Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  “Florida? Canada? Why would we have to move there?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace where they manufacture more boats than they do in Chicago so I could get back into that business.”

  “Well, I don’t want to move either.” Nicole started out again. “Like I said, I’ve got it covered with Tabby, and I’ll tell her to not let the kids bother you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tabby arrived about three thirty, and Greg heard her apologize for being a little late in getting home from school. But as promised, Nicole carefully instructed her to not let the kids disturb him. “I’ll take them outside,” Tabby said.

  Greg almost called out, “Appreciate it!” but then realized he wouldn’t even be overhearing this conversation if he were in an office.

  On the other hand, every office had its own conversations . . . and politics and meetings and time-wasting reports and other distractions. He really should be more grateful. The best of both worlds would be a real in-home office with a door and a space of his own. That’s what he needed. When they got their new house, he’d make sure he had a large office with plenty of light, maybe on the second floor, situated where the noises of household life wouldn’t disturb him. And there ought to be an access for clients, perhaps not a separate entrance but at least a way to bring them into his office without walking through the domestic clutter of a home with young children.

  But they weren’t there yet, and they weren’t going to get there if he didn’t get his SlowBurn “burning.” So how could he make do with what they had? He began brainstorming. There was quite a bit of space upstairs, but no way to carve out another room, and at their age, both kids needed a separate bedroom. What if he took over the dining room and closed it off? No, Nicole would never go for that, and he didn’t really want to do that either. The back porch might be an option. But that would involve enclosing it, winterizing it, and providing heat—several thousand dollars to do it right, and then it still would be kind of cramped. What about an office over the garage? It would be expensive to add another story and get heat and air conditioning installed, but that would be fantastic. What if—

  The back doorbell rang. He glanced out the living room window. Tabby and the kids were out front playing hopscotch, so it wasn’t one of them. He got up and went to the kitchen door.

  “Destin, good to see you. You looking for your sister?”

  “No, Mr. Singer. I brought my money.” The teenager held out a check.

  “Hey, that’s great. Come on in.” Greg took the check. It was a bank draft for the full three hundred dollars. “This is great. I hope you have some way to haul your cases down to your house, ’cause my wife’s got my car, and we’re talkin’ over two hundred pounds of SlowBurn here.”

  “Uh, really?”

  “Yeah. Seventy six-packs, 420 eight-ounce cans.”

  “Oh gee, I don’t know where I’d put all of that. Is there any chance I can take what I need right now and leave the rest with you?”

  Greg shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Come on out to the garage.”

  They separated Destin’s cases into one stack, while he took one case with him down the alley to his home.

  “Good luck,” Greg called after him. “You can pick up the rest anytime.”

  Just as he was heading back into the house, he heard the garage door to the alley go up. Nicole must be returning. Feeling encouraged that his third rep was launched, he waited to help his wife bring the groceries into the house.

  “Thanks,” she said when he showed up and reached for a couple of grocery bags. “I have about as much energy as a drained battery.”

  “You go on in and take a load off your feet, honey. I’ll bring everything in.” He watched as she stepped through the doorway and walked slowly toward the house. Yeah, he needed to be more sensitive to the toll this job transition was taking on his wife.

  * * * *

  Sunday, supposedly a day of rest. But Greg felt anxious about taking a whole day off from building the clientele he needed for SlowBurn. Well, maybe when he got to church he could track down the two guys who’d canceled on him and reschedule a time to tell them about SlowBurn. And when he got home, he’d make a few other calls.

  Pastor Hanson’s message was on “Speaking Life into Our Dreams.” Greg perked up the moment he heard the title. That’s exactly what he needed. He had a dream and the blessing seemed so close. What did he need to do to speak life into it?

  The pastor’s primary text was Proverbs 18:21: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”

  Pastor Hanson stepped around to the side of his clear plastic pulpit—a custom, Greg had noted, which preceded his identifying a false teaching. “Some people would say this proverb deals only with the hurtful words one could say to or about someone else. And that’s a valid understanding as far as it goes. James, chapter three, for instance, reviews what a fire of evil the tongue can stir up. A malicious and false testimony can literally lead to someone’s execution while the words of a faithful witness could save his life. However”—he allowed a pregnant pause—“the context for this verse suggests something more.”

  The polished preacher returned behind the pulpit and picked up his Bible. “The verse just before this morning’s text says, ‘A man’s stomach shall be satisfied from the fruit of his mouth; from the produce of his lips he shall be filled.’ In other words, what you say can bring fruit sufficient to fill your stomach, to fill all your godly desires. Do you want to be healthy? Luke nine-six says Jesus and his disciples ‘went through the towns, preaching the gospel, and healing everywhere.’ Everywhere! If you were there and sick, you would’ve been healed. But he also said, ‘I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’ So Jesus is here now and that same healing is for you now.”

  Pastor Hanson’s voice rose. “Which means this promise in Proverbs is also for us now. Just speak life! Do you need a new house? This same Jesus who went before you to heaven to prepare a mansion for you there, wants to see you living in a beautiful home right now, and He wants you to move in. Speak life into that dream, and the blessing will be yours!”

  Greg glanced sideways at Nicole to see how she was responding. She moved her finger across the page of her Bible under the words of verse 20—once, twice, three times—as though she was trying to digest their meaning. He craned his neck to read them himself. “Wise words satisfy like a good meal; the right words bring satisfaction.” Not exactly what Pastor Hanson had read from the New King James.

  “What version do you have today?” he whispered.

  She flipped it over and pointed to the cover: The New Living Translation.

  Hmm. No one could construe that translation into a promise for getting a mansion. So which was right? Greg sat up stiffly. He couldn’t say Nicole had spoken death over their prosperity, but she’d been hesitant to embrace the pastor’s teaching that promised financial success.

  “And you’ll notice,” continued Pastor Hanson’s booming voice, “the last portion of our text returns to the same, personally beneficial principle: ‘And those who love it will eat its fruit.’ You love life? Speak life and you will eat its fruit.”

  Greg wasn’t sure whether the immediate question that popped into his mind was his own or what he imagined Nicole might ask. But how did that phrase break down grammatically if diagramed like he had to do in high school English class? If it meant those who loved life would eat the fruit of “speaking life,” then the pastor’s application seemed accurate. But what if the antecedent of “it” was the tongue? Then the meaning might simply be, those who love the power of the tongue would reap the consequences of using it, whether it was to build other people up or tear them down and reap the consequences to one’s relationships. In that case, it might have very little to do with a principle about achieving personal prosperity or health.

  He checked himself. What was he doing? Undermining his own faith in what the pastor was trying to teach?


  He tuned back in as Pastor Hanson was pointing out how universal the principle of speaking life or death was. “You tell yourself that you’ll never hit that fastball, and you won’t. But if you speak life to yourself, if you tell yourself you can hit the ball, you’ll hit it, perhaps not on the first swing or the second. But if you keep speaking life, you will hit it.”

  That sure made sense to Greg. Encouraging words build you up, whether you speak them to yourself or someone else speaks them to you. Discouraging words bring you down. There was no question about that, but did the passage mean more? Was it the key to everything he wanted?

  As the family headed home after church, he didn’t voice his thoughts to Nicole. He was afraid of what she’d say. And graciously, she spent nearly the whole trip asking the kids about Sunday school. They both gave their versions of the Bible stories they’d heard while Greg continued to wrestle with his thoughts.

  The pastor had encouraged everyone to get up in the morning and look in the mirror and “speak life” into their situation by saying that you’ll have favor wherever you go and in whatever you do. “Tell yourself that everything you attempt will come back gold, everything will succeed. Start declaring that you are healed, prosperous, blessed, and you will be. It’s gonna turn around for you!” He’d said it louder. “It’s gonna turn around for you!” And when he said it the third time, the whole congregation was on its feet, cheering and clapping.

  It’d been a powerful message.

  But a few questions still nibbled at the edges of his thoughts. What about all the apostles who’d suffered and died? Or the Christian martyrs through the ages . . . would they have been prosperous, happy, and enjoyed a life of ease if they’d only learned the principle of “speaking life” over their circumstances? What about Jesus himself? Greg had to admit that his life hadn’t appeared prosperous, certainly not in the way Pastor Hanson described prosperity. And yet, here it was, over two thousand years later, and the church Jesus founded still thrived.

  But Greg didn’t know if he wanted that kind of prosperity.

  He shook himself into the present as the Jeep Cherokee made its way up their alley, having made the trip home nearly on autopilot. He pressed the control button to open the garage door. He was just feeling discouraged because SlowBurn hadn’t taking off as fast as he’d hoped. And because their bank account was going down while their credit card balance was going up.

  But it would all turn around. Hadn’t the pastor said so? Backed up by Scripture? He needed to hang on to that.

  Chapter 20

  The rain Tuesday afternoon didn’t dampen Greg’s spirits as he drove out Touhy Avenue and turned north on River Road. Both SlowBurn appointments with the church members who’d canceled the week before were back on. He’d only had to twist their arms a little before guilt kicked in from having broken their earlier commitment and they agreed for Greg to drop by. First, he was going to meet Sam Ludlow in Des Plaines at five thirty and then come home, grab a bite to eat, and head up to Evanston at eight to meet with Jennifer Cooper, who oversaw the coffee bar in the lobby of the Victorious Living Center.

  This second meeting meant Greg couldn’t go with Harry Bentley again to the men’s Bible study that night, but business was business, and if he could convince Jennifer to carry SlowBurn at the church coffee bar, he would make a killing and the church would benefit from its share of the profits.

  As for the Bible study, he could catch up with the guys some other time. Besides, now that Ben Garfield was one of his reps, perhaps Ben would be more successful reaching the other guys. Greg wanted Ben to experience enough success for him to step up his participation to the next level.

  The sheets of rain and dark skies made it hard for Greg to find the street signs where he was to turn into the development along the Des Plaines River where Sam and Louise Ludlow lived. But he finally found Berry Lane and followed it around until he spotted the rambling ranch Sam had described to him. He jumped out of the Cherokee with a sample six-pack and ran for the porch but got soaked by the time he made it under the eaves and rang the doorbell. There were lights on inside, but Greg saw no movement through the windows.

  He rang the bell again, and finally Louise opened the door.

  “I’m so sorry, Greg. Sam’s out in the garage trying to start the generator. Come on through.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want to bother him if he’s busy, but what’s the problem?” He slipped off his wet shoes and left the six-pack of SlowBurn on the floor before following Louise. “Looks like your whole neighborhood has lights.”

  “Oh, we’ve got lights . . . for now.” She led him through the kitchen. “But Sam says he’s learned his lesson to get that generator started early. Frankly, I think the only lesson to be learned is to move. We’ve been through this too many times.”

  She led him into the garage, where Greg found Sam Ludlow—perhaps sixty-five years old—on his knees tinkering with a home generator.

  “Hey man, what’s the problem? You want me to hold that light for you?”

  Sam grunted as he turned to look up. “Oh, hi, Greg. Yeah, that’d be a big help.”

  Greg held the droplight closer while Sam fiddled with the carburetor.

  “There!” Sam pushed himself up with several groans and stood there unsteadily. “These old knees don’t bend so well anymore. Here, let me push the starter button and see if it’ll kick in.”

  The starter ground and ground as the battery wore down. Just when Greg thought it was about to stop, the little engine backfired once, chugged a couple of times, and roared to life. Even though the exhaust was piped outside, Sam had to yell to be heard. “I’m going to leave it run for a while.”

  It continued to run, but Greg thought the governor wasn’t working properly, because the engine roared and slowed and roared and slowed like a wheezing dragon. Sam leaned toward him. “I need to get a new one, a bigger one. But I can’t afford it right now.”

  “This one looks pretty big as is.”

  Sam beckoned him back into the house. Even inside, the generator still seemed loud.

  “I know Sam wants iced tea,” Louise said, opening the refrigerator. “How about you, Greg? Iced tea, water, orange juice, Coke?”

  “Hey, I brought along a drink I want you folks to try. Do you mind?” Greg went back to the entryway and retrieved the SlowBurn before they could respond. When he returned, Sam was seated at the kitchen table, so he sat down across from him and gave his hosts samples, popping a can for himself.

  “So why do you need a larger generator?”

  “The river.” Sam pointed out the kitchen window. “That’s it right out there. You can see it if you stand up. Our backyard’s right on the bank. Every time it rains hard like this, we’re at risk if the power goes out. I’ve got five pumps installed around the yard, but if that river spills over, which it’s done four times since we’ve been here, those pumps and a whole lot of sandbags are the only thing standing between us and a flooded home.”

  Greg was shocked. The place seemed too beautiful to cower under a perpetual threat. But no wonder Louise thought they should move. He shook his head. “Seems like every few years we hear about flooding along the Des Plaines or the Fox River, but somehow I never imagined it happening to homes like this. Can’t the county or the Army Corps of Engineers do something?”

  Sam laughed. “Well, there was a plan back in the 1980s that was supposed to stop the flooding, but only one of six projects has been completed. There are places up the road worth two or three million, and if those people don’t have enough clout to get the projects done . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

  They talked about the river while the generator continued to throb in the garage until, with a chug and a hiss, it suddenly died. Sam jumped up. “See what I mean? I need a new one.” He started for the door from the kitchen to the garage.

  “Sam, Sam!” his wife called after him. “Sit down. There’s nothing you can do about it tonight.”

  �
�But what if the river—”

  Louise held up her hands. “You know that the only real answer is for us to move.”

  “Well, we can’t move tonight,” Sam groused as he settled back into his chair. An awkward silence of the couple’s unresolved dispute descended on the room.

  Greg finally held up his can of SlowBurn. “So, what do you think about this drink?”

  “Oh, it’s good,” they both said, seeming eager to change the subject.

  Greg launched into his presentation, but he could tell Sam’s mind was on larger issues. After thirty minutes, Greg broached the question of whether they wanted to sign on. “You could both be reps, you know. I’m sure you move in slightly different circles, have different friends. You could move more product that way.”

  “Not now,” Sam said, a firm tone to his voice. “Even if we had the money, a new generator would have to come first. First things first, you know.” He looked out the window where the rain still fell in the fading light. He stood up and extended his hand. “Thanks for stopping by, Greg, but I gotta get out to the garage and get that thing going again. No way of knowing when that rain will stop or whether we’ll lose power.”

  A few minutes later, as Greg drove toward home, he wondered how Pastor Hanson’s teachings applied to the Ludlows. They attended the same church. They’d heard the same messages. Why weren’t they prospering? Were they just not “speaking life” over their situation?

  * * * *

  Knowing he had to head up to Evanston in a short time, Greg parked the Cherokee in front of their house. The heavy rain had lightened up as Greg readied himself for a dash to the porch, but as soon as he opened the door of his vehicle, he heard someone calling his name.

  Harry Bentley was standing on the porch of the Molanders’ house across the street beckoning to him. He could see Mrs. Molander behind him, peeking around with both hands over her mouth.