All Living : A Seedvision Saga (9781621473923)

by Humphrey, Michael C.

  To my grandpa, Laurence G. Holfelder. Long live the Bonsai Tree!

  To Jon, my friend for nearly forty years.

  Proverbs 18:24

  To my wonderful wife Jennifer: A man should have women in his life to help him fathom the tender aspects of God’s depth, and the stage was set long before I was born. God used both my grandmother and my mother to instill in me an appreciation for his Word.

  It is a father’s pride to watch as his sons are born, yet it is my daughters who have awakened in me the protectiveness of a father. Being a dad has made me a man more than any other step in my maturing process. From the women who have raised me to the women I am raising, I have learned facets of love that no man discovers on his own.

  Yet only one woman in my life has completed me. How did Adam feel when he first realized God had provided a helper for him? Not just joy or thankfulness, I imagine, but wonder and astonishment. I understand.

  My wife’s sweet, gentle spirit epitomizes the character of a Proverbs 31 woman, and if patience is a virtue, and I believe that it is, then Jennifer is a very virtuous woman. She has the courage of Esther and the dedication of Ruth. She is twice as beautiful on the inside as on the out, and outwardly, she takes my breath away. I can’t imagine that even Job’s three daughters could have held a candle to her.

  It wasn’t long after marrying her that the idea for this book occurred to me. I thank her for encouraging me to start, nudging me to continue, and inspiring me to finish. I have married my muse, and I am filled daily with the wonder and astonishment of her. She is my Keziah.

  This book is for her.

  As a writer, it is often difficult to find motivation, willpower, and self-control. After a tiring day of work, it’s easier to come home and unwind in front of the television than it is to write. Wanting to finish a book and actually doing so are two very different things, separated by a wide gulf. The people in my life unknowingly built the bridge that helped me across.

  Thank you to all my friends and family who asked to read brief parts of this book during its creation and who offered invaluable support and motivational encouragement.

  I owe a great debt of gratitude to my family, including but not limited to my wife and children, my parents, friends, relatives, church members and acquaintances. And obviously and most importantly to God and His Son, Jesus Christ.

  Special thanks to my mom, Jon and Dorrie, Grandma Holfelder, Aunt Carol, Aunt Linda, Maegan, Jessica, Kit and Andrea, Chad and Shannon, Ed and Bobbi, Andy and Lauren, Vicki L., Susie, Stacie, Gail, Don, Jim, Mac, and Trinity Tate for finding my manuscript in the slush pile. Thanks Harry, David, and Dennis from work as well as the Neals, Bolds, Gentrys, and my English teacher, Mrs. Wilson, for pushing so hard when I needed more than a swift kick. A big thanks goes to my editor, Nicholle, and to everyone from my new Tate Publishing family. Finally, thanks to my friends at the Otterbein and Tippecanoe Public Libraries.

  Thanks also to Arnold Mendez, Iron Butterfly, the flying men and women at Hanggliding.org, Michael Kelsey, and Tina at Peaceful Greens.

  This is a work of fiction. Kole is constructed purely from my imagination. Much of the Bible is shadowed by the past, and there is room between the verses for speculating. My hope is that this book will provide a fresh look into familiar Bible stories and inspire others to wipe the dust off their own Bibles and get reacquainted with the exciting history that is recorded inside its tissue-thin pages.

  Al was old but not quite six thousand years old. He sat in the corner booth of a little bar only three blocks from his large Victorian-Midwest house. Next week, when he moved to the Middle East, he’d have to live in a much more utilitarian manner but, all things considered, he was looking forward to it. He had not been to Jerusalem in over 150 years and he missed the old neighborhood, although news reports showed the area had changed considerably. He sat and stirred his drink, watching the red and white straw push the crushed ice cubes around in a clockwise direction. So much has happened, he thought, so many memories to carry around. It was time to tell his story.

  He looked at his watch, 7:32. Lester was running late.

  Lester was a fifty-something-year-old “kid” he had befriended over thirty years ago, his oldest living friend. During the last few centuries, Al had become a bit reclusive, content with being more of an observer than a participant. When his personal life periodically flourished he tended to neglect witnessing the rest of the world’s activities. He loved so intensely that he could get carried away and forget his real job. What he was actually preparing himself to do.

  With the entire human race as his family, Al had had many friendships during his life, many loves, so many lost to him now. Dead. Al had buried every one he had ever cared for. He thought about his wife, Keziah. Time for reminiscing later, he knew, even though he remained acutely aware that time was running short for this current existence. Not just for him though, for everyone.

  He thought about Lester. A good guy; sincere, honest, and dependable. He had met Lester a few months before the Woodstock Festival in 1969. When was that? Thirty years ago? More? How was it possible that time seemed to move so fast? Al smiled as he lost himself in the warm tide of his own memories. He remembered the day they had met as if it were a page from the Mitch Albom novel he had recently read. He had pulled his 1957 Chevrolet into a car wash and watched as an energetic young man had bounded up to his car.

  “Groovy ride, man, you want the works?”

  “I do,” Al replied to the youth, a ruddy-faced lad that reminded him of David when he was a boy. The teen had on a pair of raggedy denim jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red shop rag tied around his head. Unkempt hair poked out from underneath it, and a few soft whiskers grew on his chin. His eyes were deep and green, and Al stared into them.

  “Whoa,” Lester said, stepping away.

  “What’s the problem, son?” Al had asked.

  “You’re an old soul,” was the reply from this outspoken youth.

  Al was old, it was true, but only in years. His body had stopped aging, and he looked to be a fit, fifty-five or sixty-year-old man. He had lean, straight muscles, toned and firm, sturdy bones, and distinguished lines in his clean-shaven face. He had once been a ship’s captain and his skin had a healthy, weathered look to it. His hair was thick, albeit cropped short for the summer, and had some speckling of gray around the temples.

  “What do you mean by ‘old soul?’” Al demanded.

  “I, uh, I don’t know. It just came out. No disrespect intended, sir. I just got this feeling when I saw you, like…well, it’s not important.”

  “No, please tell me,” Al insisted.

  “Well, it’s like this. I saw you, and I got this weird feeling like you weren’t, uh you know, human or something. Like you were an alien, or an angel or a vampire. Oh man, I should shut-up now.”

  Al laughed and the boy, whom he later learned was Lester, looked relieved. “I can assure you I am completely human. I’m just quite a bit older than I look.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” said Lester.

  Al introduced himself, and Lester shook his hand. Lester’s hand was damp and sudsy, but his grip was firm. Al noticed his fingernails were clean and trimmed, indicating a clear conscience. Something though was odd about the boy. The way he had instantly discerned that Al was different, ancient. It made him curious.

  Al got his car washed several more times that week, each time speaking to Lester and learning more about him. His family was not rich, but not poor. His father had died when he was
ten, and his mother had recently remarried and moved to Oregon. Lester lived with a few roommates in a two bedroom flat down by the railroad tracks. He liked to play music and write, and he believed in God.

  They started having coffee together every afternoon, discussing politics and poetry, religion and rioting, law and legalization. Al didn’t need to work, and Lester didn’t want to, so they each enjoyed filling their empty hours and enlightened minds with caffeine and conversation. Al let Lester do most of the talking. He was young and full of life and grand ideas about how to make the world a better place. Al had heard it all before but not in a long time. Not personally, not intimately. He began to have deep, fatherly feelings for Lester, and when Lester asked him one afternoon if he wanted to go to a small music festival with him and some friends in New York, Al almost said yes. He discerned that Lester wouldn’t mind hanging out with him but that what he needed more than company was a ride.

  “Here, this will help,” Al said, tossing him the keys to his Chevy. Al wasn’t really concerned about the car. He had all the money he needed to replace it if anything happened. He was just pleased to put a smile of astonishment on Lester’s face. When Lester got home four days later, he had many stories to tell Al about his trip “out east.” They became close friends, and Al realized one day that he loved Lester like he had loved his own sons. Lester too had come to think of Al as a father figure, filling a void in his life he didn’t even know his heart was craving.

  Over the years they spent many hours sitting on the porch sipping beer or iced tea, talking about current events. Lester had finally quit trying to get Al to talk about his past. Al was very tight-lipped when it came to giving any specifics. Sometimes he’d tell Lester small, vague details; things about being a ship’s captain or a lion hunter, but nothing specific. Ambiguous little shadows of stories that piqued Lester’s curiosity but were never fully revealed.

  Their years of friendship went by quickly, and over the years, as they both matured, Lester accepted this taciturn idiosyncrasy, as well as others, about his friend and focused on the present and the future. But Al began to long more and more for the time when he could finally unburden himself from the secret that was his own life. He ached to tell Lester all about who he was and what he’d seen and been a part of. He had prayed for the chance to have just one friend to share it all with, all of it, before the time of the end. He had prayed, and then he had waited.

  Al shook his head to clear the cobwebs of thirty-year-old memories. He looked at his watch again, almost eight at night. Where was Lester? He had called him two hours ago and asked him to meet. Their conversation had been brief.

  The day had started like any other. He had woken up, said his prayers, and eaten breakfast. He had worked in the yard, written in his journal, and gone on some errands. When he got home he made a BLT and some lemonade, and sat down to read the paper. With his belly full, his eyes got heavy, so he had kicked off his shoes and lay back on the couch. He fell asleep and had the dream.

  An old man gave a young man a glass of cool water, the last glass of water that could be found on the earth. They faded away and were replaced by an image of two clouds: one in the air and one on the ground. The one on the ground tried to give water to the ground, but the ground refused it. So the cloud on the ground asked the cloud in the air not to give the ungrateful ground any water for three and a half years. The ground became very dry, but it was not sorry. It would not accept any water from the cloud on the ground. Storms ravaged the earth and war came, and in the end, the cloud on the ground died, killed by the dust of the earth, until the cloud in the sky rolled back and revealed the light of a new day with water enough for everyone. The light caused water to fall on the earth, and the cloud on the ground rose up and joined the light.

  He woke up. The light of the late afternoon beamed in through the leaded glass of the living room and shined on Al’s face. He opened his eyes and remembered his dream. He smiled. He sat up and knew that he’d been given permission to tell Lester his life’s story. He was the old man in the vision, and Lester the young. The water, he knew, was the story. His story, almost six thousand years worth, was nothing more than a glass of water. However, he was the cloud on the ground too, and the rain was the story that no one wanted to hear; a story of good news far older and far longer than six thousand years. But they would have to hear it. He knew it better than most, and the time for telling it was near, thus his upcoming trip to Jerusalem.

  Al had quickly picked up the phone and arranged with Lester to meet that night at seven-thirty in a little out-of-the-way bar.

  “Hello?”

  “Lester, are you sitting down?” Al asked.

  “You seem excited, Al, what’s up?”

  “Today’s the day, Les. I’m going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Everything! From the beginning to the end. Hurry, I’ve got so much to say I’m going to explode if I don’t. I’ve had an answered prayer. Hurry up. I’ll meet you at Moody’s.”

  “Where?”

  “The bar here by my house.”

  “When?”

  “Two hours. See you there.”

  Al had hung up feeling tense with excitement; every muscle and nerve ending in his body was alive with crackling energy. He bounced around his house, doing nothing in particular. Doing everything. He could hardly stay focused. He spent those two hours in a daze, showering, dressing, eating a piece of left-over meatloaf. He made sure he had everything he would need to show to Lester and then left, walking the few blocks downtown.

  Al came out of his reverie when he heard the sound of Lester’s voice holler out his name. He looked around and watched as Lester weaved his way between tables and chairs, then slid into the booth across from him. Lester smiled, and they shook hands.

  “Good to see you, old buddy. Sorry I’m late. You haven’t changed a bit.” Lester made a habit of telling him he never looked a day older. Over the years they had known each other, Lester had gone from a freckle-faced teenager to a graying, slightly paunchy, wrinkled older man. Al, on the other hand, looked exactly the same as the day Lester had first seen him through the driver’s-side window at the carwash.

  “It’s good to see you too, Les. What took you so long?”

  “Easy there, old timer,” Lester joked, “you’ve been waiting this long to spill your beans. What’s another twenty-five minutes?”

  Al frowned.

  “I got stuck in traffic,” Lester said. “Literally, if you want to know the truth. I blew a tire on the bridge. Thing had a nail in it nearly six inches long. Spare was flat too. I had to walk to that service station over on Fourth. Fifty cents to fill it up with air. Fifty cents! Can you believe that? First they start selling water in those little non-biodegradable bottles, now air. What’s next, huh? They going to start taxing your heartbeats per minute? Charge you a dollar per thought you think? Hey, you want another one of those, what is that, rum and coke? I’m gonna get a beer.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Al said as Lester waved for a waitress.

  When his beer arrived, Al told the waitress just to put it on his tab. Lester shot him a smile and flashed one at the young girl who had brought his drink. “As long as they’re on his tab, just keep ‘em coming, dear. One about every half an hour until he’s done talking or I pass out.”

  “Cute,” said Al as the waitress giggled and walked away.

  Lester swung his legs back under the booth. “Okay, what’s this all about? I know you said you were going to tell me everything, but are you serious man? Everything? All the times I’ve asked you to explain how you know something and you just avoid the question or give me some trite answer about how the Lord reveals all things. Are you sure you even remember how to talk about yourself, pal?” Lester ribbed.

  Al smiled. “I remember almost everything, Les, and yes, I need to tell it, and you’
re my closest friend. But I have to tell you that I’m glad you’re sitting down, because almost all of what you hear you will find hard to believe.”

  “Well, I find that hard to believe,” quipped Lester, pulling out a pack of Camels and putting one between his lips. From a pocket he pulled out a worn, silver Zippo and flipped open the lid. Flick, flick. Lester couldn’t get a flame out of his lighter, only sparks. “Ah, crap man,” Lester mumbled, “I’m out of fluid.”

  Al had his eyes closed and was saying something under his breath.

  “What are you doing, Al? I gotta go get a pack of matches. Be right back.” He rose to leave and Al put his hand on Lester’s arm.

  “Sit down, Lester.”

  “Yeah, …just a sec, I gotta bum a light from someone,” Lester said, looking around and sizing up the patrons in the dimly lit tavern.

  “Lester, sit down,” Al’s grip on his arm tightened, and Lester plopped back into his seat.

  “What the…”

  “It’s already lit, my friend.”

  “Huh,” Lester looked down at the cigarette he was holding between his fingers and watched as smoke curled up from the red-hot cherry on the end. “Whoa, what the…? How in the world?”

  “It’s just a small miracle, Lester. Most of the things I’m going to tell you are going to sound very far-fetched to your fifty-year-old mind. I need you to believe what I’m telling you. I need you to believe in the truth.”

  “So you’re telling me that God lit my cigarette so I’d believe your story?”

  “After a fashion, yes.”

  “Maybe a spark from my lighter flicked into the tobacco when we weren’t looking and took a while to smolder? Did you think of that?”

  “That could have happened, but it didn’t. Trust me. Before the week’s out you’re going to see a few more miracles. Don’t be a doubting Thomas.”

  They looked at each other for several seconds until Lester smiled. “Whatever you say, my kooky old friend. It sounds like we’re going to be here for a while. I think maybe you better get started.”