Instead, by Grace: from dark to light

By William A. Wright and Dale Ann Edmiston

Why do we seek to control events in our lives when so much is determined in the spiritual realm? Highlights the power of turning it all over to God.

Our story derives from a journal kept over the course of one year, November 18, 2018-2019, a year of invasions into an otherwise idyllic lifestyle. The journey begins with an intruder's late n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brave Knight Writers
• Release date: Jan 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735752235

Book preview

Instead,

by Grace

from dark to light

William A. Wright

Dale Ann Edmiston

Brave Knight Writers

Instead, by Grace

By William A. Wright and Dale Ann Edmiston

© 2021

Brave Knight Writers

www.braveknightwriters.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Publisher’s Note: This book is based on the authors’ true story. Although the authors have made every effort to ensure the accuracy of information, they assume no responsibility for errors, omissions, inaccuracies, or inconsistencies herein.

Book Layout © 2016 BookDesignTemplates.com

Editor: Deb Hall (thewriteinsight.com)

Cover Design: Jennifer Fleming

Cover Images: Dale Ann Edmiston

Instead, by Grace/ Wright & Edmiston. -- 1st ed.

ISBN: 978-1-7357522-2-8

e-book ISBN: 978-1-7357522-3-5

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Christian Standard Bible, Copyright 2017 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Christian Standard Bible and CSB are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers.

Other titles by the authors:

Havasupai

St. Croix: the novel

Linda Turner, Jan Sady, and Deb Hall,

Thank you for your advice and encouragement.

Your friendship is invaluable.

For the unborn

Introduction

We consider ourselves refugees of a world gone mad. I fled the shallows of suburban clichés, cookie-cutter homes, and herd think. My wife, Dale Ann, fled the great liberation, row housing, and single parenthood. Others deemed our endeavor impossible. I neared sixty and Dale Ann fifty, but our embrace of individuality and self-reliance birthed a spirit much younger.

On the edge of an old strip mine, on a knoll of timbered virgin soil, the ideal place to make our last stand—here we would build our home of limestone and glass, with a foundation secure to bedrock.

The camper arrived, the porta-potty joined it, and our work commenced. We broke ground on Independence Day weekend. Fifteen months of sweat followed, along with tears of joy and sorrow and in the end the reward of an occupancy permit. The local inspector called it a house to last six hundred years.

Our home, a poured-concrete and insulating-form structure, holds heat well. Pipes usher warm water from the furnace house beneath the floors to heat them. The heated floors caress our feet, while on sunny winter days an array of fifty-four strategic windows gather warmth. Our home’s construction slows the release of the heat it gathers. Our wraparound sunporch offers many vantage points from which to enjoy winter. A swath of rolling hills and bared maple branches beyond our hummock resembles black lace against a background of white.

Dale Ann’s lament: Our castle makes us a target.

With construction completed, we shifted our focus to land reclamation. Stripped barren by mines, most of our property has been ravaged to sterility. Lifeless soils lay hidden beneath thin salves of turf, pressed on with grassy bandages. With much toil, the grounds flourished into an edible organic landscape, the effort strengthening our spirits and souls. Our little manor has become a healing place.

But in the tenth year, a spiritual siege began in our lives. Now, on the third day of a deep freeze and subsequent power outage, the neighbors evacuate. In defiance, we stay. Our claim of a last stand is not frivolous, our conviction bears substance. We hold to our manor, cling to our knoll, and trust in the alternative dream of our homestead.

…The one who walks in darkness doesn’t know where he’s going."

—John 12:35

Chapter 1

A temperate glow permeates the opaque window blind nearest my bed. But what woke me? If not a sound or the glow, what woke me? My hearing is not the best, and I sleep on my better ear, so maybe a sense of something. In winter, with the leaves off the trees, the country road is visible. Someone may have called an ambulance, its siren now silent, but its arrival may have wakened me.

Breath forms in translucent wisps near my mouth. Night chill slaps my face as I remove piles of blankets. The red glow outside fascinates me. Its appeal fosters my desire for days of warmth. My phone indicates 0200—and low battery. I glance at Dale Ann, deep in slumber, unaware of the mysterious light. The radiance behind the blind amplifies, then dims. I toss the covers as my feet touch traitorous tiles as cold as death. Days of heavy cloud cover and bitter cold have depleted our homestead’s reserve heat.

While Dale Ann fights to ward off an invading cancer, this cursed freak nor’easter encrusts our world in ice, all services silent. Our pear trees are shattered to their base, our grape vines ripped from their trellis. Wires are down, roads are blocked, homes are abandoned. Initially, neighbors clung to hope for quick line repairs and power restoration. One by one, they abandoned hope and houses. Family encouraged us to depart, but none showed surprise at our refusal. They know our contrarian nature. So, even in Dale Ann’s condition, we remain at our homestead. Our unique approach to most things has led us to label our home The Instead.

The generator I planned but never bought now gives credence to one of mother’s favorite expressions: good intentions pave our road to hell. Generators sold out on the first day of the outage, so hour by hour we wait for power. Our children take turns phoning with updates of news reports and recovery efforts. The media guesses at the length of utility outages. The men on the poles work fast under extreme conditions but can’t catch up. Tomorrow I will borrow my son’s generator, since power in his town has been restored.

I lean on the stones of our propane-fueled fireplace which covers a wall of the bedroom, flanked by narrow windows. Without a power source, the igniter and flow valve are inoperable, so the fireplace hulks in silence, while our elderly beagle snoozes in his bed nearby.

My hand bumps along the footboard of our king-size bed. Dale Ann has not stirred. Her nature is to wake at the slightest noise, but for days she has not slept well. Tonight she has succumbed to fatigue and enjoys needed sleep. My heart aches. She has suffered much trauma this year. Only if necessary will I wake her.

The master bedroom windows sport cellular blinds conducive to sleep, though the red glow pierces through it. I choose not to open them. To investigate the source of the glow, I shuffle barefoot toward the sunporch.

A massive set of doors separates the living room from the front portion of the porch. Dubbed as Shrek doors, they might better suit the entrance to a cathedral. Built of heavy cypress, finished in a coat of black walnut, and adorned with wrought iron, they tower nine feet.

Speakeasy doors set at eye level into the Shrek doors allow a view across our driveway toward the woods. The left one frames an unfamiliar 1990s-vintage compact pickup at the far end of our parking area. The vehicle appears an assemblage of trucks. Uncoordinated paint tones visible even in the night, headlights on, engine running. Exhaust toxins spew toward browned cattails at our pond’s edge. The cattails form ghostly shapes, illuminated in the headlights. The same light silhouettes a man standing near the truck.

No one finds our driveway and house by mistake. Most people can’t find it even when they’re looking for it. The driveway sits on a ninety-degree bend of the road, and it curves uphill through trees.

Peeking through the Shrek doors, I wonder if our two suits of armor we display on the sunporch are visible to this unwanted visitor, and if they will send him packing. Unlit, the porch offers anonymity to our sentinels.

The trespasser faces the Instead, legs spread—a look suited for a rock star, complete with smoke machine and light effects, waiting to perform. One hand rests on his hip, elbow cocked outward. A glow from a red dot marks where his face should be. It brightens as he draws smoke. The truck’s taillights furnish the red glow on our bedroom shades and produce a blood tone on the ice covering the ground. I cannot make facial or body details in the shadows. A moonless sky offers no help. A red tracer flashes from his face to his side; the cigarette glow flicks to the ground with a bounce. Smoke and chilled breath mingle around his blackened head, backlit by the truck’s headlights. He is waiting for something or someone. Is he alone? Others may have already left the vehicle. His position near the small truck might enhance his stature, but he is tall. His stance hints at watchful, methodical calculations. A match ignites, brought near his face. Another cigarette is lit. He blows smoke high above his head. His next action or perhaps the return of a cohort will decide my next move. Fully awake now, I exercise patience. So far, he is just a trespasser. I do not intend to escalate the matter. He can call the shots; I will respond in kind.

The intruder flicks another spent cigarette. He moves to the driver’s door of the pickup truck and leans in. The truck dome light proves insufficient to aid my assessment of the object he retrieves. A cell phone or a weapon? I can’t tell. Get in the truck and leave. But he emerges holding something. My concerns elevate. For me to respond to his move in kind, I return to the bedroom to retrieve a weapon. My advantage lies in the dark. I have seen him; I doubt he has seen me.

Our safe contains an array of weapons, remnants of a time before I lost my taste for inflicting death on wild animals. Instead, I walk to Dale Ann’s side of the bed and grab her single-shot 410. This weapon, purchased while I worked out of town at NASA, will suffice. I clutch three of the four shells retrieved from a box on her nightstand; the fourth I insert into the chamber. Dale Ann’s absence from the bed gives me pause as I snap the shotgun closed. As I return to the Shrek doors, her voice from the open stairway catches my attention. In retreat to her loft study and prayer room above me, she clutches her cell phone. I can’t make out her words. I have no compulsion to talk with her, knowing her ample capacity to function under duress.

With her nine years’ military service and two master’s degrees, I’m confident she’s calling for backup. Her call to 9-1-1 time-stamps the incident’s beginning. When the police arrive, my part will be over. I will not pressure the police to do any more than escort the intruder from the Instead property. No need to use the shotgun.

A friend’s dump truck sits parked along the woods edging the parking area. The intruder disappears into the cab of the dump truck. Where are the police? The Instead sits just over a mile from town. The intruder stays in the dump truck for two minutes before he jumps out with a slam of the door and a kick to the front tire. Please get in your truck. Just go away. The Instead driveway circles the house to reach the garage around the side. Midway along the wall are the double doors I built to the furnace building, but the structure offers no access to our home. The intruder fades into the shadows on the driveway side of the house. I assume an accomplice calls him. His jerky head movement and sudden lurch reaffirm my initial suspicion of intoxication. Our driveway skirts along eight-foot-high stone courtyard walls. The wall ends at the garage, where we house Dale Ann’s Ford Escape, my antique sports car, two Harley motorcycles, my Kubota tractor, and a wealth of tools—none of it worth a man’s life. But the tools concern me. Several could be useful to gain access to the Instead’s interior. Because of the power outage, I had disconnected one of the motor-operated garage openers to allow manual operation. An access door leads from the garage into the courtyard. A set of double doors accessing the courtyard is bolted shut. A gate behind the garage leads to the courtyard. It, too, is bolted. A prayer enters my head: Lord, be in my heart, calm me, strengthen me.

The kitchen door leads onto a deck within the courtyard. The kitchen view of the courtyard offers an advantage, but I pause at the open stairs leading to the loft. Dale Ann acknowledges she has 9-1-1 on the phone. She relays the movements of the intruder to both me and the dispatcher. She watches him out various upstairs windows. Her concern is the intruder may have companions.

I move on, toward the kitchen’s exterior door. The door has a built-in Venetian blind. Cranking it open, I see the deck is clear. Ever cautious, I slip two 410 shells into my pocket, keeping one in hand for a quick reload. As I open the kitchen door, a night wind bites my fingers and then goes still. On the deck, 410 to my shoulder, I search for movements or noise. Nothing. Only general darkness bleeding into deeper shadows. The intruder may be watching me, in wait for an opportunity to shoot or grab me.

I aim the 410 skyward toward the distant strip mine. My pellets will fall without harm. I squeeze the trigger.

A crack and flash break the silence and dark. The 410’s salvo in the frozen air echoes a warning to take heed, alter your intentions—if heard by a rational being. A message delivered with one intent—to send a normal-minded person on the run or delay him until the police arrive.

I step back into the kitchen. Dale Ann notifies the 9-1-1 operator of the discharged firearm. The door secure, I retreat to the Shrek doors to watch the truck. At the stairs to the loft, I pause to reassure Dale Ann. The shot offered a warning. If the intruder is sane, the truck should be halfway down the driveway.

At the Shrek doors, I search for him. His truck has not moved. No one is at the truck. My heart stops as a distorted face flashes against the glass of the porch, my view blocked. I catch my breath. His face presses against the outer glass of the porch, breath fogs around his flesh, his threat contained only by glass plate. Eyes crazed, wild shocks of hair rise above his head. At first, one wide eye seems to peruse the contents of the porch, but his stare locks on my speakeasy door. He slides along the glass. Friction drags at his lips and nose until he reaches the transition of a door. The handle snags him. A step back, his arms flail above his head as he jumps and kicks the handle until it breaks off. He grips the stub of the handle. The door jiggles. The dead bolt does its job; the door is still secure. Thank God, for once, we locked all the dead bolts. At least, I think we did.

Dumbfounded at his response to my warning shot, I conclude he is no lightweight trespasser. Again, the door shudders as it absorbs a kick; the glass panels flex but hold. With a waist-high jump, he twists to accelerate an outstretched leg, a solid karate kick planted midsection to the glass. Again, the glass flexes but holds. Again, he hugs close to the glass, his cheek slides to a second door handle. Solid close-range punches vibrate the glass.

I reload the 410 and step through the Shrek doors to the porch, with a second shell in hand. I move to where he pelts the glass; I draw up, cock the gun, and point it at his head, three inches and a double pane of glass from his face. A blast will deliver lead pellets and shards of glass into his flesh. With the slightest tug of my trigger finger, his face turns to a shredded mess. How would my actions look in a court of law? Is my life in danger? What is he guilty of? His movements show no awareness I am on this side of the glass. A pathetic creature, unaware he has conjured death, his fate a brief judgment away.

His fate lies in my hands, mine in his. Once I shoot him, I know my world will change. He stands still, face kissing the glass; wild eyebrows climb his forehead; his condensed breath frosts and blurs the image. No weapons visible in his hand, he shakes all over, apparently gathering himself from the effects of his obvious addiction.

I lower my weapon, and with a deep breath I step back. Before I shoot him, he needs to pose more threat. If he breaches the glass, I won’t have a choice. The best for both of us is for him to break and run or for the police to show.

As if in response to my thoughts, he jumps back, kicking the second door handle until it breaks. He jiggles the door, but another dead bolt holds him at bay. After another kick to the glass, two solid punches follow, enveloped in unearthly screams. Speechless, I wait for shattered glass, and for him to come breaking through. This guy knows someone is home, knows we are armed, and yet his aggression flares in agitation. He means harm. At my age, I am no match for the drug-induced wild strength on display a double pane away. In a frantic pace, he stumbles on the rocks of the garden separating the front of the Instead from the parking area. The rock garden is comprised of baseball-sized stones layered between hundred-pound boulders. His body language sparks with nervous energy, confusion, and unfocused aggression. A run at the door, a leap, another swift kick finds the center of a glass panel, the vibrating glass taunting him. He bends in a scream.

In a dash to his pickup truck, nothing signals an accomplice. If there was one, he may have been of a more rational nature and fled the warning shot. The intruder leans inside the driver’s side of his pickup, retrieves something, then lights a cigarette. He stands by his truck, staring at the Instead. Just a silhouette, the red glow of his cigarette moving between his face and his side. In a sudden move, cigarette tossed, he runs for the garage. I dash to the kitchen, stop at the stairs to ask if the police are on their way.

Dale Ann fires a one-word answer: No!

No? How can it be?

The dispatcher wants you to ask him what he wants.

Are you serious?

Exasperated, I sigh on my way to the kitchen. How do you respond to such stupidity?

I check the deck in the courtyard—clear. I peer out a kitchen window with a view of the rear yard. The intruder sprints around the back side of the garage. His new target: the basement door. It opens to level ground. The Instead rests on a table of rock, with three sides of the foundation backfilled. The south face of the Instead’s basement rises twenty-six feet to accommodate a wall of glass. A basement entrance sports a triple-wide glass French door. Even our interior walls on the south side have windows. I move to a window in the dining room. It allows a perfect view into the basement and the glass wall. An open set of stairs drops from the glassed porch into the basement, all visible from my perch. The intruder kicks the door handle several times and kicks the windows to no avail. He rests for a moment, lays solid punches into the glass, then rounds the corner of the house to emerge outside the glass porch on the side of the house.

A door in the dining room leads to this section of the sunporch. I step out, weapon raised. The force of his kicks land on glass parallel to my head and chest. Such force, delivered to my body, would offer a quick dispatch to eternity. The intruder punches every pane of glass as he returns to the front of the house. His actions swift, I am no match for his physical prowess. Secure, I walk around the inside of the porch, weapon ready to fire—but only in the event he should break glass and gain entry.

His actions exude irrational power. The Instead contains little of material value, no televisions or sound equipment, no money on hand, and Dale Ann’s jewelry is costume. The Instead furniture consists of hand-me-downs and hodge-podge Amish-made pieces designed by me. Our lives we value. A menacing intruder, deliberate in manner, steals by his presence. Without breaching our doors, substantial loss and damage intrude on our spirit. Our peace and security diminish each moment he attacks, with each kick he aims. No time for emotions, I pray for strength and inner calm. Whatever happens I will handle. But the aftermath concerns me most, the impact of how I handle myself now and the lasting effects of terror. One wrong decision could cost us both.

Our nephew’s experience guides me. When a neighbor’s vicious dog threatened his children in his own yard, he shot it. Charged with a felony, he spent two years in a court struggle. Charges dropped, he faced legal expenses topping thirty-thousand dollars.

The intruder needs to be stopped, but at what expense? Every action will create a reaction. Will people second-guess me? Where are the police? How can this be happening? I must stop him.

I don’t understand; are the police sitting, a mile away?

Chapter 2

The intruder stumbles in the rock garden. Agitated, he kicks the smaller rocks, then struggles with a large one. He moves from rock to rock, rolls some, and tries to lift others. Outside the windows nearest the Shrek doors, he hefts a rock and tosses it to the side. I take my stand just in front of the Shrek doors. His level of aggression alarms me. I pray he’ll stop. In a surreal moment I raise the 410 to my shoulder, take a deep breath, and steady myself. Caught in a nightmare, I try to deny reality.

He lifts a boulder to chest height and staggers toward the glass. With a powerful release, glass explodes in all directions. Fragments splatter my face. Eyes closed, I fall backward through the Shrek doors but maintain balance. Sure-footed enough to recoil back to the porch, the glass beneath my bare feet is not a consideration. The spray of glass spreads on the floor as far as the kitchen. The intruder hulks in his breach, the penetration’s gap sizable enough to offer access.

I drop my aim to give him one more chance. In a flash of fire, lead shot rips the dirt at his feet. A deliberate miss, another warning anyone of right mind would heed and flee. For a moment he doesn’t move. In a microsecond, I break the shotgun open, ejecting the spent shell. I slip a new shell into place and slam the shotgun closed, all before he moves. The next shot will shatter his face.

Move. Please move in the right direction, get out of here. He breaks in a run toward his truck, and I draw a bead on his back in case he changes his mind. I take two steps forward so the gun barrel protrudes through the shattered door. Ready for his next move, I have no desire to shoot, but if needed I will. Keep running. Get in your truck and go away. It will be over.

One prayer answered, he has not come through the breach. I take a deep breath. He leans into his truck, fidgets, and brings out an object. Shadow obscures his hands. After a brief pause, he runs toward the house. In quick decisions, both his and mine, everything will change. Go ahead, make yours. Break right and drop to the driveway leading to the road—go free. Or run up the sidewalk toward me and a grievous mistake. I must wait until he passes a certain point. If he doesn’t drop right to head down the driveway, he intends to come at me. He knows I’m armed. So he’s retrieved a gun from his truck and plans to shoot me?

Adrenaline slows, microseconds become minutes. Past the sweet spot, his opportunity to run toward the road and freedom is gone. I aim and pull the trigger. The pellets find flesh. His right thigh shreds. Both of his hands grab at the wounded leg as he falls to the ground. A groan mingles with screams of, You shot me!

I reload the 410 and yell, Don’t move or I’ll shoot you again!

I don’t want to die, mister. What’s your name? I want your name.

Don’t move or I’ll shoot again. And I’m not giving you my name.

My next words alert Dale. I shot him!

Heard it and told the dispatcher!

He’s alive, tell them to send an ambulance.

His moans and shrill cries crack the night air. Mister . . . I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding a lot!

Help is on the way. Stay down. Do you have a weapon—a gun or a knife?

No!

You a liar?

No! Please, I don’t want to die.

Shut up. Don’t move. Keep your hands in the air.

Poised inside our porch, I train the 410 on where he fell. A grim darkness veils the sidewalk, and I can barely make out the lump writhing in the shadows. Moans flow, as he rolls side to side. His movement aids to identify his position. I lock in on what I make of his head. It is a forever moment. Where are the police? I stand my ground. To approach him would be dangerous. If he has a gun, he may shoot me from where he lies. My position offers me an advantage. Afraid and in pain, he moans and pleads. His cries work on my nerves. I want to help him, but I don’t trust him. Since someone has been shot, the police should show. I hope but cannot be sure. If an artery has ripped in his leg, he could bleed out. In my attempt to stop him, I could have hit a vital spot. He may be dying.

High beams sweep the driveway, no police light bars flashing, just blinding light. The lights flood the night, washing away details as effectively as did the dark. Did he call for friends while at his truck? Quick, I need to sort out the current circumstances. Reinforcements for him or maybe a neighbor who heard the shots? The vehicles stop, positioned to blind me. There’s yelling and chaos in the yard. I strain to understand. Whoever it is, is forceful. They are talking to the intruder, but I cannot make out the words. A silhouette moves closer to the porch. There’s a shout. Drop the gun!

Me or the intruder? Does the intruder have a gun? I stand my ground, trying to figure out who is who. My hearing loss impedes the sorting of chaos. The voices echo in the dark behind the bright lights with no distinct direction. The muffled content confuses me.

Drop the gun or I’ll shoot. Now!

Loud and clear, the voice is near, I lower the gun, praying whoever spoke is a good guy.

I lay the 410 on the floor behind me. The police step into the light, their guns drawn on me. My hearing loss has its most serious moment. This is how old men die. Put your hands against the glass and don’t move!

I lean forward, hands pressed to the glass, a policeman poised on the other side of the pane. His cocked revolver, held in both hands, levels at my chest. The lights of two more vehicles race up the driveway. High beams blind me. If they shoot me, a year with more than one spiritual battle ends. My heart rate not elevated, a strange calm has been with me through it all. Life takes you to this place, where you just don’t care. A terrible joke, life. Twenty-eight minutes of terror, documented by the 9-1-1 time stamp, and I stand in wait of a police execution. The headlights illuminate the intruder, sprawled in a puddle of blood. Another officer levels his gun in my direction. I note his shoulder patch, university police. He is noticeably young; his hands are shaking. A university cop holds my fate. Another officer steps closer. His patch identifies him as the borough police, a little better, but I know he is a rookie. I recognize him from the coffee shop in town. He, too,