing it was that of his own son. Does this seem fair to you, Sherry?”

Sherry’s head swam in the horror of the tale. Another emotion muddied the waters of her mind – confusion. She didn’t respond.

“We don’t always understand why God allows one to die for another’s life. We don’t easily fathom God’s Son’s death. But in the end” – he swallowed again – “in the end, Sherry, we will understand what Christ meant when he said that in order to save your life you must lose it.”

Petrus looked away and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe my parents’ death saved me for this day – so that I might speak these words to you.”

Sherry dropped her jaw. Father Petrus was the boy? “You were –”

The priest looked back to her and nodded smiling again. “I was the boy.” Tears wet his cheeks and Sherry’s world spun. Her own eyes blurred.

“One day I will join my parents,” the father said. “Soon, I hope. As soon as I have played my role in this chess match.”

“They both died for you.”

He turned away and swallowed.

Her chest felt as though it might explode for him. For her. She had lived through the same, hadn’t she? Her father had died for her above that box.

The father had found love. Love for Christ. In some ways, she had as well.

“What is it with death? Why is the world filled with so much violence? Everywhere you turn there is blood.”

He turned back to her. “In living we all eventually die. In dying we live. He has asked us to die. Take up your cross and follow me. Not a physical death necessarily, but to be perfectly honest, we of the West are far too enamored with our own flesh. Christ did not die to save us from physical death.”

“That doesn’t remove the horror of death.”

“No. But our obsession with life is as evil. Who is the greater monster, the one who kills or the one who is obsessed with their own life? A good strategy by the dark side, don’t you think? How can a people terrified of death climb up on the cross willingly?”

The statement sounded absurd and Sherry wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“In the great match for the hearts of men, it isn’t who lives or dies that matters,” Petrus said. “It’s who wins the match. Who loves God. We each have our part to play. Do you know what the moral of my parents’ story is?”

She looked at him.

“The moral of the story is that only true, selfless love will prevail. No greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for a friend. Or a son. Or a stranger in a cell next to you.”

“Your parents died.”

“We all die. My parents defeated Karadzic. Their love set me free to do what I must do.”

“So do you think I’ve been brought to the jungle to die?” She asked.

He tilted his head down slightly. “Are you ready to die, Sherry?”

A ball of heat washed over her skull and swept down her spine. It was the way he asked the question.

Are you ready to die, Sherry?

No.

It all swarmed through her mind – her parents’ deaths, the father’s story, her own nightmares – they all swirled together to form this lump that swelled in her throat.

She stood and walked into the kitchen. “What’s there to eat?”