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Inspiring Voices - Tom Yarbrough

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119 pages

English

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Startled by a mysterious stranger, a respected minister struggles through what's important: his ministry, his marriage.His jolting actions touch any Christian's belief."Christian non-fiction writer Tom Yarbrough pens a real gem in his first spiritual fiction. The story brings together a burned-out pastor and a strange book seller to give readers a fresh look at a first century woman Christian writer."-Terri McAdoo Communications, LLCWriting and Editing AgencyBelvidere, New Jersey 07823"Combining thoughtful examination of the human condition . . . Tom Yarbrough tells the story of the personal, relational, and professional fears that derail spiritual growth. . . If read reflectively and prayerfully, this book has the potential to be the In His Steps of this decade."-Dr. Craig M. LongAssociate Dean of Waupun Correctional Extension SiteTrinity International University

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Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	10 mai 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462412341
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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And Then One Day

Tom Yarbrough

Copyright © 2018 Tom Yarbrough.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture quotations marked HCSB are taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible ® , Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Holman Christian Standard Bible ® , Holman CSB ® , and HCSB ® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version ® . Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved

Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 (866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Dreamstime are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Dreamstime.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1225-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1234-1 (e)

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 5/10/2018
Contents
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 1
I could not believe the pain that shot through my neck and shoulders then traveled up the back of my head. It was like electrical wires attached to my spine squirting electricity through one wire at a time.
Besides that, a putrid acid boiled in my stomach. You know that stuff you burp up that tastes like hot soapy water. Because I sat at my desk, I pushed myself up, shuffled over to open the oak door just in time for a middle-aged woman to skulk past me, out of my office, like a frightened rabbit. I couldn’t help but stare at her.
She had been a successful writer, having published and felt embarrassed about her situation. She kept her eyes on the floor as she moved. I watched as she fumbled with her purse, found a handful of tissue and dabbed her eyes. Just outside my office, she glanced over at the church secretary, ducked her head trying to avoid any embarrassing talk from that staff member, and bolted out the side door of the church offices.
I shook my head because I knew the truth down deep. Hearing people’s problems never was my favorite part of ministry, but in Restoration Church, Oklahoma, with its 700 members, I received more than my share of individual matters. Some members called me Dr. Sellers, some Rev. Sellers, some just plain Jerod. By nine o’clock this Tuesday morning, I’d already heard a young couple about to marry, and now, it appeared, an experienced woman about to UN-marry. I felt exhausted, like a squeezed sponge with no more absorption.
Quickly, I shut the door to my office. In our conversation, the woman mentioned in passing, An independent kind of Christian woman writer and I was curious. I walked to a shelf of my abundant library and pulled down a book of history about the first century Christians. Sure enough, there was a short item about a noblewoman named Perpetua who died in 203 A.D. She had written and published a diary about her last days. History suggested she was killed during a persecution time.
I slapped the book shut, sat it on my desk and moved to stand in front of a full-length mirror attached to the back of the door. I needed to see if I looked as bad as I felt. Small dark pouches under eyes looked back at me, but I felt those didn’t show much if I kept my summer tan. I still stood six feet, broad shouldered, keeping the same physical conditioning, I’d had at twenty. Yet, my head ached and acid boiled in my stomach to remind me of my fallibility, but I threw back my shoulders and sucked in my stomach, heels together, chin out and glared at the mirror image. I looked at the top of my hair, parted on the left, full dark brown, laced slightly with those sneaky small grey hairs peeking back at me. I kept it somewhat long, halfway covering my ears and combed back.
I was one of those fortunate ones. Since I kept active, I could eat what I wanted and not gain weight, but this ability did not keep the acid away. I bent closer to the mirror and stared a second time, peered closer, looking to see if any other outward sign gave hint of my fatigue. How could I stay in such good shape and yet feel so tired? How was I supposed to be God’s man and be so exhausted? I shrugged and moved to my desk. Easing myself back into my old high-backed chair, I glanced at pink slips, phone messages, some snail-mail and other paper work piled in middle of my desk. I didn’t have the heart to deal with any of it.
I sighed so big, I blew some paper across my desk. I stared at the stuff and thought back to my youth. I remembered my strong ambition to get ahead. I’d rushed my teens, breezed through my twenties, fast-stepped my thirties. I was driven by some urgent nature. But, it seems I’d come to a shin knocking, knee burning halt in my forties. I couldn’t help but grin and think, if my advice - giving mother had told me one day I’d pastor a large church, be married with no children, be a very tired, forty - three - year - old with headaches and heart burn, I might have reneged on my anxious desire to gro w up.
I twirled my index finger toward the ceiling, as if pointing at anyone looking down on me now, shook my head and reached in my desk drawer for the antacid tablets and aspirin. Of course, both bottles were nearly empty.
Suddenly, I jumped as my hidden private land-line jangled. It was like a screeching drag against every nerve fiber. Only a few people knew this special number. Left over from the early days before cell phones, the land-line stayed hidden in a separate drawer-nook of my desk. I just never used it much. I slid open the drawer and jerked up the receiver.
A voice gurgled like running water. “ Dr. Sellers, my name is Ruben Michael. I’m a collector of sorts, mostly of antique books and rare manuscr ipts.”
“How in the world did you get this number?” I demanded.
“That’s not important. What’s urgent is I have something I must show you.” Came a regular voice.
“I’m pretty busy right now. If you could just. . .” I paused, hoping to get rid of the caller.
Michael’s voice purred. “ I am no crank . I assure you Dr. Sellers; you will want to see what I have. It will shock your life.”
“Oh yeah, well … ok, if it’s that urgent.” I yielded.
Ruben continued, “I assure you what I must show is much more than some book of a long forgotten, undiscovered genius.”
“Ok,” I murmured.
“No one has seen all I have yet. I’m supposed to show only you. I need you to come to apartment 10 at those Riverside apartments. And pay close attention to watch out for an odd door number.”
Breathing sharply, after a moment, I felt hooked. “Ok, I guess I’ll come when I can.”
“I was sure you would,” Ruben hung up.
After I put down the receiver, I stared at the phone and wondered why I’d committed to this strange caller. I was used to weird phone calls, weird people and weird happenings, but this call made me extra curious. I began to think. Maybe it’s what I need to get out of a slump. After all, I like old books of theology. I still had a good collection from seminary days. Why not see this Ruben Michael and see what’s up? It’s probably some hustle but who c ares?
Just then, the church secretary tapped on the study door, opened it meekly and peeked in.
“Pastor … the hospital called. They want you to come right away if you can. Benny Sapp appears to be worse. He’s in room 202.”
“Oh, no … ok, I’ll go right now if the calendar’s free, thanks Betty.”
I knew I had to go, even though I didn’t want to really, but Benny was an old pastor friend I could not ignore.

I left the office, grateful to get out, and drove straight to the hospital. Arriving at my destination, I parked in minister-only parking, rushed to an inside elevator, punched #2 and hurried up to the second floor where private rooms were located. I went to room 202 where Rev. Benny Sapp, retired pastor, lay dying. The doctors were at a loss to diagnose his illness, watching as his major organs failed.
Quietly, I eased into the room and glanced down at the frail body in the hospital bed. I know some ministers thrived on hospital visits and I think that takes a special gift. But I could never get used to the setting. I was supposed to be there and offer some strength, some hope, but I always left a situation depressed. And now that I was so tired, I dreaded any hospital visit. Others might criticize me for this, but I just must be honest and admit, I just did not like hospitals. To me, they stay places of pain and besides, too many die there.
I stared again at the body lying captured by tubes and bed. Benny Sapp was well known and generally well loved in his ministry. He and I had been ministerial friends for years; that is, we’d sat on committees and community functions together. Sapp spent most of his adult life as an active local pastor, until his health began to fail when he reached his sixties. His