The Whales Are Singing

By D. Dean Benton

Southwood Conference Center was the community her husband had always wanted. While Felicia hid in a government protection program hours away, Brent managed and rehabilitated what had begun as a plantation upgraded for TV, classes, retreat housing and the experiences of a dozen eclectic people, families, clients and broken guests and staff. Felicia had never seen Southwood or met the tribe. She was pretty sure it was not going to be the community she had always wanted. She wasn't even sure she could put her marriage back together. Then she heard the whales singing. Songs of protection, guidance, solutions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Dean Benton
• Release date: Jan 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370822591

D. Dean Benton

A native Iowan, husband of one, father of two and grandfather of three. A pastor, seminar leader, author of 27 print books and 15 ebooks, singer, songwriter. After 14 years in the pastorate, Dean and his wife Carole, with family, worked in concerts, seminars and conferences for three decades before returning to the pastorate. The Bentons worked in forty states in about 3000 venues.

Book preview

Preface

White blossoms. Larger than snowflakes, but they looked like a heavy snow fall. Fragrance. These were different than those flooding the boulevards of Warner Robins. The near white-out conditions of those blossoms beautified, but these would produce what the ornamental fruit trees adorning the streets could not. These blossoms would produce fruit.

Peaches snatched off these trees would be so rich, the juice would run off a person’s hand with every bite.

The orchard was thick with peach trees planted so straight the vinedresser must have used a straight line. The grass under the trees looked like the fourteenth hole at the Masters’. Manicured, full, specially chosen for the terrain, soil and amount of sun required.

On each side of the peach orchard were nut trees. No false promise of figs here. Rows and rows of nut trees. If pecan pie could be smelled in an orchard, it would be here.

Dressed in a Levi jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, Lawrence Jacobs, aka Buddy leaned against a live oak. The jacket protected him from the damp morning. It would soon be too hot for the jacket. He moved only to sight down a row of trees. Closing one eye he measured and found each row even. Fruit or nut, the tree rows stood straight, meticulously pruned and a blizzard of white blossoms.

After sighting each line of trees he returned to the gnarled, twisted oak, to lean one shoulder again and look down the fairway. If you were there, you would ask, What are you looking at? He would look at you as if he momentarily didn’t understand your question.

Dunno, he would say softly and return his gaze between the trees.

If you would hold a mirror before him, he would be startled at the age around his eyes and the gray in his hair. It would seem to him that he was looking at his father, but there was his own scar he had gotten in an Alabama bar fight.

As if he heard a voice, he lifted himself away from the tree and began to walk slowly through the short, damp grass toward the other end of the orchard. After a hundred yards of walking, he stopped suddenly. In the next aisle between the promising blossoms, he saw a child sitting in a plush, brown chair.

What’s your name, little girl?

Sassy.

That’s quite a name. You don’t sound sassy to me.

For some reason, I couldn’t say my real name so, I called me Sassy.

He started to ask what her real name was, but it didn’t seem to matter. The strangeness of sitting in an orchard in a plush armchair better suited for a living room, made him ask.

What is that chair?

This is my great-grandmother’s prayer chair. My Momma told me of waking up in the night when she was a little girl. She would go to her grandmother’s bedroom. When Gran wasn’t there, Momma said she always knew she could find her in this brown chair. She would be sitting in this chair praying. This old chair became known as Gran’s Prayer Chair.

Child, what’s your Momma’s name?

Bethany.

With that, a sound began to move along the tops of the trees. He wondered if he should grab up the child and run for shelter. It had all the powerful sounds of a tornado. But it sounded productive, not destructive. He couldn’t have run had he tried.

Then he saw the girl lift her hands and began to sing. The words he knew, but the tune was her own.

These are they who have come out of great tribulation. She sang the phrase again and again. Dozens of times. The song grew in intensity and volume until the orchard was filled with the words backed by sounds that had been at the top of the trees. A chorus in beautiful harmony and chord progressions. Then she stood, twirled and presented the blossoms as main characters of this drama.

"These are they who have come out of great tribulation;

they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb."

The last phrase came with the power of the Hallelujah Chorus. He recognized the words from Revelation 7:14. Sassy smiled at him just as all the sound from the tops of the trees funneled into him.

Section One

Chapter One

Gone to Southwood

One sheet of note paper written in Felicia’s handwriting.

Oh, man! How did I miss her? He leaned on the railing and beat back sweltering disappointment. He looked at the bouquet of flowers in his hand and concluded they would be wilted by the time he handed them to Felicia. The disappointment ripped out of him the only plan he had and for the moment he had no energy to go to plan B. He touched his wife’s note. He couldn’t have missed her by much. He had known where she was for about four hours with no way to tell her to stay put. He knew it was risky, but most of all he wanted to surprise her and hand her the roses.

He sat on the apartment steps. His legs had lost their strength and his mind was depleted by the lack of hugging and kissing he had anticipated. How many months had he and Felicia been separated? At least protective custody had kept her safe. He hadn’t even known where she was until Chief Thompson and Larry Meade had informed him he could go pick her up and bring her home to Southwood.

There will be no hugging and kissing for a while. He pulled himself to his feet by a hand on the stair rail. He cupped his eyes to look through a window. It was furnished with nothing to indicate she expected to return. No pictures on the mantle kind of stuff.

Can I help you?

If you can tell me that my wife just ran to 7-11 and will be back in a minute.

You got a name?

He was sorry he had said so much. Caution, suspicion and close to the vest had been his absolute rule for a year and a half. Now, just when it seemed safe he may have put his family at risk. He decided to say nothing until the questioner identified himself.

Suspicion pervaded the neighborhood.

I’m the manager and building supervisor. Do you have business here? No doubt he was wondering if he had interrupted a burglary or someone plotting worse.

Maybe I have the wrong address, Brent answered.

Maybe. Why don’t you let me look at an ID. The super reached for his phone.

The stand-off was about to get crowded with a cop. Barrows didn’t know how to get out of this cleanly without saying more than he should.

You’re not from around here—at least your plates aren’t. You got that ID?

In the van. Brent was calculating if this guy was part of the bunch that had been chasing his family. Was he in a box canyon? Will the super be reaching for a weapon, next?

If you’re not here to visit family or fix the furnace, you better get in your van and get the hell out of here. Until I see that you have business here, you are trespassing. Choice is yours.

Stanley, you have a problem? The feminine voice came from, Brent would bet, from the man’s wife.

May have a breaking and entering.

Let me show you my driver’s license. We can go from there.

Stanley looked at the picture and then at Brent. Is that supposed to be you? He handed the license back with a smile and asked if he could help him with something. Brent felt the power shift in his direction. He decided to leverage it.

Police Chief Thompson gave me this address.

I don’t know any Police Chief Thompson.

Oh, Stanley, back off! Mr., that pretty lady left a few hours ago. But if she was expecting someone, she sure didn’t say so. She packed everything she had when she drove in here and told me she was going to go meet her husband. You her husband?

Yes ma’am. I am. At least that note was written by my wife. She didn’t know I was coming here. She’s probably at Southwood by now.

She left here about two hours ago. She packed, gave me the key and tore out of here like she was driving in the Darlington Speedway, the Super said. Brent stuck out his hand and thanked him for help and apologized for any trouble.

Stanley, would you give these flowers to your wife. Looks like I’m not going to need them for a while. The van driver wasn’t sure that he was not in someone’s cross hairs. He got into his vehicle and headed for the Interstate wishing he had driven the Corvette.

Speed limits were ignored as he found the on-ramp to the Interstate. Another flaw in this grand reunion was that no one had a cell phone number for Felicia, if she had one. No one could communicate with her to give her Brent’s number or location. He was betting it wouldn’t take as long to get to Southwood as it had taken him to reach the grungy apartment.

It was supposed to be a surprise that would end in hugging and laughter. Being hassled by Stanley was not part of the plan. Dear God! Was this the new normal? It felt like every next step was going to be into a bear trap.

Chapter Two

Brent decided he shouldn’t be driving eighty-five miles per hour and pulled it back to seventy-three. He turned on cruise control and the radio. He tried to imagine what greeting Felicia would be like. How would she know directions to the Southwood Mansion? Who would be there to welcome her?

Fifteen or twenty minutes into the trip his phone rang. In the time it took him to locate the phone and turn it on, he imagined it would be Felicia or any of his friends to talk about the good news. It was Charlie.

Where are you?

About twenty-minutes closer to you. Felicia should be reaching you in an hour or two. She left a note on the door that she was headed for Southwood. I missed her.

Brent, how far are you from Exit 76? Any idea?

I don’t know—there is a mile marker coming up. Let’s see, maybe an hour or a little more. Why?

There’s been an incident at that spot involving Felicia. We don’t know what, but police are there and have….

What kind of an ‘incident’? Stringing the words, Felicia, Police, Incident together in one sentence did not bring comfort or lower his blood pressure.

We haven’t heard. When Thompson heard the Feds had released Felicia from protective custody, he pushed them for her location. Chief Thompson has friends over there, so he asked them to find her and keep her under surveillance. They charted her probable route and handed her off from one trooper to another. A friend of mine is at that exit.

Incident? What does that mean? Is she alright?

Listen, I’ve told you all that I know. We can do one of a couple things. A trooper can pick you up and take you there, or I can have one of my friends escort you. If you are able to do so, you can put the pedal to the metal and get there.

Has Felicia been injured? What is her status?

We haven’t heard. My brother, hold it together. Drive carefully. Don’t add your dead mangled body to whatever is going on.

I may have to stop and see if I can get my legs back. Call the office and tell Adrienne what you know and have her inform our people. They will pray.

Already done. They are gathering on campus for prayer. I will get back to you with any information that comes in. The troopers will focus on their local duties and won’t let us know until things are secure—whatever that means. Can I have a prayer with you, right now?

Chapter Three

It was the longest seventy miles he could have imagined. Incident suggested car wreck or personal attack. It didn’t come close to anything good. He thought he would pass out from the horrible scenarios he visualized and horrific thoughts consuming his brain. The people who had caused her pain—how would he rectify that? Where would they have her funeral? What would he do? Go? His recent life had been structured on the assumption Felicia would soon return. If she didn’t, what was left of his life? Is this the reward for faithfulness in the face of persecution and sacrifice? If she is dead, do I want to go on? Do I have the guts to end it? How? What is there left to give to others?

So, this is the kind of God he is, C. S. Lewis had said when his wife died of cancer in spite of his praying. God, is this the kind of God you are? While acknowledging that he was not the first; it was the first time that he faced that kind of loss. It must be terrible—she must be dead or gravely injured or they would have told him more about her condition. What were they hiding from him?

Oh, God! She should have had a better life. I failed her. She deserved more than the scrimping, sacrifice, the lack.

There were no tears. Just strange numbness. And there were no prayers. He stopped at rest stops and truck stops to walk around and breathe deeply. Nothing took the edge off. Nothing could stop his legs from shaking. Stronger people might just power through. He was dizzy, his eyes were not focusing, he thought he was going to pass out. Pausing was all he knew to do to offer a greater possibility of arriving in one piece.

God, help us. Only you can do what needs to be done. God, help me. Keep Felicia safe. It was a paltry prayer, but all that he could make come out of this mouth.

He climbed back into the van and pushed himself down the highway to whatever he would find. His neck muscles cramped and he worked to keep his eyes focused and willed himself to stay alert. He swerved to the roadside gravel to stretch and speak to his body and mind. Praying was primitive. Please, God. Assured that God could hear over the noise of his pounding pulse in his ears.

The phone rang. Once! It was Charlie. You doing okay?

Why didn’t you suggest picking me up in a helicopter. As much as I hate to fly it would have been easier than this. What do you know?

There is a Waffle House at exit 76 up on top of the cliff. Felicia stopped there for a pancake, coffee and potty. They have stabilized Felicia. The EMT guy said, ‘I think this is going to have a good outcome.’ That help you any? Sure doesn’t reassure me completely. The call dropped and Brent’s fear rose.

Stabilized? Good outcome? Had they assumed otherwise?

Brent was two miles from the exit. He turned his head to check the rearview mirror and momentarily blacked out. He pulled onto the highway apron and collected himself. In front of him was a warning sign. 6% grade next two miles. The Waffle House was on top of what he estimated to be a 1000 foot cliff. The Interstate was cut through hard rock on both sides with a deep ditch to the left. When he tells this story in seminar Brent says, I could see the headline: ‘Preacher found in van at bottom of thousand foot drop off. Breathing with wet pants.

Mr. Barrows? I’m Officer Pat Bettcher. Charlie Putnam said you were on the way. Your wife is going to be alright. She is at a trauma center about ten minutes away. I’m almost finished here. I will take you in the patrol car or you can drive your own vehicle if you are up to it. Give me five minutes. Why don’t you go inside—get something to drink.

Caffeine didn’t seem like a good idea, but a bathroom did.

Officer, is my wife alive?

Yes. She lost quite a bit of blood, but she’ll make it.

Now Brent felt the tears. Why the fire department was hosing the parking lot crashed into him. They were washing Felicia’s blood into the street drain. He considered the probability that he was going to throw up.

Sir, come in and let me get you some water or something. The uniform told him she was an employee at Waffle House. The waitress had her hair in a beehive on top of her head looking like it was held together by the pencil stuck through it.

No one has told me what happened. Do you know?

Is the hurt lady your wife?

Tell me what you can.

The pretty lady came in and ordered a pancake and coffee and asked to use the bathroom. She looked nervous. White—a lot whiter than pale. She came out of the bathroom looking scared and it seemed to me she was bothered by all the noise. A lot of my regulars on their way home from work—raucous as usual. Didn’t mean any harm. Just good ole boys. They were not rude or discourteous—nothing like that.

Brent looked around. Not a good ole boy in the place.

She took two bites of that pancake and said, ‘Gotta get out here. Will you give me a box to take this?’ She stood up in a hurry and spilled her purse. She just scooped it up and ran out toward her car. And then that guy showed up. It’s a good thing that cop was there or my friends would have…would have taken tree limbs off their trucks and beat him…. Now she was shaking. Hon, I’m sorry for what happened to your wife.

Mr. Barrows, let’s go. The hospital wants me to get you there ASAP.

After a short protest and the assurance someone would bring him back to pick up his van, Brent was relieved. He did not think he could have made it to the trauma center. He would have driven off that mountain road.

The people keep assuring me that Mrs. Barrows is going to be alright.

Thank you officer. I really appreciate your care for her and for me.

You’ll want to thank Sergeant Briggs. He was the trooper on site when it all went down. He’ll be on administrative leave for a while. He’s also at the hospital. Lost some blood too.

It never occurred to Brent that others had been involved and injured.

So the fire department….

Don’t let your mind go there. Skip Briggs is getting some stitches. You’ll have time to say hello. Why don’t you close your eyes. We have about ten minutes.

You married? Brent asked the cop.

"Yes sir. Twenty-three years.

The passenger was going to make a comment about what he was feeling, since the cop would understand. He didn’t have the strength and couldn’t think of the right words.

I’ll get you to the trauma center. She’s going to be alright. Inhale deeply. Relax if you can.

Chapter Four

Mr. Barrows, I’m Dr. Meadows. We just did a second surgery on your wife. She’s going to be in recovery for a few minutes and then we’ll take her to ICU to keep an eye on her. Without anything unforeseen, we’ll move her to a room out on the floor after she wakes up and we make sure all the…surgery went well. A nurse will come and get you and take you to ICU when we get her settled. She’ll need to see a plastic surgeon in about a month. A few months and there will be no evidence this ever happened.

Except for the scars the plastic surgeon will not be able to touch, Brent thought. And scars—where were her scars?

It will be about an hour. You can wait here; go to the ICU waiting room or…. Dr. Meadows looked at his Apple watch. We are a bit after prime serving hours, but you can still find edible food in cafeteria. Too late for sushi, he smiled. This is the day they serve it. We have a great team in ICU. I think Morgan and Matt are team leaders today. They will take good care of her."

Hands were shaken, thanks expressed. Brent decided to find Sergeant Briggs. Surely with his clergy standing he could get in to see him. He found him walking out of the ER.

Sergeant Briggs? I’m Brent Barrows. I understand you saved my wife’s life. How many times will I say that during my life time!

How’s she doing?

They are taking her to ICU for a little while. They tell me she is going to be alright. Thanks to you, and I do thank you.

I’m thankful that we got the word from Thompson and my buddy Charlie Putnam. I didn’t pick up on what was happening quickly enough or your wife wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Our people are tracking down motives and connections.

How are you doing, Mr. Briggs? Any long term damage?

A few stitches and a few days at a desk. I can do that time easily as long as I know Mrs. Barrows is on the mend. My commander is picking me up. We’ll be checking in on her, if that’s okay with you?

Of course. We’ll be praying for your recovery.

It seemed like a cheap payoff for a huge debt. They shook hands and said their goodbyes. Brent wandered to the cafeteria for a chicken-salad sandwich, picked up a white chocolate latte at the coffee shop and settled into the waiting room.

Mr. Barrows, your wife is in ICU. Give us five-minutes to settle her and then come on in.

His chicken salad settled halfway to its intended destination and arrived like road gravel.

She’s going to be waking up in a bit, Madison, the nurse, told him. She’ll be groggy for a couple of hours.

He uttered, Thank you, Madison. Felicia lifted off her pillow and whispered, Brent?

I’m right here. She smiled faintly and went back to sleep.

The power of a lover’s voice. Your voice have the power to raise the dead? Madison wanted to know.

Brent was going to respond and then settled for a smile.

He pulled a chair beside the bed. He disliked and at the same time was thankful for all the monitors, wires tubes. This is not even close to Plan B. The lady on the bed crinkled her forehead to the pain. Her face looked