Muscle and a Shovel: 10th Edition

By Michael Shank

10th Edition with Randall's Secret, Endnotes and Bible References. 

Muscle and a Shovel is a true story about a pair of young newly-weds who move to the city to chase the American dream. In the middle of their pursuit they are befriended by a man who turns their beliefs about God, their church, and their faith upside-down. Baptist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Shank Ministries, LLC
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9780692338155

Book preview

A Warning with Love

You possess the most priceless possession known to all of humanity – an eternal soul. It is for this reason that I share my story with you, and I share this story out of genuine love and concern for your eternal future.

It is, in my humble opinion, no accident that this book has found its way to your hands. Your existing beliefs are about to be challenged, and your spirit is about to be exercised in ways you may have never considered. I ask only that you remember that it is with Christian love that I share this story with you.

The events in this book happened to me many years ago, and it is my hope that these events will serve as a gift to you.

You will only obtain the blessings though if you are able to read this story from beginning to end. However, please let me warn you. This story is going to anger, frustrate, and agitate your mind and spirit beyond description. It is going to challenge your existing beliefs and may turn your world upside down.

This is not for the weak-minded, nor is it for those who have their sensibilities easily offended. Some who start this story will not be able to finish it due to the emotional reactions it tends to incite.

If you are offended by what you find in the following pages, I ask that you forgive me. My intention is not to offend you but to share something powerful with you.

Will you have the courage, the heart, and the honesty of character to finish this story to the end? I pray that you will have that honest and good heart described by Jesus (Luke 8:15).

May our God and Father bless you richly with wisdom and a love for the Truth.

Last Chance

"This is your last chance. After this there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland and l show how deep the rabbit-hole goes¹."

—Morpheus

Friend, I’m about to show you…

Chapter 1

March 15, 1988: 12:45 a.m.

What are three, white faces doing in this part of ’Nashvull’ at this time a’ night? That is the way native Nashvillians pronounce the city’s name. The Metro-Nashville officer stood at my driver’s side window shining the beam from a long Magnum flashlight in my face.

There we were my wife, my best friend, Larry, in the back seat and me. I had pulled our black Pontiac Grand Am¹ to the side of the road at the corner Herman Street and 16th. We were only a few hundred yards from Fisk University’s campus. Larry had been trying to get us to our location, but we were lost.

I was searching for the words as I squinted to see the cop through his light. He was the biggest black man I had ever seen – about 7’ tall. He could have been a twin to the guy from the movie The Green Mile². I bet he played pro-ball. His polished bald head and fire-hydrant sized arms reminded me of the Mr. Clean³ man.

We had been profiled. Profiled? Yes. Any good cop worth their salt would have done the same. We were out of place in this neighborhood, and the fact that we were driving so slowly made it appear that we might have been looking to buy drugs. I saw the red and blue lights in my rear-view just as we were heading up 16th Avenue North, right across the railroad tracks and a few yards beyond Watkins Park.

Nashvillians call this area of town The West Loop. It was an urban neighborhood comprised mostly of African-American residents. The West Loop was also home to Fisk University, Tennessee State University, and the beloved Meharry Medical College.

Unfortunately, an element of the homeless had disgorged into The West Loop neighborhoods along with the usual accompaniment of drugs. Therefore, three white faces meandering slowly through this part of town at 12:45 a.m. was enough to motivate any alert cop to do a traffic check.

You’ll never believe me, I told the officer.

Try me. He responded in a deep bass voice that conveyed the unspoken message, Let’s hear what you’ve got little man. I’ve heard it all before.

My heart said, Be honest. Tell him. You’ve got nothing to lose. Truth has brought you this far, hasn’t it? I might as well give it a shot.

We’re on our way to get baptized! The giant’s eyes widened like someone had mashed his big toe with a drywall hammer.

Tonight? Where? he asked with a combination of suspicion and guarded excitement. I told him the name of the church building while shamefully admitting that we were lost. Guys just do not admit that they are lost.

What the cop said next not only blew my mind, it cemented the possibility of something I had long wondered about. Providence. Not Rhode Island’s biggest city in the Narragansett Bay estuary, but the providence of God. Providence, in this context, is defined as the foreseeing care and guidance of God or a manifestation of Divine care.

I was never really sold on the concept of Divine providence until I heard the giant cop’s response. It was then, upon hearing his words, that the principle was solidified in my mind. The officer’s entire demeanor changed. He smiled and said, "I’m a member of that church. I actually go to that congregation! God must have wanted me to pull you over, because this part of town is not safe this time of night! I’m going to get back into my cruiser, so just follow me, and I’ll take you to the building!"

We were speechless. I turned to look at my wife and then to Larry in the back seat. None of us knew what to think or say, but we were beginning to realize that God’s fingerprints were on the events that were unfolding that night.

I watched the police officer in my driver’s side mirror as he literally ran back to his squad-car. He ripped out around us leaving the red and blue lights on. Nobody back in Eldorado, Illinois, would ever believe this.

We followed the police car with his lights flashing feeling as though we were in some kind of a secret parade following John Coffey’s twin brother. We drove past Rio Grande Ave, then Ireland Street, past Fisk on our left, then a right on Jackson Street. We continued down a few more blocks and followed him as he pulled into the church building’s parking lot. The time was 12:52 a.m.

As we turned into the church’s parking lot, Larry said, Would you take a look at that. My wife, Jonetta (pronounced John–ē–tuh), whispered softly, Who are they?

None of us expected to see the elders and deacons standing out there in front of the building. They were all waiting for us to arrive! There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, on that cold March night - in suits and ties!

Those Godly men came to the building for the great event. They left the warmth and comfort of their own homes without hesitation, even wearing suits to demonstrate the dignity and importance of the occasion. We knew that someone would be there. I had anticipated two or three people but not a crowd this size.

The officer stepped from his car and greeted the men. It was evident that they all knew one another well. After a lot of smiles, hugs, and handshakes, the huge cop explained what had happened in the minutes prior to our arrival pulling us over, thinking we were buying drugs, and then giving us an escort to the church building because of his concern about our safety.

The giant cop said his goodbyes, killed the emergency lights, and drove off into the dark of the West Loop night.

The men of the church greeted us as long lost children. They met us like family members returning after a long trip. Each man made a formal introduction of himself and then expressed his personal excitement over our decision to follow the Lord Jesus Christ.

They brought us into the building and showed us our respective changing rooms. As we started to change into the baptismal garments we could hear them singing out in the auditorium. They sang just like they did in the first century. No instruments! They just used their voices, exactly as Ephesians 5:19 and Colossians 3:16 described. We had never heard anything like it before. It was loud, primitive, uninhibited, and even off-key at times, but it was also beautiful and soul-stirring.

While changing in the back room, I listened to the men’s singing and searched for a word to describe their singing without instruments. My mind chased after the right word, but I could not land on it. Stick your tongue out, Mike, the thought went through my mind. The word is on the tip of your tongue!

We changed into our baptismal garments and the men continued to sing and pray. The songs were rich in melody and meaning. Their prayers between songs were beyond description. They sang with such fervor that, at one point, I thought dozens more had entered the building while we were back in our changing rooms.

Don’t they know what time it is? Don’t they know that they’ll wake up the entire neighborhood? My spiritually-immature mind was not grasping the magnitude of the transformation that was about to take place that night.

It was 1:15 a.m. Jonetta and I stepped to the top of the baptistery. We were barefoot; our hands were locked together, and tears were streaming down our faces. The building resonated with songs and hymns being sung by a group of men who had given their lives to the Master.

Jonetta and I stood at the top of the steps. We looked at each other - about to take that step. We knew only one thing for sure - our lives would never be the same.

She kissed my cheek, and the word that I had been searching for rushed to the forefront of my mind. It was the one word that so accurately described the men’s singing, pure.

How in the world did a young, white, small-town, materialistic, ambitious, partying, not-too-religious, but members-of-a-big-denomination, married couple get the top of these steps?

You are about to find out. However, let me give you an honest and fair warning: this is a crazy, raw, crude, true story that will set you on edge and incite your emotions. Just know that in my humble opinion, your willingness and courage to read this story isn’t a coincidence-

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28).

Chapter 2

August 3, 1987: Seven and a half Months Earlier

The Shell Convenience Mart at the corner of 17th and Broadway was packed that Monday morning, but no other place else would do. The routine stop had become a comfortable start of every work week.

Standing in line, I glanced down at the newspapers neatly positioned in their respective racks and caught the bold headlines predicting Mike Tyson’s KO against the Olympic Super Heavyweight Gold Medalist, Tyrell Biggs, in the upcoming fight.

Tyson is a machine, thinking to myself as I collected the change from the Shell cashier who clearly needed more coffee herself.

After paying for gas, coffee (no cream, no sugar), and a bear-claw, I strolled to the car to finish the morning commute. It was only seven more blocks north.

The Mid-South’s August morning air was already humid and my crisp, heavily starched, long-sleeved, white business shirt was feeling slightly damp with perspiration. Business etiquette in the south called for starched, long-sleeved shirts year-round, and real pros wore white undershirts under their dress shirts. I was not quite a real pro yet.

As I pulled out of the Shell parking lot onto 17th, a redneck almost took the front quarter panel off of my car missing me by only a few inches. I slammed my brakes looking up just in time to see him shoot me the bird while whizzing around the front-end of my car. We were known in the south for our hospitality, so I hospitably returned the gentleman a Hollywood Howdy of my own. Life in the big city. At least the coffee was still in the cup being held inside with a plastic sipper-lid. The bear-claw was not so lucky being out of arm's reach on the passenger side floorboard, and face-down on fine GM floor-mats. Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s all small stuff, I said out loud to no one, then turned up the radio and made my way up 17th Avenue. Peter Gabriel’s song Big Time¹ was playing on the radio. It was a song supremely fit to the Eighties mentality.

OSI Data Solutions, Inc. was a company generating about $20m in yearly revenues, and our business was classified in the Graphic Arts industry. OSI did a couple of things very well. They sold printing presses and peripheral camera equipment (cameras that made plates for printing presses), and they sold paper by the train loads. The company also had several internal departments. One department sold smaller printing systems called mimeograph machines and they sold them to schools, offices, and churches. Lots of churches.

Jonetta and I had moved to Nashville with a specific plan. We wanted to build a life together, and I wanted to go to college at the same time. Nashville was a booming city only three hours from our small home town in southern Illinois. It seemed to be the right fit for our future. We could build a life together in the city, I could obtain a formal education, chase the dream, eventually get hired by a big software manufacturer, transfer to the west coast, become the CEO and make truckloads of cash - a perfect plan.

What we did not know about Nashville was that it, like many American cities, held some interesting secrets. One secret of Nashville was that the music industry was its second biggest industry. Howcouldmusic in the Country Music Capital of the World take a back-seat to something else, and the world not know about it?

What was Nashville’s secret number one industry? An industry bigger than country music? Printing. Nashville was a printing giant and I had not had a clue. Actually, most people did not know. Now I was involved in Nashville’s number one industry, and it did not even require picking a guitar!

OSI Data Solutions also had other internal divisions that sold a variety of niche systems, systems used by hospitals in their patient-admissions departments, machines used by banks to make credit cards, and office equipment like paper cutters, folders, shredders, laminators, and the like. Everything sold from under the OSI roof had to be installed and tested. Customers required training, and all equipment required follow-up service.

This is where I came in. My official title was Technical Service Engineer. I was factory certified on a plethora of OSI’s thing-a-ma-bobs! If OSI sold it, I could fix it. I would arrive each day a little before 8:00 a.m. to review the day’s agenda and leave the office around 8:30 to go into the field. I would usually be back at the office by about 4:00 p.m. The last hour of the day revolved around paperwork and administrative duties.

My territory map looked like a triangular wedge. Put a pencil on Nashville, draw a line straight to the east, and then end at Cookeville. Then draw a straight line southwest, stop at Pulaski, and then draw a straight line north ending back in Nashville. It was a huge region that had 17 hospital accounts and over 200 church accounts. All required monthly service calls.

A big salary, full accompaniment of corporate benefits, a car allowance, expense account, a liberal commission program, all-expense paid factory certification trips, quarterly reviews, performance bonuses, and a college tuition cooperative reimbursement program for employees. It was a fantastic job for a twenty year old. Wait a minute, it was a fantastic job for a forty year old!

OSI Data’s customers parked on the side lot which meant that employees had to park at the rear of the building. The front of the building acted as a buttress against Charlotte Avenue. There was no real front parking area. Parking in the back required employees to enter through the office building’s back door located by the loading docks at Shipping & Receiving (S&R). All OSI employees used this one particular door to get to their offices.

I entered the back door that Monday morning with my coffee in one hand and my pseudo-lawyer looking briefcase in the other. There was that guy again. He was upbeat, smiling and working at his consistent above and beyond pace. There was something different about him, but I just could not put my finger on it.

As I began to weave my way through the myriad of S&R pallets hustling to get to my department office with only a few minutes to spare someone hollered, Hey man! What’s your name? I looked back toward the direction of the voice, not really having the time to make friends. It was that guy. I stopped in my tracks as he approached. I responded while sticking out my hand, Michael Shank. Mike. And you are−

Randall Edges. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.Mike! He shook my hand in what I call a hand sandwich. That is when someone shakes your one hand with both of theirs, so that their two hands are the bread and your one hand is the meat.

Randall was different than the others that worked in Shipping & Receiving, and for a host of reasons. This young, African-American man had a natural confidence and an award winning smile that could set an executioner at ease. While the other guys in S&R seemed to shuffle around as though work was the last thing on their minds, Randall seemed to be that guy that loved his job. Eighties yuppies would have called Randall a mover and shaker. While the others looked disheveled, Randall was always intact and immaculate in appearance. It was as if he was covertly wealthy and his job in S&R was just something to do for fun.

I had never met a man that seemed so out of place as Randall. He was in his early thirties, clean cut, slim build, married with children, physically fit, and far too intelligent for his current departmental employment. Additionally, his attitude revealed a bullet-proof exterior.

Since you are my new friend, I’m going to give you something, Randall exclaimed.

Uh, that’s really nice, but we just met, and you really don’t have to−

Randall quickly turned and walked to his desk, ignoring me. He tore off a paper towel, reached into a green and white box sitting on his desk, and pulled out two hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts². Wearing a broad smile, he brought the doughnuts over to me, and in the most humble way said, "Mr. Mike, I hope you enjoy these. I might even have something better for you a little later!"

He then turned and walked away in a flash behind a stack of boxes before I could thank him. What a friendly and… weird guy. For Randall, my name from that day forth would be, Mr. Mike.

Two hot Krispy Kremes trumped a Shell station bear-claw any day of the week, and the sugar rush made me totally forget the redneck salute flung at me earlier that morning. But what did Randall mean, I might even have something better for you a little later? We had just met. We did not know each other.

I had not yet developed any latent skepticism of humanity, nor did I possess any suspicions about the possibility of ulterior motives, so I went about the day.

However, Randall had an ulterior motive.

Chapter 3

November 20, 1987

It was now November. During the past three and a half months Randall and I had cultivated our friendship, and it had been intellectually stimulating to say the least. He would ask dozens of thought-provoking questions, all geared toward the spiritual side of life.

Hey Shank! How many times did you eat today? were the first words out of his mouth as I returned to the office from a client call one November afternoon.

I thought for a quick sec. Three, so far.

Randall approached, walking rapidly across the dirty loading dock floors. He responded, "Okay, how many times did you eat of spiritual food today?" It was questions like this that had gotten me into the habit of reading my Bible.

Oh, man! I’m starving to death!

Randall laughed, and we both knew that nothing else needed to be said. Yes, Randall was a very different sort of Christian. The guy lived what he believed. But there was something else, he knew the Bible like no one I had ever met before. Lots of so-called Christians knew a few passages that fit their particular beliefs, but Randall had the most solid, over-arching knowledge of the Bible that I had ever seen. In reality, Randall had more Bible knowledge than any Pastor I had ever known. Ask him a Bible topic, and he would know where it was. Randall’s understanding of biblical divisions, dispensations, compositions, authors, and intended audiences was truly remarkable. And his ability to recall Bible information from a specific book, chapter, and verse was truly impressive. He was a guy who had spent many years in personal Bible study.

November 20th was a clear, cool Friday afternoon. The last Friday before Thanksgiving week. I had just come in through the S&R rear door to finish up the day’s paperwork before my commute back to our little apartment in southwest Nashville.

Randall was sitting at his desk as I came in and swiveled around toward me in his pre-1950’s desk chair. It was a chair long reduced to the dusty corner among boxes of paper and ink. He had heard the back door open.

Mr. Mike, did you know that Christ is coming back? Randall was on top of his game.

When is He coming? I asked.

Without hesitation Randall replied, "Matthew 24:36 says, of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only." Randall handled me with humility and kindness, because he knew that I was an arrogant little punk who needed a dose of humility and kindness. Actually, I needed a lot of work. Randall had his hands full.

He continued without opening his Bible, "Mr. Mike, seeing it is a righteous thing with God to recompense tribulation to them that trouble you, and to you who are troubled rest with us, when the Lord Jesus shall be revealed from heaven with his mighty angels, in flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord, and from the glory of his power; when he shall come to be glorified in his saints, and to be admired in all them that believe (because our testimony among you was believed) in that day. That’s in 2 Thessalonians, chapter one, verses six through ten."

Wow! His Bible knowledge was truly amazing.

"Mr. Mike, that verse says that Jesus will take vengeance on them that obey not the gospel of our Lord. The question is, ‘Have you obeyed the gospel of our Lord?’"

There was a pregnant pause as I considered the question. Had I obeyed the gospel? What the heck did he mean by that?

I’ve been saved if that’s what you’re talking about?

How were you saved? Randall asked respectfully. I could tell that he was sincerely interested in what I had to say.

I scratched my head. "Uh, let’s see… I went to a revival at the Baptist Church when I was eight years old. At the end of the service the preacher asked who wanted to go to Heaven. I raised my hand. He then said something like, ‘If you’ve got your hand up, are you saved and going to Heaven?’ I knew I wasn’t saved and it scared me. I didn’t want to go to Hell. He then said something to the effect that we had to be saved to go to Heaven, and that anyone wanting to be saved should come forward.

"Even though I was terrified to go forward, I was more terrified of the thought of going to Hell, so I made my way past the people in the pew and out into