Forty on 70, p.1
Forty On 70, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
FORTY ON 70
First edition. January 15, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 Philip D Bliss.
ISBN: 979-8985103816
Written by Philip D Bliss.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Forty On 70 (The PopUp Pastor, #1)
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Fact or Fiction
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About the Publisher
Forty On 70
A Journey of Faith and Healing
Book 1 in the series The PopUp Pastor
Copyright © 2021 by Philip D. Bliss All Rights Reserved.
Fulcrum Publishing
www.thefulcrumcenter.org
www.thepopuppastor.com
This novel is a work of fiction. Many of the locations in this story are real, but any person mentioned, and any actions taken are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or to any activity that takes place is entirely coincidental. The characters of John Thornhill and Brad McLellan are representations of real people, and their likeness has been used with their permission.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®
The Interstate Shield Image is a Registered Trademark® of the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials, Washington D.C. Used with Permission.
ISBN Paperback: 979-8-9851038-0-9
ISBN Hardback: 979-8-9851038-2-3
ISBN e-Book: 979-8-9851038-1-6
By Philip D Bliss
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Christians everywhere who
continually rely on God but still have struggles
in their daily lives. Our God loves us more than
we know, and if we persevere, He will see us through.
Author’s Note
This book was written in obedience to God. When you are sitting on the couch, and God says, “Write a book about a guy that travels along Interstate 70,” you are left with a choice. You either find out where Interstate 70 begins and ends, or you go about your day and ignore God. I was obedient.
My intention is to entertain and teach. It is not intended to say, “Hey, this is the way it is so deal with it.” As a pastor, author, and fellow human being, I realize we will not always agree on everything, especially when religion is involved. I hope you approach this book the way it is intended—as entertainment first, and if you are interested, as teaching. But if you disregard the learning, I sincerely hope you are entertained.
Get ready to embark on a journey. I tried to treat this book as if the main character wrote about his journey. You will see his struggles, you will feel his pain. I purposely wrote it as if someone jotted down their ideas and put them into a book. Let’s get the message out that a relationship with God is the greatest thing you can ever do for yourself.
God bless you, and thank you for reading Forty on 70.
Chapter 1
A bag of roasted peanuts changed my life forever.
The day started like any other day in early summer. The sun burned warm and bright. I left my wife, Jane, and my son, Timmy, at our home in Albeth Heights, Maryland, right outside of Baltimore, to travel to a local grocery store.
My trek focused on picking up supplies for a trip that would begin as soon as I arrived back home. We planned to drive straight through to Yellowstone National Park. Our trip would include three days of driving time, five days of sightseeing, and travel back through Chicago on Interstate 80. Jane had always wanted to see Chicago, and tall buildings fascinated Timmy. We had planned this trip for months. With the day upon us, excitement and anticipation waited in the wings.
While standing in the checkout line about to place my items on the belt, I had a sudden realization—I had left my wallet sitting on the kitchen counter, and I had no cash on me. I did what most husbands would do in this situation. I grabbed my cell phone, called Jane, and begged for forgiveness for disrupting her packing and preparation so she could bring my wallet to me.
Although the local Harris Teeter grocery is two miles from our home, I had worked my way into a sticky situation this time. Instead of staying local, I went to a store I frequently visited on my way home from the office each day. The H Mart in nearby Ellicott City had a variety of foods usually not available in other retail stores. With a long trip in front of me, I desperately sought a particular brand of roasted peanuts. The day was fresh, and I knew I would have time for the more extended voyage.
I called Jane, and she was unhappy I did not stay local but said she would be right there with my wallet. She jokingly said it would cost me longer driving hours so she could sleep later in the evening. After our call, I explained my situation to the store manager and pulled my cart to the side to avoid disrupting other customers. He agreed, and we even laughed at how this happens more than anyone realizes.
Knowing it would take her a few minutes to load Timmy into the car and another ten minutes to drive to the store, I became only slightly concerned when twenty-five minutes had passed. At the forty-five-minute mark and four unanswered phone calls later, I became more nervous. Fifty-five minutes had passed since I first called her when my phone rang, and it was Jane, according to the caller ID.
Noise on the other end of the line indicated the caller stood in traffic. My heart sank as I heard a male voice introduce himself as a trooper with the Maryland State Police. A tragic automobile accident on Interstate 70 involved my wife and son. He informed me I should immediately go to the hospital.
Tears welled in my eyes as I listened, but did not respond. The trooper asked if I was okay and if I understood. I finally answered and told him I would go to the hospital. I left the cart full of items, including five bags of my favorite roasted peanuts and the bouquet I had purchased for Jane, and rushed to the hospital.
Spotting a doctor at the Emergency Room (ER) registration desk, I announced my name. He took me aside and informed me Jane was in surgery and her condition was critical. Timmy did not survive the accident. I fell to the floor, screaming in anguish. How could this have happened? I immediately blamed myself, allowing condemnation to flood my spirit.
I can’t imagine anything more painful in this world than hearing the words “He’s gone” when someone is speaking of your eight-year-old son. Those words turned my life upside down and inside out that day, now more than a year ago. When in similar situations, I’ve known people to lose their faith. Thankfully, God kept me going and continues to do so day by day.
After I had calmed down, the trooper from the scene found me and explained what had happened. The police chased a car theft suspect who twisted down an exit ramp, going the wrong way. He didn’t even try to avoid anyone and drove into oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, he crashed head-on into Jane and Timmy. The force caused the car to slide to the left, and an oncoming semi-truck hit the right side of Jane’s minivan. The impact killed Timmy instantly. He didn’t suffer. Jane received severe head injuries, two broken legs, and a fractured collarbone besides multiple scratches from the shattered glass.
The twenty-year-old driver had stolen the car as a prank. Being the son of an influential businessman in Baltimore, anxiety over his dad’s anger caused him to evade the police. He reported he did not realize he had gone the wrong way down an exit ramp and thought it was an on-ramp. A broken arm, a bruised jaw, and the painful lifetime memory of what he had done became the young man’s only injuries, along with his tarnished police record. But he survived; my family didn’t. Forgiveness did not come easy for me, but God helped me make it a reality.
Forty days later, I signed the papers to give the hospital staff permission to shut down the machine keeping Jane alive. She had no brain activity, and her extensive injuries showed she had no hope for survival. I was heartbroken and distraught, as my hand shook so much I could hardly sign the form. But I also knew I would see her and Timmy again someday in heaven. Dealing with her angry parents, who both said I should have waited longer, became a grueling task God also had to help me navigate. I knew in my heart God had spoken to let her go. So, I did.
The remainder of the summer blurred by filled with family and friends offering condolences and sympathy. Through the hurt and pain, I never lost my faith in God to restore all I lost. I didn’t know how he would do it, but I trusted he would get me through my agony.
I sold the house in Albeth Heights and moved into a downtown apartment closer to my office. After seven months, anger with God consumed me. I could hardly think of God without balling my fist. Somehow I could still hear Him though, and He told me to resign my role as a part-time pastor, which I held for twelve years. So, I gave a four-month notice and walked away from my passion for serving others, at least in that capacity.
In early May, I awoke from a strange dream, confident it came from The LORD. I dreamed I saw a sign indicating I was on I-70 EAST, but it had the familiar jargon I saw every day I drove home from my office in Baltimore. Columbus 420, St. Louis 845, Denver 1700, Cove Fort 2200. As I read the sign, I saw a red square around Cove Fort. I became confused because I knew I would travel westbound to see this sign, but the sign showed eastbound.
The next night, I dreamed I stepped into a red car, drove, and saw the familiar I-70 EAST sign. But the sign indicated: Cove Fort 1, Denver 10, St. Louis 20, Columbus 30, Baltimore 40. The dreams perplexed me so I asked God what they meant, but I did not receive the answers I desired.
In the eleven months since the accident, I refused to travel on Interstate 70 eastbound at all. I drove to various places westbound but would find a new way home every time. This area of Maryland is big enough that it is possible to arrive at a destination without a great deal of deviation or extra time.
A few days after my dreams, The LORD responded to my question, His answer shook me to my core
I prayed about what to do for a few more days before I became convinced The LORD wanted me to make a trip across the country from Cove Fort to Baltimore. To put the plan into action, I purchased a car, requested delivery to Beaver, Utah, booked a flight, and researched various stops along my way. When May gave way to June, the time to make the trip honoring my wife and son and to finally travel on Interstate 70 eastbound for the first time in a year had come. I did not know what I would discover, but I knew God was with me and would guide me. My role in the journey became clear; to stay close to Him in prayer.
For many, this may seem like an unusual method of recovering from tragedy. For others, it may sound like complete nonsense. As I reflect on it now, I see the wisdom of God in what I did—helping people to know God better, explaining in a short time what I had tried to explain in twelve years as a pastor. Establishing and strengthening a relationship with God through His son is the greatest thing we can do for ourselves in this life.
Chapter 2
Relaxation evaded me as the Great Salt Lake came into full view. It was vast, significant, and amazing to behold. My ears popped as they acclimated to the change in atmospheric pressure during our descent to the airport. Four hours had passed since I left Baltimore’s Washington International Airport at noon. My watch had auto-adjusted to reflect the two o’clock local mountain time zone.
It was my first flight ever into Salt Lake City, and I took in the scenery. From the sky, the homes looked neatly spaced and resembled teeth in a zipper. The skyline was much bigger than my hometown view of Columbus, Ohio, but smaller than Baltimore. A building caught my attention. It resembled a castle, I believed it to be a church. Snow-capped Rocky Mountains extended as far as I could see, which reminded me I was no longer close to home. I tried looking out the window across the aisle, hoping to get one last view of the Great Salt Lake, but it faded into the distance. We leveled off as we approached the ground.
“You’re not an LDS, are you?”
I glanced in the direction of the voice which addressed me. “I am not sure what you mean,” but after the words came out, I put it all together.
He confirmed it for me. “LDS, Latter-day Saints. You’re not from around here, are you? You’re not from Salt Lake City.”
Curiosity piqued within me as I wondered what I had done to give away my “tourist look.”
“How could you tell?”
He pointed out the window. “Lake Stink. Locals have seen it enough and don’t glimpse it out the window when we approach.” He held out his hand, gesturing a handshake to which I obliged him. His grip was firm and dry. “I am Joe Smith.”
Without thinking about it, I raised my right eyebrow, which he must have interpreted as a question. He quickly added, “No, not Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon church.”
I laughed, “It’s nice to meet you, Joe. I am Jake Anderson.”
Joe pointed again out the window and continued his educational rant about the water basin entirely behind us. “The locals call it Lake Stink because there are shallow areas, and I guess gasses leak out, and it causes a stench twice a year. “
“Oh!” I nodded with a look of intrigue. I am an information guru, so hearing any bit of new knowledge was something I enjoyed.
“My wife grew up a mile from the lake. It’s how I know so much. I moved here in 1999 with her because she wanted to return to her hometown. We used to live in Boulder, where I was a successful lawyer. But now,” he paused slightly and looked down, “I am a mailman.”
I could already sense Joe’s disappointment. I do not believe it stemmed from his working for the United States Government as a postal carrier. No, I believed he gave up a lot for his wife, and I sensed resentment in his voice.
“She said I would be happy here. I mean, I guess I am. I am healthy, and our son is healthy. The weather is nice.” He paused, and with a big smile, continued, “I have a grandchild coming next month.”
“Congratulations.”
The excitement once on his face became gloomy. He turned his head to the left so I could no longer see his eyes. I watched as he raised a hand to wipe a tear from his left eye. A small moment of awkward silence occurred, and I gazed out the window again to notice the ground hundreds of feet below. The seat belt sign, though it had been on for the last twenty minutes, flashed with a ding, reminding us it would not be a suitable time to stand up. A roar filled the cabin as the flaps on the wings extended to increase drag and slow us as part of the plane’s thrust reversal system. A loud screech sounded as the plane’s wheels touched the runway. The noise became louder, and as quickly as it began, subsided seconds later. Another smooth landing.
“I don’t want my grandchild not to choose for himself, that’s all.” Joe glanced back at me. The redness in his eyes confirmed my suspicions. He had become teary-eyed.
“A choice?” I asked as we taxied toward the terminal.
A man in front of us stood and reached for his luggage in the overhead compartment. I had to chuckle as he lost his balance and fell quickly back into his seat as the plane made a sharp right turn. Amateur, I thought to myself.
Joe smirked a little at the impatient man. He thought for a moment as he made eye contact with me again. “I want him to choose his own life and not be forced into the LDS church like his mother forced his dad, my son.”
I nodded my head to show my understanding. “So, you are not a Mormon, but I take it your wife is?”
“Correct.”
“And you don’t want your grandchild to be one?” I paused, reflecting on the information previously provided. “Is it a boy?”
“Yes, Rankin David Smith. My middle name is Rankin, and my son’s name is David.” He chuckled, and I could tell his mood returned to a joyful state. “We are not original in this family. We keep re-using names. My dad was Joseph Rankin Smith, too, but again, not the one who started the LDS church.”
I laughed at the thought. I knew the Joseph Smith he referred to died 175 years earlier. I also knew this man’s pain. During my ministry, I had counseled many individuals struggling with the expectation of carrying on the family’s faith traditions. The generational ideology plagued families across denominations. One needed little evidence to know the Joe Smith before me was not a fan of the LDS movement, nor of the fact, his wife must have convinced his son to remain in this tradition.
The eager man in front of us stood up again and retrieved his bag. He continued standing as the plane pulled into the terminal bay. The seat belt light went off, and almost at once, the cabin filled with the sounds of metal clanging as passengers unbuckled their seatbelts. I always waited for the hustle and bustle to end before I even tried to leave.
