Provisions

By Larry Richards

This true story of survival centers on the bad things done to him by his father, and the good and wonderful Provisions granted unto him by Jesus, following the brief amount of time he spent with Him as a result of his skull having been fractured by his father at the age of sixteen. Moreover, the author provides proof positive that there is an afterlife. He tells the amazing way that Jesus completely healed his injuries, and he describes many of the Provisions that he has received from Him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Richards
• Release date: Aug 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005318260

Book preview

PROVISIONS

by Larry Richards

Copyright © 2021 Larry Richards

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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ABOUT THIS BOOK

My story can be divided into three parts:

1. The first sixteen years and eight months of my life, under the brutal rule and punishing hand of my father.

2. The brief amount of time I spent with Jesus in His kingdom on June 11, 1960, as a result of my skull having been fractured by my father.

3. The Provisions that He has granted unto me since He sent me back into my body on that day.

The difference between numbers one and three is like night is to day, and as east is from west.

CONTENTS

About This Book

1. Little Wooden Soldier

2. Held Hostage

3. The Calm Before The Storm

4. How I Went To See Him

5. Being With Jesus

6. Sent Back

7. Provisions I And II

8. My Kentucky Home Away From Home

9. Senior Year

10. American Beetles

11. Tommy And Conway Twitty

12. Biblical Clarity

13. Another Provision

14. Another Invention

15. Questions And Answers

Songs By Larry Richards And His Granddaughter

ONE

LITTLE WOODEN SOLDIER

Early June in East Tennessee is almost always postcard-perfect, as far as the weather goes. June 1960 was certainly no exception; the rural, Knoxville, Tennessee road I walked along was not even traveled on enough to deserve a center stripe. The trees reached up at the cobalt blue sky. In ordinary circumstances I would have, at the age of sixteen, been filled with high emotions and the promise of things to come. But circumstances were far from ordinary, in fact. As far as the Tim and Thelma Richards household was concerned, the circumstances were quite extraordinary, indeed.

Our family—Tim, 42, Thelma, 39, sisters Sandy, 13, and Donna, 4, and I—had completed the arduous move back from San Diego, California, just a few days previously. Our car towed a U-Haul trailer, into which we had stuffed our household goods and personal belongings, along with my father’s house-building tools. To put it bluntly, the entire family was exhausted and somewhat on edge; even toddler Donna was not her usual spunky self. Complicating things even further was the fact that we were currently staying in a one-room motel with a kitchenette, so it seemed like we were living in a fishbowl. As I look back now, as a retired electronic engineer, I can still recall that certain sense of foreboding that I silently carried within. The five-day drive had served to stifle my father from erupting into anger, as he often did, due to something large or small. Therefore, both Sandy and I felt as though we were sitting on a powder keg. And yes, silently, because although there was not one person within hearing range, I was already practicing to once again be a good little wooden soldier.

Our motel was located in the town of Halls Cross Roads (or, as the city limit sign said, Halls X Roads), which lay beyond the suburb named Fountain City, on the north side of Knoxville. Teenagers in and around Knoxville had a derisive slang word for Halls—we said it was out in the boondocks. The sparsely populated, pastoral setting could be seen by some as a quiet and relaxing place to be, while some others viewed it as a place with no prying eyes or ears—just the right place to do some evil, dirty deeds to someone, and to get away with it scot-free. My father had used the remoteness of Halls to conceal the outrageous things he had done to me four years previously when I was at the tender age of twelve years old.

As I was walking away from the motel, my mom called to me with an urgency in her voice. Larry, make sure you get back here before your father comes back!

I walked in the opposite direction from the highway where the motel was located, and soon found myself going through farmland. An occasional bridge over a slow-flowing creek broke the monotony. I paused at each creek in order to peer up and down them, trying to spot any wildlife that might be present. I did see a few frogs, a turtle, and a cottonmouth moccasin snake.

I plodded along the country road, knowing that I had an appointment to keep with my father. I rehearsed my outward appearance of passiveness, making sure to have absolutely no expression on my face, to move slowly and with great caution, to be ready to respond to any question he asked with the utmost show of respect. At the dinner table I would not say one word, hoping against hope that my father would view my silence as an act of atonement, and that by not even asking for one of my mom’s five-star dishes to be passed to me, I would be viewed by him as, in fact, making an overt sacrifice. I needed to be seen by my father as nothing less than absolutely perfect, at least on this one occasion.

When I reached the highway, I stopped at the Texaco gas station. Then I put my last dime into the soda machine, withdrew a bottle of Pepsi-Cola, and removed the bottle cap with the opener that was built into the dispenser. Since I didn’t have a penny for the bottle deposit (nor was I in any hurry at all to get back to the motel) I sat on a wooden chair in front of the station and idly watched the attendants fill gas tanks with twenty-eight-cent gasoline and clean the customer’s windshields. One of the attendants asked me if I wanted a job; I shook my head and placed the empty bottle in the rack. A few short blocks later, I was at the swimming pool in front of the motel, where I found my sisters frolicking. They were laughing and splashing, with Sandy sitting in the wading area and keeping watchful vigil over our baby sister. I saw that the family car, a white 1959 Ford Galaxy four-door sedan, was sitting in front of our room’s door, indicating to me that my father was back from his errands. I gave a furtive glance at the door and windows of our motel room to make sure I wasn’t being scrutinized by my father, then asked Sandy if she had seen him since he had arrived back home. I asked a follow-up question, wondering if he