Advance Acclaim for The River
“The River is a story that will transform how you see yourself and the world.”
—ANDY ANDREWS,
NEW YORK TIMES BEST
SELLING AUTHOR OF HOW
DO YOU KILL 11 MILLION
PEOPLE?, THE NOTICER &
THE TRAVELER’S GIFT
“The River is a beautifully crafted novel by a gifted communicator. Michael Neale has successfully parlayed his ability to inspire from the performing platform to the written page. The story of The River will inspire its readers to live a life they were destined for!”
—JOHN C. MAXWELL,
FOUNDER OF EQUIP
AND THE JOHN
MAXWELL COMPANY
“The story of The River is inspiring and uplifting! Reaching deep into your heart from the opening pages, The River and its cast of characters take you on a life-changing journey. Everyone needs to read it. I believe this story will impact the world!”
—DR. TOM MULLINS,
FOUNDING PASTOR OF
CHRIST FELLOWSHIP
CHURCH IN PALM BEACH
GARDENS, FLORIDA
“Truly riveting. I felt like I was living the story and experiencing the events as they unfolded and couldn’t put the book down. Michael Neale has woven wonder and wisdom into a story that will continue to inspire hearts for years to come. Read this book, it will open your eyes.”
—PAUL BALOCHE, AWARD
WINNING SONGWRITER,
RECORDING ARTIST
“The River is a captivating story told by a masterful storyteller. Page by page, the characters drew me in and would not let me go. The River awakened the adventurer inside of me. Entertaining, thought provoking, challenging, and compelling . . . You can’t read The River and not be impacted . . . I certainly was.”
—JORDAN RUBIN, NEW
YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING
AUTHOR, THE MAKER’S DIET
“I’ve heard Michael Neale tell stories for years. I’ve been encouraged, uplifted, made to laugh, and brought to tears by them. The River does this and so much more. This story got ahold of me and wouldn’t let go. I believe this novel will inspire many to conquer their fears, and really live!”
—DR. J. TODD MULLINS,
LEAD PASTOR OF
CHRIST FELLOWSHIP
CHURCH IN PLAM BEACH
GARDENS, FLORIDA
“I was deeply moved by The River. I found myself captured by the beauty of the story and fully immersed in the characters and their lives. I believe there’s a little Gabriel Clarke in all of us. This book is a must-read for any stage of life.”
—BRUCE KOBLISH,
PRESIDENT/CEO OF THE
WORSHIP NETWORK
“The River is a work of art. Michael Neale is a gifted writer. I was enthralled with every page. It gripped me and I could not put it down!”
—LOWELL “BUD” PAXSON,
FOUNDER OF ION
TELEVISION NETWORK
THE
RIVER
MICHAEL NEALE
© 2012 by Michael Neale
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
For information, contact: THE RIVER EXPERIENCE, LLC, 2550 Meridian Blvd, Suite 350, Franklin, TN 37067. (615) 373-2500.
For bookings, contact: [email protected]
For more information, visit: www.theriverexperience.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Neale, Michael.
The river / Michael Neale.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4016-8848-6 (trade paper)
1. Fathers—Death—Fiction. 2. Boys—Fiction. 3. Young men—Fiction. 4. Rivers— Fiction. 5. Kansas—Fiction. 6. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3614.E2387R58 2012
813'.6—dc23 2012021139
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Leah Paige Neale, my wife,
my love, and my best friend
Contents
A Note from the Author
From an Entry in a Journal
Prologue
1. The Big Hike
2. Life in Kansas
3. The Pond
4. Corn Dogs and Marbles
5. Mister Earl and the Pig Trip
6. The New Teacher
7. A Visitor Comes to the Farm
8. A Birthday Gift
9. The Phone Call
10. The Trip to The River
11. The Girl
12. The River Speaks
13. Samuel and Big Water Adventures
14. Class V
15. The Last Night
16. Good-bye and The Journal
17. No More Kansas
18. Hanging Out with Ezra
19. An Unexpected Introduction
20. A Dinner to Remember
21. The Night Run
22. The War Room
23. A Trip Home
Epilogue
Reading Group Guide
Acknowledgments
Author Interview
About the Author
A Note from the Author
“If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give
them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person
needs a story more than food to stay alive.”
—Barry Lopez, in Crow and Weasel
I’VE ALWAYS LOVED TO TELL STORIES, ESPECIALLY with friends or family. I love sharing the fun of an unlikely event, a self-deprecating faux pas, or a whimsical conversation with one of my kids. There’s nothing like a great story.
My grandfather was a wonderful storyteller. I used to sit next to his wood-burning stove with a Chek Root Beer float in hand, listening to him tell me about his childhood. He described the hardships of growing up during the Great Depression, how he used to build Goodyear blimps, and how his personally customized RV always broke down at the top of some mountain pass in the harshest of winters.
I never really cared whether his stories were based on fact or fiction. I just loved getting lost in the magic of his words. It was as if I could experience those adventures and relationships too, even though I was only eight years old.
The story I’m about to tell you is inspired by a collage of events, conversations, and happenings in my life and the life of my family. I believe you’ll find some of your story here as well. I’m not sure how that happens, but it always does.
Michael Neale
2012
From an Entry in a Journal
I love coming to The River.
The River is magical. It ' s full of wonder and mystery. For thousands of years, The River has been carving its way through the Earth. As the water pours over the landscape, crashes against the banks, and cascades over the rocks, everything changes in its path. The terrain, the trees, even th
e wildlife-everything is shaped by The River. Everything in the canyon is at the mercy of The River. The River is wild, free, and untamable. It' s foaming, twisting, and thundering. There are places where the water shoots down into crevices and canyons and creates this amazing thunder, and then there are places where the water settles into pools of complete calm. There are peaceful eddies where the riverbed is flat and the gradient is level, where the water mirrors the beautiful mountains surrounding the landscape. I love being with The River.
The River is alive. The River is timeless, and it' s moving all over the world.
I find myself drawn to The River. With its beauty and power, The River calls to me. The River can be known but not fully. Therein lies the mystery. The River has a voice, and I love the way it sounds. When I' m with The River, I just know it' s where I' m meant to be. It touches something deep inside my soul. It connects me to a bigger story in some indescribable way. I could spend countless hours just watching and listening.
Since I was a small child, I' ve been fascinated and captivated by The River. It' s mesmerizing, really. The waters speak to me. Whether I' m skipping stones in a smooth eddy or feeling the thunder of a waterfall, when I' m with The River, I feel alive.
I' ve experienced The River in many ways in my life. I haven' t always understood those experiences. What I will say is that The River has allowed me to feel the deepest grief and given me the greatest joy.
I must confess, though, that there have been times when I' ve been angry with The River. It doesn' t seem to mind. I' ve been afraid of The River too, but somehow it keeps drawing me in. I am a small speck compared to its mighty waters, yet The River seems completely aware of me in a cosmic sort of way. Whether I was indifferent, aloof, or passionately bitter, The River never stopped calling me.
I' ve watched The River from places high in the mountains where you couldn' t hear the water' s movement. The sight reminded me of a rich Monet hanging on the wall.
I' ve sat on the banks and listened to the water flowing by gently, whispering to me like a mother soothing her child to sleep. I' ve waded into the calm eddies, where the cool water cascaded over my toes, massaging my feet and invigorating my skin.
To float down the gentle rapids without a raft is like being carried in the strong arms of a father. Love pushes out any fear as you' re lifted through the canyon. You feel adventure and safety at the same time.
I' ve skipped rocks on the mirrored water. I' ve fly-fished in the deepest gorges, and better yet, I' ve rafted monstrous whitewater in breathtaking canyons all over the world. I' m still learning to trust The River, though, because I don' t know all that the waters have in store for me.
But I do know this: I can' t live without The River. I' m still fearful yet drawn in. I' m in awe yet completely at home. Somehow, in the deepest places, I feel The River knows I' m here. I can' t explain it. I just know. It has never left me, and I will never leave it. I am captured and set free in this beautiful dance of hearts.
I can tell you this from my journey: the more you experience The River, the more you want to stay close by. When you experience The River, you live.
Gabriel Clarke
November 7, 1979
Prologue
EVERY NOW AND THEN, YOU HAVE AN ENCOUNTER with someone who simply changes your life. A conversation or interaction so profound, it seems otherworldly. You can’t get his (or her) story out of your head and heart.
It’s hard to explain how powerful stories can resonate within us on many levels, but it’s often because of the way they speak with passion, heartache, or even joy. Maybe it’s the way they unknowingly reach into our heart of hearts with their words.
I don’t think these encounters happen by chance. I think there is a reason, although we will never understand the full weaving of life’s tapestry of events this side of the eternal. I have had such an encounter with someone. It moved me to my core, so much so that I had to share it with you. I’ll keep sharing it as long as I have breath. For the next few pages, I’d like you to grab a cup of coffee—or a root beer float—and sit down and let me tell you about a conversation I had with a man named Gabriel Clarke.
It all began when I was traveling back to Nashville from the West Coast. My first flight from LAX landed in Denver at about 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, when things at DIA were slowing down a bit. I was feeling exhausted after two days of countless meetings, a lack of rest (I don’t sleep well away from home), and the tiring travel.
I’m not sure what it is about planes, but the only way I can describe it is that flying makes me feel stale, grimy, and in need of a teeth cleaning. I got off of my first flight from Los Angeles and approached the monitor to see which gate was handling my connecting flight.
According to my itinerary, I had about fifty minutes until my flight to Nashville took off. The monitor said otherwise. Like a deer staring into oncoming headlights, I stood fixated at the monitor, hoping my glare would supernaturally change the DELAYED message to BOARDING.
Unfortunately, that did not happen. After a quick visit to the restroom, I made the trek to my new gate, dodging the carts carrying the old folks and doing my best to ignore the annoying beeps. When I arrived, I discovered that my flight was not delayed—it was canceled due to mechanical issues with the aircraft.
There wasn’t much I could do except queue up with a line of agitated passengers waiting to speak with the gate agent. In a very unsympathetic and “get over it” tone, she explained that my only option was to reschedule on a different flight leaving at 10:50 p.m.
I did some quick calculations. With the time change, this would put me in my own bed on our small farm forty-five minutes outside of Nashville at about three a.m. Oh joy. I love going home, just not in the middle of the night when I’m tiptoeing around like a burglar, trying to keep our chocolate labs from waking the kids.
I took a deep breath and resigned myself to my fate. I had a three-and-a-half-hour rendezvous with the C Concourse in Denver, there was no way around it. I hunted for a quiet corner where I could spend some time reading and listening to music. It was a rare opportunity for downtime, so I figured I’d make the most of it.
About eight gates down, I found an entire section where the lights were dim, the hanging flat-screen TVs were turned off, and the gates were closed. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I looked for the best spot and claimed a section of seating in the back corner, next to the windows that looked out over the tarmac. I called my wife and kids to say good night and break the news that I wouldn’t see them until the morning.
After we said our good-byes, I immediately reached for my iPod, plugged in my earphones, and shut out the world by listening to my favorite movie scores. I had a spy novel I’d started on the flight from LA, so I pulled the oversized paperback out of my backpack, propped my feet up on the chair across from me, and began reading. After ten pages, though, my solitude and bliss came to an abrupt end.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large character moving toward me. Who in the world is heading all the way over here? Surely it’s not someone I know from home. My thoughts were running a mile a minute. Sure enough, this man plopped down two seats from me and opened a canvas bag that looked to be filled with enough camping and hiking gear to scale the Himalayas.
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the places in the airport, why would he sit down right next to me? I ignored him, burying my head in my book, but he kept going through his canvas bag, checking his equipment and carrying on a one-sided conversation with himself.
I turned my music up, sighed loudly, and returned to my book, trying to send a message that I wanted to be left alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he kept looking over at me again and again. I could tell he was itching for conversation, so I looked up from my book and gave Mountain Man a halfhearted grin.
He was at least six feet tall and built like an Australian rugby player. A long, shaggy beard with disheveled dirty-blond hair poured out from under his army-green knit ca
p. If I had to guess his age, I would say that he was probably in his midfifties. Dressed in a worn-thin plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves and khaki shorts, he wore large hiking boots with thick thermal socks bunched around his ankles. His skin was weathered and tan, his eyes were crystal blue, and his worn face was lined with wrinkles. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Discovery Channel documentary.
The older man looked at me and said something. I couldn’t understand him because of the cranked-up music playing in my ears, so I pulled out my earphones. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t hear you. What was that?”
“Heading home or away?”
Not a very deep question. “I’m heading home,” I said, hoping my three-word reply would send a hint that I didn’t want to be bothered.
He would not be deterred. “Me too. I’ve been gone for over three months. I’m ready for my own bed.” He slouched in his chair and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. I thought maybe our conversation was over, meaning I could get back to my book and music in peace.
Instead, he looked over again. “How long until your flight leaves?”
I knew now that I should just give in, so I closed my book and set it on my lap.
“I have until ten thirty,” I said, and I told him what happened with the canceled flight to Nashville. He told me he was early for his red-eye to the East Coast.
From there, we exchanged the typical small talk:
“Where are you from?”
“Where are you going?”
“Weather has been unpredictable, huh?”
All the usual stuff. But with guys, an introductory conversation wouldn’t be complete unless you ask, “What do you do?”
I always hate talking about what I do, but it’s part of the man language. We feel we can tell a lot about a person by what they do for a living.
The River Page 1
