

### Caught in the Tail Lights

by

D. Dean Benton

Copyright © 2015 D. Dean Benton

All rights reserved

Distributed by Smashwords

Thank you for downloading this book. This ebook is licensed for personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. This ebook may not be reproduced for commercial purposes. The author was given gracious permission to quote and will give permission to quote and reproduce select portions upon express written permission of the author. Thanks for your interest and support.

This is a novel with fiction and non-fiction elements. The characters are from the imagination of the author. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Notes

Dedication

Appreciation

About D. Dean Benton

Other books by Dean

Contact Dean

# Introduction

When my parents divorced, I was in the second grade. I was the only divorced kid in my class. I may have been the only divorced kid in my school. It felt as if I was the only divorced kid in the world—except for my younger sister. The statistics are different today.

There were no user-friendly instruction manuals for the newly divorced or their kids. Friends say about this book, "Powerful words! Words I wished I had heard as a kid." A man, whose parents divorced when he was three, told me he still doesn't get it—why they married, why they divorced, why his dad didn't stick around. He doesn't understand what he was mad about, but he was angry all the time. Parental divorce does something to some of us. We can figure it out rationally, it is just that our hearts don't get it. It feels like rejection, sometimes abandonment.

In the decades of living this adult child of divorced parents life, during seminars, concerts, conferences, counseling sessions and coaching, I have talked with thousands of kids and adults about their divorces. I have read the divorce literature. I have studied myself. I have learned that words like "all" or "everyone" do not work. In this huge tribe, there are, however, discernible trends, patterns, commonalities and a few predictabilities. This story is not about all of us, but all of us will find recognizable faces and experiences.

One of my mentors said recently, "Your identity and your destiny are inseparable." Another mentor asked, "What is the future you want to be part of?" That is what this story is about—the future you choose and prepare yourself to live in.

Without trying to fix blame; taking total responsibility for who and what I am, and who I am becoming, I am challenged to ask how I got here, what happened to me, how it bent me, how it shaped my best characteristics and how it is affecting my current life. With that clarity, I want to fix the broken spots and allow God to use every tear. I will do what my wife admonishes in her song— _Don't Waste Your Pain_.

Welcome to the story of Timothy Randall Kendall—Caught in the Tail Lights.

# Chapter One

He couldn't tell how far he had crawled. He didn't know where he was, or why he was laying next to a stream. He checked his body parts and none of them hurt. Except the side of his face. He flexed his jaw. It wasn't broken, but it would be a while before he chewed tough steak.

"Nasty incident."

The voice startled him. He scrambled to his feet to defend himself.

"Relax, my friend. I'm no threat. You better sit down before you fall down." A gentle bemused chuckle accompanied the suggestion.

The man with the sore jaw took the counsel and sat down, then reached into the stream for a hand of water to splash on his face.

"A few abrasions. I looked you over while you were sleeping. You were mumbling, 'If I only knew now what I'll know then.' Do you have a voice now?"

"Who are you?"

He really wasn't a threat. The real question was why was he here? Bruises he had, and abrasions, but he couldn't figure out who he was or even the most minor detail. The stranger had not given his own identity. The stranger ran his fingers through his hair and then combed his finely manicured beard with his fingernails.

"My name is Van. I live close by. I saw the incident." He began to laugh. "I'm laughing at your expense. You might laugh too had you seen the way you bounced off the bottom of that ditch. I didn't think a human body would bounce like that. You must have rubber in your skin. It really was rather funny." He motioned hitting and bounding like tennis ball. And laughed at the recalled sight.

"I didn't bounce. I jumped. They were not going to have the pleasure of thinking I was hurt. Not going to see me crawling in the mud."

"So, you remember."

"I'm beginning to."

"Can you remember your name? Where you work?"

"Tim. At least that's what my boss at Homer's Texaco calls me. Mom and Dad used to call me Timmy. When I get older, I'm going to be known as T. R. Maybe T. Raymond. That has a rich sound, don't you think? T. Raymond Kendall. That'll look good on my resume."

With his smile showing, Van asked, "How old do you plan to be when you start signing your checks that way?"

"Oh, I don't know. Twenty, twenty-two. When I'm in college."

"Well, T. R., why don't you take a look at yourself in the creek." Van's tone had gone from an underlying chuckle to somber. Tim picked up the signal that the seriousness sent and wondered if he was bleeding or something was wrong with his nose. His forehead hurt above his eye.

"Look at yourself in the creek water."

Who was the old guy in the creek? It looked like his grandfather or an elderly version of his father. He reached up to the forehead cut. Involuntarily, he shrieked, sat back on his haunches and looked at Van in disbelief. He cautiously leaned over and looked again, then traced the wrinkles on his face.

"I'm dead, right?"

Van shook his head, but offered no explanation, if he had one.

"I'm older than my Dad." He fingered the thick heavy mustache. "How old am I and how did this happen? I'm a high school senior! How does this happen? Those guys must have given me drugs after they punched me out. I'm trippin'! Only explanation."

"See if you still have your wallet." Van watched the man tremble as he reached into his left rear jeans' pocket. This man/boy was in shock and on the verge of coming unglued.

"Timothy Raymond Kendall it says, I signed it 'Timothy Raymond Kendall.'"

"Well, there you are. You were right. 'T. Raymond.'" Van toyed with the name. "Does sound rich." He watched from across the creek and finally said, "It is remarkable. Your calmness. Most people would be screaming or crying...or..."

"Does feeling numb count? I don't think I have a scream or tear in me." He once more studied the face in the stream tracing the deep wrinkles, pulling his thinning hair up from his high forehead. Then he cried. Van remained still and granted his new friend time and room to grieve a lost lifetime and react to a terrifying situation. "Just tell me who I am and where I am."

Getting to his feet was much easier when he thought he was seventeen. He never stretched his back like this when he was younger which made him ask "How old am I?"

"Do you remember your conversation with Miss Della on the football field parking lot? That happened fifty years ago." He just laid it out there and waited. He could see Tim doing the math. "Let's go to my house. We'll be more comfortable there." Van didn't indicate that was an option among several.

"I'm sixty-seven-years old?" Tim screamed. "What am I doing here? What happened to my life? How did I lose fifty years?"

"I can only tell you what I saw." Van changed his story to accommodate Timothy's mental awareness and shift. He continued. "You were changing a flat tire and a passing vehicle clipped you, knocking you into the ditch. You bounced back up—you tucked and rolled, very matter-of-factly checked your body, then finished changing your flat. You pulled your car over into a side-road parking area and began to walk. You must have made it to this creek and then passed out. Seemed you needed the rest. I covered you with my coat; you pretty much know the rest."

He shook his head. "You would be wrong about that. I don't know anything other than my name and that I grew up to have more wrinkles than a prune left on the counter." Tim thought for a moment. "I suppose going to your house is the only option. I've got a headache. I wouldn't know where to drive even if I felt like driving. So, it's off to Van's house we go. Do you cross the creek or do I?"

With a quick motion, Van walked toward a wooden foot bridge Tim hadn't noticed before. Tim thought to himself that in this new world gestures often took the place of many words. That's the way his grandfather had been. He didn't say much, he just had a way of nodding or waving his hand to communicate all he needed to say. Maybe it wasn't a new world at all, just the world of the old.

"Impossible!" Tim exclaimed. "Sixty-seven!"

Van's laughter filled the meadow. It was odd. Voluminous, but warming. Tim wasn't sure if the arm placed around his shoulder was to comfort a seventeen-year-old or to steady the steps of a senior citizen.

"MY GOD! I'm a senior citizen! And I'm a virgin! I'm in hell! I promise all that talk about Mary Ellen was just talk. I probably can't even get it up anymore and I've never had sex. What kind of God would allow that to happen?"

Van looked at the face spouting the loud words. He concluded the humor came from Tim the seventeen-year old and not T. Raymond or Timothy.

"Alice? We have a guest." Van greeted his wife with a kiss on her check as Tim watched. No, he mostly gawked. The strange new world he was visiting had much. Especially cleavage.

"His name is T. Raymond Kendall. We haven't decided what to call him. Timothy when he's thinking and... Tim! when he is leering down my wife's blouse."

"Oh, I am sorry. It is nice to meet you, Ma'am. I'll recover my manners when the cobwebs clear."

"And you just found you were wrong about getting it...," the lady teased.

"Alice! Stop. Don't encourage him," Van said in mock shock.

"It is good to know, isn't it?" Timothy asked his friends.

"Actually, Abraham didn't have a problem...do you recall how old he was when Isaac was born? And eighty-year-old Caleb was nearly boastful about his ability to..."

"Okay, Alice. Quit tormenting the boy, uh...man. Just stop it."

"Yes," Tim said, "Enough is enough." He smiled at her and thought that a geezer can get by with saying things a seventeen year old would never—at least not to certain people. "I like your house." He walked to the living room window which opened onto another meadow and then a thick planting of trees.

"Would you like some coffee or tea?" she asked. The lady was not going to give up on the sexy voice.

"Dear, my guess is that he would prefer a soda. Perhaps a Dew."

"It is odd, isn't it? I'm in a sixty-plus body with seventeen-year old tastes. I would prefer a soda. Cola, if you have it." Tim was relaxing in the situation. He felt no apprehension or anxiety. Part of his brain was not completely comfortable, though. Something was out of whack which he could not figure out, but he was adjusting.

"How about cranberry juice with seltzer water?" She smiled.

"Oh, yumm."

Van gestured which saved two or three paragraphs of words. "She likes you and is pleased to have you here. She is not senile, but she does have a wicked streak that loves to tease. Just watch it when she stops smiling and becomes quiet and inward."

Tim knew all of that from the gesture.

"What can you tell me of your twenty-first year?" The host asked.

"Nothing. Want to hear about eighth grade?" he laughed. Just then, it felt like his head began to buzz or whirl, like the sound of a CD downloading software into a computer.

"Tim, you will have recall of your fifty lost years. You will cry over all the pain you will experience in the compressed time. You'll want to cling to some moments and not allow them to escape. Most of all, you'll regret not living those moments more fully. You'll understand why you have the wrinkles you've been obsessing about. Don't be afraid."

Tim liked the man. He nodded to acknowledge his words and concern. Tim observed again Van's habit of combing his stylish beard with his fingers. He most often did that when he was thinking or expressing compassion. He was mature. No way could he be called an aged man, but he was mature with youthful energy and spirit. Probably over six-foot tall with strength from a life of manual work. Odd. Again, odd. His conversation and knowledge indicated he was from the upper floors of a corporation with years in a university.

"Do you know Greek?" Tim asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to figure out how smart you are, uh, that is so seventeenish. Let me rephrase."

"No need. Let's just say that I'll know enough to answer any legitimate question that you need to have answered. Yes, I know Greek. And a little Hebrew—he runs a restaurant in Minneapolis."

"Huh? Oh. I get it. Clever."

"I think it is very clever. You heard it first when you were twenty-four and then used it in your classes until students began to yell in protest."

"I'm a teacher?" Tim couldn't believe it. "How do you know so much about me?"

"It's just some of that adequate knowing I mentioned. Listen, make yourself at home. Look at Alice's trinkets and collectibles. Come to think of it, stop looking at Alice's trinkets!" Van tried to be stern, but his smile betrayed him. "Survey the house. Nothing is off limits. Finish your drink while I go help Alice prepare your room and supper."

"It's supper time?"

"You slept by the stream for quite a while. Like Elijah. In fact, much like him."

No matter how long he had slept, he didn't know what Elijah had to do with him. He unscrunched his eyebrows and decided to let it go. Perhaps he would understand later.

"By the way Mr. Kendall, from your view at sixty-seven what was the most formative and defining experience of your life?" Van stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen—a doorway with beautiful curved top wood jambs.

"I don't know much about the past fifty years, but I know the absolute answer to that question. The defining event of my life, which stuck with me to this day. The most life forming was my parents' divorce." It was not a high school senior who spoke those words. It was a man of letters, experience and battle ribbons. "My parents' divorce."

# Chapter Two

Timothy woke up needing to find the bathroom. He was disoriented until he remembered he was staying in the home of Van and Alice Peerson. Confused, he recalled they were committee co-chairpersons who had invited him for an event in which he was to speak about families.

"He has arrived," Alice announced to her husband. "No seventeen-year-old would get up at 5:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom.

"I wonder what it's like being fifty years older, overnight."

Timothy was sixty-seven that morning, and had no recollection of the day before. He couldn't remember how he arrived at the bungalow in the meadow, nor did he wonder. He showered and then did wonder why his briefcase was not in his room. It was never far from his reach. He always used the early hours to go over his presentation notes. The well-stocked library in the guest room pulled his attention. He found two books he had anticipated reading. It was not to be wasted time.

"Mr. Kendall, come join us for coffee. And bring your book." He had heard coffee beans being ground and the aroma was luring him, but he waited for an invitation. "Feeling rested from your trip?" Van asked as he poured.

"I rested well, thank you. No ill-effects from the trip, although I don't remember a moment of it. I seem to have gotten an ugly gash over my eyebrow. Any idea about that?"

"You had that when you arrived. Alice put healing essential oil on it and pulled it together with that small band-aid. Looks as if it is healing quite nicely already."

"I think it will leave a scar," Timothy said as he tenderly touched the skin around the bandage.

"You will have a scar. You'll think of it as a souvenir of your time with us." Van spoke with the tone of omniscience.

Some folks in Hawaii have a word for it: hale a kala. It is spoken with a hand gesture over the head. Hale a kala is a mountain. When something goes over the head of someone the sweeping hand indicates "up the mountain slope." They just miss it, don't get it. Timothy felt at the head of the class. He was missing a lot of things said, and inferred. "Hale a kala," he muttered.

The coffee seemed to change strength and flavor as they moved from the kitchen to the sun room, and then again when they stepped onto the porch facing the back meadow.

"Isn't this lovely? I've always been fond of meadows. I think it was Calvin Coolidge's wife who said they always enjoyed sitting on the 'meadow side of the house.' To have a 'meadow side of the house' is a luxury I enjoy." Alice Peerson breathed in the beauty of her back yard. "Tell us about your growing up family, Timothy. You said your parents divorced."

"When I was seventeen...seventeen." What had begun as a question became a statement.

"Seventeen," Van said. "David was seventeen when he was anointed by Samuel. Joseph was seventeen when he had that dream which foretold his destiny. Important age, seventeen." It was as if Van was saying these things to bank away in Timothy's mind for later reference. These things were becoming a mountain. Hale a kala.

"My brother was eight. My sister was about six. We all dealt with it, or failed to deal with it, in different ways." He walked to a bookcase with photos, books, replicas of cars and a bowling trophy. Something there stirred memories he didn't want to visit. He walked to the porch railing to gaze into the distant tree line. Nervously, he wiped his hands on his jeans and realized he was wearing travel clothes and ratty ones at that.

"Did I bring other clothes? I can't find my briefcase or suitcase."

"Apparently, they are still in your car. We'll get them later. No one will bother them. Alice washed your clothing last evening. You're fine. There are several changes in your closet which will fit you and I think you'll like the style. Most are new."

"That's nice. I don't want to..." Timothy didn't know how to say what he didn't want.

"Ask? That's part of the syndrome, isn't it?"

"I did leave that question unanswered, didn't I? If you really want to talk about this..."

"We do! Timothy that is the reason we've invited you. You bring fifty years of living as an adult child of divorce. You have studied and sorted this out," Van's words were passionate.

"I have seen you in the Spirit, Timothy." Alice walked to where he leaned against the porch railing. She embraced him, putting her head on his chest. "For decades you've been like a little boy with a bag of marbles. Each question went into the leather bag. Each answer was deposited there. You have gone before the Lord to pour out the contents like a boy pours out his treasure of marbles on the carpet while lying down, trying to mix and match. What you did not know was that you were lying on the golden carpet of the Throne Room sorting and agonizing under the guidance and watchful eye of The Father. You have not been on a solo flight. God allowed you insights for His Kingdom, and the various ethnos. Tribes of wounded children, and people who haven't known there is healing available. Tell us what you've learned and experienced. Healing for the nations."

On the golden carpet? Tim's eyes began to water. It had felt as if God hadn't noticed and the church wasn't interested.

Timothy spoke. "One of the researchers says that generally divorced kids are less apt to be involved in church than their peers, but those who go, go alone. They 'carried their conflicted hearts to church,' sat alone in seclusion—as if hiding. The majority said the religious leaders did not reach out to them, nor did they answer their troubled questions.

"Elizabeth Marquardt says society doesn't discuss divorce 'because no one wants to make the divorced parents feel bad.'1 Research that shows what 'takes root in the heart of the child,' must be discussed loudly by those who can do something about it. The possibility of a nice divorce with no custody issues is almost an absolute contradiction of terms and as rare as a forest green cat. If the adults could talk rationally and did, they probably wouldn't have gotten divorced. Using the term in its vernacular and not in eternal damnation, I've come to this conclusion and basis for my discussion: To hell with the adults. This is about the kids.

"I may overstate this, certainly not all stories are like this one, but I am advocating for those of us who got lost or neglected or ignored in the thick fog of war surrounding dissolution of a family. It would be wrong to say, 'all' or 'always.' Since my mother and father would have killed each other had they stayed married, emotionally if not physically, their divorce was wise. I want to totally discount them as I discuss the impact on me. They did what they had to do, but as resilient as I am, that third factor—let me say it this way: I had three parents. Mom, Dad, Dee." Timothy lifted his index finger and lifted a finger with each name until three digits were displayed. "Mom is dead. Dad is dead, but Dee is very much alive and could live for generations. Dee is the androgynous name and abbreviation for divorce. Dee does a horrid job producing whole, productive people and the personality is so pervasive, it may as well have a name. Dee was the center of my family history, attended every reunion and guided every conversation. Rode the bus with my siblings to school, influenced every thought and determined the context of every decision. From the filing to this moment which includes marrying and raising my own children."

Tim found it difficult to sit while talking about this. He felt trapped by the subject—quite literally claustrophobic—and needed to be moving toward an exit while speaking with passion. Passion, which for him, demanded movement. He got out of the comfortable porch chair and walked with cup in hand to fill it. Coffee, cranberry juice, ice tea, spring water. Didn't matter. Any or all at the same time.

"'Profoundly altered,' is the phrase Judith Wallerstein uses to describe how the core of the child is affected. Divorce is about the convenience of adults. The child is never consulted. The child's needs, desires or gifts are not always considered—they may be ignored. Ignored, but elementarily evident.

"For some it is infidelity, others it is abuse of some kind or lost interest. Addictions will cause divorce. Whatever the reason, two adults who can't get along, come to despise or hate each other. The behavior of one or both creates a barrier to civility and they divorce. The court makes custody demands on the child as if both parents have had a total emotional, spiritual, mental make-over when in fact the issues that caused the divorce are still there, but are now embedded with explosives. Inevitably, there will be explosions and collateral damage in the child who survives."

"Is what you're talking about limited to divorce?" Alice interjected.

"Obviously not. It can be reduced to all who suffer trauma from experiencing abandonment, betrayal, abuse, assault. For me, my parent's divorce was experienced as betrayal and abandonment. It may not have been physical betrayal or abandonment but that is how I experienced it. Those experiences, real and imagined, led to my deficiencies."

Dr. Tim had said all he could say as memories came into his mind like reflux. It was a Coliseum level fight.

"A lady in her forties remembered a memory long buried—it suddenly resurfaced with all the fear, shame and desperation accompanying sexual abuse of a child. When she told me, I was shaken—I felt as if I would throw up. I wanted to scream and beat the abuser within an inch of his life. The lady lived for years in shame but did not know why. The unnamed sexual abuse drove her into isolation. She was controlled by some hidden remote. She lost hope when her church went wickedly silent. When she told her parents, they told her to say nothing lest it fracture the family. She dismissed hope and God."

He held up his hands in a _give me a minute_ gesture. A guttural moan escaped. He put his head between his legs. He was not sure if he was about to pass out or throw up.

"During one period in my research, I was interviewing, counseling, praying for and studying children of divorce, adult children of divorce, victims of sexual abuse, those demonized as result of trauma and people who fractured into multiple personalities. With individual uniqueness, some of the healing principles apply to all. One day I realized I could not effectively minister to all and for my own sanity and spiritual welfare I refined my focus. I have a limited amount of emotional and spiritual energy. Although I can go over the top in agony over any one and all, I plan to concentrate on the one group I feel anointed and qualified by God to minister to."

Alice had asked the question. Now she made an observation. "...anything that mars and scars a kid to the core, thereby, profoundly alters the child."

"Alice," Tim interrupted. "Will you pray for that lady right now?" She prayed healing and deliverance from the memories that controlled the woman. The room was silent for several minutes. After collecting himself, Tim picked up where he had left off.

"Healing for children or the adult children of divorce (ACOD) begins with a horrible premise: You cannot make divorce neat enough. There is no way to make divorce surgically sterile. There will be collateral damage. Children of divorce will hurt no matter what is done to protect them from the shrapnel. Divorce damage is cumulative and will be most painful when the child of divorce becomes an adult child of divorce. The people who saw No Fault divorce as a salvation mechanism for kids and taught that divorce would be a temporary blip in their lives with pain no greater than a flu shot, have changed their minds. After studying the same kids for thirty years, they conclude it is life-impacting and leaves a negative life-long imprint.

"'Profoundly altered,' sums up the impact and imprint. Now I understand why God says that He hates divorce." (Malachi 2:16) "But, he does not hate divorced people!"

"You have an alternative approach you'll be sharing with the group?" Van asked.

"Yes. It is important to establish that the child of divorce, regardless of age, has an injury traceable to a cause. If that person is to recover, the wound must be treated apart from finding or focusing on the cause. Real healing comes when no one is targeted as someone to accuse, blame or scapegoat. The healing does not come without intentional, savage hard work." Tim sank into a plush chair. "We can justly place responsibility for action that leads to terrible outcomes. Blaming does not facilitate healing. So, I think in terms of 'No matter who is to blame, I will..." He let them fill in the blank.

"Let me see if I heard what you are saying. For many people, divorce is a dominant third entity which shrink wraps every relationship and encounter. The ACOD relate to life through this membrane that influences the interpretation of every experience and encounter. What you suggest is the absolute, inevitable consequences for the child. That about describe it?"

Tim wearily nodded.

"But you did use the word 'healing'. You do have hope for the traumatized person?"

Tim smiled. "Yes ma'am! God does that kind of thing. But not without willing participation of the person being healed. You have to want to be well."

Timothy Raymond Kendall had a vision of the healing process:

**>** Jesus enters the inviting heart which is the human motivational mechanism.

**>** Jesus heals the pain from event(s) that wounded the child that produced a broken adult.

**>** God uses His gifted people to be healing agents and growth resources.

**>** God plants a vision in the person being healed. He uses desires, sometimes pain.

**>** God uses Spiritual gifts and natural talents as tools—the very tools that evil intended to neutralize.

**>** God redeems the altered life trajectory. He wastes no tears.

Van lifted a hand as he formed the question. "Can you state in one sentence how a person like you can fit into that plan? How does the broken person work with God's plan rather than work against it?"

"Yes. Learn to see Self as God sees him—or her—and live in that self-concept."

"Not easy."

"No. Our battle is primarily about who we are. That was Jesus' Temptation. Our old self—the profoundly altered self is our default concept that demands constant affirmation that we have been profoundly altered again—in Christ." Timothy smiled. "That is good news!" Tim stood to stretch his legs and release the building tension. There was a catalogue of things that needed alteration.

"I drove through a town the other day where I worked in the early days. The years we lived and worked there were bad! We left with many wounds, scars and a very low evaluation of self. The worst part was that we accepted the estimation as accurate.

"By the time we got of that town, I was feeling all the rejection and self-loathing to the tenth power of what we felt the day we moved away. I couldn't stop expressing self contempt. Before we had traveled ten miles, I was speaking words that cursed me. I earned graduate degrees after moving from that town, but for days after driving through it, I felt like a worthless piece of garbage—not even good fertilizer."

"The town where you once lived—it wasn't the source of your self-talk, was it?"

Timothy put his index fingers together, rather like the church steeple, and placed them at his lips. "I cannot talk about these issues without revisiting the places, people and the pain. I almost go into another time zone and another world. My face flushes and my stomach hurts. I feel all the things I talk about. It is not an easy assignment you've given me. I cannot be objective and professionally distant. It's like driving through that town and my vehicle breaks down on main street where I have to stay for a week in the cheapest motel which was run down when I lived there and has not gotten better."

# Chapter Three

Alice walked to his chair. "Darlin,' I've got an idea. Go for a walk. Van and I have some things to do for the evening gathering. You go jog, walk or whatever you do to dislodge the slime that has clogged your mind."

"Splendid idea. Timothy, walk across the meadow into that line of trees and see what you can find. You'll be safe. There are coyotes and deer in that thicket, but most are tame enough to eat out of my hand."

"I think I'll take your suggestion, but first I'll visit the bathroom."

"You could use a tree, you know," Van raised his eyebrows and smiled. They all knew Van probably never would "use a tree."

"Oh, now that's a mental picture I don't need to carry in my head all morning," Alice added. "Wash your hands, when you're finished. I'll make a sandwich to take with you." She couldn't resist teasing him.

"Here, clip this on your belt." Van handed Timothy a device the size of a flip cell phone.

"What's this?"

"It's a GPS."

"Of course. Global Positioning System. I remember the first time I saw one of these. At Red Lobster. It was cheaper to hook up to a satellite and give one of these to customers than to have a hostess chase us down to tell us our table was ready."

"Look into this eye, push this button. Your retina will program the device. Only you will receive your messages. Sometimes these things take on a life of their own. They do malfunction, but if it speaks your name—it's for you."

# Chapter Four

Timothy walked, jogged, then waved his arms to dissipate adrenaline and work the kinks out of knotted muscles. The meadow was quarter of a mile or more from house to trees. He didn't think; he just moved muscles. Suddenly, he was upon the tree line. Beyond the first line of trees, he could see what had appeared to be bramble bush, more trees or thick undergrowth. The only other time he had seen anything like this was in the military documentaries showing German hedgerows, a maze of impenetrable ten-foot tall greenery. Timothy faced a living fortress wall beyond the trees with a six-to-eight foot path between trees and bush.

Into his idling mind came a story about the Auca Indians (now called Waorani) who in the 1950s were considered the most violent and isolated tribe in the world. Stone age. It was to that tribe Jim Elliot, Nate Saint and three other missionaries had attempted to tell the story of Christ. They became martyrs—killed as they got off their plane. Sixty percent of deaths over several generations in that tribe were homicides. The natives owned nothing because when someone was murdered, they scattered. One of Elliott's murderers said the children would be left to fend for themselves, but they would search the jungle for their father's markings and then following the markings, they would eventually be reunited with their parents. That image became a missionary tool to tell the Indians about finding God.

"Marking the trail...," he said to himself when suddenly he heard a voice.

" _Timothy."_ He put his hand to his chest to calm his heart as he traced the voice to the GPS device.

Remember the crossing of the Jordan? God instructed that twelve men were to pick up rocks from the dry bed and place them where the tribes would spend the night. "In the future, when your children ask you What do these stones mean? Tell them the flow of the Jordan was cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever." It is about God's covenant. (Joshua 4) Timothy. Be who you are.

He knew the voice came from the device, but involuntarily he looked around to see if someone was speaking from behind a tree. Was this an angel or a hacker? When he was sure the one-sided conversation had ended, he tentatively continued his walk while furtively glancing in each direction. He was moving, but he wasn't relaxing. Timothy did begin to mark his own path so he could find his way back.

Unexpectedly, there was an opening in this jungle. Timothy looked each direction on the path, left a path mark and peered cautiously through the opening. He slipped through sideways into what may as well have been another country and another time.

"Time warp?" he whispered to himself. In front of him were rolling hills dotted with trees and vegetation as far as he could see. The forest had not been deep. What lay before him was pasture land or virgin soil that one day would be rolling hills of crops. Dormant wild grass was waist deep through which he waded with no destination. He broke a sweat with the added effort of walking through the thick grass for half a mile. Maybe it just felt that far. A deep gully appeared on his right that circled around in front of him then off to his left straightening toward the horizon. Clusters of trees scattered across the land around what he guessed were water springs. He walked toward one such oasis where he found a strange tree or was it several trees growing out of the same trunk?

The tree reminded him of celery with the inner stalks removed. A solid trunk from which eight individual trees had grown. He was able to squeeze into the empty spot without feeling too claustrophobic. The base reached about a foot off the ground and from it the trees grew. Surrounded by the thirty-foot tall trees, he was sheltered and hidden. The place where he stood was large enough to sit if he pulled his knees against his chest. Was this one tree or eight trees with a common base? One of the trees had graciously grown a projection upon which Timothy could sit if he chose. He chose.

Again his GPS device startled him.

Timothy. 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.'

' _Ah, Sovereign Lord, I do not do not know how to speak; I am only a child.'_

' _Do not say that... Go to whom I send you, say what I tell you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you...'_

The voice changed from a warm, soothing, authoritative sound to a staccato mechanical monotone: _The word of the Lord. Jeremiah 1:4ff. Timothy, be who you are._

"Be who you are," he said out loud and mused how interesting a phrase that was. "How many people like me can know who we are?" Divorce, like any other major trauma, shifts the trajectory of the child's life. It changes the very core of the child. Judith Wallerstein had said it after studying the same group for over twenty-five years. The words may have come from Wallerstein, but they had become part of the mental and emotional fiber of this man. Long ago it had become apparent to him that he had a true self and a bent self. The bent Timothy was not an imposter, but rather an incomplete and damaged version. The self "formed in the womb" and "set apart" had been corrupted and corroded by the trauma. It was a bent self that emerged from the shattering experience of abandonment, abuse, rejection and wrong choices. How was he to find his way home to himself? How was he to become who he really was?

Words from Leanne Payne:

"...we can be Christians and yet, when immature or unhealed psychologically, fail to live from our true center. Rather, we live out of a complex of diseased feelings, attitudes...images or symbols that have nothing to do with our new selves in Christ." 2

As if projected on a screen, the bullet points were listed in his mind. The barriers to discovering our true center, or good heart:

**>** Failure to forgive.

**>** Failure to receive God's forgiveness.

**>** Inaccurate vision of one's true self. (Self-concept. Faulty vision of self.)

"However much a person lives out diseased attitudes and feelings toward the self, to that extent he will fail to find and live from his true center where God dwells, speaks, and empowers him." 3

Where God dwells, speaks, empowers? Timothy reached up to feel the texture of the tree bark and rubbed it with his thumb as he thought about the implications. A wounded person has been changed from his or her "real" self by a wound. God only speaks to, dwells in and empowers the "real" self. Leanne Payne also said that one cannot fully "walk in the Spirit" until the true self is healed, released, called forth and in control.

The sharpness and roughness of the tree bark pierced his thumb and melancholy remembering. His thumb was bleeding. He remembered former days were not bloodless as his teachers expressed anger and contempt at his behavior. "Christians don't behave that way. That is not the attitude of Christ. You need to..." He felt defined: Immature and diseased. The teachers didn't need to tell him. He saw himself that way, but it was the only self he knew. In those days, to think he was something more than a total screw-up was beyond him. He lived below the emotional poverty line.

"Sure! That's it!" He blurted the eureka voice. Someone has to call forth the true self. Someone had to see the real Timothy and call him forth—out of hiding, out of the weeds, into being, as if a new creation.

"Miss Della!" Her name had the sound of many waters and the feel of warm salve. She would confront him in places like football stadium parking lots to tell him to be careful. Miss Della had the ability to look into his eyes and see something written on the back of his skull. She would then say out loud what she had seen.

"You are so funny," she said to him one evening as they walked to a family therapy session. Timothy, then known as Tim, just stopped walking. He had never thought that he was funny. "You make me laugh," she said. It made him cock his head like a dog who hears a not fully formed, but recognizable sound.

Her words built an outline of a different Tim than he had seen. He was given an option to grow into them or contradict them. One choice leads to life, the other to death. Charlie, Della's husband, had a more blunt approach. Being a pastor and part-time cop, Charlie didn't waste words or follow his corrections with Della-type hugs. He never smelled as good as his wife either. When he said, "I'm about to kick your butt all the way to Sunday," it was more than a quaint phrase. It sounded more like, "Let the butt-kicking commence."

"You're a better man, than that," he had said as they sat in the patrol car. It was never a put-down, just a reference to the "true self" that Charlie saw when he looked at Tim. Charlie would be like a person enlarger with his words, stories and presence. Just hanging with Charlie solidified truth in this young person growing into adulthood.

Before a person can be who he is, he has to visualize what that "real" person looks like. It is a disconcerting time; a scary time. Timothy remembered people trying to "fix" him. Without an image of what he was to become, the extraction of who he currently was seemed like attempted murder—an elimination. Tim had plenty of people ready to brutally tell him to "take off the old man," and few people even knew there was a "new man" to put on.

Feeling the bark again, Timothy flatly said, "I was fortunate." Even in the midst of so many who had no image of the "true self," or the "good heart," he had Brent who taught him the value of inviting the Holy Spirit—Christ's Presence—to walk with him. The unbending, the changing of the off-course trajectory obviously came through healing. To receive that healing, the Holy Spirit revealed the form of the healed.

His Southwood friends, Phillip or Brent or Buddy would have a prayer with him and suggest he walk the Southwood prayer path across the ridge of the eastern hill from the old tunnel to the Lyttle House. "Invite His presence, tell Him what you need and then listen to what He says." Tim then wrote down what he had heard. Usually it was Brent to whom he explained what he had seen, heard and written. Brent was not only the CEO of Southwood and general handy man, he was the person who would keep Tim on track. A mentor, priest, coach.

"So lucky!" Without such a team, Tim would have struggled for years searching for definition and acceptance. He came to recognize the trajectory, but without the team to confirm his suspicion that there is more to Tim than what sits on the surface, he would follow a wrong path. "So lucky."

Inside the forest cocoon, thoughts came from so many directions. He wondered if he would need a mind chiropractor.

A paragraph from Gail Godwin's novel. The story's central figure is Margaret whose mother left home for a few days' vacation in New York and never returned. The six-year old became her father's companion and protector. Her childhood ended the day her mother walked away. Days before college graduation, she acknowledges her current thinking.

"I felt stricken... I felt pregnant with nothing, angry at nothing: simply impotent and without desire. Not only was there nothing I believed I could do, or wanted to do; I couldn't even think of anything to want." 4

One aspect of the unhealed, wounded person. Off course, empty, bewildered. An observer. With the image of an erratic space shot—out of control from the beginning—how is the person to be who they are?

The interruptions by the GPS were less startling, but no less unnerving.

Timothy. Notice the beauty of the day. Don't forget to breathe. (Van had warned him that the apparatus might take on a life of its own. What did that mean—start to ad lib)?

The Psalmist said, 'O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise: you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O Lord.'4 You know Psalm 139? Before he wrote those words, he said 'The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O Lord, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands' (138:8). Timothy, be who you are.

A small river flowed past the trees and down the embankment of the gully. As he leaned against the tree, he heard a sound. He recognized a horse snorting as it climbed the gully through dormant underbrush.

With the majesty of an elaborate sunrise, the horse appeared at the crest of the gully. Mounted on the magnificent beast was a uniformed soldier. Timothy had never seen a more stunning animal. With ears perked, moving like radar for any errant sound, the horse stood next to the stream in perfect pose. Perhaps Timothy was down wind. The horse did not give him away.

The cautious soldier shifted in the saddle looking each direction, then stood in the stirrups to get a better look. Satisfied that he was alone, the elegant gentleman dismounted, said something to the horse which the horse interpreted as "relax." The man patted the giant beast on the neck as the two separated. The horse walked to the stream; the man to a tree where he again surveyed the territory before relieving himself.

Motionless, Timothy watched a perfectly disciplined horse and this military man. With a slight bit of imagination, he realized this could be a spy scouting a Virginia battlefield and the gully a railroad cut.

Magnificent animal, gallant warrior. Mesmerized, Timothy stood hidden breathing only enough to keep himself conscious.

I have wanted to look like that all my life. That soldier is everything I am not, he thought to himself. Stalwart, tall, brave, able to prove himself in battle. That's who I was when I was a little boy, he thought with humor. "...he sat a horse like the perfect Virginia gentleman," someone described George Washington. As did this man.

As if out of an eighteenth or nineteenth century drama, the soldier reached into a saddle bag, retrieved a spy glass to scope the land. Satisfied that he had seen what he was looking for, he replaced the glass in the leather, pulled his gloves on, stroked the horse's rump and stepped up into the saddle. Silhouetted against the sky, rider and horse were everything stories are made of. A man on a mission to rescue a maiden, plot action to defend a nation, an adventure to give his life to and perhaps for.

With rider in the saddle, the horse's leg muscles twitched waiting for a command. Leaning forward onto the horse's neck, the rider said something into the horse's ear and they gently moved forward only to stop after twelve or fifteen feet. Lifting himself and twisting in the saddle, the military man looked toward the cluster of trees as if looking for something, or to acknowledge he had been aware of Timothy. After only a moment's hesitation, the rider settled and held the reins to the right. The horse moved in the direction given and disappeared down the path they had ascended.

There I go in my dreams, Timothy said to himself. That's what I wanted to be. Everything I am not.

Different!

The word grew heavy on his mind, also in his chest. He had felt different all his life. Never better different. He wasn't different because he could consistently hit a three-pointer five feet beyond the arc or command attention as a leader. Different in a disqualifying way. As in flawed beyond redemption even by the Master Potter. He had been different when his parents divorced. He was the only divorced kid in his entire class and among only half-a-dozen in the school. But now, the majority of kids live in divorced homes with less than forty percent of boys living with their biological fathers. But still. Something happens to the divorced kid that makes him or her feel different at their core. Different than what? For starters, this man knew he was different than what God intended him to be. The divorce had changed the trajectory of his life. It did something life-long to his soul. He might heal, but evident scars would remain.

Long after the soldier and horse had disappeared, the image remained in bold relief against the sky. Different than that. He didn't know who the man was, but he, Timothy, was different.

"The truth is we are different. Lonelier as adults, lower self-esteem, cry more often, we constantly worry, have sleep disorders, feel guilt about everything including our role in starting World War II. We cannot accurately calculate personal worth. There is the constant feeling of worthlessness. Frustration, despair, depression." The self-evaluation tumbled out vocally and passionately. He thought of times when he was alone as now. Research has shown that in such moments adult children of divorce feel afraid, anxious and angry. He was not unique. Adult children of divorce (ACOD) suffer from greater anxiety in later years than peers from intact families.5 Oh, he was different, all right! Even his ability to be happy was diminished and some of his colleagues were totally incapable of feeling happiness. Sadness R Us. Sadness is pervasive and constant. All of life is sifted through sadness. Clinically normal, but insides papered with sadness.

"Damn!" The cursing was never directed at his parents. Just the situation and what his reaction to the divorce had been. He blamed himself. Had he been stronger, all the rest would have not been an issue. It was all his fault. Not the divorce, but being tormented by it and beat upon with the meat tenderizer and then being put through the grinder. He should have handled it differently, and had there not been that fatal flaw in his character or wherever he carried it, he could have turned out like the guy on the horse. Not like what the horse had left behind.

Being a college teacher, Timothy had seen these traits in hundreds of others. Because he taught from his gut, students got the idea he was safe and they told him their stories. He listened and cursed the reasons that people divorce and the subsequent hemorrhaging.

Timothy sat. His fingers dug in under the bark of each tree surrounding him. He kept thinking womb. He knew it offered what he needed most. Security. A warm, safe place. Close behind the word security followed Sarah. Sarah was a student who had told him her story.

Sarah's parents divorced when she was five. She began the conversation by talking about being "five physically, but within a year I was thirty-four in divorce years." She had grown up fast and because she was competent, wise and spiritually perceptive, people assumed she was much older physically. "So mature for your age," they said. How right. How wrong.

"My father hated my mother and desired above all things to destroy her. I didn't have the vocabulary to tell him, but I knew he could take his best shot at Mom and when they were dead and gone, Mom would have not just survived, she would have sacrificed for me and become stronger herself. What I couldn't tell him—I was at risk of being damaged. Not Mom. Not him. Me! He didn't think I was smart enough to figure it out. When I was on his court-appointed time clock, he tried to make Mom disappear from my life. ('De-momification' the experts call it. Or 'De-daddyfication') He tried to destroy my memories of her, my connections to her. All he did was tear security out of me.

"Mr. Kendall," Sarah sounded like a little girl, "How does a controlling father explain to a five-year old why her source of security is an illicit place to be?"

"How did you deal with that?" he remembered asking Sarah.

"My Momma prayed, and my grandfather said, 'God, nuke the bastards!'" Sarah laughed. She expected lightning to split her grandfather in half at any moment. "Every time he said that, he spit and ground it into the ground. Do you suppose God listens to irreverent old men?"

"Oh, Sarah! I hope so!"

They laughed together. That phrase would be a secret code that made them smile whenever they met on the campus. Sarah acted that day as if she could not waste the ear of one who understood.

"The court system and happy talk says having two homes is a plus. For some of us that's bullshit! One plus one equals none! Separation anxiety is my constant companion. I am homeless, even in my own lovely house."

Timothy looked at the surrounding trees. He knew what Sarah meant. He had never felt at home. He was always an outsider everywhere, in every situation, even at his grandparent's houses—at least, half an outsider. There were no safe places of total acceptance. His Mom's family was careful what they said lest he be a carrier of information to the enemy camp, and he wondered if he was seen as the wooden horse in Troy by his paternal grandparents. The closest thing to home was his truck which could take him away from confrontation and in which he could hide if things got sticky. One of the researchers said she felt most at home in airports. That is where she lived between parents.

Insecurity is the inheritance of the divorced child. Without ever feeling at home, there is no ability to venture forth. Risk-taking depends upon having a haven, a supply line, a safe place. For the non-connected child, that is generally missing. That lack is the fertile ground from which fear, depression, anxiety and underachievement grow like mold. Timothy felt the texture of the tree with his whole hand. This is what home feels like. Belonging is our greatest need after air.

We are different. At a time when we need to be building infrastructure girders in our formative years, divorced kids are set aside while parents rebuild their own lives. The child's needs are shelved while everyone in big people's clothing sort out their rights. The words pounded in Timothy's head from his research and personal experience. What was that line from Jen Abbas? "We need parents, and the best we sometimes get is a roommate."6 Security is the price children pay as our lives are sliced up to accommodate the rights and schedules of adults. Divorce may offer Mom and Dad a second chance, but Timothy couldn't remember a second chance. Pieces of security and stability were wrenched away from him. For his younger brother and sister, Dan and Anne, the pieces were larger.

**Standing outside the door**. Could anything be more descriptive of the horror of trying to deal with divorcing parents who haven't a clue or give a rip about the life-long damage being done to the child? The child gets marginalized. In intact families, children tend to be at the center of things, and their opinions matter. To a fault, in some homes. In a divorce, kids have no say, no opinion. They stand outside the door of courtrooms, while people who don't even know their names determine their life-long experience.

"It is a life sentence! And I didn't even get to express an opinion. My responsibility was just to get over it. Fifty years later, I'm not over it! Damn it! I'm not over it. My childhood vanished to accommodate the system."

**Standing outside the door.** Seminar leaders are supposed to wear patches on their corduroy jacket sleeves, sport a mustache, say the word paradigm several times and stay at room temperature. "Room temp is not acceptable. I refuse to be that objective," he yelled. "God? Do you have any idea how mad all this makes me? I figure at least seventy percent of kids born this year will be crippled by divorce, abuse, a missing parent, living with parents who are not married and what other tiny little life-shaping event over which the kid has no control or influence. Seventy percent! Rise up, God! I know you are a God of mercy. Prove it. Show mercy to the children and deliver them. For Christ's sake, do not walk away from the children." It was a prayer.

Timothy had gone to church as a late teen to see if someone would speak for God and reach to him with healing or concern. Perhaps one of God's professional people would search him out on the back row and answer his questions. None did. He never thought they didn't care. They just didn't understand and they didn't want to hurt or offend the divorced adults. They sure didn't want to add any more grief or pain to the parents, and that kid Tim was a bit intimidating.

"God, Your people screwed up. They didn't tell me by their actions that You cared much. Most of all, I got the feeling that You did care, but were limited in ability. You know what, God? I think Your Church is the wrong place to talk about stuff this real, and raw. I like the idea of Your Church, and I like some of the places where Your people gather, but Your Kingdom isn't being represented." Timothy spoke to God. The voice of a generation.

Timothy had given his life to God—"all that is within me," he said. All the anger, wrath, sarcasm and hurt. He gave it all to God. The "all that is within me" continued to be given to God in every tone and verbalization available. He decided not to play verbal games when he felt what he was feeling on this afternoon. At times, it was nothing short of challenging God to a debate or duel. He knew that Yahweh would take seriously his words and his passion. Yahweh would not pat him on the head when he asked the bloody, grisly questions, even if He didn't answer him. Most of all, this man wanted God to live up to His billing as Heavenly Father. When circumstances seemed to prove He did not, Timothy wanted an explanation. He wasn't picky about how it came whether through a verse of scripture, an inner voice, an intuition, or words through a prophet.

"Don't patronize me, nor act as if the pain of millions of children is trivial." He didn't feel like he was talking to a friend when he spoke this way, but he trusted the integrity of his opponent. And at times, God represented either a toothless tiger, or an adversary. It was not easy for him to hear God saying, "The plans I have for you are good." He was apt to respond, "Prove it!" He was not intending to be disrespectful or rebellious. He just couldn't understand the silence or inactivity while kids by the millions slipped through the system and people did not hear the screams.

"It's my number four prayer/speech, God. You've heard it all before. And ignored it?" The anger was godly; it was not hostile. It was pure passion demanding that God place in motion whatever would raise up another Moses to lead people out of the bondage that divorce constructs. Timothy expected more from God than to listen to him as if he were a pathetic, rambling old geezer with more flatulence than good sense. "I'm talking about those who are trapped outside the door, always on the wrong side."

Timothy. He's the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Listen carefully: Learn and obey 'so that it may go well with you...' Unto the third and fourth generations. 'Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.' (Deuteronomy 6:4-7) Timothy, be who you are!

Stepping out of the cocoon, Timothy walked to the crest of the ravine, lifted his arms and yelled into the canyon, "Let my people go!" He wasn't expecting an echo and stepped backward when it came. His eyes followed the creek into the distance. "Well, so much for power with God. I can't even part the creek!" It was superficially self-deprecating, but deeper it was disappointment in his inability to call fire from heaven to consume the abusers and inject righteousness into decision-makers who controlled the system churning out "court-created children," who grew up to manufacture those after their own kind.

"Don't forget to come back," Yahweh said each time Timothy walked away angry that he couldn't hear the strategy that surely God kept trying to communicate.

Once more he climbed into the embrace of the tree, sat down and put his forehead on forearms stretched across his knees. Depleted by his ranting, he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

It was not leg cramps that awakened him, but sobs. Through the trees, he saw the body of a man lying next to the creek. Three generations of people put cool compresses on his forehead. Pieces of cloth dampened by the cold water. They moistened the man's lips and called his name.

Protruding from the man's chest was an arrow. He knew it was not a manufactured arrow with a bullet tip, but a hand-hewn arrow with a diamond-shaped blade.

"If we knew what to do," the children cried. "If I could do something," the children's parents' cried. The injured man's wife said, "I have done everything I know to do."

Timothy knew what to do. Extract the arrow and apply medicine to the wound. Why was that so difficult to see? It would take delicate surgery to get the arrow out without tearing more flesh. He had no medical training, but Timothy knew what the procedure required. He stepped out of the tree and said hello, attempting not to frighten the tribe kneeling next to the wounded man. No one acknowledged him. He knelt next to the man and explained to his family and friends what needed to be done and how. Either they could not hear or could not understand him. Timothy was ignored, making him wonder if they could even see him.

"Missed every major organ," the medicine man said. "But, he is dying. It is a mortal wound."

"Don't leave us!" they cried. "We need you to teach us. We will cease to exist without your teaching. Children will not be born. We will never have their strength."

"He need not die," Timothy interrupted and pleaded. He began the procedure without their permission or aid, only to find his hands could not grip the arrow, nor was his knife an implement of value. He was useless. He could help them, but the tribe had to initiate the procedure. Timothy could not yell loud enough to break through barriers. He was helpless. He could not communicate in their language or in their realm. They knelt in parallel universes.

Strong men picked up their friend with the arrow still protruding from his chest, hoisting him to their shoulders. Surrounded by the small tribe of grieving loved ones, they walked the bank of the creek into the distance.

"See how it works?" the Voice boomed with as much anger and passion as Timothy had spoken earlier. "Understand what I feel?"

Timothy watched the recessional until they were out of his sight. He looked at the creek and the trees. There was no longer a reason to stay or to step back into the tree. Perhaps he could visit this place again, but now he just wanted to leave. He had no place to go, but he didn't want to stay. His trail through the tall grass was easy to find. The gateway through the hedge was obvious. He slipped through the opening.

Timothy. Do you want to know what your brother and sister felt each week when they spent their court-ordered time with your parents? Walk back and forth through the hedge. It was going from one world to another with different rules, behavioral standards, and views of truth. Even realities changed. They moved from one world into another not so much unlike what you've just experienced. They were expected to adapt instantly, fit in and treat each world as the only one and everything else aberrant and abhorrent.

"How do they do that?" Timothy's question was filled with exasperated horror.

The very smart ones learn to adapt. Others develop separate personalities—Dissociative Identity Disorder. (DID) They indeed become different people in each environment. If there is sexual abuse, then many of these children develop D.I.D. to protect the core personality. With multiple personalities comes the potential of attached demons. Strongholds are built to hide and to protect the host core that cannot handle the assault. It is an assault. No one is immune to the damage when boundaries that God placed are broken down. When the molester is one whom the child trusts, the possibility of mental shattering is so great, a new personality steps forward to protect the central person.

Timothy vocalized questions he had asked for decades. His studying had given him the answers. He wasn't sure if the other voice was coming from the years of study or The Voice. The questions and answers continued.

We don't know what proportion of these kids become "multiples" in a clinical sense, but all develop a way to blend in. Elizabeth Marquardt says they become different people in each world. Timothy recalled studies done on adult multiples. Their immune systems can change as each personality comes to the forefront. Taste for food may change, as do clothing preferences and even sexual identity. One personality will have illnesses in one world, which are not found when the person slips into their other life. Some have high blood pressure or diabetes in one personality and have no indication of the illness in the other. This is not reaction by all.

Timothy felt his knees grow weak. He sat down on the pathway between the trees and the hedge. In front of him an image of his student Sarah as vivid as he had seen the horse and rider silhouetted against the sky. She stood outside the door staring at the hedgerow.

"Always on the wrong side of the door," she said into the air. Always on the outside of the crowd she desired, outside the realm of success. Half of her male friends would spend a life in anger, depression and underachievement. Many live with at least a low level of constant fear. It was quite apparent why. They could never "get in" and that non-inclusion was the seed that grew into anger and depression. The underachievement had very little to do with abilities, it was about loss of heart for no matter how hard he tried, the boy and then man could never find entrance. He stood at the door.

Then appeared a familiar television preacher who said to Sarah, "Have faith. Without faith it is impossible to please God." Timothy knew something he had not known before. Sarah and her peers could never have faith until they first had a secure home. Faith demanded a certainty in something or someone that would not move, nor go away. An absolute. Abraham had been promised a people and a land. Yahweh had said, "Abram, come on in!" God continues to invite, but given the damage done when security is ripped away, many of us just can't hear the invitation or believe it is directed to us.

"A vessel marred beyond reshaping even by the Master Potter." He said it out loud. He knew it was not true theologically and even contradicted the character of The Potter, but when the damage is done—the void is so deep and dark from absence of security, nothing else matters but what is felt. And what is felt is that I am outside. Always outside. I just never belong. The land promise becomes slightly possible for some when they discover a church to which they can belong. Again, not all are affected the same way. Thankfully, there are leaders who search for the better way of reaching to the bruised.

Writer Anne Lamott stepped into his imagination. He laughed, since this was the final piece of evidence that he had lost his mind. He laughed at his craziness for her to show up on the path. Ms. Lamott tells her story of coming to God by way of an inner city church. She wandered into the church directly from shopping at a flea market, often either stoned or hung-over and sick. She would step into the church, never sitting nor venturing far from the exit. "It was the singing that pulled me in and split me wide open," she reports.

"The right delivery system," Tim said. "If we can find a way to open the door and deliver what is most meaningful to each person who has stood outside for so long. For Ms. Lamott singing was part of the package that enticed her to trust God, even if she did call God, 'She'."

Through the cavernous pathway between trees and hedgerows came a rush of the music she referred to. To the great multitudes standing outside unable to penetrate the walls the words came: "The 'Welcome Home!' banner flies over the door." He knew until those words were heard and embraced... He lay on the ground and wept for himself and his kind. Hope and despair battled for his mind.

Voices came from many directions that day. Some came from inside himself stored there from personal experience and personal research. The Voice had spoken, but the walk back across the meadow was empty. There was still no strategy, only a larger awareness of pain and helplessness. He wondered if he had grown up to be the gallant man on the horse whether he could have helped the man who was carried away on the shoulders of grieving people. There it was. His limitations became the limitations of God. He walked behind the only tree in that meadow to stare and weep. Tears. No relief.

# Chapter Five

"Did you enjoy your day and what did you find?" Alice called from the porch.

"I can't say it was enjoyable. It was intriguing and bewildering. I found a soldier, a horse, a man with an arrow in his chest, his grieving friends and an old friend who stands on the outside of the door."

"No wonder you are distressed. You step into strange places and find desperate people. Did you learn anything? What did you hear?"

Between the tree and the porch he had heard something. The GPS had a word.

Timothy. 'Christ in you, the hope of glory.' Timothy, be who God saw you to be when He first thought of you. That's who you really are.

He leaned on the porch rail and then sat down heavily into a chair. Face in hands, he shook. Reserving the vocal sobbing for private places, he could not dam the tears.

"My dear Timothy!" Alice knelt down and put her hands on top of his. "I suspected the trip into the woods would not be easy for you. Timothy, joy comes in the morning. Makes a nice lyric, doesn't it? But beyond that, after the night seasons with the tears, comes a joyful morning. He who has shed many tears shall come forth carrying many sheaves. I know there is a scripture that says something like that. Your tears are nocturnal. The morning joy is not about giddiness, or even happiness, it means productive plans and strategies to heal."

"A delayed morning," was his response.

The lady stood and pulled him to his feet. "Van got your laptop and briefcase out of your car. It is waiting for you in the study. You have things to write while it is fresh in your soul. Go!" She walked a few feet and sang, "No one has ever succeeded in holding back the dawn."

As she said, the laptop was on a computer table. He sat at the keyboard and wrote—journaling—whatever came to mind. Editing or focusing could come later.

My Trip into the Woods

The man with the arrow sticking out of him—I've seen hundreds of men and women, boys and girls wounded like that. And that is what this is about. A wound. Like the medicine man said, it can be mortal. Like Shakespeare wrote, "The wound is not large, but it is enough."

"The flaming arrows of the evil one," (Ephesians 6:16) are not all extinguished. Some imbed after slipping past the spiritual armor. John Eldredge said, "Every man carries a wound. I have never met a man without one. And the wound is nearly always given by his father."

At the beginning of the movie about Johnny Cash, I knew that Johnny's brother was going to be hurt operating that saw. When he died from a kicked back log, Cash's father screamed that this was the work of the devil and "the wrong boy died." To say Johnny Cash's father never blessed him is a colossal understatement. One can predict a straight line from those words to dysfunction.

Some fathers are kind or wise enough not to say it out loud, but the message can be conveyed with a look or slightly disguised words. Only a minority of parents sit their child on a kitchen stool and say, "You are worthless, the cause of all my trouble and you won't ever be more than a pathetic piece of rotting meat." With the open wound, other darts and arrows come from peers and teachers.

And women? Eldredge says they have been brutalized and wounded. I remember Evelyn and her daughter who found the primary man in their lives would not fight for them or protect them. A woman cannot discover that her husband and/or father will not go to battle for her without receiving a dart from hell sticking to her soul. Evelyn walked away from the brutalizing, but she could not protect her daughter from the weekly lesson that she would not be protected. The child grew into adulthood feeling her value as a woman was nowhere close to what she longed for.

No child comes out of family trauma without protruding arrows. It is inevitable. Before the healing can even begin, the implement of wounding must be removed. For the boy, Eldredge would say, it is the father's words or implications that the boy is not the real deal. Do I have what it takes? The boy wants to know and will look for ways to prove that he is. The question never goes away. Inherent in being a divorced kid is the feeling that there is something terribly different about me. I have a fatal flaw. It is just a vague feeling until something happens, or someone says something, or the child makes a mistake that "proves" it beyond a doubt in his mind. Now the feeling becomes a thought, and then if not healed it quickly becomes action.

Not theoretical words. Timothy leaned back into the office chair to try to remember when his father had told him or implied that he did not have what it takes, nor would he ever. Memories surfaced immediately.

Josh McDowell tells of research connected to school shooting rampages. What would cause a teenager to kill classmates? The largest factor appears to be the emotionally absent father. We cannot understate the role of the father to destroy or maim his children. After factoring in everything else, it appears that God placed the father as not only spiritual head, but spiritual covering. When that covering is removed through abandonment, betrayal, abuse or absence, the child is wounded at his or her deepest and most vulnerable spot. Being a father, these words make me self-conscious and nervous. Fathers generally do not intentionally set out to impair their young. They pass on what is not healed and dealt with in their own journey. In another era, mothers were blamed by psychiatrists. This is not open season on fathers. It is acknowledgement that fathers carry loaded weapons pointed at the heart of their young whether they know it or not.

Timothy.

He had forgotten about the GPS device clipped to his belt. He took it off and placed it next to the computer not knowing if he should turn it off.

" _Iniquity, as you know, means 'to bend' or 'to distort the heart.' The word implies 'a certain weakness or predisposition toward a certain sin.' There are long term consequences of iniquity._

' _Thou shalt not bow down thyself to (idols), nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation...' (Exodus 20:5). Sorry to drop King James on you. It means what a father does is passed on by example and in the spirit realm to children and grandchildren._

Tim stretched in the multi-purpose chair as he contemplated those words. They were obvious to him, but he had studied the generational aspect. As prominent were the words of his peers. More precisely his self-evaluation grew out of interactions with friends. He reached toward the keyboard.

Darts and arrows come from all directions seeking a soft spot. It is not just the initial wounding. Those woundings make us vulnerable to secondary infections.

If a boy is not validated, he looks for ways to prove his manhood. Bedding women may be a way to tell himself, "you're the man." If he desires to remain faithful to his wife, Internet pornography allows him to be involved without physical commitment.

A friend's life just flew to pieces. He is hurt, mad and frustrated that he can't fix anything. His wife feels every bit of the same anger and pain. She said, "He wants sex every night. I never want it." He was not being a pervert or an uncaring husband. His manhood is on the line. His wife needs hugs and reassurance and his strength. He needs to prove his strength in the only way left to him. As long as he can produce an erection, he is still a man.

The little girl who is not cherished by her father or not made to feel valued as a thinking, competent, attractive female is apt to seek out those who will, at least for the moment, show her how valuable she is as a female.

"What is wrong with my son? He's thirty-eight years old, competent in his job, charming, smart as anyone I've met and he keeps sabotaging himself. He's got four DWI and is in jail right now. What's wrong?" The fact of her failed two marriages had hurt her one son in a way that his slightly older brother did not suffer. The secondary infection set in, and no one connected the dots.

He pushed away from the table, put his hands behind his head and thought of the hedgerows and the Second World War battles that followed the landing at Normandy. Reconnaissance showed the hedgerows, but from spy planes the heights were not measured. All assumed these hedgerows were like the ones in England: two or three feet tall. When the Americans attempted to plow tanks through the ten foot tall German hedgerows, they could not penetrate them and climbed up the dense walls and got stuck. The German troops took advantage of the vulnerable underbellies of the tanks.

Stymied by depression, anger and underachievement. A life-time struggle with hedgerows. I wonder about those who suffer from chemical depression. Could it be that the wounds create a physical shift in their bodies? Is it possible that the self-doubt, or absences in their growing up, or even their self-concept drawn while hiding in a closet, or listening to parental evaluation is what changes the chemistry? Could it be that the depression and anxiety is but symptomatic of what has happened in their souls?

Before healing can begin, the agent of wounding must be removed.

Tim remembered the cowboy and Indian shows he watched each Saturday. The arrows were jerked out of the cowboy while he bit on a bullet. Some even pushed the arrow on through the body, pulling it out on the other side. Timothy had seen altar workers and good-intentioned counselors attempt to jerk out the wounding agents with the same brute force, sometimes leaving a worse wound than before. How do we extract that which has created the wound? What has God planned? Are only certain people equipped to be extractors? Is there a method? How does a person learn to be an arrow puller? Does God even do that sort of thing or is that left for the therapist and pharmacist? If it is a soul wound, what pill or narcotic can reach that organ? He wrote a note to consider this later before going back to his journaling.

There was Tad, nine-years old. His parents divorced. The boy attempted suicide twice. His parents took him to good psychiatrists who ordered drugs and appointments. He took the drugs and attempted to burn the house down. Obviously meds and talk were not touching the deep wound. He was screaming for someone to detect the cause; he was not threatened by the firemen who talked about playing with matches and the probability that police would be his next visitors. When an arrow is imbedded, the kid sees the police officer as a resource. The cop may recognize and do something about the wound and what caused it. Not all kids are that up-front about their need or willing to press the issue until someone responds.

Simplistic, perhaps. If Tad is suffering from a soul wound, then the solution is soul healing. Prescribed drugs may dull the symptoms until the exact spot and source of wounding can be found, but as helpful as they can be, prescribed drugs are not healing or a cure. Who are soul healers?

Timothy. In all your questions do not forget this statement: 'He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with His stripes we are healed' (Isaiah 53:5).

Timothy walked to the window where he could see the front line of trees disguising the hedgerows. He saw the Indian on the ground and knew that jerking the arrow would destroy flesh. The removal would have to be carefully done. Guided conversations would be part of the extraction. He saw himself kneeling by the Indian's side accompanied by family and closest colleagues. The extraction would be accompanied by questions. Like an interview. That would reveal who or what the wounder was and the specifics of the wounds, but that didn't extract it. Knowing the wounder is not as important as knowing the nature of the wound. The three sided bayonet of early American warfare caused damage and fatalities. The wound did not naturally close and heal.

He quickly stepped back to write while his thoughts were clear and before his roller coaster thinking was onto another track.

The healing evangelists say, "Come out!" with much drama and a demanding voice. That certainly is what healers desire and the wounded need. "Just get it out!" Having determined the exact instrument of wounding, the authority given to Jesus' disciples is to speak deliverance. "Come out, in Jesus' Name," may be a shorthand, in-house phrase, but it contains all the necessary elements. Vocalizing a spiritual command that is directed to the specific device causing the wound, takes its power away. Words based upon God's will and plan extract the "arrow's" ability to continue its wounding.

"You don't 'counsel' demons out of people. Nor do demons come out when a person takes your advice and becomes more disciplined. Demons only come out by the power of the blood of Christ."6

Wounding words are not just the expressed opinion of an authority figure. They take on spiritual power and life which are imbedded into the fabric of the person hearing the words. No wonder Paul called attention to the arrows in Ephesians 6. The archer would dip the arrow into burning tar. The arrow might be extracted from the victim, but the tar inside the body would continue to burn. Any arrow pulling must also extinguish what has been left. "Don't give the devil an opening," Paul writes elsewhere in Ephesians.

It is not just divorce. It is abandonment, abuse, neglect, betrayal, rejection and a few other things that make us evaluate ourselves as minus rather than plus.

Deliverance, then, must deal with the wounding implement and the remaining spiritual entity or debris. Again, I ask. Who is equipped to do this?

One more time he walked to the window to study that far away land. He again saw the Indian by the stream. It was not enough just to get the arrow out of him; he needed healing for the wound. He needed medicine to enable healing and fight the constant threat of infection. A larger question taunted him. Picking a Bible from the library shelf, he found Luke 4:18-19.

"The Spirit of the Lord is on me because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."

Jesus was not limiting those words to the community of divorce. The children and ACODs certainly were the poor, prisoners, blind, oppressed and needing God's favor. Was Jesus talking only about himself and only for that time in Palestine? Was he announcing His mission statement that would continue as long as mankind needed good news, freedom, sight, release and favor? If the latter is true, then His Body, Kingdom People, would be the healers and liberators. Which ones of His Body? Where is that happening? Not in general terms, but applying specific balm to specific hurts.

"Surely he took up our iniquities and carried our sorrows; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him," Isaiah speaks of the Suffering Savior.7 The Cross is the basis for deliverance, healing and empowering. How do we access that for ourselves? How do we deliver it to others?

Timothy felt every nerve in his body standing at attention. He felt frantic. He had to find answers to these questions and build strategies. In 2000, over one-fourth of the national population was a divorced kid, child or adult. Somewhere over thirty percent of the total population was born outside of marriage. Add two more statistics: thirty-nine million survivors of sexual abuse. That counted only those reported. New Hampshire research says that eighty-eight percent of abused children will not say they've been molested even if asked directly. The pandemic is so large that the Mary Kay cosmetic company is financing studies and programs and pushing legislation on behalf of the one of three females who has been, will be, or are being abused.

In 2012, 72% of African-American children live in a divorced or single-parent home. Nationally, forty-six percent of children are born out of wedlock. The trauma once limited to children of divorce is now experienced by many children whose parents were never married. Only one-third of children live with their fathers.

The cry was penetrating. Mix anger, frustration and bewilderment inside a man and soon there will be holes in walls or implosions.

"What am I to do, God? How do we release Your power and healing? What communication medium? God! Speak to me."

"Timothy," Alice gently said with humor, "God is not hard of hearing."

"And neither is He nervous!" he fired back. His rage was never directed at people, but if a person got in the way, they could get scorched. "There has got to be a way to bring these people out of bondage. If all redemption does is give us a pass to Heaven when we die, it is inadequate. The Cross reached farther than that!"

"Keep listening. Keep asking. In the meantime, would chamomile tea taste good to you?"

"I want Jack Daniels, and she offers me chamomile. I want Kentucky Bourbon! And she suggests tea cups. I want something that smells like a man and burns all the way down. Barkeep, get me a square bottle and just leave it on the counter."

"Timothy, you wouldn't drink it if I did."

He looked at her for a long minute before answering. "You're probably right. But I know why I might. I know why many do. And I know why some of the rest of us don't. "

"What's this?" Van asked as he entered the study. "Alice, are you driving this man to drink?" He hugged her and smiled at her response she was still putting together. She was not slow, but she was sorting through her words. No reason to be crude.

"Timothy, how do you describe the way God looks at people? His view of the masses?"

"Jesus looked at the multitudes and felt compassion,"

"He just felt sorry for them? That doesn't help a broken person. 'Sorry about your broken leg. Get up now and finish the marathon. Really am sorry. Buck up. A little pain, but I'm with you. Now give it your all.'"

"Feels that way sometimes, doesn't it?" Timothy appreciated the analogy. "I have always liked Wesley's interpretation of Matthew 9:36. It answers the question. 'Jesus had compassion on them for they were worn out, knocked down and wandering about. Like sheep without a shepherd."

"Sheep don't just wander about. They wander into places they should not. Jack Hayford says that scripture refers to what happens to the sheep. They are attacked. They may escape the predator, but they are bloodied, shredded and crawl into hiding to die. Unable to protect themselves, and not capable of self preservation."

Silence followed Van's description. The word picture was graphic, detailed and vivid.

"Like generations of people who feel thrown away. They stand outside the wall in self-condemnation and assumptions..."

"What assumptions?" Alice broke in. She and Van had pulled up comfortable, plushy upholstered library chairs and their guest was on his feet pacing.

"Assumptions, uh, assumptions, for example, that I don't deserve to be on the inside, will never gain access to the promises of God, or acceptance. Assumption that no matter what I do, what I accomplish, how hard I work, or what I think I'm hearing as instruction, it will never be enough. The driving basic assumptions that determine my world view and behavior are wrapped around three.

**>** Something is wrong with me.

**>** I'm not enough. (I'm not the man, I'm inadequate.)

**>** I'm never going to be good enough."

He wrote those phrases on a white board attached to a wall and circled them repeatedly. The many broad brush words expressed his rage. Timothy was quiet and then connected what he had said to what he had been writing.

"It is the infection that follows the wound. The traumatized kid crawls under the porch to wait for death. Rather than being energized by challenges and seeing them as crucibles; rather than seeing trials as a way to build competency, the kid receives them as one more arrow. The archer is God, they charge." Tim was quiet again.

"'I am the good shepherd...' Jesus said. The Lord is my shepherd. Not my wounder. He leaves the flock to seek me out and apply the healing ointment to fight infection and to repel the tormenting insects. He binds up the wounds, attends to the brokenness and carries me back to the flock," Van observed in a gentle tone.

"The healing includes a spiritual injection. I don't know how to say that differently. An injection from God that enables us to walk, think, act in the posture of triumph. Quite literally, walk in that posture. He is the lifter of our heads." Alice added.

"That is how we see the healing doing its work. The person's head no longer hangs; God lifts her head until she can walk, stand and live with a posture of triumph. No slumped shoulders!" Timothy used the white board marker to slash through his previous words, and wrote in red: "No Slumped Shoulders!"

"One healing agent. Define one healing event or action. I want to know where to find someone who has the power to heal, or I want to know something I can do, perhaps a discipline. Timothy, we need to know where the emergency room is. Understand the question?" Van pushed and then waited for Tim's answer.

"I think the first healing principle is attachment. Being connected to at least one person who is not grossed out by the wound, nor driven away by my neediness. A person who can see accurately, but is offended by the wounded person's self-evaluation."

"'My shepherd' suggests one and not a group," Van said.

"Expanding to the impact of abandonment, abuse, betrayal, have we blown this out of proportion and made the long-term impact of trauma more than it is? I don't want to be insensitive, but neither do I want to overstate the mole hill," Alice wondered.

A thoughtful Tim continued. "I went through several distinct periods of thinking as I grew into young adulthood. First, I lived years assuming I was different because I was mentally flawed or emotionally bent. The impact of divorce gets covered up by behaviors. People attempt to fix the symptoms, assuming the symptoms are the primary cause, not red flags pointing to the cause.

"I was alone in my different-ness. I knew no one like me and nobody ever talked about such things. Then I began to read early studies which either said or inferred that since divorced kids didn't suffer long, if at all, from the new family arrangement, I had just not gotten with the program. The problem was still me. I wasn't bright enough to figure out the rules of the game. Still, solely my problem. When Judith Wallerstein began to say, 'Hey, the studies show we've made a terrible mistake, divorce changes the very core of the children,' I slowly caught on that there are millions of people just like me and the problem was not that I had been put together by a drunken mad scientist who recognized Frankenstein needed some tweaking and pushed me on the world as a second try. It is helpful to know that adult children of divorce were robbed of several significant steps in the growing up process.8 Dr. Archibald Hart also uses the phrase '(divorce) disrupts your social and psychological development.' A present but passive, non-involved father or a possessive, smothering mother could set up an atmosphere where the 'significant growing up development steps' were missed or mangled.

"In moments of self-destruction, or in mega-frustration, I've said divorced kids should not be tortured, just disposed of. A horrible statement! But tailored to speak of an unrelenting inner pain, and loneliness that found nothing to alleviate it. End of speech," Timothy said as he lifted his arms and let them drop.

"Is there no hope? Is there no balm in Gilead?" Alice's question was soaked in compassion for the knocked down, cut off at the knees.

"Yes!" I believe so!" Timothy responded. He was back on his feet. "We can't miss the restoration or recreation in the attempt to make the diagnosis so real that people grasp it. As William Bennett said, 'Many do not need to be rehabilitated, they need to be habilitated.' I understand that from experience. Given that as a starting point, we offer 'deliverance,' and then the ongoing healing process. Using the arrow in the Indian scenario, we extricate the arrow, apply healing meds, and then teach the warrior how to keep his head down so he doesn't take another arrow."

"Skill building," Van said.

"That's it. Having missed a significant step or two (or a dozen) in social and psychological development, the divorced kid, regardless of age, learns what he missed earlier."

"Such skills are learned in relationships," Alice suggested. "And always so."

"The reason why healing is always linked to attachments! It reverses isolation which is the worst coping mechanism for the body, mind or spirit. Seldom easy. Usually we seek out those with whom we have similar experiences and with whom we are comfortable. That means we feel comfortable and then connect with people with the same deficiencies that dwarf us. Wallerstein's research shows that divorced kids who did go to church did so to find security, stability and safety. I suggest they were looking for family."

Timothy went silent. He walked to the window. His pacing had taken on a pattern. From the computer table, to the bookcase, to the window, then turning to face his hosts, finally the walk back to the all-purpose chair. Friends who were founding pastors of a church had been fired. Fired is too refined. They had been put in a trash bag and placed on the curb by Jezebel-possessed leaders who stole the church. Those friends went looking for a healing place, a church where they could ingest and contribute at the appropriate time. After a few weeks, the "healing place" asked them to stop attending because they had heard the story.

"Sure better choose carefully," he said. "Some places can enlarge the wound and add new ones. These religious gangs are populated by assassins who under the cloak of 'purity' and 'righteousness' serve the bullet in the back of the head."

"Been there. Have the scar," Alice said. "Any Jack Daniels left?"

Timothy laughed. "Didn't mean to bring you down. I can't allow myself to forget that the Kingdom of God does have outposts and M.A.S.H. units on the frontier."

"I'm going to put supper on the table. We are headed for the auditorium at 7:00. Timothy, you need recovery time." Muttering in full stage voice, Alice said, "Where did I put that bottle?"

"Remember, Honey, you stopped drinking when you bought those pills from our friend Dennis the Dealer."

Gallows humor aren't always funny.

"Don't forget to save what you wrote," Van pointed toward Tim's computer.

"Wouldn't want to lose any of that. Probably couldn't. It is embedded in every one of my body cells."

# Chapter Six

The performance center was an actor's dream. Whoever built it had used the best equipment, staging and acoustics. Six-hundred semi-circle seats on a slanted floor gave everyone a feel they were up front. Singers would appreciate the state of the art sound system. The acetate podium gave Tim a place to sit his notes, iPad, bottle of water and something to lean on. All of those tools were in place as he stepped up and nodded a greeting to the sold-out house.

"In the living room of my gracious hosts' home is a model of a Ford pickup. I may swipe it," Timothy opened his talk with a smile and tease. He reached into his briefcase and held up a die cast duplicate to the delight of the audience. "This reminds me of Sunday nights in the first year or two after Mom and Dad split. It was dusk and Dad drove my sister and brother home in his Ford pickup. I don't recall much about those visits. I didn't always go. I had commitments and was available to see Dad at other times. The court-ordered visitations were rubber-stamped the same for all of us regardless of age or needs. I wasn't going to quit my job to spend time with Dad just because he had divorce papers. We wouldn't be spending that time together if Mom and Dad were married. I had things to do, friends to see and money to make, but younger kids don't have that option. My brother and sister talked about those weekends. My brother Danny still has anxiety issues he traces to Sunday nights."

Timothy paused, caressing the die cast truck with his fingers before placing it on the podium for all to see.

"Dad would bring them home in that Ford pickup. We were living with our grandmother. Dan and Anne would sit in the Ford until Dad had to leave. Danny said Dad's cheek was whisker stubbly and smelled of cigarette smoke when he kissed him goodbye. Annie would go on into the house, but Danny would stand by the mailbox as Dad left. He stood there watching the tail lights disappear. Danny said more than the Ford disappeared into the dusk."

"Dr. Archibald Hart, Dean of Fuller Graduate School of Psychology said, 'It is now forty-six years since my parents divorced. The process of adjustment to the consequences of divorce has lasted all those forty-six years and is likely to continue for the rest of my life.'" 9

Timothy picked up the Ford, holding it in both hands before saying, "More than tail lights disappear into the darkness when parents divorce." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe a smudge off the fender before wrapping the model vehicle in a small towel and replacing it in his briefcase.

"Every kid loses uniquely. Whatever the kid was going to be disappears into that night. The impact of divorce is that large. Parental divorce has the power to change the trajectory of the child's life. It remanufactures his personality. At age eight, Danny was so worried about what was going to happen to Annie and himself, he didn't have a clue what he was losing would affect the rest of his life.

"I don't think any of us wanted Mom and Dad to get back together. Many kids do. But the three of us knew everyone was better off, even Mom and Dad. I went through months of anger at Mom for filing for divorce, but it was pride and fear-driven. Danny never wanted to go home with Dad as he drove away, although he was always glad to see him, and missed him when he was gone. He didn't think about Mom's loneliness or what went on in Dad's other world, and didn't care. My brother just fretted about what was going to happen to us."

Timothy stood immobile and silent as if trying to decide which direction his comments should take. He stared at his notes without seeing them, and then glanced at his briefcase.

"We may as well understand something basic at the git-go. Jesus speaks as if we all are broken and that he wants to heal us. For many of us, including whole generations, we function from one basic belief: Something in me is broken.

Something in me is broken.

"While Jesus pleads for us to allow him to heal us, we function, think, feel and live out of divided hearts. Divorced kids, by definition, are required by law, custody and culture to live broken. Our loyalties are split; we become different persons with whoever we are at the moment. The morals, values and ways we live out are so contrary, we can be considered to be two or more different people. That old Ford pickup reminds me how divided our hearts must be just to survive traveling between these various universes.

"Wholeheartedness is not just about bravery, courage, total commitment and giving ourselves in energized zeal. Wholehearted is the opposite of divided. A whole heart is different for young children of divorce. Living out of both sides of the heart does not change when you become old enough to get a driver's license or buy beer. It grows more intense and sophisticated. Children of divorce learn how to live hypocritically with expertise. They are shattered. What they feel, think, say and do are not in sync. They can't be whole while protecting their own safety, the secrets of the absent parent and the feelings of everyone involved. Besides, the system has demanded they stay with the program and not complain. Physiologically and psychologically, it is impossible to be well with divided hearts. It leads to all kinds of illness and disease. Dis-ease grows out of non-whole hearts.

"When you get to be a geezer like me, you can conceptualize this whole heart business. You can sort it out and name the shattered pieces, but when you are four or fourteen the dividedness surfaces into the mind as 'Something in me is broken.' We wonder at the deepest level if it can ever be fixed, and we suspect not. Until you grasp the depth of the division..." Tim stood quietly again. Rather than finishing the sentence, he moaned.

"Jesus says, '...see...hear...understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them.'10 He said to those who heard these words first that their hearts were calloused. He may have been saying they had spitefully and rebelliously hardened their hearts, but many of us in the crowd have grown a callous because we can't stand to be disappointed one more time and the wound is so raw and painful it must be protected. Because we love God and the Kingdom so much, we can't bear to come up snake-eyes again. We grow calluses.

"So two voices fill the airwaves in constant struggle and a twinge of hope and mostly hurt: one says 'Something in me is broken,' and One says 'I would heal them.'"

(Tim had said at the beginning that if anyone had a question, did not understand what he had said or wanted to kindly offer an alternate view, they should raise their hand. He would finish his point and give them opportunity to speak. One woman took him up on his offer.)

"Are you talking only about young children?"

"Facts and feelings are not always the same. Precipitated by unacceptable behavior, a seven-year old moved to a new school. A caring professional saw a 'reservoir of repressed anger.' The boy is adopted. The facts are: His adoptive parents meet his needs. They adore him. The family has not just made room for him, they have embraced him. As far as they are concerned, he is one of their own. Brutally spoken, his feelings are that he has been thrown away by the people who created him. At a deep feeling level, there is not enough love in the hemisphere to stanch the oozing in his soul. In his pre-verbal days something happened that sliced open a wound that he cannot explain. He just feels abandoned, thrown out with the garbage and that makes him mad. Since he can't club those who tossed him, he smacks everyone else.

"'Something is broken in me' is as true for adult children of divorce, the adopted, the person who was told he was not wanted, or was not the right sex. It is the background noise when a person screws up when they should be reaping benefits of success. It is true for any age. Where there is a wounded heart, there is that inner message: Something broken."

Standing behind the lectern again, Tim sensed unseen company. Sarah, a soldier, an Indian and weeping stretcher carriers.

When a parent seeks to undercut the absent parent, the child receives it as a personal attack. When the child feels his parent will not protect him, something fundamental to life is lost. The child's foundation is eroded. The child feels the guilt, internalizes and personalizes all accusations made against the absent parent. It is the foundation of security from which a person launches and risks. When that is gone, underachievement is a high probability. Dr. Timothy Kendall was feeling that loss as he looked at his audience and moved deeper into his talk.

"Now that I've gotten through my introduction, I better start saying what you brought me here to talk about. What is lost—or as Van said in his introduction, 'Watching Tail Lights Disappear in The Darkness.' What disappears?" He hit the Power Point button on his laptop. The word was on the wall:

SECURITY

"Unless the shattered heart is healed, security is gone forever. The four lost items I'll talk about are the prime areas of battle for the wounded. A friend sent me this email.

On a summer day, when temperatures were forecast to be 103, the Weather Channel issued all the appropriate warnings. The women turned down the sound and invited me to help move my sister-in-law to her new house. Seemed to me to be a logical thing to do on a day so forecast!

While I dollied boxes into the new house, my wife and sister-in-law went to Kentucky Fried Chicken to get lunch. (If the heat doesn't kill the geezer, maybe KFC will.) With that kind of heat, I comply with the Weather Channel warnings. I'm lazy. I suck on a beverage and remain as immobile as possible. Even though she listens, my wife doesn't pay attention to Weather Channel warnings. Nor is she sympathetic to my complaints that even the Israelites got a half-hour lunch break in Egypt.

"No straw for you, Mister."

I went back to work. I was assigned to clean out the kitchen cupboards. I noticed that the chicken had been refrigerated, but in the rush to get back to work, no one had put the green beans, potatoes, baked beans or gravy into the fridge. I stacked the containers and put them into the new refrigerator, which was next to the new wall, above the new floor covering. In the process, the lid slipped off the gravy dropping a whole pint of brown gravy onto the floor, wall, fridge—inside and out—on my shoes, socks, on several of the aforementioned boxes and half way up my naked, hairy legs.

If you ever need to feed 5000, drop the gravy. It will multiply!

Several words immediately came to mind. "Behold," is not one of them, neither is "Verily." I grabbed a sponge to soak up a lake of gravy. Next time, I'll know. Gravy does not respond to sponges. The snow shovel seemed appropriate, but didn't work. Then I saw that KFC had sent extra plates: to cut in half and scoop.

For first timers: You scoop, deposit in sink while running hot water, then use the sponge to spread the gravy around. After you get it thinned adequately, use wet paper towels. If that doesn't work, hose the gravy into the basement.

Laughter interrupted several times and applause followed the reading. Tim looked at the gathering and waited until they quieted. He began to laugh as if he could feel the gravy drying on his own legs. Then he said, "Divorced kids tend to 'hose it into the basement.' They dump it deep into the bowels of denial or repression where it turns rancid and then rots. It then eats at the security they need to motivate and sustain life.

"I was in the home of a psychologist friend who was late for an evening with me. He had an emergency meeting with a youngster. 'The child has buried the hurt so deeps she doesn't know it exists,' the doctor said. 'Ask that child if anyone has touched her inappropriately, she would say No. It has been hosed into the basement and will surface like gas bubbles. My friend is not usually that verbal. At dinner, if I say, 'I think I'll have more baked beans,' he usually looks at me while fooling with his goatee and asks, 'How long have you been feeling this way?' But, he was shaken by what was happening to the youngster.

"'They couldn't do a better job of destroying a child's security if they were following a manual. All they are trying to do is defeat their ex and defend their own rights,' the psychologist turned scholar told me as he poured himself a drink and swallowed it like a movie cowboy.

"In the next few minutes I learned that of the 300 most influential historical leaders, all but a few were orphaned, rejected or abandoned by their parents. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Louis XIV, Jefferson, Napoleon, Queen Victoria, Golda Meir, Hitler, Lenin, Stalin, Eva Peron, Castro and General Bismarck are a few. Deprived and or deserted in early childhood.

"A study done in 1975 posited a new theory of the genesis of the will to political power: the insecurity consequent upon emotional deprivation must have aroused in these children an exceptional will to power—with an aim of transforming the world.11 Let me toss a few more names at you: Moses, Buddha, Mahomet, Jean-Paul Sartre, Confucius, Rousseau, and Descartes. That list is quite a mixed bag.

"You notice those names predate the middle of the 20th Century. Their insecurity drove them to transform their world according to their vision. Some for good, some as despots. The difference between those occupants of single parent homes or orphanages and the children we discuss here today is that one of today's parents choose to end the relationship or cause the relationship to be ended. The second breeder of insecurity is the hell-bent drive to destabilize the other parent. Verbal disrespect, intentional attempt to undermine respect or presence destroys the child's security. A heart wound cuts an important nerve when a parent threatens a child with hypothetical negative scenarios. The lie, the attempt to de-mommify or de-daddify is figured out and the child will not only feel the fear, but will prone to anxiety thereafter."

He continued the therapist's story, in his voice.

"The first 300 mentioned used their insecurity to drive them to accomplishment. At least half of today's divorced kids are paralyzed by their residual insecurity. Our world has never seen such numbers, or the impact of insecurity being acted upon. This may be summed up by Karl Menninger: 'What's done to children, they will do to society.'

"When the neighborhood shrink finished with that lesson, I almost reached for his bottle. He wasn't finished drinking or talking. He described the kid screaming for her mother.

"'Please don't make me go with him,' the girl pleaded to me. I've always regretted not doing something, but what? Hit him with my psychology diploma.'"

"Watch the tail lights disappear! They carry with them something as significant as water and oxygen. Security.

"Paul Tournier, Swiss psychiatrist well known to another generation, writes about the link between deprivation and creativity. I have a large literature tome next to my desk entitled, _World Masterpieces_. It is difficult to find one author who was not orphaned, abandoned or known as illegitimate. That there is a relationship between the processes of bereavement, loss, deprivation and creativity could be said in the last century. Few scientists in our day would venture such analysis of the latchkey children or those whom Judith Wallerstein studied. Something central to the core of the universe, as serious as the tectonic plates, has shifted."

Timothy had put so much energy in those first remarks that he wished it was over and he could leave. The reserved man stuck his hands in his suit pants pockets and quietly said, "I worked five years on a book about the long-term impact of child abuse, D.I.D., divorce. I quickly learned that such study leads down a dark path to a dark place where spirits are combative and jealous of their territory. One day, I packed all the research resources in boxes and placed them in a corner of my office. I was drained and depleted and finished with the project. Those boxes glared at me as toxic fumes wafted from them toward my desk. Picking up one of those books still provokes a spiritual war. More than once I have wanted to file class action lawsuits against those who destroy lives to protect their own gonads. Mostly, I cried, hit my fist against door frames and asked God if He was paying attention.

"There is madness in this. I challenge you to read _The Unexpected Legacy of_ _Divorce_ , by Judith Wallerstein,12 America's foremost authority on the impact of divorce on children.

"The courts demand things of divorced children that married parents would be jailed for if they so subjected their kids. It is insane to pack up an infant and truck him to his other parent for half of the week, or ship a four year old to her father for a five week visit. Such absence makes the kid feel as if the mother is gone. Maybe dead. Maybe never to return. What does that do to the heart of a child? A four-year old down the block from my house was court ordered to spend six weeks with her father during the summer. The father attempted to keep the mother from seeing the child during that time. Since it was 'his' time, the child should have no contact with the mother, he reasoned. The therapist said how destructive that would be to the child—it would be as if the mother had died. It made little difference. This was about the father's right to have his kid. Before the divorce, he didn't have time or energy for the child, but now that people were watching to see if he was going to let his wife get by with anything, he demanded his rights. By god, nobody was going to take his child away from him!"

Timothy's voice edged toward shrill. "It's just a kid. Easily replaced. Madness!" His words dripped with sarcasm and anger.

"The divorced kid crawls under the table, pulls his body into a fetal position, sticks his thumb in his mouth, wets his pants and hopes if he stays under the table, maybe his father won't see him and he won't have to go with him. The experts say to the mother, who is trying to protect her child, 'that is just normal behavior for a kid stressed in the post-divorce.' If a kid in an intact family were to crawl under the table and duplicate that action, he or she would be hospitalized.

"Security. Bye, bye."

"It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a large millstone tied around the neck than to face the punishment in store for harming one of these little ones." 13

He hit the computer a little harder than he intended. PowerPoint awoke to display his next bold point. Tim let the word stand there. As he gave his audience time to relax and breathe, he realized "the millstone, neck, thrown into the sea" were expressions of his own demand for vengeance and retribution. He took a deep breath and apologized to God. It was God's prerogative to judge, not his. He could hold people accountable. He was not to judge no matter how much he wanted and how justified judging seemed.

SAFETY

"Every goodbye feels like forever. Add the vocalized suggestion to the child that the 'judge will decide who you will live with and I'm betting you won't be living with your...' and the child will add separation anxiety to their DNA. If Mom can be taken away, if Dad leaves and doesn't come back, then no one is safe. Everyone is liable to drop into the bottomless pit. Who will protect me?"

Following the millstone scripture projected by Power Point, Judith Wallerstein's statements appeared.

"Children of divorce grow up and become adults with one expectation that the other shoe is about to drop. Children of divorce have not had many people in their lives who understand how scared they sometimes get in situations others take for granted."

"It's not too hard to figure this out. The kid has no control over his life. No voice, no choice. Michael Reagan, son of Ronald Reagan, was abused by a trusted family friend. He arrived at adulthood badly wounded. He repeated the mantra of many. 'Who could I talk to? Who would believe me? Who could I trust?' Kids believe adults who warn them not to talk. That's why Michael was silent, as are most in his position. They assume they are the only one facing this dilemma and they are dead meat no matter what. That's the reason they have a difficult time daring to even think something good is about to happen.

"It may not be rational, it may contradict the facts, but it is what we feel and fear and expect. That is scary. If those who should stand up for me are the ones who tear down the fences, then, what? Anxiety is a natural reaction. Bags are packed and we're ready to bolt."

STABILITY

"A friend had it all figured out when he was five. 'Why did Grandma get a divorce? She has two pillows.' The kid is confused in the face of what seems logical to him.

"Michael Sokolove wrote an agonizing book about Darryl Strawberry.14 I loved to watch his quirky smile and the finest home run swing I ever saw. Crenshaw is a community in south central Los Angeles. The 'Boys of Crenshaw' was a baseball team touted as the best high school team in history. The school put several in the big leagues. The whole team could have been major leaguers except for personal flaws. Darryl is the prime example. Mr. Strawberry has found his life in Christ and at last report is in a viable ministry that acknowledges his growth as a person.

"Sokolove says that group of boys had fathers who walked out on them which left them 'angry, sad, and in the most extreme case, crippled.' When Darryl lost his father, he lost some part of himself.

"'He had no instinct for self-preservation, no sense of himself as a commodity.'15 He lacked emotional resources; he treated his enormous gift as a burden. He complained that no one loved him just because he was Darryl, but he had no sense what a Darryl was or how to act like one. His family did not go to church, so he had no faith anchor. (He does now!) He searched everywhere for a father figure.

"'Darryl was unmoored', this biographer says. '...everyone fawned over, many admired, some envied—and no one thought to try to help.'16 Without an inner core of self, or the greed that drove him to work at his gift, the added fact that he had no armor to fight against the predators made him vulnerable to everyone.

"Sokolove doesn't have much time for the pastors who finally thought to and know how to help. I like Sokolove's view of God. 'What if God is a baseball fan?' He thinks God is mad at Darryl for throwing away His gift." Timothy smiled at the memory of Darryl's baseball swing and tried to imitate it. "Strawberry has an intricate view of this, but to Sokolove it is a stewardship issue. If there is a God, Darryl ought to apologize for the biggest sin of all: throwing away a Hall of Fame opportunity. The biographer wasn't kidding. He hurts over what was lost.

"Two phrases from the book expand to include the masses: 'He was unmoored,' and 'He never had an intellectual framework for recovery, or for living.' Darryl said he knew how to hit, but it is living that he couldn't get right. One of the quieter lessons in this story is that Strawberry had seen people struggle to get out, but he had no model of successful striving. No one to emulate who said, 'Watch me do it.' No models of those who did in fact move on up.

"That is an interesting word—moorings. No one describes it any better than the biographer who said that more than any of his peers, Darryl was unmoored.

"Mooring comes from family, vital faith, a church community, models, hunger to excel and those who leave trail markers."17

"'A framework for living'. How important is that? From a whole pack of rats that eat away our stability, I select three.

> Shame

"I watched a child wrap herself—body and face—in her teacher's full pleated skirt during a school event. Something very strange was happening. I stepped into a cluster of parents with video cameras just in time to recognize that the child was ashamed. The shame made her want to disappear. Her teacher saw her a year later in a store and didn't immediately recognize the child. But, she did recognize the shame when she said hello and the little girl wouldn't respond.

"When you want to disappear, which is what shame does, there is no framework for living, no solid footing, no safe place—no reason to live." Dr. Tim paused, rapped his fingers on the podium and smiled. "Listen carefully and let it sink into your soul. I'm here to tell you about the power of healing—for all the stuff set loose. This need not be a life sentence! For this child it was not!"

> Rights

"A seven-year old was depressed. He had spent most of the 'parenting time' alone. When asked about the days he cried, and said, '...very stressful.' The truth is he didn't feel well and he wanted his mother. The greater truth is that most kids want their mom when they are sick. The father may have been able to comply with his needs if the little boy had been infinitely specific in describing what he needed. No matter how much a man pleads his 'rights' and that he can mother as well as any female, he is not the child's mother. The child not only needed his mom to intuit what he needed, he needed her specific arms around him. So the seven-year old used words God intended only forty-year-olds to use as he suffered alone: '...very stressful.'

"Stress impedes recovery. When the fact that a child needs his mom becomes an affront to the man, the divorced child learns about 'rights' and is wounded.

"Can we get this straight? God made men and women different. Mothers are not men with different plumbing. They think from a different reference point and a different part of the brain which men only seldom can find. Mothers not only have eyes in the back of their heads, they have direct access to the souls of their children. A mother can be awakened by her child's cry half a state away. According to Ms. Marquardt:

"...extremely disturbing. When parents advocate for joint physical custody, they usually emphasize the parents' rights to their children. But to base custody decisions on adults' rights to their children is the absolute worst thing we can do to children of divorce. Children are not property."18

> Belonging

"Let me remind you that Elizabeth Marquardt is the researcher who felt more at home in the airports between flights to and from her parents' homes than anyplace. She never felt at home except in the airports.

"Emotional and social stability demands groundedness. Heidi said, 'All I want is a chair at the table that I can call my own.' A chair is not the only thing we need. We need traditions that are uniquely ours, shorthand phrases that no one else but insiders understand, and a sanctuary where we can be as messy or compulsive as we desire.

"Stability is made solid by trustworthy people who will tell us when we have bad breath and that we look great. A boy needs his father to say and show that, 'You're the man!' A girl needs a mother and father who tell her how lovely she is, and that she is treasured. This stability enables us to differentiate between fact and fantasy and empowers us to defend lost causes and fight for the weak.

"Dr. Archibald Hart lists ten emotional consequences of parental divorce; eight relational consequences, three basic physical consequences and four general academic/vocational consequences. It strikes me that he has mapped twenty-five life shaping statements of instability that become self-protecting wounds."

Tim touched the Power Point button and the word changed.

SHIELD

"...at fourteen years of age, the whole care & direction of myself was thrown on myself entirely without a relation or a friend qualified to advise or guide me."

Thomas Jefferson

Timothy Raymond Kendall stood looking at the projected word on the wall. It was as if he went away for a few seconds, just standing there staring. He looked up and gazed at the crowd and then looked at the floor as he stepped away from the podium and toward the edge of the platform. He looked toward the back of the auditorium as if he was looking into another realm.

"Traumatized! Divorce traumatizes when the spiritual shield is lowered allowing an inrush of potential evil and insecurities not unlike the breaking of the New Orleans' levees' impact on the Ninth Ward. Divorce plus one. Just add one more element to the separation of father and mother and this trauma is invited. Add infidelity to the marriage, molestation, physical attack or expressed hatred. When the herd abandons the wildebeest calf, there are inevitabilities.

"I think it must be a given. God places in each parent the care and placement of a shield to protect the child. Divorce tears at that protective shield and it will automatically be lowered. The wise keep the shield in place by assigning spiritual authority intentionally to someone of spiritual sensitivity and godliness, or they take spiritual control intentionally themselves. In a perfect world, godparents (or whatever your faith calls them) pick up the shield and take responsibility. When the divorced kid goes to church that is what he is looking for."

The speaker looked at his watch, folded his notes and waited for inner instruction as to how he was going to end this. The stories he had counted on were now out of sync.

"Do we have time for one more?" he asked. The audience vocalized their consent. The wall flashed a new word.

SELF

"Childhood disappears into the darkness. So much is lost I'm surprised any of us become adults. The studies show that divorced kids do not often learn how to play or at least do not recall many playtimes. Lost are the skills learned in playtime that grow into leadership abilities and learning how to give and take without violence in a world that is not always safe—building skills to know when it's time to fight and when it's time to fold your tent.

"A friend acquired several boxes of mementos his grandmother had collected. She lived in a small community with a newspaper column that kept everyone informed of who ate dinner with whom on Sunday. The grandmother cut out news items that spoke of her family and pasted them into a large scrap book. My friend found a news article telling the world that grandmother had hosted his parents, aunts and uncles. The columnist listed the names of guests, what was eaten, what flowers were in bloom and who sat next to whom at the table. Bizarre! To that point, he had no image of his parents sitting together at a meal. The reporter's verbal picture was a gift that connected him to a whole family. He experienced being part of the family living history.19

"For intact families, there are memories of interaction and teaching sessions at meal times. Celebration. The researchers say adult children of divorce seldom mention or remember meal times together. That is a huge loss.

"No greater loss than what researchers call 'template.' We adopt the templates we repeatedly observe and consider 'normal.' Therefore, I preface this by saying assuming healthy family relationships and healthy people the child will lose the template that shows how conflict is processed without leading to a permanently slammed door. There is no guarantee an intact family will do any better, but when one parent leaves, the chances diminish to learn how to handle conflict, and how to fight fairly. That is guaranteed. How do parents come back together? We lose the template that shows us how to do life. We take longer to enter productive adulthood; we have a spurt of growth into adulthood during childhood, but the final developmental periods are postponed or completely missed.

"The traumas, large and miniscule, cause us to be stunted. If we had the technology, we could look at a heart wound and determine at what age the arrow struck. So severe is the wound that nerves to further development are severed."

It was time to pull the plug on this presentation.

"I was at my desk. I had been awake since 3:20. I told God I needed to hear from Him.

"'Read Haggai 1:6.' The words were impressed on my mind several times. Reading an Old Testament prophet didn't seem to be the answer to what I was feeling and thinking.

'Give careful thought to your ways,' Haggai quotes God. You have planted much, but have harvested little. You eat, but never have enough. You drink, but never have your fill. You put on clothes, but are not warm. You earn wages, only to put them in a purse with holes in it.

'You expected much, but see; it turned out to be little' (vs. 9).

"That described what I was feeling. Life was not turning out like I thought it would or that I worked for or envisioned it. Reasons listed by the prophet did not apply. Over the next weeks there was one pounding reality: something was missing in my life. It is like trying to live a full life without a liver. There was a sense that I could never find the missing component, nor could I gain God's favor.

"Haggai 1:6 was my portrait. An accurate description of the ACOD experience, but finally I am responsible. It is up to me to get fixed or to fix what is missing. But before that can happen, a more basic requirement must be put into place.

"When Haggai called the post-exilic Hebrews' attention to their neglect, they went to work on the temple. '(They) obeyed the voice of the Lord their God and the message of Haggai, because the Lord their God had sent him. And the people feared the Lord'" (1:12b).

"God's words were not meant to condemn, but to point out a blockage that kept even those who feared, loved and desired His best from receiving. Having completed the new temple, Haggai asked the religious and political leaders if they remembered the old temple. 'How does it look to you now? Does it not look like nothing?' (2:3). In that context, Haggai quotes God:

'I will once more shake the heavens and the earth and the sea and the dry land. I will shake all nations, and the desire all of all nations will come, and I will fill this house with glory,' says the LORD Almighty. 'The silver is mine and the gold is mine,' declares the LORD Almighty. 'The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house,' says the LORD Almighty. 'And in this place I will grant peace,' declares the LORD Almighty (2:6-9).

"An understanding that your life will contain more 'glory' than the home of your origin is basic to becoming you and entering your destiny pathway. The print may be fine, but it is bold.

The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house."

Timothy had folded his notes. He was finished and had only to sit down.

"Excuse me, sir." The speaker had given them permission. He looked at the man standing four rows back. Mid-thirties, maybe older. "What do we do next? How do we take responsibility for the wound?"

"You can buy my CDs and books," Timothy Kendall joked.

"Hey, man, you can't do that to us." People laughed at the man's reply because he had gestured and smiled with comic motions and sound. He wasn't being funny, no matter how he sounded. The look in his eyes said he needed and wanted help.

"What is your name?"

"Fred."

"Fred, I'm going to pray a healing prayer for general needs and then Van and Alice will make appointments for those who would like to talk privately. They are equipped to pray healing to specific needs. That plan work for you?" The man nodded.

"Thank you, friends, for being so engaged in this. I hope it has been productive. Before I say goodnight, I want to quote one of my favorite writers. It is prophetic and a prayer.

"You must decide today not to rob the world of the rich, valuable, potent, untapped resources locked away within you." 20

# Chapter Seven

Notes from Van's Interview

Fred is an adult child of divorce. His father was not absent from his life, but not there for supper or to back up Fred's mother's discipline or to teach him how a man acts, treats women and deals with frustration. Fred is currently wondering about his own masculinity. That doubt will not magically go away. There may or not be wounds of abuse, neglect, betrayal, abandonment, but at Fred's core he knows something or several things are missing. There is a void or chasm that is not always definable. He can't go searching with a pick ax and flashlight and say, "Yup, see the empty spot. It is called..." Based on the damage done, let's offer Fred some possibilities of what is missing:

Sense of being, He does not know, like Darryl Strawberry, what a "Fred" is.

Confidence of belonging.

Memory of well-being and emotional health.

An image of masculinity beyond genitals.

Experience of family life.

Leanne Payne speaks of a client as having no "home (center) within." So, an early task in our praying for Fred is to establish that center. The foundation is that he is a product of God's plan. He was conceived because God's world needed a Fred. Not just any Fred, but one made like this particular Fred.

The feeling of illegitimacy is replaced by personal value, worth and place as we accept Psalm 139 as not mere poetry, but an accurate description of self.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful" 21

Van's notes continue:

Psalm 139 is not text from an OB-Gyn class; it is a faith statement that says: I'm here on purpose and God does good work.

# Chapter Eight

The stage lights dimmed. Dr. Tim exited through a drape and then stepped through a door into a hallway where he was greeted by a woman with a headset over her multi-colored hair. He was headed for a television interview and the lady carrying the clipboard was the producer.

"Come this way. I'm taking you to the Green Room so you can catch your breath. There are beverages, protein snacks and some major carbs. Help yourself to whatever will energize you for the interview." No chit chat and no questions. She did not want to waste ideas or questions. Her immediate plan was to deposit him quickly so he could recoup and regroup. "I'll come to collect you in about ten minutes." With that, he was alone with turkey sandwiches, dishes of candy, soda and bottles of water.

Deep breathing. Forehead rubbing. Opening a bottle of water. He refused to assess his presentation, but he bowed his head to thank the Father for being in the performance hall and the touch he had felt on the delivery.

There was no GPS hooked to his belt, but Dr. Tim heard a voice. "...the iniquities of the father reach to the third and fourth generations" (Numbers 14:18). He had been instructed what he was to talk about in the TV interview. He smiled. This was going to be interesting. The interviewer probably had other plans.

Ten minutes it was. He was hustled to a make-up chair and then to the set just in time for the countdown. The camera red light flashed on.

"Dr. Timothy Kendall, we welcome you to 'Aftermath,' where we dissect our guest's presentation—we'll give you a chance to clarify what you meant and tell you where you are wrong." The small audience knew this woman well enough to know laughter was called for.

She turned in her swivel chair to the camera. "And I welcome you to Aftermath. My name is Ellie. You have already heard Dr. Kendall's specialization. Remember to text us with your questions for our guest."

Tim assessed the lady. He smiled at his own thoughts. She was in training to be a Fox News reporter. Blonde, the ability to flirt with the camera and skirt short enough to make everyone wonder if it would creep past the line—wherever that was. Were the low cut blouses, uplift bras and short skirts to make the news more palatable or to blur one's concentration making the news secondary to the floor show? Regardless of the amount of bare skin, these women were professional. The atmosphere was welcoming. They couldn't be more helpful. They knew how to do TV. He wasn't sure they thought that he did, but they most likely feared that about each guest.

"Dr. Kendall..."

"Please! Call me Tim. If necessary, call me Dr. Tim.

"As you wish. Dr. Tim, just between you and me, your presentation scared me!"

The perfect diction, perfect makeup, the perfect staging. He did not see that coming. He involuntarily snickered and then laughed. He took a drink of water. He would not steal her thunder or waste the tension she was using to set up the interview.

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely serious! You are saying that children of divorce spend a lifetime being depressed...let me quote you from my notes. Depressed, angry, underachieving and fearful. Did I get that right?"

"Yes. Pretty much. That doesn't identify each of us. About half of the boys struggle with those things. Girls react a little differently. As you might expect some have security issues, questions about their femininity and reluctance to put their full weight on relationships like marriage."

"About half? What accounts for the others?"

"It's predictable. Parents who set aside hostility. Some people get along after a divorce. They just can't do marriage. They can't get along and be married to each other—one or the other, not both. I know couples who divorce and then marry someone else and the two couples go on vacations, with all the kids, together. I find that a little creepy, but it makes life easier for the children."

The program host raised her eyebrows waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, she asked, "How long have you been a child of divorce, Mr. Kendall?"

"Tim," he responded. "I insist. I was about seventeen. It has been about fifty years." He was inclined to be sarcastic or make an age-related remark, but he let it lie.

"If you could do all those years over and build an atmosphere and interaction that would have been more beneficial to you—if you could live it over..." she got lost in her question. "Let me rephrase, how could you have been prepared...?"

Some strange synapses interacted in Tim's brain in response to "...if you could live it over..." It did not sound like a hypothetical proposition. He was momentarily off balance trying to figure out how that was going to happen.

"...if you could live it over as a different person," she continued. Tim couldn't remember what he said. He was grappling with the question.

"What didn't you talk about tonight that you wish you had?" The question had come from the producer through the interviewer's ear piece.

Let the hijacking begin!

"Grandfathers!"

"We're listening."

"Maybe I've made this too difficult. Perhaps I'm being simplistic. As I was enjoying your Green Room, I was assaulted by an Old Testament statement: "...the iniquities of the father reach to the third and fourth generations" (Numbers 14:18). This part of the conversation must begin with the word neuroplasticity. It refers to the literal ability of the brain to rewire and create new and better networks. Not only can we change our minds, we can change the way our brains work."

"I have heard about this science. It is called, if I remember correctly, Epigenetics. I don't know how it works. Do you?" asked the program host.

"It is a new science. It is a science and more. It is a mystery. Larger than nature and nurture, but includes those two. Dr. Caroline Leaf attributes the process to thoughts, spoken words added to life experiences and behavior. She says that the actions of our grandfathers or great grandfathers change eggs and sperm "so indelibly that the result gets passed onto their children up to four generations. She connects it to iniquity. Granddad's decision to do specific things habitually places that inclination into the DNA of his progeny and in the bloodstream. It becomes a spiritual marker for his family, a predisposition we might call a weakness or addiction." 22

"That's distressing! If that is true, how can any of us be held accountable for anything we do? Is this not a defense—doesn't it let us off the hook for everything? Grandfather made me do it?"

"We have a predisposition. On top of each gene there is a switch—as it were—that is switched to an off or on position by our thoughts or actions. _We_ make the option personal. The scientific label for this scriptural principle is transgenerational epigenetic inheritance."

"Dr. Tim, are you making that up?"

"I'm not making this up! I'm quoting the scientists as closely as possible."

"You mean, like a toggle switch?"

"As I recall the pictures, there is some projection that looks like a switch. I think of it as being a water gate. A person can open the valve and in flows the predisposition stream."

"That's wild. Tiny switches and valves."

"Some of your distress can be relieved when you consider that we can also be predisposed to good behavior and rich gifts, talents and orientations. This may explain why some things appear to travel in families from generation to generation."

"Like divorce or dysfunction," the lady said to herself. "I am very distressed. It feels like we are determined or sentenced by things we didn't get to vote on."

"You asked me what I would do differently to prepare me. I would want someone to teach me how to know myself. There is no decoder ring. Dr. Mark Chironna uses the phrase Destiny Code. He says to know your Destiny Code a person must know three things about herself: Identity, Purpose, Path."

"Please don't take us down another rabbit trail. I'm still reeling over switches," she feigned mockery or exhaustion.

"Promise. Plato's admonition to "Know thyself," is foundational. I think it crucial to know what is floating around in our gene pool. If we know what we've been handed through the behavior, decisions, character and attitudes of our ancestors, we can make our own decisions about behaviors and what fortresses to build and what to supplement and nurture."

"How do we ever know such things?" Ellie was as distressed as she admitted and was leaning toward her guest with no concern about blouse or skirt.

Dr. Tim repeated the question. "The easy answer is to say we choose to live in community. That calls for intimate interaction with half-a-dozen people who will do life together, pay attention to behavior and thinking patterns, and be committed to the personal development of each tribe member. We are not limited, therefore, to our family of origin. We adopt what has been called the Necessary Family. That doesn't mean we throw away our biological family. We expand our family connections."

"We have the makings of a new series here on WJIK with this information. Perhaps, Dr. Tim's Tribe. In the meantime, we have about five minutes left. We are talking to Dr. Timothy Kendall. Dr. Tim, in our closing minutes, do you want to say more about grandparents?"

"Sure do!" If grandparents—grandfathers in particular—are that influential and are responsible for the hardwiring of their children's lives, should we not be focusing on them? Part of the mystery—my word—is that what the father and grandfather does continues to pass through the spirit world into their young. I'm going to be simplistic again. Instead of building all our churches to reach "the young," shouldn't we be spending resources on grandparents? Heavy duty proclamation that speaks to the need for confession and repentance? I don't know how this works, but it seems to me when a grandfather's spiritual condition changes, that newness flows to the family."

Ellie slid off the high chair to begin the show ending. The distress returned to her voice. "Tim, think about it. How many kids have a relationship with their grandparents? So many of us live a long distance from them. My grandparents are dead. You know as well as I do that many times a divorce will divide the generations along blood lines. How do we work past the generational gap that is filled with contempt or assumptions that Ole Gram is stuck in her ways, doesn't know what life is like for the teen and is living her life in another decade? How does the younger generation connect with grandparents who are not involved with social media or current technology and may be living in Florida?"

"Was that a statement or a question?" Tim joked. "I have heard kids say 'If Gramps thinks an android is the wife of an asteroid how would he know anything about what I think or feel or have to deal with?'"

"We are waiting for your answer."

"When I come back from "living this over" to use your phrase, I will make sure to tell you first. There is an answer, come to think of it. There is a difference between knowledge and wisdom. And both are of value when saturated by love and respect. Uh, that means being in a relationship.

"Malachi who speaks the last words of the First Testament looks toward a culture and society which we Christians call The Kingdom.

He will convince parents to look after their children and children to look up to their parents. If they refuse, I'll come and put the land under a curse (Malachi 4:5-6).

"I'm intrigued by the word "he." It seems to point to a mysterious prophet—someone who can see outcomes and has power to effectively confront destructive behavior and then to motivate and instruct groups of people to change. Is that one person or a tribe of empowered visionaries?

"I also wonder if the current turmoil in our world indicates that prophet appeared and was ignored or rejected? Is the upheaval nothing more than what was promised—a land under a curse?"

Ellie stood silent with hands on her hips. Finally her earpiece screamed, "Ellie!"

"Distressing. Sounds apocalyptic. We're going to have to leave this discussion right there. Dr. Tim, can you come back to Aftermath? Thank you for being our guest and stirring some scary, but interesting thoughts."

She looked into the camera. "And thank you for joining us. Sorry we didn't get to your questions. They will not be ignored. I will ask Dr. Timothy Kendall to respond. Until next time, Good night."

With credits rolling, Ellie shook Tim's hand and asked for his website address. "I want to receive your blog and notifications of your speaking schedule and new publications."

Five minutes later, it was Van who was ushering him through a door to another gathering.

# Chapter Nine

Dr. Timothy Kendall had ended such presentations with book signings, coffees, media interviews and at altars. This event would be concluded at Van and Alice's home in their family room with a fire in the fireplace. Specific people were invited. They drank apple cider and pumpkin spice coffees. The cookies, scones and bars came from a guest's bakery. No one was bashful about a second treat to accompany the laughter, hugs and updates.

Tim had no words left in him. He hung out at the edges drinking cider, listening to the conversations. Energy slowly seeped back into his body and soul. The guests sat down and Van stood in front of the fireplace with a glass cup of mulled drink to formally welcome guests and to make a toast to Timothy Kendall whose presentation had perplexed, stimulated and motivated. All lifted their cups and glasses while murmuring welcoming words. Tim felt his body relax and his heart warm.

"The Apostle Paul says in Romans 1:11-12,

For I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong - that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith.

"The Apostle had learned that blessings, equipping and soul-enlarging gifting could be transferred from one disciple to another through what we call impartation." Van raked his beard with his fingers. "Tim, these folks were not invited randomly, but because they have unique Spiritual gifts and sensitivities. Each is prepared to impart to you strengthenings, abilities and understandings. They have asked the Holy Spirit for specific direction."

Tim didn't like being the center of attention. He feared this was not going to go well. People would give to him what they wanted or guessed that they would need if they were in his shoes.

Van continued. "Timothy Raymond Kendall, I know how self-conscious you are right now. I want to reassure you that these people have, as much as possible, have emptied themselves of personal opinions and do not desire to project personal wants upon you. They seek to be the voice of the Holy Spirit by verbalizing what He has revealed."

Van had moved the chair Tim usually selected and beckoned the guest of honor to sit.

"Anything you would like to say?" Alice asked.

"I wish my wife were here to hold my hand," Tim joked. Gentle laughter reminded him his concerns would be honored. "Thank you. You've made me feel welcome and accepted. I still wish my wife were here."

"Let me be the first gifter," Alice volunteered. "Henrietta Mears was a Sunday school teacher and educator who saw the big picture. She established a summer Bible conference where Billy Graham came to terms with the authority of Scripture. That galvanized his ministry. She became Christian Ed director at Hollywood Presbyterian Church where she influenced Bill Bright to "absolute consecration" to Jesus and His gospel. Bright went on to establish Campus Crusade for Christ. Miss Mears influenced Chaplain of the U. S. Senate, Richard Halverson. Miss Mears said,

There is no magic in small plans. When I consider my ministry, I think of the world. Anything less than that would not be worthy of Christ, nor of His will for my life. It is my business as a Sunday school teacher to instill divine discontent for the ordinary. Only the best possible is good enough for God.

"Tim, I impart this desire into you. No small plans. That gift will be demonstrated in excellence and an all-out commitment to do all that you can do. I impart this into you the seventeen-year old where it shall grow." Tim was confused by the "seventeen-year old" part, but assumed his hostess had misspoken. She continued as if she knew what she was saying.

"People who see themselves as thrown away, rejected or abandoned are prone to believe about themselves what singer and worship leader Kim Walker-Smith confessed. 'I grew up thinking I was a really big mistake.' Writer Donald Miller says 'I was convinced life was a game I was not intended to play.' Ms. Walker-Smith dealt with this by asking God, 'What were you thinking when you created me?' She asked and He answered.

"No small plans, Tim. No small plans. I speak into you confidence that God needed you in His plan at this time of history. You have purpose. This impartation will empower you to unfold appropriately in each life-stage and gain wisdom to strategize."

Alice anointed the recipient of her words and empowering with an essential oil called Valor.

"Thank you, Alice."

With no introduction and no lag time, a man began to speak without standing or approaching Tim. He was well over six feet tall, wearing a tie which remained when the suit coat was removed. He had come to the evening directly from his office.

"I attended a retreat as a young man. I was so messed up and scared I smoked a joint and drank to get me there. I don't know how it happened. No one planned it. The retreat leader sat down at the supper meal across the table from me. I couldn't stay. Anxious, panicky, afraid of the guy for no reason. I couldn't eat. There were No Smoking signs everywhere. Figuring all they could do was send me home, I went outside, lit a joint and waited. After everyone else went into the meeting room, I tried to sneak in and to curl up into a grub worm position—and I would have pulled it off—no one would have noticed me had the speaker not been so funny and outrageous. I sat straight up to see what was going to happen next.

"I was twenty-one and had been stoned or drunk since I was twelve. My first thought of suicide was when I was five. Yes. Five. My folks were together. They did everything they could. They both were struggling to keep themselves alive and functioning. I went to that retreat because my Dad asked me. He needed the weekend for his own healing and wanted me to be there with him.

"I decided to go back to the retreat the next morning. When the others went to a team-building exercise, I smoked and then went into the seminar room to talk to the leaders—a husband and wife. I don't know why I talked to them. I couldn't explain why I came back that morning when all bets were that I wouldn't. I went to get an answer. So many of my friends were dead from doing what I was doing. I wanted to know why. Why was I spared? I had no answer. That man and woman asked me serious questions. I knew they were not prying. They were pushing me to ask myself. The lady asked me where Jesus fit into my life. I wasn't ready to give my life to Jesus. I was messed up. What would Jesus want with me?"

Van and Alice's family room was absolutely silent.

"That couple prayed with me and saw into my soul and head. They knew, as I did, that my life was on the line. I wasn't sure I wanted to live another day. I went home to think about what they had said and to decide if life was worth it. I didn't go back for the Saturday afternoon or the evening. I heard from Dad that the group prayed for me. Dad said they called my name—out loud—as if they were calling me back from the edge. From the brink. They were."

The man stood up and walked to the fireplace to stare at the flames. He relived the event he was describing. He stood straight.

"The next day was Sunday. If that couple had seen into my soul, I had seen into their hearts. They knew what I was facing and if they ever saw me again they would know immediately the end of my story. After church, I hugged the lady and thanked her for helping me. She looked like she was witnessing Lazarus coming out of the tomb. She kissed my cheek and blessed me. I turned around and saw her husband, his face asking a question. I had spent most of my life with my body shaped into a question mark. That was what was inside me. I made a decision on Saturday afternoon that changed me. As I walked toward the preacher, I felt my body straighten into an exclamation point. No exaggeration. Something inside me straightened me inside and out.

"I went into detox the very next day. Those seminar leaders came to my church several weeks later. They got to see me leading a group and heard me tell my journey to sobriety." He walked to Tim, placed his hand on his shoulder and then knelt beside him.

"I give you the ability to hear God's voice. God knows your name. You will hear Him and know what He is conveying when He says 'Tim.' Timothy Raymond Kendall, He knows you by name."

The tall young man had not spoken the word, but one word filled the room: Identity. Again, Tim heard what sounded like a CD downloading onto a hard drive. What entered his soul was not just the word, but the source. Tim was to identify himself as a son of God and to be identified by that relationship.

Tim stood, adjusted his trousers, and went to the gifter to thank and embrace him. Tim walked back to the chair walking taller like he felt after a chiropractor's adjustment. This adjustment was not spinal, but his core had been adjusted.

Alice walked among her guests to refill their cups and give them an opportunity to breathe. No one was uneasy or in a hurry. A middle-eastern man with thick black hair and dark horn-rimmed glasses stood to speak. He had been with this group long enough that they comfortably interpreted the words weighted by his accent.

"In the back hallway of George Washington's Mount Vernon home hangs the key to the Bastille—that terrible Paris fortress. The conquest of the Bastille became the symbol of the French Revolution, which bred optimism that the French would apply American democratic principles to their own governing. In that hope, General Lafayette sent the key to Washington as a token of their common vision. The vision blurred in the terror, ugliness and brutality of conflict. United States Ambassador Morris wrote, '(The French) want an American Constitution with the exception of a king instead of President, without reflecting that they have no American citizens to uphold that constitution.'

"It takes a certain kind of person to build a certain kind of country. It takes a certain kind of person to occupy his or her place in God's Kingdom."

No application followed. Just silence, an assumption and Tim's feeling that something had been tossed his direction—like a ball that he chose to catch and tuck away. The phrase would surface many times in the years ahead. "It takes a certain kind of person!" He would be that certain kind of person in his world.

"Let me tell you about a certain kind of person," a lady with a European accent said. Tim was amazed at the diverse ethnic people in the room. This was a true picture of Jesus' Church.

"We were in Texas last winter. One of our vacation goals was to visit The Alamo. In the process, we got caught in the web of Sam Houston's mystique and myth. We rented a movie about Sam Houston starring Sam Elliott. A couple things were obvious. The real Sam Houston looks nothing like Sam Elliot and I'm not sure Elliott's 'stache was real. This movie underplayed Houston's drinking and womanizing. Houston's first marriage ended, according to the raw history, due to drinking and infidelity. The movie says that the woman was in love with another man and never loved Houston. The Houston myth has many versions. According to the film version I watched, the marriage was never consummated and Houston released his wife, resigned his office in Tennessee and went to Texas a broken man.

"After time recuperating with an Indian tribe he had connected with in Tennessee, Houston rebounded to become a major military and political force. His leadership defeated Santa Anna the Mexican 'Napoleon of the West' and secured an independent Texas. Sam Houston became a war hero, was elected president of the republic of Texas twice, served as United States Senator when Texas became a state and then was voted in twice as governor. He refused to sign documents that called for slavery in non-slave states which caused his opponents to clamor for his removal as governor. He remarried and was revered in Texas.

"A voice-over summed up Houston's life after the battle at San Jacinto. The last phrase—that I heard—was that Houston died considering his life a failure.

"Wait a minute. A failure? After all those accomplishments?

"Mr. Kendall, how do you measure failure or life accomplishment? Many of us feel like our family of origin set us up for failure. Some of the best families do that inadvertently. I would like to give you this tape measure. It has a key ring attached. In this impartation gift is the ability to evaluate—to accurately measure."

This new imparted gift was followed by thick silence as if Timothy needed time to unwrap what he had received and move the unseen into some internal vault or engine room.

Van waited for the moment. "You will notice that the tape measure has Joslyn's logo, and web address. She doesn't miss an opportunity to market and she will write off that gift." This life group knew Joslyn and laughed with loving approval.

"I'm not offended by their teasing," she said. "I will write it off, Mr. Kendall. Just promise me that you will not."

"Promise."

Another woman began to talk. Timothy was sure they had met. Her red hair and earthy demeanor were familiar.

"Mr. Timothy, in the movie 'Saving Mr. Banks' which is the story about the filming of Mary Poppins we meet the writer as a child. She walks into her father's bedroom where he is dying from influenza aggravated by alcohol abuse. She says, 'Don't go away.' He promises, 'I'll never leave you. I promise.' But, he does. He leaves her and it scars her for the entirety of her remaining childhood and into her adulthood.

"The wounds were so deep she refused to sign the contract to have her book about Mary Poppins made into a movie. She left the Disney studios and abandoned Walt Disney to fly home to England. The convincing took twenty years. At some point, Walt Disney figured out who Mr. Banks was and why the author had disguised her name. He flew to England to talk to her about his own father's ruthlessness and cruelty. In Mr. Disney's appeal to author P. L. Travers, he used the word forgiveness.

"Mr. Timothy, parents sometimes make promises they have no intention to keep. Sometimes their intention is larger than their resources or character. Sometimes, they have no power or choice in the matter.

"I impart to you the predisposition and grace to forgive. I give to you that gift so that grace and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life and be the conduit to every child you intersect. You will inspire the predisposition to forgive. This predisposition will flow through you to each child who has watched the tail lights grow dim in the distance. They will be strongly confronted by the choice to forgive and release those who abandoned them."

"Mr. Kendall." Everyone turned as the man with the black horn-rimmed glasses spoke. "In my work, I regularly see adult children of divorce, those who have been adopted and those who feel thrown away. They often speak of a fuzzy feeling of loneliness. Some parents tell me stories that I interpret as expressions of separation anxiety. It is about losing. Most catch on immediately when I tell them they are afraid they will experience their own abandonment again. Some build protective barriers or patterns of protection. A seminar or sermon will not relieve that anxiety. I think it has to be a work of God—sometimes a direct gift from Him and at other times it comes through the hand of an imparter. The Spiritual gift being demonstrated here is that of healing or healings plural. The first aspect of healing is forgiveness. Let it flow through your hands. You are being anointed to be a dispenser."

What was happening in the fireplace room was not an assembly line event, but everyone knew the purpose and was tuned to the reason they gathered. Alice was taking notes which she would tuck into Timothy's briefcase. Given the somewhat methodical way the group was working, a lady stood and took the baton.

"It is my turn. I am a student of habit and teach psychology at the community college. We do things out of habit without always knowing what motivates us. I've always been fond of the word amygdala. It is a fun word to say. The amygdala is in the old part of the brain. Unfiltered emotions are stored and stimulated there. These days, I'm taken with the portion of the brain identified as the basal ganglia. There is almost something naughty about saying those words. My friends in this room tell me that I can turn any words into double entendre—which may need repentance and sanctification."

Timothy relaxed and looked at the lady. Her blonde hair and big brown eyes attracted attention in any room. He wondered if her risqué nature got her into situations that contradicted her intent. She was pretty, but not a vixen.

"The basal ganglia is where habits are stored. Even when few other brain parts are working, this piece of brain will guide us to do things even when we do not know why we are doing them.

"The habit loop works without your intentional involvement. After a pattern of activity is filed in the basal ganglia, the habit loop consists of a cue or trigger, and a routine that leads to a reward.

"Did you know that prior to World War I only seven percent of Americans had a tube of toothpaste? The dental hygiene of incoming military recruits was so terrible that government officials claimed that rotting teeth was creating a national security risk. Hardly anyone bought tooth cleansers because hardly anyone brushed their teeth.

"Pepsodent changed that, but first a marketer named Claude Hopkins reluctantly decided to join the campaign. Within five years, Hopkins had helped create a tooth brushing habit and made Pepsodent into one of the best known products on earth. The habit loop worked only by adding another element: a craving. Link cue/trigger with routine driven by a craving that promised a reward and the habit of daily brushing was embedded.

"Hopkins was a trickster with words. He sold Quaker Oats by promising twenty-four hours of energy, but only if you ate a bowl every morning. That cue worked for cereal sales. The marketer needed a trigger to get people to brush daily. He studied dental textbooks and happened onto a reference to 'mucin placques on teeth,' which Hopkins renamed 'film.' Hopkins said, 'I resolved to advertise this toothpaste as a creator of beauty to deal with the cloudy film.'

"He ignored the fact that the film had been on people's teeth for eons and no one had noticed. Toothpaste was incidental to cleaning the film away. A person could eat an apple, rub their finger over their teeth or rinse vigorously. But, brushing with Pepsodent added the reward: beauty. Let me read one of Claude Hopkins' ads featuring a beauty with sparkling teeth: 'Millions are using a new method of teeth cleansing. Why would any woman have dingy film on her teeth? Pepsodent removes the film.'

"It is the routine that we want to motivate, so we define the reward that people crave and a trigger that pushes them to repeat the routine. There is more to the story. Pepsodent had ingredients that created tingling tongue and gums. That was different than those who had advertised for years about their product that cleaned the dirty film from teeth. Pepsodent provided a sensation that it was doing its job. Consumers began to crave the tingling that carried the message that their teeth were clean and their smile was more beautiful. 'Claude Hopkins wasn't selling beautiful teeth, he was selling a sensation.'" 23

Van stood up and said, "Tim, this is where Caroline usually opens a carton of product, which she may still do. I have a feeling she is not finished—she is going to give you more than a sample of toothpaste or soft bristle toothbrushes."

Caroline opened her Bible and read,

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to...bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair" 24

Caroline walked to Timothy and sat on the floor in front of him. She said to him as if he were the only person in the room, "A friend's therapist told her that she was perennially ill because she had no memory of wellness and that she had constructed a habit of despair. That habit functioned from her basal ganglia. I impart to you a craving for beauty, gladness and praise. In fact...," she stood to take off her oversized denim jacket and slide it over Tim's shoulders. "I impart the garment of praise that will be felt on your spirit with the same weight as the jacket feels on your shoulders. Its base of operation will be your spirit which I instruct to influence your basal ganglia. Amen!"

What Tim felt was more than the weight and warmth of the jacket. He started to describe it to the gathering, but found that he could not. He, like so many of his peers, lived beyond their years and were slightly depressed. He knew his antenna was always fully extended to pick up vibes of any incoming rejection. So many in his shoes are over sensitized and on constant alert for anything they would be unable to control or manage. Holding the pillar in place was exhausting, but someone had to hold up the sky. The weariness and wariness allowed little room for anticipating winning the lottery or having a positive habit of praise and gratitude flowing through his life.

He recalled sitting in that tree surrounded by the forest and tall grasses. It suddenly occurred to him why the tree had been cleared in the middle. The original Forester said, "Pruning allows growth. If there is no pruning every branch will be restricted and dwarfed. Pruning permits and encourages expansion." Prune the restriction and new habits will grow.

"Where is the laughter, the music, the beauty?" Tim asked himself. Now, something flowed into his soul that stimulated another question: Why hasn't someone turned on the music? The vibes turned positive, the harmonics blended into a strengthening chord. He opened his eyes from what had been minutes of receiving a delicious gift.

"Shouldn't we sing?"

Caroline was waiting for the cue. She played a chord and began to sing. "We are standing on holy ground..." She changed the key, modulating half a note and repeated the first line again. "We are standing..."

Timothy had an aural incident. He thought he heard his personal GPS reorient him to True North. He was realigned to praise rather than despair. It was not just a garment that had been slipped onto him, but an orientation that slipped into him.

He sang the chorus again—"I am standing on Holy Ground."

Van thanked the guests and said, "Tim you have been gifted tonight with realignments. Your identity, validation, predisposition." Tim didn't remember people saying good night or recollect them leaving. He clutched what they had deposited in his memory and what they had sown into his soul.

# Chapter Ten

On this last night in the quaint house with a meadow, Dr. Tim was restless. Deep sleep evaded his insistence. His dreams were filled with the room where the model car sat on the shelf. He revisited the auditorium with the plush seats, walked through the TV studio and sat in the room where new friends imparted gifts to his soul. As he exited each room he said, "No, not there." Something was missing.

" _Do you really believe that divorce leaves a hole in the child that can last a lifetime? Is it possible that any severance from parents through denial, neglect, abandonment, abuse, rejection could create such a crater?"_

Tim opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. He reached for the flashlight on the nightstand. He saw no one, but there was definitely someone in the room who asked another question.

" _Bottom line. What is that hole? What does it look like? Characteristics?"_

Discernment, the sound and feel of the voice assured Tim he was not dealing with a dark spirit or debris from an intensely emotional few days. He had just read, "In the hearts of many there is a hollow place. We long for what only a father can give."

"For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, 'Abba! Father!'" (Galatians 3:26).

"The Spirit Himself testifies with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, heirs also, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ..." Romans 8:16-17)

In that instant, Tim knew the answer to the invisible messenger's question. He knew the terrain of the hole—the emptiness. He slipped into jeans, a barn coat, boots. He firmly gripped his laptop and tiptoed down the stairs out the back door onto the porch overlooking the meadow. He settled at a rough-hewn table where he sat his laptop to record what he expected to hear from the same voice that had awakened him. He wrote his heading:

ORPHAN MINDSET

"What is an orphan mindset?" Tim asked out loud. He sensed he was being instructed about emotional-spiritual orphans—spiritual in the broadest definition. This may or may not be about an orphan in the literal sense. He or she just feels like they've been left alone on a curb or an unknown doorstep.

The words flowed.

On one hand is an approach to life growing out of the "Abba Father" relationship and empowering. When we feel embraced by God the Father; when we see the twinkle in His eye as He looks at us, we are empowered to venture, live by faith and expect to conquer and succeed. Without that, the child or adult feels removed from relationship and a home—cut out of the will—blocked from Kingdom blessings and benefits. We feel as if we are the Cinderella figure in our family. God is loving. Emotional orphans understand that, but that love feels filtered through a step-child relationship. Life is dominated by the hollowness with no resource to fill it.

The spiritual-emotional orphan seeks approval and acceptance, but a rejection addiction blocks receiving what is longed for and needed. The orphan attempts to fill that void with comforts—addictions, escapism, compulsion, or burying oneself in volunteer work.

Orphan-spirit driven people are passive, hard to get along with, withdrawn, guarded, conditional and distant in their relationships.

Studies of this spirit show the lack of affirming relationships will make us fearful, suspicious and resentful of authority figures. The orphan has a difficult time receiving correction or tutoring. Even kind admonition easily hurts their feelings. They learn to protect themselves by backing away and locking all doors to the inner self. No more hurt!

The divorced kid loves differently than others. His expectations lean toward assumption that he will lose, get the worst end of the deal and will get dumped. That keeps him or her from risking expressing love or making commitments. The future looks bleak. The solo journeyer expects the other shoe to drop at any moment.

That hole in us is not completely void. It is busy with threatening chaos and negative self-talk.

"Tim?" The voice belonged to Van announcing his presence more than asking for his guest's location. "Dawn will be breathtaking when it breaks over that ridge." Tim greeted his friend and wondered why Van had not asked why he was on the porch at 3:45.

"I have a question. The mysterious void you talk about—the emptiness that nags at the child and then drives the adult, can you name it? Can you tell me what it looks like? Acts like? Another question. The researched conclusion of Judith Wallenstein that the life of the divorced child is '...profoundly altered...,' is that absolutely true or just powerful hyperbole?"

Tim replied, "That emptiness—that cavern in one's soul—is the opposite of what one experiences when living in the 'Abba Father' relationship. Hard for me to describe a feeling or a negative 'knowing,' but it has descriptive synonyms like barrenness. What flows out of the emptiness is more defining. Meaninglessness, purposelessness, joyless, obsession to fill the hole." Tim tried to write while talking.

"Would you say that no one gets a pass? That the void, hollowness, abyss, cavity is inevitable?"

"The predisposition and vulnerability is inevitable. The orphan spirit can grow over the entire life like ivy or kudzu grows over everything in its path. That mindset fills the empty space. What happens to people experiencing any relationship as abandonment or rejection is that we feel as if we have lost our place in the universe. Not just a temporary place in line, but our reason for being, uh, our very identity. You and I also know people who come from intact families and yet they are dominated by the orphan spirit."

Van shook his head. Tim turned toward his host and questioned how the man knew what he was thinking and writing. _Must have been talking out loud to myself_ , Tim thought.

"The orphan mindset hits me when I'm dealing with delays and distance. When God seems far away and not paying attention to my cries for help or guidance, and when nothing from Heaven arrives on time."

Van had opened a Bible on the coffee table. "Romans 8:14-17 holds some answers for the orphan-minded. And, I'm perplexed to say, an issue. At the core of the Scripture is the Good News that when we are born again we become sons and daughters of God. The person Abba Father and the Abba Father mindset-worldview and self-evaluation come to reside in the person's spirit. Many have a cognitive experience of Abba, but live as emotional-cognitive-spiritual orphans. How do we experience Abba Father in our souls, you know, in the way we think, feel and therefore act? The issue is what moves our experience from one dominion to another? From our spirit to our soul?"

"Mr. Peerson, did you come down here in the middle of the night to harass me and add more questions?" Tim's jest caused them both to chuckle. The question was too serious to stimulate serious laughter.

Tim thought for a moment, then, turned again to face Van who sat in a wicker chair with his feet on a matching foot stool. "Early in my career, we would have had this discussion focused on children of divorce. Today with over half of newborns living in homes where marriage is absent as well as a percentage of fathers, we have to consider if the inevitability of that hollowness is a pervasive element that shapes our entire culture, and not just a subset."

"That, my friend," Van stated, "makes the discussion difficult. Many of my single-parent friends not only are capable of doing a great job, but are actively _doing_ a great job. How do you explain the child raised in a single-parent home, a same-sex marriage, or a dysfunctional situation and yet is relatively whole and thriving?"

"That blessed kid had at least one person in his or her life who was intentional in populating and building an environment where God was welcome to embrace the child. That intentionality would include mentors and models of emotional and spiritual health—people on a personal growth journey. One of my friends fits the description of being relatively whole because the single mother made sure the child was around loving and emotionally healthy men on a spiritual journey. The mother asked what was missing in herself and her environment and added the people and experiences to fill that gap. That parenting intentionality offset the negative predispositions."

"I like your answer. It may be a bit tidy and idealistic, but it works," Van conceded.

"Okay," Tim exclaimed as he leaned toward Van, "Abba Father—Heavenly Daddy's embrace will fill that the void. The excavation will be filled by experiencing acceptance and affirmation. That filling will displace the accompanying controlling spirits or mindsets of poverty, predisposition to failure, and the self-evaluation as a victim.

"A man studied tribes, countries, cities, nations and families to find the longest living and healthiest people on the face of the earth. Common to the healthiest groupings are several traits." Tim counted the points off on his fingers."

**>** Purpose.

**>** Participation in Worship

**>** Exercise—move your body.

**>** Belong to a tribe—have a group of involved, supportive friends.

"You know, if I had this to do over again, I would be deliberate. I wouldn't wait for someone else—parents, grandparents, preacher, career counselor, peers—to make this happen. It is my life. I am accountable for it. Deliberate!" Momentarily brain-fogged he couldn't think of exact wording or text. He wrote into the search engine the words "hands hang down." There it was:

"Strengthen the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be dislocated, but rather be healed: (Hebrew 12:13).

A skeptical question came from the host of the house. "How would you do that—how would you be more deliberate?"

"I would search for a tribe to help me grow into wholeness. If you recall, I was a teen when the family came unraveled—I was old enough to make life-choices. I would assume the same responsibility for my brother and sister. Being deliberate—that also means I will put my energy into becoming the father, husband, person that will produce a healthy life in me and a healing life in my immediate world. Wait a minute. I want to write this as I tell you. I don't want to forget it. If we do these things, we will be the healing conduits. This is the delivery system:

**>** Embracing

**>** Encouraging

**>** Equipping

**>** Empowering

"The void is all about being alone—the mindsets of the orphan, poverty, being a victim, negative predispositions, hollowness, never being enough. But! One phrase describes the inner life when God fills that vacancy."

Tim stood with outstretched arms.

NO MORE SCARCITY!

"Look at that sunrise!" Van pointed and announced as if he were welcoming it to the stage. "A new day! New options and abilities to heal, to cure, repair."

" **The Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in His wings"**

(Malachi 4:2).

# Chapter Eleven

Van and Alice had been an oasis in his desert. Strengthened and celebrated, the sixty-seven- year-old was ready to be home with his wife. He would quickly take her in his arms and tell her he would take no more road trips without her. He thought of _her_ cleavage. Time to go home!

"As much as I've come to love you, Alice, I'm ready to be home." He hugged her and thanked her.

Van helped load laptop, suitcase, briefcase and hanging up clothes into the black Buick that would take Tim to his own vehicle. Timothy embraced his new friend, repeating his words of appreciation. One more hug from the lady of the manor in the meadow and the men were on their way to the car parked next to the creek.

"Tim!" the voice came from a dark, far-off place.

"Tim!" It sounded like his dad.

"Tim, can you hear me?"

He struggled to his knees. Again, he reached into the creek for water to splash over his face. This time, Van was not watching or laughing at his bouncing off the ground. Tim looked into the clear water that reflected a seventeen-year-old face.

"What a dream!" Tim said. "It must have been a dream." He vaguely remembered a cottage and two nice people and something about a large crowd in an auditorium. Something about an arrow. Was there an American Indian in his dream? Perhaps a horse. It was like dreams he got with a fever. The dream was fading, but some things were becoming stronger in his mind. Like an outline of a speech. Words to remind him.

"Everything but a scarecrow, a tin man and Toto," the boy said to himself.

"Tim! Where are you?"

"Over here, Dad."

Out of breath, his father collapsed with relief next to his son. Homer from the Texaco station was with him. Having checked his son's condition and being reassured, Tim's father held him. When the father could not talk, Homer did.

"Miss Della called your dad and me. She had cornered a couple of your friends who said there had been a drunken fight and you were either tossed or jumped out of their car. She said they had severe hangover headaches and couldn't remember exactly where. I would like to quote Miss Della. She said, 'I told Billy Ray his breath smelled like horse manure and I was going to kick his butt all the way to Sunday if he didn't—real quick—tell me where he had left you.'" Homer got the words right, if not the voice. "Do you know anyone else who says, 'Kick butt all the way to Sunday'?"

"I'm glad you're safe. Thank God! You're safe. I thought we might find you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. "I was at Homer's when Miss Della called. When you didn't show up for work this morning, we knew something was wrong. Your buddies got run in last night."

"We'd been here sooner, but a stranger brought his car in for service. He about drove me nuts." Homer was saying. "He and his black Buick. Some automobile. Strange character."

"That old timer must be slipping a cog. He kept saying his name was Vin...Vinny. He talked about his dreams, accomplishments and failures. Homer, how many times did he say, "If I only knew then what I know now." Tim's dad was shaking.

"I don't want to get to be his age and be saying the same thing. About you, about Danny and Anne. About your mother. If I only knew then what I know now. Don't want it to happen."

"Well, Dad. Maybe it doesn't have to happen. I may know now what would be known then."

"Huh?"

"I know now what you would know then. Dad, I've been to the place you want to avoid. I can't wait to tell you what then looks like and the cost. We have been given a way to reshape history that has not yet been made."

Tim knew his dad didn't get it. Hale a kala came into his mind. Where did that come from? What did that mean? Of course Tim was sounding like the blow to his head had loosened something important. What has been avoided, overlooked and allowed to eat away a whole society can be touched. Miss Della might know more about how. She knew about God things. The people at Southwood, the training sessions with Cheryl. That's where he would start. Maybe Pastor Charlie Putnam at The Depot could make sense of Jesus' words about healing.

The seventeen-year old looked again into the reflecting creek. Whatever had happened at Van and Alice's house had changed his face and it was going to change his destiny. And God was going to do something extraordinary. He stared into the stream at the face of Tim.

"We better get you home. Your mother is more than a little worried." He helped his son to his feet.

"Come on, Soldier. Let's go home."

# Chapter Twelve

Waking up in his own bed disoriented seventeen-year-old Tim Kendall. His mind was out of sync with the surroundings. The posters on the walls were his, the piles of clothes on the floor—dirty and clean—looked familiar, but something reminded him he had been sleeping elsewhere. A place where book shelving stood against a wall.

This bathroom was man-oriented. Lid up, sink looking like hazmat should be called. Remembering his mother was not in the house shook him awake. She was at Bethany Lodge with Dan and Anne. He wondered if her radio went off at the same hour there. If so, she would be up in about half an hour to get ready for work at the bank and hustle her youngsters through the morning routine.

He looked into the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He would have to shave this morning. His deep brown eyes were accentuated by the deep dark circles under them. He was as tall as his dad. He had to bend his knees and lean over to hug his mother.

Tim's dad would awaken upstairs with his audible lonely moan and then slide the new resolution into place. After their talk last night, Tim knew his dad had been touched by a miracle. The only lacking element was a strategy to enable the miracle to become habit. But the idea was new. There was no question that the decision was real. The world would know in a week if the decision could morph into a plan and then into lasting change, not just a promise or wish.

Seventeen-year-old Tim Kendall knew a short list of for sure things on this early morning. His skull felt half-a-size too small to contain his brain which felt like scrambled eggs. He had a vague feeling of having been on a voyage to a land he could not quite remember. It had been three days since he returned from that someplace. Perhaps the Himalayas? Had he met with a Tibetan Monk or wise man? More likely, he had been on a journey to New Mexico where he smoked weed with an Indian. Wherever he had been, he had brought back knowledge he recognized as new. He had been given a mission.

Tim felt his forehead. The doctor said he must have hit his head, but the cut was healed leaving a thin scar above his eyebrow. The doctor was impressed with the care someone had applied to the wound. But it felt different than any cut or wound he had ever dealt with before. When he described the feelings, the doctor said it sounded like the nerve ending sensitivity of shingles..."but, son, you're too young for shingles." No matter how gently he ran his fingertips over the spot, his pores or tiny hair follicles hurt—just short of light electric shocks reminded him that something had happened.

A showered and dressed Tim backed his pickup out of his parent's drive stopping long enough to examine the split level house that might be experiencing healing. "Might be" was right on the money. He knew his dad was healing and committed to salvaging the family and fixing his bad behavior. But his mother and siblings were still staying at Bethany Lodge. His mom was cautious and suspicious. The walls still reminded her of a long list of hurts and craziness. It was going to take time to heal and trust.

"Will it happen?" Tim questioned as if speaking to the house, the yard and on behalf of all who lived there—should be living there. A sliver of fear stabbed at his soul. "God, do your thing, Help Mom and Dad to do theirs. Help Della and Charlie to know what needs to be done."

It was not quite daylight. If he stayed in the driveway one more minute, he would be crying. Tim cued in Hot Country 610 just in time to hear The Gatlin Brothers singing, "I've Done Enough Dying Today." The phrase added a bucket full of sadness. Head banging noise was a better option at this moment. He would shut off the apprehension and pick up coffee at Maggie's Manor.

"Coffee? I don't drink coffee! I'm a Mountain Dew person!" But, he wanted coffee. The fuzz on his forehead reminded him of another feeling. Maturity. He felt older and positioned to deal with his pre-college world. Amusing, he thought. Yesterday—or whenever that was—I was hardly prepared for junior high. "Weird! To a strange degree."

He knew Maggie wouldn't give him coffee in Styrofoam, so he found a mug under the seat that he handed to her to fill with coffee.

"I'm not going to touch that!" Maggie protested in mock horror. "You are welcome to take it to the kitchen and wash it. Make sure you use that yellow bottle of cleanser. It is said to detox nuclear residue off any surface. That cup will surely test the advertising. What in the world has been living in that cup? I can smell it from here." Maggie always looked good in her navy slacks and was capable of giving as well as taking street talk. He had heard how she dealt with people like the old Buddy every day. Already some of the loafers were circled around their table lying to each other about fish caught over the weekend and ball scores. They would give her no serious guff or test her, but they came in each day to banter with her and experience the welcome.

He sat at the counter with his cleansed cup while Maggie served the morning crowd. He couldn't help but look at himself in the mirror. He seemed different. Ball cap was in place although it was riding a bit higher than usual to keep it off the tender spot. He stared at the image. Who am I? I don't feel like I'm who I used to be. I feel like an older version of me. I wonder if I was stolen by aliens and taken to their planet?

"Timmy, I'm glad you're okay," Maggie said as she filled his Thermos brand designer cup. "Everyone at Southwood was praying for you. All the people at my house were. Your parents were worried. Your dad was in several times over the past few days asking if I had seen you and asking my opinion about stuff."

"Yes, it has to be tough on them. I don't have any answers. Have you ever seen the interior of a space craft?"

"That's a good story, Timmy. The spacelings needed to examine an earthling—a prime specimen of manhood and they chose you. A good choice I would say."

He wondered if that was a putdown or if she was teasing.

Maggie placed the change on the counter. "I mean that," she said. "You be very careful today." She wanted to hug him, he knew that. But he was not a little boy and he did not think she was interested in locking lips, so he smiled and waved as he walked to his pickup. "That is one good looking lady," he mumbled to himself.

He stuck the change into his pocket where he found a laminated piece of paper.

"Authority is the Author's permission for you to be what He designed you to be. You not only have permission, but also the commission and the power to fulfill your purpose." 25

"Who is Myles Munroe? I remember someone giving this to me," Tim said to himself. "Van? Van? Is he related to Munroe? Weird! Fireplace? Semi-circle of people. Where was that? When did that happen?" He shook his head, but could not shake loose either the elusive information or the cobwebs. He listened to the truck's mellow sounds; fried his lip with coffee while sorting through his plans. He decided to go immediately to Southwood. Someone would be up and willing to talk.

Pastor Charlie Putnam had been making hospital rounds when Tim showed up to be examined by the ER doctor after returning from his visit with Van and Alice. Pastor said he was going to stop by the house. When he did, Charlie found Tim sitting in his truck. They were comfortable there talking about the family situation. Charlie talked about his message that week and left a CD copy on the seat.

Listening to a preacher on CD was about as unusual for Tim as drinking coffee. "I had you, Dan and Anne in mind when I was putting this together," Charlie had said. Tim hesitated before sliding the disc into the console. Somehow, he had to learn how to live this new life he had been handed. Pastor Charlie might have something to say.

"Especially if he had targeted his talk to me," Tim said to himself. "Charlie, don't waste my time; don't let me down." The CD volume announced the sermon series and introduced Pastor Charlie Putnam.

# Chapter Thirteen

Without chatter, Pastor Putnam launched into his presentation about shame, family, self-development and everything that shotgun spread would reach from those topics.

"Kurt Cobain had a happy childhood until his mother filed for divorce just prior to his eighth birthday. He was devastated. The boy turned inward. His mother thinks he felt shame. As a hero of a generation, Cobain a superstar singer, committed suicide. One writer says Cobain seemed to take hope with him for an entire generation.

"For reasons that are clear and many that are not, shame accompanies those born after 1965. Jimmy Long wrote as a director of college ministries for InterVarsity. In 2004 he described the impact of shame on youth.

Psychological shame is the primary cause of emotional distress in our time. It is a byproduct of the social changes and the dysfunctional families of our day. Shame leads to physical and emotional isolation. Shame causes diminished self-esteem. It heightens self-consciousness and increases a sense of personal unworthiness. We feel that we can never be good enough. 26

"Shame is different than guilt. Guilt says, 'I have done something wrong, thus I feel bad.' Shame says, 'There is something wrong with me—I am bad.'

"This specific kind of shame drives us to hide. Guilt makes us wish we had not done something bad. Shame makes us wish we did not exist. It is that feeling that dominates the wounded person. He is not necessarily ashamed of parents or the issues that caused them to separate or to fail. He or she just wants to disappear, cover up; not be. Hopelessness grows out of that darkness with the conclusion that nothing I do will make a difference, and I'm so different there is no possibility of change.'

"More than a few divorced kids have told me that they don't remember thinking that through. Most kids don't. Can't! All we know is that something has disappeared and there is an indescribable gut emptiness. Robert Karen says,

Nothing, apparently, defends against the internal ravages of shame more than the security gained from parental love... Nothing seems to cut more deeply than the lack of that love.

"The probability that many youngsters will receive that kind of love from a splintered family is slim, so the Church of Jesus Christ is called to be the Necessary Family. Postmodern people are extremely suspicious. Alienation is a protective mechanism to keep from being hurt again. They see 'Welcome Home' signs or the identifying slogan, 'A Place to Belong' and their hearts jump with anticipation, but they cynically sniff sloganeering."

Tim thought to himself, I don't know if all that is true—I don't know if it is true for me. I know people who fit what Charlie is talking about. But, me? Don't know.

"Shame—the desire to disappear into a hole in the ground—is mixed with how the young generations experience at least three things:

Pain

"The only time I saw the teen cry was when she said, 'All I want is a normal family.' That wasn't to be and she knew it. Many of my addict friends desire 'normal' even when they can't define it. They know they lack it.

"Research says there has been a tremendous increase in those who drink to get drunk especially among women. A Big Ten University says about 64% of students drink with the intention of getting drunk. When 'normal' is not possible or pain won't go away, they drink to black. This drive is usually traceable to trauma. The event may be buried too deeply to name or it happened pre-verbal years. I think that some of us don't know what happened because the facts we remember contradict what drives us, but we feel like we've been abandoned or abused."

Tim was beating time on the steering wheel with his hand. The punks who threw me out of the car have a thing about drinking to black. The beat became strident and anger-driven. I'm going to put some pain on their sorry butts.

"Healing begins when we 'meet Jesus in the pain.' That is what is happening when we pray for healing of memories. We have 'walked' with women back into the surgical room directly into the pain of an abortion. Most of those ladies can remember every detail. The work of God in this is mysterious. My guess is that we take Jesus into those situations and ask Him to heal the memories. The smells, sights, sounds, condemnation and self-reproach—are neutralized as constant reminders. Rather than avoiding or denying, the lady meets Jesus at the center of her pain.

"A young man who remembers his second step father disliking him and treating him badly has different issues, but Jesus wants to walk into those terrible confrontations to heal the words and brutality that touched him. And he wants to walk with you into your pain."

The preacher is not messin' around. He is carrying the mail right to his congregation. To me, Tim granted. Bring it on, my man.

"We help someone walk their way to the pain's origin when we ask, 'When did you first feel that way?' Or, 'When you are thinking those thoughts, whose voice does that sound like?'

"... **we cannot heal until we affirm and grieve our pain." 27**

"If there is Scripture that gives foundation for this, it is in Isaiah 53:4-5:

He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised by our iniquities. Surely he bore our sorrows and by His stripes we are healed.

Charlie wasn't tip-toeing in this message. Tim pulled into a rest stop to listen more closely—or take a nap, whichever came first. Pastor Charlie was talking about recognizing the shame by the pain pushing to the surface. Then Charlie said...

Stress

Tim hadn't been to Southwood Depot church every Sunday, but he had been there frequently enough to be able to imagine what Charlie was doing when he was preaching. He would write that word in large black letters on a white board and then circle them repeatedly in red.

"A social scientist says that the younger generations are especially vulnerable to stress because they "lack moorings and live in a state of fluidity." That is not true for all. I just looked at Facebook and saw several of my friends in that age group whose moorings are driven into solid rock. That must make them the exception. They also live in a constant state of fluidity, but they have reference points and anchors.

"Job attributes several sins to his generation and ranks "the removal of old landmarks" as number one. (Job 24:2) With the diminishing of objective truth and making truth nothing more than preferences that come to each person from their experiences and opinions, some serious stability has been removed. With stability absent, stress has a straight shot to adrenal glands which floods the body.

"With constant change—fluidity—even stuff that we enjoy and use advantageously comes at a price. The positive alternative is not to throw away all our iPods, iPads, and Smart phones. The secret to stress management is to offset the rapidly changing landscape with celebration and clinging to landmarks that give dimensions and context to the landscape. We plant personal landmarks that build positive memories and moorings through:

"Interaction—isolation is the worst thing you can do to yourself. Action—move it or lose it! No passivity—exert participation in your healing and life, no one else can.

"More black marks and red underlining.

Isolation

Aloneness causes us and is caused by a distrust of people that stems from a fear of being hurt one more time. At the root of it is a fear of being neglected or abandoned that leads to alienation from people...aloneness is a survival technique." 8

Tim hit the pause button and drank coffee from his Thermos. He had to admit that coffee tasted better from a clean mug. That was an easier concession than admitting he was distrusting and isolated. That was not his nature, but in the months of family upheaval he had to admit it was less stressful and less painful to avoid people—pretty much everyone—than to try to explain what was going on and to talk about himself. Charlie might be slightly off the mark in describing him, but it felt close. He wearied of self-analysis and hit the play button to hear the pastor say,

"Peter Scazzaro concludes from his studies on spiritual and emotional health that 'The gravitational pull back to the sinful, destructive patterns of our family of origin is enormous.' He observes that we can live as though we are existing to atone for mistakes of our ancestors or our own. Scazzaro says God has called us to have faith companions—a community—with mature friends, coach, mentor, spiritual director, counselor or therapist. "29

Tim wondered where he would begin to search for anyone like that. Where would he find a directory of such people who would have time for him or would be interested. Maybe Southwood? Charlie persisted speaking through the truck speakers.

"Shame is healed through interaction with people who tell us the truth about us and through intimacy with Jesus Christ resulting in expanding self-esteem and expanding social network in the Necessary Family.

"For several decades, my wife's family was in a ministry that took them to churches all over the country. They ate a lot of church potlucks. Their publicity materials asked the local pastor to assign a host to guide the family through potlucks by introducing the girls to people and to sit with them during the meal. In a rural Kansas church, the pastor assigned a ten-year-old boy who knew everyone and was astonishingly verbal.

"Della says he shepherded them through the potluck line pointing out choices not to be missed and some dishes that were a matter of taste. When Della reached for one dish, the lad shook his head.

"'You don't want that. That recipe has been in that family for generations. Passed down from one bad cook to another.'

"For the person who has suffered severely or has become aware their life has been thwarted, stunted or blocked, it is your responsibility to draw the line and proclaim, 'From generation to generation—it stops here!' No one can do that for you, but you can. And unless you do it you will stand on the sidelines far from the abundant life Jesus wants for you and the productive life you want for yourself.

"One of my friends told me about an evening in a little church on a Sunday night in what he describes as an attempt to take him out. He was twenty-one-years-old. His parent's divorce came at him with accusation, condemnation and hopelessness. He knelt at the altar to fight through this threat. He randomly opened his Bible to words about divorce. Let me quote my colleague:

"I thought I might begin to scream! I can only describe the altar experience as a raging battle between a spirit of healing and a dark angel seeking to plant and cement an image in my mind that would have activated self-destruction. Healing won! God's vision was planted."

Tim wondered if that was what had been going on during his recent adventure. Was there a plan to take him out? Or, was God inserting something in him that he did not have a grip on yet? "Both!" Tim said out loud.

Pastor Charlie continued with a story his cousin had given him permission to tell. It was about an extremely detailed dream. "He was driving a Chevrolet pickup on a specific Colorado highway. His wife was with him. A dark storm cloud was rapidly moving in from the east so they pulled off the mountain highway onto a parking area the size of two or three football fields. Thousands of people were running toward them to escape the cloud. Under the low hanging cloud was a square building floating intact through the air. He concluded the building was a court house—like you find in county seat towns.

"My cousin says he heard the unique sound of the slamming of the Chevrolet door—which is different than the sound of a Dodge or Ford door. The dream was that specific. The parking lot was made of shale. There was a corrugated metal building that proved to be inadequate shelter and many other minute details about his family, about the multitudes attempting to escape the storm and the court house.

"The upended court house was a visualization of a quote from America's foremost authority on children of divorce. She says that the trajectory of a child's life is changed by the trauma while positive natural and spiritual laws seem to be uprooted disabling their power.

"I have always been skeptical of that dream, (Charlie said) because my cuz said the storm was coming from the east. I was telling this story during a sermon one night when a man interrupted to say that storms come over the Rockies, then hit the warm air of the plains, reverse themselves and attack from the east. If I remember correctly he called them Chinook Winds. Any questions I had about that vivid dream were put to rest.

"Exodus 33:22 quotes God saying to Moses, "I will put you in this safe place, cover you with my hand." 1 Kings 19 tells the story of Elijah whom God sent into a similar place. The powerful Elijah was a broken person when God confronted him and sent him into the shelter where God healed and shaped him.

"The cleft of the rock is more than a shelter—it can become God's workshop. Cousin Hal says the place of shelter was strange, but it became a place where God worked on his memories. It was another episode of an attempt to take someone out by an evil force on one hand and God seeking to establish a life call."

Tim was amused at his pastor. "He is preaching like he will never get another chance to talk about any of this. He is taking this into extra innings." But, the distinction between the sound of the Chevy door made it real. The preacher still had Tim's attention.

# Chapter Fourteen

Pastor Charlie Putnam continued his message on the CD.

"The inevitable end product of feeling shame is self-rejection. Leanne Payne is one of the Church's most perceptive writers on emotional-spiritual brokenness and healing.

The first great barrier to wholeness in Christ is the failure to accept oneself.

"Self-talk and internal chatter of self-rejection goes something like this: 'Something is innately wrong with me. I have never liked myself; I sometimes hate myself; I was a mistake—I'm worthless; I should never have been born. I don't fit anywhere. Therefore..."

Tim could hear Pastor shuffling paper and could imagine and visualize what was going on. Charlie must be searching for something. He could hear him walking to the edge of the platform. "Brent, hand me that book. Thanks. Those present in the Depot this morning who live without a father in your home, have lived your life without a resident dad, and men who live apart from your biological child, I want to give you a copy of this book. If you will stop at the Welcome Center, one of our people will give you a free copy.

"Author and marketer Donald Miller tells his story of growing up without a father in his home. He says he was aware of his mother's emotional and physical exhaustion, but he never thought to connect it to the absence of a husband and father. He says ' I ascribed it to my existence.' Miller follows the usual mind track: if he didn't exist, the family would be better off. 'If I had never been born. If I wasn't such a screw up. If I had been better in school. Miller says what some of us conclude: 'If I had never been born, things would be easier for everyone.'

"Please pick up your free copy of **Father Fiction** 30 by Donald Miller.

The sounds of footsteps on the platform and temporary silence as Tim guessed Pastor Putnam was taking the book back to Brent. "Here Jeremy. You get the first gift copy." He must have tossed the book to Jeremy, whoever that was. Probably someone Charlie was coaching. Pastor immediately picked up his message from floor level. The TV people would be hustling to keep him in their shot. Tim had seen his pastor do what he imagined was happening. He was focusing on someone—maybe Jeremy—when he said...

"Beating up on oneself becomes a practiced art and takes on several accents and hues. Biblically astute people quote Philippians 3:13-14 'Forgetting those things which are past, I press forward...' If you are hounded by experiences in your history or spend time rehearsing failures of your family of origin, then you are not dealing with things which are past. You are describing the present.

"One of my friends has spent way too much time in jail and prison. He fits all the negative stereotypes we have talked about: Abandonment, abuse, assault, betrayal by parents and friends. He has added a list of self-destructive behaviors such as anger and addictions to make him think he inherited a stupid gene which he has honed to a precision-quality edge. He not only accepted Christ as his Savior, he attempts to walk with Jesus and live for him. But he doesn't like himself very much and expects that he will fail.

"Another friend fits none of addictive or prison categories. He does not rationally think that he is worthless. He is quite competent in several fields, but he has the feeling that he is worthless. It is almost a default feeling that must be frequently beaten back with a big stick.

"Ms. Leanne Payne says 'When we reject ourselves, we inevitably communicate our self-rejection to others.' And they take our word for it. Self-rejection is the by-product of trauma inflicted when we are abandoned or abused or neglected or betrayed. 'If I were just different,' we say. We usually know exactly where we need to be different and what needs to change to make us acceptable to ourselves.

"Romans 7:18 declares, 'I know that nothing good lives within me, that is in my sinful nature.' Of course! But that line does not describe the follower of Jesus. Underline the words "in my sinful nature." The basic quality of a born again Jesus follower is that we have a new nature. There is something good living within us. All the qualities of Christ dwell within us at least in embryonic form. The scriptures demand that the sinful nature not have dominion or control over you. We are to repent, renounce that nature and put on the new self.

"Some of you hearing this are asking, New self? When did that happen?

"Renunciation means to give up—make a formal announcement—to disown. The prayer of renunciation of your self-rejection is vocalization of a formal declaration. "I give up and disown my self-hatred and non-acceptance of the self God is creating." At the New Birth, we reject our old way of life and the person driven by all the biblical phrases like 'lusts of the flesh.'"

Charlie's voice turned mellow and compassionate. No gimmick. He was reaching to those who wanted this message to be true and were worried that it was not adequate for them.

"I've adapted Leanne Payne's prayer of self-rejection. Look here on the screen and pray it with me:

Lord, in your Name and through your grace, I renounce the sin of self-hatred, self-loathing, self-disgust and self-rejection. I ask for your healing of all shame that made me feel small and of little value.

I agree to be the whole person you created me to be.

I embrace the gifts, qualifications, limitations and talents you gave me.

I ask you to send people to me who will help me grow my gifts.

I accept my stewardship and ask for your help to fill the space you've given.

In Jesus' Name, by faith in His power and through His grace.

Let it be so! 31

"This message is not finished, but I've run out of time. I will continue this message next week. I wanted to wrap this up with a dramatic story of a recovered and restored person. A story like Alphie's. Abandoned by parents and lost in a snow storm; trapped in an Interstate ditch filled with snow. The kitten was nearly frozen when one of our parishioners saw the black fur on top of her head. The driver braved the blizzard, waded into the ditch, dug her out, wrapped the little kitten in his coat and took Alphie home. That kitten was rescued.

"Alphie, this message will not be finished without your story.

"David, Psalmist, King of Israel, Warrior and Singer makes a statement in Psalm 27:10 about his own family experience. I don't know when it happened, but he tells us that he experienced the feelings."

My father and mother walked out and left me, but God took me in.

"Given that abandonment, David counsels:

' **Stay with God! Take heart. Don't quit.**

I'll say it again: Stay with God.'"

(Psalm 27:13-14)

It was perfect timing. The CD was over, he drank the last sip of Maggie's coffee just as he drove into the parking lot at Southwood Conference Center—Bethany Lodge.

# Chapter Fifteen

Tim had not been on the campus much except to visit his mother. He had picked up Anne and Dan a couple of times to take them to visit their father. The main entrance for the Bethany Lodge building opened onto a lobby much like a hotel. Beyond the welcoming desk to the right was the cafeteria and to the left was a lunch counter and coffee bar. "The Carafe Coffee Bar" the sign said.

"Young man! I am glad to see you. You got thrown out of a speeding vehicle? Some adventure. You feeling okay?" He knew Florence from stories his brother and sister told.

"I'm good moving toward fine. The doctor told me I should take a couple of days and just hang out. He's concerned about a concussion. I thought I would come out here and see if there was anyone to hang with."

"Our people are in and out today. Buddy is down at the shop working on the bus. Charlie is in his police uniform today. I guess everybody else is working at desks and in classrooms. Mr. Brent is in his office. He is probably working on weekend stuff—we have the usual TV show prep and the big conference coming next week. Miss Cindy has a meeting with her women's retail group strategizing their new line of fragrances. So, young man, you can hang out with the frilly women—Cindy would make you feel at home and dab some perfume behind your ears, or you can go see what you can help Buddy do. He's not as pretty as Cindy. Choice is yours. Of course you could stay here and help me bake cookies."

"Hard choices. I think I'll go see what Buddy is doing. I'm into grease more than oils."

"Probably a good choice. I'm going to send some coffee and danish with you for Mr. Buddy. He will tell you the Crème Brulee flavor is for girls, but he will drink it—he's always protecting his masculine image: 'Real men drink dark roast' and all that. You better take some for yourself."

"Yes ma'am."

"You look to have grown since I saw you last. You seem different to me. I used to call you Timmy. Doesn't seem right. What do we call you these days?"

Deju vu seemed to be coming around more often these days. Didn't he have this conversation recently? Timothy, T. Raymond Kendall, Tim. Who am I? Who do I want to be?

"Tim works for me."

"Tim it is."

# Chapter Sixteen

Dog, the campus pet, announced Tim's arrival.

"Hi. My name is Tim Kendall. Miss Florence sent an early mid-morning snack for you."

"I hope she didn't send me any of that commie coffee. She thinks it's cute when I drink coffee made for girls."

"Crème brulee. I could run back into town and get us some chicory," Tim offered.

Buddy let it drop. "You're the kid we've been praying for. Man, they had the cops looking for you. Miss Della was ready to kick butt all the way to Sunday if she could figure out who to start on. Your buddies got lucky when Thompson ran them in. He threw the book at them. None of it will stick in court, but he scared 'em. And saved their butts from Della. She was upset! Alright, hand me the coffee. Flo send anything to munch on?" It was a phony resignation to flavored caffeine.

"I hear you work for Homer. He says you know what you're doing. You got some time? I need help on this bus to get it ready for a tour."

"Homer said I know what I'm doing?"

"Does that surprise you?"

Tim shrugged. "I learn a lot by watching him."

"He said you rebuilt a pickup?"

"Yeah. The two of us together."

"Hey kid, there is a pair of coveralls hanging on that wall someplace. Should fit you. You can help me underneath." With that, Buddy stuck half of a sweet roll into his mouth, got on the creeper and disappeared under the engine.

"Kid, you still there? Hand me that 9/16th open end wrench. It's on the bench." It didn't take long for Tim to slide into the coveralls—they weren't exactly snug. "I heard a story about a young boy who grew up to be an NBA star. He was in the garage with his dad and brother. They were working on the family car. The father asked the boy to hand him a tool. The kid didn't know one tool from another. When he told his dad he didn't know what he wanted, the man told him to go inside with the women."

Buddy gave the story time to sink in.

"That had to leave a mark," Tim said.

"You got your coveralls on? Come down here and hold this while I tighten it. The kid went inside and resolved to prove himself a man. He did!"

"You learn to work on vehicles from your dad?" Tim asked while thinking he must be holding up 250 pounds of solid steel. He wasn't sure this is what the doctor had in mind. His forehead hurt and he was sweating.

"From my dad? No. He was inside with the women. He paid others to work on his cars. Watch the oil—the oil that's now dripping on those Armani custom coveralls. Here, put the pan under the drip." He pushed the drip pan toward Tim and handed him a shop rag to wipe the oil off his shoulder. "I watched the hired help. They taught me stuff—some of it legal," Buddy added with a chuckle and grunt. "I did learn how to switch engines and how to change oil and usual stuff that was helpful. I learned how to tear down a Harley and put it back together. I overhauled a Harley in an Interstate rest stop a few years ago. I think I was lucky to have been included by the guys my dad hired. They didn't give me a break, but they made me feel like I was one of them—a lot dumber and smaller, but I was a man in training. It was a good time for me. They were always ragging on me about something." He relaxed his head on the creeper's padded head rest. "Wow! That will tighten a fella's flabby abs. I don't think my father was comfortable around men." Buddy tightened the nut and shut off the oil drip and his words at the same time. They worked in silence.

"We had a Men's retreat here over the weekend. The speaker said over half of American men have children outside of marriage. Somewhere between one-third and one-half of kids are born outside of marriage. Less than half of American families include the biological father and mother." Buddy could work and talk and instruct Tim what to do to help at the same time. "A researcher says a child comes out of even a 'happy' divorce changed. The child's core shifts. The trajectory of their life changes, research says."

Tim had heard all of this and could match stories with the guy holding the crescent wrench. Tim felt like an expert and wondered why. "We were talking about that in a class. The teacher said she never cried when she got on the bus to go to school. She cried when she got off the bus at home after school. She called herself a 'latchkey kid.' She wore a house key around her neck. No one would be waiting for her. She told us how much her mom worked and cared for her. She wasn't abused or stuff, but she felt abandoned—even though she wasn't—it just felt like it."

They slid out from under the bus, wiped off their hands when Buddy's phone rang. When he checked the ID he said, "I've got to take this call. Why don't you go get us something to drink and maybe sweet talk Flo into more munchies."

"Sure. You want more crème brulee?"

"Whatever she's got," Buddy smiled. "Thanks for the help, Kid. Good job. Couldn't have gotten it done without you."

# Chapter Seventeen

Tim was catching on to what his mother meant when she talked about "Tribal talk." Buddy's words ricocheted around his brain. He thought again about the conference speaker Buddy quoted. The speaker told a story about a kid who had just learned to ride a bike. He was riding around and around the house where the speaker was a guest. The kid would look into the window and shout a question to his dad, "How am I doing? How am I doing?" Whether boy or girl, whether a child or a teen—and usually adult—we want affirmation from our dads. Then, the speaker said that 85% of prison inmates did not have their fathers in their home or in their daily lives.

As he climbed the hill to the Lodge, he wondered what it would have been like if Buddy were his dad. Or Pastor Charlie. Brent Barrows? Then he felt guilty, disloyal and sorry. He loved his grandfather, but knew he had not taught anything but what he knew. In that moment, he understood why his dad lacked important understanding—he had never been fully fathered. Tim repeated out loud what he had been thinking to himself.

"Granddad is a fine man. He was never taught and had inadequate knowledge to pass on. Or, maybe, it was just a generation thing." No one in his family expressed affection or talked openly about what they were thinking and feeling like the Southwood personnel. Buddy could be steel tough, he could be gruff, sometimes out of bounds. The man didn't waste many words. The words he used were never aimed at cutting people down.

Tim continued his climb up the hill and was willing to bet the conference speaker would also say that Buddy, Charlie or Brent had no responsibility for discipline and they carried none of the family baggage, so they could be open, vulnerable and accepting. Somehow that was not an adequate explanation or excuse for a default distance between father and child. Dad always seems mad and rejection is his default mood.

Man! I should have brought the ATV! He was still sweating from the climb and walk when he entered the Lodge.

"Is Buddy teaching you any bad words?" Florence asked with a laugh.

"No, but he is fascinated with some of mine. I think he likes the frilly coffee, uh, don't you tell him I said that—I'd be road kill."

"You're safe with me. You tell him we are planning for the two of you at lunch. You get to eat with the kids. Mac-n-cheese and apple wedges. I know he'll come running for that. It's better than he would get at his house today. Cindy is a little busy. The kids really like having Mr. Buddy eat lunch with them. Here, these snacks will give y'all enough energy to get you to the noon hour." Tim thanked her and hustled to the bus barn.

"Bring that stuff over here," Buddy commanded like he hadn't eaten since Thursday. "We'll take a break before we wash the Provost Pearl. It has collected some dust. I see you've opted for a Dew. I would imagine going from no coffee to three cups before noon is pushing your limits."

Tim knew Buddy was making small talk. He looked at the beautiful white bus with the dark swirling graphics on the side. No name, just graphics.

"What's your favorite music?" Buddy asked between bites.

"Me? Contemporary country—country with a kick. Why? You thinking about taking it on the road? Maybe pick guitar with the Southwood Sistas?"

"That probably isn't going to happen. A friend picks with a headliner band. They play some hot stuff. I've been wondering if he thinks of himself as a success."

Buddy just put it out there to see what Tim would say. Tim busied himself using the bus graphic as a Rorschach test. Neither man needed to fill the garage with words. No one thought for a second that the question was about any guitar picker. Buddy took his time drinking his coffee and eating his second mid-morning snack.

"I've been thinking a lot about how one becomes a success—how to make a difference with my life," Tim ventured. He pulled the laminated Munroe quote out of his pocket. "Someone stuck this in my jacket pocket during my recent trip. One phrase says,

'...commissioned and empowered to fulfill your purpose.'

"Success is connected to purpose, wouldn't you think? If so, where do I plug into that? Is it like that land line to the bus?"

Buddy's eyes followed the heavy-duty electrical cord from the outlet to receptacle, gave it thought, shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrow. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he wanted Tim to run with it and figure it out.

"Is it possible to be disqualified?" Tim asked. "Coming from the wrong family or missing a high school quantum physics class or sleeping through too many Charlie Putnam sermons?" Tim looked at his companion who decided to polish the chrome on a bus wheel. Buddy's burst of laughter jarred not only Tim, but the birds in the rafters.

"He does carry on sometimes. He wears me out! When he asks if we have time for one more story, I want to say 'Not and have time to eat dinner today.' Funny! What do you think?"

"I'm thinking I better help you with those wheel covers."

"Your forehead is red. I think you better just relax for a little while. I don't want to have to sew up that cut."

"It feels like dysfunctional families set kids up for failure. I guess I think of mine as dysfunctional, these days. I am not taking responsibility for what's going on, at least not in my rational moments. It seems kids get sentenced to underachievement when the family falls apart. Sets us up to fail."

"Yeah, it feels like something gets set into motion, for sure. Dead end roads." The older man played with the polishing rag. "I used to go the Mulberry when I was feeling what we're talking about. It was easier to get drunk than to think it through like you seem to be doing."

"You see yourself as a success?" Tim knew the minute he asked it sounded impudent and out of order. "That is really none of my business. Sorry..."

"I sure wasn't much of a success for a lot of years. Unless screwing up my life counts in some logbook. I wasted a lot of time. If success means playing in the spotlight like my guitar picker friend—well, then, probably not. Am I? Do I feel like it? Those are two different questions. Have you looked at my wife and daughter? Having them on my arm makes me look successful. Working here with this tribe and measuring return on our investment—yeah, I feel successful. Maybe something dark was set in motion in my early days, but the lights are brighter."

A somber mood moved into the barn. Tim couldn't tell if his new friend was comfortable talking about this or not. The man seemed to be taking a lot of time staring into his coffee cup.

"I felt illegitimate for a lot of my life. Like I had no place to be or reason to be. What do you think, Tim? Are you alive right now because God has a plan that requires you?"

"Sounds kinda arrogant, doesn't it? Yeah, I think so. I just don't know what that purpose is. If you would have asked me before I went away for a while, I would have either laughed or been shattered by probability of not being here except to be a bother."

"Pretty much the way I felt until I got connected to Southwood and Brent and then to Jesus." Buddy didn't push it. He would wait until he was asked. He would change the subject and see if Tim came back to his statement.

"Your mother told us last evening that your father wants to reconcile. Will that work?" Buddy also found something interesting to examine in the graphic. When there was no answer, Buddy turned toward Tim to see if he was breathing. "You don't have to answer any of my questions. I'm not a therapist. I leave that up to my daughter the psychologist and the rest of the staff here. You can always tell me it is none of my business."

"It's okay. I don't mind talking about it—I need to. No one else has asked me. Strange! The forces that I thought kept life together have turned into a killing machine and no one around me has asked what I feel. Afraid, aren't they? Afraid that they will say the wrong thing or upset me or betray Mom or Dad."

"Probably. Some of your friends just don't have the words. They haven't studied the value of parental love like you have—and you have, haven't you?"

Tim walked to the bus and gently traced the graphic design and then looked at the dirt on his finger, which he showed to Buddy.

"I don't know if Dad can be what I need. I need him in my life, but he is swamped with his own life. Things are falling apart. I need more than a room mate. I don't want to be his confessor or the intermediary between him and Mom. Even if they work things out, I'm not sure if that will be enough for me."

Either Buddy had learned the art of timing or he just didn't rush into talking. After what seemed to be an appropriate interlude he said, "I've learned that if you are a boy, you can never have too many important men in your life who you enjoy hearing them say to you, 'You're the man!' My wife and daughter have taught me that every girl and woman needs to feel and hear her father or husband tell her that she is adored, cherished."

The conversation began to follow a rhythm. Someone would say something and any response would be followed by quiet as both men sorted out what had been said and rather than looking for an opportunity to talk, they scoured their hearts to see where it fit.

"One of my favorite stories from the weekend conference is about the father-son relationship of Charles and Andy Stanley. They both are international leaders and pastors of mega-churches in Atlanta. They went through some terrible days as Andy went a different direction than Charles wanted. They both have global telecasts and treasure a common theology with variations of methods. It is a reconciliation story worth studying. As the relationship was healing, Charles asked his son to preach for him. These words are so important:

"After (the pubic worship), Charles invited his son into In Touch's television studio to talk about the sermon. His face lit up with joy as he bragged about his son's church. He told Andy on camera that he didn't have a father growing up so he didn't know how to be a father at times." 32

The big man wiped his eyes. "So we sons have to calculate how we find our way past the gaps without throwing Dad away. For the Stanleys, it took years of hard work and professional counseling. For many of us, we are well-advised to search for fathering from others. Mentoring, affirmation, modeling. All without contempt, condescension or condemnation. Hear me loud and clear. This is not permission to abandon our biological father."

"I haven't said much to anyone about my trip to 'outer space'. I don't understand it—talk about not having words! I can't capture what went on. I know that I got to see what my life would be as an adult child of divorce. I saw myself after living a lifetime dealing with life feeling like I was missing one component of an important equation."

Buddy listened and realized how much his life had changed since he no longer spent it at the Mulberry. He still wasn't comfortable talking about the pain that pills can't reach. He said, "Healing begins when we meet Jesus in the pain." He took off his cap to scratch the place on top of his head. "I might be able to take a Harley apart and put it back together, but I am amazed to watch God put a life back together when he heals memories. Mysterious, man! I tried to figure it out. My guess is that when we take Jesus into those situations and ask Him to heal the memories, he neutralizes the smells, sights, sounds, condemnation and self-reproach. He empowers the person to remember and face without any of the negative aspects. No denial or avoidance."

Tim had heard those exact words recently. Couldn't remember where even when squinting his eyes to force his mind to divulge the secret.

With the wheel as sparkling as it was going to get, the two men sat listening to the birds in the rafters. Neither had any words to compete with the chirping and singing.

"A pretty song. Always liked mockingbirds. That bird isn't supposed to be inside. We'll open the doors and chase it out."

Tim said, "A lady wrote a book named "I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings..."

"I don't think mockingbirds can sing while caged," Buddy said as he punched the button for the door opener.

# Chapter Eighteen

"Did you and Buddy get the bus fixed?" Charlie intercepted Tim between the barn and Flo's domain.

"Yes. A good way to spend my morning. Learned about oil, grease, flavored coffee and how to drive a bus. They are never going to let me drive the White Pearl."

"How about eating lunch. You're gonna stay for lunch? Come on. Join Della and me." They found Della at the table with Cindy.

"Come on over," Cindy motioned. "Where did you leave my husband? Wasn't he with you at the bus barn?"

"He had to make a phone call. Said he would meet us here."

"Tim, you came to Southwood at a great time for Lawrence. He told me this morning he needed someone to help him and didn't know who would be available." Cindy refused to use the word. Her man would always be Lawrence to her. Never Buddy.

"I enjoyed it. He made me take off my coveralls and shoes when he showed me the interior of the bus. That is quite a ride y'all have." Tim watched as Buddy greeted his wife with a kiss and hug and words not intended for his ears.

"Did he invite you to go along on a road trip?" Charlie asked. "He likes to have a male companion when he's driving the women. He claims that estrogen in large amounts in small quarters will cause sinus infection."

"Tim, my husband likes to have a male companion, but I've never heard him complain about female pheromones. He would have been at my meeting this morning if he hadn't been working on that bus."

Buddy rolled his eyes, swatted Tim's shoulder, shook his head and responded to what he considered a horrible accusation. "I would, under no circumstance, have been at the women's gathering to discuss essential oils. The only important oil is stuff like T1 Rotella 40 weight."

Tim joined the game. "I'm just not a Rotella guy. The problem these days is not with the oil as much as it is the low sulphur diesel and what it does to the oil. Some oils are better with the ULSD. I rolled close to 10K miles on a gallon of oil and a half gallon of Lucas."

Charlie joined in. "I'd rather use the Delvac 1240 but I have to order it and nobody stocks it so I'd have to order it online every time I needed a gal. My O'Reilly will stock it for me but it's $18.99 a gal plus tax. I can almost buy 3 more gallons of Rotella T1 for the difference in price and the Rotella is still under 1% ash content."

"My Lord in Heaven! What are you people talking about?" Cindy gasped. "I haven't understood a word spoken in the past two minutes."

The men sat smirking their triumphant victory and vindication of their friend.

"You people are going to get what the kids got. It's not from our four star menu, but they seemed to enjoy it," Florence announced as she placed glasses of water in front of each. She wasn't taking orders. She was making contact with her friends. "Your lunch will be ready in just a minute. Anyone need anything?"

"No thanks, Flo. Anything going on here today?" Della asked.

"Big news is that Tim is our guest. His mother is at work and Dan and Anne are at school. You are going to stay for evening meal, Tim? It would be good for your family to eat together." Florence had an unhidden agenda and was on mission with it. "I take that as a yes. I'll be back in a minute."

Della turned attention back to the teen. "You really like our bus? It is so comfortable and convenient. When I was traveling with my sisters—biological sisters, not the Southwood sisters—we would travel hundreds of miles at a time in a car or van with no air-conditioning. We got dressed while riding down the highway which caused some interesting interaction with truck drivers."

The men digested the words and attempted to add visuals.

"Did you have curtains on the van windows?"

"Yes. But with windows open at seventy mile per hour they didn't hide much."

Buddy let the imagining go on for an adequate time. He was really waiting for one of the women to bail Della out or add to the conversation. When that didn't happen, he spoke up.

"The women sang with several other groups at a convention a few weeks ago. All the buses were parked together. Several millions of dollars in that parking lot and a dozen people standing around admiring them."

Now Della spoke up. "I promise you we had all the curtains closed!"

"I know the drivers and most of the singers," Buddy pushed ahead. "One of the singers at the convention told me about a dream he had the night before. He dreamed he had written and produced a film about his life. The night of the movie premier, he saw a bus on the parking lot with the hood up. Just as the movie—the story of his life—began, he went out to work on the bus. When he was finished working, he came in to find the movie was over and he had missed it. The dude missed his life story."

Buddy had no plan for the story. He just wanted to share the irony with his friends. Della's knack for a teachable moment, asked Tim what he thought about it.

"Going to have to think about that."

"While he's thinking, it is a constant battle for ministry professionals—or even people who are crazy committed to their call. In dream language, vehicles often stand for ministry. If someone is traveling in a van and begins to dream about moving into a bus, it may be prophetic that the ministry is going to move into a larger dimension," Charlie observed.

"And if I dream my bus became a VW?" Della's laugh surrounded her question.

"Missing life in pursuit of career is a bad idea whether your product is hot dogs from a street vendor's cart or a weekly network TV show. Missing one's life is the subject of the dream, isn't it?" No laughter surrounded Cindy's question. "Some of our friends have no life so they invest every thing into work. Is that the choice—calling or life? How sad! Surely..."

Charlie uncomfortably shifted in his chair as he calculated his assignments and how he spent his time. "There are unbalanced seasons in life—totally unbalanced. Crazy demands..."

Cindy picked up before Charlie could regain control of his thinking. "The threat is to really believe that balance will return next month or after the tax season. Imbalance becomes the new normal or what we think is balance—until the screen goes dark or the credits start to roll and we realize..."

"I think if you give the altar call at this moment, this group will hit the floor on our knees." Buddy was serious. "I know one mega-church pastor who worked with his family to write a family mission. They decided what they wanted to be and accomplish with the years they had together and what they wanted their relationship to be when the children had their own. The mission statement dictated use of time, money, energy. It was what calendarized opportunities and commitments. They simply asked, 'Will this help us reach our family goals?"

"That really is taking control of life, isn't it?" Della rhetorically observed.

"I don't know how I know this—I must have learned it during my journey to whatever planet I've been on. A researcher says that divorce or abandonment has the power to change a kid's life. I think what I tried to tell Dad when he and Homer found me was I don't want to miss my life and there are ways to shield ourselves from having our lives being stolen or lost, uh or missed."

Tim's insight silenced the table.

Della broke the silence with a self-conscious throat clearing. "That is almost too big and slippery to get a grip on it."

"I probably read that researcher," Charlie said. Shifting in his chair was not going to calm his restlessness. He stood and hitched up his trousers before walking behind the counter to fetch iced tea. "I don't want Tim to miss the movie," he said from the cooler. The statement was so intimate and caring, the people at the table could have heard the birds singing in the bus barn.

"Don't miss the movie in the tail lights' glare," Tim said just above a whisper. Turned out his words served as a benediction as everyone got ready to go back to work.

"Thanks for the help this morning." Buddy shook Tim's hand. "I want you to go on a road trip with us. The added testosterone will bring balance to the bus carriage. You hanging around this afternoon? I have an appointment or you could ride shotgun with me. You better catch a nap—take care of your head."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Charlie said to the bus mechanic and shifted his attention to Tim. "I have a counseling session at 1:15 and then I could use some help in my office. In the meantime, you might want to consider taking a nap in your mother's apartment."

"I'll go to my truck. I'll be more comfortable there. But, I am going to nap. I'll see you about 2:30?"

# Chapter Nineteen

"Get your nap?"

"I did. My head doesn't hurt—nothing wrong with my head. I feel like I have spacecraft lag. Too many time zone changes."

"Any ideas about what has been going on in you?"

"Oh! I've got ideas! But, if I start talking about them I will be ushered into a padded room with little hope for parole."

"That serious, huh?"

"Pastor, I promise that you will be the first to know when I get things figured out. I keep talking about space/time travel because that comes closest to describing what I remember. I met people, experienced things, saw the future and made decisions. I brought back a non-designated mission."

"Are you serious?"

"If I say, 'Yes' are you going to dial 911?"

"I'm taking you seriously and want to be helpful, if I can."

"Your CD was helpful—raised lots of questions. I want you to tell me what you didn't have time to say on Sunday. Do you have something I can write on? I want to remember."

Turning to the white board attached to the wall, Charlie wrote,

"...permission and commission and the power to fulfill your purpose."

"I didn't say much about God's desire to heal the broken."

"Do you think I'm broken?"

Charlie didn't immediately answer. "The healing of memories or the effects of traumatizing events are seldom instantaneous.

"Heal what?" Tim was ready to write. "I'm wondering what in me needs healing."

"Tim, I think the wound that afflicts most of us is rejection. Any trauma is like taking an arrow. Extracting the arrow is the beginning of the process. Identifying the arrow—knowing the cause—is not enough. It is the healing of God that touches what burns within that we need. So, for starters, we need healing for what rejection does to us. I also suggest that we need healing for all those distorted elements that give us a bent perspective.

"J. D. Sumner was a bass singer whose leadership greatly influenced Gospel Music. He was the person who built the first tour bus. Singers and bands traveling in tour buses owe that idea to J. D. He was the world's lowest bass singer, a great business person, a stage companion of Elvis and a great story teller.

"On one of his albums, he talks about his personal office which was built on pilings on a marsh. He went to his office and was confronted by a bull frog who said, 'If you kiss me, I'll turn into a beautiful maiden and will be yours the rest of your life.' J. D. said he didn't reply so the frog repeated the deal. 'Kiss me and I'll turn into a maiden and will be yours the rest of your life.' The proposal was repeated several times until the singer put him in his pocket. From his pocket came the muffled frog voice, "Don't you understand what you would be missing? Kiss me and I'll become a beautiful maiden and be yours the rest of your life." J. D. said he looked the frog in the eyes and said, 'At my age I would rather have a talking frog.'"

Charlie enjoyed the story and enjoyed laughing at it.

"That didn't really happen," Tim said.

"You think? Probably not. Let me tell you what has to happen. Troubled people, people who get into trouble, people who make trouble need healing. That demands a solid perspective—an accurate worldview is acquired by a paradigm shift from an inaccurate view of reality to a valid worldview."

"How do we change a distorted worldview?" Tim wanted to know.

"Weren't you listening? J. D. was talking about making a choice. Tim, you are fortunate. Perhaps it is because you are in your late teens rather than a preschooler, uh, although, I know forty-year olds who grieve deeply and lose their way when their parents divorce. For whatever reason, you have maintained perspective and proportion."

"I don't know how I know this," Tim replied, "there is a school of thought that says a percentage of the traumatized, the rejected, the abandoned or the abused lose the ability to think except through the wound filter."

"Whatever else is true, any wound needs healing. And the healing must be continuous and repeated. The abandoned kid, who makes a choice to be healed at a church camp at age twelve, will decide several times as he or she ages to not allow the wound to determine the next life season. This will not write the final chapter of your story."

"How does that happen? Walk me through the process," Tim requested.

The preacher thought for a little bit and then chuckled. "You know you're talking to a preacher. Della was really angry with me the other day. We were arguing about something. I can't remember what. She finally yelled at me, 'You even argue with three point alliteration.' I talk in patterns of three or four points. Let me see if I can help with this. Here comes the preacher talk—the alliteration.

# Chapter Twenty

PROCLAMATION

God does that sort of thing—He heals!

He was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities.

Surely he bore our sorrows and by His stripes we are healed (Is 53:5)

"We need someone to tell us passionately, repeatedly and with clarity that trauma is not normal nor does it have to be permanent." Pastor Charlie walked to a book shelf, retrieved a book. "Here. Read the chapter title. Out loud!"

" **Temperament is not Destiny." 32**

"Tim, temperament is not, your parents' divorce need not be; abuse or abandonment need not be anyone's destiny. Those things will fight to become a person's destiny and control every decision and reaction to every opportunity." Charlie pulled a chair in front of his friend and said, "I know your momma. I know your father. You know I care about both of them. They know that I care. I am not only their pastor of choice, I am their friend. I like them. This is something you need to know at the deepest part of your inner being. Tim, what they do or don't do is not indicative of God's plan for you or your value, destiny, potential or anything else. Outcomes are dependent upon you. The cliché has proven to be true: It is not what happens to you, but your reaction to what happens to you that determines the outcome."

"But, there is that filter," Tim responded. "The filter you talk about on your CD—the Reticular Activating System. What you "know" to be true determines how you interpret everything. How does anyone avoid that? Or neutralize—turn off that filter?"

"Psychologist John Townsend was asked what the first thing a traumatized person should do. The healthiest, best psychological thing. Dr. Townsend answered: Find a Bible-believing church where people believe in salvation by faith, he said. He described a church where a group will encircle and pour love and make the wounded person know they are interested in hearing the story.

"Tim, the person who achieves in spite of growing up in an atmosphere of dysfunction, intentionally chooses a spiritual family—a group of interested and investing people who will teach you an alternative perspective and an alternative path." Charlie slumped in the chair. "I was at Maggie's the other day. Just sitting with my Bible and journal, thinking, praying, taking notes on what I was thinking. I've been around this country for a long time. Lots of people have known me since I was your age and younger. Some of them remember me playing football. Some of them remember me getting arrested. One of those old timers sat down at my table and reminded me of every time I messed up. He didn't get the memo about me getting saved! He just 'proclaimed' over and over of what I used to be." The pastor/cop wearily put his face in his hands. After a few seconds he rubbed his face, shook his head.

"I am glad I found a tribe which proclaimed and prophesied words about my destiny and not my past."

The pastor's cell phone rang. Tim busied himself so he would not intrude. Charlie didn't say many words, but he moaned and the tone indicated the call was not social.

"I'm on my way. Should be there in ten minutes or less." He hit the end button. "Tim, I've got an emergency call. It will take me a while. Why don't you hang out here or go on down to the Lodge. I'm sorry, but this is about a kid I know. He's in trouble." Charlie was headed out the door when he stopped. "Come and go with me. Hope you don't mind riding in the back seat—behind the wire grill."

"It's not the first time I've been in the back seat behind the grill," Tim said more to himself as he monitored his own feelings. "Just as long as you don't 'run me in' with the kid who is in trouble."

"Different kind of trouble. He called me because he is hurt. He just moved back to town. He's been in Florida with his maybe Dad. Guess it didn't work out. He came back to be with his mother."

Riding with the siren going and lights flashing was new to Tim. At this speed the ETA was going to be well below ten minutes.

"He said he was hiding in back of the apartment building." Charlie turned off the siren and lights. No reason to attract a crowd. The squad car pulled into the parking. "Let's look behind those bushes. Stay close beside me. Since he doesn't know you—I don't want to scare him."

"Travis," Officer Putnam called as they looked in doorways, behind bushes and parked cars.

"Over here." It was a weak voice.

"Good Lord! What happened?" The question was more prayer than exclamation.

"Mom and her sister didn't like the way I was washing dishes. They were high. First Mom started hitting me and then both of them. I think they used whatever they could find to hit me. They threw me out here and took off."

"I'm going to call the EMTs." Charlie reached for his phone.

"No! I don't need to go to the ER. I'll refuse transport." He tried to get up, but fell backwards onto the gravel. "If you help me up, I'm going back into the apartment, pack my stuff and then I'll go to Grandma's. Will you go with me?" Travis was a couple of years younger than Tim. Tim couldn't remember ever seeing him at school.

"Travis, this is Tim. He was in my office when you called."

"What can we do to help you?" Tim asked.

"Help me get up."

Tim's six foot frame gave leverage to help Travis stand and walk into the apartment. It didn't take long for the younger fellow to pack all he owned. Tim watched the thin younger teen grimace as he pulled a pair of gray jeans out of a box and slide them into a plastic sack. Thin, Tim thought to himself, this kid looks emaciated. He needs extended time with Florence's cooking.

"I've been bouncing from one place to another so much, I down-sized to a carry-on bag. Now I'm down to a garbage bag. I'm finished. No more of this. I'm finished downsizing! It got rough in Florida. I don't know if that guy is my dad or not. Mom keeps saying no until she needs him to give her money or give me a place to stay."

"Hey, man, don't you think we need to get you checked out at the ER before we do anything else?" Tim reached to steady him.

Travis looked at the cop. Charlie was letting him tell his own story.

"I went to Florida because I got busted for smoking weed. If I go to the ER they will call the cops."

"In the event you are temporarily out of your head, the big guy over there is wearing a uniform with a badge." Tim was incredulous at the contradictions.

"No, that guy is my pastor in disguise. Can we go? I've seen all of this dump that I want. I haven't had much to eat for a couple of days. Can we get something to drink?"

"It looks to me like your mother's been beating on you since you got back." Charlie was writing notes.

"Only when she's high. She gets out of control. That's the last time. Next time, she gets what she's been giving." Travis wiped tears off his face. "Get me out of here."

"Here, let me carry your bag. You going to be able to eat anything? Your mouth looks raw."

"Pastor, will you buy me a shake or something like that?"

"Sure. On the way to Della's clinic. We'll go in the back door. Those bruises look nasty."

With Travis deposited in Della's care, she hustled the two observers out of the examining room into her office. She didn't need an audience as she worked on stitches, bandages and TLC.

Charlie slumped in the chair and shook his head. "Speaking of abandonment, rejection and the whole list of abuses we were talking about, there is the prime specimen."

"How do you 'proclaim' to him?" Tim hadn't forgotten Pastor Charlie's word.

"As a cop, I'm going to investigate what I've seen. I will push for a restraining order against his mother. He can't go back to that terrible place. I will see what charges we can file." Charlie rubbed his hand over his face in his typical gesture of frustration.

"He no doubt packed his own stash in that sack. Jeans' pocket. Pot is his self-medication of choice. That's the reason he wouldn't go to the ER. He didn't want to give it up or get busted." Charlie walked toward the windows separating the office from the examining room. Della was in Travis' face looking at his split lip. She backed away a few inches and injected her tough love into the lad. The cop pulled up his belt and wished he could hear what his wife was saying. Whatever it was, the young man would never forget it.

"There is something else we can do," the disguised preacher said. "You've never heard of Howard Hendricks. He taught at Dallas Theological Seminary. Many well-known pastors sat under his teaching. Thousands of us, who didn't, have read his books. Hendricks' parents separated soon after he was born. His grandmother raised him. By the time he reached fifth grade his school record was nasty. At one point, his fifth-grade teacher tied him to his chair and taped his mouth shut. When the sixth-grade teacher called his name on the first day in her class, he was ready to go into action. She looked at him and said, 'I've heard a lot about you.' He was primed to defend his bad reputation when Miss Noe said, '...and I don't believe a word of it.'

"Hendricks said it was the first time someone stood up for him, expressed belief in him, saw potential in him. Someone cared for him. He said it was the fundamental pivot point of his education and his life. Miss Noe called out what Howard Hendricks could be."

"I get it. Make a lot of noise about God loving him. We can tell Travis that God thinks he's worthy of more than he's getting. And we can draw pictures in his head of what he can be." Tim read words from the poster hanging on Della's wall. "Experience always trumps theory." What kind of experiences will it take for that person?

# Chapter Twenty-One

MANIFESTATION

The door opened. Della led Travis into her office. "He's got a cracked rib. He will have a black and blue face—maybe a swollen eye. He wasn't happy about getting the stitch, but he'll heal. He didn't lose any teeth, but he should eat only soft foods..."

"Like Steak 'n Shake," Travis added.

"I'll have the doctor write a prescription," Della said with her smile. "Okay, guys. Get out of here. She looked at her husband to tell him they would talk later. Her eyes said she was going to war.

"The two of you get to ride together in the back seat. We'll head over to the place where they sell shakes in large glass containers."

"Travis, Pastor and I were talking about being proactive. My parents are talking about divorce. Almost half of new births in the USA are to single mothers. The practice of not marrying is common. Charlie is suggesting that people our ages must become responsible for our own lives. For the past few days or weeks, I've been thinking about people I know who have been abandoned, rejected, abused, betrayed and are living a distance from their potential. I've also been wondering about people who are not even in the region of knowing they have potential."

"Oh yeah?" Travis didn't need to be convinced. He was hip-deep in several of those pits. "All I can think about is getting something into my stomach."

With their sandwiches and shakes in front of them, each was waiting for the other to resume the conversation. Except, maybe Travis. He had none of the optimism or hope of his companions.

"Check out that chick," Travis suggested. They did.

"Hi Hillary. Have you met Tim and Travis?"

"Hello, Mr. Putnam. Tim and I had a class together last year. I don't know Travis. Nice to meet you." She smiled and returned to her place in line.

"Well, that went well. Maybe it is my medications," Travis tried to redeem himself while feeling foolish. "She is a classy lady. She's got it goin on," he said without taking his eyes off the pretty young woman. "And, she's got it together." He observed something beyond the first dimension. He didn't know details, but he saw quality.

"Let me try to tear your eyes away from the tight jeans," Charlie said. "It is important to say in spite of all the grim statistics, trends and projections, a huge number of kids contradict it all and grow into competent, healthy, contributing people. Since you are busy with your lunches and I'm afraid you won't ask, I'm going to tell you why.

"Hillary is a good example. She grew up in a single-parent household with no resident man. Her mother intentionally kept Hillary in church where several families and specifically men became her close friends. They took her on Coke dates, the families invited she and her mother to their homes. The men in Hillary's family spent time with her. She was recognized and celebrated." The fellows were busy with lunch while Charlie talked.

"They came to the Lodge once a week. Buddy and Cindy made sure they were at their table for lunch. Buddy is very vocal about how he made it through the swamp. How he learned to make better choices than those that led him to the Mulberry. Regardless of age, we need to see God at work. It is one thing for me to proclaim that God can heal and change lives, but we need to see that happening. You and I need to see how to make it work and see what happens when it does work in someone we trust."

Melissa, identified by her waitress uniform approached their table. "You guys doing okay, anything I can get for you?"

"Thanks Melissa. We're okay. Do you know these guys? Tim and Travis."

Awkward! They had not met, but the boys knew her. Drugs, shoplifting, in trouble at school. Promiscuous. Dropout.

Tim stood up, shook her hand and told her he was glad to meet her. After she returned to the counter, Charlie said, "Melissa, as you know, was a picture postcard for dysfunction. She once told me she had no idea what a normal family looked like. So, we showed her some. She works at the Depot with our pre-teens.

"She slept around," Travis said as if he were the first person to reveal the recipe for the secret sauce.

"She had no model for anything else. Everyone she lived with and ran with lived that way. That's my point. When she got serious about her walk with Jesus and began to look at healthy families, we began to see God manifesting his healing. She became the model of getting life straightened out for the pre-teens she was working with."

Charlie gave his two teenage friends time to assimilate what he had said.

"I'm not describing magic. I've seen and have been part of ministry to people who were instantly healed of long-term emotional afflictions. I know of cases where Jesus walked with a lady into a room where she had been violated and in response to Jesus' healing presence and words, she has not been the same. I've seen children prayed for and it was as if God did surgery. When the kid woke up, the residue of the neglect was gone. Instantaneous does happen! But usually it is a process.

"Della had a client who was wounded as a little girl. I would see the child while making rounds and I could see the shame in her posture. I heard the hurt when I spoke to her. We asked a couple of people to pray for her. She moved out of town for several years. It may have been eight or ten years later when we ran into her. Blew me away! She is poised, vibrant, competent, and from all reports a healthy young woman. We saw the results of God's manifestations. God healed a bunch of stuff. I like instantaneous; I like process that culminates in wholeness. It is easier to ask for your own healing if you see others in the process of being healed."

"Can I have another shake?"

"Sure. Melissa! Another round, please. You feeling okay, Travis?"

"My lip hurts, but I'm better. I don't understand—what does manifestation mean?"

"Travis. You gotta understand preacher talk. He is giving us similar words so we can remember. The first one was proclamation, the second is manifestation which means seeing God doing something or to see evidence. Normal people like you and me would not say, 'And the hen manifested an egg.' But the word manifestation fits into his outline."

"Travis, your buddy has the description right, but since the preacher is paying the check your buddy might be a bit more respectful of the Almighty's servant." Charlie couldn't keep a straight face. To prove his point, he announced, "And, the third word is participation."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

PARTICIPATION

"Confess your sins to one another and pray for each other so that you might be healed" (James 5:16).

"One of our friends has an ancestor who helped establish what is now the city of Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Jacob Van Meter was a soldier and pioneer who led hundreds down the Ohio River on flat boats to the Blue Grass State. He established the first church west of the Alleghany Mountains. He built one of the first forts in Kentucky.

"His role in Kentucky history is posted on historical road side markers. I'm always curious about the characteristics, qualities and fabric that build pathfinders and path markers; people and land developers like Jacob Van Meter.

"What rescues and restores people who have been marred by events, incidents and deficiencies? A roadside historical marker gives us a clue:

Van Meter built his fort by the spring which supplied water for Elizabethtown for years.

"There you have it. Build your life next to people, organizations and institutions that are life-giving and sustaining springs. The Blue Cross/Blue Shield study called 'Blue Zones' suggest 9 elements that help people live healthy lives. The research was done among the oldest and healthiest people on earth. The study includes food to eat, exercising, stress-management. Those desirous of healthy, long lives are instructed to 'Belong to the right tribe.' Live next to the life-giving springs. That makes good sense whether there are wounds or not."

"The people at Southwood could be that family. Is that what you're saying?" To this point, Travis had been in pain, in thought about his situation and in shock. Something resonated and made the conversation pertinent. He asked the question with excitement—as if he saw a possibility that until this very second never came near the realm of possibility.

"Could be! Could be," Charlie answered. "We need to look around and see healthy, productive and authentic examples of God at work. Brent and Felicia have been vocal about seeing God at work in me. Brent spoke to Della and me about our destiny and helped us break what Mark Chironna calls our Destiny Code. Their involvement and investment in my wife and I set events into motion that helped us identify the steps that tied our dream to strategies."

"Could that work for me?"

"If you are asking if there is room for you at Southwood, I would say there is. You also have your grandmother and her husband. Southwood's team and tribe would be a good addition."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

APPLICATION

"Let me suggest how Southwood, or any such group, would be helpful to you. The biggest change agent is participation in our own healing; a commitment to apply to ourselves what we learn."

Tim added, "Doesn't it make sense to look at what has been lost and start there?"

"Let me see if we are the same page. I suggest building five girders." Charlie turned the paper table mat over and wrote the five words.

**Security** —a safe home place from which you may launch and return to after the battle.

**Safety** —that which is not faced and healed or forgiven in one generation is handed on to the next. Unless the traumatized person confronts the wound, he will inadvertently cause his children to feel the anxiety and be affected. Often the next generation repeats history. Safety for self and the family that follows you.

**Stability** —able to comfortably experience the whole range of emotions and actively move toward wholeness.

**Shield** —establish a spiritual guardian and warrior in your life.

**Self** —accurate self-appraisal, self-concept, healthy self-affection. We love others at the same dimension and degree that we love self.

These five girders sounded familiar to Tim. As he rubbed his tender forehead his attention to the lightning flashes across his forehead was interrupted by Travis.

"Mr. Charlie, some of that is over my head, but I get the guardian and warrior stuff. Can I choose you?"

The cop studied Travis. "How well do you know the word accountability?" Travis did not break the eye-lock. Without flinching or a smile, he gestured with his fingers—"I've got my eyes on you!"

"Exactly. We can work it out. I'll explain what that means. You will benefit by having Tim on the team."

"Of course!"

The conversation melted into silence and no one moved toward the door. Travis was busy checkin' out the chicks when he announced he needed to "visit the head." He had the habit of making the room feel self-conscious and slightly embarrassed. If he could learn how to be appropriate and not talk quite so loud.

"Do you need help?" Tim knew he would pay for that.

"Help me what?" Travis enjoyed his clever retort. "No, Bro, I got this."

Tim felt anger tense his hand into a fist. Now that he was not quite so scared and not in as much pain, Travis turned into a smart ass. Maybe he would stumble over a chair and face-plant... Tim was sorry immediately for the thoughts, although he wanted a better come-back line than he found. Maybe he should just split the other side of his lip.

"Not too delicate, is he?" Charlie said as he observed the fifteen year old weave his way through customers on the way to the john. "It is the best coping skill he can come up with. He has made caring about him difficult for a lot of people. He's got to prove he doesn't need anyone for anything. I'm surprised he called me. This is not the first time his mother has beaten him like this. Usually he cleans himself up and moves on to whatever is on for the day. He may be in the bathroom...he may not need to hit the john as much as get a hit off a joint."

Charlie picked up a newspaper from an adjoining table. The headline had startled him. "Excuse me! Have you seen this?"

Tim was left alone with his nearly empty glass of chocolate-mint shake. He surveyed the crowded restaurant. Even at mid-afternoon the customers were snaked around ropes leading to the counter. No one in the queue looked familiar—except the lady who stood at the door. Tim suddenly remembered English Lit class. They were reading and talking about a French household where a lady and her four-year old lived. The husband-father was a government worker away on assignment. His demanding job kept him in the city, he told his wife. He was seldom at home.

The child had a gift—not appreciated by her elders when she blurted out what she was seeing in her imagination. Her gift was "seeing" things. She could see things people were doing that they preferred to keep hidden. She saw events of the past and what was about to happen.

Tim thought for a moment why that story came to mind. Of course! One scene was set in a French pastry shop crowded like this fast food restaurant. In the story, the French waitress asked about the man of the house. The child's mother said they were expecting him home on the weekend. As terribly busy as he was, he was breaking away to be with his family.

"He can't come home this weekend. He is staying with his other family," the child said firmly. "The little boy is sick."

Tim had felt the betrayal that the child had inadvertently announced to that pastry shop. He felt it today as he gazed at the lady at the door waiting to step into the line leading to her lunch. There was no second family and an alternative home in that lady's story. Just a mistress. The betrayal was not private. Tim wanted to congratulate the woman in her nice coat and beautifully done hair. He wanted to tell her that he was glad she didn't use the drive-thru.

"There is pain everywhere, when you start to notice. Betrayal..."

"Excuse me. I'm sorry. I'm..."

"Never mind. I'm talking to myself." The real chatter in his head was whether all the stuff he and the preacher were talking about had any value or meaning to people like the woman in the high priced coat. Or is it only about bandaides for potheads, losers and remnants from broken marriages? What could Charlie "proclaim" to that self-conscious lady who had lost so publically? What kind of healing is there for betrayal?

He examined the changing occupants of the tables lining the windows. He recognized the woman sitting alone. She stopped by Homer's Texaco. She never filled the gas tank. It was always five-dollar's worth or maybe ten. He wondered where her mind was as she looked out the window. She always seemed to be tired and beaten down. Tim made it a point to talk to her when she paid for the gas. Single-mother. What do we proclaim to her? What does she need to see God doing to lift her shoulders and remove the dark circles from under her eyes?

Tim was abruptly aware he hadn't asked about a ball score for what seemed like days. His thoughts were focused—totally focused on one train of thought. That can't be healthy. Was this his new life? His new normal? He had to go back to school. How could he pass the English Lit test if all he could think about was the weary lady looking out the window and Charlie's classes on broken people and how to deliver hope to them? For sure, what had occupied his life for a few days was not theoretical. He now had faces and histories matching every question, idea, hurt and broken or bruised person.

"Do you think we should go into the bathroom and check on Travis?"

"It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm not going in there. He's smoking his meds. We'll give him a couple more minutes." The cop had made a decision. This was not the right moment in Travis' life for a drug bust. Charlie went back to the newspaper, as if he hadn't read that paragraph four times already.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

"Alright, guys, let's get out of here and take Travis over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. Is she expecting you?"

"No. Mom screamed at her on the phone to stay away, mind her own business—she told her to leave me alone, don't call. Ever again! I told your wife those exact words."

"Then, I imagine the court documents are in the mail! I knew she had a plan by the look in her eyes."

With Travis deposited with his foster grandmother, Charlie buckled himself into the squad car and pointed it toward Southwood.

"I'll drop you at the Lodge. You still have an hour or so before evening meal. Well...!" The exclamation was filled with exasperation and challenge. "It turned into quite an afternoon."

"And it cleared up questions," the backseat rider responded. "What you've been saying makes sense to me. You're talking about life structure. It is about intentionally choosing the infrastructure—girders, weight bearing beams, sewer lines, roads to travel."

The afternoon "teacher," responded. "Sounds like you got it. I'm fond of Proverbs 16:9 which says, 'A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his paths.' It always feels to me as if the word 'but' in that verse should be 'and.'

"The process always works once you have a vision of your objective and are committed to your destiny. God will plant His desires for you in your heart, but He will not choose your dream or do your planning for you. Once you have a picture of what you want—even a vague one—God will guide your steps to reach that objective. Until you commit yourself to the end result—the strategies and process will not show up.

"Faith is not a nebulous trust in something akin to fog. Faith is expressed by actions and words related to a specific process—the strategies of reaching your desired destiny. You cannot choose the process, however, you alone must choose and embrace destiny. God can dynamically adjust your steps and align your vision and thinking with the desired end result." He reached over and squeezed the young man's shoulder. "We've covered a lot of ground and spilled a lot of words."

"Thanks Mr. Charlie. I appreciate your time. Didn't you want me to help you do something?"

"Yes. And you have been a big help. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything that I can remember. Unless I went trippin' again."

"I needed to think through my next teaching on the subject. Thanks for helping."

As Tim was getting out the car, Charlie suggested. "If you feel up to it, it might be helpful to take the notepad and walk up on Prayer Path Ridge. I suggest you focus on the Lord, ask your questions and then listen. Write down what you hear. Assume that God will speak to you through your thoughts. Quiet, Focus, Ask, Listen. Write. Got it? Here," he reached into his shirt pocket, "take one of these good Southwood Depot pens. I don't want you to run out of ink or to have it glob up on an important word."

# Chapter Twenty-Five

Tim was glad he had picked up the bottle of water as he climbed to the ridge where the prayer path waited. He gladly welcomed time to stretch and be by himself. Glad there would be no more words for a while.

"Good night! That is a lot of stuff!" he said to himself as he stretched his arms like a bird flying into the wind. "Does he think I need to know all that?" He pushed his hair over to the side of his forehead and accidently touched the sensitive spot. The eyebrow furrowing set off lightning-streaks of pain.

Like Jacob's out of joint hip, it will be a reminder of your time wrestling with God.

Faint memories of a GPS smashed into his mind as he looked around to find the person belonging to the voice. He saw no one. Tim, baffled by the voice, stopped at a park bench next to a flower bed. Tossing the legal pad on the bench, he used the bench to steady himself as he stretched his legs. Gripping the bench bolted to a concrete pad, he worked to relax his arms.

The arm movement released the odor of the restaurant. A mix of spices, cooked vegetables, onions, garlic and fried burgers. Been to one fast food place and you know what most of them look like. The difference at Bernie's Burgers was the size of the windows and the amount of sunshine. Tim picked the shirt off his chest to sniff. All the smells. And all the memories.

"The faces keep coming to mind like a parade of floats. The stories that pulled eyebrows together on the faces in his head. Booth-by-booth, table-by-table, the faces checked into his mind. One table he hadn't paid attention to stood in contradictory relief against the background of the rest. He serviced their cars at Homer's. The ideal family. For a moment, Tim wondered if they looked normal, ideal, whole, healthy only because he didn't know the stories inside the drawn drapes. Cynicism! One of the people-helper killers.

" _Tim, be who you are. Be who God has designed you to be."_

The voice was like one he had encountered when he was on his journey. He looked toward the late-afternoon sun. Children were playing outside Bethany Lodge. From his vantage point at the crest of the hill, he saw the Lyttle House waiting for him. He wasn't sure he wanted to go there. He had been on too many strange journeys lately. He needed grounding. Moorings. The feel of solid terra firma.

"Tim, be who you are. Be who God has designed you to be."

The voice filled him. It was coming from inside him. Whatever had spoken to him before, this was—God's voice? Speaking Spirit to spirit.

"Alright, since you have my attention. Since I have no choice at this second but to focus on you, do you mind telling me what is happening to me?" He waited, looked around to make sure no one was playing games with him. Relaxing slightly, he sat on the bench. Although there was no voice, he knew he was to listen and write—or draw.

He will show you to whom you are called.

On his imagination screen, Timothy saw weeds, sand, lowlands.

"God is calling me to a swamp?"

The image he was to draw methodically took shape in his mind. A large one-story building on pilasters with porches surrounding the building. There was a dock and treated wood stairs. There were weeds, sand, lowlands and the building obviously elevated to accommodate the frequent flooding. In another zip code it might have been elevated to accommodate the tide.

" _Build there."_

Tim's response was a caustic snort. "No one in their right mind would build there. No zoning commission in this county would allow me to build there." As he drew, he heard the words of Jesus.

But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash 33.

Tim knew the pilings under the house in his vision reached through the muck and sand all the way to bed rock. Then he knew something else—the call was not to the place, but to those whose lives were based and lived "on the sand." He saw filmy shadows of people who made conscious choices and those whose circumstances had tossed them there. Tim tried to draw faces. He could not see how old they were, what they wore or what they were doing. He could feel their presence—the abandoned, abused, assaulted, neglected, overlooked and those who had given up on hope and sold their self-image and self-esteem at a discounted price—constant mark down.

Wise. Foolish. Some made intentional choices knowing options and consequences. Others struggled in the mire not knowing there was any other way or that they were included in any of Jesus' promises.

What did they need? What did Travis need? What about Melissa? What about Hillary? Someone to tell them the news—Proclamation. They needed to see God at work—Manifestation. They needed settings in which they could and would feel embraced and included—Participation. A name plate identified the building. One word to describe the work in the building and the objective of participation.

Tim felt the pull, the excitement, the responsibility, the challenge. A murky disability edged onto his imagination screen.

"But, I'm just a kid!"

"A man's heart plans his way, AND the Lord directs his paths."

He held the drawing at arms length He didn't know how he would get to that rock where he was to build or what would go on inside the house he had drawn. He knew he was to start where he was. His response would be grounded on the assumption and belief that he, Timothy Kendall, was alive at this time in world history for a specific purpose. The voice spoke once again.

'... _commissioned and empowered to fulfill your purpose.'_

# Chapter Twenty-Six

Tim walked the ridge until he saw the kids coming home from school and met them at the Lodge. There had not been much praying as much as deciphering and listening. Guess that could be considered praying, he thought to himself. He joined his brother and sister at a cafeteria table to help them with homework. It was a new experience for him and his siblings loved having him at their table. Florence beckoned him to the coffee bar counter.

"Tim, I haven't seen your momma this evening. Did she have an appointment? Usually she's here soon after Anne and Dan get off the school bus. Perhaps she ran to the house after work to talk to your dad? You think?" Florence was taking roll of her tribe and found one missing.

"No. I just talked to him and he didn't say anything about her stopping by. In fact, he talked about me having supper with the family. He sounded sad he would not be with us."

Brent walked through the entrance door directly to Tim. "Tim, your mother didn't show up at work this morning. Mr. Edwards at the bank called before noon to see if she was sick. We've been searching. Didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily. Any clue where she might be?"

Tim looked around for his brother and sister. "Did you ask Anne? She usually knows where every one is."

"I wanted to exhaust all other options before talking to any of you. Come on, let's go ask her. I don't want to go into the apartment without their permission."

The note on the apartment counter was addressed to "Mr. Brent Barrows."

"After fighting for my kids for these months, I am exhausted—mentally and physically. I'm worried about my mental state—I am beginning to think crazy thoughts. I don't want to harm my children in any way. Now that Tim is home and Dan and Anne are secure at the Lodge, I've got to get away.

"Mr. Edwards will get my note tomorrow. He has been kind and this feels cowardly. I can't think of another way, let alone a better way.

"I have got to get away! I don't have the strength to convince my family or to deal with goodbyes. They will be safe with you. I will be okay. I don't know where I'm going. I will let you know when I settle.

"I am not going to hurt myself or do anything crazy. I'm going away so I won't. I just need a few days alone to think and pray."

Brent studied the note and handed it to Tim. "That's her signature. Does this make sense to you? Is this something you would have predicted or expected?" Tim looked at the note and then blankly looked at Brent.

"I don't know. She has been under a lot of pressure. She is tired of fighting with Dad and I don't think she sees any resolution or clean way out of the mess. Knowing her, she is doing what she thinks is in our best interest."

"Where is she going? Any idea?"

Tim shrugged. He started to say New Mexico, but decided to honor his mother's desire for privacy and to give her the few days she requested. If she didn't return, he would go looking for her. Of course she would go to her parent's cabin in New Mexico. That's where he would go.

"Can Anne and Dan stay here?"

"Of course!" There was no question about that, but Brent was thinking through legal ramifications and what he must do. "We'll tell the kids your mother had some business to take care of. Will that work?"

"I'll talk to them," Tim reassured Brent. "She did occasionally have to go out of town on business. They will think it strange, but not totally impossible." Tim was thinking on the fly. "I'm not going to say anything to Dad. He'll go ballistic and make it worse than it is. He does that when he gets scared. And this would scare him. I think he would demand the kids come to the house. That shouldn't happen right now. He's just getting his head on straight and this would...who knows?"

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

Now, his head did hurt! His gut hurt. He could cry. His soul felt like his stomach used to feel after Thanksgiving dinner. Tim didn't know how to loosen the belt around his soul. The day had filled his soul and mind. He had thought things he had never even considered before. He had interacted with people and listened to conversations that made him feel ten feet tall.

"Then why do I feel empty?" He stuck his hands in his jacket pocket.

Charlie had written something on a note pad and stuck it in Tim's jacket pocket which he pulled out and read as he walked to his pickup.

"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me."

(Psalm 27:10 NIV).

"My father and mother walked out on me and left me, but God took me in."

(Psalm 27:10 Message)

"How freaky timely is that! Did Charlie know about Mom?"

He pulled the pickup door shut and smiled at the unique sound. He locked his door and settled into his safe place. Tim listened to his favorite sound—the truck's dual exhausts. He slipped it into gear and started for the exit toward home. Then, he swerved back onto the parking lot to pull into an open slot in the middle of staff parking. He let the engine run as he thought through possible courses of action.

He texted his dad: "I won't be home tonight." He had to explain. He could not just not show up. "I'm going to work on my truck. If I get sleepy, I'll bunk at Homer's garage." He hesitated and then assertively punched Send. Perhaps he would sleep in his truck tucked away between the SUVs behind the oversize RV. Sounded like an idea. But not good enough. He picked up his laptop, quietly got out of the truck walking on the outside fringes of lights and eyes of night watchmen. He would not waste this night, not after the challenges of the day. He had to attach strategies to the things he was learning. Tim was on his way to hide out in the bus barn. The images and smells of travel would keep him focused on his journey.

Even on the empty parking lot, he felt accompanied. His mom and dad weighed heavily on his mind. Anger grew with each step toward the bus barn.

"I will not throw either of them away or box them out of my life. I will honor. I will call them back to the relationship. I will not be dismissed regardless of what they do to or with each other. God! Hear me! Help me!" The muscle above his eyebrow twitched in sync with the quivering chin and lower lip.

"God, be my Father—teach me. Show me. You had this figured out a long time ago, I don't even know what this means, but I need some kind of supernatural revelation to understand what is going on in their heads. And mine!"

He saw his parents living in two worlds far apart from each other. Like George Jones and Tammy Wynette—living in a two-story house. She's got her story and perception of reality and Dad has his own story. As if they had lived the same experiences in two different worlds. Tim saw the emotional debris.

"What am I supposed to do?"

The revelation dribbled in. The mutual rejection had devastated his folks leaving each without an emotional immune system. His parents were vulnerable to any passing germ and left them stripped of self-esteem. Their self-perception had been gutted and distorted. The man and the woman would need to have their sense of self-worth rebuilt which would require relationships with trustworthy people.

"Tribe members!" Tim saw what healing would require. Friends—not lovers or sexual partners—but healthy pilgrims who would hug, affirm, hang out and help erect boundaries. "They will need their own tribe!" Like he was finding at Southwood.

"Oh God! Help make it happen. What can I do to make it happen?" Standing in the darkness, he lifted his hands upward as if he were offering a basket full of stuff to the One who knows how to mend broken wings. "Here it is. I can't say I'm done with it, but I put it in your care." The prayer would have been longer, but his chin got out of control. He stepped into the light from the dawn to dusk lamp above the bus barn.

The young man had not been nosy or sneaky, he just happened to be looking when Buddy punched in the security numbers to lock the barn door and activate alarms. Tim wondered if Buddy had noticed.

With the forty-five foot Provost bus plugged into a land line, he did not hesitate to turn on interior bus lights. The 42,000 pound beauty seemed more alive than mere beautifully molded steel and fiberglass. This million point five dollar creature almost breathed a greeting. With the alarm off and the doors closed, he could spend the night here. No light would escape and no one would know.

Reality struck. His heart pounded. He was trespassing! This bus was not public transportation or a public library. What gave him the right or who gave him permission to enter this home on wheels, even when he intended no malice? The bunks belonged to the Southwood Sisters. Their garments hung in the closets, makeup and personal items were stored in cupboards. He would never open a closet door, slide open a drawer or lie down on a bunk. He closed the door to the bunks and back area. He would not intrude into private areas of the bus. This felt like home. But, he was trespassing.

The commons area just behind the driver's compartment was not private or labeled. He would use the table for his laptop and if he got sleepy he would rest in one of the recliners. He chose one and sat down. He experienced on a grand scale the safe cocoon feeling that his pickup hinted at. He would hide out in the most private and hidden place he could think of. A womb inside a vault. That's what Buddy had called it—the bus vault—the place Buddy went to be alone and to think. But Tim had no permission. It was not his. What had seemed like just an idea was in fact a bad idea. Anything he accomplished would be tainted. Respect for boundaries was an important character trait. Perhaps one day he could sit at this table or sleep in that recliner, but not without permission.

He turned off the light, slipped into his shoes, closed the bus door and ran his finger over the design painted on the bus skin.

The boy man leaned against the bus. He knew what he felt; he sensed what he needed and most of all felt emotionally tired. He understood why his mom had run. For the same reasons he needed to be in this hiding place. In his head and pockets, on the legal pad and laptop was a ton of wealth. It was over his head. He needed time and some insight into what he was to do to make sense of what was an on-ramp to the pathway he was being called. Most of all, he didn't want to talk to anyone or feel the vastness of rooms, parking lots or empty highways. He was drawn to the snugness into which he could crawl and feel protected and—he had never considered the thought—to be alone with God. To listen for guidance and to be given the decoder of all the lists and words he had heard in recent days. The bus provided all of that, but at too high a price.

The empty bus barn's Spartan office with its work table was not as plush, but the privacy was as secure. He needed the neutrality of this place, the smell of travel, call to adventure and the no limits feel. But there are limits, something reminded him. There are boundaries and as much as he loved that white bus it was off limits. To disrespect that boundary would corrupt everything else. Tim acknowledged that basic truth and gave it time to imprint itself on his inner self. He would borrow this desk and chair for an hour and tell Buddy tomorrow—and bear the consequences.

There are boundaries even when on a mysterious journey with God or after returning from an unexplainable trip to a far away planet or New Mexico. His mother had crossed the boundary when she virtually abandoned her young. Tim's trespasses struck him by being in the bus barn. Even if Buddy were to say, "No harm, no foul," Tim would know he had crossed a line. Boundaries were suddenly very important to him. He asked forgiveness from the only One who knew his trespass—and Tim considered his action exactly that. In the darkness and quiet, he picked up his belongings, turned off lights, activated the alarms and walked toward Bethany Lodge. He could bunk with his siblings, which they would enjoy and probably appreciate.

The night watchman unlocked the door and welcomed him. The young man got no closer to his brother and sister than the empty table in the dimly-lit coffee shop.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

He opened his laptop and wondered why he had brought it along. What was he going to write that couldn't have been jotted onto the note Charlie had given him? He placed the Scripture onto the table next to his computer and the laminated piece of paper. He was amused at the stack of snags of paper he was collecting.

"Authority is the Author's permission for you to be what He designed you to be. You not only have permission, but also the commission and the power to fulfill your purpose."34

A list filled the other side of the odd sized piece of paper. At the bottom of the page was a crude drawing—Alice's signature—that caused him to smile.

1. Dream large—No small plans.

2. Identity—God knows your name.

3. Key—It takes a certain kind of person.

4. Tape measure—Accurate self evaluating.

5. Mary Poppins—Choose to forgive.

6. Pepsodent—Habit to praise; experience and project joy.

Somewhere in his brain those words connected to stories and instruction—more than that, they were inscriptions that rewired his brain. These words were a reporter's account of what had been imparted into him. Maybe he could hire a committee of FBI, CIA and Navy Seals to decode it.

The overhead light shone like a spotlight on that list. The quote from this guy named Munroe was embedded in Tim's brain. Charlie's Scripture selection banged around Tim's head as if it were being engraved with a laser chisel.

He opened his laptop, typed in the passwords. He centered the word FRAMEWORK. Whatever all those words of Scripture, quotes and list was supposed to mean, he decided they were to be a framework for life. He recognized what was written on those slips of paper contradicted the usual life statement of an abandoned kid. Tim also was mysteriously aware that those words held the keys to a healthy, rock-based life.

Tim remembered: while lying under the bus, Buddy had told him about having a friend when he was four. She hung out at Miss Ida's and Bethany's apartment. Buddy had not forgotten the day the girl's mother walked up to the sand box and told the four-year-old that she was going on a journey for a few weeks—didn't know when she would be back. She had to find herself. The little girl's aunt would check on her, the mother had said. The four-year-old did not flinch. Surely she felt something. Buddy summarized the whole story: "I would call that abandonment and major league neglect."

Alice, the cleavage lady, had written six statements that would not be natural for a person so abandoned and neglected. Or, for that matter, anyone who felt thrown away. Or a child who lacked security. Tim looked at the computer screen and wrote the only word that made that six-point list even remotely possible: **Healing**. He wrote the word again. **HEALING**.

The Lodge door opened. It was Buddy.

"Hey, Kid! When I woke up a few minutes ago, I sensed you would be here and I was to come down. I don't always come here for a glass of prune juice in the middle of the night, but was craving pie or juice. Decided on juice. What are you doing? I thought you were headed for home."

"Trying to get my head around several things. Whatever caused the scar on my forehead must have jarred things loose."

Buddy was writing on a Bethany Lodge note pad. Tim thought to himself that one more Scripture probably was not going to help—but then, as his grandfather said, I've been wrong before.

"Take your stuff to the bus barn. The alarm code is on this note. Lock the door behind you. Above all else, friend—if you value your favorite male organs—take your shoes off and then make yourself at home in the bus. The front commons are yours to use. Stay out of the Sista's space. Nothing there you need. You wouldn't look good in their night garments." Silence followed as if they both were trying to imagine that nightmare before simultaneously shuddering.

"The ladies' flannel p.j.s are safe with me," the young man reassured the guy who found the words and imagined sight humorous.

"If you run into Della or one of the ladies, tell them you have my permission to be there. The Sista's tell me they can do serious thinking in that bus. I've gone there in the middle of the night to find one of them sitting at the table reading and writing. You may want to get a blanket from the window seat and catch some sleep in one of the recliners. Go on. Get on down there."

He looked at the numbers, thanked Buddy. Honoring boundaries carries benefits.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

He plugged the laptop in one more time. A Facebook notification popped up a picture of an acquaintance he hadn't seen for a while. The guy had moved out of state several years ago. He studied the picture of a kid he once knew well. He still knew him well enough to recognize that he was on drugs or deeply troubled. Tim assumed both.

"My Dad died yesterday," the post said.

Tim knew the kid his age did not have a relationship with his dad. His dad wasn't even around and had not been most of his life. It was if the old man had dropped some sperm and left town.

"It is not just about divorce. It is also about being abandoned, thrown away, not paid attention to—treated as if you do not exist." Tim's words were painful even when heard only by chrome, plastic, walnut wood and stainless steel.

Treated as if you do not exist.

Tim stared at the gauges in the driver's compartment. "I wonder if there is any way to gauge the impact of absenteeism." Looking at his friend's face, he tried to gauge what it feels like to lose what had never been. That kid never had a intimate connection with his dad. That fellow had lived with hope that one day, his biological father would come back and set aside his preoccupation with his own survival. Not every absent parent deserves that severe judgment! Tim paused to rethink and then concluded he would concentrate on those who were in pain from loss.

This Facebook photo gave Tim the face of someone building on sand. No rebellion involved here, just a person who didn't know there were options. He looked into the eyes staring blankly out of the Facebook picture. The eyes have it: "Sand is all I'm worth."

"I've got to tell him. I want to say it loud enough and with enough passion that it will seem like proclamation. Lord, please be with Mom. Wherever she is. Whatever she is doing. Whatever she is wrestling with. If she feels like her life is sinking in quick sand, keep her safe and sane. Give her clarity."

Anne and Dan were increasingly among his major priorities. He prayed the same prayer for his brother and little sister. He had gone to the apartment with his siblings after the evening meal to hang out and help with homework. At bedtime he prayed with Dan and tucked Anne in. She was rather old for that, but never too old to have her big brother's full attention.

"You going to be alright without Mom for a couple of days?"

"I miss her already. I'm afraid she won't come back. What will we do, Timmy? Who will take care of us? Who will keep us safe and warm?"

"You can count on me. You know that. Our friends here at the Lodge are not going to throw us out on the curb."

Anne laughed. "Silly. There aren't any curbs out here."

"Well, see! Nothing to worry about."

"Tim, can I be candid with you?"

"Candid. When did you start using grown up words?"

"When we stopped being kids. Candid. I am tired of crying for Mom. I cry myself to sleep every night worrying about Dad. I remember when it felt like he was my Daddy. Now he is my sometimes Dad. That sucks. Tim? What does that mean?"

"I agree, little girl. All this just sucks—whatever it means."

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Little Girl, don't you worry. I think I need to check on Dad..."

"But, shouldn't he be checking on us?"

That jolted the man who was back in a seventeen year old body.

"Be patient with Dad. I think he is catching on that checking on us is part of his job."

"I wish he would hurry. I'm tired of trying to be the adult in the family."

"Anne, you're too funny." He put his arms around his little sister and held her. "We are going to be alright. Trust me."

"I do. You better be right. It feels like you and Dan are all I've got."

A dear caught in the tail lights.

"Timmy, were you listening to Mr. Brent when he was talking at supper? He talked about a single-mother named Hagar. Were you listening?"

"Sure. Brent said she is one of his female heroes. I understand why."

"What do you think Mom would do in that situation? Hagar was homeless, out of water and had no way to support Ishmael. Putting him under that thorn bush to keep the animals away was smart and drawing predators' attention to herself by sitting exposed half-a-football field away required guts. Would Mom do that for us?"

"Little Girl, I think—maybe—that is what she is doing. Doesn't make sense, but she usually has our best interest in mind." Tim brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and caressed Anne's head.

"I felt something warm and safe when Mr. Brent read...

'And as she sat nearby, she began to sob. God heard the boy crying, and the angel of the God called to Hagar...do not be afraid; God has heard the boy crying... Lift the boy up and take him by the hand, for I will make him into a great nation. (Genesis 21:17-18)'"

"Wow! You memorized that?"

"Seemed important—'take him by the hand...'"

"I want you to know what I memorized. When Brent quoted that instruction from The Message Bible: 'Hold him tight,' God was saying, 'not only take Ishmael by the hand, but hold his hand tight in your hand. Don't let go. Hang on.' Did you like the story Miss. Felicia told about holding her grandson's hand tight when they ran across the yard toward the shelter when the tornado sirens were screaming?"

"I did. That had to be scary. I liked it especially when her grandson said, 'Grandma, I can feel your heart beating through my hand.'"

The room went silent. Tim knew the question had to be answered. Who was going to hold her hand, now? He took his sister's hand in his and squeezed tightly.

"Timmy, I can feel your heart beating. We are going to be alright."

The seventeen-year-old knew why Brent had tears in his eyes when he said, "I praise God for every Hagar—every single-mother who does what needs to be done to provide shelter, security and a tight grip." He got it. For a while, at least, he would be the one who was holding tight. He was good with that.

He recalled the conversation and the hug while reaching for the bus blanket that Buddy had recommended and used it to hide his face and wipe the tears and muffle the sobs. He adjusted the recliner and went to sleep. He got what he had asked for his family—mom, dad, Anne, Dan. He felt safe, sane, secure, warm.

# Chapter Thirty

It had been a long time since Tim felt as "tucked in" as he had asked God to make his brother and sister feel. Safe, secure and warm. His deep sleep wrapped him far more tightly than the nice, soft blanket around him.

" _Tim,_ " The voice was so real, it was as if he was hearing the GPS. He was hearing the Holy Spirit. So this was a manifestation?

" _Tim, are you listening? Hear this: You are alive on the earth at this specific time for the Father's purpose. Do you believe this?"_

As if he had washed his face and his hands in that stream near Van and Alice's house, he shivered and stood up in the white bus fully awake. The water surely came from melting mountain snow. It slaked a thirst he did not know he had.

"Yes! I'm beginning to believe it."

Wrapping the blanket tighter he slid into the seat behind the table and in one movement, punched his laptop awake. He saw the Scripture, quotes and list—the framework: God's promise, Spiritual Impartations, Statement of commission and the code numbers to unlock the doors. He looked around for his pen and found a Bible on the seat behind him. It looked like the one Felicia had with her at lunch. It was open at Isaiah 43:18-19. Whoever it belonged to had neatly underlined the words.

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up, do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."

Like a hidden or lost puzzle piece, these words completed the picture. The picture would become clearer and defined through the years, but this was where he would begin. In large capitals, Tim wrote:

DESTINY FRAMEWORK.

MY REALITIES

1. I am on this earth at this point in history for a reason. I shall find it and excel.

2. I shall not be dominated or controlled by the past.

3. I am bent, but I am not broken. I shall look for and adopt healers.

4. I have been affected by the decisions of others. I will not excuse myself or assume I am irreparably damaged. I have no innate flaw. I will not blame.

5 I am involved, and! Invested! in the new that God is doing.

MY IMPARTED STRENGTHS

1. Small plans will not dwarf me or identify God's call upon me or my response.

2. My identify is determined by who God says I am. He knows my name. He is my Savior, Healer, He is perfecting me, He is my Friend.

3. I have been given a key: Be a certain kind of person.

4. I will measure success by eternal standards.

5. Love, joy, peace, forgiveness are resources requiring daily use and refilling.

6. Praise, gratitude, thanksgiving, generosity and seed sowing with expectation of harvest.

7. Craving—I desire this and will do what needs to be done to acquire it.

MY MANIFESTO

1. I refuse to be alone. I belong. I will be a person others will want to hang with. I will invite others to belong to me and join my journey.

2. I will not be controlled by emotions. I shall experience their full range, but will not be held hostage by fear, sadness or attempt to be constantly pain-free.

3. I am worthy. Therefore, I will expect to love and be loved. I expect my hard work to produce value for others. Because I am worthy, I will expect to be well paid for the valuable solutions and strategies I shall provide.

4. I will trust my gut—intuition, inclination, wisdom. I will invite coaches and mentors to help me to build a trustworthy "gut." (Tim remembered someone saying, "The gravitational pull back to the sinful, destructive patterns of our family of origin and culture is enormous." He committed to building "a gut—inclination" worthy of trust.)

5. I will be intentionally attractive. People will be drawn to me by my authenticity, transparency, responsible nature.

6. I will live my life intentionally—I choose to "lose" my life as Jesus defined it rather than laboring to save it. I shall throw it away with careful aim.

7. I renounce self-rejection. I accept and celebrate that I am who I am and who I am becoming.

Timothy Raymond Kendall

The quiet had been rich and strengthening. Now he needed music. He turned on the built-in music delivery system. It was what he needed to hear and declare in big bold words:

### I'm gonna make it!

Tim put his digital signature on the document. Then he had a crazy idea. He climbed into the driver's seat that was finely adjusted for Buddy. Some day, Tim thought, I will drive this and we'll adjust the seat to fit me. He reached up to turn on the running lights, checked out the turn signals which showed up on the mirrors and all the other places. He turned on the headlights. He got out of the bus to look at the high beam lights lighting up the entire east end of the building.

"It ends here—being caught and lost in the tail lights. My family will no longer be paralyzed by disappearing tail lights. From this time forward, our task will be to _light_ the journey forward. We're gonna make it!"

No longer caught in the tail lights!

# # # #

# NOTES

1. Elizabeth Marquardt, _Between Two Worlds_ , (Crown Publishers,) 2005. Pages 31-32.

2. Leanne Payne, _The Healing Presence_ , (Hamemath—Baker Books,) 1989, 1995, Page 82

3. ibid

4. Gail Godwin, _Father Melancholy's Daughter_ , (Avon Books, 1991), page 111

5. Archibald Hart, Helping Children Survive Divorce, (Word Publishing, 1996) page 18

6. John Deere, _Surprised By The Spirit_ , (Zondervan, 1993), page 29

7. Isaiah 53:4

8. Archibald Hart, _Children and Divorce_ , Word, Inc. 1982

9. Ibid

10. Matthew 13:15

11. Paul Tournier, _Creative Suffering,_ (Harper & Row, 1982)

12. Judith S. Wallerstein, Julia M. Lewis, Sandra Blakeslee,

The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce, (Hyperion, 2000)

13. Luke 17:2

14. Michael Sokolove, The Ticket Out. Darrl Strawberry and the Boys of Crenshaw, (Simon & Schuster, 2004)

15. Ibid, page 95

16. Ibid, page 120

17. Ibid, Page 119

18. Elizabeth Marquardt, _Between Two Worlds_ , Crown Publishers, 2004) page 186

19. See Judith S. Wallerstein, _The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce_ , Hyperion, 2000) Page 22.

20. Myles Munroe, Understanding Your Potential, (Destiny Image Publishers, 1991, 2000)

21 Psalm 139:13-14

22. Dr. Caroline Leaf, _Who Switched Off My Brain_ , (Switch On Your Brain, Ltd.,2007) and The Gift in You, (Switch On Your Brain, Ltd., 2009

23. Charles DuHigg, _The Power of Habit_ , (Random House, 2012).

24. Isaiah 61:3bff

25. Myles Munroe, _The Purpose and Power of Authority_ , (Whitaker House, 2011)

26. Jimmy Long, _Emerging Hope_ , (InterVarsity Press, 2004) Page 109

27. Jen Abbas, _Generation Ex_ , (Waterbrook Press, 2004), Page 3

28. Jimmy Long, _Emerging Hope_ , (InterVarsity Press, 2004) Page 51

29. Peter Scazzero, Emotionally Healthy Spirituality, (Thomas Nelson Publications, 2006) Page 114

30. Donald Miller, _Father Fiction_ , (Howard Press, 2010)

31. Leanne Payne, _Restoring the Christian Soul_ , (Crossway Books), Page 23-24

32. Andy Stanley, _Deep and Wide,_ (Zondervan, 2012) Quote from www.cnn.com/2012/11/17/us/andy-stanley/index.html/

33. Daniel Goleman, _Emotional Intelligence_ , (Bantam, 1995)

34. Matthew 7:26-27

35. Myles Munroe, The Purpose and Power of Authority, (Whitaker House, 2011) Page 87

# Dedication

To:

Phyllis

# Appreciation

Joyce E. Kulp

Thank you for the meticulous editing and suggestions to make the story not only readable, but better.

David E. Hein

Your cover design, artistry and graphics capture the heart of the story. Thank you.

# About the author

www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DDeanBenton

# Other books by Dean

www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ddeanbenton

www.bentonministries.com/

# Contact Dean

For seminars, book readings, speaking engagements, conversation:

Benton—Box 514, Burlington, Iowa 52601

Email: benfammin@mchsi.com

Visit our website: www.bentonministries.com

Dean's blog— _Benton Quest House_ —Developing the I'm Possible Life

<https://journeybend.wordpress.com/>

