Tag Archives: Writing

December 18, 2012 · 7:42 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 11)

2 cats asleep

Chapter 6

While Luke struggled at Maxi Toyota, God heated up another special project in His iron furnace, preparing her for the future. Although her name was Catherine Ann Thakkar, everyone called her Cat.

Cat’s journey began years earlier in Durban, South Africa, when her Indian mother, Leela, met a handsome musician at a concert. The short romance resulted in a pregnant Leela. But sadly, the musician caught a boat back to Mangalore, India, leaving the beautiful teenager behind to grapple with the consequences of her family and culture.

At the time, Durban’s Indian culture valued sons because they could earn money and help families with financial struggles in the South African apartheid society. Any value daughters had, depended on marriages being arranged with other families, especially wealthy ones. Unmarried daughters with children were considered a curse, often shunned by their own families.

Although the pregnancy enraged her mother, Leela remained in the small family home. Yet, the stress of working long hours for a few rand per week and the cultural shunning hurled Leela into a deep pit of despair. Each day, she struggled to put one foot in front of the other

On one especially bad day, Leela and her three year old daughter trudged home after cleaning a house. The home owner promised ten rand for the job, but ended up paying only two rand. When Leela complained, the home owner slammed the door in her face and said, “Take it up with the police, coolie.”

As Leela walked down a dirt road in Durban, she heard music and saw a well-worn tent. The lively music lifted her spirits.

“Cat, let’s stop here and rest for a bit. My legs are tired and the music is lovely.”

Leela and Cat sat in the back row on folding chairs. They listened to the music and then to the gospel message spoken by the evangelist. Leela rushed down the aisle at the altar call, praying with the evangelist for her salvation.

The two dashed home afterward to tell everyone about Jesus. Leela’s mom and brothers, all Hindus, reacted to the good news by grabbing machetes and chasing them out into the street. Standing there in the road, Leela made up her mind to follow Jesus no matter what the cost might be for her.

This decision by Leela eventually led to her marrying Raj Thakkar whom she met on a mission trip. Thakkar, a second generation Indian-America businessman, lived in San Francisco and taught economics at San Francisco State University. Although leaving her family and native land was a difficult decision, America offered a new beginning for Leela and her daughter.

Cat’s reaction to the decision brought smiles to Raj and Leela.

“San Francisco? Is that near Bollywood?”

 

Raj Thakkar’s favorite story about Cat as a child came about while he was mowing the lawn at their Mission District home in San Francisco. The five year old galloped her broomstick horse straight at him, motioning for him to stop. He turned the Toro’s engine off.

“What’s up, Princess?” he asked with a big smile.

She pushed her black cowboy hat back on her head with one hand while holding tightly onto the broomstick horse’s reins with the other one.

“Guess what, Daddy?”

“No, what?”

“Now, Daddy, don’t laugh.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“I’ve just decided that when I grow up I’m going to ride in the Kentucky Derby and also be a cartoon runner.”

“Princess, that‘s great. You’ll be the best jockey in the whole world. But what exactly does a cartoon runner do?”

“Oh, Daddy, everybody knows that,” she said in a style reminiscent of Shirley Temple. “Cartoon runners show the Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny cartoons at the movie theaters. And Daddy, promise not to tell anybody, but I’m going to let all of my friends in free.”

She giggled and grabbed her hat, waving it back and forth, content with her career goals. Then, she wheeled around and took off, seeking new adventures in the neighborhood.

(The above is the first part of Chapter 6 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 11)

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December 12, 2012 · 9:44 am

Christmas in Nashville With Red Hot Chili

dolly tree

Christmas in Nashville. Don’t the words evoke thoughts of Hank,  Dolly, and country in the grandest sense for the best season of the year?

Now, imagine spending Christmas in Nashville with no money, no jobs, no friends, no relatives, little gas in car, rent due, and no prospects in sight?

That’s exactly the dilemma, Honey and I found ourselves on Christmas Day, 1998. How did we end up in such a mess?

It all began a few weeks earlier in Louisville, Kentucky, the city we had just moved to in September. We had jobs and were settling into the city. But then, we felt the Lord said, “Go to Charlotte and be a part of a prayer community.”

We packed up and headed east.

The prayer group had its exciting moments, but then we felt the Lord said, “Go to Nashville.”

Thus, five days before Christmas, we arrived in Nashville with enough money to rent a studio apartment at the Residence Inn and buy a few groceries.

On Christmas Day, Honey cooked her famous chili for our feast. As far as presents, we had none  and couldn’t even afford to phone family.

To say the least, it was a long-faced holiday for us.

On December 26th, we had to move out, but where? We had no clues.

At 9 AM, I went down to the office for clean towels. The desk manager had just received a Christmas card for us with a check inside it.

Honey and I were so excited, but still we did not have enough money to continue staying at the Residence Inn. We prayed and felt the Lord wanted us to head back to Louisville, Kentucky.

On the way to Louisville, Honey phoned her former boss, asking if he needed a sales person at his furniture store. He said, “Yes and we also have a check waiting for you from the November sales period. You forgot to give a forwarding address.”

Both checks were surprises and allowed us to rent a place in Louisville.

So, why would the Lord supposedly make us jump through all of these hoops?

If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land (Isaiah 1:19)

Willingness and obedience needs to be our life styles, not an every so often event. And God knows just how to uniquely develop these life styles in us.

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December 11, 2012 · 11:00 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 10)

2 cats asleep

 

Chapter 4

Our sales training class consisted of eight new sales people. After introductions, we spent the morning with the human resources manager, filling out paperwork, and reading through a company policy manual. The manager’s monotone voice did little to stimulate our attention spans, but I noticed he mentioned at least ten times about our first six months of employment being probationary periods.

Ted Hopkins, the sales manager, led off the afternoon session. Hopkins, a former Navy SEAL, was a no-nonsense walrus of a man with a flattop hair cut. His red Toyota golf shirt bulged with muscles, straining to break through the fabric. His voice complemented his physique with an authority which bordered on rage, ready to be unleashed at any time and on anyone.

“Welcome to Maxi Toyota,” he said with his hands on his hips, “you have been selected to attend our sales training class. It will not be easy, but those who pay attention will excel at our dealership. Some of you may earn a $100,000 per year. Some may even be promoted to sales management positions with earnings of $200,000 to $300,000 per year. It’s up to you what you do with your training.”

He picked up a black marking pen from the table.

“Rule number 1: all auto buyers lie,” said Hopkins, walking over to an easel with a large paper tablet sitting on it. “The only time they don’t lie is when their lips are not moving. If you ask them questions about their trade-in, they’ll tell you it’s the sweetest machine they’ve ever owned. They’ll conveniently forget to mention the blown transmission and head gasket. So, how do we combat their lies?”

Oh my! I thought. What has God got me into?

Hopkins proceeded to lay out the Four-Square sales program which all of us were required to use with customers. At the heart of the program was the 4-square, a sheet of paper divided into four boxes for: the trade value, purchase price of vehicle, down payment, and the monthly payment.

But as I listened to Hopkins explain the Four-Square, it reminded me more of a street hustler’s shell game than it did a sales program. You know, three shells, a pea, and the hustler’s sleight of hand while the poor sucker ended up losing all of his money. Just like the shell game, the whole idea of the Four-Square was ripping the customer off through confusion.

Every cell in my body screamed for me to run out of the dealership and never come back, but my butt glued itself to the chair and my feet to the floor. I could not move. Yet, I felt an inner peace which caused me to relax after a while.

Two hours later, Hopkins laid his marking pen down on the table.

“Let’s take a fifteen minute break,” he said, looking at the clock on the wall. Then he added, “Stoner, could I see you for a moment?”

I stood up and walked over to him as the other sales trainees left the room.

“Stoner, I checked out all eight of our trainees on Google this morning, just to see if there was anything happening with you guys. The other seven lead pretty dull lives, but you had 150,000 results. Care to tell me a little something about that?”

My face felt hot as blood rushed to the surface.

“I was a writer and a preacher before I came to California.”

“That’s an understatement. Why didn’t you tell me you were a big deal Christian preacher?”

“The interview was short and you didn’t ask.”

“What if I tell you I don’t like preachers?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Let me ask you,” he whispered, invading my space so his face almost touched mine, “will you have any problems with the Four-Square System?”

“If I don’t ever have to lie, I’ll have no problems.”

He wrinkled his face as if I had slapped him with leather dueling gloves.

“Well, Preacher, truth in car sales is a vague, hazy concept. To the customer, it means one thing and to us sales managers, it means another. All we want you to do is be an actor on a stage and tell the customer what we tell you to say. It’s just that simple.”

We exchanged gazes for a few moments.

“Preacher, I can see I’m going to have trouble with you,” he said, backing away and shaking his head. “And I don’t like having trouble with sales people. It upsets me and makes me want to kick their butts all over the parking lot. Understand me, Preacher?”

I nodded and walked away.

For the rest of the day, we role played customers and sales people, using the Four- Square System. Hopkins acted as the desk manager and critiqued us on our presentations. None of it felt comfortable for me as Hopkins constantly referred to me as Preacher, no longer calling me Luke or Stoner. The other trainees followed his cue and likewise called me Preacher. Soon, the whole dealership followed suit and the nickname stuck.

Walking home afterward, I felt miserable. It seemed like the Lord intentionally dropped me into a den of thieves. Why would He do that to me?

(The above is the second part of Chapter 4 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 11)

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November 30, 2012 · 7:53 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 9)

Chapter 4

The Iron Furnace

Don’t you agree it is odd how bad days can begin with blue skies and bright sunshine, not giving a hint of what will befall us later in the day?

On that Monday morning, I felt rejuvenated and ready to start my new career at Maxi Toyota. Rental furniture, a Mr. Coffee pot, toaster, groceries, and a few sundries decked out my one-bedroom apartment to look just like what it was – a bachelor’s pad. Other items would be added later.

Although the starting time for the class was 10 AM, I walked over to the dealership an hour early. It seemed like a waste of time to sit in front of my laptop when my mind wandered elsewhere.

As I walked in the door, a bronze-skinned man wearing a yellow Toyota golf shirt greeted me.

“Hi, newbie, my name is Levi Lopez.”

He stuck out his hand and I shook it.

“My name is Luke. How’d you know I was a new salesman?”

“A white shirt, blue tie, tan slacks, and a naive look on a face can mean only one thing around here – a newbie,” he said with a smile. “Follow me for a cup of fresh coffee. It’s the only free thing you will ever receive around here.”

I followed him through the car-filled showroom, down a picture lined hallway to a small cafeteria. He stopped in front of two coffee pots sitting on warmers.

“Help yourself to regular or decaf.”

I poured a cup and he did the same. He led me over to a round table and we sat down on white plastic chairs.

Both of us shared some basic tidbits of information about our backgrounds before I guided the conversation in a different direction.

“Levi, how long have you worked at Maxi Toyota?”

“Seven years.”

“Have you sold many cars?”

“On an average, fourteen vehicle sales per month which works out to about $5,000 in commissions and bonuses each month.”

“Not bad. It sounds like you like it here.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders.

“It’s not a bad place although the owner, Mr. Maxi, thinks all of us salesmen are worthless pieces of crap.”

“What? You’re joking with me, right?”

“No, it’s the truth.”

“Okay,” I said, “tell me about it. If I’m going to work here, I need to know the good, bad, and ugly about the place.”

After looking around first, Levi leaned across the table. His dark eyes looked down for a moment before he began by saying it happened six years earlier on a Saturday afternoon. A big Labor Day ad had lured hundreds of prospective customers to the dealership, swamping the sales staff.

“I had a tough customer who wanted a platinum colored Land Cruiser. We negotiated back and forth, but no matter what sales tactic I tried, he wanted to pay $2,000 under my best price. The frustration caused him to stand up and prepare to leave. I motioned for him to sit down while I summoned a decision maker. The man listened and sat back down.”

Levi explained that when he went to the sales desk, he discovered all of the sales managers were busy on the floor, trying to close deals with other sales people. Somehow, the owner, Mr. Maxi, overheard the conversation and said he would close the deal for Levi.

Maxi took a moment to check the costs and trade-in figures on the computer. He wrote something on the back of his name card and came around the front of the desk. The two headed for Levi’s office.

“Mr. Maxi looked like an English bulldog with his jaw set, ready to gnaw on the customer’s leg.”

Levi introduced Maxi to his customer and the two shook hands. Maxi sat down in Levi’s chair behind the desk while Levi stood off to the side. The two exchanged a few pleasantries and then Maxi flipped the name card over. It had a number written on the back.

“There it is,” said Maxi, “my take-it or leave-it bottom dollar price, good only for the next five minutes.”

The customer picked up the card and whistled.

“Sir, would you allow the few dollars difference between your offer and mine stand in the way of this fine salesman earning a commission today?  He’s been working on this deal for a couple of hours,” said the customer.

Maxi scowled and stared at him.

“I don’t give a crap about the salesman. Do you want the deal or not?”

Levi stated Maxi’s words embarrassed the customer, but nevertheless he accepted the owner’s deal. The Land Cruiser sale resulted in a $350 commission for Levi, but the bitter taste haunted him afterward.

“At first, I thought he was a racist, biased against Latinos, but I happened to be looking up some info in the room next door to his office a month later. I overheard him arguing with his son, Eli, the dealership’s CFO, about sales commissions. Eli wanted to raise the percentages, but Maxi refused to even consider the idea. Maxi ended the discussion by saying, ‘Our salesmen are all pieces of crap that I can easily replace with one ad.’”

“Ouch!” I replied, uncomfortable with this knowledge.

“Yeah, right! Over the years, I’ve watched six to ten newbies arrive every month to replace six to ten expendable pieces of crap that either were fired or quit. If you do the math for our thirty man sales force, you’ll figure out we have a 350% turnover rate each year. It’s a tough business, my friend, and you are employed by one of the orneriest dealerships in Southern California,” Levi said, looking down at his watch. “Oops! I have to go.”

He left, but I continued sitting there with my untouched coffee.

Later, I learned Levi related this story to the other newbies.  All of us knew what the owner thought about his sales force. And even later yet, I discovered Levi went out of his way to tell every new sales trainee over the last six years his story. Everyone in the dealership knew the story.

To me, Levi was a fox living in a chicken coop. The egg production certainly suffered because of his presence and his story. Yet he continued to work there.

What kind of company allows bitterness to fester and grow unchecked within its workers? I wondered, more than once in the months ahead.

(The above is the first part of Chapter 4 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 10)

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November 28, 2012 · 9:35 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 9)

 

 

Chapter 3

On the Ground in LA

No one awaited me when American Airlines Flight 1310 landed at the Los Angeles International Airport. My wrinkled khaki slacks and black sports shirt blended me into the crowd as just another traveler hurrying to the baggage claim area. On the way, I saw a Hudson Gift Store and went inside to check out the newspaper section.

Stacks of newspapers lined a bottom shelf. I sorted through them and picked up a Los Angeles Times. As I turned toward the cash register, I came face to face with paperback copies of 100Fold Churches on a metal rack. I instinctively picked one up.

A man next to me whispered, “That’s a great book. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The man smiled and moved on.

For a moment, I thought about purchasing it just so nobody else could buy it, but I put it back.

What a great businessman I am, I thought. If I purchase all of the existing copies of the book, guess what the publisher will do? Print more. Not a very lucrative business plan on my part. Guess I’d better try car sales.

After paying, I took the escalator to the lower level and the baggage claim area. There I realized why LAX was the fifth busiest airport in the world. Crowds of people stood everywhere, waiting for their luggage.

Welcome to California, I thought, what’s next.

 

The taxi driver had a thick Brooklyn accent and a dark blue Yankee baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead. He looked over the seat at me and asked the question which had been bugging me for days.

“Hey, bud, where do you want to go?”

“Just a moment.”

I opened the Times and scanned through the classifieds. A big advertisement at the bottom of the help-wanted section captured my attention:

Sales people needed – no experience necessary. Annual incomes of $100,000 or more can be expected after our thorough training program. We may be the answer you are looking for! Apply today at Maxi Toyota in Pasadena.

I blew out a deep breath and looked upward, hoping to see an answer written in the sky. Nothing appeared, but an inner peace encouraged me.

“Take me to Pasadena,” I said.

The man with a two day beard and baggy eyes looked up into the rearview mirror as he drove the orange taxi onto the entrance ramp leading to the 405 Expressway.

“Hey, bud, work with me, help me out a little, okay? Do we have an address in Pasadena? Or do I just toss you out at the city limits sign?”

“Hmm. I’ll let you know before we get to Pasadena,” I said, stalling for time. “By the way, how did a man with a thick New York accent like yours end up in California?”

“Well, bud, her name is Mona.”

“A woman, huh?”

“More than just a woman, bud, she’s an exotic beauty. If she would’ve moved to an igloo at the North Pole, I would’ve packed up a dogsled and followed her with my tongue hanging out, all the way there, do you hear me? Say, what’s the story with that twang of yours? Are you a country music singer or something?”

His smile beamed in the mirror as he handed the conversation back to me like a baton in a relay race.

Back and forth, the banter continued for the thirty minute ride to Pasadena with one thing leading to another until I finally mentioned my need for an apartment in Pasadena. The cabbie, like thousands of taxi drivers the world over, knew somebody who knew somebody. And that is how I ended up at the Pasadena Hills Apartments on Colorado Boulevard, two blocks west of Maxi Toyota.

Later that day, Ted Hopkins, the sales manager at Maxi Toyota, interviewed me for a sales position.

“Son, with your blond hair, blue eyes, and that great southern accent of yours, you’ll be a killer success selling cars here. Our next training class starts on Monday. Can you start then?”

Thus, within four hours of landing in Southern California, I had an apartment and a job. Everything seemed to be on the fast track, propelling me forward. It made me hope that the worst part of my wilderness days were behind me.

Who knows, I thought, God may send Jamie out here and our marriage may work out after all.

Yet, I did not hear the clanging of the door as it slammed behind me. You see, I had walked into God’s iron furnace and He was ready to stoke the hot coals, beginning on Monday, at Maxi Toyota.

(The above is Chapter 3 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 9)

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November 26, 2012 · 3:20 pm

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 8)

 

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

I jumped in the Mercedes and hit the ignition. Squealing off, I ignored mama who waved frantically from the sidewalk. Mama, I thought, I need to be alone for a while. I hope you can understand that.

I headed north. Then, I motored up Clarksville Pike across the Cumberland River to Cliff Drive. There I drove northeast along the river to a little recreational area where I turned in and parked the car.

When I opened the door, I reached above the dash for my aviator sunglasses. I put them on and slammed the door shut. The morning sun was already hot, the humidity nearly ninety per cent. Sweat drops formed on my forehead. I pulled the blue shirt outside my pants and walked to the river.

A few fishermen sat on the river’s bank hoping to catch catfish. Their bobbers floated along with the current. They probably watched my antics, but I did not care. Out of habit, I bent over and scooped up a handful of loose rocks and strolled along the river. The waves slapped against my black leather loafers and darkened my slacks with wetness. I was oblivious to everything. Every so often, I tossed a rock into the river. A few skipped two or three times before sinking into the murky depths, but even this was just a physical release of my pent-up anger.

At a bend in the river, I sat down on concrete retaining wall. There I stared upward. My eyes glazed with frustration from the day’s events.

“Lord,” I spit out, “I’m angry at You. What a mess You’ve made of my life. Why didn’t You help me out with Jamie? I love her.”

A long silence followed my outburst as I reflected upon the words I just uttered.

What if God smote me with a lightning bolt, I thought. Oh well, I don’t care. Hit me with Your best shot, Lord. It looks like I’m in Your gun sights anyway. Might as well finish me off and put me out of my misery, right here and now.

I folded my arms across my chest.

“Lord, I feel so hurt and alone. I can hardly stand it. I want to quit!”

An inner voice softly whispered, “Luke, I felt hurt and alone on the cross.”

“That’s not fair, Lord. You’re God. And I’m a piece of smelly human flesh, just a man who has lost the woman he loves.”

The put-put sound of an outboard motor came near. I looked up to see a couple of people towing a skier behind their sleek red boat. The boat turned a sharp one hundred and eighty degree turn, causing the skier to swing wide. The nylon towing rope snapped and the skier headed straight for me, water spraying behind her in a thick rooster tail. Twenty feet from shore, the girl sat down.

“Hi,” said the teen aged girl. A toothy smile outlined her round face.

“Hi,” I said with the enthusiasm of a man strapped into an electric chair.

“What’s your problem?”

I studied her for a beat or two.

“I’m mad at God!” I exclaimed.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“So, how’s that working out for you?”

“Don’t know yet.”

She giggled.

“Well, it looks like you have two options.”

“Just two options, huh?”

“Yeah, just two. You can stay mad. Or you can realize there’s no benefit in being angry at God. He won’t change His mind because He’s always right. Always knows what best for us, even guys like you.”

The put-put sound of the boat came near again. A man with a white straw hat threw a new towing rope to the girl.

“See ya,” she said as the boat pulled the slack out of the rope and then took off, heading upstream.

I sat there with my mouth open, drool running down my chin, amazed at what just took place. What’s this, I thought, did she just play the part of Elihu in my Trials of Job opera. What’s next?

I staggered back to the car and picked up my cell phone from the passenger seat. I punched in a number.

“Yes sweetie,” answered mama.

“What’s for lunch? Your little boy is sad and starved.”

“Sorry sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” she said in a manner only mothers can possibly utter. “Stop by. Cornbread’s in the oven and pinto beans are almost done.”

That’s my mama! I thought. She loves to pamper her little boy on a bad days. Hope she has some apple pie or chocolate cake sitting around. Sweets sound comforting right now.

The next day I preached my last sermon at Rock on the River Fellowship. It was a sad moment for the congregation and me. Most attended the church because they liked me, but now I had let them down. All outwardly wished me well, but I knew as soon as the service ended, the gossip grapevine would begin churning out rumors about why I resigned from the Rock. Few would ever know the whole story and somehow, I had to be satisfied with that, trusting God’s grace would cover all of the loose ends in the matter.

After leaving the church, I went to my apartment. There I wandered from room to room, making mental notes about what to do with all of my stuff. An old picture of me playing quarterback in high school caught my eye. It reminded me of our high school coach’s words after our loss by one point in overtime of the district championship game. “Men, it is what it is, it’s not what it should have been, not what it could have been, it is what it is.”

So, that became my attitude in the days after my resignation: “It is what it is.”

I spent the rest of my time in Nashville, wrapping up everything. I sold all of the household goods, the Mercedes, and the diamond ring. The proceeds helped pay off the cash advance to the publisher for my unfinished book. I canceled every scheduled meeting in the Franklin Covey Planner.

When the dust settled, every ministry bridge had been blown up. No longer did Rev. Luke Stoner, the New York Times best selling author and well-known preacher exist. He died and his ashes floated downstream on the Cumberland River.

(The above is the fifth part of  Chapter 2 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 9)

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October 15, 2012 · 1:24 pm

I’m Enraged! Are You? (Part 1)

 

For the record, I don’t like the Democratic Party or the Republican Party.

The one party’s members wear blinders when they quote the Bible which makes little difference to its adherents anyway. You see, most members stand up and say, “Amen, ” without ever considering the consequences.

Ah, don’t worry a bit about those dead babies or that gays are taking over our public schools because after all, God understands and just loves everyone anyway, right?

Sadly, the other party is mostly filled with gutless scallywags who have the backbones of worms. Period. And who in the world really wants to vote for candidates who need polls to tell them what their inner convictions are at any given moment? Like hello, Karl Rove! Why do we need these guys?

Most Christian leaders – from Dr. Dobson to the local pastors – will say, “Larry, be realistic. Christians need to vote for the lesser of two evils when they cast their ballots. If it’s a Democrat, vote for him or if it’s a Republican, vote for him. But, hallelujah brother, it’s your Christian duty to vote, don’t you know that?”

Well, let’s take off our Christian rose-colored glasses for a moment. Pretty dreary world out there, right?

So, how has voting for the lesser of two evils advanced morality in America since 1979, the year Moral Majority and rightwing Christian conservatives were first coined?

Has abortion been stopped? No. Has the gay movement been stifled? No. Are America’s borders safer? No. Is America safer from terrorist’s threats? No. Is America more prosperous? No. Are our public schools better and safer for our children? No. 

Probably everyone has a favorite boogie man he’ll point to for America’s problems. President Obama. Democratic Party. Candidate Romney. Republican Party. Senator Reid. Senator McConnell. Secretary of State Clinton. Chairman of the Fed Bernanke. SEC Chairman Shapiro. Or whoever.

But the truth is that these boogie men are not the problems, but instead, we are the problems. And by using the personal pronoun we, I’m mainly speaking to us men.

Joyful are those who obey His laws and search for Him with all their hearts. They do not compromise with evil, and they walk only in His paths. (Psalm 119:2-3)

Apathy, lethargy, and compromise are the three bloodsucking leeches which have neutered us Christian men in America.

So, what can we do to shift our rage into godly action to advance the Kingdom of God in America now?

(Continued in Part 2)

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October 11, 2012 · 10:15 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Conclusion – For Now)

 

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

(continued)

The following morning, I tapped lightly on the brass knocker of Jamie’s door at 9:31 AM. My razor-sharp creased gray pants and light blue button-down oxford shirt upgraded my look from the previous night’s showing. A dozen long-stemmed red roses tucked under my arm added what I thought was the proper atonement for the situation.

As the door opened, I bowed on my right knee and held up the roses as a peace offering.

Jamie stifled a laugh with the back of her hand and leaned forward, taking the flowers. I glanced up at her. She looked stunning in her light blue shirtdress which framed her figure in such a way she appeared godly and sexy at the same time. Both were a natural part of her makeup.

I stood up and when I did, I looked over her shoulder. What I saw stunned me. There on the green Queen Anne loveseat and matching sofa in the living room sat mama, an associate pastor, and a church elder.

I squeezed her hand.

“I thought we were going to do some quiet talking over breakfast, just the two of us?”

Biting her lower lip, Jamie hesitated for a beat or two.

“Sugar, we need wise counsel, don’t we?”

I call it a prophetic glimpse when a person can see what is about to take place before it transpires. And in Jamie’s momentary hesitation, I had a peek into the future through a vision which played out in front of my eyes like a quick Technicolor video.

“Yes, of course,” I said, resigning myself to what I saw.

I held her hand as we walked into the living room. There, I first greeted the two men with handshakes, each standing to look me in the eyes. I bent over to give mama a hug and light kiss. Amid the greetings, Jamie disappeared into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase. Upon returning, she sat next to mama on the loveseat. I motioned with my hands for everyone to sit down.

As I walked toward the creek stone fireplace, I could not resist peeking in the gold framed mirror above the walnut mantle to check out what everybody was doing behind my back. Their faces looked grim as they eyed each other. Jamie gritted her teeth and clasped her hands in her lap.

I knew it would be hard for anyone to understand my angelic experience, but what was my alternative? I turned to face the group.

“Pastor Reed,” I said, “would you pray for us before I relate what happened yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, Luke,” said the gray haired associate pastor who I suspected dressed in a black suit, matching tie, and white shirt seven days a week, even on fishing trips.

“Heavenly Father, we ask for Your grace and mercy to fall upon us this morning as we gather to seek You. We pray that the Spirit of Truth will enlighten us to hear Your voice. We ask this in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

I shared my experience with them, describing the angel’s appearance, his words, and the struggle I had with the whole incident. Upon finishing, I asked if anybody had any questions.

“Luke, what are you planning on doing?” Pastor Reed asked in a hushed voice.

“Tomorrow, I will resign from the ministry. Then, as soon as possible I plan on moving to California and becoming a car salesman.”

“Oh, sweetie,” said mama, choking back her emotions, “what about your marriage to Jamie? And why must you turn your back on your career? God wouldn’t ask you to do that, would He?”

Jamie reached for her hand to comfort her.

“Mom, I’m sorry. This is not any easy time for me. It’s devastating. And as far as Jamie and I are concerned, I’d hope she’d want to come along with me. What about it, Jamie?”

I already knew the answer because I saw it in the prophetic glimpse, but I hoped my interpretation proved wrong.

Jamie looked at the platinum engagement ring with the marquise-cut solitary diamond on her left hand. Tears streamed down her smooth cheeks as she slowly removed the ring.

“I love you Luke, I really do. But I believe you are deceived and that the angel was not from God, but instead was one of Satan’s angels of light. Darling, you are throwing away your calling, your career, and I don’t want any part of it. If you are going to California, it will be without me.”

“And furthermore,” Jamie added, “Pastor Reed and Elder Quincy feel the same way.  They were – ”

I cut her off.

“Is that true?”

I turned to face the associate pastor and elder. Both nodded their heads in agreement but said nothing. I raised my hands in surrender.

Then I spun around and walked toward the door. With one hand on the brass knob, I looked back.

“Jamie, I love you, but I have to follow what I believe God has called me to do. I wish this could have played out differently. I really do.”

She nodded and looked away from my furious eyes. This time I slammed the door behind me.

(The above is the fourth part of  Chapter 2 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Conclusion – for now)

 

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October 10, 2012 · 9:12 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 7)

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

(continued)

 

Two hours later, I locked up the office and walked past my secretary’s desk. She had already left for the evening, not bothering to tell me because of my “do not disturb” orders. The digital clock hanging above her computer showed 6:45 PM in a bright red glow.

Just enough time to make it to Jamie’s place, I thought.

As I drove the black Mercedes southeast on Broadway, I rehearsed in my mind various approaches I could use with Jamie. Each line of attack left something to be desired because my angel experience seemed so far out, almost too mystical for a preacher like me. I finally decided to play it by ear, hoping love truly bears all things.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found a parking place just a block south of Jamie’s cedar-shingled condo. Vanderbilt University’s students usually consumed all of the parking spots along her street, causing them to be a rare find. But in spite of the inconveniences, Jamie loved the college atmosphere and considered the parking problems a necessary trade-off. I personally hated the parking nuisance so much that the two story townhouse had become a disagreement between us as to what to do with it after our marriage. She wanted to keep it whereas I wanted to sell it. We finally agreed to seek the Lord and pray about it. The answer had not yet manifested itself.

I knocked on the door and heard her muffled voice.

“Come in honey, the door’s unlocked. I’m in the kitchen.”

The first sense to kick in when I entered the foyer was smell. Her Chanel No. 5 always reminded me of the sexy reply Marilyn Monroe gave to the question of what she wore to bed at night: “Five drops of No. 5.”

Then, another smell strummed my olfactory receptors: fresh baked chocolate chip cookies – my favorite dessert. The aroma increased as I walked on the hardwood floors through the living room and into the kitchen where Jamie bent over the oven, removing a tray of cookies.

“I thought you might need some nourishment later tonight,” she said with a wink, setting the tray on the stove top.

She removed her cooking mitt and stepped toward me. Her yellow and white striped sundress provided a perfect contrast to the stainless steel appliances, white cabinets, and black granite countertops in the L-shaped kitchen. Her left hand caressed my cheek at the same time she snuggled close to me. We hugged and kissed, no longer trying to follow in Billy’s and Ruth’s courting footsteps.

“Sugar, wait till you hear the latest wedding details,” she whispered as she broke away. “It’s so exciting.”

“Okay, what?” I said, grabbing a hot cookie.

“Sweetheart, don’t. That’s too hot.”

Paying no attention to her warning, I stuffed the whole cookie into my mouth. I immediately blew out a deep breath while holding my mouth open.

“See, I told you,” she said with a laugh. Then, she wrinkled her nose and pointed at me. “Luke, why aren’t you dressed up? We’re going to the concert, aren’t we?”

I looked down at my khakis and old tennis shoes. In the excitement, I forgot about the Johnny Cash concert at the Ryman Auditorium and the two third row tickets in my wallet.

“I forgot – ”

“Sugar, you forgot?” she said. Her eyebrows formed twin question marks seeking an explanation.

I sighed and removed my cap, holding it in my hand.

“I had an unexpected visitor today.”

Next, I told her the whole account of the angel’s visit. When I finished, I put my cap back on and looked at her.

“Honey, what do you think?”

Jamie was not a championship caliber Texas Hold’em card player. Her face revealed her skepticism.

“Sugar,” she whispered, “it’s not so much what I think, but rather, what do you think? And what do you plan on doing?”

Her words hung in the air like the stench of cordite after the firing of a Winchester rifle.

“I plan on obeying the angel’s words.”

“Just like that! You going to throw your whole ministry away. How can you do that? And what about me? Don’t I have a say in this decision, too?”

“Of course, you do – ”

“It doesn’t sound like it to me!”

I nodded that I understood her point.

“Jamie, I love you. I know this is tough, but we can work through it with the Lord’s help.”

Jamie’s head swayed side to side as she meditated on my spoken words and the unspoken ones.

“Luke, let’s skip the concert and sleep on this. It’s too much for me to handle right now. Why don’t you stop by in the morning, say around 9:30? We can have a quiet breakfast together and discuss everything.”

Her eyes begged me to agree with her. What could I do? I leaned over and lightly kissed her on the cheek.

“See you in the morning, honey, I love you,” I whispered.

I turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind me.

(The above is the fourth part of  Chapter 2 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 8)

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October 8, 2012 · 7:31 am

A New Novel? Why Not? (Part 6)

 

 

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

“What answer shall I give the Lord?”

“Do you have any idea how horrible this is? How much it hurts? Does the Lord realize the enormous problems this may cause my church, Jamie, and our families?”

“The Lord’s grace is sufficient for you. You gave a promise when you were ten years old, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but – ”

“But what? Was your promise conditional?”

The angel backed me into a corner with his pointed questions. There was nothing I could do but surrender.

“My promise was unconditional. It’s just that, it’s just that…”

Drops of cold sweat trickled down my rib cage from my armpits. I felt trapped. I felt pressured. I felt fear. But I knew that sitting on the fence was not an option with the angel. A decision had to be made.

“Okay, okay,” I whispered, blowing out a deep breath. “I’ll keep my promise. I’ll obey His commands.”

The angel stared at me. His eyes pierced a hole through my protective outer coating into my vulnerable inner being. I felt naked before him.

“Today is the beginning of the cross’s deeper work in your life,” whispered the angel. “Because you have chosen to follow the Lord, you will lose everything you have considered valuable up till now. Everything. It will eventually be worth it, but for a long time, you will know only rejection, pain, and tears.”

The angel turned and left.

Like a drowning man who watched his life pass before him, a collage of images drifted through my mind on a circular loop. My ministry. My books. My idol: the new church building. My goals. My attitudes. Though I professed Jesus was Lord of my life, the flashbacks revealed a much different story.

The graphic imagery sickened me. Is this really who I am? I thought.

Shame gripped my throat so that breathing became a problem. I gulped for air and opened my eyes wide to my surroundings. When I did, it seemed like I saw my office for the first time. It was a Taj Mahal dedicated to Rev. Luke Stoner.

The cherry wainscoting and matching shelves had been my idea. I saw them in a picture of an English country manor and had a skilled craftsman reproduce them for my office. The cost: fifteen thousand dollars. My executive desk, which came from Cambridge, England, was almost two hundred years old and valued at twenty thousand dollars. Currier & Ives prints hung next to pictures of me signing books for movie stars and athletes. The full remodeling and room decoration cost a little over fifty thousand dollars. At the time, I thought, it was worth it. After all, I was the royal son of a wealthy King.

But now, when I viewed the room, it appeared artificial and showy, like Las Vegas neon signs flashing at Christmas. I hated what I saw and who I had become.

“Am I no better than Judas,” I whispered. “Did I sell out my calling for thirty pieces of silver?”

I fell on my knees and wept. The ministry I had worked so hard to put together seemed vulgar and crude. Although I appeared successful to others, I stood as a wretched failure before the Judge.

(The above is the third part of  Chapter 2 for a new novel I’m writing, The Day LA Died, © Larry Nevenhoven, 2012.)

(Continued in Part 7)

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