Memories of Finding Faith

Heidi Kreider

Liz's Legacy

book 2

copyright 2013

Heidi Kreider

all rights reserved

www.heidikreider.com

for those who

wanted more

of the story

and

to Chad

who believes in me

prologue

December wind howls in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. The first snow of the season is forecasted for the low country. Here at my mountain retreat, we have already seen the ground covered in the soft, white stuff.

Sitting in my leather recliner by the warmth of the fireplace, I hold a stack of letters I treasure. The snap, crackle, and pop of the fire chases away the howling wind. Bear's soft snoring at my feet and the clicking of my mother's knitting needles keep me company.

Not too long ago, I would not have noticed the warmth of this fire or the sounds of Bear sleeping. I would not have been

thankful for my mom's presence. I have lived most of my life with an over-developed sense of entitlement. I assumed that I was entitled to things like a warm fire and the company of a loved one.

"Are you warm enough?" I ask.

"Yes, Rob," she stops knitting, "I am. It surely is blowing outside, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answer. "It sounds fierce. So thankful for a warm fire on a night this."

"And, I'm thankful to be here with you," she smiles. "I continue to marvel at how you've changed. You bless me, Rob."

"We are both blessed, Mom!"

The presence of a woman named Liz in my life changed me from the inside out. These letters that I hold from her are the proof. She taught me that gratitude is at the heart of a life well lived. I have squandered most of my life. Liz never wasted a day of hers. Liz coached me in her death to embrace this one life I have been given and to live it fully. I am trying to live up to her example.

Six weeks ago, my friend Liz Bower passed from this life to eternity. We met over twenty years  ago... in another time and place. Years later, I found her again. Without God's grace and Liz's love in my life, I am confident I would not have made it. The irony of my life and her death is not lost.

It is these saved letters from Liz that have me sitting here  tonight. Sometime late tomorrow morning Mark and Jenny will come to my home for the first time. These two are the children of the only woman I ever loved and the one woman I could not have. Jenny comes with her new husband, Mike, and Mark will come on his way back to Guatemala. They are coming to celebrate Christmas with me. They are also coming for answers. I will tell them my story, and I will answer their questions as truthfully as I can. I will do this because I love their mother, and because I am bound to a promise I made to her shortly before she died.

Inviting Mark, Jenny, and Mike here to my mountain retreat is a huge step of living for me. I built this house as an escape and it has been in this house that I have tried to die. My God is a redeemer, and He has redeemed not only my life but my home. This same home has become a healing salve for my wounded heart. I am praying that Mark, Jenny, and Mike find some healing from their grief here as well.

Bear stirs. Lying in his favorite spot next to my worn recliner, his warm brown and black coat reflects the firelight. Part chocolate labrador and part border collie, Bear appeared the spring after I built this log home. It was as if he emerged from hibernation. With his skin hanging off of his bones and his tongue practically dragging on the ground, he wandered out from the woods that surround my property. After a little coaxing and warm meal, he fell asleep at my feet. He has remained by my side since.

I sort Liz's letters by the postmarked date. There are so many secrets here. These are deep, private parts of her life that molded her to become the incredible woman she was. As I read, I remember. I always do. Liz's letters take me back over the years of my life. All of these memories together build the story I will tell Liz's children. I have the memories, but it is finding the words to tell the story that leaves me anxious. How will I tell Mark, Jenny, and Mike about the one night with their mother that changed me forever and for the better? How will I explain those things that do not make up my DNA but have shaped me to be the man I am today? More than anything, what words will I find to tell them that it was knowing and loving their mother that helped me find faith?                  My faith journey began long before I recognized it for what it was. I have heard people say that they just found God one day. Some have said that it was a particular trial that brought them to a conscious understanding of a loving God. Others have told me that they have always just believed in the Creator God. Then, there are those like me-- sojourners who to need to go on a long journey to find faith that leads to a personal relationship with Jesus. Mine was a journey I would not trade for the world. It is a path I still trek.

These letters from Liz hold the key to my faith journey. Through my memories and her letters my story will be told. I hold to the hope that Liz's children will understand their mother better and see into her heart more deeply when they hear my story and read her letters of faith. It is for this alone that I read and sort these timeless letters tonight.

chapter 1

Unfolding Liz's first letter, I smile at the memory and at her frankness. This is the shortest letter she ever wrote to me and the one I hated the most. For over a week, this letter sat on my table. Every day I would see it and instantly be angry. After days of mulling it over, I began a list of all the things wrong with Liz's letter. I intended to return the letter to her with my list attached. My list included her reference to God, her statement of calling me sarcastic and cynical, and her assumption that we would begin a relationship through the United States Postal Service. In making that list, I realized that the rest of the letter was not so bad. At least she took full responsibility for our past which let me off the hook.

Instead of sending the list, I ripped it up and called her. Writing was Liz's forte. Phone calls were mine. For me, a phone conversation was much easier than finding words to put on paper. On a frustrating night, so long ago, I called her to set the record straight. In that conversation, Liz learned the beginning of my sarcasm and the story of my first few years of life.

Dear Rob,

It was so good of you to meet me for lunch yesterday. It was nice to see you again and to spend a lunch hour catching up with each other. I cannot believe that you actually found me after all these years!

I wanted to write and thank you for lunch and to thank you for listening. Again, I look back on our past and that one night we spent together. I was a married women and you were a young college student. I take full responsibility for our indiscretion that night so long ago. I appreciate the forgiveness and grace you extended to me yesterday more than I can ever express.

I've thought much about our conversation yesterday. You asked if we could begin anew. You extended the opportunity of friendship and I turned you down. I know I said "no" yesterday, and yesterday I meant it. I slept little last night and prayed much. In answer to my prayer, I feel that God has changed my mind. Yes, I'm bringing up God again, and I will continue to do so. He is such a vital part of my life. I know that you don't understand how that could be. I hope someday to tell you more.

There is so much about me that is different than the Liz you met almost twenty years ago. I looked at you yesterday, and I saw a man who has changed as well. The man I met then was compassionate and passionate about his music. Though you look the same on the outside, the man I had lunch with yesterday was sarcastic and cynical.

Honestly, I'm not sure we have enough in common to sustain a friendship. However, if you are willing, I'd like to exchange letters in an effort to get to know one another better.

Thank you again for a lovely luncheon.

Liz

~*~

I was born on June 4, 1967, to Charlotte Ann Marshall. I was her fourth son by three different men. She recorded my name as Robert Marshall. There is no father listed on my birth certificate. She said she was never sure who fathered any of her children. I often wondered if she even cared.

By the time I was born to Charlotte, all three of my brothers had juvenile records. Charlotte was a waitress and an alcoholic. She was not a mother. Never aware of where my brothers were or who they were with, Charlotte's only concern was that her boys left her alone to work, drink, and entertain men.  My oldest brother, John, was convicted of armed robbery at the age of thirteen. He spent five years at a reform school before becoming a career criminal. The twins, Pat and Dan, skirted the law on more occasions than they could count and, somehow, managed to graduate from high school without permanent records. Five days after graduation, though, Pat got into a brawl at a bar, and Dan came to his rescue. They were both charged and convicted with aggravated assault and involuntary manslaughter. Dan and Pat

joined John in prison. For obvious reasons, I never knew my brothers or the woman who gave birth to me.

Because of her sons' juvenile records, Charlotte was deemed an unfit mother. As soon as I was born, I was placed in the foster system. Though I have no recollection of this, my records show that in my first two years of life, I lived in seven different homes. I also do not remember being abused. According to the records, I was. Finally, in the seventh home, I found a family. Without children of their own, Charles and Grace Adams took me in. Charlotte was thrilled to sign off her parental rights and the Adams were equally thrilled to adopted me. They gave my name, Robert Charles Adams.

Grace was delighted to have a son to dote on. She called me “God's answer to my prayers.” Small and round, she was built to  hug children to her amble breast. Unfortunately for Grace, just the act of surviving my first two years had turned me into a fiercely independent child. They were introduced to me as "Charles" and "Grace" and my wounded spirit never made the emotional connection to call them "Dad" and "Mom." Neither of them ever forced the issue, nor did they force me to show affection. I am quite certain my lack of affection was a huge disappointment for them. Neither Grace nor Charles ever showed any disappointment in me, though. Throughout my years in their home, Grace modeled  grace to me. Her love and prayers for me did not waiver. My journey of faith began those years that she prayed me safely home night after night. She never went to bed until I came home, regardless of the time, and, she never failed to say, “Good night, Rob. I love you, and I am praying for you.” I love her fiercely to this day and I regret that I did not know how to show her that love as a child.

Charles was as tall and thin as Grace was short and round.  My classmates in seventh grade literature class dubbed him “Icabod Crane” after reading Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  An extremely introverted man, Charles fit his nickname well.

The Adams owned a small farm on four acres with chickens, a pig, and a steer waiting to be fattened up for slaughter. Their large garden had every variety of fruit and vegetable imaginable. Late each winter, Grace would eagerly look forward to the seed catalogs that would arrive in the mailbox. She and Charles would spend the remaining cold and dark winter nights pouring over the dog-eared catalogues. They would quietly plan and re-plan how the garden would be planted and tended. Often, they tried to get me to join in their conversations. I always refused. I did not share their love of seeds, dirt, and plants. In fact, I hated it. I did not mind the other farm chores of feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. I did not even mind feeding and watering the hog and steer. It was weeding the garden that I loathed. I have vivid memories of hot, sticky summer days bent over row after row of beans, corn, tomatoes, and potatoes plucking those pesky weeds that persistently came up despite my best efforts.

The summer of my ninth year, I decided I was never going to weed again. I thought I had a fool-proof plan. On a warm June morning, I got up early and snuck out of the house before I could be told which garden rows needed weeding. I stuffed an apple in my pocket and ran down our dirt road as fast as I could. The farm next to us had a small stream, and as soon as I was out of eye sight, I crawled under that farmer's electric fence and wandered down to the water. When I perched on a rock by the cool water, I thought I had found freedom for sure. I trailed my hand in the cool stream and reached for my apple. My moment of freedom was cut short. I had no sooner started on my apple breakfast when I heard a snort behind me. Apparently, the electric fence that I had so gingerly crawled under encased the neighbor's bull.

Somehow, I escaped by tossing my apple to the bull and running faster than I ever dreamed possible. Instead of gingerly crawling under the electric fence, I scaled it, thoroughly shocking myself in the process. In my wise, nine-year-old mind, a few small electric jolts were definitely the lesser of the two evils. I ran hard and fast retracing my steps on the dirt road. I did not stop until I leaned against our chicken house to catch my breath.

“Didn't know you could run so fast,” Charles announced.

I looked up to see his eyes dancing with delight as he put his hand on my shoulder and handed me the rake.

“You're just in time to weed the first three rows of corn. Grace has a glass of water for you when you are ready.”

Charles and Grace were the kind of parents who believed love covered a multitude of sins. Charles' response to the run-in with the bull was typical of his responses to all of my shenanigans. A tall and quiet man, he never raised his voice or his hand to me. He led by his quiet example, and I developed a deep respect for my  father. Neither he nor Grace ever said another word about my run in with the neighbor's bull. Instead, they encouraged my love for running. For every single elementary, middle school, or high school cross-country or track meet, they were there to cheer me on. All these years later, I still hold my high school's record for the mile run. Looking back, I have that old bull to thank for my love of  running.

chapter 2

Tonight, I am taking my time and remembering. I want to go slow and savor. In reading Liz's beautiful script, I realize that I am reading these letters more for myself than for her children.

My earliest memories take place in therapy sessions. I distinctly remember being given a piece of ecru colored construction paper, a green crayon, and the instructions to draw how I felt. I cannot tell you my exact age in this memory. I can, however, tell you that I snapped the green crayon in two and picked up a red crayon and scribbled all over the page. I was not cognitively aware of the deep anger within me. I had no emotion of anger. I simply followed the instructions given to the best of my ability. Needless to say, this simple act resulted in many more therapy sessions. Which, in turn, led to more scribbling.

One of the repercussions of early childhood abuse is suppressed emotions. One theory states that the earlier the abuse, the deeper the suppressed negative emotion. I do not know how this theory has held up in the halls of academia. I do know that it sums me up rather well. Life and my reaction to it has ferreted out more deep resentment, bitterness, and anger than any of my numerous therapy sessions.

Reading Liz's letters, I realize anew the depth of my sinful soul.  For over forty years, I blamed all my actions and reactions on my early childhood. The horrific abuse I endured was my excuse for everything I did and my reason for my obnoxious behavior. By using it as an excuse, I allowed it to continue to ruin my life. Liz in her gentle way convinced me to let go of my excuses. She introduced me to Jesus as she modeled a surrendered life. I learned that though a surrendered life does not come easy, it is a much more peaceful way to live.

It is ironic to have these thoughts here in this great room of my log home. I designed most of this house myself. At the time, I worked with a great architect from Billings, Montana, who took my ideas and drew them for the construction team. I insisted that the fireplace be made of indigenous rocks. I also demanded that I be the one to lay out the pattern for the rock design. As with most of the things in life that I have insisted upon, I later regretted the demand.

I hate jigsaw puzzles, and this fireplace was the granddaddy of them all. I laid out the rock pattern no less than fourteen times. By the time I got them all to fit, I was literally throwing the grout at the wall in frustration and deep anger. When I finished, I spent $700 to hire a cleaning crew to clean up my mess. Thankfully, the finished work looks great. No one who comes into my home would ever know the tantrum that was thrown in this great room.

I can not remember a time when anger was not a part of my life. There were times through the years that anger consumed me and other times when it boiled under the surface. In all my therapy sessions, psychiatric visits, and trips to the principal's  office, no one ever thought to teach me how to deal with the molten lava in my soul. Instead, they all tried to fix my behavior.

These first letters that gave rebirth to our relationship bring back many memories. Sitting here tonight, I am so thankful for them. These are my link to Liz. These letters are tangible reminders of the incredible woman that she was and the legacy that she left. She taught me to look for things in each day for which to be thankful. Tonight, it is these letters, the correspondence from her that began a deep and abiding friendship, that cause me to be deeply grateful.

Dear Rob,

I know that I told you about my children when we met for lunch. I thought, perhaps, in this letter I would tell you a little more about each of them. Aside from Jesus, they are my life. Mark is my oldest and my feeler. He has more emotion in one day than any other boy I know. He's always been a sensitive child, and, though he is a young teenager, that quality in him has not diminished. He is keenly aware of my feelings as well as his sister's. Some days, this is an admiral quality. Other days, though, it seems that the emotion of anger gets the best of him. I think his deep emotions are what propels him to pursue the game of football. He lives and breathes all things football! He's a great player too. I've been told he has great potential.

Mark's favorite person has always been his younger sister Jenny. She is the most level-headed child I have ever seen. Of course, I am a bit biased in this. She's a straight-A student, a sixth grade cheerleader, president of the art club, and part of the student government in her middle school. Very little ruffles Jenny's feathers. She seems to be friends with everyone at school, and is often the peacemaker among them. I see that trait here at home when she calms Mark down. They have a mutual admiration society of two. I pity the man who someday wants to marry Jenny. He may have to go through Mark to win her heart.

I'm sorry I'm rambling on about my children. They are my favorite topic of conversation, but I sometimes get carried away.

Seriously, I don't know what I would have done if Robert would have ever fought me for custody of our children. I do know I would have fought tooth and nail to keep them. I learned long ago that Robert doesn't fight fairly. I see no need to be fair either.

You asked me when we met for lunch why I didn't pursue Robert and take him to court to pay child support. My basic answer to you was that I didn't need his money. However, that was only part of the truth. The bigger reason I have never tried to find him is that I really don't ever want to share Mark and Jenny with him. I feel strongly that any father who abdicates his parental role has no right to to be a part of their lives when it is convenient for him. There is much forgiveness I have yet to give Robert. I continually pray asking God to forgive me for the bitterness I harbor toward the father of my children.

Speaking of fathers, your parents sound like an amazing couple. I love that they gave you your name. Tell me more about them, please.

Thank you for agreeing, at least in part, to keep our relationship to just letters and phone calls. I'm sure you can understand my hesitation to pursue any other avenue at this time.

I hope to hear from you again.

Liz

~*~

While I had the bull to thank for teaching me to run, I have Grace to thank for instilling a deep and abiding love for music. During the week, Grace taught private piano lessons on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays after school. It seemed as though all the kids at school took their lessons from Mrs. Grace. I was never given a formal lesson time. Instead, anytime Grace would see me drawn to the piano, she would stop what she was doing and give me a ten minute lesson. Some days, those ten minute lessons took an hour simply because I did not want to stop the music, and Grace did not want to stop sitting close to me. Grace used music to teach my soul to sing and my anger to subside.

For twenty-two years, she was the organist at Congregation Bible Church for both Sunday morning services, the Sunday evening service, and the Wednesday evening prayer meeting. To my knowledge, the only services she missed were when I was ill.

I remember one particular Sunday that Charles went to church without us. I remember laying on the couch feeling quite miserable with a virus of some sort.

In this particular memory, Lady, our collie, was wrapped around my feet on the couch. Usually, Lady was not allowed on the furniture. Occasional exceptions were made, so my memory may be correct. After doing all that she could for me, Grace sat at the piano. She began to play from the worn and tattered hymnal that rested open on “Amazing Grace.” Charles often called her Amazing Grace and together they would sing that age-old hymn while doing dishes, weeding the garden, or just sitting around on a Saturday evening. Music was at the heart of their relationship.

After playing all the stanzas of “Amazing Grace," Grace played through several of her favorite hymns. I do not remember the names of all the songs that she played that day. Honestly, I can not even tell you how long she played. In my young mind, it seemed like hours. As Grace played, I laid with Lady and thought of Heaven. I wondered if Heaven was full of pianos and women like Grace, who played for God day and night. As I began to relax, I imagined eternity full of green fields and boys running and romping with dogs. I remembered a verse from Sunday School about the lion laying down with the lamb. Somehow that verse made its way into my dream, and in my imagination, I ran past groups of lions and lambs. I slept soundly and woke feeling much better. In my limited understanding, Grace's music made all the difference.

Grace noticed as well. She began to play more music in the house. Some days she turned on the Christian radio station. Other days she played cassette tape recordings of classical music. Still other times, I simply listened to Grace play her piano. It did not take long before she realized the distinct correlation between music and my behavior. She bought me my own cassette tape player. Weekly, she and I would go to our public library and check out new tapes. Grace introduced me to different types of music. I loved it all.

On the days when my elementary principal, Mr. McNaughton, would call Grace in to discuss my behavior, or lack thereof, Grace would bring my cassette player with her. Without a word, she would hand it to me on her way into Mr. McNaughton's inner office. I would sit in the outer office and listen to the classics such as Beethoven, Bach, or Mozart, instead of hearing Mr. McNaughton list all of my shortcomings. Music calmed me down and became my great escape.

chapter 3

Glancing up, my eye catches the old rickety upright piano in the corner. It is one of two pianos in my home. I have a gorgeous black lacquer grand that is the focal point of the conservatory. I use it only for impressing others. When I want to play for myself and my own personal enjoyment, I always choose Grace's comfortable old upright. Sometimes, she still joins me on the bench.

“I think it's time for this old lady to head to bed,” she says, laying down her latest knitting project. Slowly rising from her wingback chair closest to the fireplace, my mother's age reveals  itself. Bear rises as well, always escorting Grace anytime she moves around the house. He will walk her to her suite tonight and

sleep in the doorway. I have full confidence that if Grace needed me for anything in the night hours, Bear would waste no time waking me. I wish I could take credit for training him to do this. He started this the very first night she came and carries out this duty faithfully. He has a profound sense of responsibility and understanding. This is simply how he shows his love for her.

“Goodnight, Dear. I love you, and I am praying for you,” Grace stops by my chair to squeeze my arm.

“Love you too. Sleep well,” I answer, squeezing her hand in return.

“Oh, I will,” she chuckles, shuffling slowly toward the hallway.  “There is something about this mountain air that makes me sleep like a bear in hibernation.”

She stops and slowly turns toward me, “Thank you again, Rob, for allowing me to live here with you.  Charles would have loved it so.”

Arguably, bringing Grace home after Charles died late last winter was one of the best things I have ever done in my life. For years, I had asked them to come but neither was willing to leave their farm nor their church.

“I was born here, and I will die here,” Charles answered every time I asked.

Though I often worried about them, they insisted on living as they had, regardless of their advancing age and deteriorating health. Their garden was just as big as it was when I was a boy. They still raised chickens and often a young steer. The only thing they had given up was raising pigs because of Grace's digestive issues. In my not-so-quiet opinion, their small farm had become too much for the two of them to handle.

While they still farmed as they had thirty years ago, they both seemed to forget that they aged during those same thirty years. Grace developed diabetes, and Charles had a weakening heart. Apparently, I gained my fierce independence through my father's example because Charles absolutely refused help of any kind. In the end, it was not his heart that gave out. Rather, it was pneumonia that took Charles' life.  Refusing to go to the hospital for treatment, he did indeed die in the very same house in which he was born.

A week later, Grace came home with me. An auction company liquidated all of her assets, minus the piano and wingback chair. What began as an obligation has now become a joy. The three of us, Bear, Grace, and I, make great housemates.

“I am so glad you agreed to come. Rest well.”

“I will, Son. I will,” she replies, resuming her slow shuffle to her suite of rooms.

I look down at the small stack of letters next to me and the shuffled mess of envelopes in front of me. There is much I want to try to explain to Mark, Jenny, and Mike about myself, their mother, and the relationship we had. Her letters hold much wisdom about faith and how to live it. Never having had children of my own, I have no idea how to go about telling this story. Logic says that I begin at the beginning, which is what prompts me to spend this  evening putting old letters in chronological order. Reading through the early letters, I wonder if her children will even care about my childhood, about Charles and Grace, about the bull, or about any of  the things that made up my youth. The only relevance I can see is that all of this makes up who I am, and when I am gone, there will be no one to tell the story. I guess that leaves it up to me to finish what I have started.

Dear Rob,

Thank you, again, for the phone call last night. Oh! How I have laughed and laughed over the story of the bull. You tell stories so well! I can just envision you running as fast as your small legs would carry you to escape the fury of that bull. I  wonder, did he chase you or just let you go?

Your story brought up many childhood memories of my own. Isn't it funny what memories come back to us as adults? Events and circumstances that weren't funny at all become the memories that make us laugh. And, oh how I love to laugh! So often laughter has been a healing balm to my soul. Did you know that even King Solomon, who was the wisest man to ever live, thought that? He wrote the book of Proverbs in the Bible. Proverbs 17:22 says that a cheerful heart is good medicine. Thanks for the good medicine of laughter today as I keep laughing over your story of being chased by a bull!

While you had your love of running as a child, I had my love of horse-back riding. My father loved to lavish gifts on his only child. I had every imaginable toy and game growing up. However, I had no one else to play with the toys and join me in the games. So, those things sat on a shelf in a closet and my real love became my pony. Her registered name was Ashley's Sugar Plum Princess. I simply called her Sugar.

I grew up on what was known as the Ashley Estate or more simply, the Estate. My father inherited money and land that had been in the family for generations. As a child, I didn't understand the significance of either. I simply knew that I had acres upon acres to ride Sugar. I could ride in any direction and still be on the Estate. This Estate remains in the family. When my father died, I inherited that which he had inherited.

Sugar got her name because, from the time she was born, she was all white. She had no other markings of any sort. She was beautiful. Aside from school and music lessons, Sugar and I spent every waking moment together. In the summer, I would even sleep in her stall with her. She truly was my first love.

Because Sugar was registered, I began showing her in competitions. My favorites were the Western competitions where we would race as fast as we could around barrels or poles. Sugar always won, and I always held on for dear life! We would also show in the English contests. Neither Sugar nor I liked those as well. Those required precision and presentation. We preferred the wild edge to racing hard and fast. I showed Sugar for ten years. By the time I graduated from high school, all four walls of my bedroom were plastered with ribbons and plaques.

For the first few years that I owned Sugar, my mom wasn't as thrilled with her as I was. Mom only saw the expense of having a pony and the commitment it took to show her. In my mother's world, the expense was time, not money. My mother spent a lot of time taking me shopping for show clothes, ordering show tack, and spending most weekends at various horse shows. She did all of that grudgingly since it was taking her away from her "society" obligations of garden parties, teas, and bridge tournaments. She didn't often complain to me, but I know that she didn't hesitate to complain to my father.

Sugar earned her place in my mother's heart one cold, rainy March night. I came home from school in a bad mood to a house where my mother was in an equally bad mood. Mixed together, it was chemistry for an explosion. I changed into riding clothes and stormed out of the house, letting the door slam behind me.

I didn't bother to saddle Sugar. We both preferred bareback. Soon, we were trotting through the woods behind the barn. The sound of her hoofs hitting the sodden path lifted my mood. I had no greater love than to hold on with my legs, wrap my arms around her neck, and bury my face in her mane as she took to the trails. She knew the way better than I did, and I trusted her implicitly. Sugar was the balm to my emotional preteen heart. My cares melted away as she trotted.

I never have been able to remember what happened next. Perhaps it was the rain that made Sugar's back slick, or perhaps I began to fall asleep. Either way, while Sugar trotted blissfully, I slid down her side and fell off. The ground was soft from the rain but my head hit a log and knocked me out. Sugar circled back for me, and when I didn't respond to her nudge, she galloped back to the house and whinnied and snorted until she got Mom's attention.

When Mom saw her without me, she grabbed her boots and coat. Mom said later she was sure that it was God prompting her to jump in the truck and follow Sugar rather than try to run with her. Thankfully, I fell on a trail that was wide enough for a vehicle. When Sugar stopped, Mom got out and found me unconscious. I woke to her lifting me into the truck. Aside from not remembering what happened, I had no other injuries. Later that night, I looked out my bedroom window to see Mom carrying carrots through the rain to the barn. Sugar won Mom over.

Just in case you are wondering, Sugar wasn't always so good. She was notorious for rolling in the mud after her baths. Part of my responsibility for each show was to bathe and brush her so that she shone. Somehow, she knew, and she would wait until I was completely finished and then either go to the pasture to find a mud hole, or she would roll around her stall. Either way, I would have to start over. It took many times of childhood frustration before I realized I was better off waiting until we arrived at the show and bathing her there.

I have so many memories with Sugar-- more trips, contests, and shows than I could ever recount. Most of them have all run together in the deep recesses of my memory. I couldn't have asked for a better childhood best friend.

I just looked at the time. The kids will be getting home soon. Forgive me for rambling on.

Liz

~*~

Running away from the bull helped make me a fast runner. Middle school helped as well-- that notorious rite of passage that we all must endure. I learned quickly to run away from some and run even faster towards others. Perhaps it was observing middle school students that first prompted Darwin's theory of evolution. If my middle school memory serves me correctly, it seems that the strong ate the weak and that only the tough thrived. Regardless, I survived. Middle school was when I discovered girls and how to use them. I am not proud of this. However, it is foundational to what my life became.

Something paramount occurred in the summer between sixth and seventh grades. During that summer, I turned thirteen. In my pubescent mind, I was now a teenager, and inherently entitled to all of the rights and privileges I thought teenagers received. I saw my teen years as years without any responsibility. I felt as if I had moved beyond the need to do chores or to earn my own spending money. I ascribed to the theory of “teenage freedom.” Looking back, I am amazed that I survived my own theory. There were many times my “freedom” just about did me in.

Why is it that in a warped teenage mind, freedom leads to a cynicism of authority? I suppose there are essays, speeches, and perhaps even doctoral dissertations on that subject to study another day. Suffice it to say, in July of my thirteenth year, I found myself longing for freedom, despising authority, and hanging out with Billy Ray McGhee. This was not at all a good combination on a hot summer's day.

The McGhee's lived eight tenths of a mile from our house and three miles outside the town limits. Both of Billy Ray's parents worked. It was the lack of parental supervision that contributed to

my daily desire to visit the McGhee home. During the summer months, after I did my chores, including four rows of garden weeding, I would often run to the McGhee's home for a few hours.

“What say you and I head into town?” Billy Ray asked, handing down his latest magazine from his top bunk.

“How?” I muttered, snatching the magazine from his hand. “There's no one here to take us.”

With a new magazine in front of my eyes, I had no desire to go anywhere. I was hoping Billy Ray would see my wisdom when he realized our lack of transportation. If he did, we could stay in his room and peruse pictures of pretty girls all afternoon. It seemed like a great idea to me.

“Mom took Dad to work today. His truck is here and so are the keys,” came his voice from above me.

“So,” I mumbled, resenting the intrusion.

“So,” he leaned over the side of the bed and grinned at me. “We drive.”

I doubt that anyone has ever accused any thirteen-year-old boy of being overtly intelligent or even marginally wise. I am sure

there is some sort of medical explanation for the lack of common sense that boys possess during their teen years. I do not know the

explanation. I simply know that Billy Ray and I were counted among the masses who lack common sense and reasoning skills.

“We can't drive,” I whisper, gazing blissfully at Miss June. “Besides, what do you want to do in town?”

“I want a root beer,” Billy Ray emphatically answered. “Let's go to the B&K and get a hot dog and root beer.”

“You don't have any money,” I retorted, becoming more and more engrossed in what was before my eyes.

“Sure, I do,” Billy Ray stated jumping down from the top bunk. “There's money in Dad's truck.  Probably three or four dollars worth of change. Enough for a root beer for sure.”

“I don't have any money,” I said, not looking at Billy Ray. “You don't have enough for both of us. Go ahead, if you want. I'll run home later.”

“Nope!” Billy Ray laughed, snatching the magazine from me. “We both go. It'll be an adventure!”

“Hey!” I yelled, grabbing anxiously as Billy Ray waved the magazine in the air above his head. I was taller than Billy Ray. He was faster. I often called him “Sugar Ray” because he could move and dance around just like our favorite boxer.

“Give it up!” he yelled, running out of his bedroom and down the farmhouse stairs. “You can see it later. Let's go!”

By the time I loped downstairs, Billy Ray was out the door and running toward his father's truck.  As all farm kids know, you learn to drive long before you sign up for driver's education. Both Billy Ray and I had been driving around our farms for a few years, and we both felt confident behind the wheel. The fact that Mr. McGhee's old Chevy did not have an automatic transmission did not deter us either. Billy Ray started that old truck up, pressed in the clutch, and smoothly shifted it into reverse. We were soon on our way into town. Billy Ray drove and I counted Mr. McGhee's  change. Enough for two dogs and two root beers for two thirteen-year-old boys in an old Chevy pickup.

Amazingly, we made it. We pulled in to the speaker stand at the B & K and ordered. Soon, we were slurping our frosty mugs, munching our hot dogs, and patting each other on the back for a

job well done. We were so busy congratulating ourselves, it took us a few extra minutes to notice the convertible parked at the next speaker stand. When our hot dogs and root beer came, we saw two beautiful girls who had driven over from the Sand Lake Beach. Of

course, they assumed we were older, and we let them. After some flirting back and forth between our old Chevy and their new Mustang, we made plans to meet them on the beach later.

Sometimes destruction is not visible for years. Billy Ray drove us back to his farm before his parents got home, and to my knowledge, our parents never found out about our little excursion.  However, the damage was done. Billy Ray and I now felt  invincible. I snuck out at ten that night, and he and I ran to the beach to meet up with two sixteen-year-old girls. Running home at three in the morning, I felt the invincibility even more so. I had learned that girls were the means to a great end. In my pathetic thirteen-year-old brain, I had arrived. I had become a man. I never even bothered to ask her name.

That summer night so long ago bonded Billy Ray and I. I was better looking, and he was more daring. The two of us became a dynamic duo. We trusted each other to keep our secrets, and we covered for each other many more times over the years. I lost count the number of double dates we took in his 1978 Olds Delta 88... his date in the front seat and mine in the back. For a little while we kept count. Eventually the only interest was the conquest, not the counting.

chapter 4

There is much of what I am remembering that I will not tell Mark, Mike, and Jenny. I look at the snow fly outside the window, and I wonder why. Why will I tell them some and not all of my life? Why will I censure that which I choose? Deep within, I know the answer to my rhetoric. I want Liz's children to like the man who fell in love with their mother all those years ago.

Psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors-- I have met with all of them over the years. I have been studied, researched, and written about. Psych evaluations were done before I could walk or talk. Reams and reams of paper have been wasted recording all the reasons why. Simply put, I am who I am. I have wasted many years

trying to cover up that deep within, I am 100% a people pleaser. I want people to like me.

I think this is the reason I have had so much success as a musician and as a manager in the music world. As long as I put out great music and represented great musicians, people liked me. The  cycle came full circle. As long as people liked me, I put out great music and musicians. I rode this wave for many years without fully realizing the ride I was on. When the ride crashed, and, hence, my life crashed, I uncovered this need for affirmation.

Obviously, a self-sufficient man, who is single by choice, does not announce his deep and abiding need for personal affirmation. However, part of learning to live life to its fullest is learning to be vulnerable and to trust. Liz assured me these two things go hand in hand. One cannot trust without sharing the deep things of the heart, no more than one can lay it all out and not trust. She is also the one who convinced me that self-sufficiency is overrated and tears do not emasculate.

In these days after her death, I recognize her wisdom. I

miss her immensely. I miss picking up the phone and calling her for more lessons on living life to its fullest. Toward the end of her

life, our conversations became a nightly thing. I would call. She would teach. I would learn. Those lessons from Liz ended on November 11. Yet, there is so much more I need to know and to learn. Who will teach me now?

Perhaps Jenny, Mike, and Mark will like me regardless of which parts of my life I reveal. After all, she is their mother. Over time, I told Liz my entire story. At first, I skimmed over some parts and sugar-coated others. She always knew when I was not entirely truthful, and she would ask probing questions to ferret out the truth. When the truth finally emerged, she would always say, “Thanks for trusting me with your truth, Rob. Always remember the truth will set you free.”

The truth on this cold December night? My heart hurts. She taught me much and I miss her tremendously.

Dear Rob,

Thank you for your phone call again last night. While I don't understand your distain for writing letters, I do appreciate

your phone calls. Especially our conversations when you tell me

more of those events and happenings in life that make you who you are. I didn't expect you to share so much with me, and I value your trust in me. I also will reiterate... you are a great story teller!

You asked about my statement that Sugar was my best friend as a child. This is the truth. At the time I didn't know that it should be any different. It wasn't until I met Kris, in college, that I understood that friendship can and should exist between two people, not between a person and an animal.

I didn't have friends growing up. I'm sure you've realized that I grew up quite privileged. I was the only child of an independently wealthy couple. I had everything I could ever want and more. I had an abundance of things. Yet, I was incredibly lonely.

The ironic thing is that I knew many children my same age. At school I would talk with other kids and play with them at recess. I would always pair up in gym class with Jamie, stand in line with Susan, and sit next to Tammy. I went through every grade of elementary school with these girls and never once was invited to

their homes. Once the bell would ring to end the day, the great

divide would begin. Jamie, Susan, and Tammy would ride the bus home to play in their backyards, eat supper as a family, and read stories at night, or so I imagined. My reality was that my mother considered me too privileged to ride the school bus. She took me to school each morning and picked me up each afternoon. After school, I was shuffled to music lessons, dance classes, riding lessons, voice lessons, and sometimes a formal event. On most nights, supper was eaten in the car as we hurried to make the next appointment. My mother thought she was doing me a great service by making me more civilized. I hated it.

At the end of elementary school, my parents decided I needed a more formal education. I was sent to a private school for girls that boasted a very hefty price tag. For two years, I boarded at the school with the other girls, going home only on Friday night and returning to school on Sunday night. This is a dark time in my memory. I was so incredibly lonely! I found some joy in music and attempted to counter the loneliness by throwing myself into becoming a better musician. My music lessons were during the day, and I would spend three or four hours each evening

practicing. When I practiced, I would allow myself to forget where I was and imagine I was home with Sugar riding through the hills of the Estate. Then, at night when the lights were turned out, I would cry myself to sleep feeling abandoned and alone.

For those first two years, I never mentioned my loneliness to my parents. They often commented on how fortunate I was to be at that school, so I kept my pain to myself. I later learned that I didn't hide my discontent very well. It was my father who finally saw the difference in me when I came home for the summer and decided that our local high school would be adequate enough for my education. I think I thanked him every day for the next four years!

I found my niche in the band and orchestra. The other members became my closest friends. We would hang out at school, after school, and at ball games. I went to school dances with them, and the drummer asked me to prom. They were my friends but "society" still kept me from crossing any imaginary lines and developing any deep friendships.

It was in these years of high school that I began to deeply

resent the money that I had been born into. It seemed as if money was a double-edged sword. On one side, it bought me things I didn't need or want. And on the other side, it kept me from what I needed most of all... an unconditional friend.

Again, it seems as if I have rambled. Apparently, writing these letters is what my heart needed as well. So much of what I just wrote, I haven't ever told anyone, including Kris. Though, I'm sure she knows.

Warmly,

Liz

~*~

Somehow Billy Ray and I managed to graduate from high school. Charles and Grace beamed with pride the day I wore that cap and gown. Grace threw a huge birthday party and graduation open house for me in the basement of Congregational Bible Church. My diploma and acceptance letter to the university were her crowning achievements. Had she known about my lifestyle and escapades with Billy Ray, she may have reconsidered her choice of location for that party. I charmed her and all the other older women

sitting in folding chairs. It was the daughters of those women who wanted my head on a platter.

The summer of my nineteenth year was spent in a steel factory earning money for college. I worked twelve hour shifts, six days a week, which left little time for partying. Billy Ray graduated with no aspirations to further his education, and so after his eight hour shift at the gas station, he partied on without me. He claimed to be having the time of his life. I later learned that his crack addiction started that summer. The same addiction that took his life a few years later when he could not pay his drug debts and was found dead behind the 7-11. I have often wondered what kept me from going down the same path. The only answer I have is prayer and music. I think Grace's endless prayers for me protected me and music gave me some sort of purpose.

Because of my music classes and competitions in high school, I won a few scholarships to the university's department of music. On a hot, August day, Charles, Grace, and I drove all my earthly belongings to the university. While I was excited for the

new possibilities that college life offered, I was not prepared to say

good-bye to the two who had adopted me.

“Well, Son, I guess we'll be going,” Charles said, as he looked around the dorm room one last time.

“Yes, Dear,” Grace mumbled, while neither of them moved. “We do need to get going.”

It was in that moment standing among boxes and an empty bunk bed that I finally realized these two people were my parents.   These were the ones who had loved me, prayed for me, and lost  sleep over me. They did all of this without expecting much from me in return. I did not disappoint, since I had given very little.

“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I said, looking at them. “Thanks for everything.”

This was the first time I had ever called them anything other than Charles or Grace. It was an awkward moment and the silence was deafening. Before I could interject some sort of witty remark, Grace reached up and grabbed my face between her small hands and pulled my head down close to hers.

“Thank you, Rob,” she said.

Without tears or another word, she turned and walked out

the door. Charles put his hand out and shook mine before following Grace out of the dormitory. I stood and watched. I wondered why it was I had never before called them Mom and Dad. I had no answer. I just watched them go and swallowed the homesickness rising in my throat. My parents left, and I realized I hardly knew them. I suddenly wished I had spent less time trying to avoid my parents and more time getting to know them. I had never experienced this kind of emotion before, and it would be years before I could identify it as regret.

That first semester, I declared business and music as my majors. Balancing the work load of a  double major, adjusting to university life, and working a couple of part-time jobs kept me busy and mostly out of trouble. My music classes inspired me. I found myself working harder than I ever had to improve my abilities. Music became my life. After that first semester, I took an apartment closer to the music department and moved out of the dormitory. I found a couple of part-time jobs through the department, one of which was playing the organ each Sunday morning for a small local congregation. I never missed a Sunday. It

was easy money. I stayed long enough to play through the final hymn and then slipped quietly out the side door. In that way, I avoided all of the old ladies wanting to set me up with their beautiful granddaughter, grandniece, or neighbor. I often wondered what they would think, if they truly knew me.

I stayed at the university throughout the summer, taking every business class I could to speed up my business major. In the evenings, I lost myself in composing my own music. Music satisfied me in a way that girls and booze had not been able to. Through this time, I became a bit of a recluse. I was content with my music, my running, and whomever was living with me at the time.

By nature, dating took on a deeper meaning in college. Girls were looking for more meaningful relationships and guys, like me, were growing weary of one-night stands. Live-in relationships became the answer. Because I had scholarships and financial aid, Charles and Grace helped me go to college by paying my rent. Grace felt that I needed a quiet place to practice and

compose, so each month they paid my landlord directly. This made

me one of a few college students who did not need roommates to help pay the bills, and it made it much too easy for me to have girls live-in for awhile. I had not changed, though. I still could hardly comprehend the concept of commitment. After just a few weeks of a new relationship, I would grow tired of the monotony. I would resent the intrusion and the expectations. Soon, I was back to the late nights in a practice room. Arguments and accusations would ensue. Eventually, I would always return to an empty apartment. Sometimes there would be a note of apology. Most of the time, there would only be a bag of trash waiting by the door.

chapter 5

In sorting and reading Liz's letters, I do believe I am learning more about myself than I did in any therapy session I ever had. How many times will I need to do this exercise of returning to the past to be completely healed of my past wounds?

Thinking back, I was relieved each time a girl would leave. I would lace up my running shoes and take to the streets running with a deep sense of freedom. After several miles and a hot shower, I would remake the bed with clean sheets and fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. Only one time did I ever waiver from this ritual. It is that one time that propels me to keep reading and remembering tonight.

I never questioned the fact that the girls always walked away from me. I finally realize that I never broke up with any of

them. Breaking up implies a responsibility of some sort, and I was incapable of making any commitment. I only knew how to use people for what they would give me. I took much from others and gave nothing in return.

My first recognition of my own commitment to another human being came that day Charles and Grace dropped me off at the university. As with most things in my life, one step forward lead to two steps back. I think this is why it took me so long to find faith and forgiveness in Jesus. I have been my own worst enemy and have made many poor choices that have set me back more than a step or two.

While so much of me and my life has changed, a great deal of the old remains. Part of finding and accepting forgiveness was to quit making repeated apologies for myself and my past. I am a forgiven man. This very story has led me to faith and forgiveness and made me a better man.

Reading Liz's letters makes me smile. In those early months of communication, I often felt as if I were walking a fine line. My intentions towards Liz were less than honorable. Yet, in a strange way, I found myself wanting to honor her. God was beginning His good work on my heart long before I recognized Him for Who He is.

Dear Rob,

Thanks again for another phone call and for trusting me with the hurts of your heart. I hope I never violate your trust. You need to know, though, that I probably will. I often wonder if you consider me to be much better than I am. Trust me when I say any good that you see in my life is from Jesus living within me, not from Liz Bower. Left to myself, I am a miserable, wretched sinner.

You asked about visiting me. Even though I haven't seen my husband in years, I am still married and I want to honor that covenant to our children. I'm not sure yet how I feel about visits between you and I. I promise to think about it and pray about it. That is my best answer for now.

I love how you described Billy Ray McGhee. Honestly, Rob, I think I could picture him standing in front of me saying to me, "what say you and I head into town?" It makes me giggle now even thinking about it. I told your story to Kris and Dan, and we all laughed. What a pair you two must have been! I'm sure Grace spent many hours on her knees for you.

Hearing about you and Billy Ray brought a tinge of jealousy to my heart. I know that you two were up to no good, but I truly envy your camaraderie. Companionship is what I longed for as a young girl. I am so thankful that God saw fit to bring Kris into my life. She has been an amazing friend and I honestly don't know how I would breathe with out her.

Over twenty years ago, she quite literally ran me over in the hallway of the university's dormitory. I'm sure if you asked her, she would say I ran her over, but since this is my story, let's go with my version, shall we?

Anyway, what we later recognized as God's providence happened that hot August day. After I helped Kris pick up her things from our collision, I carried them to her new room. When she opened the door, I could hardly contain myself. Rob, I have  never seen such an array of cat memorabilia. Kris was appalled and I was laughing so hard. I felt so bad for her. Honestly, I'm not sure anyone else would have fit in that small dorm room around all

of the feline knick-knacks. Thankfully, my roommate cancelled and I invited Kris to room with me. That was the smartest thing I have ever done.

We settled into college life as if we had always been together. I don't know how to explain this but there was never a time when we strived to get to know one another. It was as if we had always been friends. And, for the first time in my life, I wasn't lonely. I loved that feeling!

When I started at the university, I decided that it was my chance to redefine myself. I left everything that would define me by money or status behind at the Estate. I convinced my father to drive me to the university, rather than driving the sports car that he had given me as a high school graduation gift. I wanted to be  known for myself rather than for my belongings. While neither of my parents understood my desire to redefine myself, they did agree to drive me there. When they left, I took the city bus and spent a day shopping at thrift stores and resale shops to fill my closet. I boxed up my clothes from home and shipped them back to the Estate.

I had fun that first year! I found freedom and friendship and ran with it. I joined every club and went to most campus events. I introduced myself to everyone I met, and I dated every guy who asked, including Kris' husband Dan a few times. When I wore myself out pretending to be someone else, I would spend hours in practice rooms finding myself in my music, only to start the cycle over again.

Looking back, that first year of college was one of the happiest of my life. I didn't know then to count gifts of gratitude each day. However, if I had, the list from my first year of college would have been long indeed!

Again, another long letter. I'm sorry, Rob. I tend to get carried away. Thank you for reading all the way to the end!

Warmly,

Liz

~*~

One of the perks of working for the music department was free admission to any music event. I spent many hours at student recitals and faculty performances. Sometimes I worked the event by ushering, running sound equipment, or working the lights. Other times, I simply attended, arriving as the house lights dimmed. This was my favorite way to attend a recital or performance. I would close my eyes and simply listen. When the performance ended, I would leave before the lights came up and enjoy the walk home.

Music events were attended by university faculty, staff, and a few community members.  Obviously, some events were more highly attended than others. The Summer Faculty Recital was one such event. The university's annual semi-formal fund-raiser held outside, under the stars, on a warm July evening. Every year it boasted the largest crowd of any non-sporting university event. Those who worked in the music department were given a pair of complementary tickets to the event. When I was handed my pair of tickets, I wondered if I would bother taking a date.

I saw her for the first time when she attended a senior vocal recital alone. It was the way she carried herself that caught my eye. Tall and stunning, she walked with a grace not often seen on an university campus. I watched her find her seat as I adjusted sound equipment. I was too busy to see her again. It would be later that I would remember the way she wore the long green velvet dress to perfection.

It was not until I slipped quietly into a trumpet recital ten days later that I remembered this unknown beauty. There she was, again, sitting in front of me, three seats to my right. For the first time in my life, my heart was too full to absorb the music. I sat through the entire performance with my eyes wide open and my heart preoccupied. Instead of walking home and enjoying the evening, I ran home with my heart afire.

The unknown beauty became all consuming to me. Persistently, I sought her identity. I scoured lists of attendees and donors to music department events thinking perhaps her name would jump off the typed page. I looked through office snapshots  of events hoping to catch a glimpse of her likeness in one of the pictures. I began to ask innocuous questions to my classmates, seeking some answer to her identity. No one seemed to know the woman I described. She consumed my thoughts by day and my dreams at night.

In the end, a fellow music student suggested I look through the university's yearbooks. I set myself up at an obscure table in the university library with a stack of yearbooks. Minutes turned into hours as I turned page after page looking at tiny images seeking the face that would give me a name. Three books into my search, in a yearbook from five years before, I found her. Elizabeth Ashley, and she was a freshman, music major. Her picture was in the next year's book as well. I photocopied the pages and returned the books to the librarian.

With a name and a picture, I was armed for discovery. I set out to find this beauty named Elizabeth Ashley. I asked around the music department again. It is quite amazing the difference a name  and a picture make. I soon had answers to many of my questions concerning this woman of my dreams  I learned that most called her Liz. She started as a major in music and dropped out of school when she married Dr. Robert Bower, associate professor of business ethics.

While everyone spoke highly of Liz and had great memories of her, they did not say the same of her husband. In discovering who Liz was, I also discovered that her husband was the punch line to many jokes on campus. Apparently, Dr. Bower only taught ethics; he did not live them. He had quite an infatuation with younger, single women on campus and made no attempt to hide his escapades.

My infatuation with Dr. Bower's beautiful wife stopped just short of actually stalking her. While I did seek information about her, I never acted upon any of it. For the time being, I was content to dream.

On a warm afternoon in July, I made a last minute decision to attend the Summer Faculty Recital alone. I had simply forgotten to look for a date. I knew several beautiful women who I could have asked. None of them, though, could compare to the lovely Liz in my mind. It seemed easier to go alone and hope for a glimpse of her. I am still not sure why, but I also made the last minute decision to drive to the event, rather than run or take a cab.

chapter 6

Remembering opens wounds and peels back scabs. It hurts. I have lived life long enough to recognize the pain. This is the pain I know best. Laying aside the piles I have created, I  quietly rise from the recliner. It is time to run.

I often run at night. I have groomed trails through the acres of woods I own here at my mountain retreat. Not wanting to wake Grace, I slip quietly down the hallway to my room to get a jacket and shoes. Bear hears me and lifts his head. He knows. I think he looks forward to our runs as much as I do. Neither of us can get enough. Some days we run two or three times a day, other days not at all.

Bear leaves his post by Grace long enough to accompany me for a romp through the woods. Grace is accustomed to my strange habits. She knows I sleep little and move much. She also knows that running is what empties my mind. She has stood on the sidelines of more than one marathon, and she has watched me run until I have nothing left.

I pray best when I am running hard. Prayer has never been a passive activity for me. I am learning to pray without ceasing as the Apostle Paul admonishes. I find it harder than I ever imagined.  My prayers tend to be restless wanderings. My conversations with God do not begin in quiet. Instead, my feet pound the ground, my heart beats my chest, and my words bombard the Throne of Grace. My mind races releasing a torrent of words. My soul cries out to my Creator God... the One who knows me best and loves me most.

Bear and I choose our favorite trail. We will circle around the south side of the house and run up the ridge. This trail has the most wildlife, and Bear cannot get enough of all of the delicious smells to his canine nose. I like it best because of the incline. When I finish the 3 mile trek, I will be tired. In daylight hours, the view from the ridge is breathtaking. Tonight the moon lights our way, and the view is layers of shadows.

Bear takes a quick left as our feet pound the path. He dashes down to the ravine chasing an opossum. Thankfully, it is not a skunk this time. I stay on the trail knowing he will find me soon. Rarely do we run the entire trail together. He takes shortcuts at times and the scenic route other times. I rarely vary. We make great running partners. He runs his way. I run mine.

Twenty minutes later, we meet up at the old beech tree a hundred yards or so from the house. Bear's tongue hangs out and his sides heave. The light of the moon catches the glint in his eyes. He loves this as much as I do.

Tonight, I do not run to forget. I run to remember. I walk the remaining yards to the house, my breath and heart rate slowly returning to normal. My mind is a million miles and twenty-two years away....

~*~

I noticed, and I wondered. He seemed a little too arrogant and a tad bit too proud. Her smile seemed forced and her posture tensed. This was not at all what I thought I would see as I waited for Dr. and Mrs. Robert Bower to arrive. I expected the typical conceited college professor waltzing in with his beautiful wife dangling alluringly on his arm. Instead, I saw a man forcing a smile and a wife hiding tears. She looked up, and I saw her eyes. It has been said that those who experience pain in life are quick to recognize it in others. The pain that she wore was barely camouflaged by the exquisite dress, flawless make-up, and sparkling jewelry. As they found their seats, I wondered what he did to hurt her.

I could not lose myself in the music, and the music was flawless. The faculty members who performed were masters of their own instruments. They performed original compositions. The music was some of the best ever. The setting was perfect, the music incredible, and the total event so much more than the simple term "recital." I missed most of it as the haunting vision of those pain filled eyes filled my mind.

Finally, the cellist finished with one long note hanging on the summer breeze. The applause faded and those attending stood to enjoy champagne and hors d'oeuvres. She stood alone. I cannot justify what happened next. I have questioned myself a million times or more over the years since that night, and I have never been able to explain why I walked through seven rows of folding chairs to reach her just as she reached for a flute of champagne.

Walking toward the one who had taken up residence in my dreams, I watched her move with ease and grace as she sought something to occupy her time. Obviously left alone by her wandering husband, she seemed preoccupied. She later told me that the music had moved her so deeply, she was not aware of her closeness to the waiter who held the tray of champagne flutes. When she turned to take one, she took them all... all down the front of her lovely gown.

"I'm sorry!" She squeaked. "I'm so sorry!"

"Leaving so soon?" I asked. She looked up at me. The pain that she had so carefully stuffed under earlier in the evening came out in hot tears of complete embarrassment.

"Excuse me," she muttered, pushing past me. "Really, I must go."

"Would you care for me to find Dr. Bower for you?" I asked. My mouth seemed to take on a mind of its own and before I could think it through, I was offering to find the man I was beginning to despise.

"You know him?"

"Yes, but not personally." I answered, momentarily losing control of my mouth. "I only know of him. He's a bit of a legend on campus."

A flash of her eyes, and I knew I had crossed a line. Deep sadness quickly replaced my moment of anger.

"I'm sorry, that was callous. I didn't mean to make fun of your pain. May I offer you a ride home?"

“No,” she began to cry again. “Please don't bother Robert. I'm sure he is presently occupied. I will just take a cab. I want to go home.”

“Please, let me give you a ride. It will be faster than waiting for a cab on a Saturday night, and it will make me feel better for being so insensitive,” I responded, wanting nothing more than to rescue the fair maiden who stood dripping wet before me.

“No, really,” Liz cried. “I just want to go home.”

“Come,” I took her hand. “I will take you. By the way, my name is Rob.”

“Did you say 'Rob'?” she stammered.

“Yes,” I smiled at her shocked expression. “I have the dubious distinction of sharing a given name with your husband. However, I do prefer to be called 'Rob'.”

To this day, I have no justification for volunteering to drive her home. I am just glad I did. It is one of the few things I have never regretted.

chapter 7

I lean against the marble kitchen counter and slowly sip a glass of water while my body cools off. It feels good to bring my temperature down slowly, and I savor the feeling of the water refreshing from the inside while the counter cools off my warm skin on the outside.

Bear, on the other hand, does not know the meaning of the word "slowly." Instead, he rushes in, pushing past me to get to his water dish. He slurps and gulps. He makes a lot of noise and a big mess. When he has gotten his fill, he shakes the excess water from his canine lips and saunters off to his spot in the doorway of Grace's suite. He has left me to mop up his mess and refill his water dish.

Much like Bear, I lived many years assuming others would mop up the messes I left behind and refill that which I spent  recklessly. Watching Bear leave the kitchen, I am suddenly very aware of messes that I left behind more times than I care to count. In my mind, I see them-- a myriad of faces-- those left in the wake  of my restless and reckless living. I see them through my mind's eye, and I wonder what they think of me. Do they despise me for using them? Do they resent cleaning up after me?  Mostly I wonder, did I even know their names?

God is using my four-legged friend to grant me a clearer picture of the way I have lived my life. The analogy only holds up on one side, though. Just like Bear, I have expected others to clean up after me. However, my dog is so much more than I ever have been. He is loving, compassionate, and fun. Most of all, he's a faithful friend to any and all.

Reaching for the towel hanging on the hook next to the sink, I bend low to wipe the floor after Bear's slight shower. There, I see drops of water shimmering in the low light. The parquet floor is sprinkled with iridescent drops. I am lost in the remembering again. I am taken back to another wood floor a world away and a few shimmering drops of champagne that fell off a ruined evening gown....

~*~

"Let me get that door for you," I offered, practically running to the passenger side of the car.

The ride to the Bower residence had been one of silence, though not totally uncomfortable. Quiet tears continued to fall down Elizabeth's face. While driving the side streets along the university, I pondered the beauty next to me. How did my dreams suddenly become my reality? Not knowing what to say to the one I had admired from afar, I wisely chose to stay quiet. Her hand motions navigated the way until I stopped the car in front of a stately old home that had been made into an apartment facility.

I followed Elizabeth up the sidewalk and to her apartment door. Even at the time, I wondered what I thought I was doing. I was finally alone with the woman who had inhabited my dreams for the past few months, and I was mesmerized.

Somewhere in my warped view of the world, I had always avoided dating married women. This was not because of any great sense of morality on my part. Instead, I am simply a coward. I never wanted to involve myself with the risks of a husband or children. Walking with Elizabeth, I realized that there's nothing like a damsel-in-distress to make even the most cowardly rise up in an attempt to be a knight in shining armor.

With a key in her shaky hand, Elizabeth opened her apartment door and stepped in. She neither invited me in nor did she bid me adieu. Instead of turning on a light, she turned to me.

"Would you please help me with my shoes?" she asked.

Her shoes were the last thing on my mind. In all my dreams of her, I had never imagined her so beautiful as she was standing in the dusky doorway with a stained gown and a few last champagne drops dripping from her hair to the floor.

"Elizabeth," I said stooping down to unbuckle the tiny straps that held her shoes to her feet.

"Call me Liz," she stated.

"Liz," I continued, staring at the tiny drops of champagne gathered around her shoes. "What about Dr. Bower?

"Oh, Robert?" she questioned. "Don't worry about him.  I'm sure he's currently pre-occupied."

"I should leave," I stammered, standing to see her deep blue gaze.

"Stay."

She led the way into her home. For the first time, ever, I was playing a game of follow-the-leader, and I was not leading. I was not the one calling the shots, nor was I in charge of the game. This was her game being played by her rules. Being acutely aware that I was a pawn did nothing to deter me from playing along.

When the slow game ended, some three hours later, she showed me to the door. Never, in all that time, did she even show a glimpse of being afraid that her husband would walk into his own home to find me there. Instead, it was as if she wished he would. I got the distinct impression I was her conquest. A trophy that she would not mind showing off if given the opportunity.

Liz was a study in contradictions for me. She played the part of the damsel-in-distress flawlessly while directing the entire event. She did not fear her husband finding me in his home. She was completely in charge. The champagne spill may have been an  accident but nothing else was. Liz took advantage of a circumstance and planned on hurting her husband at his very game.

"Rob," she said, calmly, walking me to the door. "Thank you for offering to drive me home tonight. Please know that while I had no intentions of leaving the recital with anyone but my husband, I'm not sorry for tonight. I enjoyed this time with you more than you will ever know. However, I have a son who needs his father more than I need my husband. Therefore, I am asking you to never mention our time together again. As far as I am concerned, you will never see me again. And, if you do, I will be as a stranger to you. I will not acknowledge you or act as if I know you. Regardless, you can rest assured I will never forget you and your kindness tonight."

While she was delivering the eulogy to an incredible night together, Liz ushered me out the door and shut it behind me. I heard the deadbolt lock turn in its cradle. I had been dismissed. Finally, I had been treated in the same manner that I had treated many. Bewildered, I slowly walked to my car. How could my heart be light and heavy at the same time? How could I have just spent the best night of my life with an incredible woman and leave her presence feeling used? How could I never see her again?

chapter 8

I blink hot. Water and tears blend together in my post-run shower and stream down my face. Leaning heavily against the marble shower wall, I let it flow. These memories bring the tears as remembering is still new to my heart. For so many years, I blocked out memories...the good, the bad, and the ugly. I did not know then that the pain can be good just as it can be bad.

Just as nightly runs are Bear's and my routine so is my cold midnight shower. This is my thinking time. It has become my remembering time too. Since Liz's passing, my nightly routine also includes tears.

There have been days when I have had no tears left and other days when I longed to cry and no tears would come. With Liz's death came permission to grieve and consent to cry. Liz gave this authorization last summer. "Tears do not emasculate, Rob. Grieve. It's what your heart needs." At that time, she was referring to the things in my deep past that left me deeply wounded. Tonight, her words ring in my mind as I grieve the void in my heart. I have spent my life grieving in one form or another. Thanks to Liz, I am finally learning that grief can lead to forgiveness. Remembering leads me through the process of forgiving and letting go.

Making my way back to the great room, I lay a few logs on the dying embers. It is time to take up the piles of letters again. This next letter from Liz is the one that caused me to lay the letters down and run for a while. Though it hurts to read, this woman who was first my lover and later my friend amazes me.

When I first read this letter from Liz, I was devastated. I smile now. That summer so long ago, I convinced myself she was the only woman I would ever love. Liz knew the truth. She knew that I only wanted that which I could not have. What she did not know, though, was that I never considered her a conquest. Instead, when I left her presence that night, I left defeated.

Dear Rob,

You often refer to how wonderful you think I am. Last night, during our phone conversation, you even called me brave.

Honestly, Rob, I am anything but brave. Truly, I am scared little girl at heart since I have put off writing this letter for over a month. However, these words need to be said.

When we first met at the bistro months ago, I asked you to forgive me for that night we shared. I also took full responsibility for it. What I didn't tell you, though, was that when you left, you took a piece of my heart with you.

In hindsight, if I were truly brave or even slightly courageous, perhaps I would have acted on the feelings I had. Instead, I cowered from you, from Robert, and from life. I even went so far as to ask you to pretend you didn't know me if we were ever to meet up again.

Though I loath to admit it now, Robert had an emotional death grip on me. He craved power. Robert thought he would have influence and power when his name began with "doctor." When that didn't satisfy, he thought he would have influence and power

over my wealth when I said, "I do." Thankfully, my father was wiser than I. When Robert and I arrived home at the Estate for the week of our wedding, my dad had a prenuptial agreement prepared and sitting on his desk. He gave Robert two choices. He could sign or he could leave.

While that prenuptial agreement protected my wealth, it did nothing to protect my mind and heart. I readily agreed to marry Robert thinking I was going to live happily ever after. That illusion lasted until we arrived in Italy for our honeymoon. On our first night together, Robert laughed at my inexperience. From then on,  he never ceased to remind me of how pathetic I was.

Our entire marriage has been a facade. I learned quickly to pretend well and hide the pain. Thankfully, the type of wounds Robert dished out didn't show. I didn't have to hide bruises or broken bones. If I pasted a smile on my face and pretended to be happy, no one could see the damage done to my heart. I became an expert at my own charade. Even Kris and Dan didn't realize the extent of the damage my heart bore.

Rob, I wish I knew the words to tell you how many times

I've wanted my life to be different. There was a time I even wished that I could have left Robert to be with you. To me, you were everything he wasn't. You were kind, compassionate, and slow. At least, that is what was I let myself believe for those few hours.

It was when you asked me about Mark's crib as you walked to the door that I knew my life couldn't be different. Mark is the most important person in this sordid tale to me. Robert was extremely jealous of Mark and would have done anything to use him to hurt me. In fact, I am confident that Robert has never found out about my time with you. If he had, he would have divorced me and taken Mark with him. There is no way I was willing to risk that loss. I also saw the look in your eye when you saw that crib. You wanted me, Rob, not my son. I always wondered if your attraction to me was because I belonged to another.

So you see, Rob, I am not brave. If I would have had even an ounce of courage, I would have taken Mark and Jenny and used my money to hire a brilliant divorce attorney. I would have left you and Robert behind. You both used me, though for different purposes. I was a captive to Robert and a conquest to you. Perhaps the bravest thing I ever did, though, was to use you in return.

Any ounce of courage that you might have perceived that night left three weeks later when I figured out that I was pregnant. I spent eight agonizing months wondering who had fathered this child--you or Robert. In that despair, I surrendered courage. I opted instead to live in a hellish depression that I brought upon myself. I only wish I would have known then what I know now. Jesus came to free the sinner and the broken-hearted. As it was, I simply existed in my own bondage not knowing that it would have been less painful to simply confess my fears to Robert and take whatever wrath he would have doled out.

I cannot express the joy I had when Jenny was born. As soon as I saw the birthmark on her foot, my heart relaxed. In his fit of rage and the one time Robert physically hurt me, he also gave me one of my greatest gifts. I didn't think my heart could love anyone as much as I loved Mark until Kris placed Jenny in my arms. In that moment, I was complete as a mother. My heart needed nothing more from Robert... ever.

It doesn't take courage or bravery to live a lie and much of my life has been just that... a lie. I've been what everyone else wants me to be rather than to be true to myself. I have been the dutiful daughter to my parents, the meek and mild wife to Robert, and the attainable conquest to you. The only true and honest relationships I have are to Kris and to my children.

Rob, you called me brave on the phone last night, and I'm about to turn that back on you. I refuse to live the lie any more. If you and I are to be friends, as you have requested, we can no longer live in the past. With this letter, I am burying what happened between us all those years ago. I am finally breaking free of expectations of me, including yours. I will gladly pursue a friendship with you of letters and phone calls... nothing more.

Liz

~*~

I drove home from Liz's that summer night in a dazed stupor. Sleep was elusive. Instead of returning to my dreams of a woman named Elizabeth Ashley, I put on running shorts and shoes  and hit the streets. I ran fast. I ran hard. I ran until I had nothing left in me and then ran some more. I ran to run away from the memories and the questions that plagued my mind. I ran to forget.

When I could physically run no more, I walked home. The sun rose over the horizon, and I hardly noticed, nor did I notice other runners just starting out on their morning jogs. I did not see those commuters on their way to another day's work. I moved about without seeing the world around me.

I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep on the cool floor of my apartment. I slept through the day never bothering to call into work. When I woke at dusk, I ate and ran again. For a week, this was my cycle. I ran to forget and, when I could run no more, I slept to forget some more. The more I tried to forget, the better I remembered.

It took me a week to return to some semblance of normal living. I returned to my jobs. All but one of my employers let me back, forgiving me for the days missed. I did not complain. The odds of two out of three was good enough for me. As soon as I clocked out, I continued to run hard, fast, and long. For the  remainder of that summer, I avoided women and set music aside.               Music was my greatest undoing. It reminded me of how I found Liz. I feared that music would drive my soul to the place of forgoing my personal promise to Liz that I would not contact her again. I convinced myself that I loved her enough to do just that. For weeks, I avoided all music.

Fall semester brought the last two classes I needed to complete the course requirements for a double major in music and  business. The one thing I was lacking for graduation, though, was an internship. In order to complete the stipulations set out in the university's course handbook, I needed one internship that would cover both fields. Essentially, I needed to find an internship with a music producer, and until I did so, I could not graduate and move on with my life. The biggest problem was that I had no idea where to find a music producer who needed an intern as much as I needed an internship.

As Fate (or so I then believed) would have it, I met someone who led me to the internship of a lifetime. On the first day of fall semester, I walked into a class entitled "Workplace Ethics and Relationships." At the time of scheduling, no professor

had been assigned to this class. Had I known who would be teaching it, I think I would have dropped the class and delayed graduation. Instead, I met Dr. Robert Bower face to face.

"Good morning. Before class begins I would like to inform this class of an internship opportunity. Just yesterday, I was contacted by a friend in the music business. He needs someone this week. If anyone is interested in relocating to Nashville, Tennessee,  see me after class. As for the rest of you, welcome to this fall course entitled "Workplace Ethics and Relationships." As long as you participate in class discussion and complete the course requirements, I am quite confident we will get along just splendidly," Dr. Robert Bower stated from the assembly hall podium.

Granted, I was already slightly prejudiced, but this first introduction to Dr. Bower did nothing to endear me to him. However, I was very interested in this internship. As Robert Bower continued his lecture, I contemplated a quick move to Tennessee. For the first time in weeks, I was excited. I could move out of town to get away from Liz and the memories of that incredible night together. I could also avoid taking this class with her husband.  It

seemed like a tailor made opportunity. I spent the entire lecture checking things off an imaginary list in my head to get out of town by the weekend. When the rest of the students filed out of the classroom at the end of Dr. Bower's first lecture, I made my way to the lectern.

"I'm interested in that internship you mentioned," I stated as soon as Dr. Bower looked up to see me approaching.

"Are you a business major?" he asked.

"Yes, double, business and music," I replied.

"What's your name?" he asked, with more interest.

"Rob. Rob Adams." I replied.

"Well, Rob, why don't you meet me in my office in thirty minutes, and we will go over the specifics," he stated, packing up his briefcase.

"That won't work with my schedule," I retorted. "I'm sure the specifics are fine. If you could just give me the contact information, I will call for an interview myself."

"You are an independent sort, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Great. I think you are just what Clark is looking for. Here

is his number. When you call him, be sure to mention that I gave you his number and that I think you are just what he is looking for."

"I will. Thanks." I took the phone number from Dr. Bower as soon as he finished writing it on a note card for me. "Clark  Whitman. The Clark Whitman of the Whitman's Lone Star music label?"

"Yes. He and I were in college years ago. We spent the entire time drinking and chasing girls together. He's the lucky one. Never tied himself to one woman and never got married." He paused to reminisce. "Anyway, he's very successful, and I'm sure if you have what it takes, you will be successful as well. Best of luck!"

"Yeah.  Thanks." I turned to leave, thrilled for a new opportunity. I was equally thrilled that my time in the presence of Dr. Robert Bower had come to an end.

"Rob?" he asked.

"Yes?" I answered, without turning around.

"Have we met before?"

"No, sir," I said as I exited the room. "I'm quite certain we have never met."

I heard him reply. I kept walking away from the man I  despised in my heart.

chapter 9

Even after all these years, memories of Dr. Robert Bower make my blood pressure rise. Taking a few deep breaths, I have to remind myself that this is Mark and Jenny's father. Regardless of my personal feelings for the man, I must respect their feelings for the man that abdicated his paternal role.

The irony in all of it? While he might have abdicated his role as father in their lives, he certainly did not relinquish any role in my life. I marvel that after accepting the internship, I did not walk away from Robert Bower like I thought I did. Instead, I unexpectedly wandered into the very world in which he was a primary player. I saw him several times over the years. Dr. Bower took a personal interest in the music production world. For reasons that remain unknown, he took a deep interest in me and my accomplishments.

Apparently, Robert had developed quite a web of informants that kept him apprised of my business and personal affairs. A few years ago, a mutual friend finally told me about Robert's interest in me. I find Dr. Bower an enigma. The very man I hated and vowed to avoid was the one man most interested in my career.  I wondered why I was such a fascination to him.

I saw Robert occasionally at events, parties, fund-raisers, and conferences. In time, I avoided certain parties knowing full well that Robert Bower would be in attendance and would be in full form. My extensive knowledge of "the life and times of Dr. Robert Bower" came from those events. I would die a thousand deaths before I would reveal these secrets to Mark and Jenny. A year ago, Liz left me no choice but to tell her all. She allowed no questions to remain unanswered.

In her last months, Liz talked much of Robert. She often told me how she found freedom when she forgave him. She wanted to know everything I knew, not because she wanted to hold it against him, but because she wanted her death to be free of bitterness.

"The key to faith, Rob," she started one late night over the telephone line, "is to forgive. I have been forgiven much by my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Who am I to withhold forgiveness from someone else?"

She often said things like that. Things that skipped over the topic at hand and went straight to my heart. Even these weeks after her passing, her words ring loudly in my soul. Forgiveness seemed to be natural to Liz. I am the king of holding grudges. I cling  stubbornly to self-righteous indignation. Liz taught me that forgiveness cannot grow in a proud environment. I am still learning.

Watching the red, orange, and yellow flames dance in my fireplace, I contemplate the power of forgiveness. Forgiveness is as important to the one forgiving as it is to the forgiven... maybe more so. I do not have to forgive Dr. Robert Bower for his sake. My forgiveness will not change him. It will change me. His children  will come tomorrow. I will tell them my part in the greater story of their mother's life. I cannot let my own bitterness mar her story. Only, I do not know how to surrender to forgiveness when I think of the man who destroyed so much of Liz's life and her children's lives.

Liz knew. She wanted me to know. This was the first lesson Liz taught me on forgiveness. I am still learning. I am still so new to all of this. I find myself forgiving some and holding closely to bitterness for others. Why? I do not know. Thankfully, I eventually learned Who to turn to when my own bitterness suffocates... the One that Liz knew too. The One that has forgiven me of much.

Dear Rob,

I know I just sent a letter, and here I am writing another. I mailed that letter this morning after walking the kids to the bus stop. Just as soon as I dropped it in the slot and heard it slide down, I wished I could retrieve it and start over. And, now, here I am wondering how to set the record straight.

No, I do not wish to recant everything I wrote last night. I simply feel as if I only told you half of the story. I can only imagine that some of what I wrote caused you pain. I am sorry. I promise you, that was not my intent. Writing that letter stirred up emotions that I thought I had laid to rest.

What I shared in that letter was all true. However, I really don't spend my days dwelling on the hurts of the past. This is the part I inadvertently left off... I found forgiveness. I found forgiveness the moment I surrendered to the love of Jesus Christ. He has forgiven me much, and it is this love I have from Him that allows me to forgive.

I know that it bothers you to listen to my "religious talk" as you call it. Trust me, please, when I say that I am not writing this second letter to bother you more. I simply need to tell you the rest of my story and the joy and freedom that forgiveness brings.

While the emotion of the past is still a part of me, the bitterness no longer has a hold of my heart. I'm sure that my letter from last night says otherwise, huh? I am not perfect, and I still have moments of bitterness toward my parents, toward Robert, toward you, and toward myself. However, Christ has forgiven me. His forgiveness frees me to forgive as well. When I confess my bitterness to Him and ask His forgiveness, His Spirit floods my soul with freedom from the bondage of the past. It's in this freedom that I have chosen to live.

Rob, I cannot continue without asking your forgiveness for any pain that letter caused you. I am sorry for allowing the bitterness to creep in. I have forgiven Robert, you, and even myself for the hurts of the past. Would you please forgive me for the pain I have caused you?

I would love to tell you more of my journey to forgiveness and perhaps we can talk about that soon. In the meantime, I pray that you will forgive me, and I pray that you will find the freedom of forgiveness for yourself.

Warmly,

Liz

~*~

"Mr. Whitman?" an attractive twenty-something flashed me a bright smile as she buzzed her employer. "A Rob Adams is here for his 10 a.m. appointment with you."

"Send him in, Melissa. Send him in!"

"If you will follow me," she stood revealing her short skirt and killer legs, "I will show you to Mr. Whitman's office."

Unfortunately, it was a short walk to the office of Clark Whitman. Old habits die hard, and I made a mental note to visit the lovely Melissa again.

"Come in! Come in," Clark Whitman boomed in a Southern drawl as Melissa opened the door for me. "Thank you, Melissa."

"Clark Whitman," he said, extending his hand to me. "And, you are Rob Adams? Robert has told me much about you."

The day I met Clark Whitman, I realized that my idea of the music mogul was not even close to the man who stood before me. I had seen pictures of him and an occasional TV interview. Somehow, though, I had missed noticing the actual size of this man with the commanding personality that stood before me. At six-three and approximately 275 pounds, his presence filled the spacious room he called his personal office. All six-one and 190  pounds of me felt dwarfed in his presence.

"Have a seat, Son. Have a seat," Clark Whitman waved to a leather sofa and matching chairs arranged off to the side of his

huge office. I took one of the chairs, and he lowered his ample body on to the sofa. It was then I noticed the dark brown western-cut suit, bolo tie, and cowboy boots. I wondered how this cowboy ended up in Nashville, Tennessee.

"Well, now," he continued, "I know what my friend, Robert Bower, has told me about you. If you can live up to half of all the accolades I heard, we'll do fine. We'll do fine. But, I'd like to hear from you. Why don't you tell me a bit about you."

I recognized Clark Whitman's attempts at intimidation... his commanding presence, the opulence of his office, his annoying habit of repeating himself, and his demeaning way of calling me "son." It was when he looked at me and said, "If you can live up to half of all the accolades I heard, we'll do fine," that I realized that Mr. Whitman, and I had one thing to reconcile. I would either make it on my own merit or not make it at all.

Leaning forward in my leather seat, I looked Clark Whitman in the eye and replied, "Actually, you've apparently heard all about me. Why don't you tell me more about Clark Whitman and the Whitman's Lone Star music label?"

In a flash, I watched Clark's eyes turn dark. Being the consummate professional that he was, though, he quickly recovered and laughed his trademark booming laugh. I later discovered that I was the very first interviewee to turn the tables on the legendary Clark Whitman. I also discovered this was what got me the job.

"Let me give you a tour of the landscape," Clark boomed opening his office door for me. Soon, we stopped at the lovely Melissa's receptionist desk.

"Melissa," he began. "I give you the honor of being the first to welcome Rob Adams to the Whitman's Lone Star team."

"Welcome aboard," she grinned. "We're glad to have you."

"Thanks. I'm glad to be here," I smiled back walking on with Clark.

Though Melissa was great to look at, my heart was still deeply wounded by the night with Liz. I made no attempt to flirt with Melissa or secure her telephone number. Instead, I followed Clark through the massive office building committing names and faces to memory. None were as lovely as the receptionist at the

front desk.

As Clark took me through the building and introduced me to his entire staff, my heart wrestled with the unfamiliar response I had toward Melissa. As I shook hands and memorized faces and names, I did some soul searching. In the end, Clark Whitman offered me an internship, a job, and more money than I could comprehend. The best I could offer my wounded heart was the consolation prize that maybe someday Melissa would help me forget Liz.

I settled into the staff at Whitman's Lone Star. Though Clark Whitman ran a tight ship, he also fostered a creative atmosphere. Business dress was only required for certain events. The remaining time, we were allowed to dress in whatever made us comfortable and gave us creative freedom. Needless to say, tee shirts, jeans, and sandals were seen daily.

I worked up the corporate ladder quickly spending my weekends in local bars looking for new recruits. Most bars offered "open mic" nights on Fridays and Saturdays. This is where those who dream of a music career show up. It was at one such place,

Big Ben's, that I found my first recruit, Jessie Matlock. Jessie had all it took to make it big in Nashville. I was thrilled to be the one to introduce her to Clark and the Whitman's Lone Star label.

Clark promoted me from technician to agent and producer for Jessie. I booked her summer tour and Jessie recorded her first album. Within just a few months, she and I traveled the county fair circuit, where she performed, and I collected. It was a great gig. Just the two of us were on the open road in one of Clark's rigs.

The greatest thing of being an up-and-coming music star is that few people recognize you. Jessie and I would arrive at a county fair early in the day. Parking the RV next to the grandstand, we wandered the fairgrounds incognito. In cut-offs, a t-shirt, pigtails, and sunglasses, few recognized the summer star who wore sequins and fringes on stage. We roamed the midway, rode the Ferris Wheel, and ate cotton candy. We rated county fairs not on how many attended Jessie's concert, but by how good the view was at the top of the Ferris Wheel. To our knowledge, no one but the carnival workers ever recognized us.

After a few hours of rides and fair food, we would sneak

back into the RV for a shower. Jessie prepped for her show, and I fielded telephone calls to check on ticket sales and last minute details for future shows. Jessie's concerts were flawless, and she would tirelessly sign autographs and pose for photographs. She did not stop performing until the last fan left, usually after the midway closed and the fair gates were locked. Climbing back into the RV and locking the door, we crashed for a few hours before leaving for the next stop. We stopped for gas, groceries, and laundry as needed.

It was one of those summers you never want to end. I found myself happy and content. I was traveling, making great money, and spending every day with a beautiful woman. I even convinced myself that maybe I was finally over Liz and falling in love.

"Who is she, Rob?" Jessie asked early one morning as I drove out of the fairgrounds camping area.

"Who is who?" The sun had just come over the horizonand the first two cups of coffee had not quite reached my bloodstream.

Jessie did not answer my question right away. Instead, she

watched through the side window as we drove through the town to  get to the interstate. By the time I reached the east bound lane of the interstate, I had forgotten her question.

"Who is she?" She asked again.

"I don't know who you are talking about," I answered. "Will you get me another cup of coffee?" I handed her my empty coffee cup.

"I guess so," Jessie mumbled. Thankfully, the early morning traffic was light as she stood. She held on to the ceiling and to the edge of the small kitchen counter as she made her way to the travel coffee pot that was attached to the underside of the cupboard.

"I want to know who the woman is that I compete with," she stated, as she set my coffee cup back in the cup holder.

"Honey, you are a star in your own right. You don't compete with anyone. You are the only gig I have right now.

Thanks for the refill."

"You are welcome for the refill." She sat back down and

stretched her feet onto the dashboard. She turned to me, "I don't compete with anyone on my stage. I compete with someone in your bed. Who is she?"

I wish I were man enough to deny Jessie's claim. Instead, I  had no answer. We were on our way to the last summer show, and my gig was up. I may have convinced myself that I was falling in love with Jessie, but she saw right through my act.

After her last performance of the tour, I gave in. I told Jessie about my one night with Liz and the best three hours of my life. She listened quietly and said nothing when I finished.  Instead, she took her pillow and moved to the couch. A few hours later, another morning broke over the horizon as we drove back to Nashville. The best summer of my life had just come to an end.

chapter 10

Setting Liz's letters down, I walk over to the stereo. I have accumulated shelves and shelves of CDs over the years. I still prefer to listen to compact disc, than listen to a digital device. I find it fulfilling to listen to an entire CD of an artist. Musicians put all their effort into each single song that goes on an album, and each song on a CD sheds a bit of light into the heart and soul of the artist. However, listeners tend to skip over two-thirds of the album just to hear their favorite singles.

I have an entire cabinet filled with CDs and an entire shelf dedicated to Jessie's albums. She autographed them all. If someone were to ask me who my favorite artist is, there would be no hesitation. Jessie is my favorite, but not because I discovered her or because of that first tour together. Instead, it is because she is still my friend after all these years. All of Jesse's albums are filled with beautiful music. However, her latest Christmas album tops my list of "favorite Jessie music." The entire album is old Christmas hymns that Jessie recorded in an abandoned church. The only accompaniment is her guitar and the acoustics in the old building are amazing. I find it hauntingly beautiful. I slide the CD in, and soon the sounds of Jessie signing "It Came Upon A Midnight Clear" fill the room.

Jessie Matlock--my first discovery. That summer, so long ago, launched her into a successful, lifelong career in country music. One of the great pitfalls of discovering the next big artist is that you are expected to be able to do that over and over again. When we returned, Clark assigned Jessie a new album and a first Christmas album. She spent her days with writers and musicians and her evenings in the recording studio. I spent my days booking Jessie's first big tour and my evenings searching for the next big star. Though nothing was ever said, it took just a few weeks to grow apart. I was still her agent and producer, and I worked hard to promote her, but the magic of the summer was over. Jessie moved out, and I renewed my relationship with the bottle as I sat night after night enduring horrible performances waiting for my next discovery.

If that ten-week tour was a high-point in my life, the autumn after we returned had to be one of the lowest. How many alcoholics can find a particular point on the timeline of their life when they reached the point of no return? Without a doubt, I can. As the weeks progressed, I spent more and more of my time drinking my life away on the hunt for a rising star. I heard every karaoke rendition of Kenny Roger's "The Gambler" and Tammy Wynette's "Stand By Your Man." No one was worthy of a mere mention to Clark or anyone else at Whitman's Lone Star. The hunt for the next star became an excuse to hide out in bars and drink until I had no recollection and then to go home and sleep it off. The fear of missing the next big talent is what got me out of bed to start the entire process over day after day. The fact that I could function well on a hangover kept most from ever being aware of my extensive drinking.

To this day, I am not sure if Clark reached out a helping hand to me because he truly cared for me or if it was because he hoped I could pull another star out of oblivion. Regardless of the reason, my boss went out of his way at the company Christmas party that year to reach into my drunkenness and extend a bit of holiday cheer.

I listen as Jessie's sweet voice sings, "It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth, to touch their harps of gold, peace on the earth, goodwill toward men... ." I listen and I read

Dear Rob,

Thank you for the laughs last night. More importantly, thank you for forgiveness. I was so afraid that whatever friendship we've forged was ruined by my hastily sent letter. The forgiveness that you extended on the phone last night was one of the greatest gifts you could have given me. I appreciate you.

You asked a tough question last night. Even though I evaded the issue and changed the subject often, I do want to give you an answer. You asked if I was lonely. I can honestly say, I'm not. While it is hard to parent alone, and I sometimes find myself wishing it could be different, I am not lonely because I am not alone. My days spent as Mark and Jenny's mother fulfill me in a way that I cannot describe. Kris is the sister I longed to share the secrets of my heart with as a child, and when I need a man around the house to fix a leaky faucet or to replace a screen on a window, I borrow Dan for that. Even my relationship with my parents has changed. They are an integral part of my life and are deeply committed to me and the kids. My life is full, and I am richly blessed with my family.

I wonder if you were asking if I am lonely without a  marriage partner with whom I can share life and life's journey. Even in this, I am fulfilled and content. My relationship with Jesus fills that hole that my marriage to Robert couldn't fill. I looked to Robert for the storybook fairytale. I wanted him to save me from the disappointments that I had experienced in life. I wanted him to be my savior and make my life complete. Looking back, this was an unfair expectation to place on a mere mortal, especially one who already suffered from a god complex.

I'm not sure this was the answer you were looking for, but it is the entire truth. I did not choose this path for my life, but I am content with where I am. It is good.

Rob, I continue to pray for you,

Liz

So many of Liz's letters made no sense to me when I first received them. She talked freely and openly about God and Jesus. It was the way she talked of Him that grabbed my attention most. It was obvious she thought more of Him than just "the old man in the sky." I did not understand her relationship with Him or her letters. There was much in my life that I did not understand, including my own pain.

~*~

"Well now, Son,"  Clark's booming Texas drawl announced his coming as he sauntered up to me. "Haven't seen much of you lately. How ya been?"

"Fine," came my terse reply. Clark's term of endearment for me grated my nerves. I was not his son and had often reminded him of that fact. However, Clark Whitman was a man who was very accustomed to saying and doing whatever he felt like. No amount of reminding on my part had ever changed the fact that he called me "son." I resisted the urge to remind him again.

"Not so much what I've heard lately," he said in a softer voice pointing to the drink in my hand. "Word has it that you've been hunting a little too hard, hiding out a little too long, and drinking a little too much."

Clark stopped and waited for my reply. Rather than grace him with one, I simply stood and waited for him to continue. The wait was not long. One sip on my martini, and he continued.

"I like you, Rob. You've done great things for the Whitman's Lone Star label by finding and promoting Jessie. Ya know, she gives all the credit to you. She can't stop telling me how great the summer tour was." He looked down at the floor. "In fact, she talks about you quite a bit."

Clark had my undivided attention. There is nothing like the male ego to seek out what ex-girlfriends have to say. I was

suddenly very curious as to the direction of this conversation.

"Now, just so you know," he locked eyes with mine, "I really don't care to know what went on between you two. I kind of live by the motto that what happens on the road, stays on the road. However, it seems to me that whatever happened when you got back is what has caused you to be drinking a touch too much."

"It's good," I said. "Really, I'm fine."

"Rob, I've seen too many good kids ruin themselves over the bottle. You have a lot going for you. Don't waste it."

"Thanks," I mumbled. "I will think about that, and, just so you know, Clark, there is nothing between Jessie and me. What happened on the road, stayed on the road."

"That's good, Son, real good." Clark's eyes scanned the party, and I soon saw his gaze rest on Jessie. "I've been seeing Miss Jessie outside of the office so to speak. She's real nice, and we may have a great future together. I think I'm going to send you on the road for a while just to help this fledgling relationship take flight."

"On the road?" I questioned."Yep! You are my new representative. I'm sending you to all the shows and conferences I

get invited to. You will go and represent Whitman's Lone Star music label, and, of course, represent me. You'll meet a ton of people, stay in five star hotels, and see the sights. It'll be good for you to get out of Dodge for a while."

"And if I don't want to go?"

"Now, now," Clark took a gulp of his drink. "I don't recollect asking you. I'm telling you. You can count on traveling often over the next six months. I know your best work and I expect your best work. You were at your best this summer promoting Jessie. I expect nothing less."

I hesitated. Clark's offer sounded amazing. I could travel, see the sights, and spend a few hours each day representing Whitman's Lone Star. The offer sounded perfect. What wasn't there to like about it?

"I'm not sure that I mentioned that you will be leaving in a week. I want you in Vegas over New Year's."

"Clark! Clark Whitman!" Just as Clark was sharing that bit of information with me, we heard a voice coming through the crowd. I turned in time to see Robert Bower approaching the two

of us.

"I'll go," I said to Clark as Dr. Bower approached.

"Clark!" Dr. Robert Bower approached Clark and extended his right hand for a handshake. On his left arm hung a young and beautiful brunette--obviously not his wife.

"Robert!" Clark shook his hand and said. "You remember  Rob Adams?"

"Of course! I believe I was the one who referred him to you. So glad it is working out for the both of you. Nice to see you again, Rob."

"Thank you," I answered. I looked at the young woman with Robert. "Is this Mrs. Bower?"

"Oh, heaven's no!" laughed Robert and Clark joined in. "Why on earth would I travel with my wife? She's home filling her duty with the children. That's why I keep her around, you know. She isn't much good for anything else. I'd introduce you to my friend here, but I can't remember her name."

Robert and Clark enjoyed a chuckle, and I felt sick to my stomach. I knowingly baited Dr. Bower with my flippant question about his wife, but I never expected him to respond so callously

about Liz. I handed my empty martini glass to Clark. Without a second thought, my right hand clenched and struck Robert's nose, and my left arm followed with a good jab to his eye.

"I will get the info from Melissa on Monday," I said, stepping over the fallen form of Robert Bower.

While those in attendance all flocked to the doctor lying on the floor, I turned to leave the party. Dazed and confused, Robert's date stood off to the side of the mayhem dazed. I offered her my arm and together we walked out the door and away from the Whitman's Lone Star Christmas party.

"I don't even know your name," I said while waving my hand to hail a cab.

"It's Sheri," she said quietly.

"Well, Sheri," I said opening the cab door. "Merry Christmas. You deserve a better man than that jerk that brought you here tonight." I pressed a twenty into her hand. After I tapped on the car roof, the cabby drove off leaving me standing on the sidewalk. For the remainder of the weekend, I fluctuated between wondering if I still had a job and musing if I even cared.

chapter 11

Stirring the fire and choosing another CD give me a chance to stretch. My watch says it is 1:26-- that time in the deep dark of night when most normal people are sound asleep. It is another reminder that I am neither most people nor would I be considered normal. Sleep alludes again tonight.

Thinking back to that Christmas party so long ago is a glaring reminder to me of who I used to be. I was a deeply troubled man who lacked any semblance of self-control. These memories serve as a reminder of the different man I am becoming. "You're a new creature now, Rob. A new creature in Christ. Let Him do His good work in you," Those were Liz's words on another night when sleep alluded. I had called her to lament the condition of my life. Though I had accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Savior, I did not yet know the work that He would do in my life. Liz knew. She encouraged me, and she prayed. She prayed often for me.

Prayer is something that has been a bit of an enigma to me. My Bible says that the prayers of a righteous man accomplish much. In Liz's case, that would be the prayers of a righteous woman. Yet, I wonder why the God who created the universe would allow prayers to accomplish anything. I equally wonder why He would want to hear my prayers. "Rob, in the Bible, God says 'call on me and I will listen.'  He wants you to tell Him your needs. He wants to hear your hurts, your disappointments, and your victories." Liz answered. She and I had many such conversations. I am thankful now for the sweet memories.

I smile at my own thought pattern. Being thankful is something I never experienced before I found Jesus. In those early days of becoming reacquainted and establishing our friendship, Liz would often laugh at me. "I'm not laughing at you, Rob, I'm laughing with you." The irony? I was not laughing. I had no sense of humor and no joy. Most days, it was all I could do to fake a smile for a client or a photograph. My sour attitude did not slow Liz down.  She would continue to be the ray of Jesus' joy in my life, even when she laughed at my dour outlook on life.

Dear Rob,

Thank you for the phone call again last night. I really look forward to our conversations. Sometimes, I so regret that it has taken this long for us to develop a friendship. But, then again, God had much work to do in our hearts first, huh?

I would never have believed that you knew Robert. I find it even more fascinating that you knew him when we didn't. I'm glad to know where he went, and the music world is the last place I would have looked for him. The Christian in me wonders if he is well, and the wife in me wonders who he is currently seeing. I'm glad you told me about the Christmas party incident with Sheri. Though my heart hurts for her, I needed to know that he hasn't

changed.

When Robert first walked out of our lives right before my first cancer surgery, I wasn't sure how I would raise our children without him. I held to the belief that my children needed two parents. Even though Robert was never around, I always hoped he would change his ways and become the father my kids and for which I longed. When he chose to leave, I knew that we would be better off without him, but I blamed myself. I thought I was the reason he left. I believed the lie that he left because I wasn't pretty enough for him. I also believed a second lie-- that Robert's leaving wasn't "fair" to the kids, and it was up to me to make it up to them. Though I knew that God had a plan when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I just wrongly assumed it was up to me to take care of everyone else.

Thankfully, neither my parents nor Kris and Dan would allow me to wallow in that deception. Together, the four of them concocted a plan to help me heal emotionally and spiritually, as well as physically. My oncologist arranged for me to do all my chemo and radiation treatments while living at the Estate. The greatest gift my best friends, Dan and Kris, ever gave me was that fall, winter, and spring at the Estate. Dan drove Kris and Luke (Ryan wasn't born yet) and Mark, Jenny, and I to the Estate. He left us there and returned to his medical practice. Living by himself those long ten months, he graciously allowed Kris to live with me. I know I couldn't have done it without her, and I've never stopped thanking Dan for his incredible sacrifice.

That time at my parent's home was golden, Rob. The kids grew and matured. They were doted on by my parents and Kris' mom. They had the entire place to roam and play. We home-schooled the kids. It was an unbelievable year. Even with so much  help, I felt the burden to do it myself. I did my best to make up the loss of their father to Mark and Jenny. I bought them toys, games, books, puzzles, clothes, and other treats. I pulled myself out of bed to read a bed-time story each night. I made sure to have distractions for them when I went to therapy. Regardless of my noble attempts, all I managed to do was wear myself out.  I look back on the Liz of that year, and I laugh at her. Just last week, I was talking to Mark about that year at the Estate. You know what, Rob? He doesn't remember a single thing that I bought him or did for him. Instead, his memories are of playing in the snow with Papa Ash and baking cookies with Nana Bea. He remembers Grandma Murphy taking he and Luke on hikes in the woods, and he remembers helping Kris keep the house clean. What he remembers most about that year are the relationships he had there, not the things that my money could buy. Oh, how I wish I could redo that winter! I would have lived more and worried less.

Somehow, though, God used those months to change me. By the time we returned to our "normal" life and my health returned, I had moved beyond those lies I believed about Robert's leaving.  And, somehow, in all of it, God changed my heart towards Robert. I found myself watching our children and pitying Robert for missing their childhood. I learned to forgive Robert and to live in the freedom of peace rather than bitterness. Only a good God could change this heart so traumatized by that man!

Again, it's a long letter. I do appreciate your friendship, Rob!

Warmly,

Liz

~*~

It did not take me long to pack for my trip to Vegas. Clark gave me a company car and credit card. I was on my way the following afternoon. I had no agenda and no plan, and it felt really good. The extra time and the promise of the open road took me on two-lane state roads and through small towns.

I saw more of the United States during that trip than most people see in a lifetime. By avoiding the interstates, I also avoided the rush. Time slowed as I sat in diners and observed the locals. I listened to their conversations and heard their stories. Sometimes they would include me in their conversations. Most often, I was the silent observer with the endless coffee cup soaking it all in.

Bars held little appeal to me on that trip. Since I no longer felt Clark's pressure to find the next rising star, I relaxed. I found solitude in the quieter and cleaner diners and by my third day on the road, I was avoiding bars all together. I stopped for three square meals a day and slept in local motels for ten hours each night. When I was not eating or sleeping, I drove west.

Soon, the small towns all ran together in my mind. I did not bother to learn the names of each place as I drove through. In my mind, I identified them by their eateries. I remembered the restaurant that served the banana cream pie and the coffee shop that had the most amazing potato soup. I also remember the diner that had Tonya.

Sometimes the very thing you are looking for appears as soon as you stop searching.

"Hey! I'm Tonya. Can I get you some coffee?"

I looked up from perusing the local newspaper to see a waitress standing at my table with a coffee pot in one hand and a cup in the other. I was glad I looked. In shorts shorter than what Daisy Duke wore and legs to match, she smiled at me and filled the cup without my answer.

"Do you know what you want?" She asked setting the cup on the table. "Today's special is meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans."

"Is it good?" I asked smiling back at her.

"Yeah, it really is. Clive, our cook, makes two amazing things--meatloaf and swiss steak. It must be your lucky day because the meatloaf is the best."

"Yeah, I think it is my lucky day. I'll take the meatloaf."

I lost interest in the local newspaper and folded it up. The entertainment I had watching Tonya work was better than reading about the high school basketball team's latest victory. After a week on the road, I found myself tired of my own company.

"Here ya go," Tonya said, placing a plate of Clive's meatloaf in front of me.

"Mmm, that looks good," I replied. "Thanks."

Clive's meatloaf was good. It reminded me of Sunday meals with Grace and Charles. Though I had called them before I left for Vegas, I missed them. I was suddenly very aware of being alone. I finished off the meatloaf quickly and watched Tonya to occupy my mind.

"Can I get ya anything else-- maybe dessert?" she asked, refilling my coffee cup.

"Sure. Whatever you recommend," I answered. I was in no hurry, and if I had to order more food just to keep watching Tonya, I was willing to eat more. Tonya returned with the biggest piece of apple pie I had ever seen topped with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream. I just bought myself some more time to sit in Tonya's section of Clive's Place.

"Will there be anything else?" Tonya asked, clearing away my mostly empty plate of pie a la mode.

"The only thing I will need after finishing this is a decent motel. Are there any around that you could recommend?"

"Yeah. Just down this street is the Rambling Rose. It's not a bad place to spend a night. I get off in ten minutes. If you wait, I could show you where it is."

As if I would decline, she squeezed my shoulder and pressed her number into the palm of my hand.

"I'm in no hurry," I replied, settling back with my lukewarm coffee. Ten minutes later, I paid Clive and left with his waitress.

"What?!" I mumbled as the hotel curtains were drawn back and the sun shone on my face.

"Wake up, Sleepyhead!"

Squinting, I barely opened my eyes enough to see Tonya sitting on the edge of the bed. She was dressed in different clothes than she wore from the diner. Opening my eyes further, I noticed a beat up duffle bag and a small suitcase on the floor next to her.

"What's that?" I asked.

"All of my earthly belongings. I'm coming with you to Vegas!"

Apparently, at some point in the rendezvous, I mentioned Las Vegas as my destination. While I slept, she ran back to the apartment she shared with two other waitresses and packed. There was no changing her mind.

"Tonya, you can't go with me." I mumbled.

"Why not?" she asked, innocently.

"Because." I rolled over and sat up. "Because, I don't know where I'm going to end up when I get there. I'm not sure where I'll be living. Honestly, because my plans don't include you."

Nothing I said deterred Tonya. She continued to smile and bounce on the bed while I showered and dressed. When I checked out of the Rambling Rose, she followed me. When I unlocked the car, she reached in the passenger seat and cleaned out all of the empty coffee cups. She placed her bags in the back seat without saying a word. When I opened the driver's door, the passenger seat of Clark's company car was occupied. What was I to do?

"Ok, here's the deal," I stated without starting the car. "This car belongs to my boss. I'm traveling in a company car with a company credit card. I cannot pay for your trip. I need to be in Vegas in two days to start representing my company. My first gig is next week, and I will be at a convention for fourteen hours a day, all week. I'm not looking for a relationship, I'm not looking for a roommate, and I'm certainly not going to babysit you when we get to Vegas."

"Ok," she said, still smiling. "I'm along for the ride. I'll buy my own food. Since you're going anyway, your boss can still pay for gas and hotels. When we get to Vegas, I'm on my own. Deal?"

I was cornered, and I knew it. I could kick her out and travel on my own, or I could enjoy her company for two more days and then get to work when we got to Vegas. It was a no brainer. Instead of answering Tonya, I simply started the car, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned on the radio to hear Jessie Matlock's latest release.

Suddenly, I missed Jessie a whole lot less, and when Tonya started to sing along, I didn't miss her at all. I was stunned. I just found the next rising star, and as she sang with each song that came along, I knew that she could out sing Jessie any day of the week.

Without looking, I had found what I had been searching for and life took on a whole new meaning.

chapter 12

I glance up at the picture that has a permanent place on my mantle. It is a picture of Tonya and I together at a black-tie fundraising dinner. I remember that night so clearly. She came out of the bedroom looking radiant. Tonya had a way of making any dress or outfit look absolutely amazing. The long, midnight-blue velvet dress clung in all the right places and hung beautifully in the places that remained. It would be a lie if I said I did not enjoy every minute of having Tonya on my arm. She made me laugh, and we actually had fun together. I am grateful for so many memories.

Taking the picture off the mantel, I dust the edges. There is no dust to rub off Bonita, my housekeeper, has seen to that. I rub  the wood frame because the angst in my soul suffocates.

Remembering is hard for me. For too many years, I refused to remember anything. I suppressed memories much like I suppressed anger. I rejected memories because of the pain of my past. There came a point, though, when the past circled around and faced me. A point on my timeline when I could no longer move forward because of the weight of my past.

I like to fool myself into thinking that I am completely healed. I am not. Are any of us ever completely healed from the hurts of life? These internal scars I carry make me who I am today  but I do not wear them as badges of healing. Instead, they are what sometimes causes me to stumble in my faith.

It was Liz who introduced me to the concept of surrender. "Turn those hurts over the Lord, Rob. Surrender them to Him instead of trying to deal with the pain yourself. There is freedom in surrender." She failed to understand that a naturally born fighter does not surrender well. It becomes a dance of one step forward and two steps back. I pray much over my memories and hurts, promising to surrender them to my Savior, but only to take them back. In one of my favorite letters from her, Liz showed me that I am not alone. We both move to the surrender dance, each time giving a little more and taking back a little less.

Dear Rob,

I'm sorry I had to cut our phone call short tonight. Jenny's feelings were hurt by a girl down the street. I don't know if the cutting remark she made was to intentionally crush Jenny's heart, but that certainly was the result. These are the moments that make parenting so hard. As much as I wanted to go give that little girl a piece of my mind, I also wanted to teach Jenny about surrender and forgiveness. Needless to say, I stayed home. After some tears, a bubble bath, and a little chocolate (which makes everything better), Jenny is sound asleep and tomorrow will be another day.

Sometimes, I am a fraud. Tonight I told her Jenny needed to surrender her hurting heart to Jesus and let Him carry her burden. When I prayed with her, I was struck, again, at how difficult surrender is. I've told you that I've surrendered the hurt that Robert caused me and my children, but it rears its ugly head time and time again. My prayer for surrender is something that I repeat over and over again. Maybe someday I will learn to fully surrender and never have to repeat that prayer again. It may not happen until I see Him face to face in heaven.

Have you ever really considered the concept of surrender, Rob? It means to give up, give in, and concede. It also means to relinquish. When I surrender or relinquish my hurts to Jesus, I give up any and all responsibility for them. I no longer have to carry them around or take care of them. I don't have to work around them or try to hide them. My hurts are no longer mine. They are His. Oh, that I would actually follow through with that!

Surrender is a constant battle for this heart. I don't do it well. I find myself taking my hurts back again to give myself the opportunity for self-pity and self-righteousness. I revisit the hurts in my mind pretending that I give Robert a different answer or that I kick him out for his horrible behavior. I  practice how I would respond to him if he were to walk back into our lives.

Initially, it feels really good to imagine the different ways I would put Robert in his place. It doesn't take long, though, for bitterness to creep in and settle deep within my heart. Eventually, that bitterness becomes the lens through which I see everything in my life. It's not until I surrender those hurts to Jesus, the One who created my heart, that the vision of my heart clears, and my heart is free to experience joy and peace again.

Rob, my prayer for many weeks now has been that you would find the same joy and peace that I have found. The only way to find that is through surrender to Jesus Christ. I've said all of this to you before, and I will continue to say it and pray it for you. I want you to find this freedom, this peace and joy, this surrender. I pray you will.

Tonight was another life lesson taught by my children. Seeing Jenny's peaceful face as she sleeps reminds me that she understands surrender much better that I do. I have much to learn from that sweet girl and I'm grateful for her lessons.

Goodnight, Rob. Thanks for listening!

Liz

~*~

The remainder of the trip to Vegas flew went quickly. We continued to travel by state routes and explore small towns together. Tonya's company was a great cure for the loneliness that had set in on the first part of the trip. I found myself relaxing and truly enjoying the journey. When she was not singing along with the radio, she told me about herself and asked me questions about my life. To say that I enjoyed her company is a bit of an understatement. She entertained me in the car as we traveled, and she entertained me when we stopped. I found myself secretly glad that she insisted on coming along.

"Rob, thanks for allowing me to ride along with you," she said. "It's been fun. I'll be on my way when we reach Vegas in the morning."

"Do you know where you are going?" I asked.

"No," she replied while staring out the window. "But, it's okay. I'll find my way. I usually do."

That night Tonya slept. I did not. Tonya had the voice and the charisma to be the next country music star. I could call Clark, and he would have her on the next flight to Tennessee. I found myself not wanting to share her with Clark or with anyone else. I knew that I had lost Jessie because I held to tightly to Liz's memory. I shocked myself when I realized that I did not want to lose Tonya too.

"Hey," I said, as she turned her sleepy eyes away from the light peeking through the closed curtains.

"What time is it?" she asked, rolling over.

"8:40."

"Oh, how long have you been waiting on me to wake up?" she asked, sitting up.

"I haven't been. We don't have a long drive today. I thought I'd let you sleep in a little." I watched her wake up.

"I'll hurry, and we can get on the road. I don't want you to have to wait on me," she said as she made her way to the bathroom. "It'll only take a minute."

In that minute, which was actually fifteen, I made one of the best decisions of my life.

"Ok," she said, picking up her suitcase and opening the  hotel room door, "I'm ready."

"Tonya," I caught her arm and turned her toward me. "Wait just a minute."

"What's wrong?" she asked as she let the door close.

"Listen. I know what our deal was a few days ago when we left the Rambling Rose. If you still want to part ways when we reach Vegas, I won't stop you. But, you don't have a job, and I don't have an assistant at this convention. I need someone to watch the booth when I want to eat or use the restroom."

"So, you're offering me a job?" she asked.

"Yeah, I guess I am." I replied.

"Is it okay with your boss? Do you need to clear it with him first? Do I need to dress up? I have no dress clothes with me. I have no idea what an assistant would wear. I need to go shopping!" The confusion on Tonya's face caused me to laugh out loud.

"No problem," I said. "We can go shopping on the way."

"Rob," she paused. "I can't buy new clothes. I need the little bit of money I have to get established. Maybe I can just find a waitressing job somewhere."

Suddenly, the conversation was not going the way I had rehearsed it while she was getting ready. I never anticipated her to turn down my offer. I had only thought about the offer from my point of view, which was to find a way to keep Tonya close to me.

When I saw the brave expression that she put on to cover the disappointment in her eyes, I knew I had to be more honest with her than I had ever been in my life.

"I'm not good at this sort of thing," I started. "When you first wanted a ride to Vegas, I thought you were crazy. I thought I was crazier for somehow letting you talk me into it. I never expected to enjoy the trip and to enjoy your company, but I did. Honestly, I don't want to get to Vegas and have you walk out of my life right after you walked in to it. I'd like to give this a try. I'm offering you a job and a place to stay with me, if you are willing."

"Like live with you?" She smiled.

"Yeah," I smiled back. "Like live with me, work with me, and be with me."

"On one condition," she said as she flung her arms around my neck, "that you'll always be honest with me. When I make you mad, I want to know, and when you are tired of me, I want to know. I also want to know more of who you are and who you've loved."

"Deal." I kissed her and picked up her suitcase and mine. "I'll do my best."

The drive into Las Vegas took three and a half hours. Tonya peppered me with questions, and in the end, she knew about Charles and Grace, as well as Clark and Jessie. She even knew about Liz. Amazingly, our relationship started out with the truth. Perhaps the truth is what made it the best relationship I ever had.

chapter 13

Setting the picture of Tonya and I on the arm of the chair, I kneel and stir the fire. There is something incredibly peaceful and equally terrifying about a fire. That which is controlled in the realm of my fireplace could easily escape and run rampant, if not for my constant and careful tending. It is a good analogy for life, or at least my life.

There are times, such as my childhood on Charles and Grace's little farm, when my life seemed peacefully cohesive. There are many more times, though, when it ran rampant and raged out of control. Reconciling these two polar opposites has been one of my greatest challenges. How can one man's life be such a cauldron of trial and error, joy and sorrow, love and loss.

The antique grandfather clock in the foyer chimes three times for the hour. Working through so many memories and letters from Liz gets my thoughts in order before her children arrive. When I realize that I have moved no further down memory lane than to Tonya, I am acutely aware of how far I have to go.

The memories are painful and slow. It is in reliving these memories that I see glimpses of healing. I sense a difference in my reaction to the memories that come to the surface tonight. The healing that I have found shows me that my memories have not always been the most accurate description of how things took place.

The human mind is an amazing thing. We remember the way we want to remember, not necessarily the way things occurred. Leave it to Liz to be the one to first teach me that my memories are skewed and my recollections distorted.

Dear Rob,

Oh, how I wish I had a picture to send to you of tonight's basketball game. It was so fun to watch! Mark is on the basketball team, and Jenny is a cheerleader. In one game, I got to see both of them perform. It's moments like this that make this mama's heart swell with pride. They both were amazing!

I've thought much today about our conversation last night. I continue to marvel at your trust in me. I can only hope that I can live up to it. The fact that you trusted to tell me about Tonya only proves how far you've come.

I would have liked to meet her, you know. Especially the way you describe her with a voice like an angel, a body like a model, a heart like a saint, and a personality to match. Wouldn't we all like to be like that? I know-- I'm giving you a hard time again. Thanks for letting me and for finding the humor in my pathetic jokes. I'm sure Tonya was as amazing as you describe. She would have had to be to capture you the way she did.

Isn't it amazing the way our minds remember things? We all remember through our own filter. Somehow our brain remembers the good and throws out the bad or vice versa. Sometimes our memory is 100% accurate, remembering an event perfectly. Other times, we remember it the way we wanted it to be.

My own wedding day is one such event. As a little girl, I dreamed of one day being a beautiful bride. The fact that I grew up as a lonely little girl only fueled that fire. My dream never left my mind, and I added to it almost daily. I imagined how lovely the summer day would be when I would walk down the aisle in my beautiful gown to meet the man of my dreams. I knew I would have the most beautiful dress and would stand gleaming before the most handsome man who ever lived. In my mind, my wedding was never  a small affair. In reality, that is the only part of my dream that came true.

My wedding day started out blissfully because Dan and I planned the world's most romantic surprise. Dan surprised Kris with their wedding on the morning of my own wedding day, and it couldn't have been more perfect for them. Kris cried tears of joy, Dan beamed, the few guests gathered, and I played my harp for my friends so they could dance. The only blemish on the morning was the grown man who pouted ridiculously in the corner. Robert always hated sharing the spotlight. In my exuberance for my friends, I didn't notice the writing on the wall. After Dan and Kris' dance, I spent the next few hours trying to console that obnoxious man. I tried everything I could to make it up to him. It was only when it was time for us to get ready for our wedding pictures that he came out of his pity party.

My parents gave me the fairytale wedding. They spared no expense and the entire event was magazine worthy. It was breath-taking. Instead of being the dream I had planned, it was the start of my worst nightmare. Robert made himself the center of attention. He placed himself in every limelight and every picture. When things were not to his satisfaction, he demanded his way. In my moment to walk down the aisle with my father, he demanded the video camera capture him. His fake tears of joy were his best acting performance ever. The last thing I remember about the ceremony in which I promised "until death do us part" was when the minister said, "If anyone here has any reason why these two should not be man and wife, speak now or forever hold your peace." I held my peace.

It has taken me years of counseling to sort out the truth and the fiction from my wedding day. I so desperately wanted it to be what I had dreamed that I allowed my imagination to make it that. I allowed my mind to remember some parts, forget others, and change the details to make it fit the picture I had carried around in my heart. My memory had very little reality. Now my reality has very little memory.  Life is like that, I guess.

Thanks again for trusting me. I will do my best to continue to earn your trust.

~Liz

~*~

After Tonya and I finished the convention that first sent me to Las Vegas, we settled into Las Vegas life. I called Clark and resigned my position as Whitman's Lone Star labels marketing representative. In fact, I resigned from Lone Star all together. I had found my own star and we were going to rise together.

"Now, Son," Clark's voice boomed over the phone line. "Let's not be too hasty, now. You've been good to me, and I'd like to think that I've been good to you. Are you sure we can't work this out?"

Clark flew to Vegas to try to convince me to reconsider. After Clark took me out to dinner, I took him to the newest show in

town. From our premier seats, Clark was fixated on the star of the show.

"Well, now! Well, now!" He boomed at intermission. "We need to work on getting that girl off that stage and onto our label!"

"You won't be able to," I answered. "She's not interested in a music contract."

"You know her?" he asked incredulously.

"Not only do I know her," I smiled, "after the show, I'll introduce you to her."

Clark sat raptured through the entire second act. At the end of the show, he could not wait to get back stage to meet the starlet.

"What did you think?" she asked, kissing me.

"I think you are amazing and beautiful," I answered. "I'd like you to meet the man responsible for sending me on the road trip that found you."

"Clark Whitman," she said, holding out her hand to the man looming over her. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

After Tonya changed from her costume and met with her

producer for evening wrap-up, Clark took us out for drinks and

dessert. Nestled in a corner booth with a bottle of Madeira and creme brulee for all, Tonya charmed Clark and told him the story of how she ended up in Las Vegas with me. By the end of her tale, she had won his heart

"Well, my dear," he said. "Why don't you just let Rob drive you east to Tennessee, and we'll put your pretty little face on the cover of an album!"

"I like my pretty little face on stage. I love performing! I love being on stage. I love interacting with the audience. I don't want to drive east to record songs in a studio and perform at state fairs."

"Well, I love a woman who knows her own mind," he chuckled, taking another long drink of wine and looking at me. "I guess I can't blame you for not wanting to come back to Tennessee."

"Yeah," I said with my arm around Tonya. "For once, I'm

happy. Tonya has a great future here in Vegas, and I want to do all I  can to help her achieve it."

"Ok," he stood. "Call if you ever want to come back. The door will always be open for you. I've always thought of you as a son. I wish you the best, my dear." Tonya stood and hugged Clark.

"I know," I said, standing and shaking his hand. "Thanks for the offer."

Tonya was the most independent woman I had ever dated. Once she found her place in the Vegas night life, she did not need me. She bloomed under the lights of Las Vegas. She often told me that she had found her calling. I made myself her agent and stayed by her side. Tonya had a hold on my life like nothing I had ever experienced. I needed to be with her. She practiced and performed. I managed her bookings and her schedule. We lived together, worked together, and loved together. For three years, we lived the dream.

chapter 14

I have so many questions harbored in my heart. These are questions I have sought answers to for over four decades and questions that I am beginning to understand may never be answered in my lifetime. I harbor them hoping to ask God. I cannot wait to seek His face for the answers the moment when I see Him in Heaven. In the scope of eternity with him, the answers probably do not matter.

As a child, I asked all the childhood questions, why is the sky blue? Why do birds sing? Is Santa real? Where did I come from? Charles and Grace tried to answer each question. I never stopped asking, and I never doubted that they knew the answers. When I left the safety of their home, I realized there were infinitely more questions that were not so easily answered.

The questions that continually plague me are what most often keep me awake at night. I have spent  the greater part of my life desperately seeking answers. Liz gave me the only answer I can trust when the fire of seeking overwhelms me. "He is God, you are not. Rob, you have to trust in a God bigger than you. What thrill would there be if we served a God we could understand?"

Liz's answer has become my mantra. He is God. I am not. I repeat it over and over and over again when the questions rise up and choke. Why cancer? Why Liz? Why is life hard? Why does love hurt? Why have I lost any woman who ever mattered? He is God and I am not.

Dear Rob,

Our twice a week phone conversations are becoming some of my favorite things. I laugh that what began as a once in a while phone call evolved to a Sunday evening event.  Which, in turn, is now Sunday and Thursday, with an occasional Friday mixed in for good measure. I enjoy these times with you, and I enjoy our friendship. Thank you, again, for respecting my need to keep it platonic.

You asked so many questions tonight. I'm sure you noticed, I didn't give you the answers for which you were looking. Sometimes, it helps just to be able to ask the things that plague our minds. I am glad you felt comfortable enough to ask the hard questions, and like I said on the phone tonight, I have the solution. You just don't like the answer I've given you.

I promise, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jesus Christ is the answer you are seeking. You asked tough questions. Most of which only God could answer anyway. Have you ever considered asking Him the questions you threw at me tonight? Have you considered opening the Bible, God's word, and searching it for the solutions you seek? I am quite confident that you would find some answers--maybe not the ones you are looking for but answers, nevertheless.

I know that you think religion is a crutch for me and that God is simply a theory. I promise you that is not the case. I know that I cannot convince you. Only God can do that. I've started praying boldly for you, Rob. I pray that the God of heaven and earth will hound you until you have no other option than to turn to Him for the answers you seek.

I'm looking forward to your visit. I've spent time answering Mark and Jenny's questions concerning you, and they are very much looking forward to meeting my "famous" friend. It's hard for them to understand who you are and what you mean to me. Maybe someday, when they are adults, I can find the words to tell them the entire story. Until then, I hope you will allow them their very limited understanding.

See you soon,

Liz

~*~

"So, what do you think?" Tonya asked, stepping out of the bedroom.

"Lovely," I answered. "Somehow I get to attend tonight's fundraiser with the most beautiful woman there. The fact that she is also the main attraction and the star of tonight's show is just the icing on the cake.

"Wait," she said wiggling out of my arms as I tried to hug her. "You'll crinkle the dress and smudge my lipstick."

Tonya's appearance was all or nothing to her. When she was preparing for a performance or singing onstage, her appearance was everything. When she was home in the apartment, out shopping, or at the gym, she cared nothing for how she looked. I often laughed out loud at the contradiction. Though I was immensely proud of seeing her made-up and onstage performing, I loved her best at home in short shorts and a ponytail. She still looked as good as she did that day I wandered into Clive's Diner. I marveled that after three years, we were still together.

I had been considering a proposal to Tonya. I knew that I would never find a more compatible companion. Though they disagreed (very adamantly at times) of our living arrangement, Charles and Grace seemed to genuinely like Tonya. She adored them. My thoughts of proposing marriage was not for Tonya's sake. She seemed content with our relationship. Instead, I was beginning to need a sense of permanency. I needed Tonya more than she needed me. Being together fulfilled me in a way nothing else had. I had been sober for three years. I needed no more proof than that.

"Alright," I smiled. "But before we go, I have a question for you."

Tonya turned and when she did, I took her hand in mine.

"Tonya, will you marry me?"

"Yes," she said coming into my arms. "As long as we can wait until after tonight."

"Thank you," I murmured. "Tomorrow we will go ring shopping. I want you to have something that makes you incredibly happy."

"You make me happy," she said, leaning into my chest. "I love you, Rob."

As Tonya and I got in the limo to go to the fundraiser, I marveled at my own stupidity. I just asked this beautiful woman to marry me. Yet when she told me she loved me, I could not respond in kind. What kind of fool was I? While the memory of one woman plagued my dreams at night, I asked another woman to commit her life to me. At the beginning, I had told Tonya about Liz--who she was, where she lived, when I knew her. I never told Tonya, though, of how Liz still held a place deep in my heart or how in the middle of the night I would startle awake after another dream of her. I was a greater fool than I cared to admit. Snuggling together in the warmth of the limousine, I buried my doubts and held the woman who just agreed to be my wife.

"I don't want to say anything yet about getting married," she said as we got out of the limo. "I just want to enjoy our own little secret for a while."

"Sounds great," I said, taking her arm. "It can be a secret for as long as you like."

The entire evening was Tonya's. In her three years in Vegas, she had risen to the top. Tonya's name was known by all, and they all came out for the chance to see her in a more intimate setting. She took the stage and wowed the crowd. She mingled and   charmed the guests. Every song she sang was moving and every move she made was poetry in motion. Hollywood movie stars, government dignitaries, and successful business men all sat under her spell. A roving photographer captured her at every turn. Tonya posed with all who asked, and I never left her side. When the photographer later showed me all the pictures he had taken, only one caught my eye. At the end of the evening, he came to thank Tonya. She asked for one more picture. It was the only picture ever of just the two of us.

"You did great," I said during the limo ride home.

"Thanks," she snuggled in closer. "It was fun."

"I'm proud of you," I kissed the top of her head.

"Rob," she murmured.  "Do you love me?"

Her question was the last thing I remember. Before I could even formulate an answer, a drunk driver ran a red light. I woke up in the hospital.

chapter 15

At some point in the remembering, I began pacing. Remembering creates anxiety, which in turn creates nervous energy. Nothing creates nervous energy like remembering that wreck so long ago. To this day, I can still close my eyes and hear brakes lock and tires squeal. I hear glass shatter and the steel cave. I hear the sirens and the limo driver. It is what I do not hear that causes the most angst. I wake from the nightmare when I realize I cannot hear Tonya scream. I have never heard Tonya scream. The truth is there was never a scream to hear.

Stopping at the big bay window, I watch the snow fall. Big, fat flakes fall silently joining the others that have fallen since Bear and I enjoyed our midnight run. I am often amazed at the amount of snow we get that the rest of Tennessee never sees. It is much less than the snow those in Minnesota or Michigan see, but it never fails to thrill me a little bit.

Turning back to the fireplace and my chair, I pick up the framed picture one more time. This is the first and last picture I have of just the two of us. Tonya had her picture taken daily, it seemed. I was always the one scheduling and coordinating photo shoots. There were plenty of opportunities for Tonya and I to have our picture taken together, I just never took advantage of them. When Liz taught me to look for the little things in life as gifts and begin a list of gratitude, this picture became the first thing on my list. Even tonight, I am grateful for the foresight Tonya had to ask for one last picture from the photographer.

The frame is a gift as well. In fact, it's the second gift. The first frame was delivered by that same photographer as I laid in a hospital bed with a broken arm, broken leg, and broken pelvis. He came to give me his condolences. He brought all the pictures he had taken of Tonya the two nights before. He put this one in a frame and wrapped it up. It was a beautiful gesture in tribute to a

beautiful woman. I ruined the moment when I took the picture and frame in my unbroken hand and flung them against the wall. The photographer quietly left, the nurse silently swept up the shattered glass and slivers of wood, and I screamed profanities at them, at the other driver, and at God.

I have been told that Tonya felt nothing. This is why I never heard her scream. The drunk driver T-boned the limo we were in on Tonya's side. She was crushed in the impact. The other driver died in the ambulance. He was a young kid, underage, with a blood alcohol level of .24 driving his daddy's Cadillac way too fast for our limousine to withstand the impact. Apparently, he was too inebriated to feel anything either. I hated him.

If bitterness takes root in your heart, hatred rots your soul. Like a fast-growing malignancy, its poison floods every crevice  and destroys the good until there is no peace left, only despair. In this deep despair, I finally began my journey of faith, albeit a long, arduous one. It was a journey that Liz and Grace prayed me through.

Taking up the next letter from Liz helps ease the pain of remembering Tonya tonight. I can only smile as I read Liz's words. She definitely saw the hatred within me. Amazingly, she loved me through it. Only she loved me in a way I did not know or expect. It was tough, honest, and true.

Dear Rob,

Oh, how my heart aches for you. When you first told me of Tonya, I wrongly assumed she was a past flame-- one from which you had moved on. I had no idea. Forgive me for being so wrong. I'm also sorry for peppering you with so many questions on the phone tonight. Had I known the deep anguish, I wouldn't have asked. I'm sorry.

I can't imagine, and I can't pretend that I can. I can only pray. I know that you find my prayer life offensive, just as you find it offensive when I mention God. I don't tell you these things to offend. This is my life, Rob. This is who I am. I am a believer in Jesus Christ. I believe that He changes lives because He changed mine. I pray that you will let Him change yours too.

I pray much for you, Rob. I thank God for bringing you back into my life as my friend, and I pray that you will find relief

from your anguish. Tonight, I will pray specifically that you will allow Jesus to take your pain and your hatred and fill your heart and soul with His love instead.

Again, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I offended you tonight to the point that you felt you had to hang up on me.

Liz

~*~

Clark Whitman kept his promise. All I had to do was call. He came on the next flight. He brought his new wife, Jessie, with him.

"Hello, Rob," he said walking into my hospital room.

"Hey," I mumbled. "Thanks for coming."

"So, tell me what happened," Clark replied sitting on the plastic chair next to my hospital bed.

I cannot recall the words that tumbled out of my mouth. I do know that I told Clark and Jessie everything, including my proposal to Tonya and how she wanted to keep it a secret. I think I told him what I remembered about the evening out and what I could recall of the accident.

"Can you get me out of here so I can get to her funeral?" I asked Clark.

"No problem!" He smiled. Clark was a mover and shaker. One of his greatest pleasures in life was changing other people's agendas to match his own. Moving doctor's schedules and changing discharge orders were no big deal to him. A few of Tonya's friends from the shows planned a memorial service for her. No one knew the impact Tonya had on people until they tried to find a venue that would seat the hundreds who came to mourn. In the end, they planned a beautiful and moving tribute in the very room that held her last performance. In a wheelchair, I sat in the back. I was numb, but at least I was there.

The same day as Tonya's memorial service, I learned the name of the other driver. Clark and Jessie took me back to the apartment Tonya and I had shared. Clark helped me into the recliner and Jessie heated Chinese take-out for lunch. No sooner had we started eating than an attorney knocked on my apartment door.

"Mr. Adams, I'm sorry to bother you, and I will try to take

as little time as needed," he said when Clark showed him in. "My name is Mark Pierce, and I am here representing Benjamin Barrett. His son, Michael, is the one responsible for your accident. Mr. Barrett sends his deepest condolences for your loss and for your injuries. If you will sign here, Mr. Barrett would like to settle this  manner in a gentlemanly way."

"Gentlemanly way?" I asked incredulously. "I can hardly move. My girlfriend's body had to be pried out of a mangled limousine just to be placed in a casket, and you want to 'settle' this? You must be joking!"

"No, Mr. Adams, I can assure you, this is not a joke." Mark Pierce reached into his briefcase and pulled out a narrow file folder. "Though he lost his own son in this unfortunate accident, Mr. Barrett feels deeply responsible. My firm has taken the liberty to access your medical records, and we know the cost of your recent hospital stay. We also know the cost of the limo driver's stay, though his was not nearly as extensive as yours. We have taken into consideration your loss of work, loss of income, and loss  of a loved one. We included punitive damages. In representing Benjamin Barrett, we sincerely hope you will accept this check for your loss. In addition, we would require your signature on this contract that states that your damages have been paid in full, and you will never seek any other reimbursement through any law suit."

"I don't want your condolences. I don't want your money. Your client's son took my future wife. He left me with nothing, and you think your check can buy me off?" From my seat in my recliner, with my broken arm and broken leg elevated, my anger raged. It felt good to have someone to lash out at, and I spared Mr. Mark Pierce no mercy. "Get out. Take your check. Take your contract, and tell Mr. Benjamin Barrett that I will not be bought off!"

"I'm sorry you feel this way," Mark Pierce said placing the file folder back in his briefcase. "If you ever try to sue us, rest assured this offer will be null and void. I'll see myself to the door."

"Wait," Clark said, stopping Mark Pierce. "Will you give us just a minute?"

"Here's my card. I'm needed in my office in twenty-five minutes. Please call my secretary when you've reached a decision. If needed, my assistant will make another trip up here. However, I need to emphasize that this offer is only available today. After today, you will have to fight us in court."

"What is that offer, Mr. Pierce?" Jessie asked.

"I have a check here made payable to Mr. Adams for five million dollars." Mark Pierce quietly walked out. The only sound was the lock latching into place.

"No," I said to the silence.

"No, what?" Clark asked.

"No to the money. No to the contract," my voice rose. "No to Mark Pierce and no to Benjamin Barrett!"

"Rob, can I ask you just one thing?" Jessie asked as she walked over to the sofa. She did not wait for my answer. "How does saying 'no''' bring Tonya back?"

Once again, Jessie left me with a question I could not answer.

"That check doesn't bring Tonya back, and it doesn't heal you. I get that. I really do. However, it would go a long way to paying off your hospital bills and helping you get back on your feet," she said while she got me more pain medicine, another drink, and fluffed my pillows.

"Ya know she's right, don'tcha?" Clark jumped in. "Do you have another way to pay those hospital bills?"

"Fine. I'll take the check," I spat. "I just want to get this over."

Jessie called Mark Pierce's office. His assistant brought the contract and the check. I did not bother to read the contract. I simply signed on the blank line. I naively hoped that my signature on that piece of paper would make the nightmares go away. It did not.

Clark and Jessie stayed in Vegas for a week and helped me get settled. Clark organized round the clock nursing care. He also kept Charles and Grace up to date on my progress. Jessie took care of Tonya's things for me. She shipped some back to Tonya's family in Iowa, she gave some to local charities, and the rest she left for me. My life with Tonya was relegated to three boxes. Years later, I thanked Jessie for the gift of going through Tonya's things and processing what I could not even grasp.

It was in the weeks after Clark and Jessie left that I made everyone around me miserable. Clark had set me up with 24-hour home health care. After offending any nurse that came around, it did not take long for me to be on my own. I spent a miserable existence waiting for my broken bones to heal. I quickly learned that pain medicine mixed with alcohol numbed me within. My broken bones eventually healed. My heart, though, became horribly infected with anger, bitterness, rage, and hatred.

"So, how ya doin', Rob?" Clark called one night. Jessie had softened ol' Clark and his voice no longer boomed. I was grateful for the change.

"Ok," was my standard answer.

"What did the doctor say today?" he asked.

"He says my bones have healed. He wants me to do physical therapy every day. When I told him that I still had a lot of pain in my hips and lower back, he said it would be a long time before my pelvis stopped hurting. That's about all," I replied.

"Feel like coming home?" Clark quietly asked. "I could use you here and you could get away from the memories there.

chapter 16

"Feel like coming home?" I still remember the way Clark asked those words. It was more of a quiet plea than a random question. I was too wrapped up in myself and my injuries to ask Clark and Jessie anything about their lives.

I did not have to wait long to hear their plans. Clark filled  me in on the way home from the airport.

"Jessie wants to start a family. I'm no spring chicken anymore, Rob. Funny thing is I never wanted kids. Just figured they were an extra burden. Now, suddenly, I'm as bad as Jessie. I can't wait to have a baby!" Clark laughed at himself. I had no response. The long flight and the residual pain left me little room to care about Clark and Jessie's personal life.

Clark had found a ground-level apartment for me, and Jessie had it furnished, including filling the cupboards and stocking the refrigerator. It was nice. Perhaps, in time, it would feel like home. After finding my pain meds in my carry-on bag and a cold beer in the refrigerator, I fell asleep in a recliner that still had the store tags attached.

It was the next day that I understood just exactly what Clark Whitman meant when he said, "Feel like coming home?"

Dear Rob,

Sometimes, I think getting to know you is much like peeling the layers of an onion. Just as soon as I think I've learned what it is that makes you who you are, you tell me another facet of the life you've lived. Each story you tell, each revelation you reveal, shows me more of who you are.

Thanks, again, for telling me about Tonya. I cannot imagine the hole she left in your heart. I've never experienced a love like that. I honestly think I loved Robert during the first years of our relationship. I know he never loved me. Without that requited love, his leaving left a different hole in my life.

I don't mean to make light of Robert leaving. Honestly, the pain that Robert caused was so much more than just walking out of our lives. Mark and Jenny felt the loss of their father's presence. For me, though, it was the death of a dream. Throughout the initial rumors of Robert's escapades, I held tightly to the dream that I was going to live happily ever after. I will never forget the day that Kris and I took the boys for a walk and came upon Robert kissing a young college co-ed. Dan later told me her name was Amy. I've unfairly hated that name since.

I'm so glad you had Clark and Jessie during those dark days. I don't know what I would have done without Dan and Kris. In this journey through life they've become closer than a brother or sister. I often wonder if I could live without them. Would I be able to cope? Would I be able to breathe?

Isn't it amazing that God knows all of this? He knows every crevice of my life and yours and nothing comes as a surprise to Him. Just knowing that He knows all brings me such comfort. I hope that someday it will be the same for you. I also know that if the time were to come that I would loose Dan or Kris, He would carry me through.I know this with great confidence.

I just reread this letter. I'm sorry it's so heavy. It seems that our conversations lately have been heavy, and I think I just carry it over in my letters to you. I will try to lighten it up a bit next time.

Oh, speaking of lightening things up, you'll have to give Mark a hard time the next time you talk to him. He lamented to me this afternoon that he hasn't gained weight this entire school year. Apparently, at the beginning and end of the school year, the students are weighted in physical education class. Mark wants to be one of the big guys on the football team and hasn't gained an ounce. He decided, today, that he just needs to eat more. What would it be like to have that kind of problem, huh? I tried to remind him that this won't be a problem for his whole life and to enjoy it while it lasts.

I pray for you, Rob. Please know that I pray for you,

Liz

~*~

I took my time getting to Clark's office the next morning. Though it had been a few months since the accident, I still moved slowly. Normal tasks took two or three times longer for me to complete them. The simple chore of showering and dressing for a business appointment seemed insurmountable--- one that I didn't even attempt until I had taken the prescription drugs with a little booze to wash them down. By the time I stopped hurting, I did not  care. I walked into the Whitman's Lone Star offices in jeans, a white tee, and loafers. It was the best I could do.

It has been said, "The more things change, the more they stay the same." In my opinion, that quote was never more true than that day I walked back into the offices of the Whitman's Lone Star music label. Clark's continued success was evident by the additions that had been made to the building and the property. A private new recording studio stood next to the office building. A new pond, complete with ornamental grasses and a circular driveway, now graced the front lawn. Blooming trees and flowering shrubs had been expertly planned and planted. The entire facility was cleaner, brighter, and newer and reeked of success.

"Hey, Rob!" Melissa's sweet voice greeted me as I entered the same imposing lobby.

"Hey, you!" I answered. "I can't believe you are still here!"

"I'll always be here," Melissa smiled. "It's a good job. I've got a baby now to take care of, and Clark pays well."

"Congratulations," I said, leaning on her desk. "Married?"

"Yeah," she opened a desk drawer and took out a small photo album. "Got married a couple of years ago. Here's a picture of all three of us."

"Nice family," I took the obligatory glance at the photo album and passed it back to Melissa.

"Thanks," she said, taking the album from me. "It's good to have you back, Rob. I'm sorry for what happened. We're all sorry."

"Thanks Melissa," I stood up, suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the situation. "Is Clark around? I think he's expecting me."

"Yes, he's in his office waiting on you," Melissa put her photo album away. "Do you want me to call him and tell him you are here, or do you just want to go in?"

"I'll surprise him," I said.

Walking down the hall to Clark's massive private office, I looked around. Other than a few new platinum albums on the walls and a section dedicated to Jessie's works, even the hallway looked the same. Either Clark chose the same color of paint each year for a touch up, or nothing had ever been done to it. I walked to Clark's office door wondering.

"Knock, knock," I said, pushing past his closed door.

"Well, it's about time," was the gruff answer from behind the desk.

"Sorry," I apologized. "I still move slowly, especially in the mornings."

"Yeah," Clark mumbled. "I forget sometimes. Anyway, you're here now, and we can get started."

"Started?" I asked, noticing the two other men in Clark's office for the first time.

"Rob, I'd like you to meet Rich Carlson and Ted Long from Carlson, Long, Everett, and Jenkins."

"Hello," I said shaking hands all around. "Who are Carlson, Long, Everett, and Jenkins?"

"My law firm," Clark answered pulling a chair up for me.

"Okay..." I said, sitting. "Why?"

"Well, Son," Clark said, smiling at the use of the term "son" again. I rolled my eyes. "I told you yesterday that Jessie and I would like to start a family. What I didn't tell you is that we've already started. Jessie's expecting. We found out just last week."

"Congrats," I mumbled.

"Thanks. Anyway, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I don't want to be the kind of father that I had. My dad worked hard. He put in 14-hour days, six days a week. I rarely saw him, and I never knew him. I'm too old to want that anymore. I've waited a long time to settle down and a longer time to be a father. I want to be an at-home, hands-on dad."

"Okay..." I said again.

"Look," he stood and started pacing. "Like I said, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I can't tell you how many hours I've sat up at night just trying to figure out what it is that I want out of

the rest of my life and how to get there. You know, Rob, I love you like my own son. I wish I could undo the accident, undo Tonya and bring her back to you, and leave you to live happily ever after. I can't. I hope I can give you something, though, to help you get  back on your feet. I'd like to give you Whitman's Lone Star. Actually I want to sell you Whitman's Lone Star. I've done all I can here. It's time for me to move on with Jessie. We'll live quite comfortably, and I'll be able to be an at-home, hands-on dad. You have what it takes to take Lone Star to the next level. You know this business and the music industry. You could really make something big out of the Whitman's label."

"Uh," I mumbled, suddenly very aware of the two lawyers in the room.

"Now, I will give you as much time as you need to think about this or until Jessie gives birth, whichever comes first!" Clark  laughed alone at his own joke. "Seriously, Rob, I asked Carlson and Long here to explain the ins and outs of the buy-out. I want to be 100% forthcoming, and I want you to be 100% aware of what this will entail before you make your decision."

The next three hours, including a catered lunch in Clark's office, were consumed with legalese delivered by Carlson and Long. They made a great tag-team. When one would get weary of reading the long documents, the other would chime right in. Clark seemed fascinated with the documents and details and my foggy brain was simply overwhelmed.

"So, what do you think?" Clark finally asked me. Long and Carlson had finished their presentation, packed up their briefcases, and went back to the building that housed Carlson, Long, Everett, and Jenkins. Sitting on the conference table were triplicates of every document they read-- one for me, one for Clark, and one for the company. I looked at the impending pile and immediately knew that I would use the money from the accident to buy Clark out.

"I'm in," I said, smiling for the first time that day. Clark called the attorneys' office. No one was prepared for such a quick response. Rich Carlson took a conference call as soon as he returned to his office, so Ted Long came alone. Signing the mountain of paperwork took significantly less time than did the reading of that same mountain. Ted Long witnessed our signatures and carried out his copies. Melissa ordered pizza and beer to be delivered. Suddenly, a spontaneous party erupted in Clark's office and overflowed down the hall. Any and all employees were invited to stay and celebrate the new ownership of the Whitman's Lone Star music label. There were high fives and painful pats on the back.

After the beer had been consumed and only crumbs remained of the pizza, Clark and I sat amongst the empty pizza boxes.

"Good night, Boss," Melissa said, poking her head into the office.

"Good night, Melissa," Clark answered.

"I meant Rob," she said laughing.

"Oh," I stumbled. They both laughed at me.

"Enough of the 'boss' stuff!" I answered.

"Yes, Sir!" She laughed, leaving.

"You'll get used to it," Clark said, still laughing.

"Maybe," I answered. "I'm not sure I want to get used to it. Not sure I'll ever be comfortable answering to 'Boss.' I wish everyone would just call me 'Rob'."

"They will call you whatever you want them to," he mused. "Just remember, you're in charge. They will follow your lead."

"Therein lies the problem," I said, reaching for my almost empty cup. "I've never lead before. I don't know how to be a leader. I don't know how to run a business, and I just signed my life away to run one of the fastest growing companies in the country music business. You're going to have to stick around awhile, you know, just to show me how to do this."

"I will," Clark answered, emphatically. "I'll be here to help whenever you need me. However, I'm cleaning out this office tonight. Tomorrow, when everyone comes to work, this will be your office. I'm taking the empty cubicle at the end of the hall."

"You are taking the first desk I had here at Whitman's," I mused.

"Yes, your old closet office. It's been empty since the last intern left." Clark stood and reached for a box stashed under his desk. As he spoke, he began gathering mementos and picture frames and packing them away.

"Do you want help?" I asked, standing to join him.

"No," he answered. "Jessie's coming to help. We'll hang out here tonight and get it all done. You need to go home and rest those weary bones of yours."

"Yeah," I grimaced. Sitting for most of the day had caused my weak muscles to seize. It would take some slow movements to get them to relax. More pain meds would help too. "If you're okay  with it, I think I will head home."

"Do that," Clark said. "By the way, you are a leader, Rob. The only person you have to convince is yourself. As I said, everyone else will follow your example. If it matters, I'm not the only person who thinks so. I spoke with your old college prof, Robert Bowers. It was his brilliant idea to sell Whitman's Lone Star to you. He asked me to pass on his condolences for Tonya. He thinks quite highly of you, you know."

"No, I didn't know," I muttered. Even over time, the  mention of Robert Bower raised my blood pressure. Suddenly, I could not leave fast enough. "I am going to head home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Boss," Clark laughed as I gimped down the hallway.

Taking deep, gulping breaths of the cool night air, I wondered if the day would come when I would no longer be affected by the name of Robert Bower.

chapter 17

Looking up from Liz's letters, my eyes take in the gift of this impressive log home. Soon after I settled into my role as the leader of Whitman's Lone Star, I purchased this mountain top retreat. At the time, it was simply overgrown acreage with a tractor lane up to the ridge. The man who owned it was in a financial bind. One day, he simply showed up in front of Melissa's desk asking to talk to me. He explained his predicament to me and asked if I would be interested in buying the 320 acres he owned. I bought it for a song, sight unseen. It is one of the smartest things I have ever done.

After we signed the papers and the stranger had his money, I parked my Jeep at the top of the ridge and dreamed up the

plans for the house. Within minutes, I knew exactly how it would look and exactly who would draw up the building plans. I also knew who would build it. Driving back down the mountain, I  called Melissa. By the time I got back to the office, she had the phone numbers ready for me of Kenneth Duray Architecture Firm of Billings, Montana, and the local company of Matson Brothers Building. I wanted the two companies that Clark employed to create and build the structures for Whitman's Lone Star.

Within a year, that dream became my reality. I employed a finishing company to paint the entire house and an interior decorator to furnish it. As soon as the bedroom furniture was delivered, I moved in, alone. Thankfully, Bear soon wandered out of the woods and joined me and the two of us occupied a home built for ten.

In the early years, I entertained to drown out the solitude. I threw parties to make friends, thinking I could impress them with my wealth and buy their friendship with my gifts. At one point, I had a caterer, florist, cleaning service, and landscaping company

on retainer. It was not unusual to have four parties a week, and by retaining the companies that I liked the most, I had a ready and willing staff. They did it all. I fooled myself into thinking that I had friends and influence. I had neither.

In these past few years, this has become my retreat, my place of refuge. What I first built to show off to the world has become my place to hide and to heal. I am grateful for this mountainside haven. I am equally glad that Bear and Grace now keep me company.

I flip through Liz's letters. They are mostly sorted now. I just enjoying rereading them. When I finish reading each letter, I place them in their box in chronological order. She gave me this white box wrapped with her signature blue and white polka dotted ribbon as a last gift when I saw her in July. She handed it to me and said, "This is for all those letters you told me you saved. I wrote one more. It's in the box. Please wait to read it until you are home." That last letter still lies unopened in the bottom of the box.

Dear Rob,

Thank you for your surprise visit this weekend. I know that

it was prearranged with Kris and Dan but it certainly was a surprise to me. Thank you for helping me celebrate another year. After battling cancer, each birthday is more precious to me. They become reminders to me of one of my favorite Bible verses.

Psalm 27:13-14 says, "I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."

You are entirely too generous to all of us. Mark and Jenny, as well as Kris and Dan's boys, love the signed CDs you brought them. The boys are enamored with country music's newest starlet, Megan. They cannot believe you actually know her.

I'm not sure how you knew this but calla lilies are my absolute favorite flower. They look gorgeous in the crystal vase. While I will tell you that flowers and crystal were absolutely not necessary, I will also say that I love them.

You seemed surprised yesterday when I told you that I despise roses of any sort. It's true. Robert was an expert manipulator. The only time he ever brought me flowers was when he had either been caught or assumed he had been caught in one

of his numerous trysts. Then, he always brought home red roses, presumably to declare his undying love and devotion to me. I always pricked my finger, in the same spot, on the thorn of those roses. The prick served as a physical reminder of my bleeding heart.

At some point, that spot on my finger became calloused. Though the roses continued to come into my house, I no longer pricked myself on them. I no longer bled. My heart became the same. I honestly believe that the human heart can only take so much pain before it develops a callous and blocks the pain receptors. At least, that is how it happened with me. I quickly developed a callousness towards Robert and his gifts. The roses would end up in the trash can, still wrapped in the florist's paper. The chocolates would get thrown in on top. I never hid them in the bottom of the trash can or threw them away outside. Instead, I left

them for Robert to find. He would be furious. He would dig them out and place each and every rose carefully in a vase on the table. They would stay there until all the petals had fallen off and the stems had completely dried. I left it as a visual reminder to him. I

think it was more of a reminder to me. Telling you this story, I just

realized it was always Kris who would clean up the fallen petals and throw away the stems. She would wash and dry the vase and return it to the cupboard. After getting pricked enough times, I quit touching Robert's gifts.

So, thank you for these gorgeous calla lilies. They are exquisite and completely different than anything I have ever had.

Warmly,

Liz

~*~

Apparently, Robert Bower and Clark Whitman saw something in me that I could not see. I was made for the music business. I had not realized how much of Tonya's success in Las Vegas was because of me. I assumed it was because she was beautiful, talented, and worked harder than anyone I knew. While all of this was true, some of her success was because I was behind her working the system. It did not take me long in my new CEO position at Whitman's Lone Star for me to recognize what Robert and Clark already knew.

"Got a minute?" Clark poked his head and smiled at me.

"Sure," I answered, as he walked in and closed the door.

"Whatcha workin' on?" he asked.

"It's the talent show that Whitman's Lone Star is sponsoring. I'm hoping we'll find some new talent just by offering a summer street fair and talent show," I answered, closing the file on the vendors for the street fair. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing, and that's why I'm here," Clark answered lowering himself to the leather chair in front of my desk.

"Okay," I leaned back. "Do you want something to do?"

"Nah," he stretched out. "I have lots I want to do, just not here. Let's face it, Rob. You've been in that seat for 3 months. You've signed on four new talents, you've increased revenue, and you've planned the first ever Whitman's Lone Star Talent Show. You are a natural at this, and you don't need me. It's time for me to move on."

Though I knew that the day was coming when Clark would no longer be a part of the Whitman's Lone Star music label, I had been hoping he would stay until the talent show. Jessie and I

had worked one last time together to put together a special surprise for him. Jessie was planning on performing a song written just for Clark. I planned on publicly thanking him for the community service that Whitman's Lone Start music had done. I also planned on publicly announcing that Whitman's Lone Star music label would continue to carry the name of the one who first had the vision. I had been so busy planning, I did not realize that Clark had worked himself out of job.

"I get ya," I said, stalling while I tried to think of any way to keep him around for ten more days. "So, if I let you go, where are you and Jessie headed?"

"The list is long," he laughed. Clark spent the few minutes spinning yarns of the places that he would take Jessie, and the people they would meet along the way.

"You know, Rob," Clark paused. "I'm not too sure about this whole fatherhood thing."

"I thought you were excited," I replied.

"I was. I am. It's just that the closer Jessie gets, the more scared I get. What was I thinking? I'm a business man, not a father.

I have no idea how to do this!"

"Uh, yeah," I stammered. I was suddenly very aware that Clark had just admitted his feelings, and I had no idea what to say or to do. The awkwardness hung in the silence.

"Ya know," Clark quietly began again. "My pa was a loser. A lousy drunk. When he was home, he either beat me or was passed out on the sofa. When he wasn't home, he was in the bar drinking away his paycheck. At 15 years of age, I had enough. One night after he beat my ma and went after me, I hit him with Ma's frying pan and knocked him out. I reached into his pockets and took all the money I could find. I split it with Ma, hugged her, and left. I swore I would never have a kid because I didn't want to be that kind of father."

"What ever happened to him?" I asked.

"I landed in Memphis working on the river. I sent half my paycheck back to Ma. She wrote me letters in return telling me to never return home because Pa was set on killing me. Eventually, Ma stopped writing, and I stopped sending money home. A few years later, Pa's pickled liver gave out on him. He died on the sofa."

"Wow, sorry."

"I'm not."

"What happened to your mom?" Clark's story intrigued me.

"She remarried, another loser," Clark reminisced. "I didn't go home for her wedding. Instead, I made a second vow to myself. I'd never be a father and I'd never get married."

"Remind me to never ask you to keep a promise," I quipped trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Jessie's the best thing that ever happened to me, ya know? I mean, sometimes I look at her and think 'How'd I get so lucky?'"

"She's a good one," I answered.

"Yeah, about that," Clark said looking me in the eye. "Whatever happened between you two that summer you were on the road?"

"What summer?" I smiled.

"Ha!" Clark laughed. "Jessie won't ever answer me either.

You two got some sort of pact or something?"

"Nah," I said. "It's nothing like that. Jessie just deserved someone better than me, and, look, she got you. It's all good."

"Well, whatever happened," Clark stood to leave. "I'm glad it did. It gave this old timer a chance with the most beautiful woman around."

"She is that," I replied. "You know, you'll do just fine when this baby gets here. You've got Jessie."

"Yeah," Clark smiled. "That I do. I'm out of here, man.

"Hey," I yelled as he walked to the door. "I still need you. Any chance you could stay until after the talent show?"

"Yeah, I guess I could," he said, shutting the office door behind him.

I leaned back in my swivel chair amazed at the conversation that just took place. Sometimes, you think you know someone, and then you find out that you were way wrong. I always assumed Clark grew up with the privileged sort. Leaning for my desk drawer and the bottle of pills that lived there, I wondered  what Clark would think if he ever really knew me. Most secrets are

best left alone.

chapter 18

Standing, I stretch again. Thanks to the accident, I cannot sit for long without numbness in my legs. It is time to move again. The old clock chimes 3:30 slowly. The tempo of the chimes slows down. I wander to the front foyer to wind the clock and to stretch.

This is Liz's clock. Last year, she asked Kris and Dan to bring her to my mountain retreat. They came for a week and Liz was not in my home more than five minutes before she announced that my house needed redecorating. An overhaul is what she meant. Before I even understood her words, she had not only volunteered for the job but had already begun the process in her mind.

My home vastly reflected my lifestyle. I had a home filled with high-end furnishings that were all purchased to impressed. I had vintage collectibles and original art work signed by the artist. I had a personal decorator that scoured auction houses for rare items and then bid on those pieces for me. Nothing that was in my house was random or without purpose. Each item was placed where it would be most prominent. My decorator decorated to impress and excelled at his job.

It was Liz, of course, who dispelled that notion. "Rob, let your home reflect who you are, not who you've convinced people to believe you are. I see nothing here that reflects the Rob that I know. This house needs a redecoration, and I'd be happy to do it!"

Kris simply laughed and said, "You might as well give in now, Rob. You won't win." When it came to anything having to do with Liz, I trusted Kris's opinion. No one knew Liz better.

Perhaps Liz's opinion mattered too much to me. I will never really know for sure. I do know that I became much more cognizant of the museum quality items that had been placed in my home. After Liz, Kris, and Dan left, I spent the evening walking through my house. I looked at each and every collectible, painting, sculpture, and piece of art. Very aware that I was noticing most of

the items for the very first time, I realized that none of the art meant anything to me. So much of what I had done with my life meant nothing. I desperately needed that to change.

I spent the time after they left cataloguing my collection. I dismissed my decorator and contacted an auction house who was more than willing to work with me. In six weeks, my house sat empty, and I felt relieved. It was if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt the freedom of letting go of things that did not matter. As I have said, my faith journey began long before I recognized it for what it was. Letting go of these things that I once deemed of great importance was a big step in my quest to find faith. I invited Liz back to fill the empty spaces.

She and Kris came back for a weekend's stay. They dragged me from antique store to vintage charity stores and from high end furniture houses to department stores. Liz had a blast. Kris endured, and, I loved watching them work together. This clock was the first thing that Liz bought for my "new" house. It is old. Liz called it "vintage." It is scratched and scarred. She said "it  has character." In an odd way, this old clock has reminded me of myself. Of all the things Liz placed in my home, this time piece was my favorite.

Dear Rob,

Thank you for the warm hospitality you extended to Dan, Kris, and I last week. It was so nice to see your home and your beautiful property. You are truly blessed.

Kris chastised me on the way home for imposing my love of interior decorating on you. Oh, Rob, I sincerely hope I did not offend you. Sometimes my zeal overtakes my common sense. You massive log home just beckoned me and before I knew what I was doing, I mocked your interior design, your designer, and volunteered myself for the job. I am pathetic, aren't I?It is even more pathetic to admit that I can't wait to go back to your house and complete the job I started.

I grew up with a home that was redone every two years, whether it needed it or not. My mother kept to a strict regiment. She also kept to the fear of "society." Society was Mother's group of affluent  women. Seriously! They called themselves Society. Society got together for garden parties and tea parties. The women

would take turns hosting Garden Club and Tea Time at their homes and every time their turn came up, they would redo some room in their house for the event. Mother redid half of our house for Garden Club and the other half for Tea Time. I always wanted to help Mother redo a room, but I "persona non grata." She would tell me I was underfoot and in her way. Really, I wasn't in her way because all she did was direct the painters and movers that came and did the work.

My first college room, the one I shared with Kris, was the first time I ever tried my hand at interior decorating and design. I shopped thrift stores and created a little haven for Kris and I. When we moved into the little attic apartment we shared, she let me do whatever I wanted. I was always amazed that even though she was an artist, she didn't mind my decorating tastes. Many Sunday afternoons, we shopped and had a blast! Oh, what fun it was to decorate that little place with odds and ends and coordinating fabrics and colors!

As with everything else, decorating was different with Robert. He wanted everything done to impress. I was never sure who he was impressing because we never entertained. However, he insisted we that we spend top dollar. Of course, those were my dollars he spent. His salary from the university couldn't support his spending habits. So, I had to do it his way with my money. Needless to say, there was no joy in that.

It was when I moved to the house across the cul-de-sac from Dan and Kris, that I finally got to have a home look the way I wanted it to look. I loved decorating that house. I added to it slowly... finding exactly the right piece to put in an empty space. The years I waited to do my own decorating have taught me that less is more and simplicity speaks volumes.

I've rambled, again. I'm sorry. Also, I am very sorry for assuming the right to redo your home. Please forgive me. I've learned to seek forgiveness. In forgiveness, there is freedom. I pray for freedom for your bruised and battered soul, Rob.

Good night,

Liz

~*~

"You've thrown another great party, Rob."

"Thanks, J.T. Glad you could make it."

J.T. Bingham was one of Tennessee's most successful real estate moguls. He owned more property than he even knew of at any given time. His days were spent buying, selling, and trading. He had vacation homes around the world and in several states. A balding, round man, J.T. had money, power, status, and influence. He fancied himself to be one of great importance. However, he had no friends or family. Then again, neither did I.

"Wouldn't miss it." J.T. said as he swirled his martini. "I had Charlie pick me up at the airport just to come here. I was in Italy yesterday and Switzerland the day before. Tomorrow, I head to the West Coast for a series of acquisition meetings before I have to be in Rio for a convention. I'm the keynote speaker on buying small/selling big. I told them I can't stay for the entire three days. They told me no one knew real estate better than I did and that if they provided the drinks and women, would I please stay? Heck yeah, I said! So, I'll take a mini-vacation while I'm there. It will be the only vacation I've had in five years. It's hard to stay on top of the game if all you're doing is lounging on the beach, right? Oh, by the way, I brought an acquaintance of yours with me tonight. When he found out about this party, he insisted on coming. I picked him up on the way here. He says that you are an old student of his from the days he taught at the university. Said he hasn't seen you since a Christmas party where you had a tad too much and knocked his lights out. Guess all was forgiven because he wanted to come see you again. Seems he had enough of teaching and moved on to a private research firm some time ago."

"Oh," I mumbled. J.T. Bingham could talk the fur off of a bear. I rarely listened. I simply endured.

"That was quite a show you put on last weekend. Not sure how you pull it off year after year, but you do. My businesses along Main Street reported record sales that night--everything from ice cream to t-shirts and from coffee to pizza. Blocking Main Street off from Pine to Buffalo Streets was brilliant. It seems every single business in those blocks benefitted. I think mine gained the most, of course. But, anyway, I'm not sure where you got the idea years ago to do an annual talent show, but that little Emily rocked the house this year. It seems like she'll be a good star for you. It's

kinda fun to come back tonight to celebrate the ongoing success of your talent show."

"Yeah," I stopped watching the party and looked at J.T. "Yes, seems to be a good thing for the town and a great thing for us. As the show has grown, more talent has shown up."

"Good, good!" J.T. said, stopping to sip on the martini in his hand. "Glad to hear it. Does us all good now, doesn't it?"

I endured J.T. because he provided a great screen. I could stand as if I were in a conversation with him and watch the party at the same time. To those watching, I was the consummate host, engaged and listening to a very important guest. I had spent my lifetime developing the facade I now lived under. No one saw the prescription pain killers and multiple drinks that made enduring conversations like this one possible.

The party was just as J.T. described. It was a celebration with a wide array of guests. My caterers put together a summer BBQ menu complete with ribs, corn on the cob, and homemade ice cream. My decorators loosened up a bit and took down some of the more prominent decorative pieces I had and substituted

contemporary colors with bright summer colors. The top ten finalists of the talent show were here as part of their winning package. Of course, Emily Lachey, the winner was the main attraction. I watched her make her way around the party, introducing and being introduced. For a 16-year old, she handled her self with a grace that cannot be taught. In that, she reminded me of Tonya and Liz.

"Hey, there he is," J.T. pointed out the open sliding door to the cabana by the pool. "I should have known he'd find himself a lady while we were here. He's quite the ladies man, I'm told. Story goes that he lost his job at the university because he couldn't keep his hands off the co-eds. His side is that he quit the university because they weren't paying him his worth. I met him a few years ago. I've watched him during the time I've known him and I'm more apt to believe that he messed around with one too many young college girls. Just look at him there. Kinda proves my point, doesn't it?"

My eyes followed J.T.'s pointing finger. Suddenly, he had my full attention. Sitting in my cabana, by my pool, outside of my

home was my greatest nemesis. Somehow Dr. Robert Bower had entered the party without my detection and had snuggled himself up to one of the finalists. Stephanie Colton sat on the lap of Dr. Robert Bower, and they were apparently in a deep conversation. In that brief moment, when my eyes found J.T. Bingham's guest, my insides exploded.

In hindsight, perhaps there was some righteous anger. In fact, that is what my attorneys claimed when Robert Bower attempted to charge me with assault. I was one of few in the room who knew the age of Miss Stephanie Colton. At fifteen years of age, she was too young to even win the talent show, which is why she was just a finalist. Either she lied to Robert, or he never bothered to ask, but either way, I was in no mood to find out. Handing my drink to J.T., I stormed out to the cabana.

"Stephanie, go inside," I quietly stated looking directly at Robert.

"What? Now, wait a minute," Robert said, holding tightly to Stephanie.

"Let her go," I raised my voice. "She's 15-years-old!"

"Oh," Robert let go and pushed Stephanie off.

"Stephanie, go inside," I repeated.

Wide eyed and scared, Stephanie scurried to the other side of the pool. As soon as she was out of the way, I grabbed Robert Bower by the collar and lifted him out of his chair.

"GET OUT!" I bellowed, as I hooked his nose with a left jab.

"Hey," he said, trying to ward me off. "What are you doing?!"

"Get out of my house," I stated again, turning him toward the door. "Get off my property."

"What's your problem?" he asked, shaking me off. Blood trickled down his face. "I came with J.T. Bingham. I'll leave when he does."

"No! You'll leave now."

"Look, Rob. I'm not sure what the issue is here. Remember? It was me who got you that job all those years ago  with Clark. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't own this house, you wouldn't own Whitman's Lone Star. You owe

me."

By this time, we had attracted quite the ring of spectators.

Party guests gathered around us waiting to see how this altercation would play out. Without intending to block us in, they left us little room to maneuver.

"I owe you nothing, and I just protected you from a statutory rape charge. Get out of my house, NOW!" I emphasized my point with two more punches. One of which landed him right into the pool. The crowd that gathered cheered until it was quite evident that the great Dr. Robert Bower could not swim.

A member of my security detail, a former lifeguard, fished Bower out of the pool and helped him through the gate. The glance of the infamous Dr. Robert Bower stumbling out my gate with a bloody face and in his wet clothes was the last sight I had of him. Apparently someone took him home. Emily Lachey, my new starlet, volunteered to take the embarrassed and visibly upset Stephanie Colton home. The crowd that had gathered around us dispersed, and the party waned. It did not take long before J.T. Bingham, and I were the only ones left.

"Well, now," J.T. started. "I can't say as I've ever experienced a party like this. I'm glad I came though, it is the best entertainment I've seen in a long while. You did the right thing, protecting that girl like that. Seems to me, though, that you were fighting for more than her honor. You've had your own experience with Robert Bower, haven't you? What's the catch? Did he take your girl when he was your professor at the university?"

"Something like that," I mumbled. "Oh, and next time, let me know ahead of time who you plan to bring to my party."

I walked away, leaving the most influential guest of the evening standing by my pool. A few more pills and another drink numbed the embarrassment of a ruined party. Nothing, though, could numb the hatred. The anger that festered for years ruined my party and was ruining my life. I did not  know what to do about it.

Later that night, after all signs of a party had been removed and everyone had left, I sat in the dark holding a drink and a bottle. I contemplated my life as I knew it. Hounded by resentment, anger, and hatred, I saw my life for what it was... disappointingly empty. Securing prescription pain medicine was

not overly difficult for someone with the finances I had. I easily supported my own habit.

I washed down the remaining pills in the bottle with the vodka in my hand. I hoped to die in my sleep. Instead, I woke in a hospital dazed and confused.

chapter 19

Memories flood my thoughts and emotions consume my soul in this journey of remembering. I am tired, though not sleepy. There will be no rest for this restless heart tonight. This very  exercise is what my heart needs. In the remembering, I am letting go, and, in the reading, I am celebrating the gift Liz was to me. The more I read and remember, the more peace and joy settle into my heart. What started as a project for Liz's children has become a gift for me.

For a time, I struggled with the term "gift" to refer to something that was a daily occurrence. When Liz went through her last bout of cancer and chemotherapy, she read a book about gratitude. According to Liz, that book changed her life. She began to see every day occurrences as being gifts from God specifically for her. She started counting those things each day and writing them in a gratitude journal. She said that as she counted, she became much more aware of the little things in each day. As she became aware of them, she counted. She said it was her cycle of joy--counting to see and then seeing to count. Counting the sunrise or a bird chirping as a gift from God made no sense to me. Those were daily occurrences, not miracles. Liz called them "evidences of God's grace."

Liz insisted that I read that book too. While I found a few portions contained moving anecdotes, overall, I was unimpressed. Liz, however, would not be deterred. "Read it again!" she commanded. I did, and was again, unmoved. However, it was reading it the third time that the words seemed to leap off each page to me. I finally understood that true joy comes in the act of gratitude. By saying "thank you" to God for each and every small thing in my day, I am acknowledging that He is the one that grants me my days.

Part of the healing tonight is coming through gratitude. You see, I have written down every memory in my moleskin gratitude journal as a testimony of thankfulness to God... the good, the bad, and the ugly. Each of these memories played a substantial role in my search of finding faith. Tonight I am grateful for them all. Of course, Liz was right. Counting gifts is the way to a life of true joy and contentment.

Dear Rob,

You asked about Guatemala. No, I am not going with Dan when he leaves for the next trip. I have only ever gone once. It was the trip of a life time.

A few years ago, Dan heard of a group of doctors who go to Guatemala for a week to offer free medical care. They work with a couple of local organizations to make sure that they see as many patients as possible while they are there. Dan decided he wanted to go. He asked me what I thought Kris would think. All I could say was, "Who cares what Kris thinks. GO!" My lousy advice got both Dan and I in trouble with Kris for a few minutes. But all's well that ends well because Jenny and I joined  the entire McClintock family for a trip to Guatemala. I gave Mark the choice to go or stay home. He chose to stay here.

The day all seven of us went to apply for passports was a hoot! We only had six weeks, and we asked for our passports to be expedited. Of course, we couldn't go submit our passport applications until the kids got out of school, and Dan saw his last patient for the day. We walked into the courthouse twenty minutes before closing time. I can't imagine what they thought when they saw all of us with our passport applications. Thankfully, several friendly clerks worked with us. We had them laughing and smiling by the time we were finished. We went out for Mexican (the closest thing we have to Guatemalan food) to celebrate.

Amazingly, the kids eagerly anticipated the trip. Kris was concerned that Luke would be upset about spending the spring break of his senior year of high school in Guatemala. He was the most excited of us all.

I had always wanted to go on a mission trip. After I graduated from high school and went to the university, I began to notice people in need. I had often given money to various

organizations to help these people, but I had not ever put my hands in action. Working as a non-medical person with a medical team truly changed my perspective. I saw needs deeper than what a band-aid could fix. Holding hands and holding children changed me. I came home with a vision to reach out in bigger ways to the people of Guatemala. God granted me the privilege of seeing Solo Dios Basta Ministries become a reality.

I love the name Solo Dios Basta. It means "God alone suffices." He truly does, Rob. He is enough.

Liz

~*~

I woke up to the distinct smell of a hospital room. When I looked around, I was alone. I had no visitors and no roommate. It took me a few minutes to orient. I had no memory of why I was in a hospital bed. I found the nurse call button and pressed it looking for answers.

"Well, look who's awake," she said in a loud voice. I barely opened my eyes and through my squint found the owner of the jolly voice.

"Hi! My name is Mary. I'm your nurse today. You sure gave us a mighty scare over the weekend."

"The weekend?" I croaked out the question. Until then, I had not noticed how dry my mouth and throat were.

"Mmmm, yes sir! They brought you in Saturday night. You've been here ever since."

"What day is it?" I asked, my voice only slightly stronger.

"It's Thursday," she said as she took my blood pressure.

Mary spent the next few minutes going through all her nursing duties. She took my blood pressure, my pulse, and my temperature. She checked my IV line and my catheter.

"Catheter?" I croaked a little louder.

"Well, yes!" She looked at me sternly. "You can't expect to come in here in your condition and not expect us to keep your body functioning. By the way, we did a urinalysis as well as blood

work. Apparently, you didn't expect to keep your body functioning!"

Ugh. All the memories came back in a torrent. J.T. Bingham. Robert. The fight. The end of the party. The pain medication and vodka.

"Your friend just left, but he asked me to call him if you woke up. I'll do that as soon as I get your chart completed."

"Friend?" apparently all I could do was utter one or two word sentences.

"Umm... I have his name written down right here. It's Clark. Clark Whitman. He's spent a lot of time in this room waiting to see if you'd wake up. I'll give him a call for you. You just rest now, you hear?"

Rest? Isn't that what I had been doing? What other choice did I have?

"Mary," I rasped, "Can I have water?"

"Oh my, yes!" she answered. "I'll get you a drink right away. Drink slowly though. Your stomach's been through enough trauma for a while."

"Catheter out?" I asked.

"Heavens no!" she laughed. "Not until we get you out of bed and sitting up for a while and that won't happen until you can tolerate some water. Now just sit tight. I'll be right back."

This was not what I had planned when I thought I would take the extra pills and sleep for eternity. I must have fallen asleep again because when I woke up there was a glass of water on my bedside table, and Clark Whitman was watching the news on my hospital TV.

"Well," he said helping me take a drink. "You did a good job. You surely tried hard to take your own life. I just have to ask. Was it worth it?"

I tried to shake my head, but all I did was increase the horrible pounding in the back of my head.

"No," I croaked.

"Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up. Jessie and I have been trying to get caught up on our sleep since baby Emma doesn't sleep but a few hours each night. The first night you were here, I

slept like a bear in hibernation. I've been dividing my time between helping Jessie get some sleep and being here with you."

"Thanks," I said.

"I surely wish I new what you were thinking when you swallowed all that." Clark stood and started pacing the length of my small room. "Really, Rob, why?"

"I don't know," I said. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep again. Soon, I heard Clark quietly walk out of the room.

I could not find the words to explain myself. If I did, I would have to go all the way back to the beginning and the thought of revisiting the hurts of the past simply overwhelmed me. Giving Clark no answer was easier.

Clark arranged my personal security detail to get me home. As soon as the hospital discharged me, they were there to take me home. According to the doctors orders, I had to stay at home the remainder of the week to rest and recuperate. Recuperation gave me way too much time to think. I simply numbed the memories with more alcohol and pills. I was an addict caught in the vicious cycle of more, more, more.

I spent those few days heavily doped up. Perhaps it was because my mind was so clouded by the prescription drugs or perhaps it was the fact that I drank much and ate nothing; but either way, the second overdose was not intentional. Deliberate or not, I landed in the hospital twice in one week for drug overdose.

The media had a heyday with the news of my overdoses. The illustrious leader and playboy of the Whitman's Lone Star music label was the breaking news on the 6 p.m. and 10 p.m. newscasts. I had once hoped for fame. Instead, I got notoriety and infamy.

Instead of sending me home, Clark arranged to get me into a rehab program. I moved from the hospital to a prison of sorts.

"You can be mad at me. I don't care," Clark said after he got me checked in. "Just know that I do this because I care. I'm taking back the big desk at Whitman's Lone Star. It'll be there for you when you return."

"Just do me this favor," I mumbled ungratefully. "Just don't tell Charles and Grace where I am. It would break Grace's  heart."

"I won't say a word," Clark said. "Just be sure that by not talking to them, you don't give yourself away."

When Clark walked out the door, I slid down the wall to the floor. I was struck with the fact that he had the freedom to walk out the door and to leave. I did not. I was so caught up in myself and my own suffering, I never considered who would take care of my dog, my house, or anything else I had. All I could think of was the fact that I was trapped, and there was nothing to numb the pain and memories this time.

After I survived the initial detox, the withdrawal symptoms lessened. I began meeting with Evan, my personal counselor, three times a day. I soon learned that everything at the rehab center was earned by reward. If I wanted to go outside, I had to make my bed. If I wanted dessert, I had to eat all my food. If I wanted to have recreation time, I needed to talk to my counselor. If Evan thought I had been a really good boy that day, I could even earn the chance to enjoy a movie with the other residents in the evening. I found the entire rewards program to be quite pathetic. I also found it easy to play along.

It was when I was playing along to get rewards one morning that I told Evan about Liz. It was a slip up actually. I thought I had become quite accomplished at evading his personal questions until he caught me off guard.

"You seem like you've always been the one in control of your relationships. Is that how you see yourself?" Evan asked politely.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Always?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, except when Tonya died." I figured that I had given him enough of an answer by bringing up Tonya again. He already knew the whole story of Tonya and the accident. It was the story I always fell back on to protect myself.

"So, aside from the fact that you were not in control when Tonya died, you have always been in control?" Evan asked again looking at me.

"Yes," I said succinctly.

"There has never been a time when someone left you?  Perhaps as a young child? Or, were you ever in a relationship where a woman shut the door in your face?"

In that moment, the stress of my addiction and the tension of being in the rehab unit came boiling out. I began crying. It was deep anguish type of sobbing. Aside from crying after Tonya's death, this was the only time I had cried as an adult man. For forty-five minutes, tears ran and sobs shook my shoulders as I told Evan about the woman who gave birth to me, Charlotte Marshall. I also told him about the one woman I could never have, Liz Bower. He sat quietly, never reaching out for me, but not leaving me alone in my grief either.

When I was finished and emotionally spent, Evan simply said, "It's time to find both Charlotte and Liz. It's time to move on by finding them and allowing yourself to let the pain go. There is a computer in the lounge. Here is the password. You will have thirty minutes before the internal timer goes off. Use the internet and see what you can find about either Charlotte or Liz. I will meet with you in an hour to go over what you find."

It did not take long for me to find Charlotte's obituary. Apparently, she died as the result of a domestic altercation. No big surprise there. I was surprised, though, to realize that I felt better just knowing something about her. I found nothing on Liz, and soon my computer time was finished.

In the remaining time I had at the rehab program, I got thirty minutes a day to search on the internet for Liz. Every day, I came up empty handed but every day brought me closer to the end of my counseling sessions with Evan and end of my stay.

chapter 20

It is a strange way of remembering tonight. I am straddling  the past and the present. I will soon get to the point where my memory catches up with where Liz's letters began. The place where two world's collide. This is where God used Liz's renewed presence in my life to do a miracle in this bruised and battered heart.

Some of the memories tonight trickle in and gently stream out. They do not incite emotional outbursts or dredge up long buried pain. Through the stroke of my pen, they flow in and out. I record them in my gratitude journal without much thought.

Other remembrances cascade through my wounded heart. They roar in and rip at the scabs and pull at the scars. So much of what I thought was healed is not, and what I thought matters does not. It is a strange place to find my mind. It is a place I am not wholly comfortable with.

It is where the past and the present meet that the future takes shape. In my recollection of finding and meeting Liz again, I see the most change in me. I realize that I like what I see. It is as if this is where the thankfulness for the hard times comes full circle to be grateful for who God made me to be and the life He has given me. I am more grateful than I have realized.

Dear Rob,

You asked more about Guatemala. Are you considering joining Dan on a trip? I don't think you would be sorry if you did.

The Guatemala trip was incredible. It changed me. It's much like being a single mother has changed me, but in amazingly different ways. I don't know if I can even explain the changes it brought about in my heart.

Did you know that there are children wishing, dreaming, hoping for just one meal today? Did you know that there are mothers mourning the fact that they can't get their child medical care? Do you know how much I take for granted?

I guess it doesn't matter if you know these things or not. I know, and I know that I will never be the same.

I wish you could see what I saw, Rob. I saw people full of joy, smiling and laughing with nothing. I mean NOTHING. Seriously, some of them didn't even have their own home, and yet they found joy in the living of each and every day.

Before I went to Guatemala, I would have told you that I was not materialistic. I would have argued that I let all of that go when I was eighteen. I thought I knew myself. I was wrong. There are so many things that I take for granted. There is much that I  hold on to simply for the comfort it brings me. I like my creature comforts, that's for sure.

The third day of our trip was the hardest for me. I felt inadequate to do anything and overwhelmed at all I saw. This was our hardest day. We left early in the morning with all of our supplies and carted those supplies through the mountains to two different clinics. We spent the morning at one clinic and the afternoon at the other. We had two doctors and saw over 300 patients. By the time we got back to our hotel, we were all exhausted. Little was said as we all met for dinner. I don't know if it was fatigue or the intense feeling of despair, but I had no appetite. I quietly slipped back to my room.

I'm sure I am not doing a good job of explaining just how devastated I felt. My life hasn't necessarily been an easy one, but none of my problems prepared me for seeing starving babies or hungry children. Even surviving cancer twice paled in comparison. I had pretended to be self-less for so long. However, a spoiled little, rich girl who holds tightly to her things still dwells deep within me. I believe God finally put me in a place where I had to face my own selfish heart. It wasn't a fun place to be.

After dinner, Kris joined me on the little deck of my hotel room. I tried to articulate the struggle within but failed miserably. Thankfully, words are not often needed between Kris and I. We sat in the silence for a while and then got on our knees and prayed.

There are a few times that I have been involved in prayer that have never been forgotten. This was one of those times. For the rest of my life, I will never forget that prayer time. I really don't know how long we prayed. When we were finished, though, we turned and stood to face the most brilliant sunset I have ever witnessed. I'm sure everyone in Panajachel witnessed that dazzling sunset, but to Kris and I, it truly felt as if God were right there with painting the sky just for us.

I think God is planting a seed deep within you, Rob. Perhaps a trip to Guatemala with Dan and the team is just what that seed needs to flourish and grow.

I'm praying for you.

Liz

~*~

Coming home from rehab was, in some ways, easier than I anticipated and harder than I ever imagined. Every minute of every day, my mind battled the overwhelming desire to find a numbing agent, either a drink or a pill. While I did not reach for either, they consumed my thoughts.

Clark graciously continued to keep Whitman's Lone Star up and running while I got back on my feet. He and Jessie had me over for dinner several times a week. They pretended these dinners were to fill me in on all that had happened and was happening at the office. However, it was easy to see around their charade. They had me over to keep an eye on me, and, they did this because they cared.

In the weeks that followed rehab, I reclaimed my love of music. I played everything I could get my hand on from classical to rock, from country to jazz. The genre or the artist did not matter. I simply submerged myself in music. Music gave me an escape from the constant cravings, and it calmed the anxiety in ways I cannot begin to explain. Many evenings, I laid on the floor of my great room and listened to the music piped in from my stereo. Other nights, I sat in my conservatory and played my concert grand for hours. It was in the music that I found rest from the battle of an addictive reality.

I also regained my love of running. After the accident, I could not run. When my body finally healed, I chose not to run. At the rehab hospital, I took up running to stave off sheer boredom. When I came home, though, running became a passion again. I discovered trails in my woods that the deer had carved out. I explored areas I had never taken the time to see. I found that I had never lost my love for running. I just had to unbury it under the stuff and junk that had filled my life.

Finding Liz became my other passion. I found myself consumed with thoughts that had been dormant for years. Thoughts of where Liz was and what she was doing filled my days. Dreams of where I wish Liz was and what I wished she were doing filled my nights. Once again, she was my addiction. It was reminiscent of the younger me seeking to find her on a university campus but with the fervency of an addictive personality. The hunt to find her became my new drug.

Over the years, I had developed a broad network in the music world. When it became evident that I was at a dead-end in my search for Liz, I decided to call in a few favors. I started asking various people to tell me anything they knew about Dr. Robert Bower. I still deeply despised the man, but I was desperately seeking any link to Liz that I could find, even if it meant going through him. The last I had seen of Robert was the day I kicked him out of my house. Aside from a probable broken nose, he seemed to be in great health. I was shocked when my acquaintance, Steve Zuhr, sent me this newspaper clipping:

Local Man Found Dead

Robert Andrew Bower, 46, passed away Saturday evening at his home.

Bower's body was found by a female friend Sunday afternoon.

The County Coroner has determined an estimated time of death and

reports that no foul play attributed to Bower's passing.

An autopsy is planned for Tuesday morning.

Steve included a note. "Rob, I found this and thought you might want to know. Not sure if this helps or hinders your quest. Glad to hear you are doing well. Best wishes, Steve"

I was no closer to finding Liz, yet I was elated to know that the man who stood between us was now dead. I had no remorse for the deep hatred that had consumed my heart for so

long. Instead, I was thrilled that he would no longer move in and out of my life. It was with a renewed sense of purpose and a greater sense of freedom that my quest to find Elizabeth Bower continued.

"Rob, where are you going to put the summer intern? Our office building is packed!" Melissa asked, leaning across the boardroom table.

"Seriously, Boss," Tim, the audio and visual manager, spoke up, "we need to either add on or build a new building. We're like sardines in here."

"Look," I said, "I know we are crowded. This issue comes up every week during this staff meeting. You know the contract to add on to this building is in the works. I hate to say this, but we're just going to have to be crowded for a while. As far as the new intern, does anyone have any creative ideas?"

Most of Whitman's Lone Star's employees were once summer interns, including Tim. Everyone knew that Whitman's Lone Star music label always hired one summer intern. The pile of applications was huge, and all who came to the staff meeting had a say in which applicant we hired. The applicant had been chosen. Cyndi Thomas was due to arrive on Monday as the newest intern for Whitman's Lone Star. The fact that it was Thursday only compounded the problem.

"Is there any space not being used for something?" Jennifer, one of the production assistants, asked.

"There is some closet space over in the recording studio,"

Tim answered.

"Yeah, but who would want to be over there by themselves?" Melissa argued. "Besides, she would spend most of her time running back over here for things. Wait, what if we moved all the stuff from the storage closet here over to the recording studio and revamped this closet for Cyndi?"

"That's probably our best option, Boss," Tim chimed.

"Ok. Tim, take the rest of the afternoon and your department staff and empty this closet," I replied.

"That will teach me to keep quiet," Tim huffed.

"Jennifer, will you ask maintenance to paint the closet tonight? Melissa, will you locate or order a desk, chair, and lamp?"

"Sure," Melissa and Jennifer replied.

"That wraps up this meeting, then. Thank you all for your help," I said standing up. "I'm looking forward to the warm welcome we can give Cyndi Thomas on Monday."

I worked late that night and heard maintenance come in to paint Cyndi's new space. I did not pay much attention to them until one knocked on my door.

"This box was in that closet. Where would you like it?" one of the workers asked, carrying in a cardboard box.

"Oh," I mumbled. "Just set it there. We'll move it in the morning."

"Ok," he said. He set the box on the floor by the door and went back to the closet.

I stayed until the two men finished the closet. I listened to them clean up their things and walk down the hallway. When the back door closed, I got up to head home for the night. As I walked

past the forgotten box, I glanced down. In that moment, I forgot to breathe. The top of the CD was marked  "Elizabeth Bower commercial jingle" in black ink next to a local music agent's contact information sticker.

I took the box home with me. A quick perusal through blank CDs, empty cases, and  miscellaneous items, revealed there was just one recorded CD in the entire box. In the dark, I sat and listened to the snippets of Liz's music. Piano tracks, harp tracks, guitar tracks were all there, and they were beautiful. I recognized bits of a few classical pieces redone. I assumed the rest were her own compilations. That night I did not run. I forgot to eat, and I never slept. I simply listened to that one CD over and over again wondering how it was that Liz had been so close to me, and I never knew it.

I called the agent's number from the CD the next morning. After flubbing my way through the pleasantries, I found myself agreeing to buy three of Liz's jingle tracks for future advertising. In exchange, the agent gave me Liz's contact information so that I could work directly with her for some further ideas. There were no further ideas. I simply played along with the forthcoming agent and gratefully wrote Liz's number down on the back of one of my own business cards. Thrilled to have it and unsure when I would do anything with it, I put the business card in my wallet and tried to work for the remainder of the day.

I could not get home fast enough to run. It felt as though my insides would quiver right out of me if I did not lace up my shoes. Bear and I ran farther and faster that night than we ever had. I tried to outrun the anxiety within me. Each pounding step brought questions and more questions to which my heart had no answers.

Now that I had a phone number, what would I do with it? What would calling Liz accomplish in my life? What if she forgot who I was? What if she hung up on me? What if it was a wrong number, and I was back to not knowing where she was? Deep inside, I knew that there would be no answers to these questions until I tried the number I was given. I was scared to death to try.

Every night that week was the same. Every night, I would come home from work and run until the questions ceased. After a shower and a quick supper, I would convince myself it was too late to call and that I would call from the office in the morning. When morning came, the fear of being overheard kept me from picking up the phone and dialing the number. Eight days of torture later, I finally closed my office door and dialed the number I was given.

"Hello," said a voice I had never forgotten.

"Uh, yeah, Liz?" I asked.

"Who is this, please?"

"This is Rob, Rob Adams," I stammered. "I just bought a few of your jingles and your agent gave me your home number, and, I... ummm...  might be interested in some more of your music.  Ah... anyway, do you remember me?" The silence on the other end was not very reassuring.

"Rob," Liz whispered. "Wow. It's been a long time, and I have a million questions. I'm not sure I really want the answers though. Really... umm..."

"Hey," I said, suddenly becoming braver than I really was. "Can I take you to lunch? Maybe I can answer a few of those questions. I'd like to apologize for how things ended up between us and catch up on what's happened over the years. I promise I'm harmless, and it'll just be lunch of two old friends catching up. What do you say?"

"Lunch?" she asked. "Are you here?"

"Well, considering I'm not sure where 'here' is, I would have to say 'no.' However, I can be there any time you say."

Putting me to the test, she said, "Do you remember the bistro just a few blocks from the university? I can meet you there tomorrow for lunch."

"Ok," I replied, doing some quick calculations in my head. I could charter a flight and be there in an hour or so. "You tell me the time, and I'll meet you there."

chapter 21

I smile at the memory of lunch with Liz at that bistro. She walked in with a grace that most women lack. She never hurried or seemed rushed. Yet, she was in and out of the restaurant much sooner than I would have wanted.

Liz met her match of tenacity in me. As much as she wanted to cling to the mirage of a husband and marriage, I wanted to prove her wrong. Whenever I had seen Robert Bower over the years, he was always with another woman. Aside from the time in his classroom when he told me of the internship at Whitman's Lone Star music, I had never seen him alone. I also never saw him with the same woman twice.

I traded my addictions. Once I found that demo CD with Liz's name on it, my obsession with her renewed and grew. I was not satisfied just knowing things about Liz. I wanted to really know her. I desired to know about her life and the years since we were together. I wanted to know her family and her friends. I desired to see her live life.

Liz became my freedom from prescription drugs. At the same time, she was my all consuming passion. I thought of her constantly. Only in hindsight can I see that I was truly obsessed with winning the heart of the woman who stole mine all those years ago.

It goes without saying that Liz was the one who taught me that you cannot steal something that is willingly given. Liz did not steal my heart on the university campus. Instead, I voluntarily gave  it to her when I obsessed about the beauty in the green velvet dress. I allowed her to become the focus of my heart, and thus, she became who my heart desired. Of course, the fact that she was married simply fueled the longing.

As a child, I never learned to take responsibility for my own actions. I spent much of my adult life unfairly placing the blame on Liz. Though I never spoke of any of these things, in my heart I blamed her for the fact that I fell in love with her. In my mind, I accused her of choosing Robert over me. In my soul, I wrongly held her responsible for my dependence on drugs and alcohol.

I am a work-in-progress. It has been in this past year that God has shown me how obsessive I have been over my friend, Liz. She tried to tell me this. I, of course, denied it. I now think the one gift I could have given her would have been to free her from my heart. This is my greatest regret.

Dear Rob,

Thank you for another fun phone call last night. I love it when you lighten up and laugh. You can be a funny guy, you know.

Have I ever told you how much I love to laugh? I think the love of laughter is the glue that has held Kris and I together. Oh my, have we laughed. I have so many memories of both of us laughing so hard neither of us could breathe.

On one of the many trips she and I took to the Estate, I took her to visit my grandmother. Granny suffered from several strokes and could no longer speak. However, that did not mean she couldn't communicate! She was an ace at communicating effectively with her eyes. She was also quite a  spitfire. Even in her infirmity, she enjoyed practical jokes. This particular visit was in the spring. The nursing home had someone dressed as the Easter Bunny walking around delivering plastic colored eggs to the residents. Neither Kris nor I paid much attention to the Easter Bunny until it came to give Granny an egg. Suddenly, the Easter Bunny jumped and skittered out of Granny's room. She sat silently laughing, her shoulders shaking up and down and a mile-wide grin spread across her face. When I asked her what was so funny, she made a pinching motion with her fingers. I was shocked! My grandmother actually goosed the Easter Bunny! Oh boy, did we laugh over that. By the time our visit was finished, all three of us ached from laughing so hard.

There are so many stories that still cause us to laugh. Some stories include Dan or our kids, but most of them are our stories alone. We have laughed about them for so many years that all of the family can quote the stories right along with us. You should hear Jenny's rendition of the chicken that I ran over doing 70 mph on the interstate. The best part? The incident happened six years before Jenny even made her appearance!

Suffering through cancer has taught me that life is too short to not laugh. Laughter brings spice to each day--the good days and the bad ones. I cannot imagine life without it.

Thanks for laughing with me on the phone tonight, Rob. I enjoyed every minute of it!

Liz

~*~

I arrived at the little bistro a full hour early. To say that I was restless would have been an understatement. For fifty-five minutes, I simultaneously watched the door and the clock impatiently. I have spent my life hiding my feelings and emotions. I have developed nerves of steel, but when Liz gracefully swept through the doorway my nerves of steel were gone. Emotions rose to the surface. All these years of wondering where she was and who she became were erased in a nano-second.

"Hello Rob," she said quietly as I rose to meet her. Her deep beauty rendered me speechless as I held her chair for her. Gone was her youthful look with long hair and sensuous curves that had haunted my dreams all these years. She sat across the table from me with short gray hair, fine lines, and a much thinner frame. Somehow, though, she was infinitely more beautiful than I ever remembered. I sat mesmerized.

We managed to place an order for our lunch in increasingly awkward situation. I tried to insist on one check. Liz quietly demanded two. As she placed the order that she insisted on paying for, I glanced at her left hand. She wore the same marquis diamond and matching wedding band that I remembered.

"Rob, I want to take this opportunity to apologize for what happened between us long ago," Liz began after our server walked away. "I am so sorry that I led you on. I take full responsibility. I am a married wife and mother who took advantage of your kindness. Please forgive me."

"Forgive you?" I stumbled.

"Yes, please," she replied. "I am truly sorry for that night."

Not sure how to respond to Liz's apology, I said nothing. To Liz, I am sure my silence was not reassuring. I wondered what she meant by "I'm truly sorry for that night." My heart dropped when I realized that our one time together was something she deeply regretted. I did not know what to say. I stalled long enough for our server to set down our drinks and salads. When I looked up, Liz sat with her eyes closed and her head bowed over her food. It was a familiar posture I recognized from Charles and Grace.

"No problem," I said, pretending I was not bothered by either her last statement or by her silent prayer. "So, as I mentioned last night, I found a promo CD in a closet of my company and was so surprised to see your name on it. How have you been?"

Liz proceeded to tell me about her life and her children between bites of her salad. She shared of her struggle with cancer, twice. She told me how Robert had left her and the children when he learned of her cancer. She mentioned that she never attempted to locate him. She shared anecdotes of her life as a single mom and stories of the blended family she shared with her former college roommate, Kris McClintock. She told me of her faith in God and shared the ways He has answered her prayers. She spoke, and I listened. I ate my salad without tasting a single bite.

"Rob," Liz said, standing. "Thank you for this time and for allowing me the opportunity to apologize."

"Liz! Wait," I said, standing too. "Can we do this again? I mean, can I see you again?"

"Rob," she smiled half-heartedly. "I never sought out Robert for a divorce. I am still a married woman. I hope you can appreciate my commitment for my children's sake and honor it. I don't date."

"Can I at least call you again, sometime?" I asked weakly.

"Yes, I think an occasional letter or phone call would be fine. Here's my card." Liz handed me her card, and I quickly reached for one of mine to give to her. She took it, paid her check, and left the restaurant.

I sat down dazed and confused. Not only was Liz more beautiful and more graceful than I remembered, she was clearly still married. I had seen a Robert Bower's death reported in the newspaper. Had I made a mistake? Did I jump to the wrong conclusion? Robert Bower was not an uncommon name. Perhaps I assumed him dead out of my own hatred for the man. My head  spun with unanswered questions as I took a charter flight home.

I returned to my office at Whitman's Lone Star that afternoon to take care of a few details and sign a contract. After everyone else finished for the day, I stayed late working on my computer. I searched for more information on Dr. Robert Bower. Going back to the same newspaper website that I first read of the  death of Robert Bower, I searched for more details. A small obituary was printed two days after the brief news report. There were no details of family or next-of-kin listed. The only information I could find was a phone number for the funeral service provider. I called the number listed.

"Thomas and Sons Funeral Home, this is Connie. How may I help you?" a pleasant voice answered.

"Hi," I boldly lied. "My family and I are looking for our deranged uncle. Unfortunately, he may have passed away. His name was Robert Bower. I've called many places trying to locate him. Can you be of any help?"

"Well, now," she paused. "I do recall a name like that. Who did you say you were, again?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I failed to give you my name. I am Jonathan Bower, the nephew of Robert Bower. He is or was my mother's brother. You see, he's always been hard to keep track of, and when he fails to take his medicine, he runs off. We then spend weeks tracking him down to bring him home. It's a cycle that is repeated often, I'm afraid. I saw a news clipping of the death of a Robert Bower, and I'm just so concerned that this is my uncle."

Through this hastily concocted story, I was able to get

Connie to reveal Robert Bower's story.

"Yes, I see. You know, Jonathan, I wish I had more information for you. Apparently Mr. Bower was new to this area and not many knew him. He had a female friend that found his body after he had passed, and, except for his driver's license, we had no other information for him. His female friend insisted on his cremation. She was adamant that cremation was his final wish. From our perspective, it is the most economical method. I'm sorry, we do have to think of those things you know," Connie said.

"Oh, dear," I mumbled, playing the role of the shocked nephew to the best of my ability. "I hope that wasn't Uncle Bob. You said the only identification was a driver's license? Would you happen to know the date of birth listed on that license?"

"Well, let me look." Connie's voice muffled some. "I have a file here with his name on it. Here is his driver's license. It says Robert Andrew Bower. Date of birth April 17, 1961. The only other thing in this file folder is a picture of a young woman holding a baby. There is nothing on written on the picture."

No longer pretending, I paused. It was him. Though I had  no idea of the date of Robert Bower's birth, I was confident I had found Liz's husband.

"Jonathan?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," I responded. "Is the woman in the picture strikingly beautiful?"

"Um, yes, yes she is," Connie agreed. "The baby looks to  be a newborn girl wrapped in a pink blanket. Is this your uncle?"

"I'm afraid it is, Connie," I said. "I am certain that is Uncle Bob. That picture you described is my sister and niece. Uncle Bob was quite taken with my sister and was tickled when my niece was born."

"Oh dear," Connie ticked. "I'm sorry you are finding your Uncle Bob this way."

"Yes, me too," I replied softly, still playing the role of grieving nephew.

"Please accept my condolences, Jonathan," Connie said, empathetically. She was very good at her job at Thomas and Sons.

"Thank you, Connie. Is it possible for you to send me that picture? I'm sure my sister would love to have it back, and it would mean a lot to her to know that it was with Uncle Bob's driver's license."

"Oh, most certainly!" Connie gushed. "Would you like the license too? Actually, this man has been a bit of a mystery to us, and I am so glad to have the secret of Robert Bower's identity solved. I can send you our entire file. It holds the driver's license and picture, as well as the police report and the autopsy report. There is also a short obituary that I wrote. I do that, you know."

"No, I didn't know," I answered, "but, I would love to have it. I'm sure it is beautiful and it would mean a lot to the family. In fact, I think I will photocopy it, if you don't mind. That way, my sister and my mother can each have it."

"Oh, no," Connie raved, "I don't mind. You can make as many photocopies as you would like! Now, if you will just give me your address, I will put this in the mail to you tomorrow."

"Oh," I stumbled. "Um, well, I work during the day, so would you mind sending it to my work place? I'm sure my boss wouldn't mind."

"That would be fine," she replied. "What is that address?"

"Please address it to me, Jonathan Bower, in care of my boss, Rob Adams," I said. Then I gave her the address for Whitman's Lone Star.

"I will do this tomorrow, Jonathan. Again, I am sorry for your loss," Connie concluded.

"Thank you for all your help, Connie," I said, sincerely. "It was a pleasure talking with you."

"You too, Jonathan. Good night."

"Good-bye, Connie."

I hung up the phone line and sat stunned. I could not wait to get that package from Connie at Thomas and Sons' Funeral Home. I was so sure it was Liz's husband, Robert, that I never considered any other option.

I drove home in a daze wondering how and when I would tell Liz that Robert was dead. I was not sure how she would feel about the news, but I was thrilled that it freed her from her religious conviction to stay married to the jerk. I figured it was a wide open door for me.

Later, while running, I had a second thought. I realized I did not want Liz to choose me because Robert was dead. I wanted her to want me regardless of Robert Bower's status. I no longer  wanted to live in his shadow. If Liz truly wanted me, she would pursue a divorce and would want to discover the whereabouts of Robert herself. I made up my mind that then, and only then, would  I reveal the folder from Thomas and Sons.

The following week, Melissa brought me the envelope from Thomas and Sons with a questioning look. I took it without offering an explanation. All of my questions were answered as soon as the small plastic-coated driver's license fell out of the folder onto my desk. Dr. Robert Bower, husband of Elizabeth Ashley, stared back at me. I spent the next forty minutes reading and rereading the police report, autopsy, and Connie's well-worded obituary. The police report seemed standard, and the autopsy report listed the cause of death as myocardial infarction, also known as a heart attack. No known next-of-kin was listed on the information sheet from Thomas and Sons, and the cash in Robert's checking account paid for their services. All in all, it seemed like a neat and tidy case of death by natural causes. Included in the file was a picture more beautiful that Connie described. I lost track of time staring at Liz holding Baby Jenny.

I took the file from Thomas and Sons Funeral Home to my house. I placed it in a desk drawer and locked it. I did not need to look at it again. What was done was done. I assumed I was finally freed from my bitter rival.

chapter 22

I pause and stand to stretch, again. It is late enough now that I know I will not sleep before Liz's children come. Walking to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, I glance out of the window. Soft snow blankets the ground and for the first time, I wonder if the weather will inhibit Mike, Jenny, and Mark from coming.

I grind the beans for a full 12-cup pot of coffee. The rich aroma of dark roast fills the kitchen. I think the smell is as invigorating as the drink. My latest vice? It is smooth, bold Guatemalan coffee. I honestly love this stuff and have no desire to drink any other kind of coffee. With each Dios Basta trip, someone brings me several pounds. I like to think this is my last vice.

Walking back to my recliner, I savor the flavor. The first taste is always the most flavorful, and I am learning to slow down long enough to enjoy it. Savoring is as new to me as counting gratitude gifts. Amazingly, they go hand in hand. One does not notice those things for which to be grateful unless one slows down long enough to recognize them for what they are.

All these lessons learned are what I call my second chance at life. I am continually amazed that I was even given the opportunity to try again, especially with Liz. As if I did not blow it the first time with her all those years ago, I tried my best to screw up our new fledgling relationship every chance I got. I am most amazed that she put up with me and that our friendship endured.

I set about pursuing Liz with a cold and calculated vengeance. I no longer pursued her for the sake of ancient memories or heart's desire. Instead, I sought to rescue her from Robert's tarnished legacy. Regardless of my own faulty life, I felt as though I could offer her a better love and a better life. Much like my nemesis, I never consulted Liz on any of my plans. As they say, the best laid plans of life often go awry.

I am a risk taker and a thrill seeker. Since that time Billy Ray and I borrowed his dad's truck and drove into town, I have not been afraid to take a chance. Risk thrills me. I take risks, calculated and un-calculated every day. While I would not have gotten where I am in the music world without taking chances, I should not have bet those same odds against Liz.

Armed with the knowledge of Robert's death, I obsessed over winning Liz's affections. I never thought of it in terms of "if" but only "when." Though on the outside, I appeared to be the same man running the same company day after day, on the inside I was a man on a mission. I never met a woman I could not win over. I was not about to let Liz be the first.

I began by stretching our phone calls longer and longer. I learned quickly that if I asked Liz questions about her faith, her family, or her friends, she would talk longer. I became quite the inquisitor. When our weekly phone calls extended to twice weekly, Liz did not object. When I tried to stretch it to three times a week, she not only objected, she stopped answering her phone. My tenacity had met its match. I just was not sharp enough to see it

and wise enough to accept it.

Dan McClintock, the husband of Liz's best friend Kris, saw it for me. Wisely, he looked me in the eye and slowly said, "Boldness and arrogance are great qualities to have if you want to run a successful business. However, if you are pursuing a woman deeply injured by the father of her children, compassion and kindness would better serve your purpose." Once again, I did not recognize the gift given.

Dear Rob,

Somedays, I feel as though all I do is repeat myself. If I have told Mark, "Please, do not leave your football cleats on the carpet!" once, I've said it a thousand times. Yet, as I write this, there is a pair of size 12 football cleats with clumps of grass and dirt stuck on them sitting on my carpet, again! Obviously, I will tell him to put them in the garage for the 1001st time!

It's not just Mark. I repeat myself to Jenny almost as much. Instead of football cleats, it's usually nail polish left partially opened. She never leaves her own open, of course. Before I picked up a pen and my stationery to write to you, I tightened the tops to three different bottles of nail polish and returned them to my bathroom. Had she not been at her friend's house down the street, I would have made her do it. Perhaps I should have called her home just for that chore. Maybe then she would remember next time.

It seems that I repeat myself to you too--almost as often as I do to my own children. Seriously, Rob, must you keep asking if I will go out with you? I'd like to think that I've made it abundantly clear that I don't date, not even former men. I will repeat myself as often as needed to make my point, we can be friends, Rob. We cannot be anything else. The question is, can you be good with that?

Just as I often try to think of ways to get my point across with my children, I'm trying to figure out how to get you to understand. Usually after I pray, God gives me the words that are the most effective to say to my kids. I've been praying that He would give me the words that would make my point with you.

During our phone conversation tonight, you made the statement that Robert doesn't deserve me or my faithfulness. You are right. He doesn't. However, the issue isn't what Robert deserves or does not deserve. Rather, the issue is my commitment to the promise I made.

Do you remember when I told you the story of my pregnancy with Jenny? I wish I could adequately describe how torn up my heart was during that time. As soon as I first felt Jenny move inside of me, I loved her. She was my child. I would often place my hand on my growing belly and feel her kick back. Those were the only moments of peace in that long pregnancy. The remaining time, I battled the demons of self-loathing, insecurity, and regret because I had cheated myself and gone back on a commitment I made in the presence of Robert, Kris, my parents, and our friends.

Would it have been horrible if I were carrying your child instead of Robert's? I will emphatically repeat what I said to you on the phone tonight. NO! I would have raised her just as I have been... lovingly and by myself.

During our conversation tonight, you seemed to want to make the paternity of Jenny the issue. You can question that forever, if you want. It doesn't matter to me. I KNOW that regardless of being pregnant, I still would have struggled with deep depression after that night with you. I didn't grapple because I found out I was carrying Jenny. I struggled because I was raised to be true to my word even in the face of adversity. Instead of staying true to the covenantal promise I made the evening I said "I do," I lowered myself to Robert's level. I tried to play his game. Only, I lost. I lost my self-respect.

Thankfully, I have found freedom from the ghosts of the past through my faith in Jesus Christ. He came to die on the cross to set me free from my past. God's Word, the Bible, promises that He has made me a new creation in Him and that my sins of the

past have been removed as far as the east is from the west (look at Psalm 103:12).

Though Christ has forgiven me and set me free from my past life of sin, I am still bound to the promise I made to Robert and to myself for better or for worse. No, I will not divorce Robert, nor will I try to find him. I am grateful he is no longer a part of our lives, and I will do nothing to change the life I've made for Mark, Jenny, and myself. Neither will I change our lives by becoming intimately involved with any other man. Instead, I will faithfully follow Jesus Christ and do my best to rear both my children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

I'm sure so much of this doesn't make sense, Rob. I'm not trying to argue or to confuse you. I simply am stating the way it is. Honestly, I have enjoyed becoming reacquainted (truthfully, I should say acquainted since I truly didn't know much about you before you found that demo CD). You are a kind and funny man and I enjoy our friendship. However, I feel that you are looking for more from me. Please understand I will give you nothing more

than a friendship. Only one question remains. Can you be good with that?

Liz

~*~

My typical mode of operation was to work through long weekends and incidental holidays. Some of my best work has been done while the rest of the Whitman's Lone Star staff is out of the office. With the doors locked and the phones set to voice mail, I have locked myself in the recording studio and written songs for new recruits that become hit singles. I have sat at the drafting table and designed album covers and sat at my desk writing powerful press releases. These things are not required. Whitman's Lone Star has people in these departments who do incredible work. I did it to keep my head in the game and to stay one step ahead.

The week before Memorial Day, the office was buzzing. Everyone had plans to celebrate the first weekend of summer, and the weather was forecasted to cooperate beautifully. It seemed as if everyone was either planning on spending the weekend on the river or at the Lake.

"So, Boss," Tim drawled during our weekly Thursday staff meeting. "What are your weekend plans?"

"Don't know," I answered. "Probably work here, clean the pool at home, and run with Bear. Why?"

"Wow," he mumbled. "Not sure I could stand that much excitement! You need to get out more!"

Those sitting around the table in the board room all chimed in their agreement with Tim's new found wisdom. It took a few minutes to call the meeting to order and get on with the agenda. Something about Tim's reaction stuck with me throughout the staff meeting. I could not shake the thought of doing something different. By the time we got through the agenda, I completely changed my weekend plans, keeping the change to myself, of course.

Returning to my office, I spent the remainder of the day making arrangements and finalizing details. I stayed late that night finishing a project I had started. It was dark when Bear and I went for our evening run. Night time was Bear's favorite, and I hoped that the memories of chasing the night life on this run would keep him company for the weekend. He would be staying here with Homer, my property manager. Bear might miss a run or two with me over the next couple of days, but he would not be neglected. Homer loves to grill steak for two.

One of the joys of owning your own business is that you can choose when you take vacation. I left Friday morning just as the sun was beginning to touch the top of the trees and drove with the convertible top down. The cool air, the brilliant sunrise, and the light morning traffic convinced me that I made the right choice to drive rather than charter a flight. Though I had an agenda, I found  myself relaxing as I drove. For the first time since Tonya's death, I was actually taking time off and it felt really good.

When I made my plans, I had done some research and located a renowned meat market slightly off the beaten path. I called ahead and ordered fresh filet mignon wrapped in peppered

bacon for eight. The market was clean and quaint. They not only sold farm-raised meats but also baked goods and fresh produce. I walked out with the filets, fresh lettuce, sugar snap peas, new potatoes, strawberries, and an angel food cake. The proprietress secured it all the foam coolers I had ordered as well.

The entire drive was uneventful. While I zipped down the highway, I thought through my agenda. Since the dinner that I would grill and prepare was riding comfortably in the back seat, I checked it off my mental list. Private box tickets for Saturday night's performance of The Phantom of the Opera were paid for and waiting at the ticket office. Dinner reservations for eight following the performance were made. Reservations for Sunday Brunch at the Country Club were also made and secured thanks to American Express. Boat rental for all day Monday was also secured on that same credit card. Picnic foods, sodas, and bottled water for the day on the lake would be purchased Sunday evening. Everything was ready to go, and I was due back in the office for a conference call Wednesday morning. It felt good to be getting away and even better to have planned a weekend that would leave no doubt to my intentions.

Though I had never been to Liz's home, I had her address. It was not hard to locate her street on a map. I planned my driving time to pull into her driveway just before her kids got home from school. This was the only part of my weekend agenda that went as planned.

I pulled into Liz's home and looked around. There was no car in the driveway and the garage was closed tight. The front door was also closed and the daily newspaper sat where it had landed on the porch. Needless to say, no one responded to my loud and persistent knocking.

"Rob?" Kris asked, walking across the cul-de-sac to Liz's home. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi!" I smiled. "Thought I'd come for the long weekend."

"Ummmm," she stalled. "Did Liz know you were coming?"

"No," I replied, still smiling. "I wanted to surprise her. Is she around?"

"Uh, no," Kris said slowly. "No, she isn't around. You see, the last day of school for the kids was Wednesday. They left for a two week trip to New York state yesterday. That is where she is originally from."

"Seriously?" I asked. "She really left yesterday?"

"Yeah, seriously," Kris replied. "I'm sorry you came all this way, and she's not here. Hey. listen, why don't you come over and stay for dinner? Dan's on his way home now."

"Yeah, okay," I stumbled. "I mean, yes, thanks I'd like that. Oh, and I brought dinner with me."

I left my car in Liz's driveway, and Kris and I carried the coolers to her house. While we waited for Dan to arrive, we unpacked the coolers, and Kris made a salad. Kris quietly listened as I found myself telling her how I planned the entire weekend to be one big surprise after another for Liz. By the time I finished, Dan walked in the door.

"Hey, why is there a car with Tennessee plates in Liz's driveway?" he asked as he came through the front door.

"Come see," Kris answered from the kitchen.

"Hey, Rob!" Dan exclaimed. I am sure it was a complete surprise to see me standing with his wife in their kitchen, but he seemed genuinely glad to see me. "What brings you here?"

"Liz," Kris answered for me.

"Oh, too bad she's at the Estate. Did you tell her you were coming?" Dan asked as he poured himself a glass of sweet tea.

I repeated my story to Dan. By the end of the narration both Kris and Dan were laughing at my expense.

"Rob brought dinner, so I invited him to stay," Kris said, still laughing from my story. "Why don't you go fire up the grill?"

"Thanks for the invitation to stay," I quipped. "Is there a hotel nearby? I'll check in for tonight and be on my way tomorrow."

"On your way?" Dan exclaimed. "What about all those

reservations and such? Why let a good weekend go to waste? You  are more than welcome to stay here. In fact, we'd love to get to know you better!"

It has been said that the best laid plans often go awry. The entire time I made arrangements, finalized details, and planned the weekend, it never occurred to me that it would go any way other than what I had decided. I never considered anything other than the plans I had made.

"Thanks for a great weekend, Rob," Kris said late Monday evening. "I know you wanted to do all this for Liz, and I'm sorry the weekend didn't go as planned. Thanks for sharing it with us though. It's been a pleasure getting to know you a bit more, and the boys loved the boat rental today. Thanks for adding on the tube and the skis just for them."

"I agree," Dan echoed. "It's been a fun weekend, Rob. Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said. "Thanks for letting me stay with you. It never occurred to me that Liz might not be home when I arrived. I just wanted to surprise her."

"I'll let you in on a little secret concerning Liz," Kris smiled. "She loves to be in on surprises and she loves to surprise people. She equally despises being on the receiving end of surprises. Just thought you might want to know for next time."

Kris' statement hung in the damp evening air. Though there was way no way Liz knew of my visit or my plans, I felt as though I had been duped. I was instantly angry at Liz, myself, and even at the situation. I sat and stewed.

"You know, Rob," Dan began, "this weekend was a lot of fun, and all those things you planned were nice. However, I guarantee that Liz would not have been impressed. She's not impressed with the things money can buy. Actually, the more money that is flashed around, the less she's impressed. She's from that world. There is nothing that you could say or do with money that would dazzle Liz. While you might have pulled off the surprise, you wouldn't have succeeded in impressing her."

I did not respond to Dan's statement, just as I had not responded to Kris'. Now both hung heavy in the air. The carefree weekend had abruptly come to an end. I stood to leave.

"Well, thank you both for the hospitality this weekend. I

think I will leave now. I have work to do in the office when I return," I mumbled.

"Rob, hold on," Dan said standing to look me in the eye. "Before you rush off, please hear us. Liz is like a sister to both Kris and I. You won't find anyone who knows her better than we do. Your boldness and arrogance are great qualities to have if you want to run a successful business. However, if you are pursuing a woman deeply injured by the father of her children, compassion and kindness would better serve your purpose."

"Spend time getting to know her," Kris said quietly. "She has much to offer and much to give, but she won't be forced nor will she be coerced. She's already lived that life. She and I talked a long time Wednesday night. She knows you've set your eye on her. To her, you are just like the other men who have come along. Some have come for her beauty, some for her money, others hoping that she will quickly divorce Robert and choose them. None of them have come for her. No one has bothered to get to know her or tried to meet her needs. She left this weekend for fear that you would

spend your long weekend calling her repeatedly. If she would have been here when you arrived, she would have left you standing in her driveway. I guarantee it."

I left Kris sitting on the patio and grabbed my bag from the guest room. I finally took a breath on the interstate cruising at 73 mph. I had just experienced the most humiliating moment of my life. For the first time ever, I was in a situation I could not control or manipulate. I did not know what to do.

I made it home in record time. It was too late to try to get any sleep. Instead, Bear and I ran the trails as the first shades of grey lightened the night sky. Neither the run nor the shower did anything to lighten my mood. I took my sour temper with me to the office. Those there wished I had not returned a day early.

chapter 23

They say that hindsight is 20/20. As I sit and remember, I cannot agree more with that statement. Everything I know now is what I wish I had known then, especially, concerning Liz. After I got over myself and my embarrassment, I called Dan. What began as an apology for leaving angrily became a weekly lesson on understanding Liz, life, and God, in that order. Dan first taught me much about why Liz is who she is. Later, he mentored me on the things of life and God. He has become much more than a friend to me. I am grateful for his willingness to come alongside the likes of me. His name is in this gratitude journal of mine more than once.

I look up to see that first demo CD of Liz's sitting among my CD collection. It sits next to her other recordings. Liz recorded three different albums on her own time with her own money as fund raisers for Solo Dios Basta Ministries in Guatemala. In another futile attempt to win her heart, I bought a case of each recording. I took one album from each box and repeatedly asked for her to autograph them. She refused, "Why? A signature is cheap. A friendship, though, that takes an investment. I'd rather invest in a friendship with you."

It was when she knew she was dying that she finally relented and signed my albums. On each one she wrote, "To Rob, because every day is a gift! Love, Liz." Once again, she was right.

Later, when I finally told Liz of my incognito act and the boxes of CDs, she laughed, "Rob, I want to ask why, but I am afraid of the answer!" Instead of asking me to explain, she convinced me to take the boxes of CDs stored in my basement to local hospitals. She wanted them given to the patients, families, and staff members. I convinced her to go with me.

In the end, I drove with three cases of CDs to Liz's house. Over pizza, soda, and ice cream, Liz oversaw Dan, Mark, Luke, Ryan, and I individually wrapping each CD to be given as a gift. Liz, Kris, and Jenny tied bows around each package. Fifteen hundred CDs later, we were beyond tired. We were giddy. For the first time in my life, I genuinely laughed. I laughed so hard that tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes. Everything was funny, and everyone had a joke. When the gift wrapping party wound down, it was 1:30 in the morning. This is still one of my favorite memories.

Serving others filled Liz's emotional tank. The next morning, she made us all a big breakfast stating, "You need your energy! We have lots to do!" Again, she was right. We spent the next eight hours visiting four different hospitals and clinics passing out the wrapped CDs. Not one to simply leave a box at the front desk, Liz visited with each and every person she saw. She prayed with some and laughed with others. She had the empathy of a wounded heart and the understanding of a cancer survivor. Liz was in no hurry, and everyone loved visiting with her. In an effort to finish in one day, Kris, Dan, and I took the kids and stacks of CDs and visited other parts of the hospital.

It was watching Liz in those moments that I really began to understand that her beauty was bone deep. She knew no enemy, and she had a deep love for all. I found myself falling more and more in love with her in a way I never expected to experience. I loved her for who she was more than how she looked. I loved her for the ways she cared and carried herself than who I thought she was. As much as I wanted to have that love reciprocated, I was strangely content to simply call her Beautiful and love her without anything in return. Even more surprising, she allowed me to call her Beautiful.

Dear Rob,

How can I begin to thank you? The calla lilies arrived today. They are simply gorgeous and I love them. You didn't have to do that, but thank you all the same.

Also, thank you for this past weekend. I still can't believe you actually bought CASES of my CDs. That's crazy, you know, but, I am so glad you did! Without those cases, we wouldn't have had CDs to pass out to the patients we met on Saturday. What a

beautiful day and an incredibly special opportunity!

Honestly, I think this weekend will long be one of my favorite memories. Who would have thought that we could laugh so hard watching the boys trying to wrap the CDs or, that Dan would actually tie the ribbon around his neck in such a lovely bow? I never expected that Kris and Dan would gang up on me and share all those embarrassing stories about me! I'm sure I will never live those down. And your stories, Rob! The kids loved hearing about all the famous people you work with each and every day. I thought Mark was going to flip out over the names you dropped.

I'm so glad you were here to join us. I doubt you will ever  see another weekend that so epitomizes this incredibly special extended family of which I am a part. We are a fun group, that's for  sure. We love together, laugh together, fight together, and cry together. We are not perfect and are certainly a bunch of sinners rubbing shoulders together, but at the end of each day, there isn't another family I would rather have. To think, it all began in the hall of Williams Dormitory all those years ago. Amazing!

Now that you have seen us together laughing and goofing  off on Friday night and serving and smiling on Saturday, do you now understand my relationship with Dan? Dan is my brother by love, not blood. He once told me that after he lost his sister, he felt like God gave him another in me. Thankfully, Kris has never doubted our faithfulness to her and to my knowledge, we have never given her even an inclination of uncertainty. I love them both so completely and very differently!

Thank you, again, for coming. I am so glad you did! I doubt we would have had as much fun if you hadn't joined. I appreciate you, Rob. I really do!

Liz

~*~

That weekend of passing out the CDs changed our relationship. Liz warmed up to me and learned to let me in a little. I learned that the key to Liz's heart was not through planning a weekend but through love and service. Unfortunately for me, those character qualities were as foreign as to my heart as Siberia is to my mind. I had much to learn.

"Here," I said early on a Monday morning, "let me get that door for you."

"Thanks, Rob," Melissa answered as she balanced several things in her arms. I unlocked the outer door to Whitman's Lone Star for her and stepped ahead to open the inner door. Unlocking and opening the business office was typically Melissa's job. Anyone that got in early kept the door locked until Melissa opened us for business. I could not remember any other time that I opened the door for her or anyone else.

"Thanks again," she said, placing her arm load on her desk.  "I really appreciate it. I can usually manage in the morning, but I brought in the stuff for Melanie's baby shower. I guess the load was just too big to balance and unlock the door. I'm glad you

came by when you did."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "By the way, I have a gift for Melanie on my desk to add to the baby shower."

Melanie McDaniel was our in-house paralegal. She came to us from Carlson, Long, Everett and Jenkins. She prepared all of our contracts and read over all of our legal documents. Her knowledge of the law kept us up to date and in good standing. Her smile and contagious giggle kept the office full of joy. No one was more relieved than I was to find out that Melanie would be returning to Whitman's Lone Star after her twelve week maternity leave. In the meantime, Carlson, Long, Everett and Jenkins would be sending a replacement paralegal to cover for Melanie.

"Did you choose the gift," Melissa teased, "or did Liz?"

Small businesses with equally small offices do not lend themselves to keeping secrets, especially when you are what your office staff calls "an eligible bachelor." Just when the office staff had gotten bored with watching my not-so-exciting life, I found Liz's demo CD and gave them fodder for their gossip sessions. That Liz existed was no secret in the office. It was what our relationship looked like that kept them all guessing.

"No, it's a good gift. Liz chose it," I answered walking toward my office.

"You've changed, Rob," Melissa said. "She's good for you, you know?"

"I know," I said, turning to look at Melissa. "I know."

Apparently, Melissa was not the only one who noticed the difference in me. On more than one occasion, Jessie invited me to join she and Clark for dinner to discuss my new and improved personality. Jessie begged me to introduce them to Liz at the first available opportunity. Knowing that Whitman's would take great pleasure in divulging all of my secrets, I chose to keep Liz to myself for awhile longer.

"Rob," Jessie pouted around their fireplace one evening, "you know it's just because we love you that we want to meet her."

"I know," I smiled. "I have to protect myself and my best interests though."

"Ha!" Clark guffawed. "That's a good one, Jessie!"

"Both of you are incorrigible!" she laughed with us. "But really, we're practically family. Shouldn't we get the chance to meet the one who is changing you?"

I felt the laughter die down and the silence settle. I was not sure why I would not answer Jessie's question. I never replied, and Jessie got tired of waiting.

"You never learned to share, did you?" she asked pointedly.

"Huh?" I mumbled, lost in my own thoughts. "Share? What do you mean?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she smiled. "You don't even know what I'm talking about. Share. It's that thing people do when they have something they want to enjoy with someone else, they share it. Sharing can be a physical thing where you hand someone part of your cookie like we teach our children to do. Sharing can also be a verbal thing when you tell others what you are feeling inside. I'm getting the distinct impression that you've always kept everything to yourself, good and bad."

There never was much that Jessie missed. She sat in her rocking chair studying my facial expressions as she spoke. My poker face never changed, but my heart was stirred. Sitting under Jessie's quiet stare, I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. She was right. I was not willing to share Liz with them or my feelings concerning her.

Later, as Bear and I ran the moonlit trails of our woods, I contemplated the change happening within me. I knew I could not give the credit to Liz. She was the tool used, but the change was coming from One I was not sure I was ready to recognize. I also knew that I was not ready to share Liz with my friends since sharing implied that I had something worthwhile. I was the only one in Tennessee who knew I did not have Liz, regardless of how badly I wanted to act as if I did.

Bear and I ran an extra three miles that night.

chapter 24

Liz's clock in my foyer chimes again. The hands of the old clock consistently work their way around the vintage face. They move at the speed of one second at a time around and around. Their speed never changes and the chimes at the quarter, half, three-quarter, and full-hour never vary. This is how I picture Liz's life-- consistent and never varied.

Liz had a deep sense of purpose that penetrated all that she did and all that she was. When we first became reacquainted, I did not know that her purpose came from her relationship with Jesus Christ. Instead, it seemed that she was all that I was not. While I outwardly had a purpose at Whitman's Lone Star, inside I had no motivation, ambition, or conviction. Liz was my polar opposite. Her purpose in life was her intense motivation in living out her deep convictions and her strong ambitions.

During those first few months of our new friendship, I was extremely intimidated by Liz. I had known many women in my life, and none had ever affected me the way Liz did. I desired her before I knew her and when I became acquainted with her, I never forgot her. I found myself in the strange position of being intrigued by her and repulsed by her faith. I was drawn like a moth to a flame.

I now understand what I did not know then. God was using Liz to reveal himself to me. All those prayers of Grace's were being answered through one person, one night, one memory. It took living a life time of disappointments, dead-ends, and deadly addictions for me to realize that I sought more to this life. No longer satisfied with living for the moment, I desired something deeper, and more meaningful.

I began to question Liz and her faith. I would quote the Bible verses that I remember questioning as a young child. For instance, who did Cain marry? What happened to Noah's ark? How could Jesus be God's son and Joseph's son? If the Bible is really God's word, why was it written by so many people?

My questions never rattled Liz. She explained those questions that she could answer and researched those she didn't know. She never left a question of mine unanswered, though she would often say, "I'm going to have to pray about that and look it up. I promise I will find an answer for you, Rob. Just keep asking!" Sometimes the answers she gave made sense, and other times they did not, but she never stopped trying.

When I would ask her if she ever questioned the Bible or questioned God, she always gave me the same answer. "He is God, Rob. I am not. Who am I to question Him?" Slowly, but very surely, her faith began to rub off on me. I found myself trusting more and questioning less, which scared me some and comforted me more.

Liz's purpose was simple. She loved God, and she loved people. This was never more evident than when she founded Solo Dios Basta Ministries or Dios Basta as she called it. She came back from her trip to Guatemala changed. God had given her the purpose of starting and funding a ministry. She poured every ounce of energy she had and every dollar she owned into serving the mountainous people of Guatemala. She was not afraid to share her motivation with anyone who would listen. She took great pleasure in coercing the wealthy to give to the ministry. Even greater pleasure came when she could actually convince those very people to go and see the need first hand.

It probably goes without saying that I was one of the coerced.

Dear Rob,

I can't believe it! You agreed to go to Guatemala! I'm so excited! If I hadn't already committed to not going again, I would board that plane just to see your face when you land in Guatemala City. The stark contrasts of a metropolitan area and abject poverty moved me, and the chicken buses made me laugh!

I decided when I watched that beautiful sunset that I wouldn't return to Guatemala until I could buy just a one-way ticket. I only want to go back if I can stay indefinitely. So, instead of going back and forth, I send a doctor or a nurse who can help more than I could. The last trip, I even sent a dentist!

I truly fell in love with the people there. They are so content with so little. I have much, and yet I want more. They have less and ask for little. I want to live their way. I remember sitting at the clinic one day watching two little boys playing with the dirt. They shared a stick between them. One boy would gather the dirt and mound it into little hills, and the other boy would trace roads around the "mountains." Then they would trade. There was little communication between them and no arguing. They stayed occupied with their game for a long time. I sat transfixed. It was a beautiful thing to watch. Those little boys taught me that true contentment comes with less instead of more.

I've not forgotten them. I don't know their names, but I pray for them just the same. God used them to change me. He allowed me to catch a glimpse of life through their eyes, and that little glance changed my heart. When I came home, I began selling my possessions. Anything that took energy or time or space to maintain was sold. Next to accepting Jesus as my personal Savior, this was the most freeing thing I have ever done.

Rob, I'm praying for you as you go with Dan's team next month. I'm praying that God will meet you in Guatemala and that  through your experience there, you will catch more than a fleeting glimpse of his immense love for you. I'm praying that you will see Him through the eyes of a child there.

I can't wait to hear all about your trip!

Liz

~*~

As the days got closer to our departure, I felt more and more restless about going to Guatemala. My normally adventurous heart had severe reservations about this trip. I did not know how to articulate to Dan, or even to Liz, that I was afraid. I had already begun to feel my heart changing in ways I could not recognize. Though I did not know why, I feared that this trip would change the comfortable little world in which I lived.

Dan McClintock and I spoke regularly on the phone in the days before we departed for Guatemala. He answered my endless questions, and he felt confident that I was mostly ready for the trip. His confidence was not very reassuring, and I had cold feet.

"Honestly, Rob," Dan assured me the night before our departure. "I know you feel like there won't be anything for you to do, but trust me when I say that we will have plenty to keep you busy."

"You say that," I argued, trying desperately to back out of  the trip, "but I really know nothing about medical procedures, and this is a medical trip. Really, maybe it would be better if I just stayed here. I don't want to be in anyone's way as they are treating people."

"Ok," Dan laughed at me, "here's the deal, I'm going to tell you a secret. I hate to do this but I'm afraid that if I don't tell you,

you won't go on this trip. Just don't tell Liz that I told you this. You are the reason I'm going on this trip. If you don't go, I won't go and then they will be short a doctor.""What?!" I stumbled. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Dan started, "here's another lesson in getting to really know Liz. Liz is a planner, and she plans everything down to the remotest detail. When she talked you into going with Dios Basta on this trip, she called me and conned me into going as well. She was afraid that if I didn't go, you wouldn't go."

"Ok," I said. "Here's question number two. Why is it so important to Liz that I go on this trip?"

"Only she can answer that one. I really don't know. I just know that tomorrow morning, you and I are getting on a plane to fly to Miami and then to Guatemala City. It's going to be a great trip, Rob. It always is. I'll tell you what. If you're not glad you went, I personally refund you the cost of the trip."

I laughed. Dan and I both knew that my net worth was far greater than his. The fact that he offered me a refund bordered on absurd. However, he did make me laugh. For that alone, the phone call was worth my time.

Aside from my growing apprehension, the flight to Guatemala was uneventful. The flights were smooth and our connecting flight was right on time. I had nothing to complain about, and yet my heart was increasingly restless. I tried napping to make the time go faster, and I could not settle myself enough to sleep. Reading the paper did not help occupy my mind either. If Dan noticed my restlessness, he was kind enough to keep that to himself.

Throughout the week, my restlessness did not subside. I worked alongside the other volunteers, helping when and where I could. My very limited knowledge of the Spanish language did not help and, most often, I found myself silently observing. I saw the abject poverty. I also saw the gratitude and the joy. Those most affected by poverty seemed to be the most grateful. Though I could not understand the words said, the tone of thanksgiving was unmistakable. I worked hard carrying equipment and supplies and fell into bed each night exhausted. My heart remained restless.

"Another great trip," Dan said Sunday morning as our plane left Guatemalan soil.

"You really like this kind of stuff, don't you?" I asked.

"Yeah, I do," Dan said closing his eyes. "It wears me out in all kinds of great ways."

"That is the part I just don't get." I watched the clouds through the small jet window. "You do this time and time again and all you get out of it is pure exhaustion."

"No, I didn't say that," Dan said, still with his eyes closed. "I get so much more. Being tired is just part of the package deal. Nothing on earth fills this old heart of mine like helping those people there, especially the kids. Seeing the joy on their faces fills my heart with joy. Somehow, in God's economy, I seem to get back way more than I give, every single time."

"God's economy?" I wearily asked. "If God was truly in charge, maybe there wouldn't be sickness and poverty to even worry about."

"Well, I agree and disagree with you, Rob. You see, God is in charge. This is His world He created for His own good pleasure. I believe that when He created mankind, He gave us the ability to have a free will. We have the choice to choose good or evil. When Adam and Eve chose to disobey God in the Garden of Eden, sin entered this world and with sin came sickness, poverty, and a host  of other problems."

I did not answer, and soon Dan fell asleep. Memories of Sunday school lessons from decades before flooded my mind. I suddenly remembered the stories of David and Goliath, Daniel and the lions, Jonah and the big fish. I also remembered Grace and Charles' lessons taught at home, stories of Jesus healing the lame, feeding the crowd, and talking with Nicodemus at night. It was when I remembered the story of the prodigal son that the stories began to make sense. I recognized the theme of love, God's love. Just as the father loved the prodigal son so did God love me. Tears streamed silently as I looked out to see the sunshine reflecting off the clouds. In that moment, I knew. God loved me.

chapter 25

"Good morning, Dear." I hear Grace's shuffle before she speaks. "Did you sleep?"

"No, I didn't." I smile at my mother. "I've been working on my story for Liz's children."

"What time will they be here?" she asks.

"In time for lunch. Coffee is fresh and hot if you want some."

"Sounds wonderful. I will make you some eggs, if you'd like." She shuffles on through to the kitchen.

"I was hoping you'd offer. Bear and I will be right there."

Since Grace moved in with me last year, breakfast has  become a routine. I went years without ever stopping long enough to eat before noon, and now I cannot imagine a starting a day without coffee and eggs with Grace and Bear.

After Grace got settled, I had a hen house built. She chose a dozen chicks of various breeds and could hardly wait until the day they began laying eggs for her. Every day she collects the eggs and twice a week she makes homemade bread for toast. Breakfast each and every morning is how she loves on me.

"Are you ready for Mark, Jenny, and Mike to get here?" Grace asks as she scrambles eggs for the three of us.

"As ready as I will ever be." I pour a cup of coffee for Grace and another for myself.

"Those children surely were blessed to have such an incredible mama," she offers.

"So was I," I said hugging Grace. I continued, "I only wish I had realized it sooner and told you more often."

"I know," she replies and smiles at me. "I have always known that you love me. Your wounded heart didn't know how to say it, that's all."

"I wish he knew," the early light catches off of the new snow, and for a moment, I am lost in time.

"He knew," she says. "Your father knew all along."

Dear Rob,

I got your message. Oh, I have so many questions! We need to catch up.

In the meantime, know this, I am praying for you and for Grace. If there is anything I can do, please call.

Liz

~*~

Discovering God's love for me in that plane seat had nothing to do with going on a mission trip to Guatemala. Yet, it had everything to do with being in the right place at the right time. In that moment, on that plane, watching the sun's rays bounce around the clouds, my faith finally became my own. The years of Grace's endless prayers were finally answered.

Eventually, I too fell asleep. As our jet made its way back to Miami, I slept soundly in the peace and joy that one experiences with Jesus Christ. It was all so new to me and the most comfortable rest I ever had.

While waiting in line to go through Customs and return to the United States, I checked my voicemail.

"Rob, it's Grace. I know you are on your way back from Guatemala. Please call as soon as you can."

Phone calls and messages from Grace were not unusual. She often called and left me messages to let me know how she and Charles were faring or that she was praying for me. Rarely did she ever ask me to call her back. Concerned, but not overly alarmed, I called after the Customs agent stamped my passport.

"Grace," I said over the din of the airport, "it's me."

"Rob," she started, "it's Charles. He's been very ill while you've been away."

"How ill?" I asked.

"Pneumonia," she cried. "Rob, he's gone."

The warm, fuzzy feeling of peace and joy from my nap on the plane suddenly left. The old, familiar feelings of fear, uncertainty, and the need for control rose to the surface.

"I'm on my way, Grace. I will re-route my flight and rent a car at the airport. I will be there soon!"

"Oh, thank you, Rob. Please be safe. I'm praying for you." Even in her grief, I was Grace's chief concern.

I left Dan at his gate without telling him about my experience with God on the last flight. After calling Grace, arranging a flight and a rental car to get to her, I forgot to mention it to him. I sat waiting for my plane to land, wishing I had talked with Dan. I felt lost and alone. I tried calling Liz and only got her voicemail. I left a message telling her about my experience and about Charles. Hanging up from that call, I felt more alone than ever. I knew I should pray. I just did not know how.

Driving from the airport to the farm settled me some. Even in the dark, I recognized the familiar landmarks that had not changed over time. In the uncertainty of my situation, I found great relief in the constant.

I let myself in the back door of the farmhouse. I could hear Grace in the living room with guests. Setting my bags on the mudroom floor, I took in the familiar sights and sounds of Charles and Grace's home. Though I once lived here too, I have never called it home. This house on this property with these things belong to Charles and Grace.

"Rob," Grace cried, standing from her rocker. "You are here!"

"I am," I said hugging her. Over the years, hugging my mother has become easier, but it still was not something that I thought to do. If there was ever an embrace between us, it was because Grace has initiated it.

"Grace, Dear," a shrill voice broke the moment, "we'll be going now that your son is here. Please call us if you need anything at all."

"Thank you, Nancy." Grace broke away from my embrace. "Before you and Barbara leave, may I introduce our son, Rob?"

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand.

"Oh, it's my pleasure," Nancy's shrill voice replied. "I've heard so much about you! I've never shaken the hand of such an important person before!"

After introducing herself, Barbara nudged Nancy to the door. It took several repeated good-byes before they were safely seat-belted into Barbara's car.

"She's a little overbearing, isn't she?" I asked as the car made its way down Grace's driveway.

"She means well, Dear," Grace answered. "She really does, but I am so grateful you rescued me from more of her well-meaning gestures. They've been here for two hours!"

"I suppose they brought food?" I asked.

"Oh, my!" Grace shuffled to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "I do hope you are hungry."

Trays of deli meats and glass dishes filled to the brim with casseroles filled Grace's refrigerator. Looking around her kitchen, I laughed out loud. The counters were filled with plates of

homemade cookies, pies, and cakes. The table had several plates of homemade bread, rolls, and biscuits.

"How, in the world, does one woman eat all this?" Grace asked me. Tears streamed down her round face and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. I held her and chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

"One bite at a time," I smiled, "and the last bite I ate was at the airport this morning."

Grace made tea while I warmed someone's chicken and dumpling casserole. We somehow found enough table space to sit together. I ate. Grace talked. She shared with me how bronchitis quickly developed into pneumonia for Charles. His doctor recommended that he go to the hospital for treatment and Charles refused. Over the past few days, he had gotten sicker. After a rough night of coughing, he fell into a deep sleep sometime in the early hours. When she checked on him later, he was gone.

In Charles and Grace's small town, it took only one phone call. Grace called the Sheriff Bob Armstrong at his residence. Within minutes, he and his wife, Betty, arrived. Betty sat with Grace while Sheriff  Armstrong called for the coroner. Charles was pronounced dead in the very house he was born. The sheriff called funeral director, Don Danfield. Soon, Danfield and his wife, Ellen, pulled into Grace's driveway followed by an ambulance. Ellen joined Betty in comforting Grace, and Don oversaw the EMTs as they recovered Charles' body. Grace sat in her rocker comforted by long time friends as the body of her husband was transported to

Danfield Funeral Home.

When Grace did not show up to play the piano at Congregational Bible Church, her church lady friends noticed. Soon tongues were wagging, food was cooking, and cars were rolling into Grace's driveway. The screen door slammed and slammed again as friends and well-wishers came to pay their respect. No one came empty handed.

I looked at my mother across the bread and muffins on the table and saw the shear exhaustion reflected in her eyes.

"When was the last time you slept for eight hours?" I asked.

"I don't know," Grace mumbled.

"Go to bed, Mom. I will do these dishes and figure out what to do with all of this food. First thing tomorrow we will go see Don Danfield and make the arrangements."

"Thank you, Rob," Grace stood on shaky legs. "Thank you for coming, for listening, and for taking care of me."

"Good night," I replied. "Sleep well. I love you, and I am praying for you."

Grace stopped and recognized her own statement.

"You've changed, Rob," she answered. "I'm proud of the man you're becoming. Charles was so very proud of you too. Tomorrow I want to hear what has brought about the changes I see in you."

"Your prayers, Mom," I said. "The change is because of your prayers. I only wish Charles was here to share the story."

"He knows, Rob," she weakly smiled. "He knows."

chapter 26

"He was so proud of you." Grace's gaze rests on me. "Oh, so proud!"

"I didn't give him much to be proud of," I reply. "You've said that same statement every morning we have eaten breakfast together since you moved in here."

"I want you to know," she says as she smiles at me. "He would want me to remind you. You know, for an intensely quiet man, he took every opportunity to talk about you, even to complete strangers. Did I ever tell you about the time that we went out to eat with our good friends, Tim and Karen Tucker? The Tucker's son had just joined the Marine Corps and Tim was so proud of Kevin's enlistment. Poor Tim didn't get a chance to be proud. Each time Tim would begin to talk about Kevin, Charles would interrupt with stories of your accomplishments. He told the waitress, the people sitting at the table next to us, and the bus boy. By the end of the meal, Tim was exasperated, Karen entertained, and I was embarrassed. Charles was completely unfazed. Oh, how he loved to brag on you!"

Watching Grace reminisce reminds me of how beautiful she is. I am blessed to call her mother and friend. These past months of living together have deepened our relationship and brought us closer together. She truly is my best friend.

"I'm going to town this morning," Grace says.

"Are you sure you want to?" I ask. "The roads are probably pretty slick."

"Oh, I've asked Homer to drive me down," she replies as she clears the breakfast dishes from the table. "I need a few more items for dinner tonight."

"You know you don't have to do that," I stand to help her.

"Do what?"

"Clear the table now and make dinner tonight. These things are why I employ Bonita. She loves to cook and cleaning is in her job description. I didn't bring you here to make you work."

"I know, Dear," Grace says and turns to look at me. I am not only aware of her slower gait but I see the years in her aging face. "Old habits are hard to break. Besides, I want to impress your guests tonight with my famous roast, root veggies, mashed potatoes, gravy, and homemade sourdough bread."

"I'm sure they will be impressed," I answer. "Just don't work too hard, please. Bonita would be more than willing to help you."

"You worry too much, Rob." Grace smiles at me. "God has it all under control, you know. I must say, though, it is quite nice to have you worried about me, for a change."

Never one to announce himself, Homer came in the kitchen and waited quietly while Grace gathered her coat, her shoes, and her purse.

"Take care of her, Homer," I say. "She's the best mom a kid could ever ask for."

Dear Rob,

I am so thankful we finally were able to connect by phone last night. I'm so glad you and Grace made it safely back to Tennessee with her beloved rocking chair. How long will it take for her piano to arrive?

My heart aches for you, Rob. When my father passed away, I could hardly breathe through the dad-sized hole in my heart. I did not realize how much I would miss the every day things with him. I pray for you as you work through your grief.

Tonight's letter will be short. I haven't been feeling well. This cough that I've had all winter just isn't wanting to go away. It's wearing me out.

Many prayers tonight,

Liz

~*~

Danfield Funeral Home provided an excellent memorial service for Charles. They took care of all the details and gave Grace special consideration. During the pre-funeral viewing, the entire town turned out to pay their respects to Charles. Grace never faltered nor did she brush by anyone. She took her time and greeted each mourner by name. Ellen Danfield stood by her side, personally assisting her with any need that might arise. During the service, Grace leaned heavily on Ellen, and Ellen stayed close at hand. Her personal touch was much more than customer service. It was her way of returning Grace's many kindnesses over the years.

"Rob," Grace started the next morning, "I would like to sell this farm. Can you help me?"

"Yes," I said, "but, why? I thought you loved it here."

"I do," she paused. "I love this house and this place, but I cannot do the work myself. I think I will move into town. There are new condos for retired people that were just built a few years ago."

"Really?" I asked. "Do you want to live in a condo?"

"No, not really. I don't like the closeness of condo living,

but I need a place that has little upkeep."

"How do you feel about mountains?" I smiled. "Really, would you consider living with me? I can't offer you a condo, but I can offer you spacious living accommodations, little upkeep, and a mountain view."

Grace did not answer me. I looked up from my morning coffee cup to see tears on her cheeks. Grace rarely cried. Even during the funeral, there were no tears. I was surprised to see them after my offer.

"Mom," I continued. "You don't have to leave this community. It was only a suggestion."

"Oh, Rob," she stammered, "I would love to live with you. I never thought you would offer!"

We called an auctioneer who was also a long time acquaintance of Charles and made an appointment for that very afternoon. John Tucker came out to the farm to meet with Grace. After two hours of walking around and discussing everything on the property, Grace decided to keep her old upright piano, her rocking chair, and her personal belongings. The rest, including vehicles and current livestock, would be sold in a land and personal property auction.

"Well, I guess I should pack," Grace sighed after John left with her signature on a contract.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked. "I could call John and ask him to come back."

"No, Rob," she smiled. "I am very sure. This old place has far too many memories for me to live here by myself. I don't believe in ghosts, but I think the memories here would haunt me every single day."

Grace began packing, and I exchanged the rental car for an SUV to hold all that we would take to Tennessee. Two days later, Grace handed John Tucker the keys and the titles to the house, the barn, and the car.

As we drove away from Tucker's Auction and Real Estate office, Grace sat next to me with her knitting bag at her feet. Her rocking chair, three suitcases, and a few boxes of mementoes were packed into the back of the SUV. I watched her through the corner of my eye.

"Do you want to go by the cemetery before we leave town?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "He's not there, you know."

"Yes, I know. I remember him often saying, 'Don't spend time in the cemetery, and don't look for me after I'm gone. You know where I'll be. I will be sitting at the feet of my Shepherd.'"

"Yes, he is, and I must admit, I am a bit envious of him," Grace sighed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes, really," she smiled at me. "I would love to be sitting   at the feet of my Shepherd. If I can't be there, though, living with you is the next best thing. Thanks, Rob, for allowing me to move to your home."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." I think I surprised myself as much as I surprised Grace when those words left my mouth.

"Really?" she asked.

"Yes, really!"

chapter 27

With Grace off to town with Homer, I resume my place in the great room with Liz's letters. There are only a few left. She wrote less often in her last months, but we talked on the phone much more. She never spoke with any sense of urgency. Instead, it was as if she had all the time in the world to answer my every question about my newfound faith. For Liz, it seemed that talking on the phone was the easiest way to address my questions.

Throughout this night, I have contemplated what to do with these letters that I have sorted. Initially, I reread them to refresh my memory and help sort my thoughts. I wanted to give Jenny, Mike, and Mark the most accurate version of my story. I

needed Liz's letters to keep me on target.

Somewhere in this trip down memory lane, Liz's letters have become more important to me. These are my last tie to this woman who has been such an integral part of my life. So much of my faith journey is recorded from Liz's perspective, in her own words, and her own handwriting. I cannot bring myself to simply give them away.

Yet, I wonder, who would I pass them on to, if not her own children?

Dear Rob,

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I forget that this life on earth is not about me. It is not for my glory and it is not for my comfort. My head knows this earth is not my eternal home, but my heart often forgets. I find it amazing that I have spent the greater part of my life making myself comfortable. I choose comfort in what I wear, what I eat, and where I sleep. My natural inclination is to avoid discomfort at any cost but is that the best way to give God glory in my life?

I want to live a life that glorifies God, Rob. Even in the discomfort, in the hard, the disappointing, the painful, I want my life to reflect Him. I want to please him in the joys, the sorrows, the victories, and the defeats.

Thanks for the phone call again last night. Your faith journey encourages me more than I could ever articulate. I am so thrilled that you have found Christ's love for yourself. I know it is hard for you to see this, but you are a changed man. He is making you a new creature. Let Him do His good work in you. He promises to be faithful to complete it!

Please pray for me, Rob. I know I've said this before, but I cannot adequately express to you how much joy I get from asking you to pray for me. I'm so grateful that you are my brother in Christ!

Liz

~*~

Grace settled right into my mountain home. She pulled her worn, old hymnal out of a box and played my concert grand piano. When her old upright was delivered and tuned, she played it. When her heart was light, she would go into the conservatory and play lighter tunes and hymns. Those days when her heart was heavy with missing Charles, I could always find her on the bench of the old upright in the great room playing hymns of suffering and hope.

When she was not playing either piano, she was walking. She walked around the property several times, always taking Bear  with her. She said the cool mountain air cleared her head and helped her to sleep. I knew better. I knew that walking time was praying time for my mother. She spent a lot of time praying herself through the grief of losing Charles.

I often felt guilty leaving her at home while I went to work at Whitman's. I found myself making up excuses to work from home just to keep an eye on her. I should have known better. Grace was more independent than me. On the day I wandered to the kitchen to have lunch with her and found my keys missing, my dog gone, and my Jeep no longer in the garage, I realized Grace was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Together, Grace and I found a quaint little Bible church nestled at the base of the mountain. I had seen it on a few occasions over the years but never cared to discover what was

going on inside. After trying a few other churches, she convinced me to give Mt. Zion Chapel a try. By the third week there, we were not only considered members, but Grace found a new job as church pianist.

Pastor Paul Wright welcomed Grace and I into his little congregation willingly. Though, I do suppose that it was much easier to welcome Grace. Grace knew the church lingo and the unwritten church rules. She knew when to volunteer, when to stay quiet, and when to bring muffins to the pastor. I did my best to follow Grace's lead but flopped miserably week after week.

"Beautiful message, Pastor," Grace said, as we exited the church.

"Thank you, Grace," Pastor Wright replied, shaking hands with both of us. "Rob, I wonder, would you be available for breakfast any day this week?"

"Well," I started, "I'm usually in the office early."

"He'd love to," Grace butted in. "What day did you have in mind, Pastor?"

"Well, how about Wednesday?" Pastor Wright answered.

"Wednesday would be just fine," Grace replied.

That first Wednesday breakfast meeting that Grace insisted on became a scheduled weekly event. Over coffee and biscuits and gravy, I told Paul Wright the story of my life. I left nothing out. Amazingly, he never lost his appetite nor his willingness to meet on Wednesday mornings.

"Yours has truly been a journey of finding faith, hasn't it?" Paul asked the morning I finished my story.

"More than you know," I answered. "I think it's only because of the prayers of two righteous women that I even made it to the point of receiving Christ's salvation."

What began as a pastor reaching out to a new attendee became a weekly Bible study that moved from the restaurant to his office. For ninety minutes every Wednesday morning, I blocked everything from my calendar. Pastor Paul Wright opened his Bible alongside mine and taught me directly from the Word. By his choice, we started with the epistles of the apostle Paul. Pastor Paul believed in teaching grace first.

In those moments of learning, I finally understood what Charles and Grace had modeled to me for all those years. I caught glimpses of memories where grace stood out. I saw myself as one worthy to be called a child of God. All that Liz had tried to tell me finally began to make sense. Grace... the one word that changes it all was changing me.

"Thanks for another great study, Pastor," I said closing my Bible.

"You are always welcome, Rob," Pastor Paul Wright answered. "I love to study God's Word, and Galatians is one of my favorite books. We'll start right back up here in chapter two next week."

"I look forward to it," I replied. "See you then."

As I shook Pastor Paul's hand, my cell phone rang.

"Go ahead, and take that call," he graciously said. "See you on Sunday!"

"Thanks! Hello," I said all in one breath.

"Rob? It's Dan," I heard the hesitation in Dan's voice before my brain registered that Dan was not in the habit of routinely calling me on Wednesday mornings.

"Hey, Dan."

"Rob, it's back. Liz's cancer is back, and it's not good. I took her to the ER last night, and today, she and Kris are meeting with doctors to determine the next course of treatment. I just thought you should know." Dan spoke with his normal tone and tempo, but I heard the fear just behind the words.

"Oh, wow," I whispered. "Thanks for telling me. Is there anything they can do?"

"Yes," Dan replied. "I think so. She has the world's best oncologist working with her. I think Dr Chen will give her some treatment options."

"Ok," I said. "Please, Dan, keep me posted."

"I will," Dan whispered. "Rob, I really think you should come, soon. The sooner the better because I have a feeling Dr. Chen will fight this very aggressively."

"Is Friday soon enough?"

chapter 28

The house is quiet. I realize that Bear must have bummed a ride with Homer and Grace to the store. Bear lives for rides into town, especially with Homer. Soon after Homer came to work for me, he built a ledge in the back seat of his old pickup for Bear. Bear sits high and mighty on his seat and has a bird's eye view of the trip. Trips into town with Homer usually also include a visit to the meat market. It is no wonder Bear greets Homer anxiously each morning. Soon they will return and Bear will find a quiet corner to sleep off the excursion.

Here I sit with letters of the past, thoughts that run wild, and memories I cannot change. The very memories that I have spent most of my life running from captivate me now. I see God's hand of protection all over my life and signs of His love for me throughout the mess I lived. That which I could not see has become crystal clear. I am His, and He has a plan for me. I have much more value than I ever could imagine. In the moment of past clashing with present, I find myself holding on to faith and a sliver of anticipation for what He has in store for me.

My eye catches the edge of a crumbled piece of paper. I saved it for nostalgia and now wonder if I really saved it for the sense of victory it first brought to me. That piece of paper rode in my wallet for months and the victory came when I finally set it aside.

Dear Rob,

Thanks for the laughter on the phone tonight. Right now, it seems as if there isn't enough laughter in my days. Your attempt at keeping our conversation light-hearted and fun was a gift. I am grateful!

I've told you about my recent journey to count gifts. My plan to find the things in each day for which I am grateful. When I started this journey of a life of gratitude, I had no idea how much it would change my outlook. Even amidst the mouth sores, nausea, and hair loss of this round of chemo, I am finding so much more than I ever imagined existed to say, "Thank You God!" My gratitude journal is filling up exponentially.

I feel better since last week. Stopping the chemo treatments wasn't an easy decision, but I feel confident it was the right decision. Kris and I have talked much. I cannot change God's plan. He knew when I would take my first breath, and He knows when I will breathe my last. I have found such freedom in choosing to enjoy my last days rather than trust in a chemotherapy that was not changing my cancer markers. I trust God with whatever days I have yet to live.

I'm looking forward to your visit next week. You've come often lately. It's been fun, and I'm glad you are willing to make the long trip. I have to say, you've intrigued me when you suddenly got serious on the phone tonight. You have honored my request to remember I'm a married woman, and I am grateful for your friendship and for the honor you have shown me.

I'm very curious as to what it is you want to tell me.

Liz

~*~

"Melissa, here are the signed contracts. Please tell Melanie I like the new wording. I sent Tim my thoughts on his latest recording questions and the draft for Jennifer is sitting on my desk," I said to my faithful secretary.

"Great," she replied, looking up from her computer screen. "It looks like you are all ready to go."

"I am. My charter leaves in ninety minutes. Clark knows I'm leaving and has said he will be available, if you can't reach me."

"We'll be good, Rob. Take care and give Liz our love." Melissa stacked the contracts next to another paper pile on her desk. "Don't hurry back. I think you've organized this place so

well, you may have worked yourself right out of a job."

"I think I could be okay with that," I laughed. "You know how to reach me, just in case."

I drove to the airport and checked in with the charter company. I was relieved to find that Eric had been assigned my flight. Young, smart, and experienced in the Air Force, Eric was a smooth pilot who flew well and talked little. Just my kind of trip. While he did his preflight check list, I stowed my bags and buckled in for the flight to Buffalo, New York.

Dan left his medical practice early to meet me at the airport. Since our Guatemalan meeting, I had developed a deep respect for this man who preaches with his life, not his words.

"Hey, Rob." Dan met me at the gate.

"Dan," I said and shook his hand. "How is she?"

"That's always your first question, isn't it?" he smiled.

"Yes," I agreed, "but, you didn't answer it."

"She's good," Dan said as we walked the concourse. "Actually, she's great. She looks great, she feels good, and she is happy."

"But, I thought..." I began.

"Yes, she's dying. I've spent hours with her oncology team investigating every angle looking for any treatment that would beat this cancer. There isn't any," he interrupted. "Liz knows. She made me tell her all the details. She's okay with it. She says she will live and enjoy life for as long as God gives her days."

"That sounds like her," I mused.

Dan filled me in on the latest developments with the Dios Basta ministry. He shared some anecdotes of his boys and gave me a glimpse of daily life at the Estate. Soon enough, we pulled into the driveway and my eye caught a glimpse of the most beautiful bald woman I had ever seen.

After a dinner of grilled steak and salad on the porch, and in the presence of Dan and Kris, I told Liz why I had come.

"Do you remember that Memorial weekend I simply showed up at your cul-de-sac house?" I asked.

"I remember and I haven't forgotten those steaks you brought, either," Dan laughed. "Too bad Liz was here at the Estate and missed out on all the fun!"

"No offense," Liz said, "but I'm still glad I wasn't there. Not sure I could have handled all of the wining and dining that was going on."

"There was a lot of that," I laughed, "but, my original reason for showing up unannounced was not to wine and dine with you. Instead, it was to show you this." I reached into my wallet and handed Liz a small piece of folded paper.

"What is this?" Liz asked as she unfolded and read the newspaper clipping of Robert's death. "Oh, wow. You've known all this time?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she passed the clipping to Kris.

"I spent the flight up here trying to answer that question to myself. I have no answer. Initially, I was angry that I planned a weekend that you were not there to enjoy. I was disappointed that couldn't play my trump card and convince you that it was time for you to move on from Robert. You, however, made it abundantly clear that you were not interested in anything other than friendship with me. I decided I wanted you to choose me because you wanted a relationship with me not because you found out Robert was dead. I decided to wait to tell you about Robert's death just to see how it all played out."

"Why tell me now, Rob?" Liz asked quietly.

"I thought you would want to know. Yes, I would love it if this all played out in my favor, but I'd like to think I've grown up enough to let you make your own choices. I have felt very convicted that I have kept this from you. I'm sorry, Liz. I should have told you sooner."

Nothing more came from Liz. She sat staring out over the pond before getting up and walking away.

"Let her go," Kris stood and Dan put his hand on her shoulder. "She'll come get you when she's ready."

The candle light from the table reflected the tears in Kris' eyes. I could also see the anger. She was fiercely protective of Liz. Without a verbal word, she adequately conveyed her distrust of me.

"I think Rob and I will clean up," Dan said gently.

"I blew it again," I started as Kris walked back into the house.

"Just give them both time," he stated wisely. "In the meantime, do you want to wash or dry?"

I stayed at the Estate for another week. Nothing more was ever said about Robert, and Liz never removed her wedding rings. I had a great time getting to know Dan and Kris even more. All three of them were remarkably hospitable to me as their guest; but, it became increasingly more obvious that I would never be part of their blended family.

"Liz," I approached her early one morning. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know, Rob. Care to join me for a cup of Guatemalan coffee and a little cream? It's a wonderful way to start a morning."

"Thanks," I said sitting down. "Are you still mad at me for telling you about Robert's death?"

"No," Liz said holding her coffee mug. "At first I was shocked, then angry. I didn't sleep that night. I was mad at you for withholding that information and mad at God that He didn't tell me either. In the end, though, I've realized that it changes nothing. Knowing Robert has passed on does not change how I want to live out my last days. I don't want to go to my grave bitter or angry. I had to let it go and trust that God has all of this under His control. I

don't want regret to make up my days."

"So, what's going on around here today?" I asked, purposely changing the subject. Once again, Liz's words pierced my heart. It was easier to change the subject than to explore my emotions.

"Oh, it'll be a fun day! I've asked everyone to be here at four today. My incredibly talented photographer friend, Kari, is coming out this afternoon for a family portrait session. They are all doing this as a gift for me, and I can't wait. It'll be so much fun!"

A bit before 4 p.m., they began to gather. Kris picked up her mom, Dan came home earlier from the clinic, and Jenny's fiance, Mike, came after his shift. Mark came from California for a week's visit, and Luke came from his own apartment. Ryan came after school and Jenny after her work shift. Soon this blended family of eight gathered on the south lawn with a photographer and Liz's rocking chair. She sat and they surrounded her. They laughed and smiled and loved. They had more fun together than I ever thought possible in a photo shoot.

Standing off to the side, my heart gained new perspective. I saw this family for what it was. A blended family that had been forged twenty-eight years ago. They each belonged. Not unlike my little family of Grace, Bear, and I, each person in this blended family knew their purpose and their place. In the briefest of moments, my heart went from envy, to regret, to resignation. This family was complete just as it was. There was no room for another to barge in nor was there a need.

Kari gave them each a piece of paper and a black marker.

Without reading anybody else's, they were to write one word that described their family on their paper. When she said "Now!" they were to turn their page to the camera and smile. I saw words like "loving," "crazy," and Liz's word "gifts." These people were gifts indeed. I turned and walked back to the house.

"That was a blast!" Jenny said as she and Mike walked past me.

"Hey guys!" Luke yelled to Mike and Jenny. "Mark, Ryan, and I are going to cool off in the pond. Want to join us?"

"Sounds great!"

"So, what do you think of my amazing family?" Liz asked as she walked to me. Dan and Kris lingered behind with Kari.

"It's something I had to see to believe. It makes me a bit envious," I admitted. "I've never had anything like this."

"It's a gift," Liz replied, "one of which I am very protective."

"Yes, I know," I smiled. "You know, I came for this week  hoping to convince you to marry me. I wrongly assumed you needed me."

"I know," she smiled back, "but you deserve more than what I can give you."

"Huh?" I questioned.

"You want what you remember me to be. You remember the young, beautiful woman you met years ago. She doesn't exist anymore. Not only that, but I am sick and dying, Rob."

"You are more beautiful today than you were twenty years ago," I said carefully lifting her scarf off her head. "Apparently, I failed to tell you that I find bald women irresistible."

"Rob, stop," Liz cautioned. "My answer is an emphatic 'no!' I have chosen to leave my wedding rings where they have been for almost twenty-five years. I will live out the remainder of my days honoring my commitment to Mark and Jenny's father."

"But, he's dead!" I exclaimed. "When will you let him go?"

"My children are watching me die. I refuse to tell them that  their father is already dead. I want them to live with joy my last days. I want to watch them smile and hear them laugh. Perhaps this

is selfish. I don't know, but, I do know that I will not tell them of Robert's passing."

"So, you'll leave them to find out by themselves after you are gone?" I questioned sarcastically.

"For now," Liz answered. "After I am gone, I'd like you to tell them."

"What?!"

"I want you to tell them your story. Tell them about us, if you'd like. Tell them about how you found Robert. Mostly, I want them to know how honorable you have been with their mother."

"You're kidding."

"No," Liz continued. "I'm far from kidding. You said you wrongly assumed that I needed you. You are wrong, Rob. I do need you, just not in the way you want."

I said nothing. While we were talking, we had been walking. I looked up to see that we were just outside the gazebo by the pond. Liz walked in and sat on a bench watching her grown sons swim the pond they have always loved.

"You ask me to do something I'm not sure I can," I said sitting beside her.

"Just as you having been doing to me for years," she teased.

"Touche!"

Liz looked up to see Jenny coming down the hill to join the guys in the pond. The three of them swam out to the raft anchored in the middle of the pond. I watched Jenny's graceful swim strokes take her out to meet them.

"Rob, I have one more request," Liz quietly spoke, "and, it may be harder than what I just asked you to do."

"Okay," I hesitated.

"We've had fun this week, haven't we?" Liz said. I nodded. "The walks in the woods, dinners on the porch, and late night euchre games with Dan and Kris have been a blast. Even sitting here now is special to me. I want to leave it this way."

"I don't think I'm following you," I replied. "Leave what?"

"Us. The memories we have," she responded. "Though I feel good now, I know my body is failing daily. I don't know how many more days I have, and I don't know how bad it will get before I go. I want this to be our last visit. I want you to remember me this way, sitting here in the gazebo, not lying in a hospital bed."

"You can't be serious?!" I questioned. Mark and Luke looked my way when they heard my exclamation. Fiercely protective of their mother and Aunt Liz, I knew that they were always watching me, always protecting her.

"I am dead serious," she said calmly.

"A poor taste in words, for sure!"

"Yes, but I've made my point, haven't I?"

"Liz," I began.

"Rob," she interrupted. "This is my game, and I intend to play by my rules. If you want happy memories of me, please don't fight me on this because I will fight back. I will fight all the way to my death."

"Ok, fine!" I conceded. "I just don't know if I can tell your children about Robert."

"It's okay," she smiled. "You don't need to know now. When the time comes, I'm confident you will do what's best."

Dan and Kris joined us in the gazebo with iced tea. Nothing more was said between Liz and I. Once again, I was playing her game by her rules.

"Good morning," Liz said early the next morning as she met me on the porch with two cups of coffee. Sleep had been elusive, and I had been sitting on the porch watching the steel night turn to dawn. By the time Liz came out, a brilliant sunrise lit the sky.

"Good morning," I mumbled.

"Are you still mad at me?" she asked handing me a steaming mug.

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I want to be, but I can't seem to hang on to it for long."

"Please do this for me," she said.

I took a long sip of the rich, dark brew. The warm mug felt good, and I clasped both hands around it. I knew Liz waited for an answer.

"I will," I said before I could stop the words from escaping my mouth.

"Thank you, Rob," she smiled. "Thank you!"

Dan met me in the driveway to take me back to Buffalo for my return flight. Just as we were putting my things in his truck, Liz came out to say good-bye.

"This is for you," she said, handing me a white box tied with her signature blue and white polka dot ribbon. "Please open it on your way home."

"Thanks, but I have nothing for you," I stalled.

"Yes, you do. You gave me the greatest gift ever this morning over coffee."

As I reached for the box from Liz, she reached out and hugged me.

"Can I still call you?" I squeaked out through the tightening in my throat.

"I would be mad at you if you didn't!" she replied still  holding on to me. "Thank you, Rob. Thank you for being my friend all this time!"

I could not find the words to answer Liz. I held her for as long as I could, and when her arms dropped, so did mine.

"I love you, Liz," I whispered.

"I know," she replied.

chapter 29

Liz gave me the box that I hold today. I first opened it on the charter flight back to Tennessee. Inside, Liz had put a copy of her favorite book on gratitude, in which she inscribed, "Rob, I count your honor as one of the greatest gifts in my life. Thank you  for being my friend. Count gifts with me, Rob. It will change your life. Love, Liz." Tucked into the box next to the book was a white moleskin journal. The same one that I just spent the last twelve hours writing in. On the bottom of the box was an envelope simply titled "Rob." It is still unopened. Through Liz's last weeks, I could not bring myself to open it, and after her death, I did not want to see it.

My time of revisiting the past and remembering the gifts of gratitude along the way is coming to an end. Liz's children should be driving up to my mountain retreat within the hour. Knowing I will offer these letters to Jenny forces my hand. There is one more letter I must read before they arrive.

Dear Rob,

It has been amazing to have you here this week. I have so enjoyed our walks together, the conversations about God and heaven that we've had, and, of course, the rousing games of euchre with Dan and Kris.

It's kind of weird, but I feel as though you fit right into our strangely blended family. It's as if you belong here with us. Even now, as I hear you rocking on the porch below my window, I doubt everything I said to you last evening. I wasn't truthful, and I wasn't fair.

Rob, I have been ridiculously unfair to you over these past few years. Time and time again, you declared your love for me honestly. I refused to be honest in return.

It's too late to start over, but let me be honest now. I love you. I don't know when I first realized the truth of that statement. Maybe it really was that night over twenty years ago, or maybe it was when you told me that you had finally accepted Christ as your Savior. Perhaps, I fell in love with you over the telephone calls we've had or maybe even during this last visit to the Estate. I guess it doesn't matter when I first fell in love with you. I'm sorry I never let myself believe it because now it's too late.

I wish things could be different. I wish we could start over. I wish I didn't have cancer. I wish I wasn't dying. I wish I knew earlier about Robert's death. I wish many things, but wishing changes nothing. So, I leave you with this-- a last gift from me and perhaps an atonement of sorts. This book I'm giving you changed my life, and I hope it changes yours. I hope you will find the joy I have found in keeping a gratitude journal and consciously looking for the gifts in each day. Mostly, I hope you will forgive me, Rob.

This letter is a lot of hoping and wishing, isn't it? I do hope you will forgive me. I really do hope you will honor your promise of not visiting again. I want you to remember me as I was.

Thank you, Rob, for being my friend, for being more than honorable, and for loving me.

I love you,

Liz

With shaking hands and wet eyes, I stand at the window. Staring blankly at the new fallen snow, I am overcome with emotion. Regret for not reading the letter sooner rushes in and leaves me breathless. My shoulders shake and sobs rack my body as I realize she waited for my response to this letter, and I never gave it to her.

In the midst of my sobs, sunshine breaks through the clouds and floods my great room. Sunlight reflects off of snow laden branches and sparkles off the new snow on the ground. Streams of sunlight casts shadows of branches on the hardwood floor around me. Just like that, I have the realization that she loved me. She really loved me!

With the sound of snow squeaking under their car tires, I wipe my eyes. Gathering every ounce of courage that this new realization has brought me, I smile as I open the door of my home to Liz's children. The children of the only woman I ever loved, who learned to love me in return.

epilogue

The early morning sunrise paints the sky a thousand colors and more. The golden leaves reflect the sun's rays and light up the sky in all the warm colors of fall.

It has been more than a year since I was here. A year of more emotions than I ever knew were possible to feel has past. I miss my friend more now than I did when she slipped from this earth to eternity.

My heart knows the way as I drive to upstate New York. This state she called home seems empty without her. I park my Jeep next to the other vehicles here and turn off the engine. I started this journey yesterday morning, choosing to drive instead of fly. I am grateful I did. The thirteen hours of traveling gave me time to think of this woman I loved and to remember that because of our shared belief in Jesus Christ I will see her again. I cannot wait for that day.

Initially, I turned down Kris' invitation to come. She called and invited me to join Liz's blended family as they gathered to celebrate the anniversary of Liz's passing on to eternity. I could not bring myself to agree to attend. They were her family. I was not.

I simply called and ordered flowers to be delivered to the Estate in my name. It was enough, or so I thought.

It was Jenny who called the night before last and changed my mind. I have talked to Jenny once or twice a week since she and Mike visited me last Christmas. We have developed a deep and abiding friendship, one that reminds me much of her mother.

"Please come, Rob," Jenny pleaded. "You are such an integral part of Mom's life and of our family. Come celebrate with us. It won't be the same without you."

Saying "no" to Jenny was harder than saying "no" to Liz. I conceded with the understanding that I would do my best to get there. If I was not there in time, they were to go on without me. Jenny agreed to keep my arrival a secret just in case I did not make it.

Stepping out of the Jeep and stretching out the numbness from the old accident, I turn to see Kris and Dan walking around the bend followed by the rest of Liz's beautiful family.

"Rob!" Kris exclaims. "You came!"

"Am I too late?" I ask.

"Never," Kris laughs. "There is no such thing as being too late to celebrate the life of the most beautiful friend we all have known."

I am caught up in hugs all around. The only one missing is Mark. He is in Guatemala. Dan and Kris will celebrate Liz's life with him next week. The rest of Liz's blended family welcomes me in.

"We just prayed around her bench," Dan says. "We're  heading back to the Estate for lunch and to continue this celebration."

"Her bench?" I ask.

"Rob hasn't seen Mom's bench," Jenny reminds everyone. "Let's go back and do it again!"

"No," I start, "you don't have to do that."

"Nonsense," Kris argues pulling on my hand. "I agree with Jenny. Let's do it again!"

Laughing, Kris retraces her steps. I fall in line with Dan. Kris' mom, Mom Murphy, walks between Luke and Ryan. Jenny, Mike and Hope bring up the rear of our little parade. I look around to see if anyone is watching this entourage.

Around the bend, Jenny runs ahead of Mike who carries Hope. "Ta da!" she says standing on top of a marble bench that reads:

Solo Dios basta~Solo Dios regala

"'Solo Dios basta, Solo Dios regala' means 'God alone suffices~God alone gifts'," Jenny bends and picks up a bouquet of calla lilies lying on the bench. Holding the flowers in her left hand, she stretches her arms out wide. "Mom's bench, Mom's words."

I feel the tears before I realize I am crying. This woman I loved taught me how to live. I have lived more in the past year than all my previous years combined.

"It's beautiful," I say.

"Can we pray again, Uncle Dan?" Jenny asks.

"I think we probably can," Dan smiles.

This beautiful family gathers around me. Arms around me and around each other, we bow our heads.

"Dear Heavenly Father, we come to you again thanking you for the life and love of our dear Liz. And, now, we come to you thanking you for bringing Rob to us. Thank you for seeing us through this year of grief, and thank you for the gifts of joy and laughter."

Standing with these ones I have come to love, my heart finds its home in this blended family of a beautiful woman I once knew and loved named Elizabeth Ashley Bower.

~*~

in gratitude...

Perhaps the most difficult part of writing a book is knowing how to express my deep gratitude to those have helped make this story a reality....

~to my Father God... a thousand times of thank you and more cannot begin to express my love for You. Yet, all I have is an meager offering of thanksgiving and praise. Thank You for teaching me that gratitude is at the heart of a life well lived. Thank You for these words. May I always write for You alone.

~to my family...  Chad, thank you believing in me, for spurring me on when I gave up, and for loving me "for better or for worse." I often stand in awe that you chose me and I am so very grateful you did! Our 3 Es... thank you for listening to pretend people and make-believe places, believing in your mom, and encouraging others to read the books. I love all three of you to the moon and back! My sisters, Gabe and Becky, who believe in me, encourage me, and challenge me to be a better wife and mother. Mom and Dad, thanks for always believing in me!

~to my friends... first to the mastermind group (Ginger, Jan, Gwenda, Kari, Betsy, Kim, Tammy, Ferrol, Gabe, Becky, Emme, Diana, Makayli, Makenna, Steff, Nancy, Jaci, Beth, Krista and Amy) you all are amazing. Thanks for your willingness to read a messy manuscript and to encourage me along the way. I could not have done this without you! Ginger, you've become the world's greatest assistant at events. Thanks for sharing your gift of organization with me. Grace, my editor extraordinaire, thank you! I look forward to many meals shared with you and Jon. Ami, who plugs me tirelessly, thank you for years of friendship! To the ladies of Jean's Monday night study, thanks for being the first to affirm me as an author and to beg for more of the story. This book is for you! My favorite bloggers, thanks for being willing to review a manuscript.  For all who read rough drafts and commented, thank you!

~*~

Cover art photography rights go to the very talented Kari McGrath Photography (www.karimcgrath.wordpress.com).  Thanks for sharing your God-given gifts with me!

Author photo rights go to the equally talented Marah Grant at www.marahgrant.com

Thank you, my friends!

about the author

I live in the midwest with my my man, our 3 E's, and a dog named Ebony. I write, I blog, I speak, and I homeschool. In my free time I fold mountains of laundry, wash piles of dishes, and drive hours in the family taxi. My favorite things in life include standing on the shore of Lake Superior to take in the vastness of God's creation, hitting the open road with our 5th wheel for another camping adventure, and any time the nieces and nephews gather for cousin time. I love winter stars and deep snow, spring flowers and the chirp of spring peepers at night, summer at the lake and warm summer nights, and crisp fall days campfires under the autumn stars. Most of all, I love God and this life He has given me with these four people I love the most... Chad, Eric, Emily, and Ellen.

More of my random thoughts and a collection of free Bible studies for children, teens and families can be found on my blog at www.heidikreider.com.

I would love to hear from you! Please email me (kreidermom@yahoo.com) if you have any comments or suggestions. I would be honored to hear how this book has changed you. You can also find me on facebook at www.facebook.com/authorheidikreider or twitter at heidikreider.

Thank you!

other books by Heidi Kreider

fiction:

Liz's Legacy Series

The Secret of Counting Gifts

Memories of Finding Faith

non-fiction

The Secret of Counting Gifts Gratitude Journal

Table of Contents

copyright

dedication

prologue

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

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

epilogue

in gratitude...

about the author

other books by Heidi Kreider