Soul Taker

Soul Taker

Lee vanwesterborg

Also by this author:

Corporate Logos: Consumerism and the Growth of Apostasy

ISBN: 978 131 082 0946

E-book available at Smashwords, Amazon and Apple ibooks.

Cover photo provided by the author.

Soul Taker ISBN: 9781310270628

Smashwords Edition, Copyright lee van westerborg 2014. Published by the author. All rights reserved. This book is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be copied or sold for commercial uses without permission of the author. This e-book may not be re-sold by individual readers.

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction, although inspired by actual events.

Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles?

Even so, every good tree brings forth good fruit, but a corrupt tree brings forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit; neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that brings not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.

Not everyone that says unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.

Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? And in thy name have cast out devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works?

And then I will profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me ye that work iniquity.

Matthew 7:15-23 KJV

If we say that we have fellowship with him and walk in darkness, we lie and do not the truth.

1 John 1:6 KJV

If a man say, I love God and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he that loves not his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God who he has not seen?

1 John 4:20 KJV

And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spoke as a dragon

Revelation 13:11 KJV

Part One: No Fixed Address

PartTwo: The Spirit Says…

Part Three: I met the Devil and everything is his fault

Part Four:Pirates of the Interstate

Part One: No Fixed Address

It was a typical soup kitchen, a gathering place for those who are ominously persecuted by bad luck no matter how often they attempt to escape, a place of refuge for those consequently rejected by society because their continual misfortune appears contagious and reminds us of how much we have to lose.

As usual, most of the tables were full of wild-eyed street people dressed in donated clothes, outfits which were often very incongruous, their ensembles didn’t match, one would have an expensive (donated) coat paired with the cheapest pair of shoes duct taped together. The collection of disarray and diversity in their apparel matched the faces of the people seated at the tables, those in attendance a sampling of all ages and types of individuals presented, no doubt from every variety of life circumstances.

This was a place where those bearing many sad stories of loss and pain came together to share a meal and sometimes a cigarette butt or a secret sip of wine in the parking lot. A concentration of the people most of us in the relatively higher classes do our best to ignore each day, the crazy social outcasts who talk to themselves on the sidewalk, look out of place no matter where they are, and find themselves unwelcome almost everywhere they go to seek shelter from the rain or cold, or ease their loneliness.

Nobody that can afford to turn down a free lunch would seek out a place like this, it existed for those who don’t have options, designed as a temporary gathering place for street people most commonly labeled as drugs addicts or mentally unstable and seen as problems or burdens for society, all briefly concentrated in one place by their needs. There are increasingly few places where so many social undesirables are allowed to congregate, even as briefly as the lunch meal allowed. At least while they were here, none of them had to worry about security guards or angry property owners forcing them to leave. They could temporarily relax, at least for an hour not have to look over their shoulder or always watch for who was phoning the police to eject them for loitering.

Constant rejection weighs heavily on individuals no matter their social position, veterans of the street life all had defeat etched into their eyes from continually being chased away by business owners for scaring away their customers and from being hustled in and out of shelters and social programs like human debris. Its a lifestyle of constant motion, as if used to being continually moved around many seemed to be either consciously or perhaps unconsciously unable to stay in one place, out of habit eating as much as they could as fast as they could, knowing they would be again on the move very soon.

This being a church communal room expectedly the walls were appropriately covered with spiritual posters and decorations, the footsteps poem placed behind the donation table near the entrance as a positive message and mission statement for the volunteers, and a huge highly visible banner showing an empty wooden cross and the words He died for our sins hung near the food counter, so that even for someone who was desensitized or otherwise trying to ignore it, the real purpose of this meal (evangelization) was hard to miss.

Despite the abundant messages of hope in the decorations, there almost seems to be an atmosphere of hopelessness in places like this, a channeled collective unconscious in masses of so many people who had given up hope in life contained in one place. Hardly a solution, this church lunchroom was a temporary refuge at best, once the meal was over, they instantly returned to the harsh city streets and daily struggle for survival. Most of them seemed to completely ignore their surroundings, either out of habituation, desensitization, or because they were concentrating on finding the few familiar faces around them they wanted to talk to or share a cigarette with. The street connections and other regulars were the focus each table was organized around, as if everything outside the doors merely followed in as they entered.

Whatever place they temporarily found themselves in amidst their daily struggles didn’t really matter so much as finding a brief refuge from the chaos outside, especially when used to living in the barest minimum needed for survival, with the most minimal connections to the often many others around them. Details of or décor of each interior weren’t considered important as far as survival was concerned and might not even be noticed in transit, for such places are only temporary, a brief stop before being herded somewhere else. Many in the midst of their meals appeared to be in fact eagerly anticipating that next borrowed or shared cigarette to ease the nicotine cravings beginning to assert themselves, and were oblivious to their surroundings. The little familiar daily rituals that are performed so many times for reassurance or distraction they become ends in themselves, a cigarette or bottle of wine may have originally helped someone get through the stress or discouragement of each day, but eventually becomes the driving force behind each place visited or determining the people that will be sought out.

Some of the tables seemed to be surrounded by an atmosphere of depression so strong it could be felt by the volunteers and was almost another visible presence in the room, for those who had been driven to the streets by loss or grief. There was little question most or all these individuals were trapped in cycle of poverty and wouldn’t escape, though nobody would openly admit to be thinking that far ahead into the future. A grim future is far too overwhelming to imagine all at once, it has to be dealt with a little bit at a time and managed with the assistance of regular distraction and denial or it might lead someone to suicide. There was a certain residue of apathy to their situations that the grizzled street veterans functioned under, maybe out of fear of the unknown, that even if a miracle happened and they were offered a chance another lifestyle might actually even prove to be the same or worse than the one they’re experiencing now. Most of all, they believed that they wouldn’t escape the tragedy of street life; failure was expected as a lifestyle. The daily search was instead for numbness to the consequences of their situation, so it could be temporarily endured as if the present is the only time that exists and it was only a matter of making a mere few hours disappear.

A tall, pasty, heavyset man with a surprisingly timid, wimpy voice preached from behind a lecture stand with a microphone as they ate, though it seemed no one was listening to his benevolent sounding monotone. He was obviously the pastor of the street church and his good intentions were abundantly clear, in a careful but compassionate tone he offered messages of hope mixed with stories from scripture. The most encouraging messages he knew how to offer, it doesn’t make sense to verbally accuse and condemn people who are deep in the midst of suffering. It didn’t seem to matter how many appeared to be listening, he continued to speak even though it seemed like he was being deliberately ignored. If no one in the room heard a single word, he knew God was listening and thus spoke to please Him. Each table was absorbed in a mini subculture of it own, as different people discussed their daily struggles or problems in between bites of stew, frozen veggies and white dinner buns.

The abundant diversity of different ages of individuals and races represented in this collection of people, seemed almost to prove no one is immune from bad luck or tragic circumstances no matter how much we deceive ourselves into thinking we are the exceptions to life’s often tragic consequences, part of the special group of fortunates entitled never to suffer. Many were regulars clustered in the sole comfort of groups of people they knew, exactly like immigrants who enter their new nation only to move directly into the little version of their childhood country. There seemed no congruency between each group of people, as if each table were their own little isolated village separate from the others.

Near the double doors of the entrance that opened out into the back alley, a folding table was set up with clothing and non-perishable food donations on it, that one of the volunteers gave away to those in need. As more people continued to file in, the bags on the table vanished quickly, becoming a good measure of the progress of time. It was rare for most of these individuals if someone was offering to give them something for nothing, whether they seemed to deserve’ it or not and regardless of whether they earned kindness towards them by contributing" to society or not.

Beside one table, a tiny old man with a narrow face, deep wrinkles, comb-over and massive grey sideburns was praying over a woman of similar age, his hand stretched over her shoulder. It was impossible to hear what he was saying beyond his table with all the collected noise from the surrounding conversations. The ambient noise from the room sounded like a massive hum apart from the surrounding conversations at each table. The prayer group were completely unaware of the others in the room, all with eyes closed and heads bowed, standing in a circle around the woman as the little man continued to pray. The old man continued to pour his heart out to God, petitioning Him for healing and supernatural answers to their needs, while the rest stood together in complete unity and expectation, waiting patiently for God to answer in response to their faith.

The remaining tables were surrounded by restlessness. People were constantly moving from one to another, to the bathrooms or going outside to smoke or beg for smokes. Outside, a few feet from the doors several men were clustered around puffing on the last leftovers of found cigarettes. One especially nervous looking middle aged man with a pockmarked face and dyed pencil mustache wearing a cowboy duster seemed to be repeatedly going in and out of the building for smokes and walking around in circles inside out of uncontrollable restlessness. Near the doorway an attractive blonde woman in her mid forties now stood behind the table which had the pile of donated clothing and a few remaining food bank style boxes of crackers and instant coffee to give away. The restless man in the duster immediately stopped in front of her and accepted a bag, before continuing to pace around the room. At a nearby table a small, insignificant seeming man was recounting his latest adventures during the last week, crossing the continent in his big rig.

I met a hitchhiker at the Kansas City truck stop, he’d lost everything and was begging for change so he could buy a cup of coffee, so I just took him inside and bought him a meal and coffee. He told me about his crippled arm and how long he’d been out of work, so after we went back to my truck and I prayed for him, and he got healed and then saved. He accepted Christ because of that supernatural healing miracle I performed right in front of his eyes. The Holy Spirit told me he went back to work at his construction job a couple of days later, that he hadn’t been able to work at for ten years, after I had left Kansas. All his prayers were answered, too. It was obvious to anyone listening that he wanted to elaborate on the details, given the chance, and was waiting for someone to ask this very thing.

It seemed everyone surrounding him at the table was either silently impressed or apathetic, while the storyteller hoped it was the former. Some didn’t even look up from their bowls of soup as he explained the highlights of his trip that were normally the interest grabbers. One or two seated at the table seemed mildly interested, but this didn’t last long, distraction returned quickly. Just how interested, time would tell, the real question was would they be so captivated by the story that they had to witness the next chapter unfold for themselves?

Bob Lieber, the trucker and storyteller, was a runt of a man; unnaturally pale and colorless, wearing a black ball cap emblazoned with I love Jesus in capital bright red stitching, and covered up the fact that he had absolutely no hair on his head, and not even any eyebrows. Partially hidden under the shadow his cap created, his face and even his eyes seemed unnaturally icy and lifeless, as if he had been bleached. In spite of his appearance, he worked the room with concentrated charisma and unbridled confidence while surrounded by denizens of the local street life. He had the natural gifts of an extrovert and born salesman, someone who loved to talk and was only fulfilled by interactions with other people.

Almost all those around him had slipped through the cracks of society and it seemed to him that few, if any, cared whether they existed or not. Many seemed living only for their next drug high, smoke, drink, or to be reunited with familiar friends or relatives. Sensing opportunity, Bob watched with eager eyes as they shuffled in and out like zombies lacking a purpose for their life, attempting to pick out who would be the most receptive to his message. Inconvenient people, speed bumps, obstacles in the way of the fortunate, left behind by busy overachievers quickly passing them on life’s highway. Labeled problems for society, unwanted, unneeded, being pushed out of one place after another. Made cynical by the fact they had long ago learned the truth, that when we become destitute there is no place where we are welcome in our impersonal, greed oriented industrial society obsessed with individual success and upward mobility. If any place could contain such a collection of alienated, disenfranchised people who are no longer of use to anyone, society’s leftovers seemed to be concentrated here.

When I’m on the road, Bob continued, I can feel the Holy Spirit flowing through me when I get close to the next divine appointment and God is ready to take over. It’s like Spiderman’s spider sense, I can tell something is about to happen because God starts moving and His power immediately flows through me. It’s like everything else around me is in slow motion. God has done so many miracles through me, it would take months telling you about all the people that have been healed and saved because of me. God is reaching out to all the unloved in the world through me, I’m the hands that do His work. If you saw me in action and all the miracles God does through me, it would melt your melon, I promise you, as he spoke these words he hoped to incite someone’s curiosity so that they would have to accompany him and see for themselves, and then in turn they would be become so fascinated by the experience they needed to learn how to do it themselves.

They were listening but no one seemed to look up from their meals, though he had experienced it many times and believed it didn’t affect him Bob was always struck hard by disappointment when no one immediately volunteered to accompany him, though he was extremely skilled at disguising this fact. Like most extroverts he had such high expectations and very little patience. He believed he had the best chance of meeting someone here, surrounded by a collection of individuals of all ages and lifestyles, for Bob always tried to pick out the table most filled, where there was barely an empty seat and he had to squeeze in. The odds were better that he’d convince one the more he had surrounding him, from a population that had nothing to lose. He loved to be surrounded by a crowd and be the center of the action, with the appearance of a grateful audience hanging on his every word as he preached to them. Here, he was indeed surrounded by what looked like many potential volunteers and companions. Every stop for Bob was a new world of possibility, of potential opportunity.

If any of you want to see the Holy Spirit in operation and build your faith to the maximum, join me on the road, you’ll see real miracles for yourself and experience the true power of God, Bob looked around trying to make eye contact with each individual at the table as if it emphasized the words he’d spoken, eager for someone to accept his offer. A little too eager, perhaps, the worst thing we can do during persuasion is appearing we are trying too hard to convince others. Desperate isn’t effective as confidence, as sales training seminars teach.

"How many places have you been?’ finally a man spoke up, after many false starts and attempts, someone had taken the verbal bait. He was tall with a short brown ponytail and horn rimmed glasses, probably in his late 30’s, but wearing the latest trendy t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops of a college student or surfer. From the tone of his voice and sudden interest Bob inferred that there were likely many places he wanted to see and he wanted to know if Bob had experienced any of them. Bob was instantly happy someone was receptive and turned directly towards him to begin his pitch.

All over North America, name a place and I’ve been there, I have the best job, if you were a trucker like me you could see a lot of beautiful country, God’s country, he offered, emphasizing the last two words, I’m constantly meeting new people and seeing everything as its evolving. All the new developments and trends, everything new that happens I get to see it first. I’m always first on the scene. God has given me a great responsibility to watch over and protect this great nation…God has even anointed me to watch over North America and perform spiritual warfare on the powers of darkness if necessary. If you’re interested in any of what I’m describing, it means God is calling you and you should come with me and learn how to do likewise.

It was an open invitation to whoever accepted, Bob was always expecting company, the road is a lonely place for the restless traveler, especially someone who’s nature is as gregarious as Bob’s.

If nothing else, Bob personified persistence. Though no one seemed to be offering himself he continued trying throughout the rest of the meal. As the combination meal and evangelistic service was now nearing its end, already more people were drifting out the double doors at the back of the church than were coming in, a few lingered outside, smoking or in conversation. Soon it would be time for the volunteers to start cleaning up the tables and folding them up until the following week’s Sunday service. As the numbers dwindled Bob realized his time there was coming to its end. Again he was disappointed, as the tall man with the ponytail had long since disappeared.

As he looked around the emptying gymnasium style room Bob was suddenly dissatisfied by his isolation and noticed it was dark and stuffy within. Outside it was a typical hot summer afternoon, the clear blue sky seemed perfectly cloudless and bright. Once refueled, no one seemed to stay within the church for long, restlessness took over. Homeless people’s lifestyles are characterized by constant motion, partly from being continually ejected from the places they loitered in to seek warmth or hide from precipitation, and soon become unable to be stationary for long. Restlessness gives birth to a nomadic lifestyle of wandering with no fixed address. The hobo’s life is one of continual motion, similar to Bob’s life as a long distance trucker, of seeing many places but never remaining in them for long, and never seeming to find one he belonged in.

Bob remained disappointed no one accepted his offer; another lonely trip awaited him, as it was soon time to start traveling again. His next destination would be to deliver a diesel tractor motor to Wells, Nevada as a replacement for a highway crew’s bulldozer whose had worn out. He had just started off on a new trip in which he would be crossing the border, and once he dropped off his load he would be picking up another for the return trip.

A few of the remaining leftovers got up from their tables, and went back to the counter for dessert, or for a last coffee or outside for a smoke, it seemed to Bob he was nothing other than a passing distraction, as no one was approaching him or seeming interested in his repeated offers, even the man with the horn rimmed glasses, who had asked a few questions, made superficial conversation with him and then rushed off to an appointment.

If you want to see a mirror of Jesus in action, ride along on a trip with me, you’ll see the truest example of a Christian brother ever, I always act as if Jesus was sitting next to me. Don’t just take my word for it, come with me and see for yourself, Bob now spoke his best sales pitch to the remaining two that were still eating, one hungry looking man in a dirty overcoat had gone back for another plate and others were just finishing their last few bites. He seemed to be a distraction at best from the real purpose of the meeting, to gain as much sustenance as they could, fill up on coffee and smokes and then return to whatever routines they had to waste the rest of the day. Bob did the best he could to try and entice them that he was offering them a potential ticket out of their dreary existence, a chance to become something else, but most people are fearful and distrusting of the unknown.

Eventually Bob was left alone, and he stood up and made his way out to the truck, shuffling along in defeat. He was very proud of his occupation and loved to show off his big rig to everyone who attended church with him, as if it were a symbol of his strength and success. It was an old but very well maintained black Kenworth which someone had named Jezebel, perhaps because of its temperamental nature or effect on its owners. It was painted on in Alice blue lettering on the side of the sleeper cab. Bob hated this name, it symbolized outright rebellion against God, but he didn’t own the truck, he was just hired to drive it while the owner made the arrangements for the trips and paid him his wages for delivering the loads.

Prior to this job, just six months earlier, Bob had owned his own truck, but a storm of circumstances had forced him into bankruptcy and it was auctioned off. Bob planned to buy another truck as soon as one became available, after several years of independence and of being his own boss he didn’t enjoy working for someone else as much as he claimed to. At first, the sight of the name Jezebel had regularly offended him, but he gradually became used to its presence and now subtly denied that it was still there. He did his best to ignore the name because to even slightly approve of it was to condone and glorify a symbol of unrepentant sin against God. Bob did not want to appear as a rebel or non-conformist that did not attract the type of people he was seeking. He never wanted to be associated with those who lacked respect for authority.

As Bob exited, in the alley behind the church, a man was urinating against the brick wall facing the parking lot, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Even in this hot weather, Bob noticed he was wearing a long raincoat with several layers of clothing underneath, probably all the clothing that he owned. He was unaware of the scornful expression on his face as he viewed the man, instantly suspecting that the transient was a drug addict of some kind, and worst of all unsaved, a rejecter of Jesus who was destined for hell. Offense rose up instantly within Bob and he wanted to harshly rebuke the man for ungratefully urinating on the church wall after likely eating several plates of their food and otherwise taking everything he could from them, but he hesitated out of fear of being stabbed with an AIDS infected needle in response for casting his pearls before the swine.

Above all, his occupation was a truck driver but Bob believed himself to be an evangelist. He interpreted scriptural instructions to Christ’s disciples to become fishers of men, literally to mean to remake all who he encountered in his own image, that God had commanded him to collect all who came to him and transform them into little imitations of himself. He would train them to be productive citizens and to love hard work. And Bob was a natural fisherman, though despite his best efforts he had been denied the expected results during this trip.

Today he had cast out his best lines, with good bait, and no fish were biting, the best solution was to try another pond, for this very purpose Bob visited many, many places like this one. If he operated with access to the greatest numbers, even if his percentage of success was low it would still yield someone. If the first hundred all say no, try a thousand, then five thousand, until someone says yes. He thought the people inside the soup kitchen had been an especially sorry looking bunch, so many grizzled veterans of the street life, possibly drug addicts, Bob wondered if maybe a life of clean living and hard trucking would be too much for them.

The one constant reassurance in his daily struggles was that he knew he would never run out of poor, lost, and downtrodden people to attempt to reach, the supply was never-ending. There would always be someone in desperation, whose luck had run out and who needed help. Just like his Biblical heroes Bob knew he had to persevere and overcome daily obstacles to reach his goal of success. He believed God is faithful and that if Bob were obedient long enough he would be richly rewarded by the fulfillment of his dreams, in accordance with scriptural promises. He believed he was the epitome of the metaphorical eunuch, the good and faithful servant who would be richly rewarded for his exemplary single-minded devotion to God.

This was just one of many soup kitchens, many churches, and a lot of rejection. Bob only ate in such places when he was on the road as a part of his ministry of evangelizing the lost. This was his method of outreach, to find the most oppressed and abused, those are the people he felt gifted to speak to, that he was able to encourage them in their own language. He was continually seeking new places frequented by masses of the hopeless and rejected social outcasts, the people he felt he knew best how to reach. Bob was unwavering in his conviction that he was the best ambassador of God’s love to them, and he had a special gift and calling to collect them all, mentor them and change their lives. It was understatement to say that Bob was fanatic in his devotion to go out and make disciples of all men; the conversion of others was his driving purpose in life. It was a compulsion, which it seemed he could not stop or restrain.

He purposely ate at every church supper and soup kitchen in every city he stopped in, seeking to connect with those in need and even mapped them out as stops on his trucking routes as expected parts of his job. His most natural habitat, North America’s many coffee shops and truck stops, were the perfect place for an extrovert such as himself, his regular haunts in which he’d be seated in his black biker hoodie and Jesus cap, his eyes always alert, scanning for the lost and unwanted of the world. The isolated, alienated and abused people were the only ones he sought. The ones who had played their last hand in life and lost were the ones he wanted, the ones who had given up, those who lived in desperation. He crossed the countries of Canada and the USA regularly at least twice a month to deliver industrial machinery or consumer goods. Bob had been on almost every highway in North America at least once in his almost 20 years as a trucker and had collected numerous souvenirs from all the most popular places himself, to show his claims of being there were true.

He quickly navigated through the downtown core and towards the highway. Soon he was back in his element, behind the wheel, making time on the