The Long Way Home: a Journey to Recovery and Redemption

By Jonathan C Wiles

This story begins with the exciting and unpredictable journey of a young man as he comes of age as a traveling musician and poet. His journey takes him across the country through various subcultures and the musical underworld. He experiences the thrill of adventure and discovery but also succumbs to substance abuse and addiction, emotional and relational issues, brushes with the law, and eventually, a near suicide.

Through spiritual healing and a long and hard look at the truth about himself and his purpose, he learns to live and love again. He comes to understand that life is about using the experiences God had brought him through—the hard times and the good, the graceful ones and the talents, and the knowledge He has provided—to live a life with true purpose, meaning, and peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973663102

Jonathan C Wiles

Jonathan C Wiles is an accomplished writer of prose, poetry, and song. He has spent a lifetime living an artist’s life as a songwriter and poet, and dealt with the underlying depression and emotional issues that often accompany creative people of this ilk. He has battled substance abuse and self destructive tendencies, almost losing his life before finally finding recovery through the healing grace of God and the truth of love, faith, and family. This book is the story of his journey to redemption and peace. Jonathan is a member of the Mississippi Writers’ Guild, Mississippi Poetry Society, and Mississippi Music Program. He treasures everything outdoors, most likely to be found exploring the enchanting forests of the western North Carolina mountains and the mysterious swamplands of the Mississippi Delta. He finds his inspiration in nature, music, a life of hard-earned lessons, and the faith cultivated by God and his loving family. You may contact the author at the following email: [e-mail]

Book preview

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

I can’t really say for sure when I began to feel like I had to be someone different in this bittersweet life that so many seem to take for granted. I only know that I always felt strange stirrings deep in my heart that made me want to cry for my loss of time, wonder at the miracle of living, shout at the world for their lack of passion, or sometimes simply run away. I guess everyone feels these emotions at one time or another, but I purposely confronted my frequent pensive thoughts. I was overly sensitive, but I longed for the heart of a warrior.

From the time I was a young child, I would take long aimless walks in the woods and daydream about timeless things. Blessed to be the first child and grandchild in a family that loved me though didn’t really understand me, I had the opportunity of freedom and privilege. I grew up in the woods in South Carolina, and this was a timeless experience. The son of a cowboy-turned-preacher from Oklahoma and a girl from Mississippi, I lived a traditional and isolated, yet cultured life.

Early on I found that the great mysteries of the wild and the ancient secrets on the wind drew from my heart simultaneous feelings of sorrow and joy. I became somewhat of a lone wolf despite the love around me, and I spent increasing hours lost in my thoughts. As I grew, and my musings matured, I discovered that music, sweet music, could stir my soul like nothing else.

This is how I found myself to be nineteen years old, sitting on a polished wooden stool at the Moondance bar, drinking cold beer illegally while waiting for the open music competition to begin. This was a typical night for me as of late. Always wondering about my destiny, I’d tried the college thing but couldn’t seem to find the motivation. I felt I was different, somehow, and fated for the life of an artist. I could feel the music in my soul, and if the songs I wrote could touch someone, somewhere, on the right night, I knew I’d have my chance.

It was also true that the girls like the guys with guitars, a fact that had always appealed to me in my chosen pursuit of artistic expression and recognition. As I glanced around the crowded barroom my eyes landed on a brown-haired girl in a cotton flower-print dress and dark leather boots sitting alone in a booth with her drink. I sidled on over slowly but confidently.

Hey, how’s it goin? I asked.

Alright she replied, looking quickly up through her long eyelashes before diverting her gaze back to her drink and stirring it idly.

You play guitar, huh?

She had noticed.

Yeah, I’m a songwriter and I’m gonna play a couple of my own tonight.

That’s cool she said, a little too nonchalantly I thought until I noticed her watching the bouncer approaching the booth briskly with a heated look on his face.

Let me see your i.d., man he growled.

I found this request a little strange seeing that he was the same individual who had let me in the bar earlier knowing that I was part of the evening’s entertainment and that I wasn’t of age.

And why are you talking to my girl?

Ah, now it made sense.

I slowly backed away, palm raised in a gesture of apology.

It’s cool man, I’ll just get back to my table and wait for the music to start.

He took a step closer.

I said, let me see your i.d., punk.

I didn’t like somebody in my face calling me punk, and it seemed to me that he was just using his position of authority to show off in front of his girlfriend. I coolly stared him down for a couple of seconds, holding my ground, but I was determined to diffuse the situation peacefully because I was there to play.

Look man, I said, we both know I’m underage. Y’all let me in here and serve me because I’m a musician and most people around here seem to dig my grooves. I’ll pour out my beer, and we can both just sit down and chill out, alright?

For some reason, this attempt at placation didn’t go over well with him. He looked at his girl, looked at me, and said no, I had to leave now. I was getting a little irked by this point, but it wasn’t worth it to me to get in trouble over this guy’s power trip. I stared at him again with cold eyes, then turned around toward the bar to get my stuff and go.

Apparently, he thought I was ignoring him. He grabbed my shoulder, spun me roughly around and pushed me over a chair, yelling, Get the hell out now!

I’m not a big guy, and I’ve never been one too prone to violence, but I don’t shy away from a fight, either. This guy had crossed the line, and my temper flared. I found my feet just as he came at me again. I sidestepped his next swing, countered with a right hook and felt satisfaction as my fist solidly found its mark. Unfortunately, it was the only good lick I got in.

The next thing I knew, two of his buddies had grabbed me from behind, and I was getting whaled on from all sides. I fought with a fire, but three on one just isn’t a fair fight. They continued to beat on me, then pushed me out the door and kicked me down the hard concrete steps onto the cold street.

My body was battered and bruised, but my ego was the worst off. I drug myself down the dark street to my old truck, angrier and more hurt than I’d ever been in my life. The only thing I could think was that this wasn’t over. I found the mostly full bottle of whiskey stashed beneath the springs of the seat and sat back stiffly to think it over. I would have my revenge, I thought, and it would be tonight.

After about an hour or so, I was definitely doing worse than before. The potent drink just added fuel to the fire already burning within me, and my good judgment was long gone. I had a plan. I would show those guys that they had messed with the wrong boy that night, and I’d scare them into a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget. In my clouded thinking, I knew I had been wronged, and I knew I couldn’t live with myself unless I had redemption.

Unwisely, I put the key in the ignition and fired her up. I revved the engine a few times and tore out onto the highway with a smoky screech of my tires. I put the pedal down and made fast time back to my house in the quiet countryside, all the while continuing to drink on the bottle as the sharp night wind rushed through the windows. I was driving, but it wasn’t really me behind the wheel that night. It was the demon of rage and whiskey.

I made it to the house and parked at the top of the gravel driveway and cut my lights. Using only the pale glow of the moon to guide me, I sneaked through the woods to the back door and slipped in without waking anyone. Stealthily I crept through the house, up the stairs, and into my room. I groped around in the darkness until I found what I was looking for. I slipped three rounds of bird shot into the trusty twenty-gauge and snuck back out, careful to leave the door unlocked behind me. Five minutes later I was headed back down the highway, no one the wiser for my having been there. Little did I know then that the events of this night would alter the course of my life forever.

As I cruised through the darkness, I tried to formulate a plan of action that would allow me to get in and out of the bar parking lot without detection. I decided on a sneak attack by foot. I would creep in, shoot out the lights and windows, and be gone before anybody at the bar knew what had hit. It was late now, and the only people left would be the employees. I would send a message that they had messed with the wrong guy that night. Sure, they would know I was the shooter, but they couldn’t prove what they didn’t see.

I parked the truck a few blocks down in an unlit alley, took of my shoes, and began a silent stalk. Nearing the entrance to the bar, the neon lights cast an eerie green glow across the empty street. There was enough light to see by, but it was still dark enough for me to remain in the bushes undetected. Finally, I was in range. As I rose up slowly and drew a bead on the big fluorescent lights, I began to doubt my getaway plan. It would probably be only a matter of minutes after I fired before the county cops would come screaming down the road toward the bar. After all, it wasn’t every night that somebody shot up one of the local hangouts.

All right, I thought, I’ll pull a drive-by instead. That way I can make it out of here before the law shows up. I retraced my steps to the truck and quietly slipped back in.

After cruising the block a few times, I had determined that the parking lot and surrounding streets were empty. I took a left into the entrance of the bar, cut my lights, and slowly turned so that the entrance to the bar was facing the passenger side door of the truck. That way I figured I could make a right back out onto the road and be gone before anyone came outside, if they did. I rolled down the passenger window, glanced around one last time, and slowly raised the barrel up toward the door. All those years of target shooting and hunting came back to me, and instinct took over.

Boom, boom, boom! The entrance disintegrated in a brilliant explosion of sparks and glass. Shot number one took out the left front light, shot two got the right side, and shot three blew apart the entire glass window running across the top of the entrance. Bull’s-eye!

Though I was shooting a pump and had to eject each shell manually, I’d grown up with that shotgun in my hands. There was less than a second between each explosion, and I was in and out in less than ten. Tearing out of the lot, I remembered the shells that had ejected cleanly through the window. Fingerprints! Slamming into reverse, I backed up wildly, jumped out and gathered up the evidence, and was gone again. Still, no one was in sight. Three miles down the road I passed a stream of five or six squad cars flying in the opposite direction, blue lights blazing and sirens wailing. I watched nervously in the rear-view mirror, but they didn’t turn around.

Life went on like normal for the next few days. I went to work, hung out with friends, and played my guitar. Something in me had changed, though. I’d always had a wild spirit, but the urge to roam was strengthening, and circumstances seemed to dictate that I had to get out of that town. The decision was clenched about a week later when I found a plain white business card from the detectives pinned ominously to the front door. It requested that I call them immediately.

It took a lot of nerve, but with shaking hands I finally picked up the phone and made the call that afternoon. They told me to come on down to the station, they had some questions I needed to answer. They’d explain when I got there. I tried to play dumb, but they knew, and I knew what it was all about, and I hoped they couldn’t hear the signs of guilt laced into my quivering voice.

Driving down to the city that day, I found my mind wandering in a hundred different directions. They know. They can’t know. Your life is over. Don’t sweat it. What have you gotten yourself into? Run! I decided to follow the advice of my wise friend George, and just shut up and deny everything when questioned.

Arriving at the station, I dragged myself up the wide steps, steeled my nerves, and put on my best poker face. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and approached the front desk to sign in my name, then sat down in the waiting room and tried vainly to relax. Minutes later a heavy-set detective with a bushy mustache and mean eyes came sauntering down the hallway. He stopped in front of me, lowered his head to look me over, then said Mr. Wiles, follow me. He turned around and began walking away back down the hall.

What’s this all about? I demanded to know, trying my best to sound angry and confused.

You’ll find out soon enough, he replied without turning. And by the way, from now on I’ll be asking all the questions, not you.

We rode an elevator up a couple of floors in silence and emerged in a long white hallway that seemed eerily quiet. Just wait in here, I’ll be with you shortly, he commanded, pointing to a door with a small square glass window. The interrogation room.

I entered the room and he shut the door behind me. It soon became clear that he was not coming back soon, and that this room had been set up in a ploy of intimidation. I settled wearily into one of two straight-backed chairs facing each other across a short wooden table. The room was completely empty except for the sparse worn furniture and the stack of files and papers on the table, an inch thick, that I began to stare at with shock and disbelief. On top of the file was a large eight by ten photograph of me staring back at myself. The heading of the paper declared in large bold print: Jonathan Wiles -assault and battery with a deadly weapon. Terrified thoughts raced through my head. They knew, but how? They’re detectives. What have I done?

After what seemed an eternity, the detective returned and sat down across from me. He put on a pair of glasses, folded his large hands on the table, and looked at me with a hard stare. Before we begin, is there anything you wanna tell me?

Look man, I don’t even know why I’m here, I replied. I’m supposed to be at work, and this is really wasting my time. I wish you’d just hurry up and tell me what this is all about, so I can get out of here.

Son, you know what this is all about, and let me tell you something. I’ve been a detective for over ten years now, and I know a guilty face when I see one. Your face has guilty written all over it, so quit playing games and talk to me. I’ll give you one more chance to admit what you’ve done, and if you do, we’ll take care of it now and it’ll be much easier on you. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, so what’s it gonna be?

I stared back at him for a moment and thought about it. I decided to deny everything and hope for the best.

I still don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.

My response didn’t fly. He shook his head, looked slowly around the room, and then slammed his beefy hands down violently on the table.

I gave you your chance, dammit! You didn’t take it, and now you’re gonna pay the price. Everybody in the bar saw the fight you caused, and everybody who works in the bar will testify. We know it was you who shot up the place, and we know you were shooting at the bouncer who kicked you out. We’re gonna get you for intent to kill, too!

Oh, so now I had caused the fight, and now I had tried to kill somebody as well. This was going south fast.

Hold on a second, you’re accusing me of things I didn’t do and don’t know anything about. I got beat up in that bar for no reason by bouncers who were abusing their power just because they could. What happened to me was unfair, but I left as soon as I could get out of there. I was asleep that night, but I’m glad somebody shot up the place gave them all a good scare. They deserved it.

Son, you are nineteen years old. You were in the bar illegally and you were drinking illegally. Those are two more charges we’re gonna file against you, so you’d better just fess up now.

Thanks to George’s earlier advice, I knew that these same two charges would work against the bar and not against me. They would be what saved me in the end, but I didn’t know then how it was all going to turn out. I was becoming more anxious and uneasy by the second, but I tried my best not to show it.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said again.

Fine, have it your way, but know you’re in serious trouble now and we’re gonna throw everything we can at you!

He proceeded to drag me off down the hall for fingerprints and pictures. I was free to go after that, but the last thing he told me was not to leave town.

This ain’t over yet, so expect us to be comin for you. He glared at me with vengeance in his dark eyes, then turned and slammed the door in my face.

CHAPTER 2

T hat summer of my nineteenth year was a turning point in my life. I used to be a good kid, with a good heart, and I knew deep down I still was. The realization of what I’d done was quite hard to understand and accept in retrospect. On one hand, I felt that I had avenged a wrong done against me and redeemed my self-respect. On the other, I knew I had committed a ludicrous crime, and I should have taken getting thrown out of the bar that night as a lesson that I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I felt very confused, alone, and empty, because I couldn’t really tell anyone what I’d done for fear of their becoming involved. A couple of my good buddies had been in the bar with me, and it hurt to know that they had abandoned me just when the trouble began and I was outnumbered. I couldn’t really blame them for disappearing to save their own hides, but I still felt deserted.

Also, I had recently lost my first real love, Samantha, a remarkable girl who had a gift for understanding horses, and me. We