by Dave Jackson
Greg nodded his head.
“Okay, then here’s my suggestion. Don’t do anything on your computer until Monday morning—”
“Monday morning!”
“Right. Don’t check to see if you lost money or won it. Don’t even turn it on. Instead, spend the next three days seeking God and learning to trust him. If you’re like me, you’ll find a ditch on both sides of that path. Your mind will tend to spin out into fear that you’ve lost it all. And at other times you’ll swerve off the path into hope—an unfounded hope, really—that you’re gonna come out of this rich. But I tell ya, man. Resist both. They’re just tempting distractions. Just seek God and the confidence that he’ll be with you no matter what.”
Greg stared at the floor, trying to imagine how he could do that. The man was right about those ditches. Even as he thought about it, Greg vacillated between fear he’d lost it all and euphoria that he’d be on his way to prosperity.
“Look”—Harry interrupted his thoughts—“that was just a suggestion. You go on home and pray about it. Do whatever God tells you to do.”
Chapter 42
Greg trudged up his porch steps and tried the front door. Locked. And he’d gone out without his keys. Which meant he’d left the back door unlocked. Good grief. That was stupid. But as he went around to the back and came in, everything seemed the same as he’d left it—including his computer, which was still running in the living room, the screen saver swirling rainbow colors across the screen.
Harry had said don’t even turn the thing on, but . . . it was already on. A touch of the mouse would bring up the TopOps page and perhaps the answer of whether he’d won or lost . . . if the Internet was back up, that was. He reached out . . .
Should he do it?
Greg hesitated. Harry had called his instructions “just a suggestion,” not a big word from the Lord, not some law found in Scripture.
He reached out again but stopped. He could just switch the computer off. People lost power to their computers all the time from a storm or tripped breaker switch. It wasn’t the way you were supposed to shut down a computer, and you’d lose any unsaved documents. But he didn’t have a half-finished document sitting in the computer’s memory, nothing to lose. Switching it off would merely mean it’d take a little longer to clean itself up the next time he turned it on.
Why would he do that? Harry said it’d be a chance to seek God and the confidence that God would be with him no matter what. But so what? He could seek God any time. What difference did it make if he knew whether he’d won or lost?
Greg had been trying to exercise faith—faith that God would prosper him big time, and it’d taken a lot of faith. He’d really believed God was going to make him prosperous! But somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he began to realize that it took a lot of faith to trust God for what he didn’t know. What was that verse from the book of Hebrews he’d memorized years ago? “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Wouldn’t that apply as equally to his hope for prosperity as it did to the hope that God would walk with him through this crisis?
But suddenly, he saw the difference. One was material wealth—things that would bring pleasure for a time but would ultimately disappear, the kind of treasure Jesus said would rust, be eaten by moths, or get stolen. The other involved a relationship with God, something that could last for eternity.
He could almost hear the voice in his head: “So Greg, which is more valuable?”
That’s what Harry must’ve meant when he said all those enticements Pastor Hanson dangled before his listeners—no matter how big they seemed—were mere “pennies” in comparison to the “pounds” of the kingdom of God. One could be seen all around him, tangible, physical, noticeable . . . while the other would remain unseen, a relationship, a confidence in his heart.
Greg walked over to the front window and parted the sheer curtains, looking across the street and up a few houses toward the graystone two-flat he’d left not fifteen minutes before, Harry’s words still tumbling around in his head. His neighbor hadn’t been downgrading faith, hadn’t been telling him to “face reality” as though the supernatural was a fantasy. He’d been calling Greg to a higher faith.
Could he do that? Did he believe it? Was it really possible to have the kind of relationship with God that was greater than all Pastor Hanson’s promises of cars and boats and big houses?
Greg reached out again, not to the mouse but to the power strip, and switched off the computer.
* * * *
Friday night was the pits. Greg didn’t know what to do with himself. He tried to call Nicole at her mother’s, but it went right to an answering machine. “Honey, please give me a call. I’d like to talk to the kids. Are you coming home soon? Just . . . give me a call so we can talk.” But both the house phone and his cell remained silent.
What did they usually do Friday nights? Nicole sometimes wanted to get a babysitter and go out, but Greg couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that. Not since he’d lost his job at Powersports anyway. Sunday nights they usually had popcorn and root beer floats, and he’d watch a DVD with the kids while Nicole had some personal time. Man! He’d even watch Home Alone or The Incredibles again if the kids were home.
But as it was, he ended up zoning out in front of the tube watching two straight hours of cop shows and reality TV, and then the ten o’clock news before heading for bed. But when Greg woke the next morning, he felt as if he’d been tossing and turning all night. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Forcing himself to get up, he headed for the kitchen to make coffee. Still in his pajama trousers and T-shirt, he took a mug out onto the back porch. Sipping his coffee, he tried to get a handle on the feelings tugging at his gut. Harry had been right about the temptations he’d face on either side of the path toward simply trusting God to be with him. One moment he had to fight with fear of a devastating financial loss . . . and five minutes later he was still having fantasies of God making him rich—especially if his bid had been right. But the fear had his gut in knots. After all, he’d been the one who got himself into such a desperate financial mess, so perhaps it was his feeling of guilt over such recklessness that pitched him most often into the fear ditch.
The neighborhood was quiet. Saturday morning. People sleeping in. Peaceful . . . But might as well be full of roaring engines and shouts and lawn mowers, for all the turmoil in his head.
Greg pitched the last of his coffee into the yard. He wasn’t well acquainted with fear. As he went back into the house to take a shower and get dressed, he tried to remember times in his life when he’d been afraid. There’d been a few—like the bully he finally stood up to in the seventh grade, the tornado that crossed I-55 forcing him to take refuge under an overpass, a knee injury playing football, getting lost while deer hunting in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Those times usually involved an external threat he could fight.
But this time the fear was rising from within over things he’d caused and now couldn’t control, and he didn’t know how to ride it through. Its tentacles gripped his heart—not just the possibility he was facing financial ruin, but that he might lose his wife and kids too.
At first he spent much of his energy resisting it, but that seemed to merely feed it, causing it to grow into waves of panic. Every time he went into the living room, he looked at the computer. Certainly by now his Internet was back up, and he could find out what had happened. Even if it was still down, he could go to the Chicago Public Library branch down on Clark Street and do the same thing.
But he resisted. Something was happening inside him by following Harry’s plan. Not knowing what else to do, Greg got out his Bible and read a lot of scriptures about fear, about God promising to “never leave or forsake” his people, and about the Holy Spirit whom God sent to be the Comforter.
As the hours passed, he was slowly gaining confidence that maybe God’s pres
ence was still with him.
The doorbell rang Saturday afternoon. For a nanosecond Greg’s heart leaped. Nicole and the kids? But she wouldn’t ring the bell. He opened the door. “Hey.” Harry Bentley stood on the porch. “Dropped by to see how you’re doing.”
The two men sat in the living room and talked. Greg was a little surprised Harry didn’t ask whether he’d checked his computer, though it was probably obvious—either he’d be euphoric over a win or devastated by a loss. Instead, Harry started talking about how hard he’d found it to be unemployed from the Chicago Police Department, especially when his wife was still working.
“Huh,” Greg said, “some people would’ve considered early retirement a dream option.”
“Yeah, I know, but that wasn’t me. I was just old enough—startin’ to feel my age, you know—that sittin’ around even with a pension made me feel useless. Estelle was still working, but who was I? Did anybody need me?” He shrugged. “I volunteered at Manna House, that shelter for women, and that helped some. But when we bought the two-flat and needed a little more income, I took this job with Amtrak—and frankly, Estelle’s just as glad I’m not mopin’ around the house. Just sayin’ I can understand how hard it’s been for you since your job ended, and you didn’t even have a pension, so of course you need an income. Don’t want you to get the idea I disrespect your efforts to launch a business on your own.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” Greg heaved a sigh. “But I’m in so deep, I can’t even imagine how I’m gonna dig myself out. You think”—he hated to even say the words—“you think I’ll have to declare bankruptcy?”
Harry shrugged. “You don’t know how deep you are, do you? Have you looked?”
“No, no, I haven’t looked. I’m just talkin’ about the bigger question of how I’m gonna support my family.”
“You’re right about that.” Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Can I ask, where was your wife in all this? Did she think this binary options thing was a good idea?”
Ouch! The man didn’t mess around. “Never asked her, but I’m sure she didn’t. Have to admit she’s been skeptical of Pastor Hanson’s prosperity teachings all along.”
“There you go.” Harry slapped his knee. “You have any idea how many jams Estelle’s kept me out of? I mean, there’s a reason God gave me a helpmate. And there’s been a few I’ve guided her out of too.”
“Yeah, but . . . you’re still the head of the family, aren’t you?”
Harry looked thoughtful for a few moments. “Yeah, though back in the day I used to think that just meant I’m the boss. But since I married Estelle, I see it more as a unique responsibility for the well-being of my family. But that doesn’t always mean ‘Father Knows Best,’ cause I don’t. And that’s a fact. Take money: Some men know how to handle it. Some women know even better. But usually it takes both.”
“I don’t get what you’re saying.”
“Well, take your current situation. Maybe you’re usually good with money and business decisions, but for some reason that prosperity teaching distorted your vision on this one. That’s why God gave you a wife, to bring some balance.”
“But I thought she was wrong, so how was I supposed to be the head if I let her call the shots?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to say, man. Being the head ain’t about calling the shots! It’s about taking responsibility to act together in unity. Only in the most extreme emergency would it be necessary for you to press ahead against your wife’s counsel.” Harry leaned forward. “Look, after your job with Powersports ended, how many hours did the two of you sit down and explore what direction you should take next?”
After a few moments of silence, Greg realized Harry’s question wasn’t rhetorical. He wanted an answer. “None, I guess.”
“Uh-huh. Thought so. I’m tellin’ you, man, when you really work together for a while, you’ll start listening to each other until you come to unity, and you’ll begin to defer to one another in certain areas. She’ll realize you’ve got the best wisdom in some areas, and vice versa. When you get to that point, one of you will probably take the lead on certain things while the other acts more as a check to make sure all the angles have been considered. It’s still a shared thing. But if you want to be the head, my brother, you need to take responsibility for helping the process to work well.”
Greg’s head was spinning. He almost wanted to ask Harry to give him some examples about how that worked in his own marriage, but the man was glancing at his watch. “Uh-oh. Didn’t mean to stay this long.” Harry stood up, stretching a kink out of his back and pulling a tattered, plaid flat cap onto his shaved head. “Um, don’t usually have to work on Sundays, but tomorrow I gotta make a special run down to St. Louis and back. I’ve got Monday morning off though. You, uh, want me to come by when you get ready to fire up your computer and see where you sit?”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Greg said hastily. He wasn’t sure he wanted a witness to his downfall.
“I know, but I’m willing.”
Greg hesitated, then nodded his head slowly. “Well, yeah . . . yeah. I’d appreciate that. About nine?”
“I’ll be here.”
* * * *
The emptiness of the house descended upon Greg once again after Harry left. He wanted to call Nicole again, but it was a nice day . . . she and the kids might be out. He waited until after supper, then dialed the house number. Her mother answered, and after going to get Nicole, she came back on the line to say Nicole was busy getting the kids ready for bed.
“Could you have her call me when she’s done?”
“Of course. You doing okay all alone there? Sorry to monopolize the kids, but we’re having such a good time.”
“Glad you’re having a good time.” Didn’t sound like Mom Lillquist was aware of the tension between Nicole and him. “Well, just have her call me.”
It was nine thirty before his phone rang.
“Hello, Greg. Mom said you wanted me to call.”
Gosh, it was good to hear her voice. “Yeah, thanks, honey. Just checking in. You and the kids doing okay?”
“We’re fine.” But her voice was flat.
“Good.” He hesitated. “Listen, Nicole, we’ve got a lot of things to talk about. I . . . I’ve made some pretty big mistakes that I need to tell you about. When are you coming back?”
“I’m not sure Greg. What is it you’re wanting to say?”
“I’d rather do it in person.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “You going to church tomorrow?”
“Yeah, with Mom. How about you?”
“Ha! You got the car, remember? But it doesn’t matter. I think I need to take a break from the Victorious Living Center.”
“Really?” For the first time he heard some interest in her voice.
“Yeah, that’s part of what I want to talk to you about. So when can we get together?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. Tomorrow’s not good. We’ve got plans all day. Maybe Monday afternoon.”
Monday. Felt like a long time to wait, but he’d know the lay of the land by then. “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”
To his surprise, Greg slept well that night and got up late Sunday morning. The waves of panic had become less frequent and had mostly flattened into ripples of anticipating the hard work he knew lay ahead of him—the work of resolving things with Nicole and the work of straightening out their money situation. And Harry was right—it was time to begin thinking of it as their money, not just his money. But he realized she might think it was a cop-out. He’d created a mess, and oh sure, now he was willing to include her in the cleanup.
No, he wanted to learn how to work with her more mutually, wanted to include her in the decisions from the outset. If only she’d give him a chance.
Greg toasted a bagel, buttered it, and then took the bagel, a mug of coffee, and his Bible out on the front porch to take advantage of the mild upper-seventies before the temperature hiked up into the nineties that afternoon. Yester
day when he’d been looking up those verses about fear, he came across one in Romans 8 that he wanted to think about some more. He read it over again several times: “Those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear . . . The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.”
The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children . . .
That was what was happening to him. Something new, something different—something important—was happening within his own spirit. He was experiencing a sense of God’s presence with him in a way he’d never known before.
How strange that it was within the storm that he was finding the most peace.
* * * *
Greg wasn’t sure how long he sat out on the porch, his thoughts sometimes resembling brief prayers—if he could call them that. More like just talking to God in his head. But the midday heat eventually drove him back into his air-conditioned house. He hesitated at the arched doorway into the living room. The computer sat in the corner . . .
No. He’d promised Bentley he wasn’t going to look at TopOps until they did it together on Monday morning. He needed something else to keep him busy. Maybe he should do some organizing in the garage. The place barely had room for the Cherokee ever since he’d stored all those cases of SlowBurn in there, and he couldn’t even get to his tools.
But good grief! It was already nearly two! He should get something to eat.
Half an hour later Greg lugged a box fan out to the garage, plugged it in, and then stood in the middle of the floor, scratching his head. Where to start? That stack of cases in front of his tool chest, good as any. But as he grabbed the first one he noticed something he’d scrawled on it with a black marker . . . a name.
“Destin.” On that box and on the whole stack.
A pang shot through his gut. He’d been so focused on trying to make a killing on TopOps, he hadn’t even thought about Destin Jasper all week. How was he doing? Had the younger one even come home from the hospital yet?
