Jeremiah’s Journey – 18: Shot In The Dark

I have a confession to make. When I wrote about my journey to Italy and meeting the beautiful Italian girl with the bicycle, I was actually searching for something I had lost. I thought I was moving on, putting the past behind me, letting go of the tethers that held me fast to the ground, like a hot-air balloon, wanting freedom, straining upward, filled with buoyancy. I wanted to believe that; I wanted so desperately to move forward, upward, out of the rut of my past choices. You see, I have done some crazy things in my life, and it was filled with more drama than a lifetime on Broadway. Yet, in my subconscious mind, beneath the layers of protection that we wrap our deepest traumas, I was in search of . . .

            My cell phone rang its cheery jingle. I kept it near my pillow as I slept, never again to be without it.

A year before, I awoke with a start. Wide-awake, I knew something was wrong. I swung my legs off the bed and jolted to my feet, much too quickly for my aging equilibrium, or was it the wine that was still coursing through my veins, my antidote for sleepless nights. I glanced at the night table clock: 4:44 its red numbers glared. Stumbling into the cabin room, I searched in the dark for my phone . . . a flash of light, its screen illuminated in the dark room. Ding. That’s what woke me, dings in the night. I have the ears of a bat, perceiving sounds outside of the normal human hearing, even in my sleep. Bleary-eyed, I squinted at the text. Old age, sleepy, or was it the wine? My brother was texting me. Why would my brother text me at four in the morning? We hadn’t talked in several years, not since he kicked me out of his house. Another story, another time. My youngest brother was having chest pains and was in the ER, the text read. Tests were being conducted. An ultrasound revealed a bulging aorta. Surgery was needed. Get here NOW!

That’s how we met. I mean that’s why I was sleeping with the girl that was with me when my cell phone rang its cheery jingle. It all started with my brother and his open-heart surgery. A friend of his had seen my Facebook posts asking for prayers for his successful surgery and recovery. We started chatting, and in my Indian Jones style, I walked in her bakery to meet her. I know, I’m leaving out the details, but that is another story. I want to tell you about the phone call . . . and my confession.

I glanced at the phone number . . . no one in my directory, but from the city.

“Hello.”

“Jeremiah?”

 “Yeah, who’s this?” My skin tingled. I didn’t recognize the voice. Who is this?

“Oh, thank God you answered!” Her voice was desperate. “I found your number on Facebook. I’m looking for my sister.”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“Julie. I’m Monica’s sister. Is she with you? Something terrible has happened.”

Shit! Monica had told me about her mom’s failing health. Oh, God!

“Who is it?” Monica sat up, holding the covers over her.

“Your sister.” I handed her the phone.

I got out of bed and hurriedly put on some clothes. The intimacy of the night was long gone, and suddenly, I felt foolish lying in bed naked with her. I flicked on the nightstand light. Monica’s face was drained of life. She blankly stared with eyes of disbelief. Oh, God, her mom has passed.

“No. No. No. No . . . Agghhhh!” She wailed and wailed, then handed me the phone. She sat with her back to me, legs over the side of the bed, covers wrapped around her. Nakedness has no beauty when the floodlights of reality expose every crevice of your existence . . . like the morgue during an autopsy.

“This is Jeremiah. What’s going on?” My mind said this was not about her mom. Too much anguish. Hysterical surprise.

“Monica’s son was shot dead by the police.” My head did not register. What? Son? The son that wanted a plane ticket to come home, but didn’t have the money. I was silent. My thoughts colliding like billiard balls during the break.

“Joshua was killed by the police. That’s all we know. His dad called me. We need to leave for Texas as soon as we can meet. Texas . . . land of law and order.

“Okay,” I said automatically.

“I’ll call you back shortly. You need to take care of my sister. I have to call our mom.”

Mom. Mom was okay. This was not okay, way outside of anything I had ever done.

Stay tuned to the continuing saga of Jeremiah’s Journey at . . .

Revelation7Strong

To begin the series, start with Jeremiah’s Journey – 1: “Roses Are For Lovers”

Jeremiah’s Journey – 17: Out of My Comfort Zone

The din of 600 high-pitched voices, nearly all women, filled the two-story foyer as I wove my way through the crowd to the closed doors of the ballroom. At dawn, I woke to find the mountain view from the porch of the Cabin In The Clouds shrouded in grey wisps. The past seven days I heard just the call of birds by day and evenings of quiet conversations from nearby tables at restaurants I sampled. The sudden change of venue at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference was more than an auditory overload. My deadened nerves had a respite from all forms of stress as I trekked and biked the Black Mountains and leisurely composed my adventures in my last episode, “Jeremiah’s Journey – 16: Mile High.”

I opened the ballroom door and felt a tomb of silence as the door closed behind me. Ted Dekker, a bestselling author, and the keynote speaker was performing a sound check. I ventured to the stage to find a prime view from the front tables. Setting my book bag in a chair, I turned and scanned the immense ballroom. Wow. This is no small conference. I was a newbie, my first quest into the writer’s community. For six years, I wrote in self-imposed isolation until earlier this year when I met C.S. Marks, author of the ELFHUNTER Trilogy. She writes fantasy fiction and my genre—contemporary, literary, transformational fiction—has nothing in common, but her sage advice set my course to become published. My stories are not fantasy. I write about real people in real drama struggling with real issues who transform as a result of consequential events, where the bad girl or guy is not eliminated, rather they receive Christ as Savior.

My eyes met a smile from a guy seated alone at a table mid-way back. I approached him, as he seemed to be expecting me.

“The luncheon starts in five minutes,” I said. “Why is everyone in the foyer? Oh, they’re women, and they like to talk. Such a din out there. And why are we in here? Practical men getting the best seats. Hey, are we the only guys at this conference? I think I’ve found my place. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. My first conference, too. Hi. Tim Brown from Missoula.” We shook hands, and I quickly retrieved my book bag.

“Missoula. Sounds familiar. Does it have a law school?”

“Why, yes,” Tim offered with a look of question.

“That’s it. Buddy of mine went to college there. I remember, now. He phoned me. I acted out the scene, hand mimicking a phone like Ernestine, the snarky, snorting telephone operator who Lily Tomlin created—“Hey, I’m holed up here in Missoula. Snowstorm hit last night. Sorry, can't make it to your wedding.”

“That was 40 years ago,” I remarked. “Wow. Time marches on. Just turned a new decade last week at Black Mountain . . .”

I continued my adventure story only to be interrupted by the chattering throng entering the ballroom en masse.

“There goes our quiet time. So, what do you write, Tim?”

“Medical thrillers. My first book was printed just before I left.” He handed me his card.

“Bone doctor. That’s quite a change of pace. What caused you to become a writer?”

“Mission work. My wife and I have been on medical missions these past ten years.”

“Mercy Ship?”

“Yeah, you’ve been?”

“I work as a pharmacist . . . Heard a calling for medical missions with Mercy Ship . . . Eighteen years ago.” The memory uploaded, and I saw myself walking the woods, communing with Father God. “When I told my wife that God had called me to the mission field, she flipped out, rebuked the idea. Couldn’t understand it, I mean we were newly married, and our first son wasn’t even a year old,” I said with a smirk.

“We raised our three boys on the Mercy Ship,” Tim offered.

My jaw dropped as I looked at him in disbelief. “No way.” I was watching the guy I could’ve become. “Well, it takes the right partner to pull that off.”

“Yeah, Julia is an exceptional woman, a wonderfully supportive wife.”

I hadn’t noticed that our table had filled with the ladies. Hmmm, Christian fiction writers, are they all middle aged?

Tim was already introducing himself and his book, Maya Hope, and passing out biz cards. “Might as well give these away. That’s why we had them printed, right?” He chuckled.

Oh, yeah, the biz cards. I fumbled for mine and followed his lead.

“What do you write about?” She directed her question to Tim, barely audible over the six conversations going on at once. These women! All they do is talk!

“Medical thrillers . . .”

Crap. My genre is too dang complex, too many words. Okay, transformational fiction it is. Real characters that transform as a result of consequential events. Bad girl gets saved. I mentally rehearsed the lines, hoping to be asked.

“Oh, you’re a doctor,” she remarked while looking at his card. “Well, Dr. Brown are you published?”

Doctor Brown. Call him Tim. He’s not here as a doctor. He’s a writer. Medical thrillers. I bet he has some stories, like cutting off the wrong leg?

I turned to the woman next to me, probably a housewife. Boy, was I being judgmental. Sheesh, you’re not even published. “Hi. I’m Jeremiah. I write transformational fiction.”

“Oh? What’s that about?”

“You’ll probably hear about it from Ted Dekker, the keynote speaker. I finished his course in transformational fiction this spring. Inspirational. Confirmed what I already knew. There you go again, Mr. Arrogant. You’re here to discover. Ain’t gonna happen with that attitude. Humbled, I continued, “Actually, the course put me back on track, found my identity, not as a writer, rather as a son of the Father—”

“Welcome, American Christian Fiction Writers!” The MC announced with pizzazz. Cheers erupted from the audience. Tears welled in my eyes, a lump caught in my throat. I don’t deserve to be here, Father.

The words of the Holy Spirit confirmed my presence as from His grace—You did not make this happen. I did.

I had learned a valuable lesson since my fast and prayers in January. I had dismantled my natural impulse to act in the flesh with my striving mantra—I’ll make it happen. I had put on the robe of Grace and embraced my identity as a son of the Father. I daily surrendered my will and willingly and obediently received the cup of my Father’s will for my life and destiny—Let Me do it.

I was out of my comfort zone.

Begin the journey with Jeremiah in his first episode, “Roses Are For Lovers.”

Praise to my Father for the words He speaks to me.

Copyright 2016 © Jeff Cambridge

Jeremiah’s Journey – 16: Mile High

I began my trek up the mountain on Appalachian Way. Bananas, pineapple, and tomato; two liters of water, hammock, and hiking boots; topo map, trek log, and flashlight filled my daypack. I was prepared to mountain bike the first leg and hike the steep ascent to the summit. The forecast was a mid-70, sunny day—no need for any outerwear. I stretched to relieve sore muscles from the previous days’ steep road biking and a mountain hike to three summits. This ascent would culminate the three-day spiritual journey that would end my 21-day fast and close my fifth decade of life. I was on a mission to conquer what I have not accomplished for ten years, summiting a mountain with a 2400-foot ascent to reach a mile high in the sky.

A grey, mountain gravel road led straight up to connect to the Old Mitchell Toll Road—a 45-degree challenge on my mountain bike. I began with a fast start in low gear from the paved trailhead until my knobby tires spun as they spewed loose gravel—I lost momentum immediately. Trekking up the steep gravel road pushing my bike up 500 feet of elevation for three-quarters of a mile was my first encounter of the unexpected. I was out of shape for this grueling start; six years of sitting while writing my trilogy novel was mental exercise with zero cardio fitness. Is it not so when God calls us to get off our butt to follow Him that we are out of shape? One becomes spiritually weak and lacks spiritual fortitude if you do not daily exercise your faith.

When I climb a steep ascent, there are many false summits. “Almost there,” I periodically say aloud to encourage me to keep on truckin’. These “false” summits are resting spots where God provides a time of reflection. Looking back, I see what I conquered. Is this not so as we journey through life, encountering obstacles and taking one step at a time to get through them?

Reaching the ridge, I sighed in awe of the beautiful vista that awaited me.

One will find God on the mountaintop waiting for you to overcome the trial you face. Yet, He is with you every step of the way in Spirit. “These things I have spoken to you while I am still with you. But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.”¹ Jesus said this to his disciples as he prepared them for his physical departure from this world. After Jesus died on the cross, rose to life, and then ascended to heaven, His Spirit lives within all who believe in Christ as the only salvation from death to receive eternal life.

Ridge mountain biking is an amazing experience. Periodic breaks in the treeline provide inspiring views. During the 1800's, pioneers made the toll road so that horse drawn wagons could travel through the mountains. I could easily climb what a heavy wagon pulled by muscular steeds could muster. A hunting cabin and a patch of doghouses came into view as I rounded a bend. 

I was in black bear country. During the hunting season, safety regulations prohibit hikers and bikers on this mountain road. Maximum fine—the death penalty. Would I encounter a bear? I prayed for safety, protection, and adventure before beginning my trek. I expected the unexpected.

Traveling by mountain bike is incredibly fast compared to hiking. Within thirty minutes, I biked a mile of uphill, rocky terrain to Pot Cove Gap. I rested at a campsite with a view of Pisgah National Forest, rehydrated and ate a banana. Water and carbs are essential during an intense calorie burn.  I changed into hiking gear and took the short spur to Graybeard Trail, a welcomed flat walk. 

The sound of rushing water within minutes of my entry into the leafed canopy of the forested slope on this well-worn and wide path soothed my soul—its cascade blocked out distractions like the white noise of a fan. I crossed Flat Creek and continued the traversing switchbacks when I heard voices. Two beautiful college age girls were rounding the bend, the one in front saying, “And isn’t it wonderful to get out in nature and unplug from technology?” The other girl walking and staring at her phone didn’t respond—so much for unplugging.

Rushing water was up ahead; more intense than the stream I crossed earlier. I rounded an outcrop of black granite rock and stopped as Grey Beard Falls came into view.

After a peaceful rest listening to the cascading water, I thought of hanging my hammock for a quick nap. Nature spit on the idea as it began to sprinkle. The light rain felt good as I continued my ascent. What happened to the sunny day forecast? Well, I was in the mountains, and mountain weather is different from that in the valley, particularly near the top, and where I was going—mile high—is shrouded when clouds are low hanging. Mountains receive more rain than valleys as their peaks scrape water from the sky. Within the cool forested canopy, many types of mushrooms grow—jewels of the fertile, black soil.

I crested what I thought to be the top of a mountain, but looking at my topo map, it was a shoulder or flat knob. In a small clearing, I found a red shelter on stilts—a relief, for the rain was now steady.

The metal roof thudded with raindrops from clouds just a hundred feet above me. The rectangular abode could sleep six in hammocks. Ahhh, maybe now the hammock would come in handy for a nap, the rain peppering the roof to coax me to sleep. I made a quick entry in my trek log, and then the rain stopped. On second thought, it would be better to head to the top while I had a reprieve from this unexpected weather. Recall Episode 15: Seven Sisters – You will find God in the unexpected. I strapped on my daypack and headed towards the door. The clouds unloaded a downpour thundering the roof. Ping . . . Ping-ping . . . Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping! Hail peppered the tin roof with the blast of an Uzi. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

  

Swinging open the tight-sprung half-door to the shelter, I stepped down onto wet steps. For a second, I felt suspended in the air as I looked down—I was falling. As a rock climber, I am used to using all fours—hands and feet—for balance, but there was nothing to grab onto. Thud! Uggh! I lay motionless on the saturated hard packed earth for a moment waiting for the pain. There was none, but I could feel my catatonic muscles tighten around my ribcage. I groaned as I pressed my dead weight from the soggy ground—an exposed root had bruised my ribs.

Hoping that this was the worst of my trek, I recalled that I prayed for adventure before I left. Okay, so my deep breathing as I continued the steep ascent would remind me that I didn’t sprain an ankle or break a bone, just a sharp pain directly below my heart. The path to Walker’s Knob Overlook was narrow and thickly bordered with rhododendron and mountain laurel, the most prominent plants in this part of the Allegheny Mountains. Just a step stone climb above the vegetation, I was on granite rock in awe of the 270-degree vista.

The wind blustered and low hanging clouds moved towards me as I stood on the edge of the outcrop. A fall would crash me into hundreds of feet of near vertical vegetation. A grey beard shrouded the mountaintop. Soon, I would be walking in the clouds to Grey Beard's summit.

The ascent to the summit was certainly the road less traveled—in places no wider than a footprint—but there would be no footprints here as stones and tree roots laid a wet web of treacherous climbing.

Grey Beard’s summit is a pinnacle—no more than a twenty-foot circle of scrub trees, rhododendron, and a body's length of exposed rock. A lone, small boulder was the only place to sit. Surrounded by wisps of airy dew, visibility was no more than twenty feet. Raindrops graced my bald head, but they weren’t falling, they just appeared. Joyous that I had just experienced a lifetime, memorable, panoramic view while on Walker’s Knob, I attempted to take one last photo. Ugh! No more film, or rather, no more storage. Oh well, all of us have seen clouds—but few have a picture of them while in the clouds, and I missed my opportunity to share that moment with you.

I checked the time—six hours climbing by bike and hike. I calculated two hours by foot down and thirty minutes to bike to the trailhead. I found the last banana in my pocket smashed from the fall. So, I devoured the pineapple cubes and tomato quarters. I would need the energy for the descent. I left the summit and the disenchanted quest for a glorious panoramic memory after only fifteen minutes in the dreary, blustering setting. I left behind on that mountaintop what was most crucial to my ascent. I left behind ten years of mountain climbing. What I mean is, I left behind ten years of trying in my own strength to reach the top in life, to overcome adversity, to bridge a broken relationship, and to become the man God destined me to be.

Although a descent is much faster and lighter hiking, it works the muscles of the front set of quads and those of the shin—the same as those used on the upstroke of pedaling. The point is that God made all things good, and you must use all of yourself to receive the full blessings of your Creator. My descent was without much to describe as my eyes were focused down to place my steps. And that’s where the drama followed. Four slips and one that brought me down nearly impaled my ribs on a triangular, vertical two-foot rock. Instead, I grabbed it to prevent continuing a headfirst dive off the trail. Was it because I was about to turn sixty that I kept falling, or was it because I hadn’t physically trekked challenging terrain for ten years? Spiritually and emotionally, I definitely had. I’m betting on the latter—my three days of adventure have stoked my passion for continuing to explore new adventures. The best is yet to come.

Post Script: My hike descent took exactly two hours and the harrowing bike descent took thirty minutes—Go figure!

References:

1. John 14:25-26 ESV

Trek date: 08.21.16

Location: Montreat, NC – Grey Beard Mountain

Praise to my Father in heaven for the experiences He has blessed me with.

Copyright 2016 © Jeff Cambridge