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    Matthew
    Matthew
    Matthew
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Matthew

    By Dave Stone

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Matthew Curtis was my friend. We shared good times, bad times, and other times in between. Fun was what we searched for and usually what we found. Trouble seemed to find us with little effort from us at all. Football games were played, cemteries explored, girls were sought and cops eluded. Life happened and it was good, but all of this would come to an end. Life can twist and turn as we follow it's days in pursuit of our joy. It detours from decent intentions, meandering through time with a will of its own. Beckoned by illusion or deceived by perversions, we sometimes follow pursuits that are not for the better good.
    Many years have passed since the days of our youth and I miss my friend greatly, but someday I know, God willing, I will see him once again.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDave Stone
    Release dateJul 8, 2013
    ISBN9781301100729
    Matthew
    Author

    Dave Stone

    Dave Stone is Senior Pastor of Southeast Christian Church in Louisville, Kentucky, where he preaches Truth to more than 21,000 people each weekend. He and his wife, Beth, have three children: Savannah, Sadie, and Sam, and a son-in-law, Patrick. Dave believes the most practical way to spread the gospel is through moms and dads who model a genuine faith for their children.

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      Book preview

      Matthew - Dave Stone

      MATTHEW

      By Dave Stone

      The Road to a Friend’s House is Never Long

      A Danish Proverb

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 1998 – Dave Stone

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or in any means without the express written consent of the author

      readadventurebooks@gmail.com

      www.readadventurebooks.com

      Other books by Dave Stone

      Dream Mine

      Autumn Chill

      Scout Camp

      Bumps in the Night

      Basketball Warriors

      Carnival

      CHAPTER 1

      "Matthew"

      Matthew Curtis was my friend.

      He was an awkward kid, a portly teenager with thick black hair that hung down insistently into his large brown eyes. I can still envision Matthew in my mind’s eye, pushing his thick framed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and then peering back out of those same glasses with an innocent plea for approval covering his round little face. Matthew was invisible in a crowd, a background person extraordinaire. He was constantly picked on by other kids, seldom rising to the top of the pack but consistently pushed back by others.

      My first real memory of Matthew came during our Junior High years, the wonder years as folks may say. It was Tuesday night—scout night. We gathered in front of the old church, waiting for our leaders to arrive. Matthew seemed forlorn.

      What’s wrong with you? someone asked, You look like your dog just died.

      Matthew’s lip began to quiver, and a startled look spread over his face. In a wavering voice he answered, She did die today. I buried her just an hour ago. He fought briefly to control his emotions before burying his face in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably. Looks of discomfit covered our faces. Our feet shuffled anxiously as we tried to change the subject—the poor kid.

      Scout meeting came and scout meeting went, and now the real fun would begin. We poured through the doors of the old church, heading for the highway and another of our weekly after-the-meeting escapades, and tonight’s adventure? Throwing duck eggs at diesel trucks.

      Now an egg in a boy’s hand is an extraordinary thing, it compels an act as expected yet remarkable as the rise of the morning sun. As anxious fingers welcome the newfound object, a spontaneous feeling of euphoria overcomes him, an uncontrollable urge to locate a target bewitches his sensibilities as he feigns resistance. As with a baseball, a football, or most especially a rock, finger’s flex and arms twitch, signals release from brain to shoulder and impulses travel from shoulder to arm. Eyes narrow into focus as myriad targets develop instantly before him, until finally the missile is effortlessly released in a simplistic motion that as often as not finds its mark. And then the boy is fulfilled, for the briefest of moments, until the next projectile enters his hand and the exhilarating sequence repeats itself over and over again.

      Now we were like any other boy, and this was not the first time for any of us to entertain ourselves at the expense of a few unsuspecting truck drivers. The normal reaction for any driver when splattered with the golden glop was to hit the brakes, slow just a little, and then goose the gas again, as they continued their journey down the road in a frenzy of grinding gears and whining engines, intuitively realizing that a halfhearted attempt to facilitate our capture would not nearly be worth the effort it would take.

      We could sometimes hear, yet usually just imagine, the obscene ranting and lurid language of the trucking teams. In consequence we would erupt raucously into shared laughter as we slapped high-fives all around at the success of our marksmanship and the seeming helplessness of the harried drivers.

      Occasionally a truck would screech to a halt. The driver’s would jump to the ground and shout menacing but harmless threats into the night, long after we had melted into the darkened fields. This particular night, however, turned out to be just a little bit different. We rained our eggs on the first truck that rolled by. Brakes hissed and tires squealed as the semi trailer stopped grudgingly at the side of the road. Two men jumped from the cab. One loomed large on the horizon; the other seemed small and quick. We faded into the darkness but the truckers still kept coming. They wanted, it seemed, to kick a little scout butt. We scattered in every direction.

      Let’s get out of here, Matthew shouted as we scrambled for cover in the muted moonlight. One boy taunted the truckers from the far side of the field, but I was not so confident and searched for a place to hide. I spotted a thicket of willows near a little ditch and quickly settled in behind them. I watched in the darkness, totally concealed and waiting for the truckers to give up the chase, but to my dismay they pointed right at my hiding place and headed directly towards my place of cover.

      I froze in place, like a pheasant in a ditch, unsure of what I should do next. I listened nervously as the men muttered threats and obscenities about what they would do to the little brats as soon as they could get their hands on them. And then they were almost upon me. I was just preparing to bolt when fifty yards to my right up jumped Matthew.

      Hey stupid, he shouted. Instantly the men turned his way. They sprinted after him through the fields of the night, as he led them on a long and merry chase. I fled in the opposite direction, knowingly grateful for my narrow escape.

      I knew very well that Matthew had saved me from a whipping at the hands of the truckers that night, but more importantly he had saved

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