Tag Archives: Writing

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

In the midst of my reverie, a slight rustle stirred behind me. Someone stood in front of my paper covered desk. I shrugged my shoulders, but did not turn around.

“Sorry, but I’m tied up right now. You’ll have to talk with my secretary, Connie. She should be at her desk just outside my office,” I said, pointing with my left hand to the door, not looking over my shoulder.

I resumed typing, even though no sounds of movement occurred behind me.

Three minutes passed with an awkward silence echoing off the walls of the office. I finally threw my hands up in disgust, pivoted around in my chair, and said, “Okay, what do you – ”

The rest of my sentence withered away into nothingness.

There, in front of the walnut desk, stood an enormous angel with black shiny hair. A loose white robe covered him from his elbows to knees, but it did little to hide his muscular build which reminded me of a celestial Andre the giant. But unlike Andre, a holy presence radiated from the heavenly visitor. Although the angel’s face appeared peaceful, a combat readiness radiated from him.

Still, the angel did not speak.

I felt flustered and wondered about the proper etiquette for greeting a heavenly emissary.

“What do you want?” I eventually spit out.

“I have a message for you from the Lord,” said the angel in a crisp staccato cadence without any discernible accent.

“What… what is it?”

The angel’s emerald eyes stared into mine.

“The Lord says that you need to resign from the American church beauty pageant. The pretentious church system you have so enthusiastically flaunted is only beautiful to men, and not to the Lord Jesus. He loves another church which is considered ugly to most men,” said the angel. Then he paused a beat before adding, “What response should I give to the Lord?”

If the ceiling had collapsed upon me, I would have ignored it. The angel’s words rendered me speechless with their authority and power. Like most Christians, I had followed the traditional path for believers with a preacher’s calling on their lives. I attended a respected Bible school, was ordained, started a church, and now was the senior pastor of it. I seemed successful, anointed, and was engaged to a godly woman. And now this?

“Pl-please wait a moment,” I whispered. “Would it be okay to ask some questions?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Why would the Lord ask me to make such drastic changes now, in the midst of my most productive years?”

“Because there is still time to deprogram you and prepare you for the future.”

The angel’s blazing eyes forced me to look away. My hand automatically moved to my cap, adjusting its position. Why me? I thought. Why not someone else?

But even in the midst of my discomfort, I somehow remembered several Christian pioneers who suffered similar heart wrenching setbacks. The early church referred to those experiences as limps, much like the limp Jacob incurred after wrestling with God at Peniel.

“What does the Lord want me to do?” I asked without looking at the angel.

“Resign your pastor’s position from the church, move to Los Angeles, and become a car salesman.”

I gasped, but no words came out of my mouth.

The heavenly visitor paid no attention to my anguish and seemed totally detached from the whole scene.

“What answer shall I give the Lord?”

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

(Continued in Part 6)

Chapter 2

Nineteen years later

The sunshine irked me. It reminded me of what I was missing: a Friday afternoon golf outing with three friends. But my schedule of writing fifteen hundred words per day had not been fulfilled by noontime so I canceled my tee-off time.

If only the book’s publishing deadline could be extended one more time, I thought. Yet that’s not happening because it has already been extended twice and the publisher said the manuscript had to be completed by July 24th or else.

The or else loomed as a major problem because the royalty advance money had long since been spent.

My first book, 100Fold Churches, sank deep roots into the New York Times Best Seller list and stayed put for ten weeks. The publisher hoped for another block buster with my sequel and planned on printing twenty-five thousand copies for the first press run. To back up the publisher’s aspirations, the editor and my agent called me daily, reminding me of their financial outlays. The calls only added more steam to my internal boiler, as if I needed more, because two other projects provided more than enough pressure for me.

I stopped typing and removed my glasses. The new tortoise shell frames were too tight. I bent the temples a small fraction and placed them back on my slightly bent nose, the result of a football mishap. Shaking my head slightly, the glasses stayed in place.

But then, I gazed out the office window at Rock on the River Fellowship’s three million dollar building project, which also lagged behind schedule. A harsh winter, heavy spring rains, and architectural changes delayed the sixteen thousand square foot sanctuary from its anticipated completion date of August 1st to – maybe Thanksgiving. The gray concrete shell still lacked brick and roof.

Sadly, the construction delays had no effect on the construction loans and mortgages. Those marched forward to their own steady drum beats and cost the church twelve thousand dollars per month. All of which came out of offerings received from the membership. Each month, I held my breath until the bills were finally paid, and then, it began anew the following thirty days.

Fear cowers, but faith acts, I thought.

Okay, I thought, it’s time to get back to writing.

I turned back to the computer monitor and the reason for my being closeted away from the outside world: the book. Even my casual attire of khakis and orange golf shirt reflected my off-duty status. As senior pastor, I felt obligated to wear suits and dress shirts five days a week, with Saturday being business casual and Monday an off day. The faded orange University of Tennessee cap with a well-shaped bill resting atop my head was an accessory for no other reason than – just because.

Meditating on the next sentence, I drifted again by looking over at the mahogany picture frame, sitting on the corner of my desk. The smiling face shifted my thoughts onto another detour.

Jamie Newhart hosted a Christian talk show, “Good News in the Southland.” The syndicated television program originated in Nashville and was carried on more than forty stations throughout the southern states. A former Miss Georgia, Jamie had creamy skin and the type of flawless beauty which television loved to flaunt. Her pictures appeared on billboards and magazine covers throughout the Bible Belt.

Yet, Jamie and I did not meet through Christian activities, but instead, it happened late one evening at a Walmart in Nashville. She needed toothpaste and I needed razor blades. Both of us dashed to the department store without thinking about our garb. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and pink flip flops. I had on paint-smeared jeans and a ripped blue tee-shirt.

As we stood in line, a young boy bumped into Jamie, knocking the tube of toothpaste out of her hands. I stooped over, picked up the tube, and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I nodded without saying a word in reply.

In the thank you and the nod, we somehow noticed each other.

Later, Jamie explained to a friend about the electricity of that moment.

“Sugar, when I looked into those big puppy-dog blue eyes of his, I thought I was going to die. He’s a doll, an absolute doll. I fell head over heels in love with him and his dirty blond curly hair, right then and there at Walmart. I could just love him to death.”

The moment did not escape me either. I wandered through the parking lot looking for my Mercedes without remembering where I parked it. All I could focus on was Jamie’s face, her southern accent, and the smell of her perfume. When I finally located my car, I drove out of the parking lot without thinking what I was doing. I crossed the Cumberland River into Kentucky before realizing I missed my exit seven miles earlier.

A phone call to a television friend the next morning located her phone number. I called and asked her to go to a Gatlin Brothers concert at the Nashville Coliseum. I held my breath until she agreed.

The Gatlin brothers were my favorite singers, but I do not remember a song they sang. Fast Eddie’s Bar-B-Que was my favorite restaurant, but I do not know if I ate one bite of my pulled pork sandwich. Jamie’s presence demolished my concentration that night.

The one thing I do remember from our first date was my exit scene at the door to her condo. I leaned over to give her a kiss and she ducked out of the way.

“Why, Luke Stoner, don’t you know that Billy and Ruth Graham didn’t kiss until they were married?” she said with one eye closed and the opposite dark blond eyebrow tilted upward.

“Billy’s one of them North Carolina boys. We Tennessee boys are a little quicker on the draw than that,” I whispered through a smile.

She returned my smile, but held out until the third date before kissing me.

Jamie and I enjoyed the same music. The same books. The same movies. The same restaurants. Both of us were hard working, career oriented Christians who enjoyed an occasional laugh, but for the most part, we were serious believers.

Three months after our first date, I asked Jamie to marry me and she said, “Yes.” We eventually planned on a Christmas wedding at Rock on the River Fellowship.

This has been an awesome year, I thought. I’m about to marry the most beautiful and most wonderful woman in the whole world. How much better can it get than this? Lord, You have blessed me.

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

(Continued in Part 5)

Chapter 1

A Warm September Night in Nashville 

(Continued)

When the offering had been collected, the pastor approached the pulpit again. He introduced the evening’s speaker, Eddy Bottoms, who walked over to the pulpit, unhooked the microphone, and held it in his left hand. The pastor sat back down in his wingchair.

“Listen up everyone. Tonight could be your night for a second chance,” said Bottoms as his dark eyes scanned the crowd. The tall, broad-shouldered African-American played six years in the National Football League as a defensive back for the Dallas Cowboys, but was now a traveling evangelist.

Bottom’s words about tonight being “your night for a second chance” echoed off the cliffs and ridges of my mind, unleashing an avalanche of fear inside me. No way, Jose, I thought. I’m getting out of here now.

I inched slowly to the edge of my seat, ready to sprint out of there. Then I felt the iron grip of mama’s hand on my arm. She never looked at me, but I knew all escape routes were closed down for the evening. I relaxed and shrugged my shoulders. However, mama showed little trust in my surrender because she kept her arm on the back of my chair, staying within quick striking distance throughout the message.

Bottoms told about his struggles as a young man, growing up in Louisville, Kentucky, and how his hanging out with gangs almost landed him in prison several times. But his athletic skills tilted the scales of justice in his favor whenever he stood before a judge for sentencing.

“As unfair as it may seem,” said Bottoms, “I received second chance after second chance while my gang friends went off to reform schools and prisons. You would’ve thought I’d have learned something from those experiences, but I didn’t. You see, I was knocking on the door, but it was the wrong one.”

The evangelist talked about his four years at the University of Tennessee.

“Yes, I was an All-American on the football field, but a druggie and a thief off it. I robbed dorm rooms and apartments so I could buy cocaine and marijuana. And yet, as unfair as it seems, I never got caught. Who was watching over me?”

Bottoms talked about his pro football career and how he wasted his earnings on cocaine and parties which diminished his skills and shortened his career.

“Tom Landry called me into his office at the end of training camp my last year and said, ‘Eddy, we’re dropping you from the team. You’re too slow to cover the deep threat anymore,’” said the evangelist. “My second chances had all been used up. My football career ended that day. ”

Bottoms then talked about the night he stood on a ledge outside his downtown Louisville apartment and how he was ready to commit suicide.

“As I looked down, I heard a voice speak to me. It said, ‘I’m your second chance, the One who can turn your life around. My name is Jesus.’”

The evangelist paused for a moment, allowing his words to hit their targets.

“Now, I could have ignored the voice and jumped anyway, you see, it was my choice. But I listened and gave my life to Jesus that night. He turned me around. Today I’m happier than I ever was playing football or doing drugs or partying all night. Jesus is now my life.”

Bottoms looked over the crowd, seeming to check each person. Then his eyes locked on mine.

“Young man?”

“Me?” I said.

“Yes, you.”

“What?”

“You need a second chance, just like I did. Do you know that?”

I broke off our staring match and looked down at my feet.

“Come down here, young man and I’ll pray with you. The Daddy that you’ve never known will cheer for you tonight. He’ll say, ‘That’s My boy. He’s the best. I love how he throws a football.’”

The words about a daddy loving me pushed aside my fear. I stood up and walked to the stage and bowed down in the sawdust in front of him. As I knelt there, a quick vision of a man looking at me with loving eyes crossed my mind. I knew it was Daddy, the One who was cheering for me at that moment.

The evangelist encouraged other people to join me at the altar. Six others came forward and knelt down nearby.

“Repeat after me, okay?” said the evangelist in a low voice as the pianist played softly behind him.

We nodded in unison.

“Lord Jesus, I need You. I repent of my old ways and I ask You to come into my heart right now. Be my Savior and Lord from this day forward.”

After saying the sinners’ prayer, I felt like I needed to pray something else. What it was, I had no idea so I lingered there, waiting for the right words to form in my mind. Finally, I added, “Lord, whatever You ask me to do, I promise to do it without complaining or whining, even if it means giving up my football career.”

As the vow escaped my lips, I felt the powerful presence of the Father hugging me close to Him.  It was as if the Father wanted to assure me that my words pleased Him. When the presence of God lifted, I wiped the tears from my eyes, stood up, and walked toward my chair in the second row. Mama stood there, waiting with her arms opened wide. We hugged and held each other.

“Luke, I’m so proud of you. Would you like to stop at McDonalds for a hamburger and chocolate shake to celebrate your new life?” she whispered in my ear.

I nodded, wondering whether my new life would have football in it.

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

(Continued in Part 4)