Hope Breaks Through: Hope Trilogy, #3

By Jim Baton

Award-winning author Jim Baton believes revival is coming to America. This is part three of the story of what it might look like--

 

The tension in the town of Hope builds to a climax in this thrilling conclusion to the Hope Trilogy. A major setback for those pursuing a citywide transformation drives them back to the House of Prayer and opens them to new partnerships with others. Change begins to infiltrate the spheres of business, education, media and the arts, resulting in all-out war with a corrupt government. Teenagers Kelsey and Harmonie are once again at the epicenter of shaking their city as they investigate a murder and fight for social justice, determined to see their town finally come into its destiny.

 

The Hope Trilogy is written for those who are hungry for God's revival and transformation of their communities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Baton
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393156994

Jim Baton

JIM BATON has spent the last 20 years living in the world's largest Muslim nation, building bridges between Muslims and Christians who both desire peace. Jim is also a frequent speaker at interfaith and peace events internationally.  To contact Jim or to learn more, check out Jim's blog at www.jimbaton.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There are fifty cities and towns around the world named Hope, but surely at this moment, mine looks the most hopeless.

Kelsey Axel rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, wide awake. Around 2:30 a.m. she’d been awakened from her fitful sleep by a crash. She’d leaped out of bed and locked her bedroom door, checked to make sure her windows were locked too, then she’d hidden in her closet. If a burglar wanted to rob the rest of the house, she wasn’t going to stop him.

No other noises followed. Maybe it had just been the wind, or raccoons turning over a trash can. Eventually, she’d climbed back into bed.

Now it was 4:30 a.m., and she still couldn’t get back to sleep.

Staying home alone never used to bother her. But with all the strange things that had happened recently. . . .

She wondered how her father was sleeping in Hope’s one and only jail cell, shared with three other people. No doubt her father and Joe were on the floor so her teacher Ms. Montez and Miguel’s mother Juana Alvarez could sleep on the narrow bed.

She prayed again for them to make it through the night alive. Miguel’s father hadn’t lasted five minutes in the jail before the sheriff shot him, ostensibly for trying to escape. She didn’t trust Sheriff Kurgel one bit.

Trust God, she reminded herself.

For the hundredth time that night, she asked herself how it had come to this. All she and Harmonie were guilty of was researching the town’s past for a stupid high school newspaper article. All her father was guilty of was starting a tiny Saturday night prayer meeting for revival. All Raul Vallejo, the town’s only lawyer, was guilty of was trying to help the Latino workers receive fair wages. And all Jon Beckenridge, the editor of The Gazette, was guilty of was trying to run for mayor against the powerful incumbent, Raynor Tulls.

Then on Thanksgiving evening Mr. Beckenridge was shot in his office, and his assistant, poor old Joe, falsely arrested for the murder. The following night Raul was killed when his house was blown up, sparking riots and looting by angry Latino mobs. Miguel’s mother was arrested for being an undocumented immigrant, Ms. Montez for hiding her, and Kelsey’s father just for wanting to keep a close eye on the prisoners so no more executions happened.

They’d tried to bring a positive change to the town, and they’d failed.

There were no people of influence left to fight for them—the mayor controlled the government and the sheriff. They’d lost the power of the law and the power of the press.

What could a seventeen-year-old do?

Not to mention her friends were no help. Harmonie’s parents had grounded her from spending time with Kelsey. A bad influence—she’d heard that before. Bennett blamed her and Miguel’s documenting the Latino community’s unfair wages for inciting a riot. His uncle had barely escaped with his life when the King Soopers grocery store was looted.

Now Miguel was hiding from the sheriff and not answering his cell phone.

Kelsey couldn’t remember ever feeling this alone in her life.

And yet. . . .

Another question she’d asked herself a hundred times was whether what she’d seen last night was real.

In her mind she pictured the angel again—tall, strong, with brilliant white hair and piercing blue eyes, wings folded behind his shoulders, standing right there in her living room. When he spoke, she felt things surging like waves inside of her: strength, approval, faith.

Was it just a dream?

Maybe it didn’t matter if it was real, or if it was a dream. Either way, she could still feel the peace when he’d touched her forehead. She could still feel the courage to battle on in spite of how hopeless things looked.

Mayor Tulls had money and power. He had the sheriff in his pocket. The mayor’s wife was probably a witch. One by one he was eliminating all who opposed him.

But Kelsey had freaking angels fighting with her.

It had been a long time since Kelsey had started the day by reading the Bible, but today . . . today she knew she needed all the help she could get.

She flipped on the light and rolled out of bed onto her knees. From under her bed she pulled out a dusty wooden box that held her most precious possessions.

Underneath the tattered remnants of her baby blanket, she found her mother’s Bible.

Kelsey was only six when her mother died in a hiking accident. For a while she would read a verse every day from her mother’s Bible as a way of remembering her. Over time, she lost that habit, as well as most of her memories of her mother. The Bible became a symbol of what she’d lost. She quit attending the church where her father preached. She always knew God loved her, but He seemed so far away. Like her mother.

Until recently. Now he was almost too close for comfort.

She ran her fingers over the embossed words on the leather cover.

God, I need you here with me now. Show me what to do.

A pink bookmark caught her eye, pink with little red hearts glued to it, laminated, with a pink tassel. She remembered—it was her kindergarten project she’d made for her mother for Valentine’s Day. The bookmark was in Hebrews chapter ten. Her eyes were drawn to the end of the chapter.

Remember those earlier days after you had received the light, when you endured in a great conflict full of suffering.

Her mind jumped to the angelic lights she’d seen when Joe’s leg was healed, or when God had rescued Harmonie and her from death. They were certainly in a great conflict right now.

Sometimes you were publicly exposed to insult and persecution; at other times you stood side by side with those who were so treated. You suffered along with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you yourselves had better and lasting possessions. So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded.

This is what her father and her teacher were doing right now in prison. God would reward them. But what about her? She kept reading.

You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. For, ‘In just a little while, he who is coming will come and will not delay.’ And, ‘But my righteous one will live by faith. And I take no pleasure in the one who shrinks back.’ But we do not belong to those who shrink back and are destroyed, but to those who have faith and are saved.

That last verse hit Kelsey like a Mack truck. Hadn’t the angel said these exact words? She closed her eyes to hear the angel’s words again: You have not shrunk back in the day of trouble. Our Father is pleased.

Those who shrink back are destroyed. Those with faith would be saved.

With her eyes still closed, Kelsey prayed that God would increase her faith. That no matter what happened, she would not shrink back. That he would come and save her town without delay.

Then God brought another direction from the angel back to her mind, that she was supposed to begin with Feston Smith, the elderly black man in Harmonie’s neighborhood.

Kelsey stood and laid the Bible gently on her night stand. Might be a good idea to keep it close by.

It was still dark outside as she got dressed, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed to find Miguel and visit Uncle Fes.

Maybe she couldn’t do anything to get her father and the others out of jail, but at least she could obey the angel’s words and have faith that God would save them all.

Chapter 2

After an hour of wandering the streets of Hope in the biting chill of pre-dawn, Kelsey found Miguel Alvarez curled up on the asphalt behind the Armistice High School gymnasium.

Miguel? she called from several feet away, not wanting to startle him.

The wiry boy’s head jerked up, his eyes relieved when he realized who was speaking. He sat up with his back to the wall and rubbed his face with both hands.

She came closer. Aren’t you freezing out here? You should have come to my place.

From behind his hands she heard, . . . afraid the sheriff would look there.

She knew why he’d come here. This wall was where he’d painted the mural that told the story of Hope McCormick, whom the town was named after. This wall was where God’s presence first drew near to them, and where Joe’s crooked leg was miraculously healed.

The sheriff had made the school paint over the mural, and Joe was in jail, but if God had visited them here once, maybe he’d do it again.

Kelsey sat shoulder-to-shoulder beside Miguel, hoping their combined body heat would push back the cold. He shook his shoulder-length black hair and blew out a cloud of breath.

Why didn’t you answer my texts? Kelsey asked gently.

Battery died. Miguel tucked his hands inside his beat-up black jacket and stretched out his legs till his scuffed black sneakers caught a tiny sliver of the dawn’s rays.

Where’s your little sister?

One of our neighbors agreed to hide her from the sheriff. I didn’t know where I could take her.

Wanna come back to my house and get some breakfast?

Not hungry.

When Kelsey had first met Miguel back in August, he’d been a sullen introvert, vacillating between being angry and disengaged. But since painting the mural, he’d changed dramatically. She really hoped everything that had happened in the last thirty-six hours wasn’t going to undo his metamorphosis.

She wasn’t sure if she should tell him about meeting an angel or not. So far, Miguel was one of the few that seemed to believe everything she said. But was this too much for even him?

She settled on a safer topic: How are you feeling?

He blinked a few times, and she wondered if he would blow her off. But he didn’t.

I’m worried about my mama. If the sheriff lays a hand on her I’ll kill him. And I’m worried about Raquel. What will happen if Mama gets deported? I can’t raise an eight-year-old.

The muscles in Miguel’s jaw were so tightly clenched, she was sure his fists under his jacket were clenched too. She remembered Miguel’s reaction when he found out that Sheriff Kurgel shot his father—he nearly clawed Kurgel’s eyes out.

But the last thing Raquel needed right now was her only remaining family member getting arrested.

She put her hand around Miguel’s biceps. Hey, I need a friend to go with me to meet Harmonie’s neighbor, an old grandpa named Feston Smith.

He turned his face away. Why not Harmonie?

Her father won’t let her see me. Besides, I’d like to do this with you.

She waited. Miguel ran a hand through his hair. I must look terrible.

It’s that wild, genius painter look the girls go crazy for.

He gave her a sideways glance. Fine.

They stood up and brushed off their jeans. The sun was peeking up over the Deats Ranch to the east. Kelsey corrected herself—the Petersons’ ranch now that Arthur Deats had returned the land his father had basically stolen from the Petersons seventy years ago. Kelsey had many fond memories there, swimming at Cougar Creek with Harmonie. Hopefully the Petersons would still let kids go up there to swim.

She caught Miguel staring at her hair. What?

He nearly blushed but covered well. The sun’s rays make your hair look almost red. I should paint you like that sometime.

Now she felt like blushing. Come on. She headed south on Third Street and Miguel fell into step beside her.

They passed the scorched ruins of the Bastion Public Library at the corner of Main Street, then passed the Presbyterian church parking lot where she and her father liked to shoot baskets. After several more homes, they passed their Journalism teacher’s house, with no lights on since Ms. Montez had spent the night in jail.

After crossing Gov. Routt Avenue they passed the livestock auction corral, and a block later they crossed Kit Carson Avenue and entered the African-American section of town.

Kelsey spotted the FOR SALE sign still posted in front of Harmonie’s grandmother’s house. Losing her grandmother back in August had been a terrible blow to Kelsey’s best friend. It had only been one day of grounding, but Kelsey already missed Harmonie. They’d done everything together since Kelsey had moved to Hope freshman year. She really hoped Harmonie’s dad would chill out and let them be together again soon.

I’m pretty sure it’s this house. Kelsey pointed to the house next to Harmonie’s grandmother’s, the house on the corner, but she didn’t head up the sidewalk right away. The only other time she’d been here, Feston Smith had called to her from the porch swing. She checked her cell phone. It was barely after seven o’clock. Was it rude to visit someone so early on a Saturday morning? What if they were sleeping in?

Maybe they should come back later. This was a crazy idea anyway—what would she say, that an angel sent her?

Just then a light turned on in the house. The next thing she knew, Uncle Fes, as everyone called him, was standing in the doorway.

Lord, you’re right again! he said with his eyes to the heavens. To them he added, Well, come on up and sit on my porch for a spell.

He pointed to the porch swing. Now lemme get out o’ this here robe. Be right back.

As they used their toes on the wooden floor to get the swing rocking, Miguel whispered, Why are we here?

You’ll see, Kelsey answered, hoping that she’d see as well.

While they waited, Kelsey craned her neck to see two doors down, hoping Harmonie would step outside. Everything looked quiet. She knew her friend liked to sleep in on Saturdays. She sighed.

Uncle Fes returned dressed in dark slacks, a white flannel shirt, and red suspenders. His full head of white hair was slicked back, his white moustache slightly curled at the edges. His right hand held his usual walking cane, and his left carried a small folding table.

Set this up for me, will ya, son? he asked Miguel.

On his next trip, Uncle Fes carried a folding chair for himself and adjusted the table so they all could reach it. Then he cautiously lowered himself into his seat and exhaled loudly.

He looked up at them with a broad smile. The Lord told me you’d be comin’ by today, he said to Kelsey. And He gave me a message for ya: ‘Do not fear. There are more for ya than those agin’ ya. This ain’t no time to shrink back, but to act with courage. You’ll see the salvation o’ the Lord.’

Kelsey nearly fell out of the swing. The same words the angel had said. The same words she’d read that morning. Now God had told Uncle Fes to give her the exact same message—don’t shrink back. This was amazing!

Before she could say a word, Uncle Fes had turned to Miguel and introduced himself. They shook hands.

As Uncle Fes held Miguel’s hand, he paused. These hands are anointed. Are you . . . are you a painter?

Kelsey could see Miguel’s neck jerk backwards. Yeah. . . .

He’s the one who painted the HOPE mural on the high school, she interjected.

Uncle Fes released Miguel’s hand with a smile. I heard ‘bout that. The night Joe Fourney got healed, am I right? They both nodded.

Oh, the Lord is doin’ those ‘awesome things that we did not expect’ in our day. So glad, oh so glad I’m alive to see it!

An elderly woman pushed through the front door with a tray that she set on the table—two glasses of orange juice and one cup of coffee. She gave them a quick glance with narrowed eyes, her lips tightly pursed.

Ginny, this here’s Kelsey, and this here’s Miguel, two of the Lord’s favorites. Don’t you wanna say, ‘Good morning’?

But Uncle Fes’s wife disappeared into the house without a word.

Do ya’ll know what all that racket was last night?

Kelsey realized that here on the south side of town, they might not know about the riots up on Main Street. She told Uncle Fes of all the terrible events since Thanksgiving.

Lordy! I could feel the darkness. Now I understand.

Has there had been any restlessness in the African-American community?

He shook his head. All quiet down here last night. I’ll make sure our folk are prayin’ and ain’t causin’ no trouble. That ain’t no way to fight a battle. Our enemies ain’t flesh and blood, but principalities and powers. A spiritual battle requires spiritual weapons and spiritual forces—you know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, don’t ya?

He gazed keenly at Kelsey until she wondered if God had told him about the angel visiting her too. Maybe there was no need to tell him.

What do you mean by ‘spiritual weapons’? Miguel asked.

Uncle Fes chuckled, Now sump’in tells me you already done stumbled into some o’ ‘em. Your art, for instance, carries the power to break chains.

He turned to Kelsey, "And your pursuit o’ the truth—truth is a powerful weapon that sets people free.

There are many others: fastin’, thankfulness, worship, intercession, the Word o’ God, prophecy, testimony, lavish generosity, apostolic decrees, travailin’ prayer, the martyr’s blood, even unreasonable love is a weapon. In the face o’ these, strongholds crumble, demons flee, chains break, sickness bows, lies lose their influence, sin loses its power, even death can be defeated. The people o’ God who wield these weapons will be more than conquerors.

The angel had used the words more than conquerors. It was clear now why he’d sent her to Uncle Fes. She had so much to learn.

"You mentioned travailing prayer. Travail means, like, painful effort, right? When I saw Miguel’s mural, I began to cry. As I prayed for the town, my weeping grew so strong it almost overpowered me. Is that what you’re talking about?"

’Zactly. Travailin’ prayer taps into God’s emotions. Romans chapter eight says the Spirit prays within us with ‘groanings too deep for words.’ It’s a great privilege to unite your heart with God’s heart, to feel even a tiny glimpse o’ the emotion he feels.

She nodded. She knew she’d never forget that moment.

Miguel had another question, What if what you feel is anger?

Uncle Fes cocked his head and considered Miguel for a moment. As he did, his wife appeared again with plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.

You didn’t have to do this! Kelsey exclaimed. Mrs. Ginny, you’re so sweet!

Miguel chimed in with his thanks, but the woman still refused to smile. She returned indoors.

My Ginny has a heart o’ gold, and a million-dollar smile, Uncle Fes quipped. It’s worth a million dollars ‘cuz it’s so rare. He laughed.

His laughter extended straight into a prayer: Lord, we’re so grateful for your bounty, for pourin’ out your Spirit on our sons and daughters. You have done great things. Glory! He started munching on some bacon, signifying the prayer must be over.

Uncle Fes hadn’t forgotten Miguel’s question. Why you angry, son?

Miguel looked down. Then he kicked Kelsey under the table.

She answered for him: Uh . . . the sheriff killed his father.

For the moment Uncle Fes put down his bacon and his fork. I’m so sorry, son. Losin’ a father . . . that’s a mighty big loss, that is. I can feel your anger. I lost mine at age nine. Would’ya like to hear the story?

Miguel stayed silent. Kelsey nodded.

"My father, he come to Hope ‘cuz there was work in the coal mines back then. Hamesh Tulls had a mine out east o’ here. They used the most dangerous type o’ coal minin’ in those days called retreat minin’. You know what that is?"

Kelsey shook her head and took another bite of breakfast.

"Well, the underground mine is held up by pillars o’ coal. When there ain’t no more coal left, they start pullin’ out the pillars so they don’t lose no profit on that coal, even though it’s sure to cause a cave-in.

"The first pillar took the lives o’ three black men. But Hamesh Tulls, he sent three more in to pull out the second pillar. They barely escaped with their lives.

"My father was the last black man left. Tulls sent him in with a little Chinese man and the only white man he could talk into it, a fellow named Lucky. Actually, his real name was Luke, and he was Stafford Beckenridge’s baby brother. Now Lucky, he was a bit slow in the head, and Hamesh convinced him he was too lucky to die.

But that third pillar took three more lives, includin’ my father’s. Stafford made sure the whole world done hear ‘bout it. The governmen’ come in and shut down the mine and made Tulls pay us a small compensation. Three months later, we was out o’ money and had no income, and Hamesh Tulls, he done swap minin’ for politics and was runnin’ for mayor.

Now it made sense to Kelsey why Jon Beckenridge had always resented the Tulls family. She commented, And the Tulls family have controlled the mayor’s office ever since.

Did you hate Hamesh Tulls? Miguel asked.

I did, Uncle Fes admitted. I carried that hate to the Vietnam War. Took some shrapnel to my leg here, and I come home a broken man. Took many years for God to heal me—not my leg, I mean my heart. It’ll take you some time too, son. My advice to you kids is, don’t pray agin’ the sheriff or the mayor, just pray for God to bring all hidden things into the light. Pray that he’ll establish justice and righteousness in our town. God’ll deal with ‘em when the time is right.

They both nodded.

Uncle Fes finished his bacon and wiped his moustache with his sleeve. And if either of ya ever be in trouble and ya need a place to come, my house is always open to ya, ya hear?

Miguel might need a place to sleep tonight, Kelsey said, and received another kick under the table for it.

Son, you come in any time you want. Our door ain’t never locked. Jes’ head down the hall to the last door on your right, and our guest room will be ready for ya.

When they’d finished breakfast, Kelsey and Miguel stood to go.

Please thank your wife for us, she said.

I will. A pleasure to have ya both, a real pleasure. Next time, bring Harmonie ‘long with ya. Where is that girl?

Her parents are worried about her spending time with me. Bad things seem to happen when I’m around. Kelsey grimaced.

Well, I’ll just have to have a little chat with ‘em ‘bout that. Uncle Fes rose and opened his arms to invite both into a hug.

When they separated, his parting words were, The anointin’ is strong on ya both. I be keeping ya both in my prayers.

Chapter 3

When the morning sun appeared through the broken front window of the sheriff’s office, Bret Axel stood to his feet and stretched his aching limbs. He’d never been very good at sleeping on the floor, much less on a concrete one. Plus he’d shivered with cold all night long, the November wind whistling through the window. Three feet away, Joe Fourney was curled up on the floor snoring contentedly, like it was his home away from home. Bret wondered if Joe had been a frequent visitor to this jail cell back when he was known as the town drunk.

He thought back to the last time he’d slept on the floor . . . probably back in Kansas City, when Kelsey was a baby, and they thought they were going to lose her. Dana and he spent the night at the hospital, doing more praying than sleeping. He remembered promising God that if