Old Towne – Sunday Morning, March 5, 1989
Jerry left his flat in Old Towne as he strolled down the tree-lined street, a canopy for birds joyously chirping in limbs of expectant buds, a cool spring breeze brushing his stubble face. At the intersection, he focused on the crosswalk light, the same countdown he had witnessed two nights before. His mind flashed back to the rumbling thunder, then the blinding light that cracked on the pavement directly in front of him. Mesmerized in thought, he stepped into the intersection. The sound of the trumpet and then the voice resonated in his head.
Jerry, you are not alone.
The blare of a horn shocked him back to reality.
He glanced left in the direction of the blare. The driver fervently pointed at something behind Jerry who was standing alone in the middle of the crosswalk. He took a step towards the curb and a flash of red caused him to look right. A truck pulling a trailer was turning the corner, the driver focused on his side mirror to make sure the rig cleared. With no time to react, the massive grill and bumper loomed towards him. A woman screamed. A man yelled.
What occurred next caused astonished passersby to exchange stories of what they witnessed.
“The truck and trailer drove over him, but look he’s sitting at the curb!”
“No, I saw a blur of him being swept away!”
“He vanished! But there he is!” An old, glassy-eyed, bearded man wearing layers of tattered clothes leaned on his shopping cart filled with plastic bags, his only possessions.
A siren wailed.
Stunned. Amazed. Jerry peered at his open palms. The red and chafed heels of his hands tingled. What happened?
Jerry, you are not alone.
Shaken by the near hit by the truck, baffled that he was unharmed, his mind flashed back to when his eyes opened while lying in the street after the near-death lightning strike.
You have received the power of my spirit…
You will be my witness wherever you go…
Receive me as your first love and you will be a new creation, a new man.
A paramedic squatted down and peered into Jerry’s eyes and then scanned his body for any signs of injury. “Where does it hurt?”
“Huh?”
“We were dispatched to a pedestrian struck by a truck. Was it you?” The paramedic looked up and down the street. No truck was in sight.
“He was run over by a truck,” a woman said, her voice shaking.
“Hand of God swept him away,” the homeless man proclaimed.
The paramedic flashed a penlight in Jerry’s eyes to check his pupils. “Does your head hurt?”
“No.”
“What day is it?”
“Uh, Sunday, I think. I was hit by lightning on Friday, strangled on Saturday.” Jerry laughed, a smile beamed, and tears welled.
Bewildered, the paramedic wrapped a blood pressure cuff on Jerry’s arm. “You may have a concussion. We’ll need to take you to the hospital for further tests.”
“No. I’m fine. Really, I am. I am not alone.”
“Hmmm. Blood pressure’s normal. That’s surprising. Okay, if you’re declining medical services, you’ll need to sign a waiver.”
Sunday morning customers of the quaint coffee shop—casually dressed and seated at tables by the windows overlooking the street, some looking as though they had passed on a shower and shave—stared at him as he entered. He ignored them. He was too dazed to care what anyone else thought.
“Need some joe to wake up?” the barista asked. “Or was that your wakeup call?” He nodded towards the street.
“Yeah, know what you mean. Whew…now three close encounters with death…in three days . . . but . . .”
Jerry, you are not alone.
He paused as the words echoed in his head, a tinge of burnt motor oil in his nostrils. He focused on the barista again. “You wouldn’t understand.” Shaking his head, he handed the man a five.
“You haven’t told me what you want yet. You okay man? You look a bit shaken up.”
“Yeah, yeah, uh . . . cappuccino . . . three shots dry . . .” Then he looked into the eyes of the barista. “The light . . . blinding––”
“Yeah, I bet . . . that’s what we see when we’re about to die.”
“No, it hit right in front of me . . . the light––”
“Yeah, man. I’ll get that triple for ya,” the barista said, shaking his head as he turned to work the espresso machine. “The light, huh . . . yeah these three shots’ll give you a jolt . . . a lightning jolt! Hehe.”
Holding the five he mumbled to himself, “I did die . . . now alive . . .”
Light shines in the darkness.
The barista didn’t hear him. The milk frothing with hot steam squealing, its creamy aroma soothed his nerves and brought him back to his senses. The barista capped the tall cup and handed it to him.
“Be careful, man . . . and watch your step.”
“Thanks, keep the change.”
Jerry walked out of the coffee shop and stopped. Looking at the intersection where he’d had his third encounter with death, he turned to walk in the opposite direction.
“Need to clear my head.” He took a sip. “Ouch!” Hot liquid burned his upper lip. He licked it to soothe the sudden rawness.
He continued down the sidewalk to the next intersection. Waiting for the crosswalk light, a sign directly beyond drew his attention. Pedestrians entered the crosswalk; he followed, entranced by the sign. A drum beat, the chords of a guitar wailing as he read the sign: Plant the Good Seed.
He stared at the words, mind numb, lips singed, hands tingling. He turned his head towards the music. Double doors stood wide open.
“I have a plan for you, it’s gonna be wild, it’s gonna be great, it’s gonna be full of me.” The soothing singer’s voice drew him closer. A young man appeared and greeted him as though he were expecting him.
“You’re just in time. The place is starting to rock.”
Jerry paused and looked at his coffee.
“Bring in the joe, but this band ’ll wake you up.” The young man smiled, giving Jerry a reassuring pat on the back.
As Jerry entered the expansive, two-story dimly lit room, he saw the stage, a bank of lights flashing, people crowding forward with arms raised high, singing, “Come away with me…” The young man stood with Jerry at the back, observing the crowd.
“You want closer?”
“Uh, no, this’ll do.” Jerry sipped on his coffee carefully as he looked around the assembly of mostly college students from the nearby city campus. He noticed a girl dancing, movements synchronized with the flow of the music. Her expression was full of life, a smile of joy as she bounced on her toes, feet bare, adorned in a white sundress. Her long, wavy black hair trailed behind as she danced her way to the front to join two other dancers approaching from the aisles.
Jerry continued to gaze at the dance troupe, perplexed that this crowd was so full of life this early morning, teeming with excitement, vibrant, and freely expressing their emotions. His thoughts catapulted back to his childhood, standing between his parents, each holding a hymnal as a pipe organ bellowed an accompaniment to the drone of a solemn dirge.
The crescendo of the band brought him back as he shook the memory and focused on the singer, raised arm, crying out, “Open your heart and let me in…” As her words hung in the air, a beard-stubbled, thirty-something man came on stage wearing distressed jeans and an untucked collared shirt.
The music quieted as he announced, “Father, you are good, you are good, and your love endures forever. Open the eyes of our hearts to receive your spirit of revelation and truth.”
The crowd still standing, the speaker continued, “Dying moments birth new ones. So true, and yet it requires faith to yield to the death of one moment, to allow God to birth another. God, as Creator, is perfect in all that he births, for only God knows your destiny. When God births a new life, physical or spiritual, the resulting peace and joy surpass the patience and longsuffering required attaining it. God’s reward is far greater than anything that you can achieve from your own efforts. Grow with the increase that is from God and build upon it.”
The speaker paused and scanned the crowd. Jerry was standing against the wall, still absorbing this freestyle worship he had never experienced. Now, he seemed to be looking in Jerry’s direction, and as he began speaking again, Jerry was sure that his eyes were focused directly on him. The feeling gave him goose bumps and a shiver across his shoulders.
“To reap His harvest, you must become a part of God’s plan. If you plant the wrong seed, you may grow what may become a monster in your life, an Ishmael. Stick to God’s original calling in your life, plant the good seed, and yield to Him to birth the gifts that will glorify Him and build your character.
“You may be seated . . .”
v v v
Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge
Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge, a writer of transformational fiction with characters that tell life-changing stories.
This is a pre-published scene.
To read the scenes sequentially, begin with
“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”
Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Simply check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at bycambridge@gmail.com.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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