

### DEPOT

_On Track_ _—_ _Heritage, Destiny, Legacy_

D. Dean Benton

Copyright 2016 D. Dean Benton

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thanks for downloading this ebook. The author retains all rights. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author. It is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Table of Contents

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

Chapter Thirty-one

Epilogue

Notes

Dedication

Appreciation

About Dean Benton

Other books by Dean

The Southwood Series (Novels)

Connect with Dean

# Chapter 1

"If you could wrap your teaching into one principle..." The interview scheduled for later telecast had been an interesting format for the final day of the conference. Fast-paced, short answers and room for questions.

"I'll give you two," the author and founder of a rehab center responded. He was good on TV with his faded jeans and sport coat. He looked relaxed. "Surrender and connection. Surrendering to God. I have never seen an alcoholic stay sober without acknowledging he or she needed to connect with some external source."

Charlie Putnam experienced that interview and remembered his reaction to that statement. _Surrender and Connection_. He didn't just hear it—he experienced it. How many times had he and Della knelt at altars and by their bed to more perfectly surrender their lives, dreams, skills, hopes and everything they could think of? It was the right answer for this crowd of preachers and leaders. Without looking, Charlie knew there were many in that crowd just like he who knew all the words, but _apparently_ couldn't get them in the right order, tone or sequence.

" _Two rows ahead of you, five chairs to the right. Look at the man holding his face in his hands."_

The pastor from Southwood recognized the voice. Instruction. Sure enough, the man was hunched over, glasses stuck between his fingers with hands covering his face.

" _If he doesn't leave, that man will stand up and shout at the speaker that he needs to know 'how'. He is going to stand up and get ready to yell; then he will slump in resignation, pick up his briefcase and leave. Go after him. He is leaving the conference in total despair. The spirit of suicide is outside the door to attach itself to him."_

"And the second principle?" the C-Span Brian Lamb look-alike asked.

"Connection. It is not enough to surrender it to God; you must find someone to walk the path with you. Accountability is the buzz word, but it is more about someone who believes in you and wants you to succeed." The man being interviewed turned in his chair to face the camera. "You need to connect with someone who will tell you if you are tracking right, but more importantly someone who loves you or has affection for you. A combination of mentor, coach, teacher, golf partner wrapped in one." The speaker, pausing, adjusted his blazer and his position in the chair. "Empathetic context. That's what a psychiatrist said is essential to our moving toward wholeness. Empathetic context, uh, that is a way of saying a safe environment with involved people. I have not always found a person with that many gifts. I have several friends filling those roles—but they have a commonality. They care deeply about me and I have no problem signing my notes to them 'with affection.'"

The author had given his sound byte answer. Then he lifted his hand and casually said, "Jesus called that kind of person, 'Friend.'"

Two rows ahead, five chairs to the right. A man exploded off his chair, put his glasses on his face, opened his mouth and almost in the same motion slumped, leaning over to retrieve his briefcase and excused himself past those between his chair and the aisle.

What am I supposed to say to him, Charlie asked the Voice.

" _You'll think of something. Incidentally, the words he said to himself were, 'To hell with it all, the sooner the better.' His name is Gil."_

Their paths intersected at the double doors leading to the display area. Charlie followed the man out to where vendors were packing books, DVDs and brochures.

"Excuse me. Is your name Gil?"

The man had no time to gather himself and wipe tears. He stood motionless after coming to an instant halt. Charlie knew that if that rapid stop had been in a cartoon there would be a screeching sound, which made him laugh.

"My name is Gil. Do I know you?"

"No, but we have a mutual friend who is concerned about you."

"Who would that be?"

"When you stood up, you were going to, or least you wanted to, shout something to the speaker. You would never do that. You have too much respect for the men and women around you and the man on stage. Instead, you said to yourself, 'To hell with it all, the sooner the better.'"

"How did you know that?"

"Here's my card. I'm Charles Putnam from Southwood Conference Center. I pastor the tribe that gathers at The Depot. Can we get a cup of coffee?"

Gil studied the card, looked out into the parking lot as if studying uncharted terrain, glanced again at the card and then at Putnam.

"Uh, I'm headed for home. I'm not very good company, right now. If you'll excuse me..."

"Gil, you are better company than you have ever been able to imagine. And, you suspect it. You are angry that no one else knows it. You have a right to feel that anger. You have been reading Ezekiel and today's reading was about two eagles. One carried a seed to a far off place where it was planted. That sound familiar?"

"Ezekiel seventeen."

"When you are ready for the planting, give me a call or come see me." Charlie had delivered the message and felt instructed to back off. The ball was now in Gil's court. The black briefcase had never left the man's right hand. He held the business card in his left hand which became his focus when the eye contact became too intense or confusing. Charlie put his hand on the man's sport coat covered forearm and spoke.

"I forbid dark spiritual beings in the parking lot, lurking in the car or camped like road-side bombs to interfere with this man. I bind spiritual entities of all description to God's plan for Gil's life. I call forth discernment, guidance and blessing into this man of God. In the power of the Name of Jesus, Amen."

Gil had not closed his eyes or bowed his head. He stood motionless with eyes straight ahead. They both knew his one objective was to hold his composure and to escape as quickly as possible.

"I don't know what this is about, Man of God. It is part of God's plan which will become clear. Don't forget to be in touch. You will be in my prayers. We will talk." With that, Charlie patted the man's shoulder and then nodded to him. Without a word, the man named Gil looked in Charlie's direction and nodded his head, turned and walked into the early afternoon sun toward his car. Charlie watched as Gil trudged slowly toward the parking lot.

Charlie didn't want to go back into the auditorium, but he had left his sacks of product there as well as his own briefcase. He recalled the moments as he watched Gill walk the first few feet out of the building.

" _Buy Gil the most powerful book by today's speaker. The book that drew you to this conference. Buy a comparable gift certificate for his wife. He will come to Southwood where you will give it to him. Tell him, 'You will be called Abraham, for you will be a blessing.'"_ The Voice had spoken.

"Now or when he comes to Southwood?"

No answer.

"Gil!" The man was slow to respond, but every display person jerked their head. "The word is," Charlie shouted, "You will be called Abraham, for you _will_ be a blessing."

The message impacted the young man. He nodded. Again immobile. The message sank in. Slowly, he walked to his car glancing at the card, and wiping his eyes.

" _He has only enough cash to get home. He was too embarrassed to let you buy him coffee and afraid you wouldn't and he couldn't. He's not used to that feeling or economic condition."_

Charlie didn't need revelation to know whatever was going on was too severe to discuss with a stranger who obviously knew more than he wanted anyone to know.

When the conference adjourned, Charlie laughed. Getting back to his chair meant moving against the crowd that may as well have heard someone yell "Fire." These men and women were intent on escape. Not because the event hadn't been meaningful, but because they were tired of sitting and just wanted to be home. Getting out of the parking lot was nearly as difficult. Going against the traffic had been his habit for a very long time. Choosing to respond to the call to ministry when no one thought he had the gifts or graces. When it looked like he had made an unwise vocational choice—he could have gone into mill work for all the doors that were closed to him. All the years in school, the agony of hearing that Della would never have a child, the dreams he knew were God implanted and he couldn't sell the vision had there been armed enforcers accompanying him. Becoming a cop to pay the rent and Della's tuition through grad school and then doctoral program had been one more choice no one seemed to understand. Preacher-Cop. Perhaps they thought he was better fitted to be a candle-stick maker?

Charlie remembered something he had written in his notebook. A quote from Dallas Willard: "God's purpose is to bring us to the point, through the development of our character, where He can empower us to do what we want to do."

What had tormented him to heavy-duty self-doubt now served to remind him of perseverance and development. Joseph had his prison, Moses mapped the back side of the desert; Jacob bunked at Uncle Laben's. All to develop them as men. Working with Chief Thompson was hardly comparable, but he had grown into God's man to pastor The Depot on the Southwood campus. If it took all those years to prepare him for that task, it was worth it. The crucible was not a small price to pay, but it was paying dividends. He didn't understand it all, but he wouldn't have missed it.

Six, eight hours home. Perhaps he would stop along the way and change out of his preacher clothes. He put his driving on automatic pilot and thought about Gil. The man was above average height. What Charlie had seen in his spirit did not transfer to an appearance or bearing of weakness or brokenness. Quite the opposite, Charlie concluded. His clothing was not purchased at K-Mart. He guessed Men's Warehouse.

"What should I know about Gil?" Charlie spoke to God as if He were riding in the passenger seat. His mind began to fill with a picture. Pastoral ministry was a second vocation. He had been an engineer, pre-med or biologist of some kind. A trauma or emergency had pushed him to evaluate life or reevaluate what he was doing with his own life. Gil carried himself with confidence—even when everything indicated he was posing. When he went back to school to get his theology degree, it demanded a drastic lifestyle change. The downshifting of income had emptied bank accounts. He didn't need wealth. He _was_ uncomfortable with scrimping. He had grown weary—disgusted with trying to lead in an atmosphere that treasured the past and denied the present and had no vision for the future. Like Lyle Schaller said "if we ever do 1955 again, the church is certainly ready." That is what had depleted Gil. "He isn't sure the cost is worth it. It is the lack of productivity that turned his stomach and heart," Charlie said out loud.

"He doubts that he made the right decision to enter ministry. He does not question his call. He thinks he misinterpreted the call. He is questioning everything. He is angry that his life is not as predictable as the formulas he worked with. No slide rule answers. He is feeling he alone faces this. The lack of clear-cut answers has cut into his self-perception. He feels differently about himself than he did in grad school and when he worked with people in a glass office building he helped to design and construct."

Charlie would never know if the words he heard were from God or his own imagination. He would wait until Gil and his wife came to Southwood. In the meantime, he called Della.

"Hi Red. I'm on my way home. I'll meet you at Southwood. Maybe I can wait that long to make love to you. Not sure. Interested?"

"Of course. Who is this?"

# Chapter 2

Going home was always the best part of a convention for Charlie Putnam. He had visited every exhibitor's booth, picked up every brochure and bought all the instructional DVDs. His notebook was full of notes. He never wasted a nickel of the registration fee.

Four days without the redhead and friends at Southwood was about all he could tolerate.

Charlie rehashed the last speaker's talk and now an hour into his homeward journey he began to feel again what had made him lean forward, put _his_ elbows on his knees and put _his_ face into his hands. He had been to the barren land the speaker had toured. Charlie recognized all the landmarks, had duplicate pictures of the terrain and knew some of the people described.

" _I didn't know if we were on the backside of the desert, on the shelf or out on the curb."_

The speaker had spoken words Charlie had felt and said a few thousand times. He wasn't going back to that pit emotionally, but he had lived in that territory for so long he had a few thousand memories he had not flushed. He recalled the same questions. All those years of disappointments when the voice of God was faint and although not silent, surely not very often plain spoken. It all seemed like a jumbled puzzle with no direction or design.

"Were we being prepared for something, were we on a sabbatical being rested and restored, or were we throw-aways?" Maybe to prepare us for people like Gil. The image of Gil walking across the parking lot replayed in his head. Charles Putnam never questioned nor backed away from what he thought he was hearing The Voice tell him to do. But when there was no closure he was always puzzled and asked God the question he now spoke out loud. "What was that about?" Like so many times before, there was no immediate answer. He prayed for the young man who stored his years in wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead.

Another hour of travel, another hour of concern for Gil with no resolution was broken by the signboard. The town with Morrison's cafeteria.

_Stop there_.

He heard the nudging. He wanted to get home. He didn't want to waste time eating in a cafeteria.

_Exit. Go to the cafeteria. I have words you can only hear there_.

Sometimes, the driver knew God's voice as he had in the auditorium three hours ago; other times, like now, he wasn't sure, or his own agenda put static on the line. Suddenly, the voice became a non-issue. He had to go to the bathroom. Bad! A tour bus was parked at the fast food place. That meant it would be an hour before the john was open. He rushed to the mall. He knew there was a bathroom inside the entrance next to Morrison's. Sprinting was something he could do in wing tip shoes and dress pants.

Later he heard, _Since, you're here anyway, go into the cafeteria._

Only slightly amused, "God, you deal with Jonah one way or another, don't you?" he said. "Better Morrison's than Shamu," loudly enough for the hostess to turn to see who Charlie was talking to. Food was not high on his list at the moment, so he picked up a soda to settle his stomach and waited to see whomever he was to see, or hear whatever he was to hear. He hadn't taken time to pick up his cell phone nor his journal. His mind could think only of porcelain! Therefore, he was not going to be distracted in Morrison's by taking a phone call or writing sermon notes or work lists. He was going to sit with time and cramps.

"...Stasi! We got the deal. We'll move the house onto that empty lot a week from Thursday. The city gave us the zone variance. A classic house in the middle of business traffic. It will make a phenomenal office building. Can't believe they agreed. Should have bet on this long shot. See you about 7:00..." The rest of the short cell phone conversation got lost in a dropped tray of dishes outside the kitchen doors which grabbed everyone's attention. When Charlie turned back to look at the man on the phone, he was gone. And so were the cramps.

For an hour, he sat with his back to the wall examining every person in the place and everyone who entered wondering, "Is this the one?" He saw no one. He heard nothing vaguely resembling a word from God. All he had heard was the cell phone conversation which irritated him. People should be more sensitive about personal phone calls in public places. Wonder if that guy stiffed them for the check? How did he get out so fast?

_You can go now_.

He was released and knew it. He picked up ingredients for a sandwich to eat on the road, paid the check and sprinted beck to his car. He realized he had parked under the same tree where Brent had parked his old van when he was moving to Southwood. The story was part of the myth surrounding the rebirth of Southwood and so real to Charlie he half-way expected Dan McAllister to approach his car.

As Charlie reached for the ignition, he heard, _That's what I want you to do._ _Move the little house on the Smith Place to Jefferson Hill._ The voice he recognized. The instructions were nonsensical. It would be easier to build a house than move that house up that hill and for what purpose? He waited for an answer. Apparently, God wasn't in a chatty mood.

"Huh. That is weird! I wouldn't have done that or thought of it in a million years." Tears came as they did when God moved in such an obvious way. This was peculiar. All of that maneuvering so Charlie could hear one short cell phone conversation. Mysterious! And marvelous.

The miles between the Columbus exit and Southwood, where Della would be waiting, were driven on automatic pilot. Pastor Putnam was working out as many of the house moving details as he could. Buddy and Brent would have to be the go-to guys.

The little house was accurate, but in fact, it was the Lyttle house.

# Chapter 3

Gil transitioned from the drive home to mowing the lawn as if in a trance. He pulled the lawnmower rope and started on the north side of the parsonage. He made two lengths of the lawn when the neighbor waved. He waved back as he thought through his sister's note.

"...I've been praying that you will regain your attitude of praise and thankfulness. I've prayed that God will release His power in your ministry. I don't want to trivialize things, but it helps me to keep my mind on Him and His promises and not the problems."

She was so sweet. She didn't always grasp his world, but she was concerned about him. She was his closest friend for so long. He remembered when it seemed they only had each other to lean on. Her assignment to New Guinea was a loss to him. He wanted her to stay in ministry with his family. She brought a dimension that enriched the family. Amanda missed her, but God had called her to a missionary role. He wondered if she might bring understanding to what he had been feeling lately.

His mind was exactly half-way between coma and asleep. Talk about no-brainer. Mowing the lawn wasn't usually this easy. He battled his own self-talk slicing the grass and he moaned aloud his prayers of intercession. That's the reason the neighbor usually waved at him when he mowed. She thought he was talking to her.

Given his semi-comatose state, he was stunned when something in him said, _"Gil, you_ _have a good heart."_ He laughed nearly as loud as the Lawn Boy. "I bet that is not the results of a scientific poll." But the inner words expanded. _"Find how to live out of your good heart_ _instead of the lies."_

The neighbor suddenly was walking by his side. Virginia Holloway was preceded into any room or lawn by her fragrance and self-assurance. She was the original feminist who preferred all to address her as Ms. She loved scandalizing the church with her glass of brandy or chardonnay while sitting on the front porch next to the parsonage—better yet, when she was sitting on the parsonage porch. When that didn't work, she sunbathed on the front lawn in a bikini. She loved shocking people and living on Main Street, she had plenty of opportunities.

Since she obviously hadn't come over to help with the lawn chores, Gil caught on that she wanted to talk. He noted that she must be planning to work on her suntan. He released the safety bar and the lawnmower silenced itself.

"Ms. Holloway." Gil enjoyed teasing the neighbor as much as she enjoyed irritating all his parishioners. "You come over here to ask me to apply sunscreen?"

"In your dreams, preacher-boy."

"You've been talking to my shrink again?"

Virginia Holloway smiled and handed him a glass of something he knew would have a hint of liquor. "Some of my special brew," she warned. "I'd help you with the lawn, but I've been told not to mow in my bare feet."

Gil motioned her out of the sun and thanked her for the iced drink. "You come over here to be a temptation to me, or did you have a philosophical question only I can answer?" In the five years they had been neighbors, they had built pathways into each other's lives and erected fences. Each knew where the boundaries were and where the paths led. In some ways, Virginia had stepped into the vacancy left by his absent sister.

"Gil, you need to get your sorry butt out of this town. I heard your favorite TV preacher say something this morning I think was meant for you. He was talking about Jesus cursing the fig tree. He said, 'Whenever there is a fig tree in your path, you need people in Bethany where you can go for restoration.' You and Amanda have had some fig tree days. It's time for you to go to Bethany. You know where that is?"

He did. Charlie Putnam's business card listed Bethany's Lodge, Southwood and The Depot. Gil thought about the encounter with Putnam and the days since. A person didn't stay distracted long when Virginia Holloway was near.

"Do you know where that is?" she repeated.

"I do."

"You're supposed to go there. Take Amanda and 'git.'"

The strange word choice made him look directly at his neighbor. He tried to avoid looking at her when she was intent on getting a no-line suntan.

"I think I'm God's messenger," she mockingly purred.

She was. He didn't know how to acknowledge that in a way she would understand. Any reference to spiritual truth made her mad, caustic or put her into hysterical laughter. It was all farce to scare him off or build self-protecting barriers.

"You go with us?" he asked while holding her gaze. He was not easily dismissed. He saw something there he had not seen before. The question made her eyebrows twitch as they knotted.

"Not this time," she said. She had thought it over. "I've delivered God's message. I'm going home." She didn't leave soon enough. The president of the women's guild drove past the parsonage to see the woman in her teeny-weeny, polka-dot bikini wiping the preacher's brow with a towel. Virginia followed Gil's eyes to the slow moving car, then back to her neighbor's face. "I see my work here is done," she laughed. "Do what you need to do."

Gil watched her walk back to her baking spot on her front lawn—without leering. Then, he finished the lawn, swept the sidewalk, parked the Lawn Boy, took off his lawn shoes, and sat at the kitchen table. How he hated this ugly kitchen. Parsonage beige overlaid with years of wear and neglect that fresh paint could not fix.

"Amanda. It's time we take control of our lives. We're starving—emotionally and spiritually. We haven't had a vacation in how long? You know what Doug Kauffman is always saying—'If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always got.' I'm going to shower, you're going to pack and we're going to Southwood. Charlie Putnam invited us. It's time."

"What shall I pack?"

"Whatever."

"Are you sure, Gil?"

"Never more sure. Never. I heard something a little while ago and we've got to find out what it means. It sounded like the same voice that spoke to me that afternoon I met Charlie Putnam. The voice said this afternoon, _'Gil, you've got a good heart.'_ No one ever said that to me before. What does a good heart mean?'"

"I don't know sweetheart. Did Virginia bring you a plate of cookies?"

"No cookies. Just an iced drink that is giving me a slight buzz."

"I'm astonished at her. I would say she should be arrested for indecent exposure, but I couldn't find a jury in this town that would agree it was indecent." Amanda laughed. "I guess if I was built like that, I'd wear a bikini when I went to Kroger's, too."

"She said we are supposed to go to Bethany."

"Who lives in Bethany?"

"Mary, Martha, Lazarus." He thought for a moment and added, "Brent, Charlie, Della, Felicia and Buddy."

"So Bethany is now located at Southwood? Sounds like a fun time. I'm going to get the mail and make lists of what I need to pack."

# Chapter 4

"Gil?" Amanda carried the note she had written. "When you were at that convention, somebody called. Did you buy something from a clearance house in Maine?" She handed him the note and recognized his embarrassment.

"Not exactly. I bought a lottery ticket at a convenience store and a mystery box."

"What mystery box?"

He wanted to avoid this conversation. Spending a hundred dollars so frivolously was as smart as buying the ticket that did not have one matching lottery number. Except this was a lottery ticket times one hundred. Undoubtedly, he thought to himself, he had bought a case of used kitty litter.

"Mystery box? What is that about? Gil?"

"Don't know. Companies buy up storage lockers, storage units, abandoned cases and put them in crates and sell them sight unseen to anyone willing to take a gamble. I saw that a company had bought a storage building. Addresses and owner's names had long since been abandoned. The box was listed as 'abandoned.' The Adams name was on the list so I took a shot. I, uh, sensed that I should..."

"You sensed that you should buy a box? What's supposed to be in the box? Or in the crate? A locker?"

"Obviously, I don't know or it wouldn't be a mystery." He was starting to sound defensive. "I'm surprised it's not here. It has been several weeks."

"That's the issue. You gave them a post office box address and they ship only to street addresses. Brother, Gil! Not too smart! You're not a gambler, what got into your head?"

The resident pastor had a philosophy. When you can't punt, make jokes. "Listen, Sweetie, I had reason to believe it was factory seconds." He knew she would bite.

"What factory?"

"Victoria Secret, uh, maybe it was Frederick's of Hollywood," he muttered.

"Unless you've gotten into cross dressing, you better hope not." She left him looking at the note feeling sheepish and not pleased with himself.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you about starving children in China?" she called from the adjoining room.

"Point taken. I should have sent the $100 to James Robison for water wells in Africa. Maybe the crate will be filled with Confederate dollars that will be worth millions and we'll dig a thousand wells? If not, you'll look stunning in the thongs."

"Nice try! Make sure you call that number before we leave town. I don't want to have to explain that to whoever signs for it while we're gone."

Gil did not want to return from Southwood to face a box filled with wood shavings, rancid cookies or moldy books. He didn't want to have to explain a crate full of anything. He could have it sent to the neighbor's house. And if it really was from Victoria's Secret, his bikini wearing friend would never let him off that hook. She, no doubt, would call the newspaper reporter to bring his camera and hold up the skimpies while telling an outrageous story. She would love that. Couldn't let that happen. "Just kill me now!" he muttered as he dialed.

"I got the message about order number WP-1474-A-31G. Yes, I'll wait." Still trying to make a plan, he listened to on-hold music. "Send it to me at Southwood. The address is...and it will ship via UPS?"

He took the note with Amanda's handwriting, closed the door to his study and collapsed into the desk chair. "At least the UPS driver at Southwood won't know who I am, or will we have to have further contact," he said to himself as he looked at the note. Next to his computer was the dead lottery ticket. He picked it up in one hand and held it next to the note. One stupid mistake next to the other. How many times had he felt he was supposed to do something and it turned out to be a series of wrong numbers?

"Crap!" He pushed away from the computer and turned to a work table. There he saw a newspaper ad for a failed ministry project. It looked like good marketing to him and he was not without educated marketing skills. But the ad had pulled no takers. He had a whole box of such ads for ideas that seemed timely, appropriate and needed. Yellowing pieces of paper that had all the appeal of high collared blouses for his buxom friend next door whose favorite word was "exposure." Virginia Holloway always commented on his newspaper column and the ads. The lady—who never saw a short skirt she didn't think needed hemming or a low-cut dress she thought was prudish—was brutally caustic about the ads.

"I'm going to Virginia's," Amanda called up the stairs. "She has a skirt she wants to show me. Something about hemming it for her. Gil? Did you hear me? What are you laughing about?"

"Dear God, that is a neighbor a man could love!" It was not a statement, it was a prayer. He was not without hormones. He was not unaffected by her sassiness, sexiness and beauty. He remembered the day his wife had asked, "Gil, you ever fantasize about sex with Virginia?" Knowing he could not punt, he answered, "I'm afraid she would yawn or point and laugh." He was enamored by his neighbor, but not that way. His wife offered all the intimacy others could not, including sex. He began again to pray. "Thanks for putting Virginia in our lives. She has been Your tool to help us widen our views of Your love. I need and desire the purity that will please You as we talk. Be with Amanda right now—whatever she is doing over there. She is your person—direct contact from You to Virginia."

An hour later, Gil was still looking at the note, lottery ticket and newspaper ad and feeling like a colossal loser. The encounter with Charlie Putnam had saved him from an act of craziness, but it did not erase the desperate feelings that tried to smother him in that convention hall. Like a high humidity day, the heaviness soaked into him.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" Gil asked himself. "I can't decide whether to punch a hole in the wall, check out a porn website or take a nap." He looked at the computer monitor and felt worthless. Praying was not worth the effort. Absent mindedly he Googled Elijah. He didn't know why.

"Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years. Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops." [1]

His eyes caught another phrase: "The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective"[2] (5:16). That heavy-duty word dismissed him and almost everyone he knew. That one word excused most who otherwise would pray bold prayers. "Righteous." That usually explained why "effective" was missing.

Okay! If righteous doesn't appear on my resume, what does? What am I feeling—what describes me? He picked up a legal pad and made a list. Barrenness, hopelessness, bouts with fear, anxiety, hatred, anger at self, seldom feel personal satisfaction or fulfillment, insecurity, inferiority, feeling of conflict whether I act on it or not, questionable family history, feeling a lack of self-worth. In bold letters, he wrote "NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" on the legal pad.

"Well, that takes care of my personal resume," he derisively laughed. Then he thought about his professional life. Little fulfillment. Every step forward is contested—even minor things at church demand a major battle. Hatred for natives. (He remembered the line from the missionary: "I love mission work, it's just the natives I don't like.")

Gil thought about his work schedule. He seldom was off the clock. He wasn't always "working" but his mind never quit. He was thinking about work 24/7. He could never relax and remove himself. When people complained that he did not put in enough hours, he couldn't figure out how that could be possible. His morning usually started about 3:00 when his mind reminded him of a project or some need that hung in limbo with no apparent solution regardless of what resource he consulted.

There was always someone bitching about something. Some didn't reach the bitching level. It just seemed criticism was how business was done. "Oh, stuff it!" was what he wanted to say too often. Deep inside, Gil thought he could never meet the expectations. He didn't feel unqualified or ungifted. He often felt more like an errand boy or at everyone's beck and call. No matter how many hours, or what was done there was always a mountain of work that was not yet done, or something inadequately done. Most of all, very little of his own best thinking and the thinking of the best minds in his industry, ever produced much.

"God, I feel alone. I am isolated. I am in constant despair. I don't think I'm discouraged, but I don't accomplish much and I'm capable of producing much. Maybe I'm depressed." He muttered to himself. "There is no one to talk to. If I told my district man, it would go on my permanent record. It would influence assignments. If I talk to Amanda, she will freak out. If I talk to one of the elders, he wouldn't have a clue what to say. I have no one to talk to."

He hit the Enter key again and the Googled Elijah brought up 1 Kings 17:2. Elijah did not add many people to his support list when his prayers stopped the rain. He became a fugitive.

"Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah, 'Leave here, turn eastward and hide in the Kerith Ravine, east of the Jordan. You will drink from the brook, and I have ordered the ravens to feed you there."

Gil read and thought through the Elijah-Ahab conflict, the battle with the Prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel and then his flight for life when Jezebel threatened him. "You are dead meat. By tomorrow night." Like before, he found a place to sleep and recoup energy. He really was wrung out. "...sat under a tree and prayed to die. I have had enough, Lord. Take my life." [3]

Again, Gil picked up his pen and wrote: Elijah was alone, isolated, intimidated, exhausted and feeling negative emotions—despair, depression, discouragement.

Across the page Gil wrote the words, "Burned out." He underlined them and then circled them.

"I am burned out! Alone, isolated, intimidated, exhausted and feeling all the negative words." He tossed the pen onto his desk, put his hands behind his head while leaning back in this office chair. What do I need?

**>** A tribe of Ravens—people to talk to about my gut. Those who know me well enough to honestly say with credibility where I need to change, grow, let go, release, invest my best efforts **.**

**>** An angel who can cook—I need spiritual food to feed my hunger. A song to sing.

**>** Satisfying rest—relaxation. A hobby?

**>** Accomplishment, fulfillment, personal satisfaction. Maybe I'm in the wrong business.

He pushed away from self-scrutiny and read Isaiah 61. He made notes for his Sunday message. As the printer kicked out page four, he saw the business card. "The Depot." That is what he needed—some green fields instead of barrenness.

"...a garland instead of ashes,

The oil of gladness instead of mourning

The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting."[4]

"What are doing?" Amanda asked as she knocked on the door. "May I come in?"

"Of course!" You don't have to ask, unless, of course, you plan to organize my space. The last time you did that, well, I haven't found most of the stuff you 'put away' including the cat."

"You don't usually close the door. You alright?"

"Protecting myself from a woman with an idea about organizing my office. I've just changed preaching plans for tomorrow. After I deliver the new message, we are out of here. I called Southwood. Told them we were coming. Get that skirt hemmed?"

"There wasn't any skirt. Virginia wanted to talk. Did you know she was leaving town? I bet you didn't. Felt to me like she decided all of a sudden. She's going to San Jose for a few days. Says she has a friend there. Wouldn't say whether it was a man or woman—she cares deeply about whoever it is. Never heard her talk like that before. She hugged me goodbye. And kissed me. Gil, she's almost as good a kisser as you are."

"She really kissed you? Like, kissed you?"

"It wasn't tonsil hockey!" She kissed me goodbye—like a close friend. A whole lot more tender and loving than I usually get from friends. She gave me this quote from _Lord of the Rings_.

The fates chose her

A fellowship will protect her

Evil will pursue her.

"She tell you what that meant? Why it is important to her?" Gil asked as he handed the small piece of light gray paper back to his wife.

"I don't know if she was high or what. Uncharacteristic of her, she was melancholy and reflective. She said she always wondered about what a church was supposed to be—no, that's not what she said—she said she always wondered what a 'fellowship' could be if it was all it was supposed to be."

"She explain?"

"I asked her what such a fellowship would provide for her, or be for her—something like that. She said such a fellowship would fight for her and show that she was worth fighting for. Second, she said..." Amanda paused. "Obviously, she has been thinking about this a lot. She said 'That group would tell me I have strengths, gifts, talents that they recognize and celebrate. They would be specific and keep reminding me that I bring more strength than weakness to the party.'"

The office hushed.

"Honey, have we ever been in a fellowship like that?" Gil sat in his black office chair thinking. He felt the emptiness that had become too familiar. If not constant, it was a frequent visitor—a void that contradicted what he preached, how he understood the New Testament description of Kingdom life and what he and Amanda needed. And what Virginia Holloway longed for.

"No," he answered. "And I don't know where I would tell our neighbor to find such a fellowship. 'Worth fighting for.' 'You have gifts and strengths that enrich us all.' What wonderful words to have spoken into your ears. Into your heart."

Amanda walked to the window. "We have never known anyone like Virginia. She is the person our pastors told us to stay away from. She is the picture postcard of the pagan world. Gil, I love her. She is worth fighting for! I sensed as she and I talked that she is fighting for us. How can that be?" Her husband lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. "Do you think we have any more joy than she has? Peace? I was reading Deuteronomy this morning—the covenant chapter—twenty-eight. Your messages on the Kingdom sound like they could use this chapter as text. We can't quite get into the benefits and I wonder why?"

Gil had a clue. He didn't know how to say it without destroying the moment and all he was going to say from the pulpit. He had wondered ever since the TV preacher named Marshall had preached on Jezebel 21st Century. Could that be what blocked them from all Kingdom benefits?

He looked at his wife and felt ashamed that his curses and heritage had cost her so much. Her spiked hair was an in-your-face act. No committee or ad hoc group would dictate her style or preferences. She would never smoke a cigar or drink beer on the front steps of the parsonage; she would never speak disrespectfully of the church's traditions or be an embarrassment to the people to whom her husband preached and prayed for, but neither would she consult with any of them about hair color or who to go with to the theatre.

After a few moments, Amanda observed "fields are green." She turned away from the window and moved toward him. She shifted his chair and sat on his lap. "Want to play tonsil hockey?"

"Is that in Deuteronomy twenty-eight?" he asked.

"Before we get into trading spit..."

"You know that thought is sure to kill any thoughts of intimacy I have. Trade spit? Sure!"

"Now that the moment is past," Amanda said as she climbed off her husband's lap, "was there a specific reason why you bid on that specific eBay mystery box?"

Gil stood up and walked to the window to examine the green fields. "Yes. The description picture shows a name stenciled on the crate." He waited a moment then handed his wife a sheet of paper. "Look at the extreme right hand corner of the box."

"Adams," she said after closer examination. "Since your family name is on the box, you think it was meant for you?"

"Maybe," he shrugged in his typical way of saying it's worth a shot even if I'm wrong.

# Chapter 5

When Felicia told Charlie that Gil and Amanda Adams had booked a couple of weeks at Southwood, Charlie was flooded with memories of the day at the convention, the trip home and the days that followed.

"It was a 'Mary Moment,'" Charlie remembered explaining to Brent after getting home from the convention.

"What is a 'Mary Moment?'" Brent asked.

"You know, a voice telling you what to do. As in the angel suddenly appeared to Mary and said..." Charlie looked at Brent and decided he had told him enough.

Brent lifted his head in half-a-nod added to a smirk. "And this voice said you were to move the little house to the top of Jefferson Hill? And you were hijacked by God who used a bad stomach ache..."

"All right, you dumb jerk! You've had your fun. I'm telling you what I heard. I believe it was from God. I'll hire the movers myself. Just tell me that you and Buddy will back me on this. One more thing. It is not 'the little house' like Little House On The Prairie, it is the Lyttle House. L-Y-T-T-L-E! The Lyttle family pioneered most of this land. They built the house after living two winters in a sheep wagon. The Lyttle House is old enough to be on The National Registry. We've been so wrapped up in Southwood, then Bethany's House that we've neglected the valuable house. If I hadn't put a roof on it last summer there wouldn't be a house to move."

"Let's go look at it." Brent liked to pull Charlie's chain. Sometimes, he was a bit sadistic in pulling too hard. Charlie had told him more than once it was not smart fooling with someone with a Black Belt and a license to carry a gun.

"Diarrhea, huh?"

"Only half as bad as I'm praying you get."

"God watches after His own. Don't touch His anointed."

"Have you ever been caressed on the side of your head with a Billy club? Perhaps pepper sprayed on your private parts?" Charlie had other threats ready to hurl, but he tired of the game. "Get your butt in the pickup. How your wife puts up with your behavior is..."

Charlie glanced at his friend and saw that he had torn a scab.

"Probably, so what?" Brent moaned and went silent.

"Sorry, Brent." Bantering gone one comment too far.

The CEO of Southwood absent-mindedly buckled his seat belt and didn't respond. Finally, he waved his hand as instruction to move. Charlie sat behind the wheel looking at the buckled seatbelt for the two block trip across the pasture.

"Let's go see the Lyttle House." Brent said motioning with his hand again.

"It is pronounced 'Little,' it is just spelled like 'Lye.'" Charlie knew the chain had been pulled one more time, but he didn't flinch. No use chalking up one more point for the opposition.

Buddy was inside the house. A legitimate craftsman, Buddy, aka Lawrence (or vice-versa) he had been briefed in the weekly staff meeting about moving the building.

"I can't believe a family lived in a house this small. Hardly more than one room. Makes you wonder if they had any privacy at all and when they..."

"Had sex?" Brent asked.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Buddy responded.

"Can't say that I've given it much thought," Charlie answered.

"That explains some of Della's recent comments." Charlie looked at Brent and wondered if that was meant to be funny or pay back. He decided he would laugh and let it go. Brent was primed for a fight, or something. Charlie decided he wasn't going to take the bait.

"We'll jack it up, put skids under her. Bracing the interior and some exterior structural bracing should keep it from coming apart. Charlie, explain to me again why we are supposed to do this."

"Don't know. All I heard was to move it."

Buddy ran his hand over the woodwork and grunted appreciation. He then pulled a photocopy out of his pocket.

"Look at this. County historians say this house was modeled after the original house that became Thomas Jefferson's Monticello."

"No wonder they named that Jefferson Hill," Charlie nodded toward the house's destination. "Man, look at the windows in the picture."

"The framing is still here," the craftsman said. "They bricked in the windows to keep the house warmer—anyway, that's my bet. We will special order glass from the lumberyard. If we can get Brent's approval."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Brent bristled.

Buddy looked at Charlie then at Brent. "You guys have a fight about something?"

"What's going on, Brent? You've been edgy and at me all morning. You got something to say?"

Brent scowled at both of his friends for a prolonged minute and then walked to the door, standing there looking across the valley.

"Brent?"

"No. I'll be alright. Sorry about the bad mouth. Has nothing to do with either of you. Just need some space."

"Sure you don't want to talk?" Charlie held out the olive branch.

"Nah. When can we get this moved?" With business and conversation ended, Brent walked through the valley floor next to the creek into the Southwood Mansion's backyard.

The three men had learned about masculinity in the few years they had worked, lived and ministered together. Each brought baggage and wounds to the relationships. Each had learned to express affection, be companions, hold each other accountable and invest in the other two. Allowing someone to walk away was uncommon, but as they grew to know each other they knew when to force the issue and when to let him walk. This time, Charlie and Buddy silently watched their friend trudge toward the Mansion.

"Whatever," Buddy said as he went back to measuring and drawing.

"Uh huh." Charlie had no task or tape measure, so he leaned against the door casing and stared in the direction Brent walked.

Buddy had walked away a lot more than Charlie. Because of his badge, Charlie had learned to stay until the conflict was resolved, but then he carried blood stains on his shirt and in his gut. His colleague—calculating where to nail framing so as not to destroy the interior—usually started the fight and then being too drunk to finish it, he would walk to wash blood off his hands and face before finding a place to sleep it off. By the time to drink again, he had forgotten the reason for the conflict in the first place. At least, that was the best ending scenario. But all that had changed.

Brent was no longer on his mind. "I think we'll put her on skids, slide her onto a low boy and haul her around the back side of the hill."

"How do you know the house is a "her?"

"The house is always a lady." Buddy smiled.

Charlie was stuck in his remembering. "And so, that was how the Lyttle House was moved" he said loud enough for Felicia to hear him.

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

"Just remembering those days after I met Gil. We were in some dark waters. Remember?" Felicia went back to her work. Charlie went back to remembering. He remembered that The Lyttle house was like a new puppy. People loved it, petted it and watched it. It chewed up the soil when it was moved, and it chewed up time until it was in place, the cathedral windows installed and the interior repaired and painted.

Jan—motivational speaker and resident horticulturalist—repaired the marred land, planted perennials and several trees. The pony tail and ball cap became a trademark identifying her on her knees around the house. Eventually, it became a logo for her ministry. Her morning ritual shifted. First, she jogged and then without changing her damp shirt she pulled on gloves to work on the flower gardens. She loved the early daylight, but these mornings dawned seriousness. The cotton work gloves were more like surgical gloves to dig into Kingdom soil. The dirt smudges on her nose and cheekbones never made it to the logo, but they were constant. She had a habit of rubbing her cheeks with the backside of her hand when the praying gave way to thinking. Something was being born in those morning plantings and she was chosen to bear the labor pains.

Charlie continued to remember.

# Chapter 6

Charlie remembered walking to the Lyttle house almost every day. It had been moved and renovated, but there it sat on Jefferson Hill. He felt self-conscious about having pushed so hard to get it moved immediately. He wondered if he had misheard the instructions. He had been obedient to the voice. When he doubted himself, he dismissed the doubt by rebuking the accuser. But, sometimes, his hesitancy troubled him.

"There is the evidence of a pair of shorts." He said out loud to himself that which he would never say that to anyone else, but those white Fruit of the Loom's ridiculously satisfied him. God spoke. He obeyed.

Allowing Brent to walk away had not been easy for Charlie. He had watched his friend walking along the creek. Charlie would remember that was the beginning of several weeks that Brent's mood was dark and he carried a weight no one could help him with.

Preacher Putnam remembered that Brent's funk expanded. His eyebrows pulled low; he snapped at everyone and just felt like crap most of the time. He was glad The Kingdom Ladies were on tour. No one on the Southwood team was reluctant to ask, "What's going on with you?" Florence asked with a kinder tone than Buddy did, but she asked. And kept asking.

"Mr. Brent, you are carrying something mighty heavy. Want some help with it?" She took care of him. She guarded him and carried his burdens as if they were her own. He was her apostle. Brent was surrounded by strong women and this one poured into him something every time she poured his coffee. And he paid attention! He knew her intent and the Father's workings. A Spirit-filled believer never just pours a cup of coffee.

Buddy, on the other hand, grew weary of Brent making a career of whatever was going on. He of all people should have understood the quietness. "Why don't you go crawl into the tunnel and not come out until you get over what's eating at you? Having you absent would give us all a break." The jabs were varied and colorful, but always carried a linked question. "Want me to go with you?"

Phillip seldom missed a morning at Southwood. He checked locks, walked the prayer path and waited for assignments. He loved the hot days when his high forehead glistened with sweat. It made him feel like he was at home in the Sudan. Since the early days of Southwood when he was the only helper alongside Brent, Brent was his man. Father and friend. His respect was deep, his teasing was outrageous. His remarks sucked the air out the room as the teen talked trash. He tip-toed along the line, but never crossed it.

On one of those mornings when he was checking locks, Brent called to him.

"Phillip! Let's go out to the Lyttle House." The two had walked the prayer path, climbed ladders, stalked the Holy Spirit from troubled spots, court houses and the Room of Mirrors. Brent didn't want to go without him.

"Phillip, a long time ago you told me about a Sunday morning when you picked up a child and wanted to protect the little one..."

"Yes. So she could hear my heart beating and know that someone would always be there to protect and love her...someone would be there to hear and hold her when she cried."

"I knew what you were talking about. It wasn't an unknown description. I have been experiencing it for weeks. A four-year old named Aaron." The staccato phrases said it all.

These two knew each other. Phillip had direct insight into the man. At times, they seemed to be connected at the soul. Phillip knew that was all he was going to hear for the moment.

"What's at the Lyttle House, Mr. Brent?"

"I don't know. It just felt like you and I were supposed to "go outside the camp" and meet the Lord."

"Kinda like Moses and Joshua and the Tent of Meeting," Phillip commented.

Brent's pace slowed as he thought that over and then he stopped. The suggestion was so audacious he couldn't process it and walk at the same time.

No one knew what furniture to put into the Lyttle House. No one knew what it was to be used for. It had a small rug Jan put there to wipe her feet. Someone had put a lawn chair inside the door, then added plastic lawn chairs. When he finished the interior, Buddy left a partial sheet of three-quarter inch plywood across a pair of saw horses. Like Charlie, the house waited for instructions.

"Let's go to the Lyttle House," became an invitation into the presence of God. For weeks, people at Southwood walked to the windows to watch Brent and Phillip walking out to the Lyttle House. Then, they began to move onto their porches to watch the two. A third act in the play found staff and residents watching, wondering and then worshipping. The call to worship and the presence of God was like an alarm clock. A blowing of the ram's horn.

"What do they do out there?" Florence asked Della.

Della responded, "I knew this was going to happen. That house is a modern Tent of Meeting. They go to 'enquire of the Lord.' I read it early one morning when I couldn't sleep. Exodus 33."

"What do they enquire about?"

"For starters, I think whatever has been in Brent's craw."

"Charlie went with them yesterday morning. He says the presence of God that is in that room was almost like a fog. A cloud. Some visible display of presence."

"Too spooky for me. I'm going to finish breakfast. Looks like Mr. Brent is coming in. I guess Phillip is staying there." Florence shivered and went to her kitchen—her safe place.

"Doesn't surprise me!" Della said to herself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Charlie! Where are you?" Charlie's remembering was ended abruptly. "You've been sitting there day dreaming or sleeping with your eyes open." Felicia brought her coffee and Della into the room. Her words brought Charlie back to the moment—at least temporarily.

"Been thinking about last summer when we moved the Lyttle House up onto Jefferson Hill. Those were strange and difficult days. I didn't know if Brent and I would ever figure out what was going on. Things began to shift at Southwood. Remember?"

Remember, they did. Della remembered watching Brent coming up the hill that morning and hearing, "Felicia, Brent is coming in from the Lyttle House. Looks like he's got a message. Have you talked to him since we got home?"

"We said hello. He's gotten weird in his dotage." She looked at Della and mischievously smiled.

"Morning, Sweetheart. Hi, Della. Will you call everyone for a meeting as soon as possible. Let's do lunch at that picnic table over there. Will you have Florence bring us something—you decide. Felicia, I'm sorry to rush off, but I'm going to the office to make phone calls. I'll see you at lunch. We'll want a report on the tour." He kissed his wife on the cheek and left on a trot toward the office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"So, here's the deal. I want you to know about Aaron. He is four years old, has been in twenty-six foster homes. You do the math. The state has given up on him. 'Troubled,' they call him, but his foster aunt says he's bright, extremely intelligent with a warm heart. He's been abused and headed for a lifetime of institutionalization. I've asked the courts and child services to have him assigned here. It didn't take much convincing. They do want to talk to Cheryl." Brent was talking faster than twice his normal speed. He took a drink of tea, got up from the bench and started walking back and forth—which was a clue he was stressed and ready to launch something.

"Cheryl, can we handle the kid's needs?"

"Let me see, Brother Brent, I know that he is four and he has heard the word 'Goodbye,' more often than 'Good Mornin'. I don't know if he has medical issues, mental problems that need drugs and why he was in so many foster homes. Is he an arsonist?"

"I don't know! How can the state pull the plug on a four-year old? Why didn't they just send him to the pound? If nobody claimed him, they could put him to..."

"Brent, you've been beside yourself for weeks."

"Listen, Ole Friend, let's you and me go to the Mulberry this afternoon. You need to relax." Buddy was shielding him from too many questions.

"What is your best guess? Cheryl?"

"You tell me what you're hearing from God."

"Brent," Della stood. "You've been enquiring of the Lord?" Everyone knew what she was talking about. He had been to the Lyttle House. It may have been mysterious, but this group was perceptive enough to know when God had settled in to talk, with or without a cloud or pillar of fire. No one at this table would be willing to bet there had been neither.

"I have enquired. It seems to me the boy is to come here. We can offer our brand of love; we will prophesy a future into him that the Holy Spirit will reveal. The boy needs stability which the troops here can provide. Cheryl can guide us in psychological needs and we will deal with the demonic element that must be in him."

Cheryl smiled then laughed out loud. "How soon can you get him here?"

"Della, why don't you call the courthouse movers and power brokers. They'll take your word. Cheryl, being a licensed child therapist can be his official guardian."

"Honey, what is it about Aaron that is motivating you?"

"Felicia, I wrestled with this during your road trip. When Charlie came home from that conference and told us we were supposed to move the Lyttle House up onto Jefferson Hill, something in me shifted. I'm sorry I'm so dense or can't grasp more quickly. We haven't had a meeting place. We've had rooms called chapels. We have a chapel at the Depot. It was kinda like Haggai hearing God say the full move of His supply depended upon the people being as concerned about His house as their own. I really wanted to argue with that. His house has been very important to us. But, something just kept pushing me. Why did God tell Charlie to move that house up on the hill? Why did I feel the onset of a heavy battle that tore at my deepest core? Why did God tell Charlie and not me? Wasn't I listening? Couldn't I hear anymore?"

Brent picked up his Bible off the picnic bench seat. "The other day, Phillip and I went to the Meeting House and I came out with John 16:12-13 sticking in me."

" _I have much to say to you, more than you can now bear._

But when He, the Spirit of truth, comes,

He will guide you into all truth."

"There was more to it. The moment Charlie said, 'Lyttle House,' I knew something was changing or we needed to change. In spite of Charlie's insistence it was L-Y-T-T-L-E, I kept feeling L-I-T-T-L-E. I couldn't get a grip on what that was about. One day last summer or fall when Phillip and I were praying in the Meeting House, Jan was outside working on another garden when we arrived. That girl gets dirty and she sweats! She came in and said she wanted to pray for us. She didn't pray, she prophesied into us; she demanded blockages be removed.

"I left, Jan went back to the flowers and Phillip stayed in the house. From there I walked through the orchard and realized since we opened Bethany Lodge, God's call has been to the little people. If you recall, Buddy's vision was about little ones. That was the day I heard about Aaron. When you are thrown away by child services, you don't get 'more little' than that."

Lawrence had been silent through the entire meal. He slowly stood and started to sing,

' _These are they who have come through great tribulation,_

they have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb.'

Aaron. Twenty-six foster homes. Four years old. Tribulation. Another little one about to come home. Lawrence, aka Buddy didn't sing solo long. A choir of singers, preachers, teachers, cooks, therapists and a tall teenage Sudanese joined in with the prettiest harmony.

"We need to start marketing ministry for people like Aaron's foster aunt who is exhausted, depleted and needing to be re-charged. We've done a great job with preachers and professionals. We've done a good job with bed and breakfast for married couples, but this is something new. Training care-givers, providing fellowship for them."

When lunch broke up, just in time for mid-afternoon coffee, the vision had been stated. Aaron would reach age eighteen as a member of the family. A place to belong. An empathetic context. A safe environment. The heart wound healed and this lad would be equipped to live productively in a secular world as an example of a Kingdom person living the abundant life.

"We are going to write all those stories down," Charlie said. "Felicia, there are stories to tell." He had remembered those days and written the details of interaction and the moving of the Lyttle House into his journal and scraps of paper. "Another story to watch and write. 'Little Ones @ The Lodge.'"

"You don't have time to write today. Gil Adams and wife are here. Do you have time to get them settled in your old digs? The Apartment at the Depot. They should have a fine experience there. I hope the sounds of soldiers' boots and children don't startle them."

"Feels odd to have new people living in what was Della and my home. Sure. Let's do it." Charlie was still making notes in his proposed booklet about the Lyttle House—the new Tent of Meeting. Then he closed his journal. He was finished thinking about what had been and now was in the present. With a resolute "Later!"

# Chapter 7

"Gil Adams. Do we have a Gil Adams on the grounds?" Sally burst into the Southwood office complex with the energy of a freshly opened bottle of shaken pop.

"Mornin' Sweetheart. People like you scare me this early in the morning. Y'all on something illegal or you just naturally disgustingly excited at this hour?" Adrienne's default manner was to seldom let anyone know her feelings or present mood.

The women looked at each other as if east was trying to comprehend west. Sally, a native of the Sudan, whose features were dominated by tall, black, natural, enthusiastic and thin. She was wearing her brown UPS uniform. From a Sudanese refugee camp to the freezing streets of Minneapolis and then "adopted" by a wealthy jeweler who sent her to this far end of the earth to be his business representative. That was Sally's first chapter at Southwood.

"Adrienne, you are a case. How you can stand a whole day in an office is beyond me. I about went crazy those months in my office. When UPS offered me a job, I felt like Moses had called. Liberation had come! Have you seen the sun this morning? Did you notice the flowers that Jan planted out front? It is a luscious morning."

"Oh, please! You _are_ on something illegal!" Adrienne, on the other hand, was not given to activity that would make one sweat or lift or move fast. Anything natural was avoided. She was into sunscreen, air conditioning, dark shades and sweetened tea. There was nothing natural about her hair color, lift-up bra or exaggerated southern accent. She was not phony; she just had a taste for the bizarre and outrageous.

"Sally, Sweetheart, I'm glad you are you. I love every ounce of you. Now, I don't have to be anything like you. Sweetie, you do you good." Both women had dark roots.

"I love you Adrienne —even at his hour." More than one person had fallen for the dumb blonde act and appearance. Adrienne picked their pockets while they recovered from being smitten by the syrupy "Y'all." She was a mass of contractions. Proficient got its name from her.

"Gil Adams arrived yesterday. He and his wife—Amanda. You have something for him?"

"A crate from an eastern seaboard company with eBay connections. I didn't want to lug it in here if—I am curious what's in this box. Maybe Brent will tell me. At least our beloved leader will tell me why a Gil Adams got this box at Southwood."

While Adrienne sorted through the less mysterious UPS deliveries, Sally pushed the crate into the office on a two-wheel truck.

"You said it was a box. It smells like a lobster crate. You sure it's not a shipment of fresh lobsters?" Sally listened to the question and realized how irritating the southern girl act was. The high-pitched tone that ended simple statements with a hormonal question made her want to slap the hair color right off this woman's head. Sally was among the world's kindest people, but Adrienne had mannerisms that tempted her to do things that Jesus would not want to know about.

"It looks nothing like a lobster crate! It is three times the size of a lobster crate and with no air holes. Whole alligators could be shipped in that crate. It just smells like lobsters. Looks to me more like an armament case from the Civil War. It's heavy. Maybe a small canon. It sure is bulky. And old. Revolutionary War," Sally suggested. "Adrienne, you better put on your gloves. You'll break a fingernail or get a splinter, or get bitten by one of the phantom giant lobsters." Still intrigued and looking for a way to find what the contents were, she asked if Gil Adams was on the second floor of the Southwood mansion.

"Felicia put them in the Depot apartment. Sally, I'll make sure you are the first one to know what Mr. Adams tells us is in the box."

"Adams. See the name is stenciled on the box. That is not new. Even the print style looks old. Well, I've been here too long. I've made too many left hand turns this morning. Got to go. See you at the meeting tonight?"

Sally could deliver a thousand packages and not give a thought to their contents, but this box said "Intrigue!" Had she delivered it to the lumber yard, there would have been no questions, but the Maine shipping label and a Southwood delivery had unearthed her dormant imagination.

# Chapter 8

"You've been up for hours. Did you rest at all?"

"This old depot makes a lot of noises in the dark! A person doesn't need much of an imagination to hear people running through this depot on the way to catch a train. If you are real quiet, you can hear the squeals of children running into the arms of parents after they've been away at grandma's house. It is not spooky here at night. The hallways and waiting rooms are filled with people. I could feel the soldiers milling around waiting for the train to take them home after the Petersburg Courthouse surrender."

"If the tracks were not blown up or torn apart by the Union army during the battle for Richmond," Amanda interrupted.

"It wasn't just in the 1860s. I heard soldiers on their way home from World War I. Iwo Jima vets disembarking from the trains to the greetings of families and town people."

"Gil, you have one huge imagination. The look on your face. You heard those sounds, didn't you?" Amanda looked at her husband. This was one of the times when he tuned into another day. "I didn't believe in time travel until I met you. I still don't, but you make it more difficult all the time. Either that or the Depot is haunted."

"I think those experiences just revisit this place." He wasn't about to surrender the experience of what he had read about this building where so many hellos and goodbyes had been spoken.

"Felicia gave me a photocopy of a newspaper article. It is about children in Adrienne's family who would have come through these halls sometime in the 1940s or 50s.

From Milestone, Canada, Eva Humphrey, aged 9 years, and little brother Irwin, 5 years old came alone from the interior of Canada.

During the long trip the two little ones had made their way solely through the direction of the girl. She acted as mother, and managed herself and brother on the journey. In her possession was a note which contained the names of the pair, and the addresses of people whom they intended to visit. They carried a large market basket loaded with lunch, and from this they ate their meals.

"Nine-years-old! Can you imagine putting your kids on a train to visit family in a different country a thousand miles away?" Amanda shuddered. "Or putting them on a train knowing you would never see them again?"

"After last night, I think I can. Those may have been the children I heard squealing. Sitting in what is now the sanctuary, I felt like kneeling or standing with raised hands. The echoes of preaching and singing mingle with the sounds of soldiers' boots and sorrowful farewells. To hear the hum of a functioning church in this structure with so many testimonies—these walls have witnessed history past and history being made." The hum of computers and standby lights on studio equipment made Gil wonder if the depot was ever confused by the contradictory sounds. He couldn't describe what he felt as he viewed the Depot itself and calculated what it had seen and hosted. Exhilaration? Exhaustion?

"Okay! Okay! I'll sit down and be quiet now." He started to sit, but first went to make his morning coffee.

"Oh, great. Caffeine is exactly what you need." Amanda's jabbing sarcasm with a smile drained some of the adrenalin from the atmosphere.

"Woman," he sarcastically responded in kind, "I see you've found a chair that fits you and you've been at your morning Bible reading."

"Gil, I love this place! Felicia acted like she had a directive from God to put us in this apartment."

"Two weeks. We are here for two weeks. Sure is perfect timing for us. Charlie and Della moving into their new house over on the hill. Now they are at home on Southwood full time and don't need this apartment. I don't know if I'll be able to leave."

"We'll have to. The food supply is limited. Did you get a campus map?" Amanda asked.

The predominant campus structure is the Southwood Mansion with its porches and columns. Surrounded by an iron fence and a drive that circles huge trees that look like they may been started from cuttings from the Garden of Eden. A blacktop service road angles off the drive along the property down through the mansion back yard across a creek toward The Depot. Most traffic reached the refurbished train depot by a county blacktop between the mansion and Bethany Lodge. The Depot was a strong five minute walk across the creek foot bridge from the mansion.

"Gil, did you step out onto the back second story deck of the mansion?"

"I did while you and Felicia were in the widow's watch. From the deck you can see most of the property. The two buildings to the left—about a hundred yards away—that's a barn where the tour bus is sheltered. Half of the building is packed with building materials. The other building has the 'vault' where the red Corvette is stored. Part of that building houses a shop filled with tools and work benches." He pointed to the creek winding northeast to southwest under several pedestrian bridges and two bridges for autos.

"If you follow the creek around that hill, you'll see Bethany Lodge. The lodge is to the west up on the hill overlooking the creek valley. Just out of our sight is the Lyttle House on the depot side of the creek on Jefferson hill. Brent says it sits on a ridge below the prayer pathway running at the crest of the hills behind the depot."

"So," Amanda said as she traced her finger along the map, "the property has two major highlands. To the west, Southwood Mansion and Bethany Lodge sit on that high ground. Those facilities are connected by the highway we came in on. And to the east is the prayer path that begins at a tunnel—which really was an underground section of the so-called railroad—and ends at the other end of the series of hills at the Lyttle House?"

"That's how I understand it. Two weeks. Have we ever been anywhere for two weeks—I mean in a place like this? Did Felicia tell you about the vision Brent had up in the widow's watch? It reminded me of 'build it and they will come.' They did and they do. To be renewed and healed. Filled again. To find fresh perspective and to hear the stories of what God is doing here. To be healed. That says what most come here anticipating."

"Yes. Just like us."

# Chapter 9

"Mr. Adams, your eBay shipment is by the door. Sally brought it early this morning."

"Sally?"

With a smile, Adrienne explained Sally. "She is the UPS driver, a member of the Southwood team—actually one of the founders. She knows everybody; if anything is going on she knows who is involved and what's at stake. She is about as un-nosy as any person I've met, but she is painfully curious about your crate."

"Great!" The irony of the UPS driver's interest and involvement was not lost on the man. "I was hoping to keep this little purchase a secret."

"Not many secrets at Southwood," the lady purred. "I wondered if that was a crate of lobsters—kinda looks like a lobster trap, don't you think? Too big, 'though, and no slats." She was fishing.

"Slats?"

"You know. To let the lobster look out. Have you seen a lobster trap?"

"No ma'am. We don't get many lobsters in the plains where I'm from. That big boy looks heavy. I'm guessing rather than a lobster box, it comes from a ship yard in Southern Maine. Same wood. It smells like it has been floating in the ocean and seaweed. It smells like fish, I'll give you that."

"You aren't going to tell me what's in the box, are you? Secret and all."

"I don't know what is in the box."

"An early Christmas gift from someone?"

"No." He looked at the woman in charge of the office. He hadn't noticed how pretty she was. When she had checked them in, he was anxious to get settled. She may as well have been posing as Amelia Earhart. He had already told her about as much as he knew. "I bought it from someone in Maine. They may have used the same kind of wood to build the box and lobster traps. It's been around for a few years, looks like. Bought it sight unseen—an estate purchase from a company that buys up abandoned storage units—stuff like that. May be a box of air." He looked at Adrienne again, noted the uplift and decided his story was going to be widely discussed. "I bought it for $100. Think I made a good choice?"

"You'll soon know. Hundred-dollar boxes. Hmmm. Can't buy them at K-Mart. My guess is you'll need a crow bar or flat bar to open it. Do you know where the tools are? In the tool shed over yonder?" She didn't flutter her eyelashes, but her voice did. She pointed in the general area, and in doing so she stretched her shirt tightly across the now accentuated uplift. "Someone should be out there fixing something. They'll help you find what you need. You'll need a two-wheeler to get the mystery box to your apartment. In that closet." She pointed and uplifted again. She may as well have gone ahead and sung, "I Am Woman!"

Five minutes from the mansion to the depot. A few more if you stop to examine a wooden crate along the way. "Adams" was prominently engraved on the right hand corner of one side just like the picture had shown. Nothing rattled or bounced. He ran his hand over what he assumed was the top. It had not been opened for a long time, perhaps not since it had been nailed shut.

"Did you buy a pig in a poke?" Amanda startled him. He was captured by the box with his family name on it.

"Pig in a poke? My guess? I bought a container of air. Heavy air! Let's get it to the apartment so we can find out. Can you drive this two-wheeler? I'm going to find a tool to open it."

"Look, Gil, if it is nothing more than a box, it has character. We'll use it as an end table...or something." Amanda was not at all reassuring and did not want to tease her husband. She knew that would not be wise. He was acting like he had bet a kidney on this. "Go! I'll meet you at the door. Do I need a license to drive this thing?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Are you as apprehensive as you seem?" The lady in the room was the lady of his life. She put her hand on his back to reassure him, but mostly just to connect. "I enjoyed making love with you this morning," she said. He smiled agreement. The phrase _making love_ was different than _having sex_. He was going to talk about it, but the crate needed to be opened.

"I don't want to mar this box. How do I get the top off without breaking boards or gouging wood?" He decided to use the sheep's claw the fellow in the shop gave him to pull the nails. He didn't want to trash an end table. Meticulously and cautiously he removed the nails and gently lifted the top as if he expected spiders and snakes to rocket out of the box.

"Paper packing. We bought a box of wadded newspaper. New York, early 1900s. Maybe it is worth something." He was not convincing. Nor was Amanda buying into his pessimism. She was digging in the box.

"Look at that!" You bought a box of unopened gifts. Presents. Obviously nothing fragile or heavy. Here's a tag. 'To Alice and Nick. Best wishes.' It is signed—I can't make out the name—but I can read 'Ambassador to Cuba.' These are wedding gifts! Who are Alice and Nick? Let's look at the rest of the packages."

Apprehension was replaced by anticipation. One by one the gifts were extricated from the old crate and placed on the table. If Gil's anxiety about money spent on and contents of the box had predominated its opening, it was Amanda's giggles and the assumption that they had struck a mother lode that now controlled the moment and filled the room.

"This one is labeled 'To Nickolas and Alice.' Brother Gil! You bought a box of someone's wedding presents. Nickolas and Alice who?"

# Chapter 10

"Gil! There is another package. Something wrapped in newspaper. Here. You open it."

"It's a book," he said as he measured the last secret from the box from Maine. Carefully unwrapping it, his breathing was less frequent than when they unpacked the presents. "It is a journal. Man! Look at the texture of this leather. Gold edging on the pages. Whoever crafted this made it to last."

"Who's it from?"

"In gold leaf imprinting. There are two names. Can't read them."

Six weeks ago I learned that my biological father is alive. At thirty years of age, I have lived half of those years thinking he was dead. "Killed by a raging bull in a pasture," Mother said. How many times did she tell us that? Now I rage. He didn't die, I am now told. He abandoned us. Left in the middle of the night. I walked to the pasture to thank the bull as often as Mother told us how he had died.

My brother Harold has returned home. He was eighteen, I was fifteen when Pa died—left. Harold has been gone more years than he was home. He told me he left before he killed Pa. He also believed the bull story until a year ago. He has not told me how he learned the truth, but Mother confirmed what he had been told. Why he didn't come home after Pa left is still his secret.

I also learned that Pa remarried and has six children with his second wife. I am told she is a godly woman and a good mother. She does not know the truth about who we are. The woman is my stepmother. I have six half-siblings. I was only momentarily stunned by the news about my brothers and sisters. I always felt I had family larger than people claimed.

My stepmother would be surprised by who I am. After being away many years, I have returned to the township to work. No one will remember me, not even Pa.

With this new journal, my life has entered a new phase—I have virtually become a different person. My plan is in place with a new name, new history, new job, and for the first time since Pa tore life out of me when I was a child, I have a reason to live.

I love the newspaper business and I am good at it. When I first heard the news that Pa was alive and where he lived, killing him was my only thought. I could do it with a gun. But why should I suffer more? Then I decided on a different course. Tell the story in newspaper articles. How many years I have rejected all things connected to church and faith. Pa was so good at quoting scripture while justifying his whoring, molestation and beating on Harold and Mother. He was cruel, mean and morally filthy. He lived like an animal. I wanted nothing to do with any God of which such a man would speak. My interviews with Father Vincent changed my view of God. He painted a different picture of God. I learned about fatherhood. It was at the Grange Hall meeting in Ohio where Mother moved after Pa's 'death' that I made a profession of faith. The very fact I attended the preaching of a traveling evangelist shocked even me. His message was straight forward. Had I written a journal in those days I would have assumed that preacher had been reading it. Jesus moved into my life—that night he moved from the front room into the dining room and then increasingly into each room.

It would be inaccurate to say my faith has come to life in just six weeks. Father Vincent's preaching the Good News to me over coffee and beer prepared me for the growth of recent weeks. (That series of articles—the Father Vincent interviews—got me a raise and state-wide recognition.) My relationship to God has changed me. I now have a far better objective. With this new life, I will become part of Pa's community and his family. I will tell the story in obscure ways that will benefit his grandchildren. I will invest in my brothers and sisters directly when I can. I've already suggested to Pa's sister that she buy a house in town. She works on the square part time. Her second husband left her enough money to buy the entire square. She works to stay connected to people and community. Her home will be a sanctuary for my siblings. My siblings' sons and daughters will learn the truth that affects them. I will tell the world about my stepmother. Pa could corrupt things just by touching them. Perhaps I can be God's hand to redeem. God will make things better through my touch. I will find ways to tell Pa's sister how to use her home as that sanctuary. If you are my kin, perhaps you'll get to visit that home. How fun that is to think about.

My job will give me a reason to be at every family gathering. As a reporter I can ask questions no one else would think or be permitted to ask. I will keep records of births, marriages, deaths, family reunions and gatherings that celebrate holidays and birthdays. My job is reporting community news and writing obituaries.

So, Pa—Jacob R. Adams, you are in my sights. You left us for dead. A hundred years from now we will be resurrected to a life that will be of the Lord's making. I put my real name to this as a covenant with God and His redemptive force.

Stella Adams

End Journal Entry # 1

# Chapter 11

"Getting up at four has become a bad habit. Shut your mind off and come back to bed."

"Can't."

"If you'll turn the light off, and quit making noise—I'll make it worth your while." Gil knew she was teasing."

"Did you hear the train whistle?" he asked the still body under the blankets.

"No. You did?" Amanda asked the question while pulling the blanket over her head.

"Several times. Same whistle. Same dream. Same sound of air pressure. The Pullman cars outside the depot were being pulled by an engine that called an all aboard. By the time I got onto the loading platform, the train was two or three blocks away. The dream ended each time with the back of the caboose pulling away from me with a man standing on the back of the training looking my direction, but not waving or saying anything. Just leaving."

"Does that mean anything to you?" She had pulled the blanket off her face and propped herself onto an elbow while adjusting her nightgown and then her hair.

"I don't want the train to leave without me. It seems to be! Pulling out of the station headed to a destination—I'm supposed to be on that train!" He could not lie down, he couldn't sit. "It is leaving without me." He climbed onto the bed and knelt there with his face in a pillow. Frantic—chasing the train that had built up enough steam he could never catch it.

Amanda was now fully awake. Perhaps if she changed the subject even slightly.

"I visited the Pullman cars yesterday. Jan has done a great job building an office in her Pullman. You saw the car that is used for sleeping—like an original. Felicia has an eye for design. Quaint and historically accurate. I don't know if Buddy's office was the first to be inhabited or Jan's. I don't think he has allowed any female to influence his decorating.

"I bet that drives his wife to distraction." Amanda continued to fill the air with words. "Cindy is such a classy lady—the way she dresses, talks and decorates her home. Buddy's ball cap is who he is whether he's sitting at his desk or driving the bus. Gil, have you noticed how a suit changes him? I bet he doesn't wear a suit into his office."

"Lord, whatever You are doing in this season, don't do it without me," Gil prayed into the pillow. "Lord! Whatever you are doing in this season, don't do it without me!" He struggled off the bed and knelt beside it and repeated the same words. If God would answer and resource that prayer everything else would fall into place. Isn't that what Jesus said, "Seek first the Kingdom and all these other things..." (Matthew 6:33). The silence was broken with intervals of pleading—"Lord, whatever You are doing in this season, don't do it without me." Finally, he was silent as if something had hit the kill switch—like on his lawnmower: let go of the bar and the engine shut off. The bedroom was quiet.

"Go back to sleep," he said as he kissed her on the cheek hoping she would be reassured by the kiss and not repulsed by his coffee breath. "I'm going to read. I'll wake you up about 6:30?"

Like going back to sleep was possible now.

Gil found his way into the living room, turned up the light next to his favorite chair and chose the book. He heard her singing/praying. "Pass me not O Gentle Savior, hear my humble cry. While on others you are calling, do not pass me by."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Unwrapped wedding gifts sat on the mantle, across book shelves and one in the middle of the table centered in the depot apartment living room. Whoever Nick and Alice were, their heirs would have to wait a few more days. Gil knew that those gifts had his name on them also. Even if he never opened one of them, he would gain a gift—probably gifts plural. At first, the gifts agitated him like he worried the Sacagawea dollar in his pocket that had become his fidget stone. Now, the sight of them was a reminder he had been gifted and perhaps he would soon know why. He smiled at that assurance and opened the leather bound journal. Another gift filled with intrigue and revelation from another generation.

Journal Entry # 2

Attended the seventeenth birthday party of my half-brother. The editor has gotten used to the detail I include in the human interest stories. Took him a while to understand why people were telling him how much they enjoyed what he thought were unnecessary words explaining who sat next to whom, what was served for lunch and what the guests did after they ate cake. I also took pictures of my second family. Last week, I went to their Sunday meal to ask about crops. Pa came in from the woods long enough to eat. I talked them into posing for a family picture.

Hopefully this photo will survive. In case it does not—the family is standing in front of a flower garden. Side by side and close, facing the camera straight on. All the children are now teens. They are not touching. Pa is to the right of the family about four or five feet away from them with his shoulder and back to the camera. If no other words were spoken; if no other pictures were taken, this would describe the family relationships. It would describe how the man with the bushy mustache and grimy hands related to his family.

I don't know what that old man does in the woods. His life has been spent in one cave, lean-to, thicket or hideout. He comes in from his pre-historic life to breed another child or collect a clean shirt, scream orders to his farm hands—who other men would call 'sons' and the woman who tends to the house and crops as he goes off somewhere to do something. In years past, he would leave the welts of his fingers across the face of a son. God knows how many times he left Harold with bruises on his cheek or razor strap burns on his butt. I doubt any of these boys would let such a blow go unanswered. Probably why he settles for vicious words.

The party was a success. I wrote: 'Out-of-door games were enjoyed and refreshments of lemonade, cake, fruit-salad and candy were served. The table centerpiece was a beautiful pink and white birthday cake upon which seventeen candles were burning. All reported a very fine time.' Not exactly prize winning writing, but one day a relative will read that and feel as if they also were present.

Seventeen years old. I often wonder what the abuse and rejection will do to these my half-brothers and sister. When the seventeen-year-old finished eighth grade, Pa told him whether he finished high school or not was up to him. Pa didn't care. But, Pa told him, if he decided to go to high school he would have to move out of the house. So, he did. He moved into town over the drug store. He got jobs in the drug store and the grocery store to pay rent and buy food. He moved out when he was fourteen. What shall become of him? I think his oldest brother will stay on the home place to protect his mother and build a life there.

I also wonder if Pa ever recognizes something in me. He looks at me sometimes—but it doesn't feel like friendly thoughts are going on behind his eyes—more like calculating things immoral. Any other man would notice, but the picture tells the story. He is aloof, removed, non-involved and detached. He is living in a world where he is the sun around which all others are to revolve at his discretion.

My brother served me a soda at the drugstore a day or so before the party. He trusts me. He will carry scars in his head and body, but this experience will make him tougher than if he had not experienced this hardship. The word around town from those who know him as a butcher and those who know him as a drug store helper is 'that boy will go far. He's got gumption and he is congenial and likeable.' Congenial and likeable—not a bad reputation for a fellow at seventeen.

Pastor looked at the picture and said, 'If any of those people ever feel secure, it will be because God gave them an unusual measure of grace. They will always feel like their father was on his way—some train to take him away from them, some buggy to escape—some automobile to run away to a strange bed or hide-out.'

I admire my stepmother and regret that I cannot tell her my secret. She brings something to that family that my mother could not. Mother was more fragile. A romantic. She expected her marriage to bring happiness and words of adoration and appreciation. My stepmother does not crumble under the cruel words or lack of attention. She pushes a stray piece of hair back into her bun and decides that old man will not see her cry or hear her ask for anything. My half-siblings will be successful.

Pastor also says God is at work in these teens. They will make money, serve God and wrestle with the Bible. He says they will have a heart for missions, minister to prisoners, start churches, play musical instruments and be connected to food industries. I don't know how Pastor knows those things. When I ask him, he laughs and says not all prophets are as good looking as he is, but he 'are one'. He thinks that is funny.

End of Journal Entry # 2

# Chapter 12

Gil pulled the attached red ribbon into the crease of the pages as he closed the journal. Why did this feel so personal? This woman spoke to his heart like a close loved one. His mother had communicated with him at this level, his sister had and Amanda did. Why this stranger? What did this Stella look like? A newspaper woman—did that demand she be tough and masculine? Was she pretty like Adrienne with untold secrets and changeable facades? Or was she like his next door neighbor? Since he connected with her, was she more like Amanda? Who was this woman and why had this crate of gifts and journal fallen into his lap?

"Are you alright?" Amanda asked.

"No." He put his hand on his forehead. "Nothing is right at the moment."

"Isn't it odd that someone with your family name would..." Amanda's eyes grew large as an idea gripped her mind. She picked up the wadded papers. New York newspapers, Maine newspapers, and a newspaper from one of the plains states. "Look what else is in the box. This newspaper look familiar to you?" Now, Gil's eyes grew large.

"Look to see if there are by-lines. Rebecca Change is listed on this lead article and on this page. Here is another article by her. You find any?"

He unfolded pages now yellowed and thin at the creases. "Here. Another. On this page. So Stella Adams' pen name was Rebecca Change."

"Not only her pen name, Stella _became_ Rebecca and lived in a town you know."

"And sent us messages in these newspaper articles and reports," he added.

Amanda's voice sounded far away. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment and then in a barely audible voice he said. "Jacob R. Adams. My grandfather's name was Jacob Adams. Jacob Randolph Adams. He was known in my family as Randolph. How many Jacob Randolph Adams can there have been in the world? In that township?" Gil felt weak. "It doesn't make any sense at all. This doesn't compute with what I know. My guess is that there were two Adams in the county. To keep from confusion one went by 'Jacob' and the other was called 'Randolph. That makes sense. It's hard to fathom, but this is the story of that other family. That's it! Granddad was "Jacob Adams when he was married to Stella's mother and Randolph when married to my grandmother."

"Of course. Your explanation is logical. But what a story! Are you going to read more?"

"Not today! We have an appointment with Charlie and Della for lunch and then we're going to a TV taping in the Depot auditorium. I'm emotionally drained." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to shower. Have you checked email since we got here? No? Why don't you do that while I shower. Then, I will answer any that demand a response while you get ready."

Gil Adams stepped out of the shower into a towel held by his wife.

"There's an email from your cousin you will want to read."

"Something wrong?"

"Go read it—better dry off first. Don't track water through the apartment."

"Dear Gil and Amanda. After our recent conversation, I asked my father about family dynamics. He told me that our grandfather had been married prior to marrying our grandmother. There were two children born in that first marriage. The two families of siblings never met. Dad said he didn't think our grandmother ever met or saw the first wife."

The news did not sink in. He read it again. "Do you realize what this means?" he asked. "Stella Adams aka Rebecca Change is my great aunt or half-aunt or step-aunt." Shaken and shaking, he felt disconnected and adrift. "What else do I not know?"

Immobile for several minutes, Gil flatly said he was going for a walk. Like most of those who lived on these grounds and those who visited, he climbed the hill and began to walk along the prayer path. "From the tunnel to the holy place," as Phillip said. The walk did not culminate in freedom. The thinking process drove Gil further into dark questioning.

"I didn't want you to be alone," Amanda said as she hooked her arm into his. "Do you want to talk about what's going on in your head?" He shrugged and looked into the far away.

He ran his fingers over the scar and quietly said, "I feel lost—as if I don't know who I am." They walked in silence hand in hand. "I know who I am with you."

"When I first heard Marshall teaching, something in me skipped a beat. Marshall was the speaker at the convention where I met Charlie. I have wondered, feared, assumed some things about me. When Marshall talked about himself, it almost confirmed my hunch and then I traced my history to where I could have embraced or invited that spirit. Straight shot to my grandfather. Hearing that he had been married before and abandoned his first two children—I don't know how or why—it cemented my fears."

"You've been faithful to your covenant with me, haven't you?"

"Yes. Absolutely. But there are other ways the spirit world pulls us into snares. I think I know when and what the circumstances were when that spirit could have become part of me."

"You're not responsible for your ancestor's behavior. What does this have to do with you? Are you over-reacting?"

"Don't know. I guess we'll know more in the next few days. Being here will give us a safe place to process this."

"I'm really not sure. Isn't it a long stretch to tie this mystery box that we bought from a company in Maine from our Midwestern home and delivered here in Dixie? That journal is eighty years old? One-hundred years old? I mean, come on! What are the chances? Do you really think that God pieced this together, and if so, for what purpose?"

"Is it a further stretch to conclude that it is by chance that I buy one thing through eBay and it has a long-lost or long-hidden journal allegedly written by my aunt? Rod Serling wouldn't buy into this episode. Have we fallen into the rabbit hole? Perhaps we slipped through the door into a parallel universe. Amanda, I'm serious. Nothing feels real anymore and how would I know if it is?"

"Are you going to talk to Charlie Putnam about this? Is that where we start?"

"If there is a God who involves Himself or assigns His agents to get involved with people like me, this didn't start with an eBay purchase. It began with my encounter with Charlie at that convention. We have been on a straight line journey from that convention hall to this day."

Husband and wife, partners, co-laborers, lovers and friends. They walked in silence as the dread of the unknown came closer like hyenas creeping upon prey.

"I've got your back. You know that."

He responded to her words with a head shake that contained no words, only a hand gripping her arm. "For months, it has felt to me like barrenness had moved across everything about us. Like Creeping Charlie. Hasn't it?"

"We won't mention that to Pastor Putnam!" she joked. "Husband, look across the valley. Have you ever seen grass so green? Jesus may have seen fields white unto harvest, but these fields are green, lush, flourishing. Maybe all of this is to move us out of barrenness into green fields like these."

"It might. Right now, I don't have the faith to see that far. I really do feel disconnected. I don't know who I am. What else don't I know?"

# Chapter 13

Journal Entry # 3

My guess is the line in the attached newspaper article about Pa moving in with the town hairdresser will raise eyebrows. Pa's angry for sure! My editor wonders why I thought it necessary to tell the world. Of course I didn't tell him the truth. Pa was always sneaking in the back door of some woman's house leaving my Mama managing the farm, caring for Harold and me; while trying to get the cows milked on time. I'll just make his habit public.

I don't know what that hairdresser finds so attractive about that dirty old man. His present wife and children don't need the grief of having the world know, but maybe this will clip his wings—or whatever needs to be clipped.

One of his sons says of our Pa that "...he's a rounder." I will make his immorality so public that his sons will not follow in his footsteps. Unless the devil gets a foothold in them like he has in Pa.

End Journal Entry #3

Journal Entry #4

Eleven days have passed since my last entry. The last words stuck in me like a hot poker. For the first time it is beginning to make sense. I have thought much about the hairdresser who is now "host" to Mr. Adams. Why her? Why now? During the past months, I have gone into the city to attend church. I needed distance. Several wrong churches before I found the right one for me. I've become friends with the minister and family. He has been preaching on curses and blessings in families. There is always possibility of error in this detective work, but I think I'm onto something. I have been pursuing the prophetic gift and required discernment. When I mentioned my reluctance to the preacher, he quoted the verse, "...seek the...especially that you may prophesy..."1 I have learned that to prophesy often means to "forth tell" and not just "foretell." My quest is driven by my family's needs. Someone needs to speak into them about their future—"...a future with hope" as Jeremiah 29:11 says. I want to know and discern the spirit(s) that dominate my siblings and how we can defeat the negative infestation. My desire to be prophetic is limited to this.

I have searched the histories of Pa's brothers and sisters. Half of them give the impression they are driven to abandon their vows. As I pray for insight, the word abandonment frequently comes to mind. My research suggests my aunts and uncles feel they were abandoned. My grandparents did not abandon each other physically, but I'm unable to prove how they related to their children. The Romans in Jesus' day abandoned the young regularly—left them on the streets or on a hillside to be eaten by beasts or to die from neglect. Exposure they called it. For those who survive physically, I wonder what psychological harm is done. I think of Alice Roosevelt whose father President Theodore Roosevelt left her with his sister while he escaped to the Dakotas. Alice said, "That couldn't have been good for me psychologically."

Abandonment may be part of my father's character. Afraid to make lasting commitments or to keep them if made. He doesn't seem to have regret about leaving my mother or betraying his current wife or abusing his children. I sense one day we shall know more about the harm Miss Roosevelt speaks of and the impact of parental abuse.

I'm going to jump to a conclusion. My father has no instinct to attach. Something got cut out of him by having never attached to his parents. For whatever reason. He may not be able to know he is unattached. He may not know what it feels like to be connected to anyone or how to make that connection or even miss it if it is gone. I do not think he can love or even experience being loved. That concerns me. Will those inadequacies pass on to his children?

I see that non-attachment in at least two of his sisters who have been less than faithful in their marriages or parenting. My aunt left her ten-year old child on the street so she (my aunt) could pursue her career. The prospect that the child would grow up feral is large, though like my brother she seems to be facing the aloneness heartily. I do not know how. Perhaps she has watched my brother. My aunts are self-centered. I question if they are mentally deficient due to lack of bonding. They function well on stage and in movies because someone has written a script for them.

If my father lacked connections, there is a possibility he is constantly seeking for security and someone to fill the unexplained emptiness. If he cannot attach or love, he may pursue women to alleviate his need to mate. What a horrible thought! I increasingly doubt that he has a standard of morality for himself—I think he does for others which explodes as judgment. He is fascinated by the biblical character Jezebel.

Enter the hairdresser with whom he now lives. She is sending pheromones almost every day of the month. Pa can smell her invitation from his wife's back porch. Miss Bloomsburg is not just an oversexed bitch; she represents a spirit from the dark world. No male is as vulnerable as when his trousers are around his ankles with his attention focused on a female.

My apologies for the crude descriptions. I don't know how to delicately describe the actions of such men. I am not an objective reporter of his aberrant activities. I try to distance myself emotionally so I can understand what drives him and how that affects the people I love. And, oh God! How it affects me! Maybe. I wonder if he had moved in with one of his whores he would have left me alone. I also fear that his younger daughter in the second marriage is old enough for him to creep into her bedroom and fondle her also. My skin crawls and I feel I may be sick. I also desire to protect her. I am tempted to hire someone in the veterinarian business to fix him.

Godly, academic research is not plentiful. Most religion writers speak of repentance and demonic deliverance. More of the former than the latter. I think that old man will require more than confession and an emotional desire to change his mind. He will require some spiritual gathering to pray him into freedom. Perhaps insert into him the ability to love, to feel compassion and empathy. He does not have the capacity to feel what his victims feel.

It is my prayer that those who read this journal will have access to studies of spiritual curses and blessings and knowledge concerning repairing the damage done to souls and minds. Scriptures such as Exodus 20:5 indicate such iniquities get passed from one generation to another. But, so does God's blessings. Through conversations with the minister I have come to respect—I'm beginning to understand how Pa's behavior has affected me. It is difficult for me to trust men—any man—all men. I find it easy to conclude that they are all pigs and have only one desire—to honor their own genitals. I realized that respecting men does not come easily for me. That makes my affection for this man of God unique. I have also determined that if he disappoints me, the vet will be hired for a second job!

Pastor has talked to me about depression being another aspect of disproportionate thinking. The generational curse causes emotional upheaval. Depression and anxiety may be a common problem for those yet unborn. Pa beat on those boys—physically and verbally abusing them. I wonder if they have learned the lessons well. Will they who have been abused abuse others? Will violence and self-hatred make them vulnerable to things like murder, and self-murder? Suicide?

I wrote an obituary last month of Pa's relative who hanged himself. I saw the reason clearly. He has been depressed since his daughter died a year ago. I had been skeptical of several things Pastor spoke about until I reasoned through this suicide. God does not directly cast generational curses. They are non-personal consequences of the lack of nurture and how the child and then young adult is treated.

I pray my kin will be shown by a merciful God how to sever connection from the iniquities of their ancestors including this man named Adams.

I can call the hairdresser a "Jezebel" with biblical accuracy. (I have refrained from using her name in the journal to protect her children. Her name appears in the newspaper without camouflage. I also think she carries the power of the Old Testament spiritual principality. To enter a sexual union with any local Jezebel is to be connected like dogs breeding in the street. The sexual aspect between Pa and this woman would cause trouble if it were just sexual. Add the devotion to the goddess that became idol worship which removed Israel and all of those who pursue the activity of the "high places" from God's favor. How will that affect future generations of the Adams? My father used women and then condemned them as Jezebels. He generalized and attributed the sexual mores of Jezebel to all women. He is a misogynist—a hater of women. That may be a thread of the curse that the men will inherit. As I look at my brothers, I do not see one slight element of that in them. Does it skip generations?

The Apostle Paul celebrates the wonders of the oneness of the sex acts within marriage and the consequences of linking oneself sexually outside of the covenant. I feel as though I need to bathe after this discussion. I also am aware that we are temples of the Holy Spirit; therefore we keep ourselves clean and pure.

End Journal Entry # 4

Gil opened his Bible to Exodus 20. He rubbed the scar on his inner forearm.

"You shall not make for yourself an idol...You shall not bow down to them or worship them; because I am God, your God, and I'm a most jealous God, punishing the children for any sins their parents pass on to them to the third, and yes, even to the fourth generation of those who hate me. But I'm unswervingly loyal to the thousands who love me and keep my commandments" (Exodus 20:4-5).

Generational sin. Generational curse. Generational blessing. He knew what the scar symbolized, even if he had only vague memories of how he acquired it. Some generational sins—more accurately called iniquity—are acquired by watching nurturing models. Some are received through inheritance, others are ritualistically instilled. Sins, transgressions, iniquities. To the student, the differences between the three are distinct. Gil wondered how thin his aunt was slicing what she was saying. Was she saying her father had injected into the family bloodline a predisposition to certain kinds of weaknesses? Predispositions? If so, that iniquity carried consequences—inevitable unless confronted and renounced. The scar felt increasingly a birth mark—a family brand.

# Chapter 14

"God, I hate days like this!" The statement was directed to the One whose name he usually capitalized. The atmosphere was heavy with humidity. More than barometric pressure hung heavy on his eyebrows which hurt from sinus reaction to the weather. The day measured cold, rain and emotional depression.

"Abandoned." The word was not limited to a journal. Gil felt it, experienced it, angered over it.

Even soul tending reading felt like a waste of time and energy. It would be easy to slip into the pit and wallow in the mire. He pulled on a jacket and walked to the window closest to a comfortable chair.

"Praise the Lord, O my soul;

All my inmost being, praise his holy name.

Praise the Lord, O my soul,

And forget not all his benefits—

Who forgives all my sins

And heals all my diseases,

Who redeems your life from the pit

And crowns you with love and compassion,

Who satisfies your desires with good things

So that your youth is renewed like the eagle's."

"Psalm 103:1-5," he said out loud, closed the Bible and looked outside where fog masked the dusk-to-dawn mercury lights. "'Satisfies'—when did that happen? God? I don't like days like this. It is a waste of good clouds. A gentle rain coming out of the clouds would help, but just to have them hanging there to soak my mind with heaviness. Worthless. "

The fog broke occasionally to reveal the third floor of Southwood Mansion where the widow's watch surveyed the plantation. Long before he had climbed the circular stairs, Gil had read of Brent's encounter with God in that room. Brent came to Southwood as maintenance guy and manager—so the story goes. He had been hired by a lawyer-friend named Larry Meade, on behalf of the trust that managed Southwood. The corporation needed someone to supervise renovation, but not nearly as badly as Brent needed a place. With his family in hiding, Brent was remanded by the court into Meade's supervision. A quick trip from Minneapolis to Southwood. It was weeks into the Southwood journey that Brent Barrows climbed the staircase. That afternoon visit in the widow's watch became an important chapter in the Southwood saga. No one ever stretched the truth or embellished the story into mythical proportion. The transcript was as large as it could get.

"I don't need that kind of epiphany," Gil said. "Just some indication I'm not crazy or totally worthless. 'Redeems my life from the pit...' Now that would be a start."

That is what happened to Brent Barrows in that widow's watch with all the windows and one chair. Sensing he was to go to that viewing place, Barrows climbed the thirty-two steps and opened the windows to empty the stale air. The gentle cleansing breeze became a mighty rushing wind sweeping through the windows down the stairwell through the second floor hallway and out the apartment windows.

"A real Upper Room experience," Gil said to himself. "Maybe that would do it. If God would show up." To say Gil was mad at God would not come as a surprising revelation. To name his feelings as "mad" missed an accurate description by the width of a galaxy. "Mad" was closer to contempt, pity and bewilderment laced with vivid sarcasm. Gil's experience of God was contrary to the Biblical revelation of Yahweh. When he spoke invectives he was not vocalizing words to the One whom he knew as the revealed God, but some dark entity in disguise. Gil had torn the mask off this imposter who had usurped the throne of the just God. The promises and principles of Yahweh no longer were at work. To Gil, a new power was in charge. "Abandoned." It angered the preacher to think that God had left Amanda and his family alongside the road—like a cat thrown out of a passing car. Unanswered prayers. Enough of those to fill an eighteen-wheeler. So many contradictions of biblical promises that the evidence indicated either this God was afflicted with a disease of old age or belligerent in his whimsical, non-sensible behavior and actions or lack thereof.

Every time someone spoke a prophetic statement or quoted a promise, he felt his brain and stomach cramp. What about my sister? He wanted to ask. First, let God step up to the plate and deal with my sister's situation and then we'll talk! He never said it out loud, but he wanted to.

The man staring through the fog knew better and believed differently. Why, then...? Benefits? In this lifetime? Was the Kingdom just another word for a nebulous place where good boys and girls go when they die? He recalled watching the piano player in a worship team. Stoned! The guy was stoned—his only coping mechanism to deal with the hurt of a divorce, rejection by his parents and half an adult lifetime of missed opportunities. Gil couldn't wait until heaven to plug into benefits. For sure, neither could the guy at the piano.

At the heart of Gil's faith was an assumption that the Kingdom of God was close—at hand—within reach. But the evidence in his life was not one of dominion over circumstances or victory over evil. Why was connecting to Kingdom authority, life force and interaction with God and connection of God to stoned piano players so blasted difficult? Was it even possible?

"Bless the Lord, O my soul." Gil walked to and threw open the depot door. Fog flooded the room as the chill flooded his body. What he was discovering in the shadowy journal was slowly disclosing generations-old barriers that stood in the way. Not of God's doing, but of hell's construction.

He closed the door, wrapped an afghan around himself and retreated to the chair by the window. The rain during the early part of the night was in the next state by now, but the fog it left behind hid the sunrise which should be bursting forth at this second. The brightness of dawn would be nice. Instead, he guessed its arrival. He had hoped some echo from songs sung in the Depot sanctuary last night would sink into his soul. Not a song or a prayer. His soul was as cold and dense as the morning fog.

He had drifted off while contemplating foggy nights and somehow ended up dreaming about a foggy night in the Hudson Valley sleeping next to Rip Van Winkle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I've got to shake this depression." He didn't move from the chair. "Aren't you meeting Jessica? Perhaps I'll walk the prayer path and spend some time in the Lyttle House."

"What is driving the depression? Do you know exactly?"

"What else don't I know? I feel like I don't know who I am. What has been hidden from me? The depression is not logical—I'm feeling fragmented or not quite whole. Maybe it is all the pillars and pilasters that hold my life in place are questionable. Maybe I fear that one more revelation, one more strike by a hijacked plane will do to me what we saw happening to the Twin Towers. I just need some solid answers—a fresh view."

A half-hour later, Gil walked into the Lyttle House on Jefferson Hill. Charlie Putnam had told him the story of this little house (built by the Lyttle family) being like the Old Testament "tent of meeting." People came here to enquire of the Lord and they met Him. So! He was here to enquire. "God, what is going on? Can you give me at least a crumb of understanding?" A part of him wanted to ask, "Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

Jan had arrived earlier to see if the rains had flooded her flowers. Since her morning run had been shortened by the fog, she sat in the extra chair next to the altar listening for instructions.

"Is God quiet when you think He should be talking?" she asked.

"He hasn't been very chatty lately," Gil responded. "What are you reading?"

"Joshua five. You and your wife are staying in The Depot apartment, aren't you? I heard about your eBay purchase. Awesome and intriguing! Now I get it! That's the reason for your question. You want God to tell you what's going on with the presents. Right?"

"Something like that. Is He talking to you this morning?"

"You might want to read Joshua 5:8-15."

"You're Jan Hudson? I'm Gil Adams," he said as he reached out his hand to shake a hello. "Can't read Brent Barrows' books without hearing about you. Is that a prophet's cap you're wearing?" He wanted the statement to be funnier than it was.

"Brent has overstated our prophetic abilities. He thinks the whole staff can walk on water. About half of us nearly drowned in the creek trying. Tell you what. I'm going outside to prop up some flowers while you read that paragraph. We'll see if the Lord says something."

The Lyttle house was still settling in its new location. Jan had spread rugs to collect foot tracks, and rugs upon which knees would imprint prayer tracking. There were several pictures on the walls, a book case, anointing oil, a kneeling bench and five chairs—three of which were plastic lawn chairs. Gil read. His earlier irritation with God's silence and paralysis blocked any message he might otherwise be hearing.

"I don't really believe you are incapacitated by age," he contritely said. "At the deepest part of me, I don't believe you have set yourself against my family, ministry or me personally. It sure feels that way. Looks that way. I do believe your arm is not shortened to reach all the way to touch my need. I'm trying to hear what you have to say." He was reading the Joshua passage the third time when Jan returned.

"Well?" she asked. "Hear anything?"

"I don't trust my hearing capability. I did take off my shoes."

"From that time on... Verse 12." Jan pulled her ball cap tighter on her head and said, "A major shift occurred that day for Joshua and his people. Manna stopped and the Israelites started eating off the new land. Let me tell you what God seemed to be saying to me this morning. See if it makes sense to you."

Gil knew very few prophets. One of his female prophet friends wasn't comfortable prophesying over close friends. She didn't feel objective, but when she did prophesy her hands would shake. It was more like a tremor as she reached upward to receive what God was giving her. Jan didn't have any such mannerisms. She just steadily looked into Gil's eyes and said:

**>** "You are entering a new season. God's words to you are 'from this time on...'

**>** "A new land—Gilgal—the word means, 'Today I have ended your shame.'

**>** "A new relationship—The Commander-in-chief of the Lord's armies is not interested in taking sides. He will covenant with any person who will align him or herself with the plan of God and covenant with Him.

**>** "A new command—'take off your shoes for this is holy ground.' Recognizing God's place for you and treating it as such makes any assignment holy."

Her eyes had not left his. He flinched and looked away. Man! That was intense! She had sat down in front of him on the floor with her legs crossed. He slid off the chair onto the floor to face her. She put her hand on his arm.

"Man of God..." she said. The words cut through any remaining hesitancy and labeled him in a way he seldom saw himself. He was more used to hearing self-talk: jerk, failure, forgotten, inadequate. Man of God! Regardless of the female tone, it reached him from the Throne. "Man of God, does that make any sense to you?"

He thought of what shame would be ended today. That was easy. He could read the journal differently. He also knew he was released from the community that had been their home and from the church where he and Amanda had invested blood, sweat, tears, prayers and hours of saying words into unhearing ears.

"Go where you are celebrated, not merely tolerated," Jan said as if God had tagged on a postscript. He didn't know where that would be, but the surge inside him assured him it would be an enjoyable move.

"There seems to be more I'm hearing about you. Look at verses 10-12. This may just be common sense and not a deep revelation," she giggled. "However, as I see you in the spirit, I suspect you are so reluctant to trust your self any instruction would have to come as a 'word' from the Lord.

_> Rest_—'...until the raw flesh of (your) wounds have been healed.'

"That is going to require a new environment. Perhaps you will stay at Southwood longer than you had planned. You cannot return to the place of harassment and belittlement and gain the rest God desires for you. Physical, emotional, mental, spiritual rest. This rest will give you capacity to think and dream. The negative environment has depleted your ability to even think in those terms. Some valuable capacities have been injured. First the wounds must heal.

_> Celebrate—_ 'They celebrated the Passover.'

"Passover means deliverance from bondage. Have any bondage you need delivered from? Would that be a cause for celebration? What will you do to remove yourself from the influence of bondage and what safe-guards must you build to keep you from returning?

_> Nutrition—_ '...eat from the gardens and grain fields.'

"I recall something a biographer said about Evan Roberts the young man who God used to ignite the Welsh revival.

It seemed he could never find the keys to emotional strength. Evan wanted his personality to fade into the shadows...yet...the weakness of his emotional disposition caused him to be seen more than if he had taken his place in the authoritative leadership... [5]

"Feed on nutrients that grow a whole person. Gardens and grain fields. You are more than a spiritual being and leader, you are body, mind, brain, will, emotions with all the sub-categories. All need nutrients and sustenance.

_> Pollution-free—_ '...they made unleavened bread.'

"They placed nothing in their nourishment that would make it mold, expand unhealthily or corrupt the texture. Would it be a stretch to think about building a purified new life for the new season and land? Healed of wounds out of your past experiences that contradict the concept of unleavened bread. Jesus said a little leaven, leavens the whole loaf. Having spoken of the corruption of the old land to your priest, you will choose not to speak of it again in a tone or feeling that would 'leaven the loaf.' Why move into a new land for your new season and plant seedlings from all the old season and old country until your old allergies return to pollute your fresh place?"

" _From that time on they lived on the crops of Canaan" (5:12c)._

Jan stood. "You will want to stand here with your wife and be anointed by Brent, Jessica and your friends Charlie and Della. Perhaps the Lord will have more to say through them, but I sense you are on your way to 'invading' a land that will provide your sustenance. You will no longer be fed by historical attachments nor will you feed on past limitations brought by evaluation of people who despise you or do not understand the vision God planted in your hearts. Receive from the Lord what seems appropriate." With that she patted him on the arm and left. The room indeed felt like the tent of meeting. He had enquired. God had spoken.

Jan reappeared to say, "Something just occurred to me!" Jan's voice was exuberant and pitched high. "Gilgal—the place where shame was ended. Suppose the name 'Gil' comes from the same root word as Gilgal? 'Gil's Place.' Does it mean anything to you?"

He stepped out of the Lyttle House into the bright sunshine.

Sunshine!

# Chapter 15

"Gil, are we ever going to open those packages?" Amanda sorted through the dozens of wrapped packages again as if she hadn't done so forty times already. She weighed them, measured them, shook and tried to peek between the wrapping seams.

"Don't know. Doesn't feel right. The journal..."

"That's what I'm feeling. Since the journal and those newspapers were meant for you—God only knows why, how—Gil, do you think we slipped into a time warp or drove into a terrible episode of The Twilight Zone? Never mind," Amanda said with a wave of her hand as she tossed a small package back onto the pile. "These packages must be meant for you."

"What's that brown colored one?" He moved toward the table and picked up a 9 X 12 size envelope darkened by age. He lifted it to the light. He couldn't see the contents anymore than his wife had when she scrutinized the larger packages. He suddenly shivered. His fingers felt as if they had picked up a piece of ice.

"You going to open it?" Gil didn't answer nor did he mention the chill, but Amanda knew in her spirit something dark and cold was in the envelope. She didn't want her husband to open it after all.

"I don't remember seeing this come out of the crate," he said as he tossed it onto the table. He blew warmth onto his hands like he did when he came in from shoveling snow. He knew it had to be opened even if none of the boxes were.

"What are your plans for the day?" he asked changing the subject and hopefully the dark mood that had invaded the room. More than happy to avoid the darkness, Amanda reminded him the women were rehearsing in the studio that afternoon for a live performance that would be used for later telecasting. "I'm part of the invited and specially selected audience," she flaunted.

An hour before show time, Amanda stepped behind the chair, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed her husband on his check. "I'm leaving. You going to just sit in that chair? Why don't you go sit on one of those great prayer path chairs? You've been saying how they fit your body. Just be back in time for evening meal."

He got out of the chair to hug her and then walked her to the door. It wasn't like she was going across the state. The studio was at the other end of the Depot; just down the hall from the apartment and hang a left. He watched her until she took the left and walked into the west wing. He gently closed the apartment door and walked to the table, retrieving the clasp envelop he had tossed there earlier. It had to be opened. But not here. Not now. How did he know that?

Gil put his laptop in the case, slid the envelope next to it, zipped it shut and headed toward the back door of the Depot, out the entrance door, across the loading dock and the concrete parking area onto the grass. He waved to the security guard as the sloped terrain sharpened its grade. Gil was winded by the time he reached the crest of the hill and sat in the comfortable chair—the one that molded itself around his butt and back. Jan had sown seeds with lavish abandon making the bench an island in a sea of colorful wild flowers.

The steep climb was a needed workout. He leaned his head back to expose his forehead to the sun. If he stayed here too long, he knew he would soon look like a raccoon from his sunglasses. The sun would quickly burn his expanding forehead and burn through the thinning hair all the way to his crown. Sweat soaked his shirt.

"I've been worrying about my fading bikini tan line," he joked. He wasn't going to correct that with his jeans and shirt on. He took off his shirt, drank from the water bottle and waited for the sun to bake toxins out of his brain. He didn't like the roll of fat around his middle. Too many cookies and cake. He _could_ limit sweet intake, he reminded himself.

"I'm here because you brought us here," he said to the God he assumed was listening. "Whatever is going on—I want to make sure You are in control. This is too, too weird! I don't mind going to a strange place, but if you are not going to go with us, don't send us. What am I supposed to do with this envelope?" He listened for an answer. Hearing none, he unzipped the case, retrieved the envelope.

"Not here." The man with the red forehead and wet shirt didn't know if he had heard a voice or just felt inclined to do this privately. With that he looked around to see if he was alone or observed and then put the envelope back into the case, picked up the water bottle and started down the side of the hill that had no path. A quarter of a mile away a thick stand of trees beckoned. Inside the trees and thick underbrush, the wet shirt caused him to shiver. A damp chill replaced the heat at the top of the hill which felt not only a distance away, but now a universe away. He was not at all comfortable. A wild person or beast could jump him and no one would find his body for years. That little thought made him jump at every snapping twig and bird call. The trees appeared to have been planted in the same manner Jan planted wild flowers. Deep in this dense jungle, he stepped into a hidden clearing. There was a crude lean-to, a fire pit and a rope line: a place to hang clothes or freshly caught fish. Beer cans littered the area. This was a hidden party place. He wouldn't have to get too creative to imagine a still close by or a garden spot for cannabis. On second thought, he wondered if sunlight was needed for weed, and there sure wasn't any sunlight sneaking into this jungle.

"Hello?" He only spoke because he was into the clearing before he could make a decision about the wisdom of entering someone's territory. The greeting spoken as a question was repeated until it became an exclamation point. Whoever cleared this womb had left tree stumps to sit on and a level tabletop which worked fine for the computer case.

The 9 x 12 envelope was again in his hands. The string around the clasp disintegrated in his fingers. Had there been glue, it had long ago dried into dust. The tab opened with sounds of brittle paper breaking. Inside were two more envelopes. Carefully, cautiously, he looked and slid out the contents.

He was sweating again, his heart pounding in his ears with the same ferocity that climbing the hill had produced. Gently laying the larger container on the black carrying case, he held one envelope in each hand. No clasps, no string. On each wrapper was one word written in the unmistakable handwriting of the journalist: "Life." "Death." He shivered. He looked around to make sure no one had sneaked into the clearing.

"Life or death." He held up each and then the other in a mocking gesture. "Life? Death?" The sweating continued as did the shaking and shivering. Gil Adams wondered if he could risk looking into the abyss. He remembered once standing on a high diving board for several minutes _. Do I? Don't I?_ In a comparable abandoning of caution, as he finally did above the swimming pool, he went for it. He looked into the envelope marked "Death."

His trembling hand pulled sepia-colored, faded photos. On the back of each photo, in handwriting Gil had not seen before, was a signature. Jacob Randolph Adams. Gil guessed the photos were circa 1930 plus or minus a decade fragment.

Photo one: Naked had not changed over the century. Nor had body parts—male or female. Photo two was a grainy picture of a face. Gil pulled the photo closer to his eyes. He couldn't make out the uniqueness. The face was familiar, then, as if the photographer twisted the lens, it came into focus. The face was imprinted by finger marks. Those were welts on a face, not water stains on the photo. The face had been repeatedly struck by a hand! Mr. Adams may have owned the two other photos, but this one had no signature. Old Adams didn't know this one existed. Was this a display of Jacob Randolph Adams' meanness? Or was it the results of his sexual preferences?

Gil picked up the container marked _Life._ There he found a photo of a lockbox or safe. Perhaps a small bank vault. A number was visible but not clearly legible. The envelope surrendered a letter from his alleged aunt. He moved the page until he found a streak of light through the trees.

" _If your name is Adams, you are feeling as strange as I am while writing this. I am feeling directed to write. I have no idea how you came to possess this box, nor what your relationship is to me. Perhaps you are not an Adams. If not, I can imagine that this is an intriguing story. As crazy as this appears and sounds, I am sane—at least my friends and physician say so. I asked them. I had begun to wonder._

" _If you have been able to trace your lineage to me, then this is not just an intriguing story, but a message from 'beyond.' (That spooks even me!) It is my opinion that you and your children and grandchildren carry a spiritual cell that may lead to emotional and spiritual death. I don't mean physical death. That 'cell' (hopefully, your generation will have a better phrase to describe my words—the biblical word 'curse' comes close to my thought—perhaps generational pattern.) I also hope that you have my journal and know the rest of the story._

" _Now! My message to you. From Deuteronomy 30. I know this passage is a blessing for the nation of Israel—the chosen People of God. It feels to me that these words describe larger principles. They just make sense._

' _I have set before you today life and prosperity, and death and adversity" (30:15)._

' _I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. So choose life in order that you may live, you and your descendants...' (30:19)._

" _The heart of God is expressed in those words. Hear him plead, 'Please choose life!' The debauchery displayed in the photographs is but part of the death-oriented behavior that is passed from generation to generation until someone in the bloodline says, 'It ends here.' If you have my family name, you are chosen. Will you choose life?"_

Gil stared at the paper, his mind flooded by questions and emotions. Maybe _she_ had been certified as mentally stable, but was he?

"My God! What is this about?" He probably would have sat there staring at the note paper until he yellowed and turned to dust had a turkey vulture not landed in the tree above him and squawked. Although startled, he laughed and said, "After what I've just read, you think _you_ are a threat? Git!" When the bird talked back, Gil felt the connection between the word on the envelope, the revelation on the page and the presence in the tree.

"In Jesus' Name, I send you to the Cross. You will submit to Jesus' plans. You have no authority over me, nor will I yield to your noise. You were defeated at the Cross and Resurrection. Jesus sits at the Father's side. He is praying for me and shielding me from any manifestation of evil. You are dismissed by the power of the blood."

Gil watched as the vulture obeyed. His eyes swept over his surrounding. This was a place he would not visit often. He looked into the large envelope again. He pulled a third sheet of paper from the wrapper. In the same beautiful handwriting:

" _Choose life. These remain: love, hope, faith_ _—_ _greatest of these is love."_

Stella Adams

# Chapter 16

Gil reexamined the photos. Nope! Body parts had not changed in the last century—except maybe for plastic. He couldn't exactly name his reaction to the pictures. He plugged the satellite piece into the USB port. Pretty cool. He could pull in the Internet from any place. Even the 1930s—could he pull in an identity? Not sure what to write in the browser. What was he looking for? He took a lead from one word on the picture. The screen filled with skin, accompanied by sounds that he assumed was bad acting. The lady in his life never made noises like that! Did real people? He surfed the net. He clicked onto another tag line for someone's fantasy.

Who is that? The face was familiar. Total exposure.

"My God! My God! Oh, my God!" he sat the computer onto the tree stump and walked to the edge of the clearing. He wanted to escape what he was seeing. He couldn't run that far. One of the reasons people look at such porn sites is to view the most bizarre behavior or lust-driven actions between people without feeling any connection to real humans. The faces are not important—as if all that matters is quivering body parts. But these private parts had a recognizable face. He began to moan. He was heaving, vomiting out of his heart. He was on the verge of hurling his breakfast as he sank to his knees and then laid down in the fetal position. It is one thing to see detached sexual organs and/or read about fantasies and fetishes, but when the body parts and stories connect to a person, known by the viewer, it feels like more than clinical, sterile, remote voyeurism. It is a kick to the soul. Gil rolled on the ground crying out to God. No sexual turn-on, here. In fact the female anatomy _was_ someone's daughter.

He looked at the face again. Whoever it was the woman had a twin. A thought stabbed his heart. Was this the journalist, Rebecca Change; his aunt Stella Adams?

He felt like the actor in the Slum Dog Millionaire movie who was trapped in an outdoor privy. The only way out was through the excrement in the tank. That describes what he felt viewing these pictures. He had puked from the bottom of his toes and from the bottom of his heart.

He walked back and forth thinking he would never stop shaking nor trying to get the taste out of his mind.

Why have I been brought here? What is the message I'm supposed to hear? "What does this have to do with me?" he asked himself. Then, he asked God. He began to feel what the father of the journalist was about. Had that old man isolated himself in such a barren place as this? Was there a rendezvous place for Old Man Adams and his women?

" _What are you feeling?"_ He knew why he had been brought here. He was to be interrogated by God. He strangely felt calmness flow into and through himself. He considered the question. It was a question he would not have asked himself. He sorted through his mind. His spirit was riled. Nothing felt right. All that he thought now smelled, felt and looked like it came out of a septic tank. Beyond the disgust at his slight fascination with the variety of sexual behaviors shown, he was angry at whoever had left the marks on the woman's face. Dear God! What kind of person does that to a woman? That was the point Ms. Adams was asking, he concluded.

" _What do you think about these images?"_

He knew why the Talmud says, "Words in the heart are not words." We do not think in abstractions, we think in pictures. Any thought connected to emotion is stored in our brains as an image—a picture which influences thought and behavior. No wonder the Psalmist says, "I will set no evil thing before my eyes." Leonard Sweet's words made sense: "In a postmodern culture, images operate as a language of power."[6] He also knew more about the sexual imprinting by pornography. Eleven years old is the average age when the young first encounter Internet porn. How does that shape sexual orientation and drives? How does God heal the distortions? The wounds?

Gil was again on his face in the damp, moldy dirt. How do we ever get healed of those images? "The human mind is made up of metaphors," Gil remembered Leonard Sweet saying. All our experiences are stored in memories as icons and images—metaphors of reality.

At a level far deeper than mere thought, Gil realized why healing of sexual wounds must be as "real" as the original experience that left a wound. He wondered where such experience could ever happen. It was a Kingdom event, but in what setting? The church? The thought was almost ludicrous. But if not a church, where would such redemption be proclaimed and where would people venture that close to the edge? Maybe in Kingdom outposts like Southwood where God's people sit around tables and match God's word with confessed need?

"Don't go there alone," he had once been advised. Jesus wants to revisit the place and time where you were abused, abandoned, betrayed, assaulted. He wants to go back to the time when you made destructive choices. He wants to go, in real time, to the event that took your life off-track.

" _What are the consequences of your ancestor's behavior? How do they impact you?"_ Like he was sorting through file cards, Gil thought through his feelings. He was vulnerable and pre-disposed and brain-wired to follow after the thoughts and behaviors of his parents back four generations. He thought through the implications of the photos with his grandfather's signature—confession of ownership—and Gil determined to break any contractual agreements he had made with these generational curses. Disown! Renounce!

Beyond that, there was an approach to life that was birthed by what the Bible calls iniquity. After extended thought, he settled on vague emptiness. He felt a void, something unfilled, a barren closet in his soul. Was it loneliness? Separation anxiety? A vacancy left after a loved one left him? He let the mental process continue as if he were an objective observer. An image focused in his mind. He seemed to be driving through a maze of city streets. No matter which direction he turned, all the streets led past one building—an apartment house. That's what it felt like. What lived in that building? Emptiness—inadequacy. His life's constant.

"How crazy is this?" he asked. He felt his temples throbbing. "I want out of here!" he said. Like he was running from a threat, he quickly picked up all he had carried into the clearing, zipped it all into the black, padded computer case. After making sure he had not dropped anything or left anything behind, he quickly moved out of the clearing, through the trees like a swimmer fighting his way to the surface before the air supply depleted. He tried to run, but the underbrush tripped him. There was no rapid escaping this place which was actively pulling him back; impeding his exit. His foot caught in a mass of inch-thick vines. He went down. The panic mode changed. He relaxed, pulled himself to his knees and calmly rebuked all that the vulture represented and in the peace that followed, he began to talk to the Heavenly Father. He would not have called it prayer; it was a conversation.

"Is this a providential move—or trip? Am I tied to this place, or is this about my besetting sins which so easily trip me? Is there something we need to talk about before I leave this clearing?" Gil spoke and waited to hear. "Guide my thinking, Lord. You alone. I bind my thinking to God's voice and block satan's intrusion or suggestions. This is a private conversation between my shepherd and His sheep. No intruders, in Jesus' Name."

Into his mind came thoughts—confirmation. He revisited well-worn thinking paths: _Your grandfather was demonized. You would say he had a sexual addiction, or addicted to all things sexual. There was a curse: lust. Other spirits that influenced him: spiritual, emotional and physical depression. That grows out of the family curses he received from his own father. Suicide, self-assessment of worthlessness and self-destruction are secondary issues that give cover for demons._

The words were chilling. Was this his own thinking or God's voice? He would not discount the possibility of discerning these spirits himself. Regardless of the voice's source, the man tripped by vines trusted what he had just heard to be true. If not each detail, at least in larger terms. The conversation continued. He didn't know if he was being interviewed by God or if he was personally sorting through things. Surely some of these questions would find an answer. He listened as if it were God's voice.

" _Let's work this through piece by piece. What was your response to the sexually graphic pictures?"_

"That's easy. I was curious, but eventually repulsed."

" _No stirring in your loins?"_

"Creator of all things sexual, you're going to speak of 'loins'? Are you kidding me?"

" _Quit avoiding the question. I made you to respond to bare skin. My question is if you carry a deviant gene of lust that will lead to sexual addiction. I'll pretend ignorance on this."_

"Thank you. Father, you know I am not sexually deviant. I don't wear my wife's underwear or pant after my 'neighbor's wife' or something even more perverse."

" _I'm not accusing, just asking. Does sex—as I intended it—have the appropriate place in your life? I told Paul to write and teach some things to the Corinthians. Those Corinthians were influenced by their culture. The 21_ _st_ _Century has 'caught up' with what the first culture assumed normal. One of the amusing moments in eternity is the look on the faces of the New Testament world when Paul told them things like, 'Your body belongs to your wife, not just to you.' When I had Paul say, 'Husbands, love your wives; wives, respect your husbands,' they thought he was crazy. That was a huge paradigm shift for which they had no reference point."_

"The Old Man..."

Gil thought about a scrap of paper he carried in his briefcase that began _"Sex can become a stronghold in this oversexualized culture. A god around which all life can center."_

Your idolatry is probably whatever you do when you're stressed out. Idolatry is anything you use to try to fill the emptiness in your spirit that God is meant to fill. And frankly, it's an all-consuming quest because nothing else fills the emptiness that only God can fill.

Idolatry drives the fear in your spirit that fuels the revenge in your soul and creates an addictive pull for relief in your body. [7]

The second photo was about money. _"Is it money that has you tied down? Your grandfather had a gift to acquire wealth. He chose to make it a god, an idol. He stored it in vaults, banks and hidden caches."_

Gil let that sink in and looked around and wondered how he would search for the hidden fortunes.

" _I don't generally interrupt people on a search. Your attention, please. You are gifted. Your parent's generation knew how to use that gift. Some families make money the ruling center of life. The same dark spirit torments three or four generations by different means: Never having enough, not using what is possessed with wisdom, fearing it would get away and acquiring it deceitfully. One generation wants the power that accompanies money, another generation lives in fear there will never be enough even when having adequate. Worry transplants knowledge—learning how to manage according to eternal principles."_

The timber was silent except for the flapping of vulture wings high above the damp ground. It may not have been God speaking. A person's brain is powerful enough to pull such queries from the atmosphere when stimulated by photos, smells or any of the senses. Gil had been stimulated!

" _One more question. What has been your dominant feeling? If you could look inside of your heart, brain, mind and all closets of your soul, what would you find there?"_

"There is something I lack. I have always felt an unfilled place inside. Father, what is that?" He relaxed, not even attempting to extricate his foot from the vine wrapped around his ankle. He leaned against a tree, closed his eyes and said, "God, you speak. I'll listen."

" _Blessing. To be blessed."_ God has spoken. Gil had heard, but didn't understand.

When he awoke, the tree bark had imprinted his back. Was that a conversation with God or was he just sorting things out in his own mind? He concluded the conversation was the important thing. One thing he knew: he had to disentangle himself with all things sexual that God the Father would not bless. He also knew that God's blessing was critical for the triumphant life. To lose it was unacceptable to Gil. A fact struck his heart. God's judgment was often the simple removal of blessing or favor. God removed His hand from a person or ministry. He experienced the horror of being outside God's favor and touch—because of his habits or addictions or choices. "Oh, God! Don't leave me! Do not remove your presence from my life." The agony of his confession and repulsion seem to hang on the trees like sleet.

He got up, took a few steps to bring strength back into his legs. He unwrapped the vine from around his leg, picked up his computer case. He pushed through the underbrush toward the meadow. His foot caught again. He went down hard. He braced himself for leverage to lift himself from the ground. He felt the branches under the thick layer of leaves give way and heard them snap. He looked at the rotting leaves and what they covered. Not branches! He had put his hand on the carcass of an animal. His hand had pushed through the rib cage into the mushy carcass.

"Ah!" Gil knew there would be no soap powerful enough to clean the debris from his hands. His moans filled the forest as he walked from one end of the clearing to the other wiping his hand on dirt, leaves and finally in a puddle of muddy water.

"I have put before you this day life and death." The words overpowered his moans and sickening dry retching. It was less of a choice. The word "death" now had a feel, sound and smell. He didn't need Power Point to make the image real.

He moved out of the thicket into the meadow and ran toward the hill that was crowned by the prayer path. Occasionally, he looked back over his shoulder, as if he was being chased. He was leaving the woods, and all it represented. But an odor on his body and in his spirit chased him.

# Chapter 17

Walking up the hill to the prayer path left Gil winded regardless which side he was climbing. He topped the hill to find Charlie sitting where he had been sitting several hours earlier.

"I'm catching some rays. There is room on the bench for both of us—if you don't sweat on me." Charlie had observed his own thickening middle and decided to date Jenny Craig. "I don't see many people walking that side of the slope."

"I don't think you want me to sit next to you," Gil tried to figure how to get down wind from the bench. Charlie caught a whiff before down wind was found.

"Good night! What is that? Is that you? I haven't smelled that since my hunting dog came home from rolling on a dead animal. You been rolling on dead animals?"

"Not on purpose."

"On second thought, I withdraw the offer. Go away. Don't sit near me. Before I get sick, go over to the shed and wash in the mechanic's bathroom/shower—if he'll let you in the building. Then come back. I want to hear this story. You smell worse than my dog did. Carry yourself back up here—I'll wait for you. Mercy, you may have to bury those clothes."

Gil was glad that he had resisted his first impulse to wipe his corrupted hand on his jeans. He only needed to wash his hands. He estimated that he washed his hands forty-six times with three kinds of soap and diluted bleach.

Fifteen minutes later. "Now you smell like a sterile emergency room." Charlie listened to the hand-in-guts story and worried he might not be able to catch his breath. Tears came easy to Charlie in prayer times, but he didn't often laugh hard enough to make them flow as they did that afternoon. Gil wasn't laughing. He was humiliated and his gag reflex was working overtime. Gil wasn't ready to laugh about the situation. He might someday, but not soon. He just stood and watched Charlie break into a sweat, hold his stomach and howl. He might not laugh at intestines, but he might laugh at Charlie who was too weak to stand up. The laughing became contagious. Soon, neither man had strength to stand up. Anyone watching from a distance would assume these two men were in agony. In fact, they were rolling on the ground in laughter.

"Charlie, you had better pull it together. Della will have you sedated." Charlie wiped his eyes.

"It really wasn't that funny. I may have to rest for a while before I can walk home. Tell me the whole story."

Gil ended his story with the word, "blessing." Finished, he turned to his benefactor and waited for explanations.

"Let me see if I can recall what I heard at a seminar. Shorthand version. Blessing. Old Testament. It was so real to Esau that his horrified lament, '...Father, have you no blessing for me?' screams through history as one of the loneliest recorded sounds.

"A blessing is expressed by loving and affirming. When mother blesses her child, the child feels like she or he belongs. Secure in her world. When dad blesses a child—loving and affirming—the kid is enabled to become—or risk, venture away from the family compound and safe place toward destiny. Myron Madden says the blessing 'ignites a sense of destiny in the child.' Even though it doesn't always happen in real time, God intended life's successful trek to begin in security within the family, knowing that we are not only loved, but wanted and welcomed. Then the loving and affirming projects us toward the destiny God inserted into us."

Lost in thought, Charlie looked toward the eastern horizon, far beyond the trees where Gil had been. Then he said, "The child seeks the blessing from the parent whose 'eyes sparkle over him.' I think that is Madden's phrase. '...eyes sparkle over him.' Don't need to explain that. What a phrase! Something is set into motion when blessing is pronounced and supported by loving and active affirming. Our trajectory is fueled by that blessing. No blessing—then probably no consistent movement toward the place and position that Paul describes when he says: 'I move toward the goal...'"

Gil was not sitting at the feet of the teacher. He had been pacing and listening. Now he looked eastward also, but only as far as the trees where the mysterious clearing was. "And if there was no blessing by mom and/or dad? What do we do, then? Are we sentenced to being a rocket with no launching pad and then, at best, we self-destruct before the second-stage propulsion kicks in?"

"One of my favorite preacher/writers has been talking about this. He says if we could run a spiritual CT-scan on a blessed person, we would find an emotional/spiritual skeleton upon which such things as resiliency, perseverance and the Fruit of the Spirit hang. He talks about the _core_ of people who know how to cope, focus and accomplish. This guy was on TV the other day talking about this. He described his agonizing over a couple of questions—much like yours.

> What are the components of this skeleton and developed infrastructure? He concludes there are three: love, hope and faith as 1 Corinthians thirteen announces.

> How are these components installed?

> Can they be installed after childhood?

> What is the best setting for this to happen?

> Who has the authority and power to install—that is a very mechanical word for a non-mechanical procedure, isn't it?

> If love, hope, faith can be installed—rather like software in a computer—what is the tool?

Gil waited. Charlie never took his eyes off the horizon even after he stopped talking. He had been concentrating to recall what he had heard and now was lost in sorting through the questions.

"Well?"

"Blessing. The tool is a blesser. Nothing instant or magic. When we bless someone like God blessed Abraham in Genesis 12, like Jacob was blessed and as Jesus blessed the disciples, a business kind of love, hope and faith is installed in embryonic form."

Charlie said out of the blue, "Robert Benson says he has spent much of his life looking for "certain signs and wonders of the Something Unnamed that is at the center of everything." He came to believe that some 'sitting still' is required if he was to understand such things." [8]

Gil and Charlie "sat still" absorbing what all this meant, implied and the consequences. Redbirds and mockingbirds called to each of their flock. Miles higher than the birds, a 747 left a contrail as a backdrop to thoughts that left no visible tracks.

"And what if there is no one to bless us? What if mom and dad are absent or dead?" Gil's question was hardly more than a whisper.

Charlie was also on his feet. Sitting still had become difficult. The quiet stillness reigned, but the immobile "still" did not. Neither one of the men had suggested they start walking. Perhaps there was a homing instinct at meal time that rang the bell. They slowly walked toward the left hand turn that would take them from the prayer path to the depot.

"Who is empowered to bless?" Gil repeated the same question.

"It may be a matter of apostolic succession. In some manner, the person needing the blessing gives permission to specific people. We are chosen. Pastors, sometimes. The sparkling eyes are important. We look for people who recognize our worth and name what it looks like."

"Gary Smalley and John Trent give us some clues: Touch, Words, Evaluation, Vision, Commitment." [9]

"Yeah. I was thinking about that the other day over lunch with a friend who had just said, 'I'm sixty-seven years old. Never a question in my mind about whether mom or dad loved me. They were always there for me. Dad was a good provider. But I don't ever remember him affirming me or confirming any of my dreams.' The guy said, 'I don't feel like I want to face God—I haven't accomplished what I was supposed to.' This fella was shaken. He said, 'All I feel is God's condemnation.' I like this guy. He is important to me. I wondered how to bless him. His parents were not abusive or neglectful. The whole family loved each other and followed Jesus, but affirmation and encouragement of dream chasing was never stimulated or encouraged—no sense of destiny was ignited. He does carry emptiness or guilt related to unfinished calling. 'Condemnation' means something."

"What did you do? Say?"

"I didn't intentionally do what Smalley and Trent suggest. Maybe these five things just naturally happen when we bless. I shook his hand, blessed him out loud. I used the words. I told him specifically some of the value he brings to me. I'm glad to have him as a friend. I suggested he was on a journey—he is neither in a ditch or the garbage—and I vocalized my commitment to facilitate him in every way I could."

"Did he feel blessed?

"I think he was sent on a fresh path. We can't do the work of the Holy Spirit and what we are talking about is absolutely that. I can tell you that I gave the Spirit material to work with."

"What is next for that guy?"

Charlie scratched his belly and confirmed the Jenny Craig engagement. "I think at some point he will want to find the wounds that are still active. There may be memories to be healed and tormenting spirits that must be chased out."

Gil was still wincing at the thought of animal entrails on his hand. As sure as the feel and smell were imprinted on his memory, so were the words. "I set before you today life and death, blessing and cursing. Please choose life."

Gil stopped and pointed toward the woods. "I'm at a crossroads. I saw something of my heritage in that camp. I saw myself—the flaw—like a geological fault. I can't just walk away without confession of some kind. In some ways, he passed his mantle on to me, or at least the seeds. Death is the ultimate outcome of that thinking, addiction, behavior."

"For everyone, Gil. The obsessions may be different in every person, but they are usually there—some flaw, to use your word, that keeps us ashamed, depleted, inadequate and despising ourselves—a living death."

"Shame! That is one of the descriptive words. I choose life. I choose not to be bound by that projected generational pattern. I choose not to be controlled..."

"Gil, have you confessed your need for God in this specific area? Of course! How many thousand times? There is 1 John 1:9: 'If we confess our sin, he is faithful to forgive our sin and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' You've met that criterion. You've also 'Confessed your sins one to another...to be healed.' So, upon the authority given to me...Priesthood of the Believers...and Apostolic Succession...I absolve you of any and all sins you have confessed. What I've bound on earth is bound in heaven, according to Matthew 18:16."

The men had knelt next to a bench on the Prayer Path.

"Charlie, have you thought how wild, crazy and almost unbelievable our relationship has been? What happened at the conference was bizarre, to say the least. Every time we are around each other weirdness sets in. Do things like this happen with you every day?"

"No! Thank God! Della says I'm a normal type—you know as in Starbucks not having a medium size, just short and tall. I'm medium, normal, middle. But once in a while, I feel like I need a front end alignment." The cop-preacher stopping walking and pulled his friend around to face him. They stood perspiring in the hot sun looking at each other unsure of what the Spirit wanted to do in this moment. So Charlie sang Psalm 51. Gil self-consciously joined him.

Search me Oh God, know my heart today

Try me, O Savior, know my thoughts, I pray.

See if there be some wicked ways in me;

Cleanse me from every sin and set me free.

James E. Orr

Gil could not escape the physical odor, but as they sang and praised God he could feel his soul being cleansed.

"I think something just left me—a release, maybe an expulsion from my inner being. My heart, soul, body. Something moved out and away from me."

"I praise you Holy Spirit for your cleansing grace and delivering Gil from the stench of defeat and death. We receive your provision. Hallelujah. Hallelujah!"

Gil remembered what Charlie had said earlier. "The local church or fellowship is to be a Kingdom depot. Get people on the right track and send them with the right ticket to the right destination. By blessing them."

"I am blessed!" Gil said.

"We are sooo blessed!"

# Chapter 18

As they walked to the Depot Charlie asked the question no one had thought to ask.

"Gil, do you have any of your grandfather's possessions?"

"I have his Bible. I don't remember how I got it." Gil thought about the Bible and where it presently was. "One day I thumbed through that old book and found the name _Jezebel_ underlined in several places. A pattern of margin notes and underlined words, plus his behavior, suggested Granddad was in cahoots with or in battle with that spirit. I've never been able to find evidence whether Old Adams was serving or battling. For the longest time I was just curious about an eccentric old man. But, then I began to sense that his abuse of wife and children had passed on a spirit link. That was disturbing!"

"What spirit?"

"The Jezebel spirit."

"And you think you are linked?"

"Granddad was a religious man, could quote scripture on any topic, especially prophecy. He was an immoral man, not faithful to many of his vows and had the ability to make money. His kids all hated him, and shuddered at his memory. Some of his offspring have walked in his footsteps in spite of resolving not to."

"You're not answering my question," Charlie insisted.

"With a little imagination, I can come to a firm conclusion of how, where and when it happened—the linking of that old man's dark side to me. The trip to the camp, the smell and feel of death this afternoon proved to me that the choice I make is a real one." Choice—the word triggered something he had learned from Dr. Caroline Leaf. We can choose between the tree of life and the tree of death, she says. Being a brain specialist, she says the choice can be traced to a specific spot in the frontal lobe.

"Iniquity is only a predisposition until we make a choice. From the new science called, 'Epigenetics' we learn about the epigenome which sits on top of the genome.[10] Scientists call these 'marks'. They are switches that tell your genes to turn on or turn off. Picture a wall light switch. Environmental factors are influenced by those switches. From Dr. Leaf comes another study. We turn the switch to 'on' with our thoughts. A single thought will develop a temporary memory which will go away in about 48 hours. Prolonged or repeated thinking will throw the switch and build a permanent memory or way of thinking—quite possibly our choice to be involved in the behavior connected to our predisposition rewires the brain and welds the switch open. We choose whether to participate in the generational curse. The repeated thinking opens the pipe through which protein flows and builds new synapses. I can hardly spell the word, but I understand switch and building new brain pathways." Gil shivered as he calculated the power of thoughts and then choices that become hardwired in our brains.

"Begin with a predisposition, add a trauma, mix in emotion and you have a portion of a gene focused on certain behavior. That is called a stronghold. If that stronghold is involved with iniquity, it can also be called a curse. "

"Do you think that explains what Jesus was talking about when he said, "Anyone who looks with lust..." Charlie asked.

"Yes. We have all the ingredients for the cocktail."

"Sounds like a sentence—lifetime. Hopeless. Locked in, no hope for parole."

"Dr. Leaf talks about the science of neuroplasticity—the brain's ability to reorganize itself. It can adjust and build new pathways. It can rewire itself. I remember reading...

'...we can alter brain anatomy in a positive love direction or a negative fear direction by how and what we choose to think, choices we make and succeeding actions, behaviors and words we speak. It's entirely up to us.'"[11]

"Let me see if I get this. Many of us have thrown the switch before we recognize the consequences. We open up the gate embracing the generational curse unwittingly because of the spiritual predisposition. But God never leaves us swinging in the wind—he sends apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, teachers in some form to tell us His Truth."

"He first sends us The Holy Spirit," Gil added. "The power of repentance—changing our mind—is in our choice to rid ourselves of the toxic thinking and behavior patterns the power resides."

The men had not slowed their pace as they walked toward the loading dock at the Depot.

"In the Depot library is a DVD by an evangelist named Marshall Cranston. I want you to view it before the evening gathering. The irony of all this that nearly freaks me out is that Marshall is writing a book about some of this stuff. What you are describing is a controlling spirit."

Neither man spoke. There was just a common feeling that something was going on that affected Gil and Amanda on a grand scale.

"Marshall's book is not just historical. He is calling it _Jezebel 21—How Jezebel Dresses Today._ Wait. I'll get the DVD for you," Charlie said.

Gil showered and doused himself with cologne to cover any stray smell from the afternoon.

# Chapter 19

The screen was filled with the name. _Marshall._ The preacher had intended it to be a gesture of humility. Gil could remember hearing the Marshall myth from Brent. This was the man who filled the flat screen TV, good hair, inviting eyes and wide gestures.

"'We wrestle not with flesh and blood, but with principalities and powers...against the rulers of darkness...against the forces of evil in the heavenly realms,' Ephesians six says. We are advised, therefore, to 'put on the whole armor of God.'"

The preacher looked into the camera and wagged his finger.

"I want to tell you the name of one of these powers. Satan is a personnel manager. He delegates the work to layers of imps, demons and spirits. These spiritual entities are like worker bees. But the real strategists are the principalities, powers and rulers—shall we call them upper management? Learn who the strategist is and you can generally predict how you will be attacked or tormented. The human who is giving you grief is not even on the organizational chart. They do what demons dictate unless they choose to resist. The scary part is sometimes we are the ones being used. We are not robots. There is personal responsibility. Just understand that there is more going on than is visible. The demons have been commissioned to fulfill the wishes of their superior. Trust me! Each spirit is upwardly mobile, ambitious, seeking advancement. Of course there are not demons behind every bush, but there are some demons behind some bushes."

He walked to the Lucite lectern, picked up his Bible and then turned to the dozen or so TV celebrities standing behind him. (Apparently, Marshall was speaking at a convention. The preachers, singers, pastors and executives were known around the world.) They weren't sure where he was going with this, but he was trusted. Most nodded approval or agreement. They would sit down like a choir after the scripture was read.

"When you know the satanic team leader, then you can build a counterattack and know how to defend yourself with the armor of God." He put his Bible back down and said "Let me suggest that the armor can be used with specific application if you first know your adversary's usual military pattern."

One of the singers leaned to a preacher and said, "I hope he explains that!" Picking up the Bible, Marshall read two or three lines from 1 Kings. He then pulled a stool from the preacher's circle and sat down. Previously, he had prowled as if looking for a reason to pounce. Now, he invited people to gather around. His voice dropped and softened.

"Jezebel is not just a mean slut who wore a lot of makeup and fought with Elijah." Anyone not paying full attention before was now waiting for a signal that they could start breathing again. "No spirit dominates our western culture the way Jezebel now does. She is satan's primary strategist of this age."

Gil leaned forward. Now he knew why Charlie acted the way he did and insisted he see this message. This was God's message to him.

"In Revelation 2:20...perhaps I had better read that...Jesus is speaking:

To the church in Thyatira...you tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess. By her teaching she misleads my servants into sexual immorality and the eating of food sacrificed to idols.

"Jesus continues through verse twenty-six in reference to her, but that gives you a flavor. Much of our knowledge of Jezebel's work today is linked to power-grabbing, manipulating people seeking to usurp the spiritual leader's rightful place. The 'Spirit of Jezebel' has become a catch phrase describing those who seek to control, and then destroy God's ministers.

"We know immediately who Jesus is talking about because there was an historical Queen Jezebel, the daughter of a Phoenician King whose roots were in mystical religion before he usurped the throne in Tyre and Sidon. In a political move to increase power and land, to take advantage of the trade routes that Israel controlled, a marriage was arranged with Israel's King Ahab. Jezebel had an evangelistic plan which she promptly put into place. Her allegiance was to the goddesses of fertility called by different names in different lands. She was called Asherah, Asheroth, Ashteroth by the Israelites. The Assyrians called her Ishtar, the Syrians named her Atargatis. She was Isis in Egypt and Aphrodite in Mesopotamia. Her male counter part was Melkart, the god of power. We know the collective and generic name, Baal." Marshall paused for a moment, shifted on the stool to look into camera two. "I imagine the name most familiar is Aphrodite. Some of you wear perfume with that name. Alluring, a fragrance of love and invitation. The name has been repackaged. You will not like what this goddess stands for."

Preachers, whose sermons were sold on the Internet, took notes on what was being said, and the audience moved to the edge of their theatre seats. There were no theatrics. The Holy Spirit's anointing rested on the relaxed figure sitting in front of the cameras. Marshall knew people across the land had rushed to get pen and paper or blank video tape. He gave them time.

"Jezebel appealed to Ahab to keep the worship of Yahweh, but to introduce and include the worship of Asherah and Baal. Her rationale was the new combined team of deities made a more thorough and strong connection between commerce, needs of the flesh and religion. A one-stop convenience store: worship, groceries and sex all in the same place, or in every place and every home. Ahab compromised a trifle and then 450 prophets of Baal and 400 prophets of Asherah came for supper, and stayed at the Ahab table permanently. The representatives of Yahweh were not only crowded out at the table, they were slaughtered."

Marshall stood up, moved the stool so he would not stumble over it and began pacing.

"The 'spirit of Jezebel' is the spirit of this age. Lest you think this is just preacher talk and you can relax, please know that you have been personally targeted by this evil queen. Her assignment is direct from satan: 'Steal, kill and destroy.' Understand! you and your world are targeted. What sounds disturbing should be received as good news because I have been anointed to share with you instructions how to recognize and defeat this attack. If you know how your enemy is going to attack you, you can set up a basic defense. I've found the attack is insidious. I'm usually in the middle of a battle before I recognize that my defenses have been breached. I am not going to understate the threat. I sure don't want you to underestimate what the Bible calls 'the wiles of the devil.' What we can do is see and then apply what God has given to us. The purpose is to recognize the attack earlier and repel it more effectively. "

Gil sat motionless for several minutes after the DVD finished and clicked off. The door opened. Amanda could see her husband was either in trouble or in deep prayer. She didn't want to disturb the moment. He looked at her and didn't say a word.

"Honey, are you alright?"

He finally said, "I think what I've experienced this afternoon is among the most profound experiences of my life. It is about now, about my childhood, about my parents and growing up." Gil was momentarily without words. He took a breath. "I wonder..." He unconsciously ran his thumb over the scar on his left forearm.

# Chapter 20

The wooden loading platform bounced the sound of Gil's shoes against the eastern wall of the depot. He decided to sit outside the Depot in a Cracker Barrel white rocking chair. Amanda would be along in a few minutes. She would have been ready had he not spent an hour in the shower trying to get rid of the dead animal odor and feel. Perhaps the hot water heater would eventually recover. Eventually. Eventually is not long enough, he thought, to eradicate from his mind the smell or feel of that dead animal. He shivered like a dog indoors out of the rain storm. The dead spirit was gone, but he still had the shivers.

He would have fallen asleep, but the sound of another pair of boots announced he was no longer alone. It was Buddy. Gil had seen him on TV, heard stories about him. His picture was on the Southwood brochure and website.

"Hey man, I hear you bought a box and went for walk in the forest. I used to do that when I was smoking strange stuff and drinking my breakfast. What's your story?" It was a good-natured taunt, but he was capable and willing to pitch high and tight.

Buddy usually wore a baseball cap or a forehead crease where it had been. When he was thinking deeply about something, he scratched his head with the bill of his cap. Each of his friends has a story about him reaching for his cap and scratching when he wasn't even wearing a cap. "Lost brain cells," he would usually say when he realized his hand was empty. He would also tell you that he had killed a few cells with his addictions. For many years, he was the town drunk. Way too young for the part, but he played it at Oscar performance level

Buddy aka Lawrence, was miserly with his words except when something was worth saying. He was spending today.

"Seeing a friend come into the visitor's room wearing an orange jumpsuit...I've never been able to prepare for that sight. The sound of steel doors closing can't be described. It is more a feeling than a sound. The feeling is located somewhere in the middle of my gut. It feels like every chance has been negated and every option has been revoked. Ever had the bases loaded with no outs and a no-hitter going? The possibilities of getting out of the inning keeping your streak in tact are slim."

"How can you have a no-hitter going and the bases loaded?" Gil wanted to know.

"Walks. Sure _seemed_ like a good example!" Buddy wasn't always eloquent, but he was nearly always passionate. He had walked out of, and was escorted into, enough jail cells to know.

"The possibilities increased for you," Gil reminded him.

"I stumbled into it. Didn't go looking for religion. Brent came to town, acted like he needed a friend and came looking for me. Pulled me out of a tavern one day. I was ready to take a long walk on a short pier. He went to my home town to see what I was about. No wonder the Celts speak of the Holy Spirit as the Wild Goose. Faith came looking for me. Seemed right."

Since Vietnam, Lawrence, with a Master's Degree, had lived as Buddy half crazy and usually looking for a fight which he never won. Town drunk gave him a good cover.

"I finally figured out who you remind me of," Gil said. "The actor in 'Nobody's Fool.'"

"Bruce Willis?"

"Paul Newman!"

Lawrence was refined and sophisticated when dressed up, but had an edge when he wasn't. He would tell you if you had bad breath. And you would thank him. Buddy was bluntly kind.

"Hear you wrestled with a dead pig when you were in the forest."

"Doesn't take long for news to get around Southwood." Buddy was at home; Gil was a visitor, therefore, he was going to let the homeboy direct the conversation. When it didn't move fast enough, the visitor decided to play his cards. "I made a decision while in the clearing and walking across the meadow smelling like I had been swimming in a septic tank. Deuteronomy 30 says we have before us life and death. God says, 'Choose life.' I have chosen life."

"Yeah. Charlie told me parts of your story, or parts of what you told him. Your aunt wrote something. I would be freaking out. I don't know if you are a crazy man, have been doubling up on your pills or something beyond my understanding is going on. You are into something strange."

"A letter from her that I read this afternoon said there would be a group of people who would tell me how to choose life. This is not about me getting saved—choosing _eternal_ life. For me, it is about choosing not to allow any dysfunction or deficiency to diminish my life."

Buddy went to a spot in his personal memory book before going back to the story he had started. He was still there when he said, "I was doing ninety-days for DUI," His eyebrows knotted, his mouth tightened as he walked through the jail in his mind. "Orange jumpsuits." The man went quiet. It was like he went away. "It is a mind assault. To see a friend in one of those outfits..." He could see it. "My mind can't wrap around it. It's like stepping into the bright sunlight from an extremely dark theater. And the sound of steel doors slamming against steel door casings that reverberate through the hallways of concrete blocks. It feels like all hope has been abandoned—shut out and locked away. I feel as if I can't breathe adequately. Hope and air are locked outside somewhere."

Buddy has a high tolerance for quiet. He can sit in a bass boat with a friend for three hours holding a fishing pole, not say one word until he says, "I'll see you tomorrow. It's been good talking with you." Gil, on the other hand, could have a facial tic episode if silence stayed too long. Gil didn't know what to do with quiet. Solitude was welcome. He just doesn't want to do solitude with another person in the room. Buddy's voice finally put Gil out of his misery.

"I did ninety days for DUI with a guy in for possession with intent to deliver. Mountain. Three hundred pounds, lots of ink. He and his wife got busted in a raid. He talked about her. He cried when he wondered who was going to care for their kids with both parents in prison. We were sitting in a room with two walls of windows. I don't think it was supposed to happen—the guards didn't know the man was in that room when they escorted his wife past us taking her to the exercise yard. The man and woman saw each other for the first time since they got busted. They waved. No way I can describe the look on his face or the tears. I don't think either one of them even knew how much they cared for each other until they were both in jail. It was like a 'take-the-sandals-off-your-feet' moment. It was close to holy. He was out of the chair, stretching his neck trying to look around corners to see her."

Buddy couldn't stay in his chair either. He walked to the train tracks which were long enough to hold three Pullman cars. He looked beyond the cars to tracks that weren't there. All the way to Laredo.

"That man experienced something in himself he didn't know was there. He loved and was loved. In the whole world, there was one other human who cared for him in a way no one else did or could. But I think he realized what life was going to be without her—what his law breaking had cost him. I thought that mountain was going to come apart like a volcano unable to erupt—just split apart. " The waterfall of words dried up and Buddy went back to that room with the windows. He sat there until tears filled his own eyes.

"The guards came back with his wife—I think they were married. One female guard stood in front of the window to shield them from seeing each other. The guards feared signals would be passed, I suppose. After what had gone on in the room where I was—I'm telling you the atmosphere changed, the barometer shifted—the only signals would have been about discovery and deep contrition. Couples who go to marriage enrichment retreats could go home immediately enriched after seeing _that_ film clip. But you can't get there by reading or discussing it with a group. That discovery comes wrapped in loss, potential loss and appreciation for the other person. It is, I don't know, maybe an eye opening."

Gil found his own voice. "One of my favorite writers tells about a drop leaf table in the back hallway of his house. It reminds him of 'those days when we first began to fall in love.' Then he adds, 'We are still at it, by the way.'"

"That mountain looked at me," Buddy said as if he didn't hear Gil's story about the drop leaf table. "It was scary for a minute. I wondered if he was considering jumping through that wire-enforced glass. Then he said, 'Whatever it takes! By god! I'm finished with that old shit. Whatever it takes!' He looked at me like I had a clue. 'Who do I ask? Where do I go? Who knows? Who can tell me how to get there? Do I sign up for a class? Do I read something?' He expected me to have an answer. I didn't." Buddy shifted in the white rocking chair and looked at his new friend. "There has to be a drop-leaf table somewhere in a marriage, doesn't there?"

Gil lifted his eyebrows to answer. "What does it take? Beyond drop-leaf tables, I mean."

"What did you decide 'choosing life' means to you? What does 'life' look like?"

"As I walked across that meadow with the smell of death on me, I just knew I wanted to be totally, fully alive. I don't know what it looks like. If I did I probably would have gone there or tried to get there. "

"Totally, fully alive. Like the song says. Does 'Totally' have a zip code?"

"It has that feel doesn't it? Real enough to be a location. Maybe totally, fully alive is descriptive of the journey and not destination."

"I can't describe being fully alive for you. Isn't that what we call a life plan? Jesus gives us descriptions in general terms. People who live there have made specific plans and are intentional. You and Amanda will hear God's direction and design. But this I do know: the track to Totally runs through Southwood and we are available to help you get on board."

"That's what the letter from Ms. Stella Adams said: '...if this makes any sense to you, then God has some of His servants close by to help you process this story.'"

"That probably would be us. Brent, Felicia, Florence, my wife and daughter. Charlie and Della for sure. And if you're lucky, Phillip and Sally. You're here for how long?"

"A couple of weeks."

"Then you've got a few more days to find the right map and to lay some track. You've got some great people for the trip. You know the phrase, 'train wreck'? Some of us define that phrase." Buddy stood up abruptly. "I smell luscious perfume or cologne. That would be my wife or yours."

"Mine. Buddy, this is Amanda."

"Good evening. I don't know if I should call you Buddy or Lawrence. The perfume was in the gift basket waiting for us in the depot apartment. It has your wife's logo and trademark on the bottle."

"It is nice to meet you, Amanda. Speaking of my wife, I had better get home. I need to get ready for the evening. If you will excuse me."

In dusty cowboy boots that made a statement with every step, Buddy walked toward Bethany Lodge, his home. Suddenly he stopped. He half turned toward Gil and Amanda then shook his head and resumed his walk only to make an abrupt turn and came back to them.

"I'm not too swift with these words of prophecy or knowledge or wisdom—whatever this might be. It just feels to me like I'm supposed to tell you..., uh... 'You need to rebuild it from the ground up.'"

Gil waited for an explanation or more words which didn't come. "Build what?" His hands came up belt high in a question.

"I think it means your life, Gil. From the beginning—like from the moment you were conceived. Given the box and your great aunt's letters—seems like—you need to listen to the Speaker. You'll figure it out."

Gil and Amanda clutched each other as if caught in a vortex and watched Buddy climb the hill.

# Chapter 21

The sun spotlighted the large round table sitting on The Depot platform. At five minutes before show time, heavy drapes would electronically close across the large windows. The camera light meters would adjust. But until then, the 180 0 view presented the back side of the Mansion, the north stand of trees and a man-made waterfall and pond. If the event was not being televised or audio recorded, the drapes remained open. The lighted waterfall was backdrop to music, preaching or teaching.

The platform was large enough for band or orchestra, plexi-glass pulpit, white board, a drum booth, video screen, singers, teachers, preachers and an altar. The audience sat where once there were wooden benches filled with travelers waiting for their trains.

On cue, the cast walked to the table. White tablecloths covered a round table for eight.

"Five-minutes," the floor director said. The drapes closed, cameras were pushed into place. The floor director communicated with the program director in the engineer's room monitoring the camera shots.

This evening meal was by invitation only. The weekly table gathering would be televised and released on the Internet. "Supper at Southwood" gathered conversationalists from guests and staff.

The floor director started the countdown. "Five, four, three, two, one..." The light on camera one turned red.

"Good evening," Brent said as he looked into the camera on his right. He shifted in his chair. "Welcome to Supper at Southwood. Miss Flo, what is on the evening menu?"

Flo hated it when he put her on camera. But, she did a good job especially if she got into a heckling match with Brent. That banter never reached the level of NBA trash talk, but Brent was her perfect foil.

Food was a small part of the program, except for commercials for Flo's cookbooks from which the menu was selected. The program centered on table talk. Informal, partially scripted and driven by current events, questions from viewers and new projects involving the people who lived and ministered at Southwood. When guest teachers or speakers were in meetings at Southwood, they chose the topic. This evening would feature the story of Gil and Amanda Adams.

The cast changed week to week depending on who was in town or who had a new book or album in the works. Tonight's cast consisted of Brent and Felicia, Buddy and Cindy, Cheryl (Buddy and Cindy's daughter), and of course the Adams.

"Life at Southwood is seldom boring and each week and often each day of any given week is filled with drama. The past couple of weeks have been unique as we have hosted Gil and Amanda Adams on our campus." Camera two picked up the couple as they acknowledged their introduction.

"This couple has brought drama, intrigue and a fascinating time to Southwood. We have never experienced what has been happening here. It has been difficult to know what was time travel, what was wild imagination and what the Holy Spirit was doing in healing Gil as he faced his history. It has not been an easy trek for..." Brent turned in his swiveling chair to speak directly to Gil. "You have not enjoyed all of it, have you?" Gil shook his head. Turning back to the camera, Brent continued. "Mysteriously, and I think we have agreed, in bizarre means, our new friends have faced artifacts, dreams, visions and unnamable events that took Gil to the early days of his life and their impact upon his entire lifetime including his relationship with his wife. Your time at Southwood took a different path than you expected. Can you bring us up to speed?"

"Sure," Gil Adams replied. "I have lived most of my life feeling there was an influential section of my life hidden in my mind. I have wondered if those events not only influenced, but controlled my self-concept and urges—hungers. I've wondered how that dark closet in my history affected my destiny. I have come to understand during these past few days that my past—family of origin and my choices—have predisposed me to failure in certain parts of my life. The specifics were not totally, clearly visible. They were dragging me toward an end destination that my Heavenly Father did not plan. I was bound to sub-conscious influences..."

Brent broke into the narration. "You keep saying influences. Many in our audience will recognize your description as spiritual oppression and generational curses."

"Yes. I'm not avoiding those concepts. I'm trying to take responsibility for my behavior and choices. While I think those influences hardwired me to a mindset and emotional predisposition, I still made decisions."

Brent cued the camera, "We took our cameras outside the Depot this afternoon to record a spiritual tearing down of strongholds in Gil. I'm mixing metaphors. Two scriptures come to mind.

"We are advised to 'tear down strongholds,' and 'Whatsoever you loose on earth...' For dramatic purposes and a vivid visual aid, we tied Gil with a rope to the train engine sitting on the tracks—let's watch it. For those in the audience turn your attention to..." Brent pointed to the large screens. The screens filled with a close-up of a rope. The shot went wide to reveal one end of the rope attached to the locomotive Brent had described. The other end of the rope was tied around Gil. In the middle was a tree stump Buddy had carried in on an end loader. The camera picked up Charlie standing next to the taut rope and Gil.

"You have told us you believe you are bound by motivations that began in your heritage."

"Yes Sir." Gil said.

"You have confessed your self-destructive choices and agreement with the mindset that has controlled your thinking?" Pastor Charlie asked. "You—and only you—can renounce your connection with the wrong, sinful and dead end direction those influences have in your mind, emotions, and will. Do you desire to renounce your connections?"

"I do! In the Name of Jesus, I do renounce my agreements with those influences."

Pastor Charlie picked up a double-headed ax. Brent and Buddy grasped the rope and held it taut over the tree stump.

"In the authority of God's word, as Gil's Pastor and with his instruction, I sever his connections with the dark spiritual dimensions of his life." Charlie lifted the ax over his head and brought it down with a loud thud. The rope was cut, the ax head sank into the stump as Gil stumbled backwards with a short piece of the rope in his hands. Charlie untied the rope from Gil and loudly said, "I proclaim to the spiritual world, to all who will see and hear of this disconnection and to Gil, the dark powers no longer have any legal spiritual rights to Gil. In Jesus' Name."

The screens on the wall went black momentarily and then picked up a live shot of Gil and Amanda as they held their hands in the air. They praised God for freedom and liberty. The audience and cast applauded and praised. The exaltation of the Deliverer and the joy over a soul set free continued in waves of intensity. There was no hurry to quiet the participants. Gil was not the only one who wiped tears before he sat down. When it became obvious that it would take a few moments for everyone to refocus, Brent introduced a song featuring Southwood artists.

Coming back live, Brent asked, "This is a demonstration of what we believe happened inside this man. Gil, do you prescribe deliverance for everyone?"

"I doubt that everyone needs it exactly the way I'm receiving deliverance. Randall Neighbour in his book, _The Naked Truth about Small Group Ministry_ , says he has talked to many pastors and concludes pursuit of discipleship is _weak in deliverance from satanic_ _strongholds_. Neighbour's discipleship training is incrementally intentional. His second step is a deliverance weekend. My reaction was that I knew what deliverance looks like in a Pentecostal setting, but what does it look like when Baptists do deliverance?

Some sort of deliverance weekend and inner healing ministry for small group members must be engineered into your discipleship pathway. If you do not provide this very early in the process, you will discover a lack of enthusiasm in the balance of the discipleship path and especially the evangelism component. [12]

"The name Neighbour is synonymous with evangelism in the Southern Baptist tradition. His family has been known for pace-setting small groups as well as church planting. Randall takes this one step further by saying he only teaches about deliverance within small group connections. If you put people into deliverance without at the same time placing them in an intimate life group and a mentoring setting the newly delivered person becomes extremely vulnerable to satan. The short answer to your question, Brent, is, absolutely!"

Dr. Cheryl asked if she might add something. "'It is impossible to be spiritually mature while being emotionally unhealthy.' That statement comes from Peter Scazzaro author of _Emotionally Healthy Spirituality_ [13]

"A friend of my grandparents said he and his wife are going out of town tomorrow. Tomorrow is the city's annual air show. He remembers the day in 1945 when an airplane crashed into the grade school he and several other church people attended. Specific airplane sounds remind him of the dead kid on the playground and the sight of the pilot hanging in a tree. A family across the street from the school had just gotten up from the table when aircraft wreckage crashed through the roof demolishing the table. Seeing his buddies injured is not just something that happened long time ago. One of those guys was sitting near the wooden baseball backstop. "We didn't play any more baseball that day," George says. The kid near the backstop still picks pieces of wood from his body as they work to the surface.

"Several of George's school mates worship with us. Their faces display memories of that day as if they were reliving it in the moment. A 1945 event relived in the current moment.

"'Forgetting those things which are past...' That is not a cognitive requirement; events, images, remembered feelings require healing. If the events of the past are still alive, they are not 'things which are past.' Sin needs to be forgiven; memories need to be healed."

Cheryl continued. "Dr. Don Colbert lists _The Seven Pillars of Health_ in a book of the same title. The second "pillar" is: 'I am healed of all my childhood wounds.' Saying so doesn't make it so. The affirmation comes after the healing event. Some of my clients find those memories and wounds breaking into today on a regular basis. We found that they have learned to cope by layering experiences and habits over the wounds. Wounded people survive by building strongholds to hide in or to place the event that wounded them. Wounds often demand a 'therefore...' The easy example is the sexually abused girl will see herself as damaged goods, therefore, permanently stained. They make an agreement with that suggestion.

"Until recently, I would not be as adamant about healing of childhood wounds as part of discipling. The purpose of 'discipling' is to equip a person to become like Jesus or 'formed into the likeness of Christ' (Galatians 4:8-20). You cannot be formed into His likeness while at the same time seeing yourself beyond cleansing or restoration. So we lead them through the process of renunciation and breaking of agreements. Periodically, that renunciation has to be repeated. Those wounded believers fight off a spiritual attack through agreeing with the way God sees them and intentionally disagreeing with satan's harassing suggestions."

Amanda Adams leaned onto the table. "Two questions, Miss Cheryl. Can you describe how harassing suggestions might happen? Second question, What if the harassed person does not verbalize that renunciation?"

"To answer your first question: not all the negative thoughts floating through your mind comes from your lack of mental discipline. Satan uses condemning thoughts to troll through your thinking baiting you to bite. Does that answer satisfy you?" Amanda shook her head.

"As to your second question. Crisis may push us to drift back into the stronghold and the return of old thought patterns and destructive coping mechanisms. There is also the possibility that demons expelled earlier will return and attempt to re-enter. All of this requires a "relaxed" vigilance. Abused, abandoned or neglected children usually are highly vigilant. They constantly have their antenna up for any incoming threats. That is exhausting. It is not the life of the Spirit Walk. But we cannot forget that we have an enemy who constantly seeks to devour us—like a lion the scripture says. Vigilant, but not tense. Emotionally healthy is the catalyst for mature spirituality."

Brent thanked Cheryl. "Gil and Amanda's story is not finished. I think it will add detail to what Dr. Cheryl has said. Amanda, tell us about Gil's most recent dream."

"Well," she began. "We aren't sure that it was a dream. Part of the encounter with his early years was more like a vision or a revelation in the form of a day dream. He called me into the living room of the Depot apartment to explain he had seen what he described as a carriage house the size of a two and half car garage. The structure had a loft."

"The building was on family property" as I heard the story," Brent interjected. "Pick up the story for us, Gil."

"It was on the family home place. In my vision, the building looked familiar. I remembered it sitting about twenty-five to fifty feet from the garage. I was about ten. I don't recall ever having been in the building although I visited that home and lived there for a brief period. I explained it to Amanda—it was like dreaming about a room in your house that you previously didn't know was there."

"I couldn't believe that he had never been in that building. He got into everything!" Amanda said, which drew laughter.

"Why is that building significant?"

"Mr. Brent, that structure represents three or four generations in my family of origin. As I viewed the building a couple scripture passages dominated that experience: "The acts of the sinful nature are obvious" and "Live by the Spirit and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature."

Brent said, "Those come from Galatians five as the Apostle compares and contrasts the works of the flesh and the fruit of the Spirit."

Now Gil looked into the camera. "I think it is important for our viewers to know that I told the Southwood staff about this dream and asked them to walk with me through what we've called 'Healing of Memories.' Those at this table prayed with and for me. The severing of the connections you saw earlier was the culmination of that prayer walk into my formative influences, experiences and memories."

"Tell us what you found inside that little building."

"The first floor was empty. The windows were very dirty. The loft contained four rooms which were labeled, Sex, Religion, Emotions, Addictions—from Galatians five. The rooms contained visualized memories and portrayals of events and experiences that became strongholds for some of the family and influences for me. It was as if I was in the very places as the activities and actions were taking place. Again, these influences predisposed me, that is, made me vulnerable. Let me give you other words for my word influenced: motivated, affected, stimulated, shaped, manipulated, pressured."

"Thanks for that explanation," Brent said. "As we prayer-walked you through this symbol of your heritage, you were encountering family members. This was not an academic tour of a museum, was it?"

"No. And the property was guarded by entities that were not going to passively or calmly give up territory in me that they had occupied for a long time. These territories were staging areas for attacks and spiritual intimidation. Those dark spirits were not going to surrender the estate they claimed as their own. As you remember, a menacing voice threatened us and demanded that we leave."

"Yes, I recall! I won't quickly forget those confrontations. Dark spirits were going to battle for territorial rights. For our audience—we attempt to be led by the Spirit in spiritual power encounters and we cover each other with praise and prayer. We came to this event with Gil prepared by prayer and fasting. This is not child's play. This is spiritual warfare as we enter territory inhabited for generations by dark spirits. Others may have other names for those entities."

"Brent, I have had a recurring dream through the years in which I was confronted by ferocious dogs. After visiting that building, I dreamed I was attacked by a Pit Bull whose target was my genitals. I read recently that dogs in dreams can symbolize demons. I want to avoid being crude. That demon was trying to emasculate me—remove my ability to fight against him."

Radio and television people would not like the empty air that followed those words. To those around the table, it seemed they all needed breathing space.

"What are you feeling when you think about those rooms?" As program host, Brent was guiding the conversation.

"Right now?" Gil paused to think. "I feel totally disconnected from them. They have no power over me. I can look at them objectively. They have lost their controlling influence."

Applause followed Gil's words. "Praise the Lord," Brent exclaimed. "If you could go back to that building right now, what would you like to do about it or with it?"

"I would burn it down." Again, Gil paused to think. "I can't do that. Those people and their experiences won't go away. My personal experiences that have nothing to do with my family's behavior cannot be erased."

"Given that," Brent said as he reached for his Bible, "Let me read two verses."

"...he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, (he will give) a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair." [14]

"Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think." [15]

"Let's give God material upon which to work as He renews your mind. You can't remove those things from your life, but you can choose to pass a new building to the next generation. You have said, 'This curse—this behavior pattern—stops here.' Do you have a vision—will you build an image (in your imagination—your memory bank) of the new structure that houses the heritage people going forward will inherit?" When there was no immediate response, Brent said, "Let me explain what I mean: You said the front doors were on tracks and that one of the rolling doors was off its track. Let's start there. Can you see yourself repairing the track, oiling the wheels and replacing the door where it belongs?"

Gil closed his eyes and imagined what was suggested.

"The doors roll smoothly and there are no squeaks. Inside the old doors, I have built a new entrance with a beautiful latch and lock. No one can enter without my permission. I alone hold the key to that lock. Wait. I'm washing the windows. The grime is gone. Nothing can be hidden. Light has access."

"Gil, you have spoken of the emptiness of the first floor. You are going to furnish this building. But first we must go to the loft. Take us there."

"Wait. Before we go upstairs, I want to replace the stair treads. My perception of the old is that the steps were made of one-inch material. I interpreted that to mean deception. They would not do what they promised. I am replacing those with manufactured oak steps. Solid! There. Let's walk upstairs.

"The old room signs: Sexual Dysfunction, Destructive Religion, Unhealthy Emotions and Addictions are gone. I had to face each of those expressions of my flesh—literally the patterns I had inherited and then how I personalized each one. That happened when I confessed specific events and then renounced my behavior and cut the tie to those 'deeds of the flesh.'"

Buddy was scratching the top of his head with the bill of his cap which was about as subtle as two trains colliding.

"I don't want to cast doubt on what you're saying, but I have never found it that simple, straight forward or easy to cut loose from _deeds of the flesh_." Buddy's words didn't shock anyone, but the room got quiet waiting for Gil's response.

"You're right. Let me tell you the process I'm following. I sure don't want to suggest that this is easy. I hope you will say that to me again in a month or a year. We'll see if this works long-term. Dallas Willard says, 'Jesus teaches you to live your life as He would live your life.' If that is true, I have to consider how Jesus would live my life—my masculinity. I'm not just any guy; I'm Gil Adams with wiring unique to me. I am also married to Amanda who has her own baggage car."

"Your point?" Buddy was not being rude. He was trying to keep Gil on message and not just talking until he thought of something to say.

"Getting there. I promise. I climbed those stairs to look at the activities in those four rooms and asked what is in that heritage that enables me or helps me—the man Gil Adams, husband of Amanda—to be what God created me to be? How will Jesus live my life or how will I live the Jesus life not in general terms but as me." Gil opened his coat, unbuttoned his shirt and tapped his bare skin with his finger. "This me." He stepped off the platform, walked to the white board and wrote the list:

Sexual dysfunction—compulsions, bad habits, cravings, obsessions.

Destructive religion

Unhealthy emotions

Addictions

"Accompanying that—I have to keep reminding myself that I cannot pretend the events and dispositions written into my DNA from the iniquities of my ancestors are not there. Following them will produce behavior—deeds of the flesh—which Paul says leads to death. On the other hand, the follower of Jesus is to produce Fruit of the Spirit." Gil wrote the words in green, the growth color:

CHARACTER

Covenant

Climate

Confidence

Competencies

"These behaviors and personal qualities offset the other list. If my eyes, mind and genitals are living in covenant with God and Amanda, acting on illicit cravings probably won't happen. That make sense?

"Isolation was one of the dark influences in my family of origin. The isolated person is always vulnerable to displacing God and making self the final authority or arbiter on everything.

"When my heritage is built on a climate or environment that is welcoming to God, His people and a tribe that encourages, holds me accountable and walks with me, then self-centered religion can't establish a root system unimpeded. It can happen, but not without overriding the Word and presence of God and the people closest to me.

"Remember what I'm doing here. I am replacing the signs that identified my heritage. Confidence has roots and expressions in humility. The lack of true confidence usually is an expression of ignorance of who I am in Christ and what my real nature is. The new person leads family in worshiping and exposing self and loved ones to thought patterns, behaviors, activities, events and relationships that build character—which Fruit of the Spirit are icons.

"With my trusty cordless drill I attach the sign Competencies. When I have learned to be a competent man and competent in all the things that make living the life of Jesus in the body of Gil Adams, I have no need for artificial coping mechanisms."

Adams put the cap on the marker and stepped away from the board.

"Lots of words, Bro. I got lost. I don't think you helped me any."

"Thanks, Buddy. None of this is happening automatically or simply by personal exertion." Gil wrote four more words: "Redemption," "Healing," "Tribe," "Repentance."

"I look at my heritage and ask which event, activity, disposition, relationship keeps me from the destiny I sense God has placed within me and I present myself to God and my tribe for healing. I can't erase those destructive things, but God can heal how they impacted me and sent me off the tracks."

With the red marker, Gil circled the four critical words. Redemption, healing, tribe, repentance.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The program always closed when Flo said, "And for dessert..." Camera 5 would pick up Felicia on a tight shot.

"Thank you for joining us for Supper at Southwood. Remember, Southwood is here to serve you. Retreats, rehab, residential and renewal. Whether you come for a conference, a few days or a lifetime..." Felicia ended the commercial with a prayer for healing related to the evening conversation subject.

"Gil and Amanda, did you enjoy the meal? Would you recommend Southwood to our friends?" After their affirmation, Felicia thanked the viewers and said good night.

"Three-two-one. Roll closing. And...we're out. Thank you. Great show!"

Chairs slid away from the table, people stretched and walked around as the credits rolled. It may as well be part of the script. Each week Flo said, "Y'all take a potty break and re-gather for fresh coffee and dessert in seven minutes." The best part of the program was the after-program interaction.

# Chapter 22

Twilight and early evening captured the landscape during the program. While Gil and Amanda used the seven minutes to rush to their apartment bathroom, the table was cleared; carafes of peach-flavored coffee and generous servings of Peach Cobbler were placed at each setting. A bouquet of freshly cut flowers now occupied table center. With drapes open, the floodlight lit water fall sparkled through the massive depot windows.

People began to sit and taste the cobbler. Charlie had picked up his coffee cup and saucer while standing behind his chair.

"Gil, are you feeling targeted? Now that we are off-camera do you want to explain to the rest of the group what went on in the woods?"

Tentatively, Gil raised his eyebrows. "Don't know that I can without sounding like a lunatic. I inherited the consequences of a behavior pattern from my family of origin—back three or four generations." As an important afterthought, he reminded the gathering, "Each family passes on unique baggage and aspects of 'deeds of the flesh.' And! Generational blessings."

"Everybody sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. Come join us Flo" Brent pulled a chair out for her as he invited her. "Go on, Gil."

"This afternoon at that primitive camp in the woods, it all came together. Shame, stupid emotional patterns—clearly unhealthy and addictive." Gil built a barrier and gave himself time by taking a drink of coffee and holding the cup in front of his mouth—a signal he was through talking. Then he put his coffee cup onto the saucer.

"Cheryl, you are the psychological expert," he said. "How can a person live a lifetime under the preaching of the word, actively studying and teaching God's word, being in prayer meetings, serving God with a heart filled with intensity and still live with predisposition to addictions?"

"Peter Scazzero wondered that too. Not many churches factor growing emotionally healthy people as part of making disciples. Generally we separate spiritual experience from emotional well-being. Christians tend to think discipleship is about 'spiritual things' like learning Bible verses, biblical principles, how to have a devotional life and filling some post at church. Discipleship becomes one-dimensional in that model. Legitimate discipleship means the process of growing to be like Christ. A person can live from the altar to the grave and never move beyond the religious aspect of church spirituality and at the same time be dominated by unhealthy relationships and screwy thought patterns. Bottom line: If our behavior or thought habits do not match what we are experiencing in our spirits then discipleship is only partially operative. Making disciples is about making the whole person—every aspect of the person—thinking, feeling, praying, and genitalia—and how we use them—'formed into the likeness of Jesus.'"

Buddy asked the big question. "Why doesn't that happen?"

"Again, Scazzero gives an answer that applies to me," Della offered. "Two reasons: First, I thought I was already doing what it takes to heal the whole person and second, when I suspected something was missing I didn't know what to do, how to form a question to the right person leaving "...whole emotional layers of my life that God had not touched,"13 As for me, I just didn't know they were there. No one ever preached about that or taught a seminar with skills to examine my family of origin and the experiences of youth that made—let me say it another way. We've all heard thousands of sermons on 'Leave those things behind...' But when your past is controlling or influencing your present behavior, then it has not been left behind. I just thought my stupid behavior was beyond healing and beyond God's touch. I concluded that I was carved out of a block of flawed wood. It wasn't until Brent started talking to me and showing what real insecurity looked like that this began to take shape. A thousand more prayer meetings wouldn't fix what was wrong in me. When I connected my feelings, thinking and behavior to my dysfunction as a kid, the prayers touched what needed to be healed—they had the right target, finally.

"I was never free until I uncovered the shame I was carrying. Dr. Brené Brown was a grand resource. Guilt needs to be forgiven, shame demands healing. Brent and Felicia and Cheryl asked questions, helped me unearth that sewer line and then carried healing to my soul from the hands of Jesus."

"So, how does that connect with Gil?"

Buddy shrugged. "It sounds he was handed a pattern of thinking that was triggered by boredom, weariness, anger or frustration. For others, it is an encounter with pornography at an early age or sexual exploitation-molestation that triggers a latent curse or pattern. Shame and guilt follow."

Della was intense. Everyone knew the Della signal—when she was intense and about to explode. She tapped a specific song's rhythm with her fingernails on the table. With the table cloth in place the sound was muffled, but not for long. "Let's not get lost in one aspect of this. I work with kids every day who have not been taught nor have they seen in parents, grandparents, peers or neighbors any example of life but dysfunction. All they have are generation after generation examples of bad behavior or ways of living that is inadequate or destructive. Some are good people who have taught wrong things or have neglected learning. Some of my kids need to be re-parented. Some just have no clue or alternative model. When they say, 'I didn't know any better,' they are telling you the truth."

"Then, there are those who get blindsided by spiritual attack. They either don't know or discount that they have an enemy," Della said.

Brent repeated what others had said. That he can find himself in the middle of a battle before he recognizes it as an assault. "The enemy is willing to do anything to 'take us out.' Had we not responded to what I believed to be the urging of the Spirit, who knows? Obviously, I think I do," Felicia quickly added, "I know we have been sensitized to the 'tricks of the devil.' The frustration is that we become preoccupied and get caught..."

"With our spiritual pants down?" Brent asked. "Satan will use any soft spot to attack. He is not omniscient, but he can pick up enough clues by observation to plot our demise. He seeks to steal, kill and destroy. He will take us out or neutralize our witness. Any wound or flaw, real or perceived, becomes the soft underbelly vulnerable to attack."

"Aren't you putting a lot of guilt on the family of origin?" Buddy pushed. "God knows my family left me in shambles, but tons of my troubles came because of my own behavior and choices that had nothing to do with my parents or grandparents."

"Important point," Charlie chimed in. "No matter what our imprinting or what behavioral pattern we inherit, we are responsible for our own behavior and choices. If 1 Corinthians 10:13 is accurate, we are always given a way out of every temptation. In view of the deliverance and healing we are seeing, the words of Leonard Sweet speaks to me."

"The future is a Christian's native time zone."The default time zone of the Christian is what is ahead, not what is behind."[16]

# Chapter 23

After dessert, Amanda asked Gil, Charlie and Della if they would go with her on a morning trek into the forest clearing. Plans were made. The four went to the garage to make sure two golf carts were charged and ready for a short trip.

Amanda found morning light had dimmed her excitement about the wooded place she had been adamant about seeing. She decided she couldn't say, "Never mind."

"There is where I walked down the hill," Gil pointed to tracks through the high grass. The riders grabbed tighter to the carts as they began the descent. They left the warm morning sunlight and entered the dark, moist coolness of an area feeling like a swamp and dense woods.

"It is too dense. We'll have to walk." Gil didn't know if it was a matter of yards or miles. All he remembered was the carved out place was far enough into the woods to be hidden.

"Tell me again why you want to visit this place," Della asked.

"I want to make sure my husband has not walked off the planet into a mental breakdown. If there was no dead animal, I want to know where he got that horrible smell." The small troop had found something to laugh about.

"There is a lot more than smell!"

"We'll get off here and walk," Charlie said. "Are you sure you can find your tracks in? Should we mark the trail so we can find our way back?" He adjusted his weapon. He wasn't concerned about Big Foot or 1930's ghosts, but he had heard the coyotes and he knew the stories of mountain lions hiding in these woods. "Let's stay close together. Don't want a beast to take out a straggler."

"Thank you Pastor Putnam," Amanda jested. "More drama is exactly what I need—kinda like a layer of stress on top of fear."

The turkey vulture added one more layer with its warning screech. Everyone involuntarily ducked as if personally attacked.

"There is the smell. I recognize it," Gil said as if presenting one piece of evidence to the jury.

"I'll testify to that," Charlie said with his nose inside his shirt.

Another thousand feet and they entered the clearing.

"Believe me, now?"

There was the rusted fire ring, beer cans, tree stumps. Gil was feeling self-consciously under the gun. His credibility was in question. "I can only tell you what I saw and experienced." It sounded like a feeble appeal.

"Well," Charlie mocked, "he may have had some kind of delusional break with reality." He was feeling like a poor imitation of Monk—the TV detective. They were all out of their element trying to put details to a story that stretched the word bizarre to the limit.

"I think God brought him here for a personal confrontation and the details were in place for Gil only. He doesn't have to prove anything to me."

"Della, you are too easy. I need evidence. Gil may not need it today, but months from now he will question this. Gil?" He was quietly listening to his wife and friends trying to decide if he was a nut case or had a personal encounter with a spirit realm and perhaps God.

Charlie surveyed the edges of the clearing. Someone or something had cut out a place. One step away from the oasis was dense underbrush and trees intertwined and rotting. Rotting branches tying the landscape together.

"My friend, your story wouldn't hold up in court. I believe you. I believed you when you climbed up the hill—I could see you had encountered something. For that matter, I could smell that you had encountered something!" Charlie laughed. "I saw your face and the look in your eyes—I believed you then. And now."

Two pieces of evidence convinced the jury. The vulture shrieked "LEAVE!" Gil recognized it. The same voice had issued the same command when he first entered the loft in the carriage house. The four might discuss the tone or volume, but they would never question that something had spoken. They were trespassing on unholy ground.

"The temperature feels like it just dropped forty degrees." The atmosphere had changed. The clearing was not a welcoming place. "Let's get out of here," Amanda urgently requested.

It was the difference between the light and darkness that was a closing argument. Darkness inside the deep part of the woods could not have been brightened by spotlights. It was a darkness that was felt, not just seen.

"Okay. Mrs. Adams, are you satisfied?" the cop asked.

"Honey, he didn't ask if you were convinced. He asked if you are satisfied."

"Yes." The lady was shaking. She feared the dark had gotten into her as much as the cold had gotten on her. "I don't know what I wanted. I just needed to see what Gil was talking about. I never want to see it again."

"If I were going to turn in a police report to Chief Thompson, I would say this is a mystery." He wondered to himself if he should hang crime scene tape to keep people away.

Pastor Putnam was not any less shaken than the others. He wanted to remove any scent of what they had carried from it. They knelt next to a golf cart and Charlie prayed.

"I'm fully aware that this land has been dedicated to you, Lord. I have walked through those woods for years. You walked with Dad and me through every square foot of those woods. I have never seen what we saw this morning. I bow before your sovereignty. I don't know what this is about. It feels to me that dark angels or something roped off that section. I won't pretend I understand any of this. I ask Holy Spirit for your cleansing—purify each of us. We demand on the authority of Jesus' Name that every alien spirit leave us. You will not frighten, harass or chase us. We are not prey. We are the children of God.

"I break the bondage from Gil. I disconnect him from the memories of his encounter in that dark jungle. I take authority and break his bondage to the sin, transgressions, iniquities related to all that the shed, fire rim and rope represent. Birds of the air and beasts of the field that are representing demons, I send you to the place designated for you by Jesus. I call forth healing. Holy Spirit I ask you to fill every void in Amanda and Gil. I ask for your favor to flood Amanda and Gil and call forth all the blessings set aside for them. Abundance. Flow. Favor. Come forth! In Jesus' Name. Hallelujah! Let it be so. In this moment. Amen."

Before the day was over, the four would realize the significance of the sounds of singing birds as they climbed into the golf carts to take them home. They rode back to the Depot in silence.

"I'm going to take a nap. I am exhausted," Amanda spoke to Della just above a whisper."

"Sounds like a plan, Sweetie. I'll talk to you later." Della kissed her guests and went to the Southwood Mansion to try her best to explain the morning to Felicia.

# Chapter 24

"May I have a few words with you?" Gil was jarred awake from his nap. He sat straight up to respond, but saw no one. Amanda was still sound asleep, so it wasn't her voice. The mobile and desktop devices were off. The apartment door was closed. Perhaps someone was in the auditorium doing a sound check. No more words, but the urge to go to the auditorium was irresistible. After jotting a note to his wife, he tiptoed toward the apartment door. From no recognizable source directly into his brain, came a line from the play, The Cotton Patch Gospel. Jesus says, "Matthew, write it down." Sounded to Gil like instruction and just in case it was, Gil quietly retreated to pick up a legal pad and his pen.

The auditorium doors were locked. No one was doing a sound check. No one was doing anything. The Depot auditorium-sanctuary was empty. Confused, he stood there and then looked around. Mid-afternoon there would be no reason for anyone to be there. He knew the entrance security code numbers. Hesitantly he considered unlocking the door. Based on the words he had heard and the nudge, he punched in the code, entered and locked the door behind him. Perhaps he was to meet someone, but he didn't want them to walk in unannounced and startle him while he wasn't paying attention.

Cameras had been locked in the control room along with mics. The studio was in pause mode. Someone had left the large windows open. Sounds and sights of the water fountain filled the room. Light flooded in the huge windows focusing on the round table and comfortable Herman Miller chairs on the platform which looked like an invitation to him. He sat down in a chair that allowed him to view the interior entrance and the fountain. He felt cautious and spooked; somewhat like an intruder. Charlie had explicitly told him he was to make himself at home—just turn off the lights and lock up when he exited. He relaxed in the chair to wait for whomever he was to meet. But no one showed.

"...write it down." He doodled on the pad and then made a list of events and people filling the days on the Southwood Campus. After the conversations with the Southwood team; after the days in The Lyttle House, the personal insights in the crazy forest adventure, what had he learned? What was the bottom line? Where was he, now? What was next? He began to write whatever came to him.

The healing power of Christ is like a laser that is directed to our wound through the wounds of Jesus. The predispositions that drive us and control our thoughts, the urges, addictions and inadequacies are cleansed. I believe it and have experienced it in recent days and recent hours. I not only feel, I am removed from the bondage as Pastor Putnam prayed.

How, then do we move that laser beam of forgiveness, cleansing, healing and deliverance from the Cross and Resurrection into our specific circumstances? Just as the team symbolically did it with severing the rope and through the effective prayers of believers.

In large, bold letters Gil wrote:

RECOGNITION

He remembered a story that Marshall tells on the DVD.

"After a telecast a couple of weeks ago, a phone counselor handed me a telephone. The caller described to me her former promiscuous life that now stunned even her. Several children were conceived. None are part of her life now. A disciple of Jesus for several years, she is in a good marriage, but life does not come close to Kingdom joy. Getting through each day has become agonizing even with prescription meds. Her greatest joy comes at the end of the day. 'At last. The day is done.'

"I asked for all Spirit gifts I would need to effectively minister to her. I needed to know the source of the spirit behind this woman's affliction. I needed knowledge that only the Holy Spirit had access to, and wisdom to know what to do with the knowledge the Holy Spirit would give me."

Gil wrote: Recognition is discovery—et moi—"it is me." Out of a million words, the Holy Spirit points out which ones are about us. He convinces us that an alien element is keeping us from Life as God designed. We recognize something as alien to the God-life.

Gideon had to be amused by the name the angel spoke. Mighty warriors do not hide out at night in fear! When he surveyed his life, Gideon must have said to himself, 'This is not right! I'm missing something. There is more to me than this. Yahweh, what is it? What is the barrier?'

It is not enough to recognize you are missing the mark. You need to recognize the source of the problem. Until that happens, you retain awareness of the problem with no options for solution.

Gil returned his thinking to what Marshall said on the DVD:

"I sensed a spirit of death in her voice. There had been abortions. I asked God to show me the source of her emotional distress and spiritual disability that she would recognize. I felt I should ask two questions. In response, out tumbled a tale of behavior and activities that birthed her bondage.

"Now I knew what to do," Marshall said into the camera. "I explained to her what I thought I was hearing from her and the Holy Spirit. I asked her if it made sense. She was silent so long I thought we had lost her. Finally she said—and I quote—'I have wondered all my life what the dream was about. It wasn't a dream at all. It was my memories talking in my sleep.'"

Gil looked at the fountain, heard the water splashing, pulled his note pad closer and began to write again. "First, we have to recognize what is going on in us. Ask, 'Is what I'm thinking or doing helpful?' If it is contradictory to Kingdom life..."

REPENTANCE

"Even if you can trace evil to a specific day in your history," Marshall continued, "consequential behavior is your responsibility. When a dark spirit gets involved, there is a network of helpers. Jezebel had Baal and Asheroth. Have you counted the number of times these two show up in the life of Old Testament Israel? They disguise themselves and morph into a philosophy or psychology—newly packaged. Good and evil are blurred and then become renamed. All absolutes lose credibility and force. Right and wrong are seen as subjective decisions. And, by golly, the sex is good!

"Emotional issues may have spiritual roots. Spiritual issues often have emotional roots. Ironically, before the spiritual deficiency can be addressed, the emotional needs must be healed. Demons tend to hide behind emotional/psychological wounds and use them as entrance points. Bring healing to the emotional needs and the demons have no place to hide or sustenance to stay. They don't volunteer to leave, but their reason for staying has been greatly diminished."

Gil tapped the pen against his forehead and then wrote his response to what he heard:

It may have been my ancestor's idol-god expressed by his lust that set a family pattern; however, I am responsible for my own actions. Can't blame weird, old Uncle Simon. Repentance means that I make a choice about my behavior. I will conclude my behavior is wrong and then I agree with God that I've been sinning." He chuckled—"Duh! The polite thing is to say that I'm sorry for breaking His laws. Repentance implies a request for help. Obviously, sin is not limited to sexual immorality.

Into his mind flowed a conversation he had with a client some days before. The man said,

"I enjoyed my flagrant lifestyle. I liked the dope, I liked the sex. I didn't quit because it wasn't good. I don't even think I quit because it was illegal. I repented because it was an affront to God and He was hurt by what I was doing to myself and to others."

Repentance is part of the mix even if you don't get caught. I change my mind about this and I change my behavior. It is for my own good and my relationship to God.

RENOUNCE

What do I need to renounce? He thought as he listened to the flowing of the water just outside the window. He returned to the pen and paper.

I sever connection with the activity that leads to generational patterns of behavior. I actively disagree with assumptions and agreements that I have made. Thinking about biblical gods such as Baal or Asteroth with their connections to lust and control demands confession of involvement and then some vocalization—"I'm so done with you spirits and this activity." I disconnect with the behavior of those who led me into self-destructive behavior and disconnect with all the tools of that life.

He laid the pen down to rub his cramping hand. The intensity of his thinking had transferred to the pressure in his hands. "It isn't quite that simple!" Gil said out loud. He remembered Leanne Payne saying, "We then do battle with all the diseased and negative thoughts and imaginations, lifting them up to Him as they arise in our hearts and minds." [17]

Engaging in battle—the forgotten part of the equation. These spirits, habits and predisposition won't stay defeated by ignoring them, he thought. But at what point do they become an idol? And what is the process? He wrote the entrance points: Boredom, fear, anger, weariness, temptation. He tapped the pen on the list and said out loud, "The acts of the flesh provide something or we would not turn to them. Relief?

He got up to stretch. He walked to the window to listen to the splashing as if it would wash out his ears. With the battle theme still in his head, he thought of Jeff Shaara's description of fresh World War I recruits walking in the darkness on their way to the Front. The first shelling took out the whole unit, except one. The green recruit had lost his gun, backpack and his comrades. He asked his dying sergeant, "What do I do?"

"You're a soldier, Greenie. You fight."

This is confusing to the novice who hears that Jesus has won the war. Some of these wounds resurface in a new life season or during a startling event that casts the wounding events in a different light. We must fight to maintain our healing. It isn't always true, but some of us deal with trauma's impact as if were an onion. We fight for the total healing one layer at a time. Remember this—the onion effect.

RESTITUTION

A playful conversation with Amanda came to mind. It was normal banter between husband and wife, but it felt like it could be something darker or a hint of a doorway to a place not to be entered. Gil walked to the massive window to watch the fountain water driven into the air under pressure and then fall into the pond.

"What I do affects other people. Amanda lives under the pressure and is hurt by it. She is the collateral damage." He calculated how viewing naked bodies and watching sexual activities affected those connected to him. He wondered if he had children how his curiosity would affect them. Was he passing on an iniquity? The rest of his thinking and questioning and figuring out the components of deliverance and healing would be private.

The more he thought about it, the more the covenant marriage risks by confessing a need to the other. But submitting to their right of accountability and their covering strengthens the covenant. Gil wrote what he was thinking:

The works of the flesh are not all sexual misconduct or sexual exploitation. There were also the unhealthy religious practices, emotional imbalance and addictions. Those patterns get passed from generation to the next. Would it not be wise in pre-marital counseling to ask about what generational curses are being carried into the relationship? "Baggage," is the sanitized word most often used.

Emotional stinginess. The unwillingness or inability to give self away to those we love—always holding the self-protective barrier in place—keeping loved ones at some distance just giving them seventy percent. No longer can hide behind, "Been hurt, not going to allow that to happen again," for in that act the dis-ease of a bent relationship pattern is passed to the next generation. How do we fix that? Restitution?

Is it outrageous covenanting? Breaking ties to the old and committing to a new way of relating? That new way of relating may be called loving. Not easy—I don't relate that way to inflict pain or rejection. It is part of the bondage—clearly needs healing and spiritual removal like pulling a nail with a hammer. Feels like the nail is bedded and must be dug out before pulling.

Restitution. He had been cheating on Amanda every time he viewed porn. He did not intend to do that. He wouldn't get into bed with another woman. It wasn't even that he was attracted to the females he looked at. He was giving the unknown body attention that Amanda alone owned. Wasn't that what Paul was talking about in 1 Corinthians. Surely it was what Jesus referenced that—

Dear God! How do I make that right? What kind of restitution? Maybe restoration is a better word? Restoring a pure heart—does that say what I'm feeling and hearing? Isn't that what David prayed for in Psalm 51?

RELEASE

"The kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power."

I Corinthians 4:20

He wrote what he could remember from Marshall's quotation from Payne.

"One of the most incredibly wonderful things that we see in the healing ministry occurs just after we have led the people in repentance and renunciation of their false gods and idols. The release that takes place at such time can only be described as miraculous and phenomenal. But the highlight is what comes after, when God sets in the holy. Those who have all their lives felt degraded, unholy, even utterly filthy and obscene, have the Presence of the Holy descend into them... Every cell is cleansed. The temple of God is made holy. It is sanctified." [18]

Wow! That says healing comes from outside of us. God comes to us to release us—to remove something from inside. We may have to participate in maintenance, but this is about His work, not ours. That young guy who Brent prayed with said, "I felt something leaving me." That fellow asked to be free and God cut him loose.

We move from "How can this be?' to 'Do I want to be released?'

You have been stuck in yesterday—many yesterdays. It is time to enter into tomorrow.

There was that voice again. Perhaps those are the words the voice was talking about when he heard, "May I have a few words with you?"

# Chapter 25

"I'm too wired to sleep. You feel like talking? I need to check Facebook and emails. We are off the grid out here. Who knows? Someone in D.C. may want my opinion about something."

"Shall I make hot chocolate while you check? I'm coffee'd out."

It took about the time it takes to boil water before Gil was back. "Nothing of importance."

"Brent asked you a question at supper which you didn't answer."

"I know which question. I know I didn't answer him. He was asking about my legacy. Not the sum amount, but how I plan to build it and transfer it."

"Did you come to any conclusions?"

"The Leonard Sweet quote makes sense to me. 'The future is our default time zone' he says. At some point, the delivered, forgiven, being healed person must focus on the future rather than continuously referring to the past."

"As long as that is not an excuse for stuffing, denial or avoidance. Husband—ever vigilant—without being OCD about it—is that how this works? The person who is healed may always have a soft spot—a vulnerability. Am I thinking straight about this? Is that what is inferred by "Let him who stands beware lest he fall...? An intense and intentional balancing of heritage, destiny and legacy."

"Wow! That nails it! 'Balancing heritage, destiny and legacy.' Thinking about that old carriage house, the upstairs is about heritage. But the first floor is about destiny and legacy—today and the future.

"The first sight that grabbed me about the building was the door being off the track. I shudder to remember the dirt floor of the first floor. I have a fresh perception of the building. Before deliverance day, I was _in_ the house, now I look at it like a reporter would: objectively from the outside. The 'healed' building has a level hardwood floor sitting on a solid foundation built on footings. When I first went into the building, the room was dark and dirty. The only light was through a sliver of a clean window on the back wall. The air was stale and dust particles were caught on that single shaft of light."

"Did you write this down? No? I'll get paper. Go on. Let's get this on paper. The question was, How would you furnish this building?"

"I would put in more windows. After I made sure the floor was on a solid foundation, I would install more windows."

Amanda wrote the word prefaced with what felt like a fresh family mission statement.

Balancing heritage, destiny and legacy

WINDOWS

"Transparency, authenticity and filled with light. I want our family to live in that atmosphere—nothing hidden. An openness to change that improves us. Boundaries, for sure; but no barriers."

Gil continued: "Don Nori tells the story of a drunk dying in a Peking gutter while passersby ignored him. A stranger stopped, picked him up, took him to his own home and cared for him. The stranger was none other than Hudson Taylor the great missionary. The thief he rescued had carried on the family business and tradition of failure and losing. Hudson Taylor told him about Jesus. The family was given a new story. The rescued man became China's first national preacher of the gospel."

Gil retrieved an ebook reader from his briefcase. Finding the page, he read.

"'Five generations later I sat and listened to that beggar's great-great-great Grandson tell the story how the Lord brought salvation to his family through that miraculous intervention in Peking,' Nori writes. In each of those five generations the family members were missionaries, pastors and evangelists. Hudson Taylor's message and God's grace had set the family on a new course. 'One act of kindness changed the destiny of an entire family for generations to come.'"[19]

"That story reveals God's mandate for us to live with an eye on generations. Being windows through which children and kids see alternatives and options to a dark destiny."

Amanda was lost in her thoughts which provoked, "What kind of work does that great-great-great grandson do?"

"He is a missionary to America sent by churches in China."

She acknowledged the irony. "God intends that children be trained by parents. With over half of American children having no resident father, someone else has to become missionaries to establish new possibilities in their souls to reverse the generational predispositions to generational potential and positive probabilities."

"Windows," Gil replied. "Healing and launching."

"You know—I've heard those two words so often in the past few days—healing and launching...," The spiked-hair lady said and then paused. "There has to be a crash site also. A safe place when people crash and burn. Environments and people who bind up the wounded and then model and mentor the healing and life skills building."

"Windows," Gil said. "Through which the light will shine to reveal good news and hope."

The heaviness of the mandate silenced the couple. Each in his and her own thoughts.

"What other furniture symbols?" she asked. Gil immediately had another suggestion:

BOOK SHELVES

"Why does that not surprise me" Amanda chuckled. "With several Bible translations."

"The family Bible will be on the Adams' box at the center of the room."

"You are going to put that old box in the living room?"

"With a fresh coat of stain and sealer. We'll use it as a lamp table. I want people who live in and visit our dwelling to know the teachings of God's Word are central to the life of our family."

"Spiritual curiosity and pursuit of truth. I want our family to be on a hunt for fresh ways to do love and kind and gentle. I want us to have an expanding self to control. I want us to have specifics visible when people discuss our faithfulness—ever on a search for creative ways to express goodness. "

"Gil, Dr. Ben Carson says that reading was the practice that changed his destiny. If his mother had not bribed him into reading he might never have moved beyond his television binge watching. Books opened his mind and then doors to a world where he could become one of the world's best neurosurgeons and candidate for the presidency of the United States."

"Another example of how a generation can be transformed."

Amanda acknowledged the next furnishing was central to their new lives and added it to the list.

BOX

"We don't know yet where this box of stuff is going to lead us, but thus far it has been an adventure. Speaking of books, I was reading in John Eldredge's _Wild At Heart_ that, "A man needs a much bigger orbit than a woman. He needs a mission, a life purpose, and he needs to know his name." [20] Eldredge contends that the woman in the man's life will benefit if he possesses those assets and will be a loser if he does not.

"Whatever else the mystery box symbolizes, it is about possibilities, gifts and a full container. I can get lost in books and the possibilities described remain words on a page. We need a power that energizes the ideas, challenges and stories. I want to furnish my new life with Acts Two energizing power. We are containers—'we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us,' the Bible says in 2 Corinthians 4:7. That's what I would preach on Sunday, if I were in my pulpit."

"The box is a reminder of many things.

"And chairs. Lots of chairs."

CHAIRS

"Let it be known that we had no reluctance to entertain angels. I want our reputation to be—we welcomed many feet under our table. I want friends and tribe to look forward to sitting in our living room to talk, study, pray, encourage each other. I want stories told of the depth of Kingdom life experienced sitting around our table and living room.

"John Maxwell has a chair in which he does nothing but think. He attempts to sit in it every day. The playwright George Bernard Shaw said, 'Few people think more than two or three times a year; I have made an international reputation for myself by thinking once or twice a week.'

"Chairs to think in. Chairs to push into a circle. Conversation, being together. I think the most civilized words are, 'Come, please join us at the table.' Face to face interaction. I don't think Virginia Holloway would have come near us had she not experienced relationship expanding at our table sitting on those antique kitchen chairs."

"That is true," Amanda confirmed. "I wonder what she's doing and how she is doing. I miss her. Perhaps she will have her favorite chair in our new home."

"That's the point, isn't it? Push chairs close and something special and lasting happens."

"Okay. Let's stay at this. We're furnishing the first floor of a redeemed carriage house. Instead of living with faces pointed toward the past, we are positioning our lives to equip the next four generations to live in and deliver blessings. What else would you place in that building?"

BAND STAND

"Amanda, you know that mansion on Paris Drive? I..."

"You mean in the town where we live? It feels like a million miles away and the people who lived in that parsonage were borrowing our names and faces. It no longer feels like our reality. That is scary. Exciting, but scary. Gil?"

"In our former life?"

"Ooh. We're on the edge of something, aren't we?"

"Feels like it. Maybe move into that mansion?"

"Not unless you hire a full time house cleaning service."

"I dreamed one night that our ministry inherited that house. In the northeast corner of the main room was a band stand. It was in front of the big row of windows."

The Adams duo was quiet in a weird, strange, other-worldly atmosphere waiting for something to happen or someone to appear.

"After seeing the carriage house, you were having lots of dreams about houses for a while." Amanda's words formed a border-line question.

"And in every building and every house there was a bandstand with mics on stands and the sound system turned on...ready to broadcast praise or lead a group in worship." The stunning silence returned. Awkward. Amanda began to sing.

When I saw the cleansing fountain

Open wide for all my sin,

I obeyed the Spirit's wooing,

When He said, "Wilt thou be clean?"

I will praise Him! I will praise Him!

Praise the Lamb for sinners slain;

Give Him glory, all ye people,

For His blood can wash away each stain.

Then God's fire upon the altar

Of my heart was set aflame;

I shall never cease to praise Him

Glory, glory to His Name!

Glory, glory to the Father!

Glory, glory to the Son!

Glory, glory to the Spirit!

_Glory to the Three in One._ [21]

"That would be it! In the living rooms—the places where we lived, I would want to install every device known to mankind to play music. Lives and abodes furnished for music to be played, sung, listened to and taught. A place to sing, tune into all the channels and have lyrics and sounds fill the souls in the room."

"As Gloria Gaither said, 'Where singers sing hope back into the hearts...' I'm getting the picture, Mr. Adams."

BEAN GRINDER

"Huh?" Amanda feigned ignorance. "Explanation needed, Gil."

"I want my legacy to be about and to say good taste. Perhaps simple, but not boring. Flavors and richness. Not off the shelf tin cans, but full beans and aroma. I heard you say one day you don't want anyone to ever think of us as cheap or low class. I knew where that came from. You couldn't be low class if you tried, but we've had people suggest we weren't good enough to be part of their team or tribe. We've been around people who habitually ground people into dust by their looks and words. 'Gonna call headquarters and get you moved.'" Gil mocked, ridiculed.

Amanda thought about that and then shook her head as if she could remove the memories. "More important—I want people who live in our home and those who visit there to leave with a higher evaluation of themselves. People of distinction, worth God's effort and with a fragrance of value. Let's buy two. One for your coffee and one to put on the book shelf to remind everyone what this house is about. And put on that list tea cups."

TEA CUPS

"Mr. Adams, there will be no Styrofoam. I'm not sure I'll even allow mugs in the house! I want an atmosphere of up-scale appreciation." Amanda had her own décor thing going. "Cups and saucers. Class. We're being a bit over the top, here. But since we are describing the furnishings in our lives that build our legacy we'll choose the best and have a taste for the fine things—to create fine people."

She imagined a section of the kitchen for china. "We'll have to use them frequently. I don't want to have to dust them." After several moments of no response, she looked at Gil to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep. He was looking at her.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Then she saw the tears. Before she could ask what they were about, her husband began to cry. Just short of sobs, gut-level crying. Gil put his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Among all the dreams I've had recently, one was about you being gone. Not being with me. It became a spiritual battle with accusations, threats. You either were never in my life, or you had died—perhaps found someone and left me. I don't want to do this life without you!" The grief of Amanda's absence overwhelmed the furnishing discussion like a monster ocean wave. "These days have been all about me. I'm so sorry! I've been focused on finding answers for beyond the barriers—those things that have kept us stuck. This wasn't supposed to be about me. Not 'Gil-in-rehab time.'" Self-reproach and regret fell over him like a wet blanket. "I'm trying to get me fixed," he said. "But this house is empty without you."

Amanda acknowledged his grief, but didn't back away from her own feelings. "Remember that you're no longer just you. When I came on board we became _we_. We are building a legacy together as well as individually. It is not just about you. All that crap in the loft and the emptiness on floor one put you into survival orientation. I get that. You've been using up all your energy trying to keep yourself alive. The stuff you preach and teach about covenant relationship is true for us—you and me. The covenant marriage is about the other person. I sometimes feel shut out. I understand. Perhaps more than ever. But we're an _us_."

Tense silence filled all the space between the two to replace the tears as they both recounted times they didn't feel like a _we_ or an _us_.

"I'm glad I'm not building the fresh legacy without you," Gil said as directly as he could.

"Jessica says she and Brent went through difficult days when she came to Southwood. He was wrapped up in his work. He didn't want to do anything. He had his own life pattern. They were used to being a _me_ and had a difficult time becoming _we_. Gil, we can go there. You get lost when you focus and I get left behind. I want that to change."

"Help me furnish the place. What needs to occupy space on our ground level as a growing couple?" He felt as if he had been found out—like the dream of discovering you have no clothes on while walking down the high school hallway. She was right, of course. She usually was. Gil didn't know how to fix himself. "You know, sometimes, I just don't want to be different. I know the safe places and to make room for your stuff is like you trying to change my office space.

"Amanda, having to do this alone—not having you next to me and sharing the adventure terrifies me. It is not about survival. It is about what you bring to me. Maybe we are codependent. I have no problem with healthy codependence. You bring the light. You bring all samples of those things that Isaiah 61 talks about." He wasn't finished, there were more words to be said, but he didn't know how. "A frequent guest on the Jack Parr show—Alexander somebody—King, maybe. Alexander King. He came on a short time after his wife died. I think he had been married four times, but lost something as well as someone when this specific lady was gone.

"'I should have kissed her more,' he said: Gil could feel the hot tears getting ready to leave third degree marks on his cheeks. "Amanda..." The word caught in his feared loss. "That is the regret I woke up feeling. The regret of allowing distance to dwell between us. I should kiss you more."

"That sure can be fixed! What would an adequate number be?" They stopped counting just beyond a dozen and rested in each other's embrace. "I pray what happens in this 'house' will make friends and guest feel they have spent time with the Father—the master gardener. Perhaps, they will leave our home and our presence feeling better about themselves—now able to declare that they are enough and better equipped to guard their hearts and be stimulated to express gratitude. And I want a love seat. Write it down."

A LOVE SEAT

"I know," Amanda announced as if in a concert hall without amplification. "I will move in a wall full of games and toys and movies. Play time! We—like Felicia and Brent and I'm guessing Charlie and Della and probably most of the couples on this campus—don't play much. When you have a vision and a mission, there is not much left-over time. It is difficult to feel comfortable playing tennis when you have the world to save. Lots of games."

"Oh, just kill me now!" Gil could feel his skin crawling at the very thought. "I'm furnishing a rough hewn carriage house, not Downton Abbey!"

"Games! Do you hear me? Lots of games!" She teased. "Lots of movies. Romantic movies! Do you understand that the legacy from that old place is depression, not joy? Preacher read the Bible. Isaiah 61. 'Good news,' 'comfort,' 'captives released,' 'prisoners freed,' 'God's time has arrived,' 'crown of beauty,' 'a joyous blessing,' 'festive praise.' We will throw more parties!" Her words echoed around the apartment and if someone would have opened the door they would have careened around hallways and bounced off the ceiling in the auditorium.

"Gil, we will have good wine in..."

He sat immobile. Then in quiet flat-line words he said, "We will move into our living room those activities and interactions of words and actions that grow the joyousness of Isaiah 61. I'll need your reminders and instruction—Party Lady."

The Party Lady smiled and replied, "And we'll put a welcome mat outside the new entrance doors. And we'll hang signs on every wall that say,"

LOITERING ALLOWED HERE

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Are you awake?"

"I am now. Yes, I'm awake. I'm buzzed from the conversation of the evening and what you and I have been talking about—what time is it?"

"About an hour since you asked the last time. I think we missed an important piece of furniture. I like what Donald Miller says—this is my paraphrase: Our hearts are made for a larger story. Kids will gravitate to the largest story they can find."

"I think we are all called to a larger story than self. Amanda, my heart is beating heavy from homesickness for the larger story that once motivated me."

"So, what icon, what symbolizes the large story God is calling us into?"

Amanda chuckled. "I would suggest a large globe, but who thinks of globes in the digital age? I don't know. Maybe a huge flat screen with a Google map displayed—which makes the world look flat, after all."

# Chapter 26

While showering, Gil anticipated the morning would bring God's voice. He luxuriated in the warm spray and waited. He had learned in these Southwood days if God said He had something to say, the Word would come encased in an adventure or conversation that would be written into his journal under the heading, "What I want to remember!" He quickly finished and hurried to the kitchen breakfast bar where Amanda handed him coffee.

"After we work through another pot of coffee, I would like for us to go back out to the path—back to the bench overlooking the path to the mysterious place." The night had been short and the two were slow in greeting the day.

"I thought I heard sirens during the night, but couldn't wake up."

"I didn't hear anything, but I thought I smelled something burning. Like dying embers in a fireplace."

The Adams Two headed toward the Prayer Path. On the freight dock they saw wisps of smoke beyond the ridge. "Fire last night on the east side of the hill," a security man told them. "Burned itself out before anyone got there. It would have been difficult to get fire hoses and equipment close enough to do any good."

Charlie and Della were waiting for them when they reached what had become their gathering bench. Charlie greeted them with, "Everything we looked at yesterday is gone. Nothing but ashes skeletal trees. Gone. Forest, underbrush—gone". _Totally engulfed_ the firemen would have said.

"When I was a kid," Charlie said, "The hillside you climbed to get here looked just like this does this morning. We thought it was going to burn the house, barn and the treasures we were collecting. There was nothing left except the same smell, smoke, ashes and charred tree stumps. The fire stopped at the creek. The smell of smoke hung in the air for weeks just like this will. Then the rain turned it into black mud. That made the smell even worse. It was an ugly sight that winter with blackened trees poking out of the thin layer of snow."

Charlie's stories were always so enthralling because he always "went there" and became a news reporter broadcasting what he was seeing. He walked around in silence allowing the acrid odor take him back. "We didn't lose a building or a pile of lumber. It was like a warning of things to come—crash and burn kind of things." He went silent and sat down.

"Brent and Buddy were up here earlier—before dawn. They beat out the last areas of fire. It pretty much burned itself out." Della was as quiet as her husband. "The other fire happened before my time at Southwood. I can't imagine fire sweeping the length of the hillside from south of Bethany Lodge to beyond where the Depot is now."

"Nothing we can do. There is nothing left to burn and nothing left to reignite. Let's go see what Florence has on the griddle." After a last look at the charred acres, they climbed down the steep hillside taking a direct route to the Lodge. Each caught in their own thoughts.

"I don't know how long it was. It may have been the following spring or a year later..." Charlie stopped and looked back up the hill and then strained to view the horizons both directions. "The grass grew. Lush, green, thick. Vegetation kept the dirt from severe erosion—washing down the hill. Saplings began to emerge. See those trees? They sprouted after that wild fire."

"Most of those flowers were not planted by Jan. She transplanted some around the gathering places," Della added. "Most spontaneously grew from the richness of the soil after the fire."

The Pastor at the Depot was reliving events that are described best by the words _charred remains._ Gil watched him as they walked. He could tell the preacher was writing thoughts in his head directly from his soul. This would show up in the Sunday message.

"Restoration." Charlie said. And nothing more.

They arrived at the entrance door to the coffee shop when Charlie turned to look again at the lush green hillside with no trace of ashes or ruin. He waved his hand from Depot to the horizon. "Restoration." Then he turned to Gil and Amanda.

"Do you think God can restore a human into that beauty? After 'being burned to the ground?'"

With the image of the charred ruins of the acres they had viewed and the trails of smoke from a few remaining tree trunks, no one was quick to respond.

"Do you _believe_ God _will_ restore a human into such beauty?"

Amanda broke the prolonged silence. "Thinking that He can and believing that He will are different...uh, a long ways between."

"Okay, Preacher. What are you going to say about it Sunday?"

"My man, you'll have to be there or buy the DVD. I will talk about owning your story. Can't hide the presence of an uncontrolled wild fire. Whole lot of people try to avoid dealing with the aftermath such trauma leaves in their lives. Amanda, your question— _Can He?—_ is crucial. But, I'm not sure it really matter except in philosophy class. _Will He?_ That's where you get on board or watch the train leave without you."

Della pulled her phone from a pocket and took pictures. "That is really an amazing view of green fields."

# Chapter 27

"Hi, Gil. This is Adrienne at the office. I have something interesting you and Amanda will want to see. Come on up when you get a chance."

Such an invitation was received as a summons.

"I have been suspicious and curious about your hundred-dollar box from Maine. When you mentioned Nick and Alice, I began searching. I found several possibilities and settled on this." She handed the Adams an Internet printout of "Alice in Plunderland." The photo shows Nicolas Longworth, Alice Roosevelt and her father, President Theodore Roosevelt. "That is my best bet."

"Best bet on what?" Amanda asked.

"Those gift wrapped boxes are from the Alice and Nicolas wedding in February 1906."

Gil shook his head and held his hands in his characteristic surrender display of "I don't get it." He said, "I'm confused. How do you connect the box of presents and this Internet article?"

"Isn't one of the gifts addressed to Nick and Alice? Doesn't one say it is from the Ambassador to Cuba?" Adrienne was convinced and her tone convincing.

"That connects a couple of dots. Maine is a distance from New York or Washington D.C. wherever the wedding was—wasn't that wedding in the White House?" Wheels were moving in Gil's head even if he couldn't make it all fit.

"It is interesting. I've read a biography of Alice Roosevelt Longworth.[22] She was Theodore Roosevelt's oldest child whose mother died soon after Alice was born. TR was so grief-stricken over the death of Alice's mother, he handed the newborn to his sister to care for. He fled to the Dakotas. He virtually abandoned the baby. Alice was three-years old before TR brought her back into his home. Alice grew into a petulant child. She never went to a formal school, but was recognized as a brilliant person. I think we would say she was home schooled. I love Theodore's comment about Alice when she was a teen. "I can be president or I can tend to Alice. I can't possibly do both."

Adrienne pulled out books and articles. "She never felt that she belonged—in fact, I think she and Eleanor Roosevelt were somewhat alike in that they were abandoned. A biographer says the family provided a place to live, but never quite provided them a home. Alice thought there was something different—wrong with her. When TR married Edith, the new woman of the house insisted she be called "Mother," but Alice and Edith never connected. When Edith began to bear children, Alice was displaced. Her siblings reminded her of horrible things and before they knew any better they reminded her of having different mothers."

Adrienne was silent for longer than Gil and Amanda thought possible. Her silence was followed by tears. "For three years. Roosevelt did not communicate. The baby must have felt she was an orphan. And he never spoke to Alice about her mother. He never—as in NEVER—spoke one word about the woman. Stacy A. Cordery says in her biography of Alice, 'What Alice craved was recognition of her differences, open discussion of the events of her birth, and reassurance of her place in the family.' I don't think she ever got any of those things."

"Adrienne, I'm amazed how much you know about her and how it affects you."

"Her needs grabbed the nation. She became 'First Daughter'. As she became a young lady, it sounds like she became First Daughter of the world. Alice swept the world into her corner. All of this is of interest to us because when word got out that she was getting married, gifts poured in from every national capital, heads of state and from around the country. So much so, the president tried to stop them. Didn't work. One of her favorite gifts was a string of sixty-two matching pearls with a diamond clasp worth almost half a million dollars in today's money. She wore those pearls through her entire life. I think she wore them to her own funeral. You'll want to know the ton of gifts she received. From Dictators, Queens and American common folk."

"Whew! I get the picture!" Gil lifted his eyebrows as he calculated the impact of receiving the expressions of affection and the dollar amount.

"Here. I want to read a couple of lines. 'Most of the gifts Alice Roosevelt never saw and many were still found unopened at her death.' She was married in February 1906 and died in February 1980. You do the math. Those gifts—worth how much?—sat on warehouse shelves for over seventy years."

"Your aunt would have been born about a decade after Alice Roosevelt was married. Gil? How would she have gotten possession of those gifts? And since we haven't opened any of them, there may be a fortune in those boxes."

"Those boxes are empty," Gil said to his wife with deflated voice. "There is a 1930's newspaper article in that box reviewing an off-Broadway show about the Longworths and the display of wrapped gifts. Empty, wrapped boxes! Aunt Stella probably got them the same way we did—she bought a raffle ticket, received the gifts from a warehouse and she put them in that wooden crate to which she added her own presents."

"Mr. and Mrs. Adams are you going to open the wrapped boxes to find if they contain any gifts—just in case some head of state stuffed a few million in a coat pocket—you know that is what the Empress Dowager of China did. She refused to even consider being outshone by anyone else, so she hid stuff in pockets and compartments of a hand carved teak chest: '...dozens of valuable gifts of jewelry, an ermine coat, a fox coat, valuable Chinese paintings and jade carvings.' Maybe there are treasures hidden in those packages."

"Adrienne, you are giving free rein to your outlandish imagination. If I uncover any of that stuff, I'll give you a finder's fee. That work for you?"

Uncharacteristically, Southwood's minister of first impressions grew quiet once again. "You know, Mr. Adams, even if there is nothing of value in that box from Maine, you have already received a wealth of gifts from your aunt."

"We have. Thank you for reminding us. It has been an adventure, which doesn't feel as if it is over."

Adrienne walked to Amanda and hugged her. "You are welcome. It has been an adventure." She walked back to her desk and saw the note: "Don't forget you have an coffee appointment with Felicia and Brent."

# Chapter 28

"Thank you Felicia for inviting us for coffee. These days have been an adventure as big as Roosevelt's trip down that Amazonian river. Just being with you and Brent and the Southwood people has changed us."

"You're welcome Amanda. Brent will be along in a moment. He got a phone call he needed to take care of. You are extending your stay for a few days?"

"The saga of the crate has not been fully resolved. We have to decide what we shall do with the box and contents. The irony is that we are thinking about putting it in storage until we get our next assignment. Amanda and I have to be clear about what we are to do."

"Hello, Adams. Sorry I am late. Adrienne caught me up on the events of the day. Your days here do not need her imaginative embellishments to make it just barely believable. She really believes someone stuffed wealth in hidden pockets of the box."

"Trust me! I plan to run it through an MRI to find any hiding places."

"Marshall called this morning to follow up on the email he sent you. He wants me to determine how deeply you feel scarred by all of this." Brent briefly laughed. "As if I can determine that over one cup of coffee even if it were a Venti or Trenta. Well, how deep?"

Brent picked up his own cup and allowed Marshall's question time to sit on the table.

"Marshall says the word, 'scar' keeps coming to mind as he thinks and prays about you." Again, Brent drank from his cup and waited. "How did you get the scar on your left forearm? The one that you absent-mindedly rub or reach for when you are stressed or deep in thought?"

Gil was surprised by the question. He was totally unaware of paying any attention to the scar. He pulled up his shirt sleeve to reveal an inch long raised scar. He had no answer either to the direct question or why the caressing of the scar.

"I don't even think of it as a scar. It is more like a birth mark. Look at it. Does it look like a scar to you?"

"It has always looked like a worm or caterpillar to me," Amanda observed. "That nervous tic is so much a part of him I don't even notice it anymore."

Gil looked at his arm without replying then pulled his shirt sleeve down. He got up from the table to refill his cup. And stood at the counter.

"I've had it as long as I remember. It seems like a brand—a brand on a longhorn steer. I have a vague memory, but it is so deep beneath the surface, I quit trying to figure out the story." He returned to the table.

"Whatever its origin or why you have that brand, it is your touchstone. You 'refer' to it as if asking for permission or instruction."

"Brent," Felicia spoke his name in a tone that bordered on scolding. "How do you know that?"

"A crazy thought or maybe a Word of Knowledge. I've never looked closely at the scar. I don't know anything about it. Sorry Gil. Don't want to make you uncomfortable or feel weird."

Felicia spoke. "Dr. Sandra Wilson says, 'One of the most common effects in adults raised in impaired families is a feeling of being the only caterpillar in a world full of butterflies.'"[23]

"Someone in my family once referred to me as 'that little worm.'" Gil joked at the memory.

"Marshall also reminded me about agreements. He reminded me how many of the world's leaders and creatives came from severe childhoods. Apparently it is not trauma that is permanently damaging. It is how we interpret it and the coping mechanisms and the life we build in response to the trauma. Did you agree that you were a 'little worm'?"

"I sure wouldn't agree with that now!"

"But did you, then?"

"Yes, I think I did."

"First, comes the predisposition, second comes a trauma, then a defense coping skill and then internalizing the lie or inadequate description of who we are. Then we add layers of unconscious habits. The whole thing becomes part of who we are. So the spiritual generational curse gets interwoven with our self-perception and the way we meet and treat people." Brent was confronted with how much easier such words were when spoken to a group than to an individual.

Like an engine kicked into a higher gear, Gil rapidly began to process what had just been revealed. "That damn scar became my reference point. Every time I had a decision to make or evaluate a course of action I would rub that birth mark to see if I was in sync with the 'worm' evaluation. Totally unconscious! But it kept me captive to a mindset and self-evaluation. It was as if I had been injected with a microchip programmed by a dark spirit." He pulled up his shirt sleeve. "A generational curse—like _a_ mark of the beast."

"Not all of us have been 'branded' like that, but we all have a reference point. We can choose to change the reference point. Our 'disadvantage' bondage can become our great strength. Jesus said His mission included, 'freedom for prisoners,' 'release the oppressed,' and 'the Lord's favor.' And today he has given me 'recovery of sight.' I see it now! I can shift my reference point for my self-perception and how I see my destiny and God's plan."

Gil took Amanda's hand and reached to take Brent's hand. "I break all agreements I have made with my ancestors'. I will no longer build my life—decisions, plans, goals, hopes, dreams, personal self-evaluation—while referring to anything or anyone but Jesus' validation. 'Christ in me, my hope of glory.'"

"Holy Spirit be Gil's attorney in this—his legal counsel. Imbed in him the thought of transformation— _metamorpheo_ —Romans 12:2. Every time he reaches to touch that scar stimulate thoughts of being morphed into God's plan. Let it be done in Jesus' Name."

The Adams Two walked briskly and silently toward their lair at The Depot. Amanda repeatedly looked at Gil wondering if she should say what she was thinking.

"I don't know whether to celebrate your deliverance or to hit you. Were you b.s.ing them? Is there more to the scar than you told Brent? I'm wondering if you were, in fact, branded by someone." She waited for a response. "Gil?."

"I don't know. I said that I have a vague memory. It is not that I can't remember, I think it is repressed. You may be right. There may have been a ritualistic branding. I doubt that, but something happened. I may be carrying an injected spiritual microchip that is a spiritual GPS and a guidance system to keep me under control." He was shaken by the mere possibility of what he had just said. He was on the edge of a huge melt down. He didn't want to frighten his best connection to reality. "Let's get home." He felt her arm slip around him.

Was it necessary for him to know every detail of his bondage before he could be free from it?

# Chapter 29

"What are we going to do with this box? Gil, will we really use it as an end table? I meant that to be a joke."

"Maybe we could do something with it like a wall hanging. A cabinet or..."

"You would put this fish-smelling lobster crate type structure on a wall? I'm assuming you mean a garage wall."

"Smelly? I haven't smelled anything, let alone fish. Do you? Stick your head in the box and give it a smell."

"You mean, like 'here taste this—see if it's sour' kind of smell? I'm not going to smell it. You smell it. You think I'm that stupid? I'll lean over into the box, all the blood will rush to my head, I'll fall into it and you'll ship me to Maine. It's your box."

Gil and Amanda were playing. Careful not to cross the line into sarcasm country.

"Get out of the way. If I don't come out in five minutes..."

"Then I'll nail on the lid and ship _you_ to Maine."

"Amanda. Hand me the flashlight."

"Flashlight? What for? Did you find an annex or an unexplored west wing?"

"Flashlight!" He looked funny with his legs dangling in the air while blood ran into _his_ head. "There's a note glued to the side. It's from Stella Adams."

"Can you get it off without tearing it?"

"It's covered with something like wax paper."

The note, preserved in primordial shrink wrap, was clearly in Stella's handwriting."

This, like everything else about this box, journal and gifts, is almost nonsensical. I'm saying this again to assure myself of my own sanity and hopefully to lend credibility to my story. The journal is full and a new twist in Pa's story.

As I listened to the draconian aspects of the man who is my biological father from his demon-lust-driven behavior, violence and his penchant for staying in that horrible shed in the woods for days at a time, there was another part of him I could not figure out.

Dear One, whoever you are—hopefully an Adams, if you want to become a member of many families, then attend their festivals. Be with them in hospital corridors, sit by their bedsides, share their funerals and send notes when they baptize someone. It took me about two years of resourcing (is that a real word? Perhaps it will be, now!) people in need. I helped them get in touch with attorneys, physicians and wrote letters when they couldn't find the right words. Since my name was on the pages they read every day or two; when my picture started appearing with some of my stories, people trusted me. Very few people got nervous when I showed up at family gatherings without being a family member or having an invitation. As long as I carried my reporter's notepad—which was like a key to their front door—they often asked me to join them at the table.

An aside. I had a Tuesday column about Sunday dinners. I would write who ate with whom, what was served for dinner, who cooked and who sat next to whom. Of course, if someone wasn't supposed to be where they were reported, I heard about it! The newspaper ran several letters from readers who treasured those items and articles. One such letter came from a man whose parents divorced when he was small. He read the column years into adulthood. It was like fancy gossip. The column described Sunday Dinner at Grandma's with all I described above. The man said it gave him an image of his parents sitting at Grandma's table in happier times. He was appreciative that I filled a gap in his life with sights and smells. He loved the roast beef with potatoes and carrots, he said. It was as if he recalled the tastes as well.

I was allowed almost everywhere. I sat in cafes and taverns taking notes. People thought I was writing stories. I was taking notes on their conversations. Because I was known as a woman from "back east," they never hesitated talking openly about the gossip of the day which often included the adventures of Mr. Adams. His strange ability to get women was a hot topic, but then I would hear phrases like, 'But, that ole boy can make a dollar.' 'If there is a horse deal to be done, he'll come out on top.' He seemed to be a horse dealer during days when horses were to be sold. Later, he sold and bought properties and commodities. I paid attention and kept notes. One day, I was sitting in a restaurant writing my column when Pa walked in with an attorney. Of course, Pa didn't know who I really was—just a nosy reporter who crashed some of his children's birthday parties. He never paid much attention to me. He couldn't. Other than breeding them, women were of no interest. To do more than speak hello to them would acknowledge their worth. He could never have gone that far!

He was dressed in a suit! Other than his massive mustache, he was shaven and clean. He looked like a different man than the one who snuck around back doors and spent days in the forest. Over the months, I began to wonder if there were two men. The only clue that I was seeing the same person was his contempt for women.

" _Oh, leave her alone. She's nobody," he said to the attorney one day when I moved from the counter to the table next to their table. Had they paid a bit of attention, they would have seen that my glass was never more than two drinks empty and the cigarettes smoked themselves in the ashtrays._

I was close enough to smell their shaving cream. I heard their conversation. Pa disregarded me because I drank beer and smoked in public. As good as he was at justifying his own bad behavior he was totally dismissive of every person not meeting his righteous standard. They always sat at the same table and I decided to occupy what became my own table. The man across the table from Pa was so intent on making his own deal, he totally disregarded me.

A story line began to form. When Pa was in his three-piece suit, he bought and sold and to quote men at the bar, "He made and lost several fortunes." This troubled me because I assumed no one could make that kind of money legally. I snooped in a few files, went with a "locksmith" and investigated offices to find proof. It was astonishing. Pa had a gift to make money. He somehow knew which side of every deal to be on. If there was a right side, he was there. He had a strange honor about money. He never gave anyone a break, he stretched opportunities, but he never broke the law in a way that would get him arrested. He must have broken the heart of God. God doesn't always get invited to backroom deals or under the table agreements.

It is a wonder I didn't get killed by the thugs connected to that money man. He owned politicians and ate dinner with gangsters, but Pa was not connected to the illegalities. Maybe he was a money launderer. I've wondered what attracted that thief to Pa. It must have been a sideline business for him apart from his corporations and connections. He made a mistake. He considered himself wiser and more intelligent than Pa. I've heard Pa slip into the demeanor and sounds of that dirty old man who liked to look at pictures of naked women and saw the self-satisfying smirk of the crook as if he had just banked the fortune. It must have been a terrible realization that the man with the huge mustache had played him for a fool.

I befriended a private detective who was as tunnel visioned as the two men sitting next to my café table. He saw me smoking and drinking and assumed I would give him my body cheap. It is the only gift I thank Pa for endowing me with—the ability to be on the right side of the deal. (The P.I. got paid with my cooking, but not with what he wanted.) He helped me track Pa's business accounts.

During those three years, Pa opened dozens of bank accounts and lockboxes. The fortunes were hidden. Hidden from family and except for a few thousand dollars, hidden from the man who worked so hard trying to steal it all.

The family would tell you a story of watching Pa get into a car with that man and driving away. They concluded that the fortunes were lost to the man who smoked a cigar and drove Pa around. The family believes they went to a place where the names and numbers were revealed. This story comes late—too late to benefit people who I had hoped to help. My half-brothers and step-mother tried, but gave up. As far as they knew, the money all went to that crook or were in bank accounts under unknown names that they could never uncover.

I will not tell you how, but just know that the bank accounts and lockboxes mysteriously were registered in Pa's name and in the name of his first daughter. Days before the family saw Pa get into that car, I smelled it coming. I emptied every lockbox and account leaving enough to keep the accounts open with pennies on the dollars—literally pennies on the thousands. I placed the money in accounts under fictitious names that I alone knew. If you are an Adams, you will know the clues attached to this letter. You will decipher the codes for the account numbers. There are protective elements encoded. The object of these fortunes is to finance ministries that will benefit the Kingdom of God.

It was the last time I ever saw Pa in his three piece suit. When he came back from that trip, he was in farm overalls. He never came to that café again. His money partner left town "enriched" by the pennies he got from the lockboxes. The sheep had been fleeced. No reason to stay around, he probably concluded. The family never talked to Pa about it. They only knew what the bar people told them. They just knew fortunes were made and lost. They assumed the crook in the black car stole it all. Pa assumed that too.

So, there you have it. The fortunes. Before you pursue them, make sure before God that the demons that motivated and chased my Pa and your ancestor have been exorcised.

There were no words. Gil and Amanda looked at each in wonder, disbelief and bewilderment. They could not speak. So, they held each other and wept. It was a horrifying story filled with sadness that caused the couple in each other's arms to question reality and sanity.

"You know this has taken on a whole new level of craziness."

"Now, Dear Husband, I understand why there is a picture of a lockbox in that brown envelope. It has clues to the puzzle. Whatever else I'm feeling, I want us to be very serious with the instructions—'Make sure before God that the demons that motivated and chased...are exorcised."

In the days and weeks that followed, those prayers were prayed by Southwood insiders. Trips were made to financial institutions. Lawyers were hired, plans were made. Accountants were consulted. Wisdom was requested. Tithe checks were written. But there were gaps. What were they to do? Where were they to live? How were they to invest their lives?

# Chapter 30

"It all makes sense to me, now. Gil, I know the connection between Stella Adams and Alice Roosevelt Longworth. Stella saw and spoke of herself as "First Daughter." That is how she identified herself among her siblings. Before she got to know Jesus, Alice was her role model. Their father relationships were similar, they both had half-siblings and they liked to go against the grain. I have even wondered if they met—maybe Stella interviewed her for a magazine or newspaper article. That make sense to you?"

"I'm not sure anything makes sense. To benefit from being on the positive side of compound interest moves the needle on any gauge."

"I still can't figure out how no one else ever opened that crate or deciphered the clues. When you said the money was in Denver, St. Joseph and Kansas City, all the directions fell into place. And the code you found in that picture leading to the rest of the banks and corporation hiding places—what a gift. God has given us a huge fortune to work with. Thank you, God."

"Thank you Grand Aunt Stella Adams. How she knew to invest in places so that the accounts would not be lost in mergers, bankruptcies and international wars or closed due to lack of activity speaks of genius and God's mysterious plan. Amanda, I think she received a spiritual gift of generosity and giving. That is what my grandfather had—a spiritual gift—which he twisted and distorted."

"Honey, have you ever considered the possibility that Stella's father did recognize her and in some crazy way assisted her in hiding that money for the very purposes she named—Kingdom ministries?"

"Possibility! He is kind of like Lot..."

"A lot of what?"

"No. Lot—Abraham's nephew. As in escapee from Sodom and Gomorrah. In Granddad's Bible, 2 Peter 2:6-8 is underlined."

...and if God rescued Lot, a righteous man, who was distressed by the filthy lives of lawless men (for that righteous man, living among them day after day, was tormented in his righteous soul by the lawless deeds he saw and heard)—if this is so, then the Lord knows how to rescue godly men from trials and to hold the unrighteous for the day of judgment while continuing their punishment. This is especially true of those who follow the corrupt desire of the sinful nature and despise authority.

"What are you saying?"

"With God's grace anything is possible. With this story anything is probable!" The Adams—Amanda and Gil, were feeling struck silent by their three weeks at Southwood and the recent events. He reached to his lady's hand and looked into her green eyes and perfectly shaped mouth and felt tears burn his eyes. No words could explain, so he looked at her and shook his head and she totally understood the depth of amazement. For the first time in three weeks, a cell phone rang.

"Is that your phone or mine?"

The phone ID brought one more surprise.

"Virginia Holloway! How great to hear from you. I'll put you on speaker phone—is that alright with you? I know Gil will want to hear your voice—unless there is something he shouldn't hear."

"Hello, Preacher Boy. Was I right about going to Southwood?"

"You can't begin to imagine. What prompts your call?"

"I miss hanging around you while wearing my bikini." Her laugh was not as wicked as he remembered. She was teasing in a different way than before. "I really miss you two. I need to come to be with you. I'm feeling or something inside me is telling me you need me. Are you in some kind of financial trouble that my expertise will help?" Again the laugh.

Gil and Amanda looked at each other; Gil looked at the ceiling and then turned around as if looking for the equation. Amanda pulled his arm around her and shook her head with a positive assent. If they needed anyone with expertise, it would be a money manager. Virginia Holloway was that person to the last dollar sign and decimal.

"Do you know how to get to Southwood? And how soon can you get here?"

# Chapter 31

"Virginia, you said you have news for us. It sounds big."

"Let's go out on the loading platform. You're going to love this." They walked out The Depot door and Virginia turned their bodies so they faced down the track. "You are on track for new territory and something you've wanted for a long time. Green fields. You've been talking green fields as long as I've known you. I invested in a Four-Star hotel and restaurant that fits the dream and mission statement you gave me. It's called the Green Field Public House—The Green Field Pub."

"We don't want to be in the hotel business. Certainly not a tavern!" Gil was stunned.

"Think Southwood vertical. Instead of buildings spread over 200 acres, think business on multiple floors. We will market seminars and retreats to influencers. We will green their fields."

# Epilogue

As instructed, Charlie Putnam presented a beautiful, black, leather briefcase to Gil at a Sunday Celebration in the Depot. Charlie asked Della to buy an appropriate gift certificate from the store of her choice for Amanda. In a private gathering of the Southwood tribe, Amanda received a gift wrapped certificate to Victoria's Secret.

Amanda also received a certificate to Bloomingdale's.

Thanks for reading Depot and visiting Southwood.

# NOTES

[1] James 5:17-18

[2] James 5:16

[3] 1 KINGS 19:4-5

[4] ISAIAH 61

[5] Roberts Liardon, _God's Generals_ , (Albury Publishing, 1996) Page 104

[6] Leonard Sweet, _Postmodern Pilgrims_ (Broadman & Holman, 2000), Page 93

[7] Paul Singh, MA., LP., _Rekindling Your Spirit_ , (Lantern Publishing, 2006)

[8] Robert Benson, _Home By Another Way,_ (Waterbrook Press, 2006)

[9] Gary Smalley & John Trent, _The Blessing,_ (Thomas Nelson, 1986)

[10] John Cloud, "Why Genes Aren't Destiny" Time Magazine January 18, 2010,

[11] Caroline Leaf, _The Gift in You_ , (Inprove Ltd. 2009) Page 22

[12] Randall Neighbour, _The Naked Truth About Small Groups._ (Touch Publications, 2009) Page 129.

[13] Peter Scazzaro, _Emotionally Healthy Spirituality_ , (Thomas Nelson, 2006)

[14] Isaiah 61:3

[15] Romans 12:2a

[16] Leonard Sweet. _Nudge_ , (David C. Cook, 2010)

[17] Leanne Payne, _Restoring The Christian Soul_ , (Baker Books, 1991) Page 21

[18] Leanne Payne, _The Healing Presence,_ (Baker Books, 1995) Page 259

[19] Don Nori, _Breaking Generational Curses—Releasing God's Power in Us,_ _Our Children And Our Destiny._ 2005 Destiny Image Publishers.

[20] John Eldredge, The Wild Heart, (Thomas Nelson Publishers, 2001) page 114

[21] Margaret J. Harris, Copyright 1898

[22] Sandra Wilson, _Released from Shame_ , (InterVarsity Press, 2002)

[23] Stacey A. Cordery, _Alice_ , (Viking, 2007) Page 26

# DEDICATION

To The Chicks

# APPRECIATION

Editing—Joyce E. Kulp. It is a better book because of your insights and input. Thanks

Cover Photo—Douglas Benton—Benton Photography. You positioned the sun perfectly.

Cover Graphics—David E. Hein

Creative Team—Suggestions, encouragement, celebration.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

<http://www.bentonministries.com/who-we-are.html>

# OTHER BOOKS BY DEAN

smashwords.com/profile/view/DDeanBenton/

# THE SOUTHWOOD SERIES

Gone to Southwood

Caught in the Tail Lights

Depot

The Carafe Conspiracy (in process)

Marshall (in process)

Porches, Pillars, Paths and Plans (Prequel to Southwood. In process)

# CONNECT WITH DEAN

Website http://www.bentonministries.com/

Blog: Benton Quest House—http://www.journeybend.wordpress.com/

Twitter—@DeanBenton

Facebook—Friend me: facebook.com/dean.benton3

