Read The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) for Free Online Page B

home was not a choice Porter made.  It was simply the end point of the next Greyhound bus leaving Huntington, West Virginia.  Desperate to flee his home, and with only the $987 he had tucked away from his occasional construction work, Porter boarded the bus under the crushing weight of cowardice and sorrow.  The three steps up onto the bus were the most difficult he had taken since he learned to walk. 
    As the bus rolled west on interstate 64, questions no 14-year-old should have to consider surged through Porter’s mind.  Why didn’t I help Jenny?  How did I fix anything by running away?  How am I going to survive?   He could not solve these.  His one answered question was that there was no life left for him in West Virginia and that Chicago’s metropolis would swallow him, smother his flames of guilt, and extinguish his innocence.
    The goodbye letter he placed on the kitchen table was brief, sincere, and a lie. “Dad, I am so sorry for the pain my actions will cause you and Jennifer, but life will be easier without me to worry about.  I’m the reason mom left and not having me around will make it easier for Jennifer to heal.  I've failed to be the person you taught me to be.  I'll be safe and come home when I feel like the time is right.  Tell Jenny that I love her and that I will never forgive myself for letting her suffer.  Tell Granny and Grampy I love them too.  I hope one day you can see that what I am doing is because of how much you mean to me.  Wherever I go I will always remember who I am… your son, Glenn.”
    E leven hours in the shuttle allowed Porter the time and solitude to resolve who he would be in his new life.  His desperation focused his mind on the pain Jenny had felt.  His mother and church had often spoken of redemption and atonement as the themes of Jesus’ ministry.  But Porter knew Jesus was not there for Jenny in her time of need, nor would he be waiting for him in Chicago.  If there's a rescuer on Earth , Porter thought, it's going to be me . 
    Cool , dreary, and blowing like he had never experienced, the first few minutes on the Chicagoland concrete were terrifying.  With no sense of which direction to even walk, much less find food or shelter, Porter opted for the Waffle House across the street. 
    With smoke filling the air, he ordered a pancake breakfast and a coffee, his first of many cups to come.  The early dawn gave him his first glance at the movements of his new home; cabs bustling about, businessmen unloading from the train with a coffee in one hand and a Wall Street Journal in the other, and street vendors unfolding their food and magazine carts.
    Waffle House may be famous for their breakfast, but their wide windows were the real draw for Porter.  For less than $5, Porter had a view of all the creatures who could be his ally.  For now, they were the same downward looking stranger headed off to make their way in the world with no care for anything but their own advancement.
    Connie Lazarus’s relaxed, black, shoulder length hair accentuated her piercing green eyes.  Porter intuitively sensed this late twenties stranger who carried a sweet countenance along with a plate of hotcakes, would be a source of comfort to him.  Asking for his breakfast order, she exuded a warmth he had craved since his mother left.  Porter needed to find shelter and a job, without betraying his runaway status or risking police involvement.  He hoped Connie had those answers.
    Nathan had taught his son the best way to break the ice was to smile and just say hi.  But that advice works in friendly West Virginia, not impersonal Chicago , Porter thought.  Necessity often produces courage, so without further deliberation and as Connie poured his third cup of coffee, Porter grinned and meekly said, “Hi.” 
    “ Well, hey there.  You’re up awfully early aren’t ya?” came Connie’s response heavy with a nasal Chicago accent.  “You headed to Mass before school?  Not