{"id":10862,"date":"2012-02-21T17:20:34","date_gmt":"2012-02-21T22:20:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=10862"},"modified":"2012-02-21T17:20:34","modified_gmt":"2012-02-21T22:20:34","slug":"not-in-the-heart-by-chris-fabry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=10862","title":{"rendered":"Not in the Heart by Chris Fabry"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a><\/strong><\/span> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chris Fabry<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

and the book:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Not in the Heart<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 20, 2012)<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings \u2013 The B&B Media Group \u2013 for sending me a review copy.***<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>As a child, Chris Fabry wrote stories, songs and poems. The creative process invigorated him. He may not have been a fast reader, but the words on the page had a deep effect. So he vowed that if he ever had the chance to write, he would take it.<\/p>\n

After high school, Fabry attended and graduated from the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University in Huntington, WV. After graduation, Fabry and his wife felt a desire for biblical education, so his pastor suggested they check out Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. At Moody, Fabry met Jerry Jenkins who learned of his desire to write and encouraged him to pursue his dream. In 1998, Jenkins and Dr. Tim LaHaye hired him to write Left Behind: The Kids series. He wrote 35 books in that series over the next six years. He later collaborated with Jenkins on the Red Rock Mysteries series and The Wormling series, and in 2008 he worked solo on the NASCAR-based RPM series.<\/p>\n

Since then he has published four novels for adults: Dogwood, June Bug, Almost Heaven and his newest novel, Not in the Heart. Each of his first three books was nominated for a Christy Award in the Contemporary Standalone Category, winning in 2009 for Dogwood and in 2011 for Almost Heaven. In addition to his fiction work, Fabry also collaborated on two best-selling football biographies with Ohio State\u2019s Jim Tressel and Drew Brees of the New Orleans Saints. Altogether, Fabry has published more than 70 books for children and adults.<\/p>\n

Fabry\u2019s other passion is broadcasting. As part of the DECCA program in high school, he worked at WNST Radio in Milton, WV. During his senior year at Marshall University, he worked for WSAZ-TV as a weekend reporter. In 1985, he began hosting Open Line, a national call-in show which he hosted until 1997. In 1993, he began a six-year stint as co-host of Mornings with Greg and Chris on WMBI in Chicago. Then in May of 2008 he began Chris Fabry Live! which received the 2008 Talk Personality of the Year Award from the National Religious Broadcasters. He can also be heard daily on Love Worth Finding, featuring the teaching of the late Dr. Adrian Rogers.<\/p>\n

Chris and his wife of almost 30 years, Andrea, are the parents of nine children.
\nVisit the author’s website<\/a>.<\/p>\n

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>Truman Wiley used to report news stories from around the world, but now the most troubling headlines are his own. He\u2019s out of work, out of touch with his family, out of his home. But nothing dogs him more than his son\u2019s failing heart.<\/p>\n

With mounting hospital bills and Truman\u2019s penchant for gambling his savings, the situation seems hopeless . . . until his estranged wife throws him a lifeline\u2014the chance to write the story of a death row inmate, a man convicted of murder who wants to donate his heart to Truman\u2019s son.<\/p>\n

As the execution clock ticks down, Truman uncovers disturbing evidence that points to a different killer. For his son to live, must an innocent man die? Truman\u2019s investigation draws him down a path that will change his life, his family, and the destinies of two men forever.<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $13.99
\nPaperback: 432 pages
\nPublisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (January 20, 2012)
\nLanguage: English
\nISBN-10: 1414348614
\nISBN-13: 978-1414348612<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/span> <\/strong>
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
30 days before execution<\/em><\/div>\n

\n<\/em><\/div>\n
The trouble with my wife began when she needed Jesus and I needed a cat. Life can be that way. That\u2019s part of the reason I was on Sanibel Island in the cottage I had always dreamed of owning and she was in Tallahassee tending to the sick son of our youth. But it\u2019s more complicated. There was more troubling me than religion or people who think problems can be solved with a leap of faith.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Said cottage was a tiny house that seems to be the rage among those who believe we are warming the planet with each exhale. I didn\u2019t buy it because of that, but I recycle my Coors Light cans. My little contribution to the cause. Lately it\u2019s been a hefty contribution. There was one bedroom in the back and a little bathroom, a walk-through kitchen, and a living area that I used as an office. Murrow usually sat in the window looking out at the beach with as much interest as I have in paying both of my mortgages. It\u2019s not that I don\u2019t want to pay. I can\u2019t.<\/div>\n
I was on the bed, surfing news sites, fueling the ache about my lack of direction and lack of a job. The satellite TV company disconnected me a few months ago, so I got my news online from the unprotected network of a neighbor who can\u2019t encrypt his wireless router.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I could see the downsizing coming in every area of the conglomerate media company. I knew it would hit the newsroom, but I always thought when the music stopped, I would have a chair. What I got was severance, a pat on the back, and a shelf full of awards I stuffed into a suitcase that sat in the attic of a cottage I couldn\u2019t afford.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I closed my laptop and told Murrow I\u2019d be back, as if she cared, and walked barefoot out the front door and down the long, wooden stairway to the beach. I bought this cottage for these long, head-clearing walks. The sound of the waves crashing against doubts and fears. The smell of the ocean and its salty cycle of life and death.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

A mom and a dad dressed in white strolled along the beach with two kids who squealed every time the water came close.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I walked the other way.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The phone rang as I passed a dead seagull. Not a good omen.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cTru, it\u2019s me.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The woman of my dreams. The woman of my nightmares. Everything good and bad about my life. The \u201cI do\u201d that \u201cI didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cEllen. What\u2019s up?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHow are you?\u201d She said it with a measure of compassion, as if she weren\u2019t holding back years of boiling anger. As if she didn\u2019t have something else she wanted to ask me and wasn\u2019t just setting the stage for the coup de gr\u00e2ce.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m good. Just taking a walk on the beach.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Wish you weren\u2019t here. Wish you weren\u2019t still in my head. Wish you hadn\u2019t called. Wish the last twenty years were something I could bury in the sand. What were you thinking marrying a guy like me? My life is a sand castle and my days are wind and water.<\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHear anything back yet? Any offers?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing plural about my job prospects. Not even singular. I did hear from the Fox station in Des Moines yesterday. They went with somebody with longer hair and bigger lungs.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

She spoke with a wry smile. \u201cIt\u2019s only a matter of time; you know that.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cRight. It\u2019s always been a matter of time, hasn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

She let the irony hang there between us, and I could picture her in her wedding dress and without it. Then the first time we met in the university newsroom, big glasses and frilly blouse. Hair that smelled like the ocean and felt like silk. A sharp wit, infectious laugh, and the tenacity of a bloodhound on every story she covered. I thought we were always going to be on the same page, but somehow I kept chasing headlines and she moved to the Life section.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI have something that might interest you,\u201d she said.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHow old is she?\u201d I\u2019m not always a smart aleck with the people I love. When I\u2019m asleep, they tell me I don\u2019t say much of anything.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not a she. It\u2019s a he with a pretty good story. A great story. A life changer.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNot into guys.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

She sighed and plowed ahead. \u201cHave you heard of Terrelle Conley?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

That was like asking a history major if she\u2019d ever heard of Alexis de Tocqueville. \u201cI know he\u2019s facing the needle.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cRight. Next month.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWonder what his last meal will be. How do they choose that anyway? Shrimp and steak or lobster bisque? Macaroni and cheese? How can you enjoy a meal knowing you only have hours left? Or what movie to watch? What would you choose?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI know his wife, Oleta. She wants somebody to write the story from his perspective. The whole family does.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I laughed. \u201cIn thirty days or less.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019ve scraped up some money. Not much, but it could probably help.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHow much is \u2018probably\u2019?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know exactly, but I was thinking you could call Gina and find out if\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not with Gina or the agency anymore. She dropped me. Said it was a hard decision on their part. I guess they took a vote.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cJust another bump in the literary highway. I don\u2019t think writing is my thing, anyway.\u201d I said it halfheartedly, coaxing some kind of compliment.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a great writer,\u201d she obliged. \u201cYou haven\u2019t had as many opportunities lately, but . . .\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI haven\u2019t had any politicians who want to be president or sports stars who\u2019ve been accused of steroids approach me in a few years. That\u2019s what you mean,\u201d I said. \u201cWhere did you meet Olatha?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cOleta. I met her at church.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Groan. How did I know that was coming?<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I paused at a sand castle that had been constructed with several five-gallon buckets. Towels and chairs had been abandoned for the moment. Water filled the moat, and I heard laughter from a bungalow perched like a lighthouse above. A couple in love.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou must have some idea of how much.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cA few thousand. We didn\u2019t talk about that. The important thing . . . it\u2019s not just an opportunity for you. It\u2019s for Aiden.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNow you\u2019re really getting cryptic. You want to back up?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cTerrelle\u2019s wife is in a study group with me. She\u2019s known about Aiden\u2019s condition for years. Always asks for updates. Terrelle came up with the idea\u2014he wants to be a donor. A second chance for Aiden.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I should have been doing cartwheels. Our eighteen-year-old son could get a new lease on life? Instead, I was skeptical, like any good journalist. \u201cEllen, there\u2019s no chance. Do you know how long something like that would take?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been in process for a while.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t exactly been available.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe prison system, the authorities, they\u2019ll never let this\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cThe governor is taking it seriously. I\u2019ve heard he\u2019s working with the legislature. It\u2019s not a done deal, but there\u2019s a chance.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The governor. The hair rose on the back of my neck.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u201cEllen, there\u2019s some law firm in Tallahassee salivating at all the appeals and counterappeals that are going to happen. This is less than a long shot.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, but right now it\u2019s looking like a pretty good long shot.\u201d There was emotion in her voice and for the first time I noticed noise in the background.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

She swallowed hard and I imagined her wiping away a tear. My wife has had plenty of practice.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cAt the hospital again,\u201d she said. \u201cICU.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I cursed under my breath and away from the phone. Not just because of all the hospital bills I knew were coming my way, but also because this was my son. I\u2019ll be honest\u2014the bills were the first thing I thought of, but picturing him hooked up to tubes and needles again crushed me.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHow is he?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cNot good. They\u2019re monitoring him. Same story.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cHow long have you been there?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cSince late last night. He was having trouble breathing. Lots of pain. He asks about you.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Guilt. She had to get that in there, didn\u2019t she?<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cTell him to hang in there, okay?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cCome see him. It would mean so much.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cYeah. I will.\u201d I said it fast, though I knew I\u2019d have to launder all the cat hair from my clothes because Aiden\u2019s deathly allergic to cats just like I\u2019m allergic to the inside of the death chamber.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Someone spoke over the intercom near her and the sound took me back to those first days when I wasn\u2019t as scared of hospitals. Back then I could watch a movie or a TV show with a medical setting. Now I can\u2019t even watch the TV promos. My chest gets tight and the smell of alcohol and Betadine and the shape of needles invades, mingling with the cries of a young child in pain and another memory of a man on a gurney.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
We discovered Aiden\u2019s heart malady by accident. Ellen was into natural food, natural medicine, whole-grain seaweed sandwiches and eggs that came from free-range chickens who had bedtime stories read to them each night before they settled into their nests. Natural childbirth with a midwife. All that stuff. She was convinced antibiotics were the forbidden fruit, so she didn\u2019t run to the HMO every time our kids were sick. But something told her to take Abby in for some chest congestion she couldn\u2019t get rid of. Aiden was with her, and on a lark the doctor placed the stethoscope on his chest.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Ellen cried when she tried to explain the look on the woman\u2019s face. They\u2019d missed it when he was born.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
That sent us on a crash course of congenital heart defects and a series of surgeries and treatments that would change our lives. Ellen hates hospitals as much as I do, but you do what you must for your kids.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cTerrelle has the same blood type,\u201d Ellen said. \u201cHe\u2019s about the same size as Aiden, maybe a little smaller, which is good.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cEllen, you know this is not going to happen, right? There are so many hoops and holes. They don\u2019t let doctors execute people.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cThere are guidelines, but they don\u2019t have a problem harvesting organs from an already-deceased donor.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cAnybody who\u2019s pro-life will howl. I thought you were pro-life.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cI am, but this is something Terrelle wants.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cDoesn\u2019t matter. They harvest organs from prisoners in China, but we\u2019re not in China.\u201d Though you wouldn\u2019t know it by shopping at Walmart.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cI know all that. But I also know my son is going to die. And Terrelle and his wife want something good to come out of their tragedy. They asked if you would write his story. I got to thinking that maybe . . .\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
She broke a little and hearing her cry felt like some lonely prayer drifting away and hitting the empty shores of heaven. Not that I believe there is one, but you know, metaphorically speaking.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cYou were thinking what?\u201d I said.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cMaybe all of this is not really for Aiden. Maybe all we\u2019ve been through in the last eighteen years is for somebody else. If they deny Terrelle\u2019s request and Aiden doesn\u2019t make it, maybe writing this story will make a difference for someone down the road.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Her altruism was more than I could handle. \u201cLook, I don\u2019t care about all the people with sick kids. I don\u2019t care about prisoners who want to make up for their crimes. I don\u2019t care about protesters or the politicians who\u2019ve found a wedge issue. I just want my son to live. Is that asking too much?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
The emotion surprised me and I noticed the family in white had changed direction but now quickly herded their children away from me.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
It was Ellen\u2019s turn to sound collected. \u201cDo you have time to work on something like that in the next thirty days? It would at least pay a few bills.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cIf they\u2019re trying to get a stay of execution, they need to go straight to the press. Forget a book deal, forget a magazine expos\u00e9\u2014it\u2019s already too late. Get somebody at one of the local stations to pick it up and run with it\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cTru, they don\u2019t want a stay. He wants to give his heart to Aiden. And somebody has to get the story down before it\u2019s over. No matter how it goes, this will make a great story.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
I was already mulling titles in my head. A Heart from Death Row. Change of Heart. Pitter-Pat. Life in Vein. Aorta Made a Better Choice.<\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

She continued, \u201cThey know your history. What you\u2019ve seen. How you\u2019re against the death penalty and why. For all your faults, Tru, you\u2019re the best reporter I\u2019ve ever known. You get to the heart of the story like nobody else. I think you should consider it.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
The Heart of the Story.<\/span> Another good title. I could tell she was buttering me up. I love being buttered up by lovely women. But I hate the complications of life with beautiful women.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t write evangelical tracts.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cWhy are you so stubborn?\u201d she whisper-screamed at me. Her voice had an echo like she had moved into the bathroom or stairwell. \u201cWhy do you have to look at this as some kind of spiritual conspiracy against you instead of a gift? This is being handed to you on a platter. Don\u2019t push it away. I don\u2019t care if you agree with them about God. You didn\u2019t agree with every sports figure or politician.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cThe only way I know how to do this job is to ferret out the truth and tell it. Flat out. The way I see it. And if you\u2019re expecting me to throw in the third verse of a hymn every other chapter and quote the Gospel of Terrelle, I can\u2019t do that. Call somebody from the Christian right.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cTru, it\u2019s because of who you are and how you tell the story that they want you. Just talk with her. Let her explain. If you don\u2019t like the situation, they\u2019ll go somewhere else. But they have to act quickly.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
The sun was coming down behind me and the wind picked up off the water. I could smell the first hint of an impending storm. Or maybe I forgot my deodorant.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll think about it.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
I hadn\u2019t been gone that long, but as I walked up the stairs, I heard a vehicle pulling away from the house. The taillights had disappeared into the distance by the time I made it to my front door.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Murrow was still in the window, looking down on me with that superior look. Humans are such a waste of oxygen,<\/span> she seemed to say. Maybe she was right. Maybe we are a waste of oxygen and the best thing would be for us to be wiped from the planet. But something inside said that wasn\u2019t true. Something inside pushed me to keep moving, like an ant dragging a piece of grass along the sidewalk until a strong wind blows it away. The ant picks up another and starts over. I get exhausted just watching them.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
On the front door was a legal document stating that whereby and forthwith said mortgage company had begun said process with an intent to foreclose and otherwise vacate said occupant\u2019s tail onto the street to wit and wheretofore so help them God, amen. I had received several such letters in the mail, filing them carefully, hoping the rising tide of foreclosures would save my little cottage until I got a new job.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
I ripped the notice down and used it to wipe the sand from my feet. And then a thought struck. A horrible, no-good, bad thought. The newspaper. They published my name with each intent to foreclose. That meant others would know where I was. Others, as in people I owed. Bad people.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Another car passed, slowly. Tinted windows. A low rumble of expensive metal and fuel.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
I hurried to the back of the little house and pulled out every suitcase I could find and stowed everything of value. Books. Pictures of me with newsmakers. Cloudy memories of trips abroad, war zones, interviews with generals and dignitaries who went on to fame or perished in motorcades that didn\u2019t make it through IEDs.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
It was hard not to sit and absorb the memories, but the passing car gave urgency. I jammed every journal and notebook in with the pictures, then put one suitcase with clothes in the trunk of my car and took the rest on my shoulder down the sandy path to the Grahams\u2019 house. Sweet people. He retired from the Air Force and they moved for the sun and salty air.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Both should have died long ago from arthritis and other maladies, but they were out walking the beach every day like two faithful dogs, paw in paw.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Jack and Millie were on the front porch, and I asked if I could borrow some space in their garage for a suitcase or two. \u201cI need to take a trip. Someone new will be living in my house.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cRelatives coming?\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cNo, someone from the Bank of America wants it.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Millie struggled to get out of her rocker and stood by a white column near the front door. \u201cIf you need help, Truman, we\u2019d be glad to.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Jack nodded and the gesture almost brought tears to my eyes. \u201cHow much are you short?\u201d he said.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cJust a spot in the garage is all I need.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cWhat about your cat?\u201d Millie said.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cMurrow\u2019s going with me.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cIf we can do anything at all . . . ,\u201d Jack\u2019s voice trailed.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cI appreciate it. I appreciate both of you. Thanks for your kindness.\u201d<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cWe pray for Aiden every day,\u201d Millie said.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
The garage was spotless. Everything hanging up or neatly placed on shelves. I should have joined the Air Force. In the back I found an empty space near some gardening tools. I shook Jack\u2019s hand gently and gave Millie a hug. I only turned and looked at them once as I walked back to the house. They stood like sentinels, the fading light of the sun casting a golden glow around them and their house.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
When Murrow saw the cat carrier, she bolted under the sofa and I threatened to sell her to the local Chinese restaurant. An open can of StarKist and my tender, compassionate voice helped coax her into the carrier, and we were off.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
I texted my wife: Will call your friend tomorrow. Can I use Abby\u2019s room?<\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
The phone buzzed in my shirt pocket as I drove along the causeway into darkening clouds. Key under frog. No cats.<\/span> The next text gave Oleta\u2019s number and a short message. You were made for this story.<\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was the one for this job. One loser telling the story of his kindred spirit. I sure didn\u2019t have anything better to do. But with the window down and my hand out, being pushed back by the cool air, it felt less like the start of a new chapter and more like the end of one.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8,60],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10862","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","category-contemporary-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10862","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10862"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10862\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10877,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10862\/revisions\/10877"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10862"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10862"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10862"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}