Lost and Found in Midian, Montana

Please enjoy the first chapter of my work-in-progress, Lost and Found in Midian, Montana. This is the manuscript that I am actively pitching to agents and publishers. Tell me what you think in the comments, or on Facebook and be sure to subscribe to my newsletter for updates and giveaways!

The soundtrack to Shane Olson’s demise was fitting for the nation’s most promising up-and-coming pastor. Awkward greetings bounced unanswered off his enflamed face as he crossed the threshold of Crosspointe, the church he had shepherded for five years. At the Welcome booth, a coffee urn sputtered its last drops in the cup of the children’s director, who watched through fearful eyes as Shane demanded, “Where’s Jonah?” Just like the car radio during the frantic drive from his house, the soothing worship song from the foyer’s speaker system tried to reason with him. He raced past petrified church members with whom he had helped through various hardships. Prayers against infertility, addiction, bankruptcy and lust echoed in his memory with each bewildered face he passed.

Ignoring the screams of the Holy Spirit in his head, Shane burst through the doors of the sanctuary. Above the pews that he bathed in prayer prior to every church service, the air was thick with tension. His breath heaved, as Sunday afternoon gossip slithered between the congregants, forming a steady, serpentine hiss.

On the stage, a guitar, which had two hours earlier strummed about mercy and grace, protested with a clamor as an elder callously removed it from its rightful place. The motorized whirring of the descending white screen promised to educate those in the pews, although instead of offering scripture, the screens were expected to show all the reasons why Shane needed to be removed from his position. He was too rogue, too direct, too progressive and too transparent. His biggest flaw, though, was having everything his closest friend had always wanted.

Standing at the podium, Jonah Tanner, the best man at his wedding, cleared his throat and stretched his neck, ready to complete his betrayal.

“Jonah!” Shane yelled, surprised at the gruff sound of his own voice.

Jonah, sporting a smug grin, extended a Machiavellian handshake as Shane bounded up the church steps. Using his momentum, Shane swung his fist towards his friend’s face, cracking the cheekbone. Screaming pain entered his knuckles and traveled up to his shoulder. Jonah stumbled and fell on his side in front of the piano. Consumed by the rage that he had long buried under spiritual disciplines and prayer, Shane launched himself on top of Jonah. Shane no longer heard anything. The furious pounding of blood in his ears drowned the Holy Spirit’s voice as he ravaged the man who had stolen everything he loved in this life: his job, his church, his reputation, and his wife.  

God, why? Haven’t I been faithful? Haven’t I loved her unconditionally as you have loved the church? Tristan is the only girl I’ve ever loved.

The sight of her laying in their bed, twenty minutes earlier, wearing the satin slip he had given her for their seventh anniversary had seared into his mind. She had been startled to see her husband in the doorway, mere moments after her lover had left her side. Fire engulfed his insides, raging up his throat and out his eyes. When hands finally separated the two men, Shane saw his wife standing over her lover’s blood-soaked face. Her eyes shone curiously at Shane. Was it shame for her own actions?  Pity, perhaps, at her husband’s miserable state? No. It was disgust.

God, what have I done?

He had to turn away and found himself facing his church family, looking on in horror. It was then that he noticed the dozens of cellphones, recording his downfall—sheep, offering up their loving shepherd to the wolves.

***

In one moment, the world as you know it can end. It was a truth of which Ryann Ashcroft was reminded as she pressed her back against the icy stone, eighteen hundred miles away from the Crosspointe church stage.  

The newspaper had predicted the first snowfall of the season for that evening and the morose clouds hovering above the Gallatin mountains seemed keen to obey. A cold breeze glided over the hills, startling the fallen leaves into a scurry. Shivers pulsed through her, seizing her bad shoulder so that she didn’t know where the physical pain ended and the sorrow began. She swallowed down the sob threatening to choke her. She gasped, but the thin air didn’t satisfy her burning lungs and she collapsed onto the blanket of grass. One tear, then another. They felt hot upon release and quickly cooled as they rolled down her temple and into her hair. Foregoing her usual façade of confidence and gloss, she wept, just like the night she lost him. She imagined that the tears, which now salted the grass and dried leaves, instead soaked into his shirt as she lay with him on their bed. Her chest constricted. The memory of their final moments only caused her to ache more.

Lord, I still miss him every day.

The thought which haunted her was knowing it was her fault he was gone. She had made one mistake, but that mistake led to more consequences than anyone should have to endure. Six long years of consequences which fettered her soul and shackled her foreseeable future.

I’m so sorry. I’d give anything to take that night back. I’d give anything for a second chance.

The sorrow was heavy. She felt herself sinking into the ground, the grass reaching its blades around her. Rolling onto her back, she folded her hands across her chest, released her breath and watched it rise to join the grey clouds in the sky, content to allow the ground to swallow her whole. A peregrine soared overhead, seeking sustenance for its journey south. She pitied the mouse or songbird who would lose its life so that the falcon would live.  They had no choice in the matter. She still did.

Give me a chance for redemption. Give me a purpose, even if it requires sacrifice.  

She set her eyes on an aspen branch above her. One single golden-brown leaf stubbornly remained despite the wind that whipped it back and forth. Does it know that its fate is sealed? Does it care? Either way, she applauded its efforts. She admired that kind of resilience.

Lord, I’ll need your strength to endure.

The breeze weakened and a warmth overtook her. She sat up and brushed away the red wisps of hair, matted to her tear-soaked skin.  With a composed breath, she urged herself to face the marble stone. Her fingers traced the grooves, waltzing up and down in lines and curves: Beloved Husband.

“I love you, Matthew,” she whispered, before standing tall and brushing off her jeans. Ryann thought she heard footsteps, crushing the October leaves. She perused the field of headstones. The only other figure she could see was the concrete angel in the center, the peregrine falcon perched atop her head, watching Ryann. She felt uneasy and hurried towards the parking lot, careful not to step on the grass directly in front of each stone. The smallest one drew her attention every visit. Fresh flowers and a small, pink teddy bear leaned against it. Little Annie Lawrence. Ryann had gone to school with her parents. It was hard to believe that the same river that flowed peacefully past her cabin at her parents’ resort had taken the toddler’s life. She shuddered. They weren't like her. They did nothing to deserve their tragedy.

Out of sight, an engine roared to life. It stopped Ryann cold. Dread filled her stomach and spread through her body. She was a fool to think she was ever truly alone. Sullivan Ashcroft wouldn’t allow that, especially not today, October 22nd. She and Vann would be bound forever due to the events of this day six years ago-- her 21^st birthday and the day Matthew died.

Ryann pulled open the door of her old Jeep. Before she could climb inside, the flapping of wings startled her. The falcon ascended towards the clouds with the pink teddy bear clutched in its talons. A knot formed in her stomach at his choice of prey, but the feeling soon gave way to a strange sympathy for the predator that she could not explain.

Lord, give me strength.

All the Past We Leave Behind: Prologue

*The following is the prologue to my novel formerly titled The Long Way Off

.

“Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found. So they began to celebrate.” Luke 15:23-24

On the day when the last iris petal kissed the grass, the slaughtering of Elizabeth Matthews’ fattened calf occurred at an old stone church across the world from where her wayward journey began. Devoid of biblical fanfare, there were no party guests to share in the feast. In fact, the only witnesses were the petrified wooden pews with their everlasting crevasses trapping the whispered prayers of both the faithful and unfaithful for centuries. Beneath her face-cradling hands, tiny starbursts darkened the dusty stones as each salty tear carried away the grief and shame that prodigal living cruelly imbues until the time of redemption.

The feast’s celebratory music had been replaced by the call of a petite yellow-breasted bird in the rafters, a rising ra-ta-tat-tat like she used to hear a mile outside the stadium on Autumn Saturdays. She pondered the meaning of the blue tit’s song. Was it a prayer of humble repentance mimicking those who, once suffused in the beauty of Monet’s gardens, found their souls frightfully revolting?  Was it a hymn absorbed after a lifetime living above the worshipful voices of the Église Sainte-Radegonde de Giverny? Was it the bird’s call to her long-lost love who still haunted the hollow of her bones without invitation? Or was it a jester’s taunt, unimpressed by a common American girl traveling across land and sea to forget whom she left behind?

The celebration’s only dancing was the waltz between the Father and his beloved daughter, not unlike the one she had futilely imagined at her wedding. Each graceful step was a benediction of the gospel displayed in her life. Beneath his shoulders, encircled by his loving arms, she now saw through the myth that a prodigal child is ever able to escape the love and mercy of the Father. The Lord had always been there, watching her in her foolish stubbornness protecting her when she didn’t care enough to protect herself, loving her unconditionally as she desperately tested just how wide and far and deep his love is.

Light illuminated the stained glass to her right. She imagined her own life depicted in the careful coordination of colored glass. All the tragedy, betrayal, temptation and fear that had ruled her began to quake. One by one, fragmented shards of crimson, emerald, and cobalt fell to the ground. The old has gone, the new has come.

Elizabeth, with only tears of joy remaining on her lightly freckled skin, arose taller than she had stood upon entering the church. The blue tit held its call as it listened to the creaking pew and the soft pats of Elizabeth’s feet against the limestone like a patient counselor allowing words to slowly drip from the client’s tongue. When the girl with a Midwestern accent and the loose curls dislodged the thick wooden door, a fresh breeze replaced the dank, musty air and her lungs rejoiced along with her soul.

On the threshold, she pulled out the ring Brian had given her almost four years ago. She turned the ring between her fingers slightly, allowing the sun’s rays to frolic across the precious stone. It was an artifact. Like those in a museum, it told a story. Her story.

An older woman hobbled up the crooked steps. In her eight months working at the Old Hotel Baudy, Elizabeth had come to know her as Henriette. Widowed thirty-two years, she prayed at the church every day at noon. Elizabeth grasped her small hand and uncurled her spindly fingers in a gentle manner consistent with her every encounter. In Henriette’s palm, she placed the ring, knowing it could feed her for a full year. She descended the steps before Henriette had finished thanking her. The ring wasn’t meant for her. If she was honest with herself, she knew it wasn’t the day she had accepted it from Brian, even before she first saw the green eyes that were so instrumental in piercing holes in her painstakingly preserved mirage of a joyful life.

Daniel. She felt an all too familiar pang of longing pierce beneath her sternum. Time and redemption could not quell his lingering presence.  

Isn’t it exhilarating and perhaps even a little frightening how our whole world can change with just one choice? To fight or to surrender. To love or to discard. To stay or to return.

Daniel had spoken like the true prodigal that he was. Even now, years later, Elizabeth was still mesmerized by those words and the courage that birthed them. She could still see his eyes dancing to the impassioned rhythm of his voice. Maybe she and Daniel weren’t so different after all.

Ra-ta-tat-tat. Elizabeth turned her eyes back to the steeple, shielding her eyes. The blue tit appeared from under the eave. She paused a moment, cocked her head in Elizabeth’s direction and repeated her call before soaring away from the Church of Giverny, disappearing into the brilliance of the noonday sun.

The Holy Spirit whispered into Elizabeth’s soul and her chin gave a slight, worshipful nod. She twisted a curl around her finger and pulled it taut. When it sprung back into place in front of her ear, her lips curved in an incredulous smirk, as she prepared to return to the town she had once so desperately fled. In that moment, she debated whether she should hope for life in Neverell, Ohio and its inhabitants to be different or completely the same. Regardless, she knew she could rely on the unconditional companionship of her Savior and it was all the assurance she needed to face her past.

If you enjoyed this, the full manuscript is available for you to read as long as you don't mind that it is a work in progress! Follow me on facebook to find out more!