The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 13

August 1970

Tuesday and Wednesday were pretty much a repeat of Monday.  Other than Mr. Jackson in Vo-Ag, who got right his syllabus with both a lecture and a shop demonstration on two-cycle engines.  All the other teachers were still stuck in class preliminaries.  On Tuesday, I realized Olivia was in my Poetry class.  On Monday, with the permission of Principal Hayes, she had missed the first class since Mr. Johnson was absent and we had a substitute.  Olivia and seven other students, two from each grade, had been selected to serve on a new committee.  It was called ‘RESPEC.’  It was an acronym: ‘Respect Everyone’s Space Producing Excellent Choices,’ or something like that.  Olivia had said that the purpose was to counter prior years complaints that upper grades tended to bully and manipulate Freshmen students.  Last year the complaints included sexual harassment of the younger and prettier girls by several football and basketball players.

Mr. Johnson was also absent on Tuesday but on Wednesday had encouraged us to read some poetry every day and to write something, even if only one sentence in our required writing journals.  Olivia and I sat towards the back of the classroom and across from each other.  She was the perfect student, listening carefully as Mr. Johnson gave his introductory lecture.  She didn’t look over my way until he had given us an assignment to write a few verses for a poem he titled, ‘Who Made God?’  Mr. Johnson, during his lecture, had told us that it was never his intention to disrespect anyone, but that it was imperative, assuming we all wanted to absorb the true meaning and power of poetry, to open our minds and play with words and ideas.  He said that unless we became curious and allowed our imagination to connect, or attempt to connect, very dissimilar things, our poetry would remain stale and boring.  He had given us the example of ‘Ted Talks with a Ton of Trees.’  It was a delightful poem he had written.  He emphasized before reading it to the class that we don’t normally think as humans, that we would talk with a group of trees.  I particularly liked how Mr. Johnson had personified several of the trees.  One tree, named Oak, had human legs and walked around following Ted, but had ‘hair’ made of limbs and leaves.  Each of Mr. Johnson’s trees had a lesson for Ted, who was poor, suffered from low self-esteem, and hated school.  After he gave us our ‘Who Made God?’ assignment, I realized how creative he was in warding off any possible complaint from Olivia or any other zealous Christian who might think God was off limits for any such poetry consideration.

After class, I walked Olivia back to her locker.  I assumed this was permissible because I was headed to my last period class, Vo-Ag, and thereby had to traverse the entire first floor, from one end of the hall all the way to the opposite side of the school.  She said she wanted to read my ‘Who Made God?’ poem sometime.  I didn’t respond but just kept walking.  The hallway was crowded, and at one point she leaned her right shoulder into mine to direct me around several students who were blocking the path.  It was the first time we had touched.  Not surprising.  It was like I felt the full weight of her body.  I know I was only imagining but her shoulder triggered an electrical response that ran throughout my body.  It simply confirmed what I had recognized the first time our eyes had connected.  She was unlike any girl I had ever met, and we were destined to become friends.  I hoped it would be more than friends.  I wanted to someday marry this girl.  Man, was I becoming delusional?  Just as we reached Olivia’s locker, Mr. Hayes walked by and stared at us.  I could sense he was about to say something like, “Benson, have you read the Pirate Practice?”  I quickly interjected, “I’m headed to Vocational Agriculture.”  It was a miracle.  He kept walking and didn’t say a word.  As I walked away from Olivia, I could barely hear her whisper, “You are too quick on your feet Matt Benson.”  And then, she raised her voice and asked, “Are you coming to cheerleader try-outs?”  I didn’t turn around, just kept walking away, but I did hold up my right hand and gave her the thumbs up sign.

Yesterday, during lunch, again sharing a table with the Flaming Five, I had heard Wade Tillman say something like, “Let me warn you heathens, Olivia is trying out for B Team Cheerleader tomorrow.  If I hear one lustful word from any of you I will beat the holy hell out of your mushy brains.  Do you understand?”  That’s when Randall said, “I’m holy scared.  Preacher man, will it violate your rules if I undress the sexy Olivia just in my mind?”  I thought Wade was going to come unglued, but Mr. Hayes and Mr. Jackson walked by with their food trays just at that moment.  Fred Billingsley quickly changed the subject to tonight’s Calculus assignment.

Once again, I regretted sitting at this table.  On Monday I had sworn I would sit somewhere less violent to my digestive and nervous systems.  Tomorrow, for sure, I would not be caught dead eating with these hypocrites.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  In church, especially in Sunday School class and during Youth Group on Wednesday and Sunday nights, these five superstars were polite, respectful, and always eager to uphold and communicate the Christian message.  In their own element, wearing their true colors, they were simply normal teenage boys.  Maybe they had an extra dose of testosterone, but just like most every other young male, it was natural to have an infectious interest in the female anatomy.  What I couldn’t stand was how openly vulgar Randall and John Ericson were about what exactly they would like to do with every pretty girl in high school.  The other three were not nearly as vulgar, even though they too made no bones about their interest in members of the opposite sex.

B Team cheerleader try-outs were in the gymnasium.  There were at least twenty ninth grade girls who had signed up, all believing that the only way to ever become an A Team cheerleader was to serve two years on the younger squad.  All the girls except three did a respectable job of jumping, side-stepping, dancing, and ending their routine by doing the splits.  The best performances were by Jesse and Tesse Dawson.  These twin girls were acrobatic, energetic, and possessed unbelievably flexible bodies.  I had never met them but had seen them almost every week during the summer hanging out at the Thursday night basketball scrimmages.  I had already learned that John Ericson had the hots for Jesse.  She was kind of flat-chested but had long, sexy legs and an extraordinary butt.  Olivia’s performance was the third best of all twenty girls.  Actually, I couldn’t remember much of her routine.  It was the first time I had ever seen her in anything but rather baggy clothes.  Like all the others, she wore a skimpy little outfit: a short skirt over what looked like crimson colored panties.  Her top was sleeveless and tight.  She possessed the opposite of Jesse Dawson’s flat chest.  All I could do was imagine what she looked like naked.  I fought back this thought.  I was ashamed because I didn’t want to be like Randall Radford.  But, I was a normal teenage male.   It seemed Southern girls were more physically mature than the girls from Woodlawn High in Chicago.  Maybe it was something in the water, or the cornbread.  Olivia was tall and could easily pass for a college freshman, at least from a physical standpoint.

After the try-outs, the crowd waited over thirty minutes for the seven-judge panel to make their final decision.  Principal Hayes had avoided a prior years problem of having members from the Boaz High School faculty serve as judges.  That practice had caused a huge controversy.  The accusations were, ‘bias, bias, bias.’  Several parents had complained that the teacher/judges had picked their favorites, not necessarily who were the most talented.  This year, Principal Hayes had brought in two teachers each from Douglas, Sardis, Albertville, and one from Guntersville.  I wasn’t surprised that Jesse and Tesse Dawson were the first two names announced, followed by Olivia, and then Dana Skelton, Renee Bradford, and Melissa Brown.  It was a good group, but I didn’t think Dana’s performance was any better than the other thirteen who were not chosen.

I decided to sit with Dad and his four missionary friends for the Wednesday night fellowship meal.  I didn’t think I could stomach sitting with the Flaming Five. 

Brother Randy was especially serious it seemed when he finally had us all seated and quiet in the two concentric circles.  I couldn’t help but be amazed at how well I was doing with my undercover assignment.  Randy Miller, the youth pastor, had insisted that we not call him ‘Pastor Randy.’  He, I guess, thought that ‘Brother Randy’ made him seem more like any other Christian brother.  Here I was, an active and accepted (at least I thought so) member of a vibrant Christian youth group in the heart of the Bible Belt.

He held out a hand and said, “close your eyes and listen as I read what a friend of mine recently wrote on the front cover of his ministry’s monthly newsletter:

‘God where would I be if You did not reveal Yourself in your Word?  My knowledge of You would be limited to inferences I draw from the natural world, and I could never have known that You love me and have gone to unfathomable lengths to draw me to Yourself.   Your revelation of Your works and ways in Scripture is the foundational authority for truth in my life, and it bristles with implications for how I should order my steps from day to day.  Grant that I will seek more diligently to expose myself to its teachings and counsel, and that I would meditate on and memorize truths from the Bible.  As I read and reflect on the Scriptures, I gain a wisdom and perspective I could never attain otherwise, and my soul is nourished with great thoughts about who You are and what You have done.’”

Brother Randy went on, as he encouraged us to continue to sit with our eyes closed, and said that even without the Bible every man knows from nature that God exists.  I sat still wondering if Brother Randy had ever read Charles Darwin’s, The Origin of Species, or any other books that offered a contrary theory of how life evolved.  As our leader continued to extol how obviously we lived in a carefully designed universe I began to wonder if he had ever read a single peer-reviewed scientific article that laid out example after example that supported Darwin’s theory that life had begun with very simple single-celled organisms and had ever so gradually, through a process known as natural selection, evolved into the complex world in which we live.  Our dear Brother Randy either didn’t know, or intentionally chose to ignore the truth.  Evolution was a fact.  It was just as solid a theory as Newton’s law of gravity.

After Brother Randy shared how impossible it was, without God, for the human eye to exist, what to a gullible and uneducated mind, was obvious and perfectly reconciled to a Christian worldview, he said that nature, God’s creation, was insufficient to reveal to us the depth of God’s love for those He had created in His own image.  Brother Randy explained that the Bible was our blue-print for knowing God and living a life that honored and glorified our creator.  Without the Bible we could never know Jesus or accept His offer of salvation.  He ended his lecture by asking us to open our eyes and look straight into his.  He asked, “What would happen if you didn’t feed your body?”  Several kids spoke up and said we would eventually die of starvation.  Brother Randy said it was the same thing with our spiritual life.  He continued, “After you are saved, you have a whole new you inside your body.  It too needs to be fed.  The only food for this new being is the Word of God.  It is your life source.  If you fail take in God’s Word, your spiritual body will die.” 

Brother Randy then turned the session over to Olivia.  He had asked her to share her Bible study method and her commitment to a daily devotion.  What she called her ‘daily quiet time with my Savior.’  I had trouble listening to Olivia’s ten-minute presentation.  Two things had me totally distracted.  I looked at her as though she was still wearing her cheerleader outfit, and she was doing the little Pirate dance.  And, I fought back a strong temptation to imagine sitting with her at the movie and laying my hand on her leg above the knee.  I was somewhat thankful I was able to turn my mind back to Brother Randy.

Did he not know the true origins of the Bible?  He was a graduate of a major seminary.  I think he had also done some work towards a Ph.D. in Theology.  I couldn’t imagine it to be standard for his school and his professors to not reveal to him and all the other students how man-made the Bible was.  Maybe his professors didn’t tell him that the originals of any of the books of the Bible do not exist and that all we have are copies of copies of copies, that all contain multiple errors and inconsistencies.  Surely, he was taught that the oldest complete manuscript in existence of the entire Bible dates from the tenth century.  He apparently doesn’t know that the Gospels were not written by the men whose names are used as the titles to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  If he ever knew, he has forgotten that each of the Gospels were written decades and decades after Jesus supposedly was resurrected, years and years after the Apostle Paul wrote his epistles that hardly mentioned anything at all about Jesus’ life.  And, the four Gospels were written by educated Greeks who had never seen Jesus, and not by illiterate fishermen.  In other words, the Gospels are in no way eyewitness accounts of Jesus’ ministry.  To cap it off, I wondered if Randy’s professors had told him there were several other gospels written about the same time, none of which made it into the Holy Book.  I wonder if he had read the Gospel of Thomas and how its author had told story after story of how Jesus, as a youth, used his magic to transform his playmates into goats, turn mud into sparrows, or how Jesus gave his father a hand in the carpenter shop by miraculously lengthening a piece of wood. 

As Olivia returned to her seat in the circle I finally concluded that Brother Randy was just a grown-up version of the girl I was falling for.  Like Olivia, Brother Randy, was fully indoctrinated.  He had grown up in a Southern Baptist Church and was easily, at a young age, brainwashed by everyone around him into believing in the Bible and Christianity.  He had never, not once, been encouraged, especially by his pastor or youth director, to think for himself, to read widely, and to become a skeptic towards everything he was hearing and reading. 

As the youth group concluded and I rode my bike back home, I realized that there was one thing from the quote Brother Randy had shared that I agreed with.  By reading and studying the Bible, I would ‘gain a wisdom and perspective I could never attain otherwise.’  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Olivia, Brother Randy, and all other members of our youth group.  It would be virtually impossible for any of them to ever break free from this two-thousand-year-old myth.

My thoughts changed as I fell asleep a couple of hours later.  I would gladly be indoctrinated if it would assure me of winning the heart and mind and companionship of the most precious, beautiful, and wonderful girl I had ever known or imagined.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 12

December 10, 2017

Sunday morning at 6:30 a.m., my cell phone vibrated beside my sleeping bag.  It was Olivia.

“Get up sleepy-head.  Take me to breakfast and let’s go hear Warren preach.”

“Let’s not and say we did.  At least concerning the preaching.”  I said, still disoriented from being shocked awake.

“I get it.  Last night you said you would call me early.”

“That was your suggestion.”

“Oh, I get it.  You’ve had all night to reconsider.”  Olivia seemed truly sad, almost perplexed.

“I was going to call early.”  I said, struggling to stand up from the floor while holding on to my cell phone.  Sorry, I forgot that early to you is 5:00 a.m.”

“Matt, you have a good memory.”  I had always thought it strange for a teenage girl to love getting up early.  By age 14, Olivia had developed the habit of having an early morning devotion, even on school days.  She was so committed to God she immersed herself in Bible study and prayer in her bedroom at a little desk.  I still remember her talking about looking out her eastward-facing window and watching the sun come up every cloudless morning.  She never failed to say that the real Son had been up taking care of her all night.

“My memory isn’t near as good as it used to be, but I do remember you used to eat like a horse.  I’m still full of that giant strawberry milkshake I ate at Sonic last night.”

“Pick me up at 7:00 and let’s go to Waffle House.  It’s too far to drive back down to Cracker Barrel.”

“You should know there is also one in Guntersville.  But, that’s too far also.”

We did go to Waffle House and Olivia ate a double order of pancakes.  I had coffee and a piece of toast.  All we talked about was John and Paul.  After nearly an hour it seemed all we were doing was playing a game, imagining what each of them looked like.  Were they identical twins?  Did they have my dark colored eyes or the sky-blue eyes of Olivia?  Were they taller than either of us?  Probably.  Were they slim, like Olivia, or had they picked up a few pounds on an otherwise perfect frame as the years had gone by.  Like me.

After Waffle House, we came back to my house on College and sat on the swing.  I had given Olivia the tour.  As I showed her one empty room after another we ended up in my bedroom with two pillows and my sleeping bag on the floor.  She commented that it had been in this room, on my bed, that we had confirmed our love and commitment.  We held each other, and she shared how thankful she was that she had been able to not get caught up in a life of promiscuous sex.  She admitted, as I did, that we should have waited about having sexual intercourse until we were married.  Olivia started to cry.  I held her, and she whispered that she wished things had worked out when we were young and that we had married as soon as she graduated high school.  Before we walked outside to the swing, I kissed her lips.  A real, passionate kiss.  She accepted my forwardness.  I could have stood there with her in my arms forever.  We both sensed things could get out of hand, so she pushed me away.  “Back Fido. Sit.”

Warren’s preaching was predictable.  He was an excellent speaker and stuck strictly to the text of the scripture.  He followed a three-point outline like any good Southern Baptist preacher.  His scripture was one verse, John 3:16.  Warren’s theme was God’s love and his ongoing involvement with His children.  God loved us, past, present and, here, after two points made, I anticipated Warren having a third ‘p.’  But, he didn’t.  I wanted the alliteration to continue.  It didn’t.  ‘F’ for future was his last point.  All believers could rest assured that God would never stop being interested and involved with His special creatures.

At 11:45, Warren called for an altar prayer for Eugene Lackey.  I had not heard of him.  Warren went on to say that Mr. Lackey was the thirty-five-year-old Boaz High School basketball coach who was very sick.  Two years ago, he had contracted a virulent form of cancer, but prayer, according to Warren, had worked and Eugene’s condition had gone into remission.  Now, the cancer was back.  It seemed well over half the people present walked to the front and bowed.  After a long time of contemporaneous prayer, Warren verbalized his final prayer to the ever present and active God.  He ended his plea with an all familiar statement, “God, may your holy, blessed will be done.”

After the service I walked to the Parsonage with Olivia and waited on the front porch.  She went inside and changed clothes, again.  This time, donning a jogging suit.  We walked back to my place on College where I changed.  For the next two hours we mixed walking and jogging, mainly for her to counter the zillion calories she had consumed in the last twenty-four hours.  It was for me too.  I no longer ran five miles a day as I had most all my life.  Three years ago, knee surgery had slowed me down.  These days, I rarely ran more than a mile at a time.  I was now more of a walker.

One thing we had learned long ago, when Olivia started running with me as teenagers.  Our best talks came when we were outside, putting one foot after another as we traversed city and country roads. 

“Can I ask you something?”  I said, out of breath after pushing myself during the last mile to keep up with a surprisingly eager and athletic Olivia.

“No.”  She replied.  I hoped she was joking but I wasn’t sure.

“I’ll ask anyway sweet pea.  I assume you came to a point you no longer believed in prayer.  How did that take place?  Do you recall how the first doubts started?”  I said realizing I probably should stick to asking one question at a time.

“How could I ever forget.  That’s like not remembering the night I lost my virginity.”  Olivia said, hardly puffing at all.

“Let’s not go there.”

Olivia continued.  “Okay.  It was in 2007.  I was still at Southwestern, teaching.  My students had learned that Jack was very sick, that he had cancer.  One class had asked a few weeks earlier if they could start praying for Jack after I had finished my lecture each day.  Of course, I agreed.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  It was a small class, Pauline Theology.  I didn’t voice a prayer, I just let the students pray as they were led.  The prayers had ended, and everyone had left, except the oldest student in school, Thomas Stivender.  He asked if I had a few minutes.  The short version is that he said, ‘I don’t intend to offend you, but you do know that prayer doesn’t work?’  I was taken aback.  Why would a seminary student say such a thing?  Why would he be spending a lot of money to learn to be a preacher if he didn’t believe in the efficacy of prayer?”

“Let me guess.  He wasn’t a believer at all.  But, he was deeply interested in learning the inside story of what preachers were being taught?”

“Pretty close.  I suspect you have heard this from your Dad, about this type thing happening.”

“Yes.”

“That day I learned that Thomas Stivender was thirty-five years old and had spent the past five years traveling the country, observing and investigating miracle claims.  He also had a deep interest in Televangelists and watching the so-called miracles that happened on national TV.  Thomas would track down those who were supposedly healed.  He said that so far, all he could conclude is that prayer doesn’t truly work.  He had never discovered one instant where the claim would stand up to real scrutiny.”

“So, this made you change your mind about prayer?”  I asked while we were resting on the bleachers at Snead State’s Baseball Field.

“No, not at all, but someway the thought buried in my mind and it launched a search, an aggressive search for answers, for the truth.  One thing that Thomas said to me was particularly persuasive, and enlightening.  He said, ‘I encourage you to do one thing since I know you are skeptical of my position.  Imagine you did not grow up in church and that you are simply an observer, an outside observer of Christianity.  Be a skeptic, forget faith.  That won’t get you to the truth.  Be honest with yourself and your investigation.  Reason your way to the truth.  Simply follow the evidence where it leads.  If your Christianity is true, it can withstand all scrutiny.’”

“Sounds like good advice to me.  Of course, I also know, for a Christian, this is almost impossible to do.”  I said.

“I agree, but for some inexplicable reason, I took his advice.  I thought I was ‘secure and intelligent enough to see the value of questioning my beliefs,’ as Derren Brown wrote in his back-cover review of Richard Dawkins’ book, The God Delusion.”

“What happened?  What did you do?”

“To begin with, I read everything I could get my hands on about prayer, from a research or scientific standpoint.  Obviously, I already knew quite a bit about prayer from a theologian’s standpoint.  I discovered the Templeton Prayer Study.  I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“I have.”

“As you know, it was a double-blind test and the results revealed that prayer had no effect upon those who were prayed for, those undergoing heart surgery and recovery.”

“I think it actually showed that the group who knew they were being prayed for, fared worse than the other two groups.”  I added.

“Correct.  Here’s the funny thing.  What truly convinced me that Thomas was correct was not all that I read, it was when I finally started evaluating my own life and my own experiences.  I realized I had a mountain of data to consider.  I had grown up in virtually one continuous prayer meeting.  This got me to searching my mind to determine if I could recall examples of obvious miracles, like a physical healing, only as the result of prayer.  Here’s the bald-faced truth.  I couldn’t think of a single incidence.  Oh yes, I thought of many examples of what, on its face, appeared to be an answer to prayer.  Things like, I would never have moved to Boaz if God hadn’t guided me in the purchase of my house.  Other type examples were where family problems, including sickness of a child or parent, resulted in the person recovering.  All my life I believed this was God at work, answering the prayers of His children.  At best, they are mere coincidences.  You know humans love to seek out patterns.”

“I do.  Of course, you know that died-in-the-wool Christians would never agree with you.  They have been brainwashed into an entire nonsensical method of analysis.  They believe nothing happens to them without God’s permission.  God helps them find their keys when they go missing.  Ask God for guidance.  He responds.  The keys appear.  Here’s the rub.  These folks credit God with every good thing that happens.  Uncle Bill’s cancer goes into remission.  Praise God.  But, when Aunt Sue dies, these folks don’t blame God.  They never once question, ‘why did God fail?’  No, it’s always, ‘we can’t know the mind of God.  He works in mysterious ways.  No matter what, I will praise Him because He has a plan for my life and it is perfect.  God is good, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.’”

“I agree fully with what you are saying.  It makes me mad, almost angry, to realize that I spent fifty years believing a lie.”

“Indoctrination is a powerful thing.  When a baby is born and grows up saturated by family, friends, and a community, with nothing but God talk, the Bible, it is virtually impossible to gain freedom.  The truth is, this same child would have totally different beliefs if he were born into a similar Muslim environment.  Religion, religious beliefs, are almost fully geographical.”  I said.

“I’m thankful I’ve been set free.  I’m excited about my new life’s work.  Trying to persuade others to, as Darren Brown said, be ‘secure and intelligent enough to see the value of questioning their beliefs.’  As you say, it is almost a losing battle, but I feel so strongly, given my half-a-century wandering in the wilderness, that I have to try.”

As we walked back to 118 College Avenue I couldn’t help but remember how zealous teenager Olivia was to evangelize the world with the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  Her complete transformation was almost unbelievable, as I considered her view of Christians and Christianity now.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 11

August 1970

Saturday night Dad and I spent nearly three hours reviewing and discussing my notes so far, things I had observed over the past two months in Boaz hanging around Boaz teenagers.  The only thing that surprised Dad was how quickly Olivia and I had connected given how many weeks at the beginning of summer that I hadn’t even met her.  He attributed this to how sold out she was for Christ and how committed she was to convert me to Christianity.

Sunday came and went.  About all I did was go to Church.  Dad returned for the third week to Creekside Baptist Church, five miles out in the country in a little community called Aroney.  He was connecting with the pastor, Gabriel Gorham, who, according to Dad, was just as much a Christian fundamentalist as all the other pastors he had met in Alabama.  However, Pastor Gorham exhibited a humility unlike the near haughty arrogance of the two First Baptist pastors Dad had met.  He had said, “If there actually was a Jesus Christ of the New Testament, I suspect he would be like Pastor Gorham: kind, respectful, generous, and oh so humble.”

I didn’t see Olivia at Church either service, morning or night.  She had told me yesterday that she taught a middle-school girl’s Sunday School class, and during preaching she often volunteered in the nursery.  Last night, the youth choir had visited Second Baptist Church and joined their choir to present a musical titled The Blessed Mary.  Olivia had said the purpose was to persuade me and everyone that hears it to be ready for God’s call.  This takes focus and commitment.

Summer had finally ended.  My one year of high school in a Southern town began today.  I both dreaded it and couldn’t wait.  My excitement rested on my belief that I would get to see Olivia every day, or at least this was my hope.  I rode my bike and wore an empty backpack, orders from Mrs. Gilbreath when I registered.  It was a tradition at Boaz High School.  All students reported to the gymnasium at 7:00 a.m. on the first day of school.  Tables had been set up all around the large room, alphabetically ordered to reflect the student’s first letter of his or her last name.  Over the weekend the teachers and administrators had worked to organize and assemble an easy book-distribution system.  I reported to the ‘B’ table at 6:50 a.m. (I always liked being early) and didn’t have to wait.  I filled my backpack with thirty-plus pounds of books.  The Biology textbook alone seemed to weigh ten pounds.  I walked to my locker on the second floor and stored all my books except my ten-pounder.  It was now barely 7:00 a.m., and my first class didn’t start until 7:45 a.m.  The Pirate Practice had warned against ‘wandering the halls,’ forbidding eleventh and twelfth graders from being on first floor unless we had a class there.  It was reserved for ninth and tenth graders.  I decided to go to my first period class and wait, and hopefully meet some other students.

Dr. Ayers was sitting behind her desk when I arrived.  I knew her instantly from the Pirate Practice.  It contained a photo of each teacher, a brief biography, and a list of the classes taught.  I already knew she was from Chicago.  She had taught Evolutionary Biology at the University of Chicago before moving to Boaz six years ago.  She immediately got up and walked to me, shook my hand, and said, “Good morning Matt, seems like we have a lot in common.”  I guessed she had conducted a little research on me after I registered for school.

It was nearly 7:45 before the next student showed up.  Dr. Ayers and I had talked the entire time.  She shared her story of what had brought her and her family to Boaz and the tragic death of her daughter, Ellen, almost five years ago.  She was open about her faith, or, lack of faith.  I will never forget her statement, “it’s difficult, near impossible, to believe in God and be an evolutionary biologist.  At most, I’m a Deist, but that has its own set of problems.”  She said it was her philosophy to instill and intensify each student’s sense of curiosity, to encourage all her students to capture the wonder of life, life that had evolved on earth for billions of years.  I too shared my story and my lack of faith.  I related Dad’s story (the parts I could reveal).  Dr. Ayers made me promise that Dad and I would join her and her husband for dinner at their house very soon.  She seemed especially interested in talking with Dad.

Biology II with Dr. Ayers was the highlight of my morning.  Calculus I, American History, and English Literature were interesting, at least according to the Syllabi each teacher had distributed.  By the end of the last three classes before lunch I could already tell Dr. Ayers was the exception at Boaz High School.  Virtually every other teacher applied a heavy God-dose to their classroom environment. Things like, from Clark Reiner, the history teacher, “from the beginning, at the landing at Plymouth Rock, you will have no choice but to believe that God had His hand on America’s founding.”

I ate lunch with James and the other four members of the Flaming Five.  So far, I liked them all except for Randall Radford.  He was a bully, a giant bully, that was uninhibited when it came to everyone who didn’t bow down as he walked by.  After thirty minutes of listening to him disrespecting the bodies of every girl that wandered by our table, I decided I would find another place to have lunch.

At 12:45 p.m., I was passing through first floor, headed to the gymnasium for a school-wide assembly, when I saw Olivia staring into her locker.  My mind and my heart responded like I had just seen a ship appear on the horizon after I had spent the last several days alone on a piece of driftwood bobbing about a lonely and dangerous ocean.  I was still twenty feet or more away from her when she turned towards me.  It was like she sensed my presence.  It was a gloriously welcomed sign of our budding friendship.  In truth, to her, it probably was her anticipation of another chance to witness to me.

“Hi Matt, are you headed to hear Pastor Gorham?”  Olivia said closing her locker without any attempt to discover how things were going on my first day at school.

“I’m headed to the gym.  I take it Mr. Gorham, Pastor Gorham, is speaking?”

“Yes, you’ll love him.  If my Dad wasn’t my pastor I would be an active member of Creekside Baptist Church.  For its size, their youth group is larger than ours.  Brother G, as he likes kids to call him, is a magnet for Christ.”

“Is it okay if we sit together?”  Once again, my boldness surprised me.  Up until Olivia, I had always been so shy around girls that I could barely carry on a conversation.  I had never asked a girl for a date, not that going to assembly with Olivia would be a date.

“It’s allowed for these type things.  I guess you know we can’t hang out together during normal break times?  You have to stay upstairs with the pretty Junior and Senior girls.”  Olivia said smiling, her blue eyes pouring waves of mystery inside my mind.

“I’m aware.  I nearly have the Pirate Practice memorized.  I’ve read it so much.” 

“Loosen up a little.  This ‘ain’t’ Chicago.  Olivia said accentuating her best Southern drawl.  “Come on, or we’ll be late.”

Principal Hayes gave us a stern look as we walked inside the double, exterior doors of the gym.  “Olivia, you’re being a bad influence on our newcomer.  Try harder next time.”

“Yes, Mr. Hayes.  I’m sorry.”  Olivia said pulling my right arm to get me to hurry up.

Pastor Gorham was just walking to the podium that had been set up in the middle of the basketball court.  Clark Reiner had introduced him and was sitting down behind the podium in a row of chairs occupied by, what I later learned, were the town’s mayor and city councilmen.

I liked him from the start, as a human being.  He spent five minutes at least talking about how honored he was to be speaking to all the students of Boaz High School.  He made me feel important by elaborating on our future and how all of civilization depended on us and what we learned now and our attitude towards our fellow man.  He inspired me to treat everyone as though they were the last person on earth and that they held the key to my survival.  No doubt, Pastor Gorham, Brother G, was a caring and compassionate man.

However, I began to feel differently about him during the last part of his speech.  He was speaking about faith and Christianity.  I shouldn’t have been surprised that a school in the heart of the Bible Belt would start off the school year with an evangelistic message.  Brantley, Jessie, and Tyler, my friends from Chicago, had warned me that “you’ll come back a Bible-thumper.  Those schools down South are wholly unaware of the separation of church and state.  To them, it’s just one big milkshake.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.  I missed my three amigos so much.

Pastor Gorham said, “You can’t be a non-believer and know and serve Christ.  You must abandon everything, including reason, and allow faith to be your guiding star.  Always, remember, Christ and His ways are foolishness to the non-believer.”  He then brought up the highly revered Martin Luther, the radical twelfth-century theologian that redirected Christianity back to faith and away from works.  I will never forget three statements Gorham shared, all attributed to Martin Luther.  The first one seemed to encapsulate all three: “Reason is the greatest enemy that faith has; it never comes to the aid of spiritual things.  But, more frequently than not, struggles against the divine Word, treating with contempt all that emanates from God.”  The second statement, according to my reason (I wasn’t trying to be funny) naturally followed: “Whoever wants to be a Christian, should tear the eyes out of his reason.”  As did the third: “Reason should be destroyed in all Christians.” 

I could barely believe what I had just heard.  I had never heard such foolishness.  In all my sixteen years, I had been taught to think; to use my reason; to ask questions; and to be critical.  According to my eleven years of education so far, (including Kindergarten) I had been taught to be a skeptic.  Now, I was sitting in what was called a school, a place where I was supposed to continue my education, and I was being told, with full permission of Mr. Hayes and I assumed the entire Marshall County, Alabama Board of Education, that I should take some dynamite and blow up my reasoning faculty.  I had known for years that true faith is believing something without evidence.  Over the past year or so I had learned, thanks to Dad and my interest in science, that faith was believing something in spite of evidence to the contrary.

Pastor Gorham made me feel a little better, but not by much, when he seemed to confine his statements to my spiritual life.  In other words, I was to keep my reasoning ability sharp and use it in every area of life except when it comes to God.  I didn’t believe in God at all, but even if I did, all I could think was, “God must be a little loony.  He creates man with the ability to think.  The reasoning ability had to come from God if you believe in the Genesis creation story.  Yet, God says you can’t use the wonderful ability when it comes to discovering and serving Him.  Just as loony, God created everything to look billions of years old, yet the Bible seems to describe the earth as less than 10,000 years old.” 

As Olivia and I left the gym, I was confident that I had made the right decision.  Years ago, I had chosen the ‘faith’ of my father, instead of my mother.  Dad’s ‘faith’ existed, thrived, provided hope, because of reason and my willingness to use it.

“Matt, I hope Brother G’s talk helped you, and I hope you accepted his invitation at the end to believe in and surrender to Jesus Christ.”  Olivia said as we walked like snails to maneuver away from the crowd that was siphoning out of the gym.

“I have to admit; his talk was interesting and did give me hope.  Thanks for letting me sit with you.”  I said, hoping Olivia would ask me over to her house after school to study together, walk her dog, or anything, even to sit and play cards with her parents.  One thing was obvious, according to my reasoning, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with this beautiful, but loony, 14-year-old girl.

Two more classes and my first day would be over.  I couldn’t wait.  We had a substitute teacher for Poetry.  Mr. Johnson was apparently sick.  The substitute passed out the Poetry syllabus and had us sit quietly the entire hour and read the introduction and Chapter One from our textbook, The Limitless World of Words and Life, by Gretchen Ellsworth.  I had never heard of her, but she won me over immediately in the Introduction.  There, she wrote, “there is no limit to what you can discover if you put no limit or boundaries on your thinking.”  This was going to be, along with Biology II, the highlight of my year.

I had chosen Vocational Agriculture as a joke for my three amigos in Chicago.  I had no interest in learning how to milk a cow, castrate a pig, or rebuild a lawn-mower engine.  After the first day, the joke was on me.  Mr. Jackson, at first and during his fifteen-minute lecture in the classroom, seemed like a drill Sergeant in the Army.  He laid out his classroom rules, none of which I had seen in the Pirate Practice.  Especially the one about corporal punishment.  Follow my rules or favor a hot ass.  He didn’t say that exactly but that’s what he clearly meant. 

The one statement I liked during his talk was, “if you’ll pay attention and apply a little effort, you will surprise yourself at what you can accomplish.  Many of you probably are here because you wanted an easy class.  This is going to be the hardest class you’ve every loved.  Here, you will learn how to make a living, to survive, even if you never go to college.”  After the first fifteen minutes Mr. Jackson had all eighteen of us follow him into the shop.  It was filled with all kinds of machines and tools.  He spent several minutes emphasizing the importance of safety and how ‘dicking around’ is how you get hurt, maybe lose a finger or hand, plus get your “ass lit up.”  As he guided us around the large room describing some of the things we would be doing, no one in our class made a sound.  We all imagined we had been drafted into the Army.  Mr. Jackson ended class with a joke.  “What did the pig say to the chicken as the Goldkist chicken haulers drove onto the farm?  Which came first the chicken or the egg?”  Everyone laughed, including me, even though I didn’t catch the punch line.  As the bell rang, he said, “try to not be a pig when you’re in my class.  Remember, the pig and the chicken both are headed to the slaughter.  Use your time wisely and don’t ask dumb questions.” 

As I rode my bike home, I figured that I would learn more about life in the trenches with Mr. Jackson than I would from any other teacher, except of course, Dr. Ayers.  At least he had not said, “Which came first, reason or faith?”  Nor had he said, “Whoever wants to be a Christian should tear the eyes out of his reason.”

Life in North Alabama, attending Boaz High School over the next school year, was going to be anything but boring.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 10

December 9, 2017

At 2:15 Saturday, Olivia and I were at Cracker Barrel Restaurant off Highway 77 in Gadsden.  After I picked her up, we had decided to go out of Boaz.  She Googled restaurants in Gadsden and found what she described as her favorite place in Chapel Hill.  “I was hoping there was one around here.  I love their turnip greens and cornbread.”

“That fits.  I always thought of you as Ellie Mae Clampett.”

“Not a chance.  She would have been intimidated by my bust-line.”  Olivia said looking over at me with a faint smile.  I was the one intimidated.  She was, as always, so open, but never about anything sexual.  She was the most modest girl I had ever met.  But now, had she changed?  Was she flirting with me?  Coming on to me? 

Last Thursday morning, I had driven to Brandi Ridgeway’s house and asked if I could rent 118 College Avenue for a month.  She had reluctantly agreed.  I had the utilities turned on, bought a sleeping bag and two large pillows, and moved in.  The only appliance in the house was what looked like the same old stove that was there in 1970.  I doubted that to be true.  I had purchased a coffee maker and coffee but nothing else.  I had been eating every meal at a little cafe called Rooster’s downtown where the Sand Mountain Bank was when Dad and I lived in Boaz nearly half a century ago.

I was surprised to learn that Olivia did love turnip greens and cornbread.  She had them and country-fried steak and the biggest slice of coconut pie I had ever seen.  Everything was coming back to me.  It’s weird how everything that we have ever experienced is buried somewhere in our heads.  I recalled the appetite Olivia had as a teenager.  Now, as then, I couldn’t figure out how she maintained almost a perfect figure.  In the past, she was never one to exercise formally, although by the end of mine and Dad’s time in Alabama, Olivia was my regular companion on the running trails.  I wonder if she was now a workout freak to rank her perfect 10.  I thought it inappropriate to ask her.

“Are you going to eat the rest of your pancakes?”  Olivia eyed my plate.  I had ordered breakfast after seeing the older couple at the table across the aisle from us eating pancakes, bacon, and sausage.  It was the best smelling bacon ever.

“No.  Do you want them?”

“I’d like to try the pancakes.  I usually eat dinner at our Cracker Barrel in Chapel Hill but Sissy, my new research assistant, has been trying to get me to go one Saturday morning with her.  She says they are divine.”

“Here, help yourself.  I’m sure they will taste great after that coconut pie.”

The next ten minutes were almost surreal.  Olivia ravaged my pancakes and then we simply sat silently.  We both had taken the first minute or so to investigate our surroundings.  When our waitress came by to refill our drinks, Olivia had asked her if there was a private place we could meet.  “I’ll check but I bet it’s okay for you to sit in our smallest banquet room.  The big one is occupied with a birthday party.”  The older woman said with the best Southern drawl I think I have ever heard.

After our move had been approved, Olivia and I sat at a long oak table, one along the far-right side of a room that would hold probably thirty people.  Within a few seconds after sitting down, I noticed Olivia was staring at me.  I didn’t linger at first, but quickly came back for a peek.  She was still staring and the mood on her face had grown almost pale, with a tinge of sadness given how she was not smiling and the pupils in her eyes were on alert, even attempting to penetrate my mind.

“Matt, I have something I must tell you.  I’ve put it off for way too long.  This isn’t a good time to do this, but I have to take this opportunity.”  I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about.

“Okay, you have my permission.  But, you don’t have to be so frightened.  You know we decided early on that we would be completely open and honest with each other.  I suspect that’s the main reason I didn’t fall apart when you ditched me.  It was weird, but I trusted you and your decision.  I knew you had done what you thought was best for both of us.”

“Matt, I have lied to you.  I broke my promise to you, the promise you just mentioned.  I did promise you to be completely open and honest.  But, I wasn’t.  This is going to hurt you Matt, but it’s the truth. You deserve to know.”

“Just tell me.  You’re killing me with all this suspense.”  I said trying to imagine what could be so terrible that she had born such a burden for so long and now was about to crawl out of her skin.

“When you left Boaz in 1971, I was pregnant.”  She finally said it.  Then, she just sat there.

“Olivia, we had sex the first time, and the only time, the night before Dad and I moved back to Chicago.  It, the sex, took place June 9, 1971.”  The date was etched in my mind.  Forever.

“Do you have to call it sex?  It was the most wonderful and beautiful thing I have ever experienced.  That night, in your room, in your bed on College Avenue, we made love.”

“I agree.  My point is, and this sounds cold.  Had you been having sex with someone else?  How did you know you were pregnant?”  I said.

“No, no, no.  Matt, you must know that I was a virgin before you.  I’m confusing things.  That night, I didn’t know that I was pregnant.  I found out three months later.  Until I married Jack in 1988, you were the only man, boy, whatever, I had ever slept with.”

“Then, how could you, you of all people, have ditched me.  You were carrying my baby when you abandoned me?  No, that wouldn’t have been right.  That took place nearly 18 months later.  What happened to our child Olivia?”

“John and Paul, twins, were born March 9, 1972, nine months to the day after our one and only sexual encounter.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to ask every follow-up question since you seem to not want to give me, at one time, the full narrative.  What happened to John and Paul?  Tillman, was that their last name?”

“Matt, I had no choice, really.  My father, the fundamentalist of fundamentalist preachers, the hard-liner Walter Tillman made me promise to never tell you about the babies.  I suspect you can fathom his power over me.  Once mother found out I was pregnant and told Dad, he insisted I drop out of school.  I became an absolute shut-in for the next six months.  He convinced the community that I was sick and couldn’t have visitors.  I was an involuntary recluse during that entire time.  It was awful.”

“But, you kept me on the line.  It seemed to me, for at least the first year after I left, that we were fine, that our plans for you to finish high school and join me were right on track.”  I said.

“I did too Matt.  Dad’s only condition, at the time, was that I couldn’t tell you about the babies.  He convinced me that if I truly loved you that I shouldn’t tell you, and it was in your best interest.  I was such a fool.  Please know that it was an absolute shock to me that after I delivered, in Birmingham mind you, the babies were taken away.  I never got to hold the only children I ever had.”

“I take it, they were put up for adoption.  Right?”

“All I was ever told was that Dad had a friend in Texas, another pastor.  He and his wife were in Birmingham when I gave birth.  I never saw them.  Two days later they left with John and Paul.  I didn’t get to name my two precious boys.”

“And, you have never had any contact with them?”  I asked.

“Here’s what, I suppose, prompted me now, at least in part, to come clean.  Matt, you must know that if I hadn’t seen you, in the flesh, here in Boaz, I don’t know if I ever would have told you the truth.  That makes me so sad, and angry at myself.  But, when I saw you in the Church’s basement, the moment our eyes met, my first thought was ‘Matt has someway found out and has come looking for me.  I must deal with my secrecy and lying.’  Of course, you hadn’t found out.  But, I still knew I had to tell you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.  “Have you ever had any contact with John and Paul?”  I said, feeling anger build up in my gut.  Anger was so foreign to me.  I sometimes wondered if I was human.

“A few days ago, before I left Chapel Hill, I received a call at my office, at the School.  It was John, John Cummins.  The conversation was most awkward, but some way he had found me.  I think it was because I had gone back to being Olivia Tillman when I moved to Chapel Hill from Dallas.  The real clue that had started his intensive search was some documents he and Paul had found going through their parent’s things after they died.  The boys, from an early age, had known they were adopted, but they hadn’t been told the truth.  They had been told their parents had gone through an adoption agency, one long-defunct.  John and Paul literally knew nothing about where they came from.  Included in the documents they found was a type of journal entry their mother had written.  It gave the entire story, including my name and where I was from.  With modern technology, it was easy to find me.  If John and Paul hadn’t found those documents, I suspect they might never have known the truth.”

“How did the two of you leave things, after that phone call?”  I asked, absolutely blown away by what I was hearing.

“I know it is natural for a mother to want to see and hold her children.  I suspect most of them feel the same about their parents.  I sensed from the tone of their voices they were excited about talking and with me and were serious about taking the next logical step.  We three agreed we had to meet.”

“This is rather selfish of me, but did John say anything, ask anything, about his father?”  I had to ask.

“He did, he asked, ‘Who is my father and where can I find him?’  “I told him that I would tell them the entire story and try to help them find you.  Matt, like you, I intentionally stopped keeping up with you after we broke up.”

“Do the three of you have a plan to meet?”

“We do.  They will be in Boaz next Thursday.  Is it too much to ask for you to be with me when we meet?”  Olivia said, unable to even look me in the eye.

“One question.  I’m sorry but I must give you one more chance to be honest if you have not been.  Is there any way that I am not the father of John and Paul Cummins, the twin boys you gave birth to?”

“Matt, you are their father.  But, I must tell you something else.  I would hope, someway, you would know this.  I have loved you forever, almost since the first time I saw you.  I love reading romance novels and they are filled with stories of how beautiful it is for the adage, ‘love at first sight,’ to be real.  Novels are fiction.  Our story is not.  Even though I cared for Jack, loved him deeply, it was nothing like what I felt for you.  Matt, you are my once-in-life love.  That will never change.  Please forgive me for what I have done.”  I looked closely at Olivia as she talked.  I would have bet my life that she was laying open her soul to me.  She wasn’t lying.

“I’m sorry Olivia that I was not someway there for you.  I love you too.  I hope you know that if I had been told the truth, I would have abandoned my life in Chicago and, if I had to, walk the 700 miles back to Boaz.  Maybe we could have worked things out, eloped or something, raised our boys and spent the last near-fifty years enjoying each other’s company.  I would have liked that.”

“Thank you Matt for being you.  You are exactly the man I fell in love with.  You are too good for me.”  Olivia said, now looking at me so sweetly.

“Don’t even go there.  Would it be alright with you if we got out of here and went for a drive?”

“I’d love that.”

Olivia and I did go on a five-hour journey with multiple stops including a hike at Noccalula Falls Park, a photo session in downtown Chattanooga, and a milkshake detour at a Sonic’s in Fort Payne.  We returned to Boaz at 9:30 p.m. and sat on my front porch swing, just like we had sat together, here on this same porch, nearly a half-century ago.  At midnight, I walked Olivia the three blocks back to Warren and Tiffany’s house.

“I’ll call you tomorrow if that’s okay.”  I said, still holding Olivia’s left hand, facing her outside the parsonage’s front door.

“Early, okay?”  Olivia said with a quick, out of the blue kiss to my lips.

With that she went inside, and I stood spellbound.  I didn’t sleep much that night.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 9

July 1970

I spent the next 65 or so hours thinking of nothing but Olivia and her question.  If all I had to do was fulfill my promise to Dad, gather information for his research project, my work would be a piece of cake.  Things were radically different now.  Somewhere along the way, ever since Dad and I arrived in Boaz and I met Associate Pastor Grantham, the mystical and mysterious Olivia had invaded my mind and heart.  I think it was the three weeks it took to meet her.  This gave the double M’s enough time to sprout, root, and evolve into a life-force that saddled up against my initial promise and equally competed for my time and attention.  Not to say my heart.  My twin mission now was to fulfill my commitment to Dad while at the same time win the heart of the most beautiful and captivating girl I had ever met.

On Thursday, I had pretty much convinced myself to lie to Olivia, to answer her ‘have you been saved?’ question with a resounding yes.  I had anticipated that this approach would avoid a mountain of interrogation and allow me to focus on my mission to become Olivia’s boyfriend.  I was confident I could pull this off.  I probably knew more about the Bible than anyone, well, maybe except Olivia, but I could act the part of a dedicated Christian.  I was excited about my decision and my plan.  Then, Mother showed up.  I could never do this, the lying, to her.  She, with her Catholic teachings, had instilled in me the importance of truth, of always being honest with myself and others. 

On Friday, my mind had settled on answering no.  I would say, “I’m not sure what being ‘saved’ means.  Can you help me?”  Oh man, this was it.  Olivia would think God Himself had given her the best blessing of all.  A lost young man who was open to hearing the Gospel of Christ.  By the time Dad and I returned from the Dairy Queen, now, our Friday night tradition, I knew I was on the right path.  ‘Can you help me?’  It was brilliant.  And, I wouldn’t make it easy on her.  This could take a while.  She would be determined to answer every question I had no matter how long it took.  A year?  No problem.  During this time, I could reveal to her that I was not only a gentleman, one her mother would pick out of a ‘potential boyfriend’ lineup, I was also a prince.  I would become Olivia’s protector.  That would surely win the hearts and minds of her parents.  I knew that was imperative.  Once again, Mother showed up, reprimanding me for being hellbent (not her words) on lying.

By Saturday morning, I was hopeless.  All I had left, something remotely akin to a strategy to use when, no doubt, Olivia popped out what I suspected was her favorite question. ‘Are you saved?’   I would simply be honest with her.  I would answer ‘no.’  And, if she continued her interrogation by asking me what I believed, I would tell her that I didn’t believe there was a God.  This wouldn’t be lying.  It seemed Mother had been a little vague about this strategy.  She, at least according to my interpretation, had allowed me to rationalize that not telling Olivia about my promise to Dad, about me being an undercover agent of sorts, wasn’t directly relevant to Olivia’s question.  I could just as easily, and honestly, be a writer, falling in love with his character while at the same time taking notes of her every word and action.

It was 2:05 p.m. before I left the house.  I had already timed my bike ride to the Lighthouse.  I would be there easily by 2:10 or 11.  I didn’t want to be early or on time.  It was better for Olivia to not think I was overly eager to please her.  I hated a suck-up.

The Lighthouse was on the south end and west side of Main Street.  It was next door to the First State Bank of Boaz.  The building, like all along Main Street, was old.  It was easy to tell this one hadn’t been well cared for over the past several years.  The ceiling carried the obvious signs of multiple long-term leaks.  The walls were cracking plaster that appeared to have had some recent patch work.  The recently applied blue paint helped.  The lingering smell didn’t.  The front part of the building was crowded with odd chairs, couches, and bean-bags.  Two girls, maybe thirteen years old, sat on a couch to my left and smiled and said as I entered, “Welcome stranger, welcome to the house of light.”  I wanted to tip my hat, but I wasn’t wearing one.  To the right, at the center and along the outer wall was a small stage.  Three guys with guitars were playing and singing “Amazing Grace.”  On the left wall, about midway to the rear of the building, was a half-circle wooden bar that looked like something I had constructed.  I suspected all the renovation had been performed by the youth group, with little adult supervision.  There were two guys sitting on bar stools, both about my age.  Olivia was behind the counter.  It looked like the three of them were playing cards.  She looked up and said, “Hey Matt, come join us.”  As I walked forward I could see the back half of the building was filled with multiple rows of chairs and a podium facing me from the back wall.  I suspected this was the nerve-center of the Lighthouse, where real Christians, both adults and teenagers, shared the gospel of Christ to anyone who would sit and listen.

Olivia introduced me to Ben and Danny from Sardis, and instructed them to ‘man the bar’ while she talked with me.  She motioned for me to follow her to the back towards the podium.  I guess she had a lecture planned for me.  “I’m glad you came.”  Olivia said as she pulled us two chairs from the front row, positioned them facing each other, and moved the podium back out of the way.

“I’m glad you invited me.  I was expecting more of a crowd.”  I said looking shyly into Olivia’s eyes.  I had to learn how to look at her.  Her eyes were like magnets.  If I kept staring, she would start to think I was obsessed.  She would be right.  Not all versions of obsession are sin.

“I forgot, there’s a preseason scrimmage tonight at the football field.  I think that’s today’s competition.  This afternoon there are flag football games, one for girls and one for guys.”  Olivia said.

“Matt, I’ve been looking forward to hearing your story.  You said Wednesday night that you would share with me your Christian experience.  It’s funny, but I’ve been trying to guess what you would tell me.  I’m sorry, but I even thought you might try to bamboozle me.”

“Why do you say that?”  I said, a little shocked how direct and quick Olivia was to jump right into the fire.

“I’ve heard about you Yankee types.  You’re rather slick and can dazzle a girl with bull.”

“I’ve heard it called bullshit.”  I said.

“Me too, but I don’t talk like that.”

“I’m going to surprise you.  I’m going to be honest in answering your question, your Wednesday night question.  You had asked me if I was saved.  The short answer is no.” 

“Thanks Matt.  I take back my insult.  You are not the typical Yankee.  Truthfully, I don’t know much about Northerners, just the typical southern rumors.  I appreciate your honesty.  Would you allow me, us, to talk about Christianity and how you become a Christian?”

“I’m all ears.”  Here we go.

“Jesus Christ is God’s only Son.  He came to make a way for every man and woman, boy and girl, to go to Heaven when they die.  He, like God, was perfect, sinless.  He was crucified on a cross and thereby paid the full punishment for your sin and mine.  Three days later He was resurrected, came back to life, reflecting His power over the greatest enemy of all, death.  Jesus now sits on the right hand of God in Heaven longing for everyone, including you Matt, to surrender to Him, and make Him Lord of your life.”  Obviously, Olivia had given this little speech before.

“Olivia, is it okay for me to ask a few questions?  I don’t have any intent on hurting your feelings or making you mad.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even have to say that.  This is a conversation.  I doubt you could make me angry.”

“I’ve heard your story, the story you just told.  My Mother was Catholic, and my Dad is a Bible professor.  First, how do you know all this stuff?”

Olivia didn’t pause a second.  “I have always wondered when I’m going to hear a question that either I haven’t heard before or that is difficult and perplexing.  I’m still wondering, but don’t take that as an insult.”  I wasn’t insulted, but I was surprised.  Her response seemed unlike the goddess I had constructed in my mind.

“I don’t.  Now, back to my question.”  I replied.  Olivia was certainly a fireball.

“Oh, didn’t I answer it already?  I’ll repeat.  It’s the Bible.  I may have not said that directly, but I assumed even the son of a Catholic mother and a Bible professor father would know that I’ve been virtually quoting the Good News.  No problem, I’ll start from scratch.”

Olivia could have become a smartass without much more practice, I thought as her blue eyes were becoming distracting.

“The Bible is God’s word.  He wrote it for mankind, His children.  He didn’t physically write it, but men wrote it under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost.  Matt, the Bible is God’s story.  It contains everything we need to know to worship God.  That’s how I know all these things I shared with you.”

“How do you know the Bible is true?”  I began feeling a little nauseous. Not about my work for Dad.  In that regard, I was doing fine.  It concerned my other mission.  How on earth would I win the heart and mind of the sweet, gorgeous, and naive Olivia, by cross-examining her about the foundation of her life?

“It’s history.  The Bible has been around for centuries.  It was written by men who either knew Jesus or who had special revelations from God.  The Bible itself says it is God’s word.”  Olivia said.  I suspected she fully believed what she was saying but had never truly questioned her beliefs.

“Let me ask you.  Set aside the Bible for a moment.  How else do you know that your story about Jesus is true?”

“Several reasons there.  As I said, the Bible has been around a long time.  The New Testament for nearly two thousand years.  The Old Testament, probably four or more thousand years.  History is full of men and women who believed the Bible and lived their lives dedicated to its teachings, with many dying for the truth of the Bible.  Their testimonies cry out from history for the truth of God’s word.  If it weren’t true, don’t you think we would know that by now?  Also, my heart and mind tell me Jesus is real.  From a child, I have heard the powerful message of Jesus Christ.  When I was six years old, Jesus spoke to my heart and I was saved.  Since then, my faith has grown leaps and bounds.  I could tell you of tons and tons of prayers that I have seen answered.  Matt, you are lost without Christ, therefore you question Him.  It seems foolish to a lost man.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong.  Apart from the Bible, your belief in the truth of Jesus as savior is based on your personal experiences, not on any tangible, documented evidence?”  I said, realizing that I never wanted to become a lawyer.  I had too much sympathy for the witness.

“This is why I brought up the Bible to begin with.  Your question is not valid.  The Bible is the real evidence.  You can’t exclude it.  That would be like saying, prove the United States is a real place but you can’t use the land we live on, the land containing the 48 connecting states.”

“So, let me see if I get this.  The Bible itself is the evidence that the Bible is true?”  I said.

“Absolutely, it is God’s Word, and it has withstood the test of time.  I’m wrong.  Stupid me.  I’d go so far as to say that even if we didn’t have the Bible, I would know God exists.  Matt, all you must do is look at nature, flowers, animals, the stars, everything.  They all scream out that they were created.  It is only basic common sense to know that the earth, and the entire universe is designed.  That requires a creator.  That’s exactly what the Bible tells us.”  Olivia said standing up.  I couldn’t tell if she was getting frustrated with me or not.  She walked over and pulled the podium back to its spot.

“Would it be okay with you Olivia if we gave this a rest.  I’d like to have some water, maybe go listen to the band.  Those guys are pretty good.”  I felt compelled to change the subject.  I was not ready to continue my cross-examination.  It would surely be an attack on Olivia’s logic. 

“Sounds good.  But first, Matt.  Don’t you believe for one minute that I am finished with you.  You won’t get off this easy.  I like your attitude.  I’m thankful you are asking questions.  You realize you’re lost.  You are blessed by God to be seeking the truth.  Let’s go to the bar.  The youth group has dubbed it the water of life well.”