The Book of Joy: A Christian Novel That Was Too Real for Christian Publishers to Publish

By Monique Jesiolowski and Robert Jesiolowski

Have you ever had God grab you by the ankles, pick you up, and shake all the change out of your pockets? Joy did. A young, Christian woman headed towards the life she always dreamed of, when everything goes topsy-turvy, Joy finds herself wondering why God would allow her dreams to be ruined.
From this place of imbalance, Joy starts a job as an advocate for survivors in a new town filled with odd, inspired people. She is confronted with topics like relationships, work, sex, death, and more in an authentic, surprising spiritual journey for Christian and Non-Christian alike. Her path crosses with the disenfranchised, faithful, crazy, hurting, and God Himself in a way that is funny, sad, stimulating, eye-opening, and thought-provoking.
With innovative inclusion of music and lyrics bringing this strange book to life, it engages new and veteran Christians, as well as, for those interested in the Christian faith.This book may be the one thing that God wants to use to shake you up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Oct 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781489725431

Monique Jesiolowski

Monique Jesiolowski is an online professor who teaches at different universities in the fields of Counseling, Psychology, Criminal Justice, Sociology, and Human Services. Robert Jesiolowski is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker as well an online professor teaching in the fields of Social Work, Psychology, Criminal Justice, Sociology, and Human Services. The Jesiolowski’s have worked together over the last 25+ years in outpatient, inpatient, residential, and correctional settings with all sorts of clients, in addition to running their own successful private practice. They have spoken at local, national, and international conferences. They have two awesome, home-schooled children, Thunder & Eagle, and a deeply shared radical love of Jesus Christ.

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Copyright © 2019 Monique and Robert Jesiolowski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

LifeRich Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.liferichpublishing.com

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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 Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Robert Jesiolowski

Cover Image Credit: Katherine Allison

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2544-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2542-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2543-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019916454

LifeRich Publishing rev. date:  10/14/2019

We write this to make our joy complete.

¹

To

Thunder and Eagle.

May you know God intimately and with passion.

May you live out your every moment in the way that God designed you.

CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1 Verse 1 Enter the Shoebox

Chapter 1 Verse 2 Among This Mess

Chapter 2 Verse 1 Caught Up

Chapter 2 Verse 2 Victoria’s World

Chapter 2 Verse 3 Dating God

Chapter 3 Verse 1 A House of Collectibles

Chapter 3 Verse 2 Top Down, Stars Up

Chapter 3 Verse 3 Rage against the Machine

Chapter 3 Verse 4 Engraved on My Palms

Chapter 4 Verse 1 Looking for Justice

Chapter 4 Verse 2 Clock Tower Blues

Chapter 5 Verse 1 But First, Gangsta Rap

Chapter 5 Verse 2 Learning to Let Go

Chapter 6 Verse 1 Wherein Lies the Center

Chapter 6 Verse 2 Living Like a Warrior

Chapter 7 Verse 1 Two or More Gathered

Chapter 7 Verse 2 What’s Up, Dot?

Chapter 7 Verse 3 The Wild Goose Reigns

Chapter 8 Verse 1 Tattooed Saints

Chapter 8 Verse 2 Bread Bowl Lacking

Chapter 8 Verse 3 Sharing Peace

Chapter 8 Verse 4 Gifts in Grief

Chapter 9 Verse 1 Not a Bit Country

Chapter 9 Verse 2 No More and No Less

Chapter 10 Verse 1 Can’t Stop Clapping

Chapter 10 Verse 2 A Charge in the Air

Chapter 11 Verse 1 Bruised and Confused

Chapter 11 Verse 2 Skinny White Butt

Chapter 11 Verse 3 Weighing In

Chapter 11 Verse 4 Look Who’s Here

Chapter 12 Verse 1 Wonder Woman and the Green Monkey

Chapter 12 Verse 2 The Gentleman Vibe

Chapter 12 Verse 3 Tears in a Basin

Chapter 12 Verse 4 To the Moon and Back

Chapter 13 Verse 1 The Art of Orneriness

Chapter 13 Verse 2 When She Comes Circling Back

Chapter 13 Verse 3 It’s All about Presentation

Chapter 13 Verse 4 Cheap and Easy

Chapter 14 Verse 1 We All Want It

Chapter 14 Verse 2 Chaos and Depth and Dogs and Kids and Dancing

Chapter 14 Verse 3 Guerilla Church

Chapter 15 Verse 1 What Happens in the Office …

Chapter 15 Verse 2 Hail of Accusations

Chapter 15 Verse 3 Talking Upside Down

Chapter 16 Verse 1 Beginning of the End

Chapter 16 Verse 2 End of the Beginning

Chapter 17 Verse 1 Peace among the Unpredictability

Chapter 17 Verse 2 Punishment and the Gift of One’s Actions

Chapter 17 Verse 3 Putting Affairs in Order

Chapter 17 Verse 4 Love and Forgiveness

Chapter 18 Verse 1 Nothing Clean

Chapter 18 Verse 2 Riding the Ebb and Flow

Chapter 18 Verse 3 Holy Smoke

Chapter 19 Verse 1 Hope in a Box

Chapter 19 Verse 2 Picking up Pieces of Glass

Chapter 20 Verse 1 Joy’s Playlist

Chapter 20 Verse 2 Moment to Moment

Chapter 21 Verse 1 Exit Reynir

Chapter 21 Verse 2 Frustratingly Methodical

Chapter 21 Verse 3 Goodbye, Joy

Chapter 22 Verse 1 Coming Home

Chapter 22 Verse 2 Tinged with Ice

Chapter 22 Verse 3 Here Is What I Say to You, My Son

Chapter 23 Verse 1 Into the Mystic

Joy’s Playlist for Reynir

Notes

PREFACE

When I was a child, I loved to read—absolutely adored it. I also loved music. I grew up in the late seventies and eighties, during which the Walkman was popular, along with double-cassette stereos to make mixed tapes. I remember diligently sitting on green shag carpeting, in my leg warmers and my Flashdance² sweatshirt by the stereo, listening to the radio, waiting for my favorite song to start playing. Casey Kasem’s Top 40³ was the best time to score all my favorite music. It was just tricky to try to tape it just right so I wouldn’t catch Casey’s voice or the advertisement being played. Hours were spent recording my favorite songs, and once a cassette was complete, in my Walkman it would go for a couple hours of listening enjoyment. It was quite noticeable when I would start or stop a tape, and I couldn’t always time it right, so sometimes I got the announcer telling me that Bo Rics is the way to go for an awesome haircut, or the DJ giving us a heads-up of songs that were coming up after the break. It was still music heaven in those days. Once a mixed tape was made, I would hit my favorite chair in the living room, put my headphones on, and pick up where I left off in my favorite book. I read mostly Stephen King books in the day, to the sounds of Bon Jovi and Heart. Salem’s Lot⁴ was accompanied by the Eurythmics, Madonna, and Prince. When I think of certain parts of The Stand,⁵ I can still hear the songs of the Police, Cyndi Lauper, and Metallica in my head.

Music was and still is a huge part of my reading repertoire. I always listen to music when I read; it has always heightened the experience. Most of this book was written either to music or around music. God would have me play certain songs during certain parts of the book, which usually ended up with the song getting into the book. So, throughout this book are songs that are critical to the story. I have used various songs and lyrics to enhance what is being written in the book. Below is a list of the songs that are in the book. Think of it as a soundtrack, if you will. Movies always have soundtracks, so why not books? Movies are just the visualization of books, and music always enhances that visualization.

So, I encourage you to look at the list and to download the songs. Or if you are a purist, I encourage you to get into that attic or your local antique mall, find that double-cassette stereo, and make a mixed tape of the book’s songs. You’ll know when to play them, for the book tells its story. There is also a playlist at the end of the book, but you will need to read the book to find out why and what songs. I wish I could send each person who bought this book a mixtape of the playlist, but most people do not own cassette players anymore. However, with new technology, you can put the songs below on your own playlist with the app of your choosing. So, now that that is out of the way, find your favorite chair and let the journey begin!

Love,

Monique

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INTRODUCTION

Despite being in academia, I honestly don’t read many books. Comic books have, for the last fifty years, been more my speed. So, when Monique asked me to help write this book, especially the part of the husband as sort of like a subject matter expert, I was a bit beleaguered and bewildered on how to manage that without superheroes involved. Then I remembered my all-time favorite superhero, the original Captain Marvel—not the one the movie was recently made about, the other one that the movie was made about, Shazam.⁶ Why and how he lost his name is a whole other story and not the point.

The thing that always struck me about the original Captain Marvel was that he said this magic word and got these powers. Each letter of the magic word stands for something. S is for the wisdom of Solomon. H is for the strength of Hercules. A is for the endurance of Atlas. Z is for the power of Zeus. A is for the invulnerability of Achilles. M is for the speed of Mercury. Even as a kid, I thought it was so cool that along with the superhuman abilities of mythological characters, this superhero had the wisdom of Solomon.

Strangely enough though, in all my reading of Captain Marvel comics over my fifty years, I have never seen him actually use the wisdom of Solomon. He uses his strength, invulnerability, speed, and power on a regular basis, but I guess the world just doesn’t understand the usefulness of true wisdom. The absence of wisdom today, I believe, is at the heart of a lot of our societal, personal, and spiritual issues.

So, I wanted to write a character in this story that strove for the wisdom of Solomon, despite I myself having little to none of it. I would have to think true wisdom would look very odd to us ordinary people, while at the same time not being beyond our reach. I think this is a book in which Christian characters face real-world situations, including pain, loss, sex, intimacy, social injustice, and many other things that this genre often skims over. I think there is a true search for wisdom in these pages, and that at times may make you feel a bit uncomfortable but stick in there.

An interesting side note to this is that Monique and I had a hard time getting this book published by a Christian publishing house. In meetings with them, they actually tried to pressure us to take out the real-life language and situations in the book because they felt that Christians should not be exposed to situations like rape, premarital sex, and cursing. In fact, I would not have been able to write heck earlier if we published with them, as well as other words like gosh, darn, and geez. We would not have been allowed to use the word hell, despite the word actually being in the Bible.

The strangest part of our struggle to get them to publish this book was that Christian publishers do not want characters in the book to hear directly from God. They say that Christians can only feel like they know God’s will but do not actually hear from Him. We found it sad that they wanted to water down the Christian experience so significantly and dismiss some of Christ’s followers’ true experiences of their relationship with the Almighty.

God appeared to Solomon and said to him, Ask for whatever you want me to give you. (2 Chron. 1:7 New International Version)

Solomon answered God … Give me wisdom and knowledge, that I may lead this people, for who is able to govern this great people of yours? 2 Chron. 1:8–10 NIV)

I wonder if the first step to seek wisdom then is to admit you lack wisdom. Perhaps the second step is to understand that God is good and willing to give wisdom to you. Maybe the last step is to believe enough to use it every day, despite how it sets you apart from other people. Monique and I decided to go to a secular publisher to get this book published so we could maintain its Christian elements. That sounds counterintuitive, but we asked God for wisdom in making the decision, and it’s where He took us.

So, maybe the next time we are confronted with a difficult life situation, calling out Shazam wouldn’t hurt. Then once God grants us wisdom, we can have the courage to follow it through.

Mighty megablessings to you!

Robert

P.S. By the by, this book is chock-full of biblical, cultural, and artistic Easter eggs in the hope that it will send the reader on a merry journey of discovery in more way than one.

PROLOGUE

PRELUDE IS POST

And made my way back home. I searched for form and land. Years and years, I roamed. I gazed a gazley stare. At all the millions here. I must have died alone. A long, long time ago.⁷

Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World played in her Bluetooth just loudly enough to give her that off, otherworldly feeling. Truth be told, that feeling had not originated with the song. It settled on her like a blanket of the first fallen snow of winter some time ago. That was likely the reason for this trek, although not entirely. She longed to be centered again. Standing before the brick edifice of a place where she once laughed and cried and grew so much, she knew she had done the right thing to come back.

She slid off the headphones. Her hand touched the cold wrought iron handle of the door, and she now sensed the music had progressed to Synchronicity II. Almost automatically, the woman mouthed the words along with the song: Many miles away there’s a shadow on the door, of a cottage on the shore, of a dark Scottish lake.⁸ She breathed in deeply, felt an ache in her chest, and pushed the heavy oak door inward, expecting the warm caress of her senses by hearty smells within. Many miles away, she repeated absently.

Inside, she was instead greeted by a loud cacophony. Pop music blared, a dozen televisions chattered, the crowded patrons clamored, and the bartender shouted directives to scurrying waitresses to and fro. Realization hit her like a right hook. It’s a sports bar, she thought. A sports bar.

She stood stunned in the doorway until a gaggle of customers pushed past her to head back out into the night. They jostled her aside, and she let them. She placed a hand on a counter that ran the length of the outside wall and steadied herself. It didn’t really matter what the place was now, she supposed. It only mattered what it wasn’t.

A young man who didn’t look old enough to drink downed his microbrew and slipped from a stool next to her at the counter. Of course, people were looking younger to her lately. It happened slowly, subtly at first. High schoolers looked like they were in junior high. College kids looked like they were high school age. Young professionals, she swore, couldn’t be out of college yet. The world shifted younger as she got older. She distractedly quoted, ‘Ain’t that kick you in the crotch, spit on your neck fantastic?’⁹

The woman hopped onto the now-empty stool and mustered a weak half smile as she was instantly beset on by a well-meaning if not overly enthusiastic waitress. Water, please, with a little lemon, she ordered. The waitress nodded as she spun on her heels in one fluid motion, starting back the other way, her flair disappearing as she spun. The woman instantly felt a bit panicked and said in a raised voice, Unless!

The sports bar seemed to freeze as there was impossibly a break in both the action on the multiple television screens and a pause between banging music so that her words seem to echo across the room. The woman shrank back, embarrassed. But then the shows resumed, the next song blasted, and the conversations continued. The chaos of sound took its iron grip over the restaurant once more. The waitress twirled in full circle to face her again, Sorry? she asked happily.

Unless you still have lapsong souchong tea, the woman said hopefully.

The waitress’s happy, plastic smile broke for an instant. We’ve never had lapsong Cheech and Chong tea since I’ve been here. Her sarcasm dripped to the wood plank floors.

Oh, replied the woman. She seemed to sink into her stool, sadness weighing down on her like heavy rain. She was lost in it for a long moment.

Then the waitress, her now reaffixed happy face on, chirped, Water with lemon it is, and whisked away to the bar. She had tipping customers to take care of.

The woman resigned herself to the sports bar. She turned away from all the happy people to the counter facing the brick wall. She drew a leather journal from the large pockets of her heavy wool coat. The woman removed the colored pencil that was held to the journal by a cloth strap. The pencil was carved from a tiny, crooked tree branch and wrote in the color red. It looked like it had been carved into a pencil, and she loved it. She flipped through many pages of red sketches, red prayers, and red verses to a blank page. The woman wrote the following:

All things end, I guess, except one. Just like all things begin, except for the one who has always been and will always be. What’s the most important part of a story, where it begins or where it ends? The beginning sets the whole tone for a story, but the end sets the tone of the reader as he or she moves beyond it. Is it more important to draw readers into your story or to leave a bit of the story with readers as they go? To complicate things more, every end is a beginning, as every beginning is an end.

The woman straightened up and read the words back to herself. She furrowed her brow and drew one big red X through them. And then she wrote, My Father, I want to begin anew.

CHAPTER 1

VERSE 1

ENTER THE SHOEBOX

J oy was thankful that the car ride was nearly over. She was tired of the barrage of memories coming at her. They bounced around her like those super balls you can get out of the quarter machines. Some would fly around, while others banged against her head in such force that she felt nearly blinded by them. Memories of Carson ricocheted off her, memories of him admitting he liked her, of him picking her up for their first date, and of their first dance competition together. The ones that hurt her the most were of the times spent with his grandmother, whom she had gotten close to. Even listening to Wake Me Up ¹⁰ couldn’t keep them from her, for they would ping back toward her. Memories of what she no longer had kept leading her to one question after another: Where was God in all of this? How could God give her everything she ever desired only to utterly and completely strip it away from her? How could God also be so freely and completely unavailable to her in her greatest time of need? These thoughts haunted her most—for without the presence of God, what would happen to her?

As Joy Dubois approached her new destination, she was suddenly taken out of her reverie by the amazing beauty that lay before her. The stunning exquisiteness of the town took her breath away. Joy’s newfound interest made her thoughts finally fall, letting them carelessly drop all around her, landing on the floorboard. This, Joy was highly grateful for. The town of Moon River, which sat before her, looked like a wintery wonderland. As she looked down, the sleeping, stilted vineyards cut a patchwork into the hillside near the river.

The town stood like a staircase on the side of the hill, setting its sights upon the river below. The streetlamps, along with the gentle fog and light snowfall, bathed the town in a bronze haze. The town was breathtaking with its Victorian houses, brick streets, and shops with their names written in beautiful calligraphy or Old English block letters above the doorframes or on the windows. On the far side of the river was a hill upon which the town sat. Every building faced the river, stacked layer by layer up the hill. The town was also interspersed with patches of woods, giving it a grand yet hidden appearance. It was a small town but spaciously laid out. One main road ran east and west, while all the other roads ran north and south. The houses also faced the vineyards that were situated on the other side of the river. It was as though the town was paying homage to the source of its prosperity. Moon River was known for its famous vineyards and was even more famous for its wines. People came from all over the world to visit these vineyards and have a taste of their fruit. It was famous enough to keep this sleepy little town thriving but not enough to turn it into a tourist trap.

As Joy crossed the river and turned onto Main Street, passing the floodgates that stood open at the entrance of the downtown area, she felt as though she had landed amid a movie set. The streets were deserted. The buildings were perfectly situated and brightly and beautifully decorated. Not a soul stirred among this magical scene, and Joy suddenly felt as though she were an interloper, having stumbled into a place where only the elite were allowed. She half expected to see a cameraman elevated on a platform swinging above her, yelling, Get out of the shot! Instead, gentle snow floated around her, laying down a blanket of silence. The place reminded Joy of a scene from It’s a Wonderful Life,¹¹ even though Joy always preferred The Bishop’s Wife;¹² the idea of a snarly Cary Grant angel always seemed to appeal to her.

The town was so quiet and subdued that Joy glanced at the clock: 7:21 p.m. It seemed more like the middle of the night with the town’s seemingly sleepy aura. About two-thirds of the way down the main avenue, Joy spotted the address that matched the one written on a piece of paper, which was gripped in her hand next to the steering wheel. The building looked out of place among the others. It was made of brick, the color of worn-out beige. Above the door, written in black, peeling paint, was the post address and simply: Apartments. The ordinary, nondescript name of it seemed so out of character, so out of place. Leave it to Joy to end up living in the one building in town that had to have been constructed by Oscar the Grouch rather than Donald A. Gardner. Joy no longer felt like she had stepped onto a movie set; instead, reality slammed against her like a wrecking ball. The building looked dark, empty, and sad, standing upright only out of sheer will versus confidence or pride. It looked exactly the way Joy felt, droopy and melancholy.

Accepting a job (in a town she had never heard of before) only hours after understanding that her fiancé was leaving her seemed like the obvious choice, like an oracle telling her where her fate lay—especially after the barrage of phone calls Joy made in an attempt to have her friends rally around her, only to have them respond with utterances such as, I always knew it wouldn’t last, or What did you do to make him go away? and Joy’s all-time favorite, He was way out of your league anyway, Joy. Even though Joy had been wounded by those statements, the hurt was worse because she had had those thoughts many times during her courtship with Carson. Her friends’ responses made reality of what she had always feared. She had always felt she wasn’t good enough for anyone, especially a six foot five, dark-haired, chiseled-jawed Johnny Depp type. Accepting a job as far away from her friends and a future that had been planned her entire life, only to be destroyed by a few gasoline-drenched words that lit her future in a brilliant blaze, seemed like the most logical thing to do. That future that was no longer attainable, having been reduced to ash.

Irretrievable.

Unrecognizable.

Gone.

Now standing in this strange city, looking upon this dilapidated building, her new home, Joy wasn’t so sure of her decision. Her friends hadn’t really supported her when she was at her most vulnerable, her most broken, but at least they still knew her. Here, she was utterly and completely alone. When she made her decision to leave, the thought of being unknown came as a comfort to her. Being someplace where no one knew her brought possibilities. It had a quality of newness about it that covered Joy with excitement. She could be anyone she wanted to be in a place where no one knew her. Now that it was reality, Joy only felt heavy, the weight of loneliness, and fear—making each step take unbelievable effort, expending what little energy and optimism she had left.

As Joy walked up to the entrance, she noticed a woman in an overly large wool coat and black snow boots walking briskly toward her. She didn’t seem to be slowing down, and Joy was beginning to be afraid that the woman was going to bulldoze right over her. The woman swooped upon the door, keys jingling in hand as she swiftly opened the door and ushered Joy inside. You must be the new tenant, the woman said, not so much as a question as a fact. She held conversation like she walked, in a determined, direction-oriented manner. You’ll be in 5A just down the hall on the first floor. It’s a middle apartment, so to warn you, there isn’t much light, but it is … cozy. Rent due at the first of the month, which I always come to collect personally. Other than that, and any problems with the building, you won’t see me. Got more rental properties than this one, you know. She stated that last part as though Joy had complained about not having the landlord more available to her. However, she talked with such purpose that Joy couldn’t get a word in edgewise. By the time she had finished her spiel, she had ushered Joy into a three-room apartment, turned on lights, pointed in the direction of where everything was located, and placed the key in Joy’s hand. Joy uttered a minute thank you before the woman backed out and closed the door, leaving Joy alone in this shoebox of a place.

Cozy would not have been the word Joy would have used to describe the apartment. Dozing and depressing would have been more to Joy’s liking. The kitchen was against the wall near the front door, and the living room was a small box-shaped space next to it. The carpet was dirty brown, with the walls painted a lighter shade of beige. The bedroom was another box-shaped space off to the side, along with a bathroom that was meant to have been a half bath, but somehow the owners were able to squeeze a shower into it. If Joy bent over, some part of her body would breach the shower curtain, sending streams of water racing to the floor. Joy only had one outside wall to her apartment, and the windows looked out onto the brick building next to hers. The living room looked like a junk room filled with a mishmash of stuff. Joy had not picked out the apartment, nor did she move her things. This was her father’s doing. When she reluctantly told her dad and stepmom that she had gotten a job in one of the most beautiful places in Wisconsin, her stepmom was excited. She talked Joy’s dad into taking a Saturday off to drive up there to look at apartments. Unfortunately for Joy, he had taken the only Saturday off during which she was scheduled to work. So it seemed to be with them; she was always a beat off from them, showing the promises of hope, only to be disappointed in the end.

Now, Joy’s parental units, on the outside, had the appearance of helpfulness and efficiency, while underneath it was more for reasons of curiosity and self-profiting. Joy’s stepmom wanted to peruse the antique stores and stock up on baked goods, while her dad wanted a Saturday of peace with his wife. Since they had taken only one day for the twelve-hour round-trip drive, apartment hunting was low on the priority list. They grabbed the first apartment that was cheap and available. This allowed them the ability to feel like they had accomplished their agenda while having plenty of time to experience what they really went there to do.

Joy sighed at what was before her. This would not have been the apartment she would have chosen for herself. She was a lake girl, used to wide-open spaces. She was made to grow in the sunlight. The two little windows she did have faced into another building. Joy tripped over boxes to one of her living room windows and opened it. It was just as she suspected. Joy could literally touch the other building without having to lean out of her window. Another heavy sigh escaped her. How can this possibly work? How can a person breathe like this? Joy chastised herself, for she should have expected this from her dad. His help usually accomplished no more than leaving Joy feeling regret at once again allowing him to prove to her how little she mattered.

As she shut the window and locked it, her thoughts inadvertently led to the image of sitting in the middle of Carson’s spacious apartment. A raw hurting rose up out of her heart that was painful to acknowledge, let alone touch. Those feelings and images filled up the room, along with the boxes, leaving no room for Joy. Rather than try to deal with her pain tonight, she decided to shove it down to the pit of her stomach. It would still be there in the morning. She found her pajamas and toothbrush and got ready for bed. As she fell into the antique twin bed, she said a small prayer out loud. Lord, are you here? Please be here. Please let me be worth being here for. As tears made their silent retreat down her cheeks, Joy floated into a dream-filled sleep.

CHAPTER 1

VERSE 2

AMONG THIS MESS

J oy woke up the next morning feeling disoriented and emotionally drained. Her night had been filled with dreams of her recent past. Joy was continuously trying to run toward her future, toward Carson, but was never able to catch up to it. She felt like the mom in Poltergeist ¹³ who tries to run to Carol Anne’s room, but the hall just keeps getting longer and longer. No matter how hard or how fast Joy ran, her future was always just out of her grasp. In the early stages of her waking, between sleep and wakefulness, the thought, That is not your future, came to her. Where that came from Joy had no idea, so she shook it off and turned on the bedside lamp: 9:45 a.m. Even though it was midmorning, it still looked to be late afternoon in Joy’s apartment. For a girl who grew up on the lake, the sun to Joy was no different from the air she breathed. Both things kept her alive.

Joy got dressed and headed out to look at this new town she found herself a part of. When she opened the foyer door, the sun shone so brightly that it hurt Joy’s eyes, and they began to water. After quickly retreating for sunglasses, Joy set out, making a mental note to come out to the foyer to gauge the weather, which she’d not be able to judge from her apartment windows. It was a beautiful late-February day. The newly fallen snow glistened underneath the sun. There didn’t seem to be much movement on this Saturday morning, so the snow was still fresh and untouched by the ugliness of modern technologies. The few people who did venture out into this cold were those of leisure, it seemed to Joy. No one was directly in a hurry but seemed to walk in slow motion, as if every movement took deliberate intention and thought. Joy found herself walking to the same cadence as her outdoor mates. Joy took her time looking through each store window, gazing about at the merchandise. She felt a bit lighter this morning than she had the night before, which Joy took to be a good sign. The downtown area had an interesting dichotomy in that the stores were either into selling items of old or were artistic stores, selling modern delectables. Joy passed by an herb store and a store that strictly sold stamps and parchment paper, called Just Stamp It, Stamp It Good. This store fascinated Joy the most. How could a store stay viable by selling only stamps and sheets of paper? As the thought passed through Joy’s mind, she saw three ladies walk out of the store, carrying beautiful bags decorated in calligraphy. Joy just shook her head and smiled as she kept walking down the avenue.

Joy, being the introvert that she was, kept to herself, which in turn made her lost in her thoughts as she walked down the boulevard. She would smile to people, but that was about the extent of it. Her thoughts usually revolved around the observation and curiosity of others rather than in joining in a conversation with one of them. It wasn’t that Joy didn’t love people; she did. She just didn’t feel revived or rejuvenated by talking with them. That was reserved for extroverts like Carson. He could walk into a room and by the end of the night have talked to several people about their lifelong story. Joy, on the other hand, would sit on the couch next to Carson, silently listening to the stories unfold as she sipped her drink, knowing each person quite well by the end of the night. Due to her nature, she was ever an outside observer into a world she didn’t quite fully understand. This was why she went to school for psychology, being interested in what made people tick. Joy found it easier to figure out others than decipher what was going on with herself. She felt so unbalanced and disconnected ever since she found out about Carson’s affair. How can someone I thought I knew so completely be so utterly hidden to me? This thought consumed Joy the most. Self-doubt always played a huge role in her confidence or lack thereof. How can I be a good therapist if I can’t even figure out the people closest to me? Or just me for that matter. Joy’s thoughts went on and on in this fashion, making the world around her dim as her thoughts crowded in on her. Being in such deep thought, Joy ended up nearly tripping over someone’s legs. A man was lying against a tree in the snow, legs sprawled out into the middle of the sidewalk.

He was a disheveled older man with a mop of dark hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with an umbrella logo on the front. He had no shoes, and Joy instantly wondered if he was homeless. The most interesting characteristic of this man was that his face was covered in mud. It was literally caked on. Where’d he get the mud? Joy mused.

The man must have sensed Joy because he announced, I love the story in the Bible about the blind man healed at Bethsaida. It’s that verse that I guess a lot of people have, that verse that just really speaks to the spirit above all other verses in the Bible. Jesus is going about his business healing people with spit and mud. He’s in the middle of healing a blind man when he asks him, ‘Do you see anything?’ And he looked up and said, ‘I see men, for I see them like trees, walking around.’ Then again, He laid His hands on his eyes, and he looked intently and was restored and began to see everything clearly. Mark 8:22 (NIV) always blows my mind!

Joy looked around to see if anyone was nearby to help her, but everyone else passing by just seemed to ignore the mud-faced man. Now, I have read many commentaries on these verses, and they propose that true spiritual healing happens in stages and that this is a reflection of that process. Boy, that doesn’t ring true to me at all! I mean, I do believe that healing can come through a series of soul movements, but Christ seems to heal others throughout the New Testament without needing this step system. I also hold fast to a premise in my mind that Jesus Christ did everything in a purposeful manner. He never did anything without a good reason. Agree?

Joy nodded her head and then, realizing he could not see her with the mud on his face, squeaked out, I guess.

The guy barely waited for her response before he continued. "Good. I like that we are of one mind. I think Jesus wanted to show the blind man something with his first healing act. He wanted the man to see men like trees walking around. What were these giant figures striding above the blind man? Maybe they were angels. Maybe they were some type of spirit being that exists beyond the perspective of mere men. Jesus, though, always reflected the healing He did on the unfortunate as being due to their faith. He always referenced that it was a person’s faith that in fact healed them."

Joy nodded again, thinking that this man seemed manic or possibly mentally ill. Then she reminded herself to answer him aloud again. I can see that.

The man sat up, wiping his eyes clear of mud, and announced, And that is the exact point! Seeing is believing. I believe in my heart and mind that Jesus was doing something important here. He was challenging this blind man to open his eyes and see that there was a spiritual world moving all around him. We choose often to live our life with blinders on, refusing to acknowledge the spiritual world that surrounds us, but it exists whether we acknowledge it or not. So, is true blindness not being able to see the material world, or is it not being able to see the spiritual world? He gave one curt nod to accentuate his point.

The man looked skyward, and after a few moments, Joy glanced upward as well. There was nothing above except for the lonely sky. The man turned and fixed his gaze upon her. I wonder if the blind man, now truly healed, ever opened his eyes to see the men like trees walking around him again. I tend to think that once we open our eyes to see the spiritual forces moving around us, we can never ignore it again. There is a war going on—plans and plots, real spirit beings vying for our very souls. There are aspects of life that have spiritual connections and consequences that we can never ignore again. A whole world of spiritual life right here intertwined with ours.

The man leaned back against the tree and whistled a tune. Joy immediately recognized it. Joy had this quirky talent of being able to identify music from just a few notes. She could immediately picture the artist as well as the lyrics in her mind, even something as obscure as Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King.¹⁴ Joy backed away slowly, bumping into the building behind her. She looked up and was intrigued by what she saw.

It looked to be a café and bookstore of some sort. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting about the building, except for its name. The place was called Spirits & Stories. Below it said:

Hours:

Open: For our first client

Closed: When we finish with our last

Joy took a step closer and peered in the window. The place seemed rather dark other than a fireplace in the back and a few lit lamps sitting on various end tables. Huge leather chairs and couches were strewn about the place, with homemade quilts lavishly draped over the back. The side wall was trimmed in deep mahogany and filled floor to ceiling with