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 3

June 1970

“Well Matt, how did you sleep?”  Dad asked seeming extra chipper this morning.

I was surprised that I had slept so well my first night in the Bible Belt.  I woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee.  Dad didn’t even have to rouse me out of bed.  I concluded that he had gotten up early and found a grocery store.  I doubted the breakfast set before me and the cans and boxes of groceries on the kitchen counters had miraculously appeared. 

“Like a rock.”  I said pouring me a large coffee, thankful that Dad had set up the coffee maker and pulled my favorite cup from the dozens of boxes last night before we went to bed.

“I love how you are practicing.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are talking like a true Southerner, not just a Southerner, but anyone who uses broad language.  How do you know how a rock sleeps?”  Dad said devouring his toast and eggs.  I guess he was finally hungry since he had eaten so light yesterday.

“It’s not meant to be a literal statement.  It’s a figure of speech.”

“Just making conversation.  By the way, I must deliver my Fall syllabus to the Dean this morning.  Then, I plan on exploring the area.  Would you join me?”  Dad said.  I was hoping he wasn’t going to make it a requirement.

“Thanks, but I need some exercise after yesterday’s long ride and given all the heavy food I ate yesterday and now this morning.  If it’s okay with you I’m going to ride my bike.”

“That’s good.  But, as always, use your head and make wise decisions, don’t go anywhere dark, dingy, dilapidated, or deathly.”

“I know.  Your quadruple ‘d’ test.  Dad, keep in mind, we are now in a quiet, almost crime-free Southern town.  This isn’t South Chicago.”

“I realize that but, just be safe, always.”

“I will.”

“Do you mind cleaning up here while I take a shower?”

“You don’t have to ask me that every day.  Haven’t I been head of the mop-up crew ever since Mom died?  I just assumed I’d continue this tradition even while we’re in this foreign land.”  If we had moved to China or Brazil, I would have felt the same way.  I was now living in a country so radically different from where I had been born and raised.  At least that’s how I believed from all the reading I had done since Dad broke the news to me early last winter.

After I cleaned off the table and put the groceries away I sat on the front porch.  I had enjoyed last night with Dad out front.  Our place in Chicago didn’t have a porch of any kind.  This one even had a swing.  Something, another something, I had never experienced.  Come to think of it, the back and forth motion could have been the reason I had slept so well.  Lullaby.  It was a motherless way of being rocked to sleep.  Will I ever go a day without missing my mother?

“Good morning.”  The voice bolted me out of my dream or subconscious wanderings.  I looked over to an older woman standing in the front of the house on the sidewalk.  “I’m hoping I have some new neighbors.  I’m Clara Rollins from two doors down.”

“Hello, I’m Matt Benson.  My Dad and I just arrived last night.”

“I’m happy to have you in the neighborhood.  Where are you guys from?”

“Chicago.”

“That’s a way from here.  What brings you to our wonderful town?”  Clara said inching towards the front porch steps.

I was just about to respond when Dad walked out with his briefcase.

“Dad, this is Clara Rollins.  She’s a neighbor.”  I said, trying to use my best manners.

“Hello.  I’m Robert Benson, Matt’s father.”

“Dad is here to teach at Snead State Junior College.”

“It’s a great school and right up there.”  Clara said pointing in the direction behind where I was seated.

“Maybe we can talk more very soon.  I’m sorry but I have a meeting in five minutes with Dean Naylor.”

“You two have a nice day.  Robert, if you will, tell James I said hello.”

“James?”

“James Naylor.  We’re friends.  We also go to church together.  First Baptist Church of Christ.  On Sparks Avenue.  You both are invited.”  Clara seemed to hardly catch her breath as she appeared to have several more paragraphs to follow.

“Thanks again Clara.  We’ll probably take you up on your invitation.”  Dad said walking down the porch steps and towards the sidewalk alongside College Avenue leaving me with perky Miss Rollins.

I stood up and hollered at Dad, “I’ll work on those chores right now.”  He didn’t respond.

“I’ll be going now.  Please feel free to come visit me anytime.  I’m the pale-yellow house on the left with all the flower pots on the front porch ledge.  By the way, we have a great youth group at church.  I think you will enjoy getting involved.  You know now is the time to be making the right decisions for your life?”  Clara seemed ready to launch into a sermon.

“I appreciate you telling me.  I must unpack some boxes right now.  You have a nice day.”  I moved toward the front door trying to give Clara the hint.  If I didn’t it seemed she would have no difficulty talking all day.

“Bye for now, Matt.  It’s so good to meet you.”

“Thanks for dropping by.”  I said going into the house.

I unloaded a box of books to kill some time, I guess afraid to leave the house thinking Clara Rollins might return.  My room was furnished with a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk and chair.  Above the desk was two shelves.  The box I had chosen was filled with my favorite books: murder mysteries and a mix of fantasy.  I even had two college-level Biology Textbooks Dad had bought for me at a used book store.  Ever since the ninth grade I had gotten interested in some big questions, things like, ‘where did I come from?’ and ‘why am I here?’  Dad had always encouraged me to think critically and openly.

After placing a few dozen books on one of the long shelves, and reorganizing them a couple of times, I showered and dressed.  It was already hot.  Sitting out on the porch I could tell there was something different about the weather.  Dad had told me yesterday to expect very humid conditions the next few days.  Apparently, he had gotten interested in weather.  I chose a pair of short pants and a tee shirt.  I even left off wearing socks beneath my sneakers.

I rolled my bike down the back-door steps.  Last night Dad and I decided since we didn’t know much about the neighborhood it was best to bring our bikes inside.  Again, it was nice having a porch.  This one, right off the kitchen at the back of the house, was large enough for a washing machine and clothes dryer, and two Schwinn bicycles.

I rode east towards the sun and without thought turned right at the end of College Avenue.  This led to a quaint, older grouping of mostly two-story buildings.  I saw a sign that said Main Street.  I chose the sidewalk for the first block but then nearly ran into a man coming out of a drug store.  He politely informed me that bikes were not allowed on the sidewalks in the downtown area.  I thanked him and told him I was new in town.  I walked my bike across the street and left it by a parking meter.  I visited two of the stores, a department store, mainly clothing, named Dobson’s, and Southern Hardware.  I liked the smell inside the hardware store.  I’m not sure what it was but it was a weird combination of the smell of leather and dirt.  At least from what I remembered about dirt from an Earth Sciences demonstration last Spring when Mr. Watson, our teacher, took us on a field trip to his grandfather’s farm in a little town east of Chicago.  I don’t even remember the name.

After being greeted by four men sitting around what looked like an ancient wood-burning stove, thankfully inactive, like the ones I had seen in a History book, I left and headed back towards College Avenue.  Instead of going home I decided to ride by First Baptist Church of Christ.  One of the older men at Southern Hardware had told me, after I asked, where Sparks Avenue was.  I crossed the railroad track and rode past a Chevrolet dealership and on to Brown Street, then left until it intersected with Sparks.  I turned right and crossed Elm Street two blocks away.  The church building was much larger than what I expected.  It was at least as tall as the tallest building I had seen in downtown Boaz, but had beautiful stained-glass windows along the front and sides, and a steeple with a huge cross that seemed to reach to the clouds.  I knew it was absurd, but the steeple seemed so tall it would cause airplanes to detour.

I laid my bike on the grass beside the sidewalk leading to a set of twenty or more steps along the entire front of the building.  I could see a bulletin board of sorts beside the front door, but I couldn’t read it from where I stood at the bottom of the stairs.  I walked up and saw the times and dates of service on a red felt bulletin board behind glass to block the rain from getting inside.  I saw a listing for a Wednesday night meal, prayer meeting, and youth group, starting at 6:00.  Just as I was turning to walk down the steps towards my bike, one of the huge double-doors opened and a man came out.

He was tall and thin, probably about my Dad’s age, late thirties I guessed.  At first, he didn’t see me since I was standing twenty or thirty feet away in front of the bulletin board that was to the far right side of the large landing at the top of the stairs.  He took three or four steps down and must have someway sensed I was there.  He turned and looked at me, visibly startled.

“Hey, hello sir, young man.  May I help you?”

“Not really.  I was just looking at your bulletin board, wondering what time you hold services.”  I said, thinking I might be in trouble.  Was I trespassing, since it wasn’t Sunday?  I was oblivious as to church rules, especially in the South.

“I’m glad to hear that.  Are you wanting to visit?  I don’t seem to know you.”  The man said, now back up the stairs and onto the landing and walking towards me with an outstretched right hand.

I introduced myself and shook his hand.  I gave him the same short-version story Dad and I had given Clara Rollins.

“Awesome.  I’m Peter Grantham, Associate Pastor here at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Welcome to Boaz, and I certainly hope you will join us.  Today’s Wednesday.  Of course, you know that.  Why don’t you and your father join us for supper tonight.  Afterwards, he can attend our prayer meeting and you can meet with our youth group.”

“I’ll talk to my Dad.”

“I assume you will be going to Boaz High School.  You said you were about to turn 16, right?”

“June 28th.  I will be in the eleventh grade.”  I said, starting to dread meeting new people, realizing I would be answering the same type questions a million times.

My son, Ryan, will be a classmate.  You can meet him tonight if you come.  He can introduce you to Olivia Tillman, the pastor’s daughter.  Oh, sorry, she’s out of town on a mission’s trip.  Olivia assists our Youth Pastor, Randy Miller.  He talks to the group for thirty minutes at most, including a short Bible lesson.  Then, Olivia leads a prayer time.  After that, it’s just you guys hanging out.  The youth department has, in the basement, its own place, equipped with two ping-pong tables.”

“Sounds interesting.  Thanks for telling me.  I have to get back home now but I promise to tell my Dad I met you and pass along your invitation.”

“Take care Matt.  I hope to see you again very soon.”

I quickly walked down the steps.  As I rode my bike home, I was proud of myself for having, by fate or accident I’m not sure, established a connection to the enemy’s camp.  I didn’t really mean that, but it seemed to fit with some of the novels I had read.  The undercover agent befriending the enemy to gain access to the inner circle of those who would attempt to destroy the world.  I had enjoyed meeting Mr. Grantham and looked forward to my mission that lay ahead, mainly because it would be nice to have a friend or two.  I was still surprised at the sad and lonely feeling I had for my three dear friends in Chicago.

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 2

December 1, 2017

Professor Olivia Tillman walked down the long corridor to Lecture Hall 201 in the Harborough Tower to her final lecture this semester.  After her presentation she was leaving for an extended leave of absence to return to her hometown of Boaz, Alabama to support her father and brother who are facing criminal charges.

As usual, the large classroom was crowded and noisy.  The 150 or so male and female students, were first and second year students at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and most came from Christian homes across the Southeast United States.  As Olivia stood behind the lecture podium and opened her notebook she noticed three older men sitting side-by-side across the front row.  “Good morning to everyone and especially to our three visitors.”

The oldest looking of the three, a man at least 70, short and stocky with a mountain of flowing gray hair that made his body look too small for his large head, stood as the other students grew still and silent, “Professor Tillman, I’m Bert Davis and this is Pete Appleton and Ralph Kindle.  Our lovely wives asked us to join them here today for your last lecture.”  Minnie Davis, Sarah Appleton, and Bernadette Kindle were three older students who both delighted and frustrated Olivia.  It seemed they wanted themselves, almost believed themselves, to be the professor of Olivia’s New Testament History and Formation’s class.

“Nice to meet you and welcome to our class.”  Olivia said with a smile and then looked out over an ocean of youth, all struggling to square what they had been exposed to this semester at the feet of Professor Olivia Tillman who for the past six years had filled the shoes of professor emeritus, Harrison Bolton, who retired in the summer of 2011.  Her students were not the only ones who had struggled.  Olivia, from the mid-1980s until 2011, had served as Professor of Systematic and Historical Theology at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas where she had taught various subjects related to Systematic Theology, Historical Theology, Early Christianity, and Baptist Heritage.  During Olivia’s last five years at Southwestern she had experienced the complete devolution of her faith.  Skepticism and unease since the loss of her husband in 2008 had grown into a private but exhaustive exploration of every aspect of her long-held beliefs.  Ultimately, the struggle to say and teach one thing to her Divinity students and live and believe quite the opposite, had heralded the complete transformation of her professional life, including a move to the secular world of Chapel Hill where Olivia was focused on teaching historical truths.

Bert responded with, “we’re excited to be here, and I apologize for interrupting.  We’ll sit here and be good students.”

Olivia looked up and scanned the entire classroom.  “Tomorrow is your final exam.  Today, I will review.  I strongly suggest you listen and take good notes.  You might hear something important.”  Olivia said fully present in body, but the true location of her mind was another matter.  She was worried sick about her brother Wade, and father Walter, both former pastors of First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz.  Leading this church was a long tradition for the male side of the Tillman family.  In addition to Walter and Wade, their forefathers, Rudolph, Morton, and Waymon had also held the same position.  And currently, Wade’s son Warren was the head pastor at the Southern Baptist Church. 

As Olivia glanced at her notes she wondered if there was something else working in her deep subconscious.  She felt almost a foreboding spirit descending into the depths of her mind and heart.

“Class, first recall that we don’t know, historical evidence does not reveal the authors of the four gospels that made it into the final version of the Bible.  We do know they were not Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  Clearly, they were not written by the named person.  These gospels were written by highly literate Greeks, not uneducated peasants such as Matthew, Mark, and John.  Luke could have been some sort of doctor, but it is undisputed he spoke Armenian and not Greek.  It is difficult, impossible to write in the Greek language if you do not speak that language.  Recall, evidence indicates that the Gospel of Mark was written somewhere around 65 to 70 A.D., with Matthew and Luke following a generation later, say around 85 to 90 A.D. and the Gospel of John, most likely, around the year 120 A.D.  It is important you note that there were many other competing gospels written during these same time frames and none of them were chosen to join the biblical canon.  It may have been, in part, because of some of their more fantastical claims, such as Jesus, as a young man, a carpenter, causing some furniture to suddenly appear, or some lumber to mysteriously stretch to the lengths needed.  Know that all original manuscripts are lost.  And, what manuscripts we have are all copies of copies of copies, all containing countless discrepancies.  As to the Bible, the earliest complete manuscript we have is dated around 900 A.D.”

Olivia spent the next hour covering a variety of topics her New Testament class had covered during the semester, including the Apostle Paul’s writings from 25 to 35 A.D., where he admitted his knowledge of Christ had come strictly from revelation and not directly from man.  Other topics included Second Peter; other forgeries; a mini-lecture on how an illiterate peasant became an itinerant preacher and later developed a reputation of being the son of God.  At 11:45 a.m., Olivia completed her lecture and dismissed the class.  As she was gathering her things, Sarah Appleton approached the podium and asked if she had a few minutes to talk to her and her five friends.

“Sure, I’d be happy to, but I do have a lunch appointment at 12:30, downtown Chapel Hill.”

“Minnie, Bernadette, and I know your story, but our husbands don’t really believe we have been totally honest.  They simply don’t see how a devoted Christian could ever leave the faith and stop believing in the existence of the Christian God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.  Do you mind giving them a short version where they can hear it, pardon me, from the horse’s mouth.  No disrespect intended of course.”  Sarah no doubt was the queen bee of the sizzling six, the three older ladies and their husbands.

“I’m always willing to share my testimony, nobody knows it better than me. Thanks again Bert, Pete, and Ralph for coming today.  It is an honor to meet you.  I suspect you already know this, but you guys have wonderfully inquisitive wives and I have thoroughly enjoyed my time with them this semester.  They each remind me of myself in so many ways.  Now, let me say it is virtually impossible to give you, in the few minutes I now have, a full representation of every stage I went through in abandoning my faith and belief.  So, keep that in mind.

“I grew up in Boaz, Alabama in a devout Christian home, my father, his father and on back for generations were all Southern Baptist preachers.  From the time I could walk and talk I was sold out on Jesus and Christianity.  I spent as much time in church as I did at home.  I followed my father around like I was his shadow.  From junior high throughout high school I was the ring leader of our youth group.  My number one priority was sharing the gospel message.  About the only regret I can recall from my high school years was failing to evangelize an eleventh-grade boy who had come to Boaz for one year.  He was there with his father who taught at the local college on loan from a big school in Chicago.  After high school I devoted the next ten years to earning four college degrees including a double masters and a Ph.D. in theology.  After three years teaching at Liberty University’s School of Divinity, I spent the following 24 years at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas, first as an associate professor and then as a full professor.

“In 2008 I lost my husband of nearly thirty years to cancer.  Up until his sickness and death my faith had never faltered.  Of course, there had been times of doubt.  Looking back, these periods all revolved around some science subject.  When Jack got sick I started reading about cancer and cancer research and got interested in chemistry and biology, and my reading expanded to a few atheist authors.

“The big turning point came in 2009, some three years or so after Jack’s diagnosis.  I was sitting in my bedroom lounging chair early one morning having my devotion as I had done thousands of times during my life, when it hit me that I was living a lie.  My thoughts centered on prayer and a study Harvard professor Herbert Benson had conducted in 2006.  I had recently read several articles about the study, even read the peer review article in the Journal Nature.  The results clearly showed that prayer didn’t work.  Over 1800 coronary artery bypass surgery patients at six different hospitals participated in the study.  It was a double-blind experiment, meaning no one, including the patients, their doctors, and anyone else involved with the study, knew which patients were being prayed for and which were not.  Members of three congregations were asked to deliver the prayers, using the patients’ first names and the first initials of their last names.  The bottom line was that prayers offered by strangers had no effect on the recovery of people who were undergoing heart surgery.

“I knew this study, in of itself, didn’t absolutely prove that prayer didn’t work.  But, it sure got my attention and it triggered my interest and motivation to further explore my relationship, and beliefs, concerning prayer.  After weeks of research and contemplating my own life, I realized that I truly had no proof, real proof, that prayer worked.  Oh yea, I had countless stories, from my childhood, my youth, my almost half-a-century as a Christian adult, that, at least on the surface, indicated the power of prayer.  But, that morning in 2009, I let it finally penetrate my closed mind that prayer, praying to the Christian God, worked about as well as praying to Santa Claus or Zeus.  I got so frustrated sitting in my chair thinking what a fool I had been all my life to buy into Christianity.  Finally, after an hour or so of growing angst, I literally threw my Bible, Oswald Chambers’ devotion book, my journal, and several commentaries out of my lap and across the floor hitting against my bedroom dresser.

“This led to more and more thought, contemplation, exploration, and exhaustion over the next two years until I finally was forced, internally, to confess to the Seminary’s Dean that I had to resign and why.  After a few weeks of job-hunting, I wound up here at Chapel Hill.  Now, I’ve never been happier from a spiritual standpoint.  Of course, I’m still human and must deal with the same type things as all people do, including Christians.”  Olivia tucked her notebook under her arm, shook hands with all six of her entranced visitors, thanked them again for coming, turned towards the exit, and walked away.

“Professor Tillman.”  Sarah said standing up.

“Yes?”  Olivia turned and said.

“Please know, we will be praying for you.”  Sarah said as seriously as though she was standing before the twenty members of her Sunday School class at Olin T. Binkley Memorial Baptist Church.

Olivia smiled, waved, and continued toward the exit.

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 it 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 1

June 1970

“Matt, if we’re going to get there before dark we have to be going.  Now.”  Dad yelled up the stairs.

“I’m coming.  Give me five minutes.”  It was nearly 9:30 a.m. and I’d dawdled away the last two hours.  Last night we had finished packing the moving trailer, leaving me with packing a few books and my workout clothes this morning.

I really wasn’t interested in driving ten plus hours to a whole new world.  I was happy living on the South Side of Chicago, working part-time making pizzas at Papa-Mama’s on Dearborn Boulevard until high school starts back in a little over a month.  I couldn’t imagine being away from Brantley, Jessie, and Tyler for my entire 11th grade year.

“Don’t forget your tennis racket.  Dean Naylor said the College has a pretty nice tennis court.”

“It’s already on the trailer.”

An hour and a half later we were south of Gary, Indiana filling Dad’s truck up with gas and eating breakfast at a Waffle House at the I-90 and I-65 interchange.

“Since you’re on your third helping of pancakes, take a breather and tell me again what your job is in Alabama.  I want you in role from the minute we get there.”  Dad said having eaten about half of his eggs and one piece of toast.

“We’ve been over this a hundred times since last Saturday.  It’s now only Tuesday.  Do you think I forget that quickly?”  I responded pouring more syrup on the best pancakes I had ever eaten.

“Last time.  I promise.  At least for a week.”

“Dad, it’s simple.  I start attending First Baptist Church of Christ and get tied in with their youth group.  As soon as I can, I’m to become friends with the kid who’s the most active, the one who’s always present.  My job is to observe what the youth leaders and students are doing and saying and report these things to you.”

“Don’t forget to note the Bible passages being referenced and the interpretations being used.”

“Remind me how much I’m earning for all this work.  You’ve never told me exactly, just that it will be well worth my time.”  I said as the waitress came by and asked if I wanted another stack.  Dad motioned her away.

“Twice what you make at Papa-Mama’s.  It will probably amount to over a thousand dollars, minimum, before the year is up.”

“Plus, you promised to buy me a good, used car for my birthday.  That’s next month you know.”

“I thought we had decided on a new bicycle.”

“Don’t be funny.”

For the next nine plus hours we rode mile after mile with hardly a word exchanged between us.  Dad’s collection of eight tracks tapes, all flavored with classical music, quickly lulled me into semi-consciousness, and a dream, or nightmare, of how my life had taken such a bad turn.  One that was forcing me, along with Dad, to Boaz, a small town in North Alabama.  This wasn’t going to be a vacation.  A year of living with a bunch of hillbilly rednecks was not what I had envisioned for my life, especially now.

Dad, Robert William Benson, was on assignment and I was stuck with tagging along.  If Mother had lived, I believe I could have convinced her to stay in Chicago and let Dad travel alone seven hundred miles to the little community named after the Old Testament Jew that befriended the lovely Moabite woman named Naomi.  Or, was it beguiled?  Deceived?  Whatever.

Dad was a tenured professor of Biblical History and New Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School and, for the first time in years, had been granted a year’s sabbatical to work on a research project.  I still didn’t know exactly how or why he had gotten interested in Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Dad’s choices for a mission field to study had boiled down to Sanford, North Carolina and Boaz, Alabama.  The School’s Committee that Dad answered to left the final choice to him.  I think he chose Boaz because of his interest in college football and the opportunity to go see Paul ‘Bear’ Bryant’s Alabama Crimson Tide.  Also, it didn’t hurt that Sarah Dickerson, an Old Testament professor at the Divinity School, had been undergraduate classmates with John Naylor at Duke University in the early sixties.  Naylor was now the Dean of Snead State Junior College in Boaz. 

Professor Dickerson, at the request of Dad’s Committee, had asked Dean Naylor if he would provide Dad with a part-time position for a year.  The timing had been perfect since Snead State was adding a Bible Literature class to its English Department and had not found a suitable instructor.  Dad would teach this class, beginning in September.  This provided Dad plenty of time to conduct his Divinity School project without becoming too suspicious.

The Committee had approved Dad’s request to hire me to go undercover with the youth group.  A key part of Dad’s research project dealt with how young people were indoctrinated into a virtual life-long commitment to Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Dad’s short definition for this brand of Fundamentalism was, “They believe the Bible was written by God.  They read it literally.”  The best way Dad and the Committee had come up with to learn what teachings and methodologies were being used to expose young people and obtain their allegiance was to infiltrate a youth group at a large enough church that had a full-time youth pastor and had a long history of year-round events and activities.  Since Dad was way past his youth, and was in no position to be hired by a church as a youth pastor, education director, or any other position, the brilliant folks at the Divinity School had suggested I assist Dad.  Thus, I was now an undercover agent.  I just hoped my mission wasn’t dangerous.

As we drove south I couldn’t think of anything to look forward to, so my mind settled on my job.  I was concerned that I wouldn’t fit in.  Not only did I have a Chicago accent, but I was a far thing from being a Jesus lover.  Mother was a Catholic and I had gone to Mass with her all my life.  Dad was a virtual atheist.  He rarely went to church and when he did it was on a special occasion such as Easter or Christmas.  Dad had influenced my religious thinking more than Mother, but he had always done it out of her earshot.  He was good to Mother and respected her beliefs and worked hard to keep peace in the family.  However, this didn’t mean he hadn’t often shared his beliefs with me.  Dad and I had always been close and had, for years, spent a ton of time together.  We both were avid runners and ever since I was in fourth or fifth grade, Dad and I had shared a couple of runs every week, normally on the weekends.

I thought it strange that Dad could be a professor of Biblical History and New Testament Theology at a major Divinity School but not believe that Jesus was the Son of God.  Dad had always told me that he was a researcher and teacher and it was unnecessary to buy into what he discovered.  He said he was more like a reporter who researched the effects of steroids on an athlete’s performance.  The reporter didn’t have to agree that steroids were a good thing.  I knew Dad’s story like the back of my hand.  I had heard it many times, for mile after mile along the banks of the Chicago River that we often ran on Sunday afternoons.

Dad said, “if it weren’t for my profession, my research and writing, my work at the Divinity School, I probably would still be a believer.”  Dad had grown up attending First Baptist Church in Western Springs, Illinois.  As luck, fate, or God’s grace would have it, Billy Graham served briefly as pastor in 1943–44.  Dad was thirteen years old and became enamored by Graham.  From then until Dad started graduate school at Princeton University, he was sold out to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.  It was in the mid-fifties, after I was born in 1954, that Dad’s beliefs started to ebb.  His journey of disbelief took several years but by the time he landed an associate professorship at the University of Chicago in 1962, he was a die-hard agnostic, virtually an atheist, even though he never said that he knew God did not exist, but always laid it out as, “there simply isn’t good evidence to believe in the God of the Bible, or Jesus for that matter.”

We pulled into Boaz after dark.  We found the Dairy Queen and bought hamburgers and onion-rings and two giant strawberry milkshakes.  We ate at an outdoor table beside one with a man and woman and what we gathered were their four kids.  We did our best to not laugh out loud at the Southern drawl that rose from the six voices like a drunk cow on a foggy morning, lost and looking for the path to the milking barn.  I didn’t know much about cows and could only imagine that a soused cow would bawl at a much slower pace than one that had avoided the brew.  The only words the family spoke that registered with us were something the mother said as they left their table and walked close beside us on their way to an old Ford pickup where the two oldest children, a boy and a girl, climbed into the bed of the truck.  The mother said summer revivals always made her repent, repent for failing to keep her kids noses in the Bible.  She said, “Clint, mark my words, that’s going to change beginning tonight.”

After a second trip back inside for another burger, Dad and I drove to downtown Boaz and College Avenue to the little four room house Dad had been able to rent through Ericson Real Estate.  I was glad Dad had David Adams, the property owner, furnish the house with cheap but suitable furniture.  It was hard enough unloading our clothes, books, bicycles, pillows and bedding, and a dozen or so boxes containing Dad’s research materials.  By 10:00 p.m., we were sweating profusely and sitting on the front porch listening to a host of crickets that seem to be living in the thick hedgerow along the driveway.  For the next hour, until we went inside to make our beds and go to bed, not a single car passed in front of 118 College Avenue.

“Good night.  I hope you sleep sound in your new home away from home.”  Dad said at 11:30 as he pulled his door shut.  As I lay across my bed, all I could think about and see with my mind’s eye was Brantley, Jessie, and Tyler hanging out in Hyde Park across from Papa-Mama’s talking about girls, and girls, and girls.