While He Is Near

By G.D. Kessler

The story of one convict getting off parole and the account of his life as he attempts to turn it all around and follow God. Andrew Kelchek became a born again Christian in prison and now has the chance to serve his Lord, instead of serving himself.

The town of Hood, South Dakota is a small, uptight town that lacks a heart for the least, the lost and the lonely. Andy’s heart is big enough for all. He wants to help, and despite becoming embroiled in a series of murders, lives a victorious life and makes an impact on the people’s lives he touches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483412597

Book preview

WHILE HE IS NEAR

A STORY IN THE ENOCH CHRONICLES

G.D. KESSLER

Copyright © 2014 G.D. Kessler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1260-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1259-7 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 10/10/2014

Contents

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

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Acknowledgments

Seek the Lord while he may be found, call upon Him while He is near,

Isaiah 55: 6

Chapter 1

I signed the papers with a flourish. I had never thought to see this day arrive. Heavenly Father, I prayed in my heart as I waited for the defining moment, thank You that I have lived to see this day. Thank You that You kept me safe and You answered my prayers in giving me the strength to turn from my lusts and turn to You. Keep me now. In Jesus’ Name, Amen. The gratitude that washed over me as I handed the pen back to my parole officer of five years, Miguel Lannigan, was almost more than I could bear. I felt my breath catch as tightness grew in my chest. I strained to hold back a tear. The paperwork was done; in moments Agent Lannigan would perform his last duty as my watchdog.

I looked up to see him staring at me, a crease where his lips were, disapproval written all across his face. Well? he asked.

A little lost in my feelings, I responded, Excuse me, Mr. Lannigan?

Agent Lannigan, he corrected me, lest I forget who had the badge, the gun and the keys.

Excuse me, Agent Lannigan, I reiterated, striving to remain humble.

He just shook his head. Stand up, turn around, pull up your pant leg, he ordered, and I’ll take that GPS ankle bracelet off. If it was up to me, your kind of filth would have those on until the day you get buried and sent on your merry way to hell.

I complied with his orders, standing up, turning around and pulling up my pant leg. It was truly another blessing; the State of California had so many felons with GPS monitors that they couldn’t afford to track them all once the felon was off parole. I was under a lifetime mandate to wear one, but the state had been running a budget deficit for decades, and lack of funds trumped implementation of law every time.

He dropped to one knee behind me and using the slip key popped the strap loose from the GPS device and lifted it from my leg. Oh, it felt so good! It felt even better to be free of this merciless shackle. I had to plug into an electrical outlet for an hour, twice each day, for the last five years to charge the device. That came out to thirty days a year chained to a power outlet, almost like being in prison again. I turned around and sat down. My leg immediately began to itch, so I scratched it.

Still holding the GPS bracelet, he reminded me in a stern voice, Remember, you still have to obey the sex offender registration law. This is a lifetime mandate. Unlike the GPS law, it is enforced rigidly. And don’t forget, you also have to abide by Jessica’s law; no residence within 2000 feet of any school, park or licensed day care center.

Picking up my motorcycle helmet, which I had put under my chair in his Race Street office, I stood to leave. I held out my hand to shake his.

Agent Lannigan just looked at me like I was some kind of crazy. Remaining seated, he announced, Screw up in the littlest way and we’ll be more than glad to lock you up again for a few years and give you another five years of parole. He made it a point to ignore my outstretched hand.

I guess parole officers were too good to shake the hands of convicted child molesters. Dropping my hand to my side, I turned and walked out of his office and the state parole building. The last words I heard from him as I walked out were, You’ll be back. You all come back.

Standing next to my bike, a 1997 Harley-Davidson 1200 Sportster, I took a few deep breaths of fresh air. It tasted different, and good! It was still a couple of weeks before the first day of summer in this year of 2003. The sky was blue, the air was warm, it was June 5 and I was a free man, the first time in eight years.

Thank you Father, I prayed to my God. Getting on my bike, I started the engine. It was loud as I goosed the throttle, the exhaust noise reverberating off the adjacent building’s brick walls. I had done all the work on the engine myself: polished ports, high torque cams, high compression pistons, S&S carburetor and shorty free-flow exhaust pipes. It was loud and fast and I loved it! I twisted the throttle a few more times waking the dead. I hoped all those dedicated workers for the State of California liked it. They couldn’t do a thing to me now.

Pulling to the driveway edge, making sure I was clear from oncoming traffic, I revved my bike, dropped the clutch and shot out onto the road. The back end of my bike sliding side-to-side as I smoked the rear tire, I accelerated away from the Race Street parole office. I never looked back.

Chapter 2

The mid-morning traffic was mild and I made good time to the area adjacent to my apartment complex. There was a restaurant out front on the corner of Capital Expressway and Snell Avenue called Stan’s. It was open 24 hours a day and the food was decent though not great. I pulled in to celebrate my newfound freedom. Thinking a thick steak and home fries would go well with my new status I walked in and Emily, the senior waitress who had worked there for ages, told me to sit anywhere. I was one of three she was serving.

She handed me a menu when I walked in, and she gave me a few minutes to look it over. I knew it by heart, having eaten there dozens of times, but the specials changed daily. I didn’t even bother to look. I knew what I wanted.

Why, how are you doing this fine day, Andrew Kelchek? she asked, as she walked up to my table, pen in one hand, order pad in the other.

I’m doing especially blessed today, thanks for asking, Emily, I replied to her mostly formal greeting. After this one question, she would continue to call me Andrew; I had never gotten her to call me Andy. I’ll have the T-bone steak, medium-well, home fries, salad with blue cheese dressing, and both water and Coke to drink, please.

It’s the middle of the day, you’re hungry and happy, she spoke, voicing her cognitive processes, and looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. As she wrote down my order, she asked, So, who’s buttered your bread today, honey?

She always used these quaint sayings that sounded down home and rustic, sayings I had never heard before in my entire adult life. Every once in a while I would Google one; the results always turned up null. I was sure she just made them up. Once I overheard two of the old timers that had been coming to Stan’s for years talking, and I heard mention that in her youth Emily had earned a Ph.D. in the Humanities.

Looking up at her and smiling, I held the menu out to her and answered, Please don’t spread it around but I just discharged my five years of parole. I’m a free man, a hungry free man.

Her cheeks dimpled as her face took on a huge grin. She was a people person at heart. Well God bless you, honey. I’m so glad for you! Somehow I knew she really was.

Thank you, Emily, I responded, a little embarrassed now.

No problem honey, relax and enjoy. She walked away placing her pen behind her ear and tearing my order off her pad to give to the cook.

Taking her advice, I sat back and thought about things. There were just over 1100 apartments across the street from Stan’s. Their proper name was Ridgeland, but to all of us who lived there they were known as The Ridges. Having lived there for almost the entire time I had been on parole, I contemplated the law that had put me in them.

Jessica’s law had been implemented with the idea to protect children and young people from sexual predators. The law stated that any convicted sex offender could not maintain a residence within 2000 feet of licensed day care facilities, parks and schools. Thinking this law would help protect children, it made little sense when examined in the light of statistics. According to Justice Department records, over 97% of attempted kidnappings, kidnappings and molestations occurred more than a mile away from the perpetrators’ residence.

The other statistic that flew in the face of the law was that more than half of all molestations were perpetrated by a family member or close personal friend. It was relationship that gave the perpetrator access, not proximity. And, most kidnappings occurred at the residence of the victim, or while the victim was on the way to or from school.

Ridgeland Apartments was one of only three complexes in San Jose, California that met the requirements of the law and sex offenders could live there legally. In my case I lived in a 60-unit complex. More than half of the complex was occupied by families with school age children. Although I didn’t know the exact number, I guessed there were at least 60 sex offenders who lived someplace in the complex; so much for Jessica’s law and safety concerns. It was just another politicized remedy that politicians used to spread the idea that they were handling the problem, and it was better to do something than nothing. This is also known as control by fear, something the government was particularly adept at.

Emily finally showed up with my salad, food, and a bread plate. You go ahead and start, honey. I’ll be back directly with your beverage.

Thanks Emily, I replied, bowing my head and thanking God for my meal. Heavenly Father, thank You for this day You have given me. Thank You for this food You have provided. Please bless the food I am about to eat. Thank You Lord. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

I picked up my fork and steak knife after applying a nice amount of salt and pepper to my meat, fries and salad, and cut myself a nice bite of steak. I had been coming here long enough that it was cooked just right. It was good and for some reason it seemed to taste different, much more tasty. I must have been tasting freedom.

Wasting no time, I tore right in and the plates of food emptied quickly. As I was wiping up some of the last dregs of meat juice with a half-roll, Emily walked up to the table and held out a bowl containing a large slab of hot apple pie smothered in vanilla ice cream and a single candle on top.

What’s this? I inquired around a mouthful of food, very surprised to say the least.

A little celebration pie on the house for you, Andrew. May God keep you on the straight and narrow. She set the dessert down in front of me. Looking at me, all joy aside, she continued, I don’t expect you’ll be around much longer. I’ve seen enough of your type over the years. Yet, you are different. I feel the Lord’s hand on you, so believe me when I say I’ll keep you in my prayers.

I felt that sweet sorrow of melancholy wash over me. My real condition was starting to impact me. I looked away to give me a moment to get a handle on my emotions. Thanks, Emily. I always suspected that you were a true follower of the way. I will make sure to pray for you, too.

As I looked up at her now, a little more under control, I noticed a tear on her cheek. I was so grateful that God had chosen the weak things of the world, the gentle, the meek, and the humble, to save and make His own. I felt blessed and yet so utterly unworthy. How could I ever, even in part, pay God back the debt I owed Him?

I guess that was the point. God didn’t expect me to, and I couldn’t if I tried. That’s why it is grace. If it could be paid back, it would no longer be grace. My only duty was to love God and love my neighbor. I was just beginning to realize how much easier this was said than done.

Chapter 3

The entrance to the Ridges was just down Snell about two blocks and across the street from the restaurant. It took me longer to start my bike and put on my helmet than it did to drive to the security gates of the complex. Ridgeland is what is called a gated community. There were only two entrances, both with electric gates. In the daytime the gate is activated by a laser reading a sticker with a bar code, conveniently placed on a car window or in my case on my helmet. At night the gate is opened by a night watchman.

Not even 1 p.m. yet and the traffic into the complex was light. The traffic out only had to slow down and drive across the one-way spikes that would flatten your tires if you attempted to drive over them in the wrong direction, or made the mistake of backing up after already having driven over them. I drove in through the one open daytime courtesy lane. Putting along slowly because of the multitude of speed bumps, I turned into my unit’s parking area and pulled into my single covered space.

After locking my bike up with a thick chain around one of the steel uprights that supported the overhead cover, I walked to my apartment and climbed the steps. These units were three levels in the middle and only two levels on the ends. I had a nice end unit with my own balcony that faced the rising sun each day.

I had purposely left the air conditioner running while I was gone. Having spent years in hot, sweaty prisons, I took advantage of what creature comforts I could. I made sure I could cover my power usage. Throwing my helmet on the couch across the apartment, my little finch Bluey began singing a tune. I think it was something along the lines about being hungry.

Give me just a minute, Bluey, I told my bird. It was then I saw the answering machine blinking. I didn’t usually get messages on my landline. I tried to only give out my cell phone number since I carried it all the time to ensure I always had communication with my now ex-parole officer.

The answering machine showed one message. I hit the play button. Andy, it’s your brother Jim. It’s about Mom. Call me ASAP, and the message ended. It was a surprise and an immediate worry. My brother, seven years older than my own 58 years, was the good son. More intelligent than I, a self-made millionaire, never on the wrong side of the law, liberal as they come, he had become tired of my continual run-ins with the legal system and pretty much distanced himself from me the last thirteen years.

Our father had died 20 years ago and my mother was currently in her 90th year and in good health for a woman her age, the last I heard. I called her a couple times a month. She lived in Boise, Idaho, and I hadn’t seen her in years. She had managed to move away right before the housing meltdown in California, and had purchased a nice little house in Idaho. My brother had sold his place and moved not too long afterwards, also to Boise, to keep her company. He, of course, purchased his own house there. I don’t know why she choose Boise, except for the warmer weather than her native Colorado, and the fact that decades ago we had a relative who had been governor of that fair state.

Though I rarely talked to my brother, his and my mother’s telephone numbers were the only two I had programmed into my phone’s speed dial. I hit # and then 2. He must have been waiting for the call, just as the second ring began he picked up.

Andy? he asked, urgency in his tone.

Yeah. What’s going on with Mom? I felt no need for pleasantries. Jim would have ignored them anyway.

She had a heart attack about 12 hours ago, she collapsed at home. It’s only because it was our usual Thursday lunch get together that I found her just a few hours ago.

How’s she doing? I kept my mind on the immediate problem. I needed to keep a clear head and not panic. I had been expecting news like this since the day I went back to prison in 1990. I never thought I would see her again. Unlike Jim, an avowed atheist who couldn’t believe in a God that let innocent children and babies suffer and die, my mother and I were both born again Christians and had attended church for years. It was her faith that had impacted my heart for Christ.

Now here it was thirteen years later and the moment I was free and clear to go see her she was in the hospital. I was having a hard time accepting this. What’s her prognosis? I asked, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

It’s not good, he told me. The doctors say it’s a miracle she’s still alive, the majority of her heart muscle is gone. They don’t have any idea how much longer she’ll hang on. I don’t suppose there’s any way you can get permission to come out here, can you?

It was a distance of almost 700 miles, give or take a few, and all I had for transportation was my Harley Davidson. Can I use your address there as my new residence address if I need it? It will only be for a while but it would sure help. I didn’t really want to ask but what could I do.

There was silence on the other end of the line. I knew he didn’t like this at all. I’m sure the last thing he was reminding himself of, as he argued with himself, was that I was his only sibling and our mother’s youngest son. After a few moments of silence, he finally broke down. Yes, he answered, in a voice whose tone said that he had been pushed into a decision he really didn’t want to make. How long before you get here? Will I need to pick you up at the airport?

No, I replied, swallowing hard, I discharged my parole today, I’m a free man. You won’t need to pick me up at the airport, I’m driving. I’ll be there in 24 hours.

You’re driving? I thought you only had your bike? He now sounded more than exasperated.

Yeah, just my Harley. I’m driving and I’m not coming back to California. I’ll see you tomorrow. I waited a moment for protestations and when none came, I hung up. Sometimes even I got fed up with my brother’s attitude. I hadn’t realized until that moment how alike we really are.

I immediately dropped to my knees. Oh Father, let my mother survive until I get to see her one last time. I know this is a selfish prayer but I do love her so, and I’ve missed her so much. Please Lord? And, as I prepare to get on my way, guide me in every decision and make my path straight. Thank You, Lord. Amen.

Suddenly I felt better. A great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It came to me; call my apartment office first. I dialed the number and talked to someone in the lease office. I told them I was leaving my apartment that day, I wouldn’t be back, I was leaving everything in the apartment, and how much would the lease breaking fines and clean-up fees be? They told me they could let me know the total in about 30 minutes. I said I’d be by to write them a check.

Next I called my job. I worked as a senior mechanical inspector in a Santa Clara machine shop called Bob’s Big Machine Shop. It wasn’t really all that big, and the owner wasn’t really named Bob, but it was a machine shop and I knew inspection having worked in the trade for over 30 years. I learned the trade my first time in prison. I told Bob I had to quit due to a family emergency, to deposit my last check as usual through the automatic check deposit system, and that he could have my tools. Bob offered to buy them at a fair price. I said fine, just add the money to my last paycheck.

That took care of my apartment and my job. Two things left, the police station and a last stop at PBCC, my church, to maybe talk with my pastor. I grabbed my big backpack, crammed it with my bible, notebook computer, 3 changes of clothes and my toiletries. Stripping my apartment keys off my key ring, I left them on the counter.

My finch Bluey had not made a sound since I had talked with my brother. Walking over to his cage, I stopped and looked in at him. He was a beautiful bird, totally blue all over. I had picked him for just that reason. He sat on his little swing staring at me, cocking his head from side to side, keeping one eye on me. Opening the cage door I reached my hand in, index finger extended. He hopped right on. It’s time for you to go free, I told him.

I walked carefully over to my patio door that led out onto the balcony. I slid the door open and walked out. Bluey looked around wondering what was going on. He had never been out here before except in his cage. His view of the outside world had always been obscured by bars, until now. I held him up as high as I could.

Go! I commanded him. You are free! I shook my hand. For a moment he clung hard, his small clawed feet gripping my finger. Then with one loud tweet he spread his wings and was off. He flew right into the middle of a small stand of trees that stood between my complex and the next closest building. In moments I lost sight of him. I felt like I had lost my best friend. He never looked back.

I left my apartment and drove over to the rental office, went in and wrote them out a check for four thousand dollars. That left me with two thousand, but if I had anything to say about it I was leaving owing no one anything. Thanking them for their kindness, I got on my bike and headed to the San Jose Police station, behind the courthouse on Hedding Street.

I made it to the San Jose Police Department in under a half hour. I was still ahead of traffic. There were spaces out front for a couple of dozen cars. I parked in the only vacant one. Going inside, there were about 35 people in the lobby. Most of them were men, probably there to register as addicts or a sex offenders. There were thousands of such here in the city.

I stood in line to the reception counter. A uniformed officer dealt with the public, working behind bullet resistant polycarbonate. I eventually made it to the front and got logged into the system to update my sex offender registration. A dozen people were called before me and I was waiting for nearly an hour before my name was called. I had already put on the nametag the officer at the help desk had given me. It also served as a pass into the office areas in the back.

The door that led to the registration area opened as I approached it, and the officer holding the door took a close look at my tag and then asked me, You know where to go?

Yes, I’ve been here a few times before. Thanks, I answered, as I passed by him. I walked down the hallway to the fourth door on the left and turned in. There were three other men waiting in various stages of the registration process. I stood at the counter and a female officer walked up to me.

Narcotics or sex offender registration? She asked.

290, I replied, referring to the California Penal Code that mandated all persons convicted of a sex crime to register their current residence address every year or when it changed. The registration was a lifetime requirement. I pulled out my California driver’s license and my current registration card and handed them to her.

She looked at them to make sure they were current, and then said, I’ll be back in a moment, and turned and walked away. In seconds she was back with the two forms I needed to fill out and handed them to me. Don’t forget to initial everywhere you need to, she reminded me.

Thank you, I responded. I went and sat down and began filling them out. There were a number of boxes to check at the top of the main form. Was this a New Registration? An Annual Update? A Change of Residence or a Deregistration, (which was used when moving out of one local jurisdiction and into another).

If a sex offender did not fill out this paperwork meticulously, he could be charged with a felony and get up to three years in prison and a five year length of parole. My registration was a deregistration as I was not only moving out of the local jurisdiction, but also moving out of the state. I used my brother’s address as my new intended residence. I would have to wait until I got there to check on the applicability of the pertinent local and state laws concerning sex offenders.

I soon had the paperwork all filled out, so I went back to the counter and waited. The same officer came back over to me and took the forms. After checking them over she looked up at me. It’ll take a few moments to enter the information into the database and then get your travel pass typed up. Remember, if you’re found in the State of California five days after the date of issue, you can be arrested for failing to comply with PC 290. Do you understand?

Yes, I understand, I answered her.

I’ll be back, she said, and walked off.

I went back and sat down. After about ten minutes she returned and waved me over to the counter. She held out some forms to me. Sign here, here, and here, she instructed, pointing to the designated spots. I signed where told. Then taking the papers back she checked to make sure I had signed them all, and in the correct places, and then handed me my pass. Good luck to you.

Thanks, I responded. My driver’s license? I reminded her.

She smiled. Oh yeah, sorry. Turning and walking away, she returned quickly and handed me my license. I’m really sorry about that.

That’s alright, I know you’re really busy. Thanks for the help. I turned and walked out. As I went through the door out into the lobby, I went over to the reception counter and handed the officer my nametag, and then walked out to my Harley.

I looked around for a moment and smelled the air. I had been to this police station numerous times over the years to register. Around the corner was the juvenile facility I had spent a year in over four decades before. Next to it was the courthouse, which I had been to dozens of times, and next to that the Santa Clara County Jail. I had started coming there in 1963. This was my whole life.

A lot of my life God did not approve of. But if I hadn’t suffered the consequences for my sin, I never would have really taken a good look at myself. It was in learning and knowing that I was lost and powerless to save myself that I had sought a savior in Jesus Christ. Even my present difficulties with my legal status were from the loving hand of my heavenly Father, as if from a loving father to his beloved son. It was for my best, to bless me and give me life.

I bowed my head. Oh Lord God, thank You for being with me through all that I am going through now. Your timing is right. I am so blessed. Please make my journey to Idaho safe and let me get there in time to see my mother before she dies. Thank You, Father. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

I put on my helmet and my gloves and started my bike. Taking one last look around, I drove out of the police station parking lot. I’m leaving these things behind, I thought, and looking unto those things before; no turning back, no turning back.

Chapter 4

My last stop before leaving the famed Silicon Valley was at Peninsula Bible Church Cupertino. It was located just off Highway 280 and De Anza Boulevard in Cupertino, hence its name. It took me about 20 minutes to get there from the police station. Traffic was starting to get a little heavy now, but most of it was in the opposite direction towards downtown San Jose.

Years before, PBCC had actually maintained separate administrative offices, apart from the worship sanctuary. With the last recession had come a tightening of the belt, and the elders had decided to convert a couple of the classrooms at the church site into office space to get rid of the high rental overhead of supporting offsite buildings. It had worked out well and the money saved had been utilized in support of the church need fund as well as the missionary support fund.

I parked my bike outside the offices and went in. It wasn’t quite 4 p.m. and the office staff usually worked until 5 p.m. As far as any pastors being around, well, that was not an assured thing. A lot of their business took them off site to visit the elderly, the poor, the very sick, as well as hospital visits and also to conduct weddings and funerals.

Gena always had a smile and I believed she really enjoyed working the front desk of the office and answering phones. Her gift was administration and hospitality. It was one that would never propel her into the limelight, but she was in fact a backbone of the church organization. Without Godly, dedicated servants like her and her co-workers, what happened up at the front of the church sanctuary every Sunday morning would not run as smoothly as it did, if at all.

I stood at the front desk waiting for her to get off the phone. The other three women working in the office were busy at their various tasks. As she hung up the phone I greeted her. Hello Gena, is the rabbi in? The title rabbi, lowercase r, was a standing nickname for PBCC’s much beloved lead pastor and Stanford alumni, Brian Gorgan. He loved the Psalms, Hebrew poetry and the Old Testament, which was why he had received his nickname.

She looked up at me and smiled. Hello Andy, you are right on time. He was just getting ready to leave. I’ll call him and let him know you’re here.

Thanks Gena, I replied, as she picked up the phone and used the intercom feature to call the rabbi’s office. After talking a few moments, she hung up and looking up at me said, He’ll be right out.

I didn’t even have time to thank her. Brian was out of his office and quickly approached me with a smile on his face, his hand outstretched. Andy! I’m surprised! I was just getting ready to leave. You caught me just in time.

Hi Brian, I greeted him, shaking the proffered hand. I hope you can spare a few minutes for me, I’m just on my way out of town and I don’t think I’ll be back.

Still holding on to my hand, he clasped our hands with his free one, looking into my eyes. Without turning away from me, he told Gena, We’ll be out in the cry room. Then releasing my hand, said to me, C’mon, we’ll go get a little peace and privacy. He led the way and I followed him.

The cry room was a small room at the back of our worship sanctuary. It contained a couple of couches, a half dozen chairs and had its own bathroom with a changing table. A large pane of glass fronted the room facing the front of the church. There were speakers in the corners of the room thru which Sunday service music and sermons were piped in. Mothers with babies that were creating a racket by their crying could resort to this room to deal with them and love them and tend to their immediate needs without disturbing the rest of the congregation during services. And they could do it all without missing a single word of a sermon or chorus of a worship song.

While the church office was unlocked, the sanctuary and the cry room remained unlocked also. The rabbi walked in and I followed in his steps. We sat down in comfy chairs facing each other. Tell me what’s going on, he ordered, reading my soul through the gateway of my eyes.

I discharged my parole today. So now I am free and clear, I began.

God be praised, he immediately responded. He was well aware of all my legal problems and had seen me go off to prison a number of times. What else? he prodded.

I de-focused, uncomfortable under his gaze. No sooner did I walk into my apartment, my message machine was blinking. My brother had called. He said it was urgent. I called him back. It turns out my mother had a heart attack. She’s in the hospital, unresponsive. It doesn’t look good.

Your mother’s what, 90 now?

Yes, I answered.

I’m sorry to hear about her, he responded. I could see how this was affecting him. A tear welled up in his eye. His own father had died just a few years before, coming to Jesus in his last couple of years of life. He reached out and grabbed both my hands in his, and waited.

It took me a moment before I could continue. The reality was just starting to really set in. My mother and I had never had what one would call a healthy and normal relationship. As a teen I had started using heroin. I used for 23 years. During most of that time I was estranged from my family. In the middle of that period I was in jail once more and escaped, remaining a fugitive for over seven years. Later, after my fugitive status had been resolved, she wouldn’t even let me in the house. If I came by at all she would only talk to me through the kitchen window, not able to trust me in her home.

After I got clean, (and I had been clean for 20 years now), my obsessive sexual behaviors began manifesting themselves. Through it all, my mother had stood by me. A few years before getting clean, in prison once more, I had become a Christian. I had never been able to stop using drugs on my own. In just a few years God got me clean. Then God began working on other of my character defects, working His will out in me and through me. God was still working in me, and I knew that when He was done I would come forth as pure gold.

I quit my job, quit my apartment, took care of what I needed to do at the police station and now I’m driving to Idaho to see my mother, I announced in a quiet voice.

Shaking his head slowly, he responded, Andy, on your Harley? Why don’t you fly? I’ll help you out if it’s a money problem.

I can’t fly; I’m on the No Fly List.

When did this happen? he asked, surprised at this revelation.

I had never shared all my past with him. He had never demanded to know, and this part of my history had never seemed pertinent. I guess it was because of the bombings I was implicated in back in the 80’s.

He stared at me, taking it all in. Deciding to ignore the bombing issue, he said, Alright, you’re driving to Idaho on a motorcycle. You have a place to stay once you get there?

Yeah, I’m going to stay at my brother’s for the first few days.

I thought you didn’t get along so well with him?

I can handle a couple of days with him. He can handle a couple of days with me. Besides, I’ll probably be spending most of my time at the hospital.

So, what can I do for you?

I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving. I wanted to tell you how much I have appreciated your friendship, and your love and your concern for me. Years before my last prison term, I had become engaged to a wonderful, Godly woman whom I met at church. We had gone to Brian for marriage counseling. I eventually called off the engagement after a year and a half because of my sexual acting out. Then, when I went to prison, Brian had kept in contact and written me for years, and when I paroled he had counseled me and mentored me. I owed a debt of gratitude to him. It was his friendship and counsel that helped get me through my parole without picking up a new charge.

I really appreciate your saying that. But I’m just doing what God would have me do. You sure you don’t need money?

I’m sure. Thanks for the offer. I could use some prayer.

He looked at me and smiled, then said, Pray with me, and bowed his head. I followed suit. Heavenly Father, please bless Andy’s long drive ahead. Keep him safe and provide for all his needs. Oh Lord, he’s going to see his sick mother. Let her live until he gets to her so that he may say hello, and good-bye. You, God, kill and make alive. Our short life span is in Your hand. You have it planned out before You knit us together in our mother’s womb. Thank You for this great love. Comfort Andy’s mother right now. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Amen, I reiterated.

That’s it? he asked.

That’s it, I answered.

Brian stood and held out his arms. Give me a hug. I think you need one.

Feeling more than a little foolish, I stood and embraced the man. He hugged hard. Thank you, rabbi, I said, separating from him.

You’re welcome my son. Go with God.

I turned and left the cry room, not trusting myself with any more words. I had been attending PBCC for over 20 years, ever since I had become a Christian. I had a lot of good memories here and I was leaving them all behind. I had never felt lonelier as I got on my bike and drove away.

The freeway was just minutes away. I had changed over my bike’s stock gas tank for a larger five-gallon tank when I had rebuilt the engine. The tank was full and would give me about 200 miles between fill-ups. As I hit the on-ramp to Hwy 280 North, with my tinted visor down no one could see the tears now flowing freely down my face. I had no idea what the next day held for me let alone the next hour. My future was truly in the hands of my God, and I was okay with that.

Chapter 5

I had made the drive a number of times to see my mother after she had moved away and before the last time I went to prison. But it had always been in a car with air conditioning and heating at the touch of a button, as well as a killer sound system, all the comforts of home on four wheels. A two-day trip would do it, spending a comfortable night in a motel and having a leisurely breakfast before finishing the approximately 700-mile drive before noon, unless I slept in.

Driving the trip on a motorcycle all in one shot was something I had never considered before. On the freeway driving towards San Francisco I began to really think about this journey I had embarked upon. Long distance rides on a bike were an entirely different animal. Holding yourself up against the constant force of the wind was wearying in itself.

It also demanded a different sort of attention and mind set. Keeping a good safety distance between myself and the vehicle in front is of paramount importance. On my Harley I had to keep my eyes moving at all times. It was me against numerous other 4000 pound pieces of moving machinery. Even under the best of conditions a motorcycle’s stopping distance in an emergency was generally greater than a car’s.

I had to be careful of cars, and especially long haul truckers that pulled up alongside of me. I had no defense except agility if one didn’t see me and decided to move into the space on the road I was occupying. And, I had no control whatsoever over tailgaters. All I could do was slow up, leaving a huge space in front of me to back off the car behind me and then pull forward into it leaving me a safety cushion both front and rear. Even this tactic often went awry with cars pulling into the void in front of me. A motorcycle just did not