Glory in the Flower

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Backpacknet – Blogs

Ollie’s Musings:

Ten years ago, on this very day, Peter and I were in a hotel room in Lagos, after flying out of Liberia on a boneshaker plane we weren’t even sure would get off the ground. We’d had this idea of marching in there and convincing some terrorists to throw down their weapons, in imitation of someone we all know. Well, those particular terrorists did not let go of their guns, and Peter had a bullet graze on his thigh—stitched up by yours truly with nothing but a hotel sewing kit and a 1970s medical textbook for guidance—for his trouble.

Maybe for two different men, the whole experience would have knocked some sense into us. But we were young, without the responsibility of families, and we didn’t need much to stay alive. A Bible and a backpack. We could keep spreading the Gospel, like the Apostles of old, and we could keep the churches updated while we were doing it.

We didn’t know then, how far this thing would go. From fifteen readers that first month, to an average of one and a half million, from a simple blog to a full network, with worldwide ministry links, a store, and everything else this thing has become, from Peter or I quickly shooting off an entry when we could find a computer, to full-time staff… God has brought us a long way from that backpack. Sometimes I wonder now if we should call this thing A Bible and A Shipping Crate, but it doesn’t really have the same ring to it, and my wife tells me I’d better not quit my day job, because I’m not going to make it in stand-up.

Anyhow, to conclude, dear friends, we have been blessed. And the fact that I’m sitting here writing on this thing is evidence that God can do amazing work even in the lives of two idiots who didn’t actually think that the bullets could hit them.

There’s this incredibly trite phrase that life must always be lived forwards but is generally only understood backwards. Thing is, it’s not always even understood. There’s a whole lot I don’t understand. But maybe through sharing all of this, I might understand better. For me, all of this began on Middle Bass, on August 15, that last bit of summer holidays Kate and I had before we had to start another school year.

Chapter 1

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;

Turn wheresoe’er I may,

By night or day.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

- William Wordsworth

Sunday, August 15

Middle Bass Island, Lake Erie

The morning air was still and tasted faintly of honeysuckle. Birds and crickets tweeted and chirped from the misty shadows, a delicate accompaniment to the gently lapping waves.

Ollie lay on his back in a flattened patch of switchgrass, head pillowed only on his roughly balled shirt, while his chest served as support for his sleeping wife. She was so beautiful, like Caravaggio’s Madonna of Lareto, and she lay beside him, long, dark hair tangled at his neck.

She stirred, lashes fluttering.

Good morning, sunshine, he murmured.

Her lids opened, revealing eyes the color of shiny melted chocolate. We were out here all night? Even thick from sleep, her voice gave him shivers.

All night. Ollie shifted his weight, glad they’d thought to bring blankets. The night had been warm, particularly so for Middle Bass, but Kate’s slender body chilled easily. He tightened his arms around her. It had been a good night, really the best night of their entire time on the island, and he was loathe to see it end.

His right hand lay against Kate’s shoulder, palm up, revealing the tattoo on his inner wrist. As all Hebrew script, it ran right to left, a single phrase spoken directly from his heart.

אני צריך היה מבורך

I have been blessed.

At eighteen, when he’d first met the King of Kings, he’d felt the need to have a permanent reminder inked onto his skin. Now, he needed none.

Katharine Fairchild Shanahan, whose love knew no bounds, whose gentleness hung like a cape over her whole being, and whose faith was so tenacious it stunned even Ollie sometimes, had given him her heart and herself and was now so much a part of him he could not remember himself before her. I have been blessed.

They talked in low voices, the flowery nonsense of lovers and the dense practicalities of the days and weeks that lay ahead. Their vacation at her family cabin was effectively over. They needed to stop in Fort Wayne on their way through Indiana. Her parents were expecting them, and it was her father’s birthday. He was ready to give his presentation at the conference, she was looking forward to having a few days to organize themselves and their apartment for the upcoming school year. They were to do another interview with the magazine, for a feature sometime in the next few months. She wasn’t sure how many piano students she was going to take on for the year.

That was a surprise to him. Kate was twenty-six, healthy and energetic. Even when her migraines all but crippled her, she would bounce back easily, and throw herself back into her whirlwind of activities.

You’re worried about burning out? he asked. How had he not seen that?

She shook her head no, a smile on her lips. Then she spoke the words that changed his life, in the best possible way.

It took him a moment, to realize that he had, indeed, heard her correctly, and a shock of joy swept through him. Lord! Lord!

You’re sure?

"Yes… I’ve just taken the home test; I haven’t seen a doctor yet, but I’m never late. Ever. And I feel different."

Heart swelling to the point where it felt like his chest would crack right open, he held her even closer. I love you.

I love you.

They had things to do, a ferry to catch, a drive to make, but all of that could wait a moment. Ollie held his wife, allowing the joyful tears to stream unchecked down his face.

I have been blessed.

Nashville, Tennessee

She was alone in the bed. When Mia Fairchild forced open her mascara-encrusted eyes, she groaned in relief to note that fact. She could vaguely remember the bearded face of Dex Chaisson against her neck; he had been at the club last night, and that circumstance had, more often than not, led through events where his boots would greet the sun from her windows.

The hardwood floor was bare but for her own shoes. She was still in the rest of her clothes. Mia stretched, noting her aching muscles, shuddering at the foul taste in her mouth. A shower, a few cups of coffee, that would help. She breathed deeply, fantasizing about the scent of a good hazelnut roast….

She did smell the hazelnut roast. And hear a familiar bass hum.

Cursing, Mia hurried out to the kitchen. Sure enough, Dex was at her kitchen table, his burly frame lounging casually in the chair as if he belonged there.

Good morning, sunshine.

How unfair was it that the man could look that good while she, in the throes of a miserable hangover, could feel nothing but hideous? Mia bit back a rude retort and poured herself a cup of coffee. As she went to sit, she glanced over to the sunken living room of her loft apartment, noticing a blanket tossed messily over the large leather sofa. She arched a brow at Dex.

You snore like a buzz saw when you’re drunk, Fairchild. There was no censure in his pale blue eyes. He smoothed his beard. I didn’t want to call another cab, so I thought I’d just crash. Didn’t think you’d mind.

Mia forced herself to shrug, to look casual. Of course not.

No more’n usual, anyhow. Dex slugged back the last of his coffee and got up for more. Don’t suppose you want some bacon and eggs or something.

At the thought of food, Mia’s gorge rose, and she had to fight to keep from choking. Dex watched her and chuckled in a low voice. Can I at least make toast?

Nothing I can smell. Mia shoved herself up from the table. I’m going to shower.

She took her time, hoping Dex would take the hint, but when she got back to the kitchen, he was still there, rinsing out a cereal bowl in the sink.

You don’t cook much, do you?

Delivery apps were invented for a reason. Mia dropped back into her chair.

Dex brought her a second cup of coffee before he sat again. Nothing happened last night, if you were wondering, he said.

Figured that, seeing as how I woke up still dressed.

Then why are your claws out?

I’m miserable? I hate that I brought you home? I hate everything? Mia tried to smile. Just one of those days.

His pale eyes softened into what might have been compassion. Because it’s your dad’s birthday?

Mia’s aching hands shook around the coffee cup, and she nearly dropped it. How’d you know that?

Dex waved at the homemade calendar on the wall. The big pink heart that says ‘Daddy’s birthday’ kind of gave it away.

My mom made that. So I wouldn’t forget stuff.

They here in Nashville?

Mia shook her head. Indiana. Fort Wayne.

They not having a party?

I’m sure they are. The same one they always had. They would sit down in the sunny yellow kitchen of her childhood home. Her mother’s heart-shaped face would be pink and flushed from her efforts over the stove, and she would be smiling as she set the steaming dishes on the table. Kate would be beaming and have some sort of sickly-sweet little speech just for the occasion. Her father would lead them in prayer, and Ollie might add his own two cents’ worth, and they would laugh and eat and linger at the table over German chocolate cake and iced tea.

You weren’t invited? Dex was still watching her, far too intently for her comfort.

Of course I was.

You said you don’t have any studio time booked right now.

I don’t. Mia forced herself to hold still under Dex’s scrutiny. For a moment, she imagined just getting up, taking his hand, and leading him to the bedroom. He wouldn’t expect her to talk then. But that thought turned her stomach even more than the notion of bacon and eggs did.

It’s not a long drive to Fort Wayne, especially not in that cute little Benz of yours. You could do it in an overnight, if you want to.

Mia smiled, knowing that the expression probably looked as bitter as it felt. There you go.

Dex nodded slowly. You don’t want to.

Bingo.

They sat in silence for a long moment, while Mia finished her coffee and Dex awkwardly fiddled with his empty cup. You’re an interesting character, Fairchild. If I wasn’t on tour so much, I’d almost want to know a little more about you.

His voice was deadpan, but Mia could see the mirth in his eyes. Get out of my house.

Dex smiled. He stood and leaned over to kiss her forehead. I’ll call you next time I’m in town, all right?

Mia locked the door behind him and poured herself more coffee. She knew his last comments were made in jest, and that really was the best thing. Dex was a guitarist, frontman for the up-and-coming pop country band Nicky Blue, and he spent most of his time touring. Mia was a studio violinist, and she hated to leave Nashville. Besides, she knew full well he kept a woman in most of his regular stops, and she certainly didn’t reserve her own bed for just him. No, she wasn’t the type for commitment, much to her parents’ sorrow.

Her parents. Might as well get it over with.

Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major pierced the silence. The sound came from her purse, which lay in a heap on the floor.

The only people who had her cell number were her agent Cristal Hoyle, the producers with whom she regularly worked, her parents and sister, and a smattering of artists she consented to play with on local stages.

It was Cristal. John Ross Spencer was in a car accident, the hoarse-voiced agent said by way of greeting.

He okay? Mia frowned. John Ross was not what she’d call an intimate friend, but, as a fellow Nashville studio violinist, she did have camaraderie with the man. Still, it wasn’t the sort of news her agent would call her personally to deliver.

Broken wrist. Maybe nerve damage. At any case, it’ll be a while before he’s back in the studio.

Mia suddenly understood. He was scheduled?

September first, two PM, the Watershed. Gabriel MacLeod. Kabel Desmond’s producing, and he asked for you specifically.

Mia knew Kabel and had worked with him before. Though young, he had a good ear, and never shirked on musicianship in favor of technology. Just that day?

Gabriel’s working on his new album over the next few months, and they’re booked on and off.

The opportunity to work with Kabel was tempting. Still... I’ve never heard of Gabriel MacLeod.

Cristal chuckled. Little heathen like you wouldn’t, I suppose. He’s one of the biggest names in Christian contemporary right now.

Stomach twisting, Mia sat back at her table. Cris, you’re kidding me, right? I don’t do gospel.

It’s work, sweet cheeks. And you haven’t exactly been embracing that lately.

Mia lived in a loft in Green Hills, complete with sixteen-foot ceilings, a fieldstone fireplace, and a walk-in closet that most debutantes would envy. She owned a genuine 1718 Stradivarius violin. Though she resented her heritage, the sizeable trust fund she’d come into at age twenty-five had made a lot of things possible for her, including the ability to be choosy about what projects she would touch.

Kabel’s working on it, Cristal reminded her. He did Lana Cassidy’s last album, and it went gold. He wouldn’t touch this guy if he wasn’t good; you know that.

Why me?

Because you’re what Kabel wants. Did I tell you Mack’s on board, too?

Mack? Mia felt herself perking up slightly. Mack Paulson, whose stint in Vietnam had cost him his left eye and right leg, was one of the best bassists in Nashville. Days after arriving in the city, Mia had gone to test her mettle at a fiddle jam in a local bar and had been almost frightened at the intensity which the one-eyed, grizzled old man had stared at her, but then he’d introduced himself, told her she was good, and that he was going to help her make it. He had introduced her to Cristal, who had signed her with the MCA label. Through Mack, Mia had met some of the best producers in town. However, the old coot flat-out refused to work on music he didn’t feel was honoring to the Lord, so Mia, who preferred the secular to the spiritual, rarely worked with him.

So you’re in?

Guess I am.

Two sharp. Kabel likes to get started right on time. Oh, and he wants the Strad.

Cristal threw that in at the end, very casually, but Mia wasn’t so hung over she missed the significance. She rarely took the million-dollar instrument into the studio.

No.

There’s security there, Cristal wheedled.

Mia was just too flat-out tired to argue. Fine.

When she hung up, Mia realized that her conscience was now a little more at ease over missing her father’s birthday. She took up her coffee cup again, enjoying the warmth against her palms. Like those of all serious violinists, her hands were a mess, the finger pads of the left hand so thickly calloused she had no feeling, the fingers of her right continually swollen and twisted, grown that way from endless hours of gripping a bow. Though she was careful of her figure and impeccable in her grooming, Mia’s deformed hands were the burden of her trade, the aches and the swelling the price she paid to make her music.

Mia made the call.

Hi, Mom.

Mia! Mary Beth sounded pleased. How are you, sweetheart?

Not bad. Mia looked away from the boots on the kitchen floor. Lots of time in the studio, lately.

You’re not working too hard, are you? Since Mia had moved to Nashville, her mother had asked that question nearly every time she’d called home.

I’m all right, Mom. I’m doing some work for Gabriel MacLeod this week. Cristal thinks it’s a big coup for me.

Gabriel MacLeod! Your sister loves his music! She’ll be so excited, to hear that you’re working with him. Do you think you could get an autograph?

You know I can’t do that.

The fastest way to get blackballed in Nashville was to act like a gushing fan rather than a professional colleague. Every studio musician knew far better than to invade a star’s privacy.

Not even for your sister?

No. If I was really good friends with him, maybe, but I’m not even going to meet the man until tomorrow.

There was a long pause. Oh, well. Kate will be glad for you, anyhow.

Of course, Kate would. Kate was always loving, always supportive, always sweet.

There had never been any overt competition between them, for Kate had seemed to go out of her way to avoid it. When Mia would deck herself in the latest fashion, Kate was content in long, prairie-girl dresses, and when Mia went to the salon for expensive haircuts and highlights, Kate just let her dull brown-black hair grow longer and more shapeless. While Mia carefully enhanced her delicate features with boutique-quality makeup, Kate left her plain face scrubbed and unadorned. Mia had always been considered the beauty of the family, but, rather than being a relief, Kate’s apathy was a constant scratch on Mia’s perception, one of hundreds of irritants that had built over the years. She tried to stifle the swell of annoyance.

Is there any other news I should know about?

"Vita is doing another article on Kate and Ollie. I think it’s coming out in the January issue."

Of course, the nation’s premiere Christian young adult’s magazine would have an article about Kate and Ollie and the perfection that was their marriage. It had begun years ago, during their engagement, when they’d posed side-by-side for photographs and waxed poetic about how wonderful it was to date without having sex, or even touching each other all that much, and how proud they were that they weren’t going to kiss until their wedding, at the altar. Mia had been at that wedding, seen that perfect, joy-filled kiss firsthand, and the memory still flayed.

Look, I have a lot to do today. Can I just talk to Daddy, please?

Of course, dear.

Mia’s conversation with her father was brief. Douglas had never been much of a phone person, but the gentle regret in his voice told her that he was disappointed she could not be there.

Kate was hoping you would come. She and Ollie miss you.

Churning pain twisted in Mia’s gut. Another time, Daddy. Maybe for Thanksgiving.

I hope so.

Mia hung up the phone and thought longingly of another few stiff shots of whiskey. Instead, she flexed her fingers, ready to pick up her violin.

***

Twenty minutes into her usual three-hour practice session, the Canon interrupted her once again.

Little girl? The gravelly bass was warm and familiar.

Mia smiled. How’s it going, Mack?

Just heard from Kabel. You’re fiddlin’ with us at the Watershed? Mack Paulson was the only person in the world that Mia would allow to refer to her music as fiddlin.’.

I am.

So you ever heard Gabriel’s music?

Not a note. Nor was she eager to start, but that would not be something to tell Mack, who was forever after her to cast aside her sinful lifestyle and return to the life God had apparently intended for her.

Then I’ll send you a link so’s you can get a feel for him.

Mia balanced the phone on her shoulder as she rubbed her bow with a honey-colored chunk of resin. Is he any good? It wasn’t a question she would ask Kabel; it would be understood as a challenge of his judgment as a producer. Mack, however, would tell her the truth.

Don’t worry. He’s almost worthy of you.

Almost, huh?

He didn’t go to Juilliard, but he knows a sharp from a flat.

In this town, sometimes that was all a studio musician could ask.

Chapter 2

Thursday, August 26

Columbus, Ohio

The brief visit with Kate’s parents in Fort Wayne marked the end of vacation for the

Shanahans. From there, it was back to Columbus, back to Ashton Christian College, a quick trip for Ollie to Colorado, then back to the endless whirl of classes, Bible studies, service hours, piano practice… there would be no reprieve.

The last week of August surged by in a flurry of preparation. They spent one humid evening at the small kitchen table of their apartment, studying sheets of schedules and activity offerings. Ollie’s suitcase for his flight to Colorado was packed and ready and sitting in the kitchen for the following morning.

Malik asked me to do evenings at the drop-in center again, Ollie said. He needs help there. And he wants to know if I can do extra hours on the website.

Maintenance on BackpackNet was more than a full-time job, split between four men who studied and worked more than the equivalent of full-time jobs themselves, plus two hired web designers.

Kate glanced at the calendar in front of her and cringed. Already, very little white space remained.

And then there’s the Bible study at Rayyan’s place. I want to lead that one again. It was so great last year. There’s also a group of students who want to set up a weekly meeting to review one another’s theses… when do you think we can squeeze that in?

Yes, she had to say something. Kate closed her eyes for a moment. Lord, please give me the right words. Ollie had never expected her to maintain the same gruelling activity pace as he did… her music took long hours of practice, and she just didn’t have his stamina. She was used to time away from him, and she was all right with that, but it wasn’t just about them anymore. Can we slow it down a bit?

He frowned. You don’t want to make the schedule now?

No… I mean, yes, I want to make it, but I don’t want it to be as busy as it was last year. For either of us. I-I don’t know how all of this is going to go, but I know that there’s going to be doctor’s appointments, and we’ll have to start looking for a bigger place before the year’s over, and…. Lord, how do I say this? I don’t want to be home alone every night, she finished lamely. I just don’t.

Ollie’s perennially twitching fingers stilled. Oh. Okay.

Kate blinked against the threatening tears. Lord, why doesn’t he understand this?

She felt his hand close over her shoulder, his unshaven cheek next to hers. I’m sorry, he murmured. If you want me to stay home more, of course I’ll stay home more. Whatever you want.

I just think it would be better for both of us. You need the time to work on the website. Malik and Peter both count on it, you know, and you have a thesis to finish. Jay’s going to be so busy this term, he’s not going to have time… I just don’t want you stretching yourself too far. There are people counting on you.

That, at least, Ollie appeared to understand. All four of them had deep personal connections to the website. Peter Wentworth relied on some of the generated revenue to fund the retreat center he ran in the Colorado mountains. Malik Deane managed a drop-in center in the Bottoms, the drug and gang-riddled district of Columbus, and the money generated by BackpackNet also kept his facility afloat. Jay Ferguson was a fellow student at ACC, and he’d brought a high quality of media to the site, incorporating the best of Christian contemporary music, both that of professional artists and the tremendously talented ACC music students. The contacts he’d made through the music and ad coordination would be invaluable in his future career as a music producer. BackpackNet was averaging upwards of a million and a half hits a month, and the reader response was almost entirely positive. It was a fruitful ministry, one that Ollie could not afford to fail.

Kate snuggled closer to her husband. No, he wouldn’t fail BackpackNet, or his friends. And he wouldn’t fail her.

Saturday, August 28

Denver, Colorado

The video feed from Kinshasa was blurred on the projector screen, but the sound came through beautifully, rhythmic drums, hands clapping, and thousands upon thousands of voices singing, "Nzambe whoa moy yo Papa yesu moka nlenga, Nzambe whoa moy yo Papa yesu moka nlenga…."

If he closed his eyes, Ollie could drift back to his own time in western Africa, the sweltering heat, the must of sweat from so many bodies, the thick, moist air. As the music faded, and a single voice pierced through the speakers, Ollie found himself smiling. He well remembered the voice of Paul Cissé.

In the comfort of a Denver, Colorado conference hall, Ollie could relax his body into a padded seat and, along with two hundred others, watch the man known throughout western Africa as ‘the teacher’ as air conditioning kept the temperature at a perfect seventy-two degrees. He’d done this before, and every time, he had wished he was back on that beautiful continent, among the people who called him ‘engele,’ the Lingala translation of ‘white ghost’. He’d spent nearly two years there and had seen Cissé a half dozen times or more.

Even across a globe, and on video feed, Cissé was no less compelling than he’d been in person. Ollie could not keep his eyes closed.

I come to tell you a story, Cissé said, in perfect French. I come to tell you about three men. The first was a man who held great evil in his heart. He stole money and livestock from his neighbors. He enslaved his own people to mine diamonds that he traded for guns and machetes. He used those machetes to slash the arms off of children, and the guns to shoot them through the heart. He told people he was doing this for the greater good, for some cause called ‘freedom’, but the truth was, he did those things because he had evil and hate inside his heart.

Already, goosebumps raised on Ollie’s skin. He’d heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ preached in many different ways over his thirty-two years on the planet, but there was something in the pure, brutal simplicity of Cissé’s tale that took his breath away.

That man was me, Paul Cissé declared, and a visible shudder ran through the crowd on the video feed. I was that man, with such hate. I was a young man, full of strength, and I used that strength to kill and destroy everything around me. One day, I was asked to take and kill the second man of my story, a famous man, a white man from America who had come to speak peace, instead of war. I, with my friends, took him to the side of a mountain to kill him, but he began to tell us a story.

This story was of the third Man, who lived in a time like ours. His people were taxed and raped and murdered at the hands of tyrants, and there seemed to be no hope. But instead of turning hate back to His oppressors, He gave them love. He walked the length of a nation, speaking love to those who hate, and humility to those who were proud. He spoke of a God who created and loved all people… black, white, woman, man, slave, and free. He taught that freedom, true freedom, does not come from breaking the evil dictator’s hold on your country, but from breaking the evil hold of sin from your heart. But sin is not easily broken. Evil lives in the hearts of humanity everywhere. And evil will not die, so that great Man died in its place. He, who had no evil in His heart, was tortured and killed in the most brutal fashion, so those who held evil would have a chance to cast it away.

Ollie wiped tears from his eyes. He knew Jesus. He had long ago lost count of how many people he had told about the grace of God. But as Cissé spoke, he felt like he was hearing it again for the first time.

Even as He was beaten, his flesh torn apart, he asked God to forgive his torturers. He loved them. He was willing to die so they might have a chance to live. Cissé stopped and looked around at the sea of faces riveted upon him. "You think, this is not possible, that a mere man could do such a thing. You are right. This was no mere man. This was Jesus Christ Himself, the son of God. This was God, who loved His creation so very much that He sent the most beloved part of Himself, His son, to suffer and die. Imagine His agony, as He looked down and saw those things happening to His child. Yet He allowed it! He could have stopped it, but He did not, because He loves humanity so desperately that He was willing to do such a torturous thing in order that He might one day take them to be with Him instead of letting them burn eternally in the flames of their own evil.

"This is the story that the second man told me. He told me that there is a place, a place with God, that is completely free of evil, and completely full of love. When your life on earth is over, He will take you there, if you have repented of the evil in your heart and cast it aside. There, you will be free. In Him, you will be free. More free than you can ever imagine.

When we heard this story, my friends and I fell to our knees and wept. We threw our guns down on the side of the mountain, and begged God to take the evil from our hearts. We brought the man to safety, and he taught us about God. He brought us to his school in America, so we could learn from him, and then he gave us money to make schools throughout Africa, so we could teach others. Our God commands us to make disciples of all nations, to teach every man, woman, and child in this world of His love and His freedom. My friends and I continue on here, teaching, and we ask you to do the same.

The feed cut to black, and the auditorium slowly filled with light again.

You miss it, don’t you? murmured a deep voice. Without even turning to look at the speaker, Ollie nodded. Peter Wentworth, a distant cousin and extremely close friend, had an uncanny ability to understand what Ollie was thinking even before Ollie himself did.

We had good days, adventuring for God, Peter said.

Before Ollie could reply, the gray-haired, middle-aged session facilitator strode back onto the stage. He had a strange name, something French. Jean, Jacques… something. Did it matter? Not personally. Ollie was only here to see the webcast, not to listen to the commentary. But he watched as the facilitator looked around at the eclectic mix of suited academics and scruffy front-line ministry workers. It’s been nearly thirty years since Paul Cissé went from gun-toting terrorist to Bible-pounding evangelist. And it happened because someone was brave enough to confront him with the Truth at a moment where earthly wisdom would advise begging for mercy. Reverend Brownley walked into Liberia in 1991, when every government in the Western world was begging their citizens not to travel there, because he felt the call of God on his heart to advance the gospel. Because of his obedience, look how far it has spread. We’ll take a break for fifteen minutes, and after we reconvene, we’ll have some discussion on the major evangelical movements of the last two centuries.

For the past day and a half, Ollie had been attending seminars on major evangelical movements. Though Paul Cissé was one of his favorite speakers, he had no interest in the discussion portion of this seminar.

As the facilitator left the stage, Peter immediately shoved his thick, burly body from the low-slung seat, rough hiking clothes awkwardly out of place in the refined auditorium. Want to get some air?

The noisy pollution of downtown Denver was probably no better than the stale, recycled oxygen of the conference hall, but Ollie knew how much his friend preferred the outdoors to any structure with walls and a ceiling.

Side-by-side, they hurried through the thickly carpeted halls towards the gleaming exit sign. Ollie turned over memories of the various adventures for God he and Peter had engaged in together. Western Africa. China. Endless hours hiking through the Colorado Rockies, sharing the Gospel with whomever they met along the trails. Nights spent in prayer and worship on the peaks of mountains.

A blast of heat and the stink of exhaust and asphalt hit them as they slipped out the door. But Peter stepped from the shadows and turned his bearded face up, soaking in the pale sunshine. He raised his arms, massive palms lifted to his Lord.

From an outsider’s view, he might have been a strange sight, this six-foot-six-inch man in khakis and flannel, reaching up to embrace the sky, but Ollie smiled. Though Peter said nothing aloud, his face shone with love and thanksgiving.

When the moment passed, and Peter was focused on Ollie once again, he repeated his question. Do you miss it?

It would be wrong to lie. Ollie nodded slowly. There’s a stack of opportunities around the college right now, for next semester and the summer. Teaching at l’école de la Grâce de Dieu in Kigali. Street preaching in the slums of Karachi. Ministry support for house churches in Vietnam. Chaplaincy in the refugee and migrant camps in Texas.

Or another summer helping out at Gilead. There was sheer hope in Peter’s grin, and Ollie’s heart squeezed. He’d loved the time he’d spent at the small retreat center in the Rockies, teaching Bible studies to the soul-weary yuppies from Denver who sought to find God somewhere in nature, scrambling over mountains with the more robust adventurers, encouraging them to see the Awesome hand of the Creator.

In earlier years, he wouldn’t have hesitated saying yes. However, in earlier years, he had been a single man.

Kate, he said quietly.

Peter nodded, no anger in his broad, bearded face. I understand.

He didn’t, not really, but Ollie wasn’t ready to speak the rest of it, not with the heavy burdens that were lying in his heart.

Glancing at his watch, Peter pointed back at the door. You ready to go back in? They’re probably starting up again.

Yes, the seminar would be starting up again. Person after person would get up, and gush praise and thanksgiving that the great Reverend Saul Garrison Brownley, the man known as the spiritual leader of the Midwest, had, once again, heeded God’s call and obeyed. Ollie, as his grandson-by-marriage, would be expected to lead the pack.

He couldn’t do it.

Why don’t we go for a walk instead?

Peter shrugged. Why not? Or we could just cut the whole thing early and get back out to Holy Cross. You’ve given your presentation… do you have to stay?

That was an even better idea.

Sunday, August 29

Holy Cross Mountain

The trip to the North Ridge wasn’t terribly difficult; boulder-hopping between broken sections of trail and skirting monster cairns. Ollie and Peter walked in the easy, companiable silence of good friends. Even in August, it was cold this high up, but they were bundled in warm wool and Gortex, and there were few people on the planet who knew the rocks of Holy Cross Mountain better than Peter, who had been climbing Colorado’s Fourteeners for the better part of twenty-five years.

Amazing, what a difference a day could make. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Ollie and Peter had been scrambling out of the stifling conference hall, and now they were breathing the coolness of unpolluted air, strong, conditioned bodies burning with the effort of many hours of hiking together.

A few years his senior, and a distant cousin, Peter had approached Ollie one spring with a job offer. At eighteen, about to graduate high school, and little idea of what he wanted for his future, Ollie had gladly accepted, glad for the opportunity to get out of Detroit and spend the summer outdoors.

That summer, on the North Ridge of Holy Cross Mountain, Ollie had met the Living God, and he had never once looked back. For the past fourteen years, Ollie had returned to the Ridge whenever he’d felt the need to see God face-to-face. Intellectually, he knew and understood that his Heavenly Father could not be boxed up in a church, a building, or even a mountain, but the powerful Presence he had once experienced on Holy Cross Mountain led him back again and again, whenever disquiet stirred his spirit, or he had to make a serious decision.

It had been here on this ridge that he’d first felt peace about going to ACC after spending all those years wandering the globe on various overseas mission trips. It was here that God had told him to go ahead and marry Kate.

It was here now that Ollie went, troubled by something in his spirit he