Line of Ascent

Line of Ascent

By Doyle E. Duke

Published by Doyle E. Duke

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Doyle E. Duke, January, 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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Disclaimer

All authors draw their material from two main sources: related, as from other’s experiences such as books or tales; and from personal experiences. Needless to say, the latter promises to be the most powerful and emotional; for what are related experiences other than copies? That is not to say we should, or could, avoided secondhand knowledge. To do so would definitely thin the ranks of writers.

But what we write from our own experiences is unique. It might be an oft told tale, but, if we reach down into the core of our memories, it will be different. It will be a tale of our observances, our joys, or our tragedies. For these reasons, I try to bring my own feelings to my stories: my own trials, my own questions, and especially, the rich memories of my own life.

Line of Ascend presents one of those questions man has explored for centuries, good versus evil, God versus Satan. In the story I bring a vestige of my own struggles. Like Tom, the main character, I have turned to God in despair and prayed every prayer I was able to conjure up and, like Tom, I was left to my own resources. And I often look back and question the effectiveness of my role as a father.

The scene with Jimmy McConkey is based upon an actual occurrence. He was my mother’s great uncle and I did visit him concerning my own genealogy. His story is true, to the best of my knowledge. He was near blind and lived alone in deplorable conditions, yet, as a young man, I paid little attention to his plight. Like most young men, I was emerged in my own interests. Today, at age seventy-two and one of the primary caregivers for my wife’s parents, I’m forced to ponder another life problem—the care of our elderly.

The Golden Burro restaurant does have a counterpart by that name in Leadville. It was, at the time of this writing, the oldest, continuous operating restaurant in Colorado, and it does have a similar, colorful history. But all other references to it and the characters introduced are my own creations.

Other than the examples mentioned above, this is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously with the two exceptions mentioned above.

Chapter 1

Tom Bluford stood alone in a sea of mesmerized humanity. With eyes closed, hands stretched upward, he rocked back and forth mumbling the same phrase over and over, Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. He was lost in the sweet, comforting spirit that released him from this world, a spirit that played upon every nerve within his body. For the past fifteen minutes, he'd been communing with his savior—his God.

Around him, hundreds of others, men, women, and even a few children, were experiencing similar trances. Some shouted or prayed in harsh, strident voices. Some paced the aisles with strong, hurried steps, and others slumped loosely, crying quietly.

The annual 1979 One World Church of God Convention was coming to a close. During the past week, the Denver Municipal Auditorium had entertained, at various times, over twenty thousand delegates and members. Now, with their convention nearing an end, a few were slipping away early, returning to jobs and obligations of daily lives. In the waning days, exhaustion produced by hectic schedules and strange sleeping quarters had replaced earlier exhilaration. The change in time zones and the high altitude had disrupted body metabolisms. Even the most devout were exhibiting signs of fatigue. The service attendance was lower, the music director moved with less gusto, and the choir's timbre was mellower than earlier. Kids, discovering bolder past times, were being chased and chastised by slower and more tolerant parents dressed in wrinkled clothing.

This service had started with an air of expectation. Following a brief summation of the convention’s accomplishments thus far, Reverend William Taylor, Tom's father-in-law, extended an anguished appeal for action. He reminded his listeners of the miraculous works God had already preformed: the souls saved, infirmities healed, and problems resolved. He assured his listeners that the same God would move in their behalf—that He loved them no less than He loved those who’d already received His mercy. Reverend Taylor proclaimed there were still some present that were in need, some who were troubled in body and spirit. There was someone now who wanted something from God, but was listening to that ole serpent, the Devil.

I know we haven't heard Brother Erwin's message yet, but I feel the moving of God's Spirit and I'm sure Brother Erwin won't be offended if we deviate a little from the program. God moves by his own schedule, and He's moving here right now. God's Holy Spirit is telling me that there's someone here with a troubled soul. I don't know who you are or what burden you're carrying. Maybe you're concerned for a loved one. Maybe you have an infirmity of the flesh, or maybe you need to be made whole. Here's what I want you to do, wherever you are, I want you to stand up and make your way down here to the altar.

The Reverend Taylor paused and gazed blindly into the bright lights hiding his audience. Everyone felt those eyes boring into his own, looking deep into his soul. They waited expectantly as the reverend continued talking, a minute, two minutes—no one answered the call. Casually, the listeners began casting sidelong glances at those around them, and the expectant hush of three thousand souls filled the air.

Reverend Taylor nodded to Brother Jessup, the choir director, who took his place before the standing group. His arms rose, then fell. The plaintive chords of an old, familiar hymn rose to fill the building: Just as I am, without one plea. …

The music invoked a somber mood that tugged at the hearts and pricked the conscience of even the innocent. No one could help but point a questioning finger at himself. Here-to-fore satisfied minds asked, Is it me?

…to thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,

O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Finally, as they started the fifth verse, Reverend Taylor's cognizance was rewarded. A young girl choked back a sob and moved into the aisle. Almost immediately, a man started down another aisle.

Praise the Lord! Reverend Taylor's amplified voice rose above the singing. Thank you Jesus for touching that heart! And there's another one. Thank you Jesus. Yes! Come on down. Let the Lord have his way.

Someone moved on the opposite side of the arena, then another and another; soon a dozen or so were kneeling before the altar. Like scattered embers, the spirit flared up throughout the congregation, touching one here, filling another there. There is little wonder that the experience is often likened to fire—even being referred to as a ‘baptism of fire’ on occasions. Like a house fire that starts small and grows, that becomes larger and hotter, creating its own draft to flame its intensity, until it explodes into a fireball that literally runs the walls—so moved the spirit. What started as singing and prayers, developed into shouted praises and unabashed crying with each member reacting according to his own private dictates.

While the congregation and choir continued to sing, ministers and lay persons met with those gathered at the podium. In many cases, those seeking solace were too distraught to speak coherently, making it impossible to discern their needs. The astute ministers listened closely to the petitioners' prayers in hopes of learning how to advise or pray.

The roar of voices grew louder until it reached a frenzy. Then slowly, those who came forward for prayer found peace and, one by one, returned to their seat. In the same way, the spirit freed the congregation. Individually, they murmured a final, Thank you Jesus or Praise the Lord, and stood or sat quietly.

Tom's shoulders were aching from the pressure of his upraised arms, yet he was hardly aware of the pain. The sweet peace of his communion had etched a smiling glow upon his face. All the problems and pressures of this life had shrunk to insignificance. He had been in the presence of his God and that glory followed him back to this daily realm. As the radiance faded, he became aware of those around him, his children seated quietly, and his wife, Carol, who stood beside him. She too had been in the spirit and had been praying urgently. As the spirit released her, she quieted and became almost calm. Then suddenly, the growing quiet around them was shattered as a foreign force took control of her voice and began to speak in a sharp, alien tongue. Al lei shan na ma becshi! Al lei shan na ma becshi! Again and again, she repeated the phrase. Her right hand rose above her head and her body jerked and undulated like a cracked whip with each utterance.

Everyone around them grew quiet, even those who only moments before were in a deep trance-like state. It was almost as if one spirit was controlling all the many manifestations. The circle of silence spread, radiating outward like a rippling pond, until it swept over the podium and filled the entire building. People, who only seconds before were beyond hearing and seeing, suddenly grew quiet. Those who were praying aloud began praying silently for the manifestation of the spirit. The choir stopped singing and the ministers at the altar prayed quietly, awaiting God's message. Only Carol Bluford's risen voice was heard. Another phrase was added, Shuli ma, Shuli ma, ba ha-arama, etcha mi, etcha mi.

According to scripture, a message had been given. If it were of God, someone would receive understanding and enlighten the congregation. If no interpretation was given, the worshipers would assume there was no interpreter present or the message was from a false spirit, a devil. The stillness grew as everyone waited expectantly for someone to reveal the interpretation. A strange power charged the air, like the atmosphere before a storm. Somewhere a child asked, What’s happening, Mama? A dropped book from nearby made a loud clap as it hit the floor—feet shuffled and whispered prayers buzzed. The expectancy was almost palatable when the gentle voice of a young girl spoke, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.

There was a short pause as the listeners waited for the young girl to continue. When it became apparent the message was complete, the silence was broken by a chorus of praise and thanks for the Lord’s interpretation." Carol stopped speaking in tongues and, in English, began to thank the Lord for his blessing. Completely unaware of the sensation she'd fostered, she dug a handkerchief from her purse, wiped her eyes, and sat down. Reverend Taylor moved to the mike as the choir took their seats.

Thank you, Jesus, the reverend said. Brothers and Sisters, Jesus has spoken to us. He has reminded us again that we are in the last days. We have been warned once more that we much be diligent, watchful, and ever ready for our Lord’s coming. ...

As his father-in-law launched into a spontaneous speculation regarding the given message, Tom listened with steadfast assurance in his faith. He was wholly dependent upon God. He made no move, reached no major decision, without first consulting his master. Not that God ever answered him verbally. He'd never experienced that, and sometimes questioned his own devotion. He had experienced the baptism of the spirit and occasionally spoke in tongues, the church’s sign that he'd received the Holy Spirit. There had been times, as a new convert, when he’d determined to come to no conclusion or make no move until God told him what to do. Nevertheless, each time, after delaying and procrastinating until the last moment, he'd been left to move on his own. Necessity dictated a personal compromise—he would pray and seek God's will, then step out boldly, trusting divine guidance. He had no idea how personal the young girl’s message would become.

He and his family were from Georgia, and this was their first trip to the Rocky Mountains. They planned a slow and enjoyable sight-seeing route home following the convention. Only one small matter disturbed him. He had relented to pressure from his children to skip tomorrow’s services and start the vacation today. Tomorrow was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, the day of worship, he and his family never missed. It went against his convictions to desecrate the Sabbath. Yet, in a moment of weakness, he'd surrendered to the kids’ pleas for an extra day of sight-seeing. Now, they were so excited he couldn't bring himself to renege on his promise. Kristy would understand if he backed out. At seventeen, she had already accepted Christ as her savior and knew the significance of the Sabbath. Steve, on the other hand, was a rebellious fifteen and still resisting God's spirit. He already bridled at many impositions of Christian life and chafed at the restrictions his parents enforced. Tom walked a tightrope as he waited for the Lord to touch his son's heart. Lately, he found himself compromising more and more to avoid the tense confrontations with his son and daughter. Kristy was also rebelling, a quiet revolt, but none the less rebelling. Her problem was Howie Stennit, a mentally impaired, overbearing, juvenile delinquent—much overrated by Kristy. Tom knew too strong a hand could push her to Howie, and sour Steve on religion permanently. At the same time, there were certain principals and family standards that they must observe.

As the morning services came to an end, Carol stood by her husband. Her left arm clutched a white Bible to her small bosom as she continued to dab gently at her eyes. She was a quiet woman, one of those persons who seemed content to stand on the sidelines and watch the struggles of life with patient tolerance. The only exception was when she felt her religious beliefs threatened. As a mother and wife, she always appeared to be separate and above the frantic worries, but always ready to step in and take a firm grasp on the situation.

Her faith in God was no less than that of her husband. And her love for Tom came second only to God. She was a pastor’s daughter, a third generation member of the One World Church of God. She knew no other way of life. The Church taught that the woman was subservient to the man, a role that Carol accepted without question. Yet, while she might yield to Tom's decisions, she exercised her right to help formulate those decisions fully. The position was not one of inferiority, simply a job description within the family structure. As Christ was the head of Tom, so was Tom her head, and so long as the chain of command was unbroken, she would continue to follow her husband.

#

From the auditorium, the Blufords took I-70 west, toward the majestic, snow-capped peaks that had beckoned them all week. The beautiful, constantly-shifting visas kept them in a charged state of excitement. At every turn in the highway, someone would shout for a picture, and Tom would stop the overloaded Chevy van. Everyone would pile out and gawk while he took pictures. Then they would climb back in the van and struggle up the next grade or around the next curve, where they would repeat the process. Tom soon realized they'd never keep their schedule at their present pace and began censoring the stops.

He looked at his family, laughing and happy, and gave thanks to God. It had been a wonderful and exciting week. The services had been fulfilling. They'd enjoyed the fellowship of old friends, made new ones, and renewed the acquaintances of some they seldom saw. The only exception had been Steve. He was distant and aloof, never smiling, and speaking only when spoken to—displaying a quiet and polite portrayal of rebellion. Now he was relaxed and appeared to be enjoying the outing—they were a family again.

The freeway clawed its way up the mining valley of Idaho Springs, passed old mine tailings that dotted the mountains along both sides of the valley. In Georgetown, they stopped for a quick lunch, and wandered through the small, picturesque, mining town. In Silver Plume, they panned for gold. Shortly afterward, they crested the mountain pass at the Eisenhower Tunnel and began a rapid descent to the lovely, resort town of Frisco. In Vail, the girls had to do some shopping. Once they were properly loaded with souvenirs, Tom turned the van south on route 31 for Leadville. From there they planned to swing east to Colorado Springs, cut over to I-70, and home.

The day had been sunny and warm, especially for Colorado in early July. But, as they started winding their way up the twisting mountain road the bright, fluffy clouds seemed to foam into an ominous gray mass that filled the deep cobalt sky and blocked the sun. The grubby little mining towns that clung tenaciously to the rocky precipices appeared as ghettos in contrast to the resort areas they'd just visited. As the winding highway rose higher and crossed from one alpine meadow to another, the vegetation thinned. The hardy lodge pole pines shouldered the brilliant green aspens out, and the green grasses surrendered to red-streaked sages. Once they rose above the timberline, the wind brought a biting chill down from the pass that made them stop to pull out sweaters and jackets from their luggage.

Carol shivered and crossed her arms in an attempt to pull her wrap tighter. This isn’t natural, there’s something evil in this place.

Evil! Tom grinned and tried to regain the earlier jovial mood. Welcome to the Rockies.

Still, it was more than the chill that dampened their spirits and left them speaking in quiet, hushed tones. In less than two hours, they had driven from the bright, sparkling valley to this bleak, dreary mountaintop—from one season to another—from early spring to late fall. At 10,424 feet, they crossed over Tennessee Pass and dropped into Leadville.

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