To My Dear Between

By J.A. Sloan

When Hank Higdon's wife and father, along with hundreds of millions of others, spontaneously and mysteriously vanish from the earth, he is confused and frightened. Amidst the chaos, those who are left behind, like Hank, are desperate to know what has happened, why, and what the future holds. This book contains the personal letters between Hank and his wife to answer these questions . . . and more.

 

A personal story of rescue and loss.  A pre-Rapture warning; a post-Rapture guide.  What do you know for certain about "the end of days?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: RESPIRE Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201825430

Book preview

To the

Dear Between

. . .

Prologue

M.T.’s Grocery & Supply was a rural-Arkansas general store with all the charm and pizazz of a whitewashed chicken coop.  Thankfully, its customers were mostly of the poultry sort: farmers and ranchers—driving trucks with feathers, missing or mismatched hubcaps, and NRA decals—who would stop by early in the morning for their last coffee and any fresh news, or perhaps pop in during the hot siesta hours for a cold soda, a tin of beanie-weenies, or a pack of cheap smokes.  Located on the main stretch of highway in and out, M.T.’s white-clapboard building was a central point of reference for the community of Alpha.  With a census population of 150 and dwindling, the place made you want to yawn and, if you were completely in sync with its pace, enjoy a slow stretch, as well.  M.T.’s—like its regular customers—was going nowhere fast.

The cling-clang of the rusted cowbell dangling from the store’s screened door caught the stooped proprietor’s attention and he stood.  He had been stocking the lower shelves as she entered.  Good morning, Mrs. Higdon, he said to her cheerfully.  How may I help you today?

Why Mitch Tucker, she replied scoldingly, facing him squarely.  I’ve been shoppin’ here for thirty years . . . ever since we went to school together and you opened your doors for business.  I see you almost every week.  So when on earth are you going to start callin’ me Claire?  She laughed pleasantly.

It’s a rusty habit, I’m afraid, he confessed wearily.  How have you been, Claire?

I’m fine, Mitch.  Thank you for askin’.  And you?

Oh, fine.  Just fine.  Fine.

And Beck and the boys?

Oh, they’re just fine, too.  Beck has been meanin’ to stop by.  She’s been so busy at the church and all . . . .

Well, please give her my best.

With questions still unspoken between them, they detached awkwardly.  Mitch resumed his duties stocking while Claire roamed the two short and narrow aisles for kitchen staples and supplies.  They converged again moments later at the register—Claire with cornmeal, sugar, and tinfoil, and Mitch with just enough courage to speak.

How is Hank? he asked sincerely, dropping his head to avoid eye contact.

Hank’s getting’ on.  He’s hangin’ in there.  You know him . . . .

Is there anything . . . .  Mitch blurted helplessly, lifting his sad eyes to read Claire’s.

No.  Thank you, Mitch.  Thank you for askin’.  We are goin’ to be just fine.  Claire smiled weakly, but the intense pain within her was palpable.  Mitch simply bowed his head again in respectful silence.  And Claire gathered her small bag of things from the counter and, without her usual God bless and goodbye, exited the store.

~

Hank Higdon, fifty-five years of age, was prescribed and fully stocked with medications powerful enough to stagger a charging bull, but he refused to take them unless his pain became unbearable.  He loathed the thought of drug dependency.  The Higdon men were, several generations deep, known for being tough.  In Claire’s opinion, they were too tough for their own good on occasion.  But she had Hank’s heart and, when they were together, he didn’t stand a chance.

They argued at times, of course, as all spouses do, but their rule of never going to sleep with unresolved issues between them kept them from scorekeeping and carrying resentments.  The Team Higdon system had run smoothly for thirty-six years without an overhaul and they were a model of propriety for the small community of Alpha, where everybody knew everyone's business, as well as everyone’s pleasures.

Hank, like his two younger brothers, their father, and grandfather before, was an independent poultry farmer.  They raised both chicken and turkey.  In addition, they raised cattle and farmed together.  It was difficult and dirty work, but it suited and provided.  It was more than a way of life.  For Hank, though, this life for him was now tragically over.

Precisely two months and six days ago, on a sunny Saturday, following a routine afternoon stop at M.T.’s for boiled peanuts and a soda, Hank’s future was suddenly altered.  Whistling casually as he pulled onto the highway, Hank never knew what hit him.  The speeding eighteen-wheeled rig slammed into the rear of Hank’s big Chevy with such force that his six-foot-four inch, 245-pound body was propelled through the windshield.  He came to rest in a broken and bloody mess one-hundred and sixty-three feet from the initial point of impact.  Hank was very fortunate to be alive.

The sound of the collision had been heard as far as a mile away.  Ben Suggs, working on his farm’s equipment, had dropped his tools due to the loud crunch, testifying later that he thought his tractor had exploded.  He’d hurried to the scene and arrived there minutes later.

Mitch Tucker, the store’s owner, had been opening a shipped box of cable ties when it happened.  He ran outside and was the first and only witness to the accident.  Spotting Hank’s mangled truck on its side, he’d immediately called 911 before approaching it.  On the way, Mitch later testified, he saw Hank writhing about further down the highway and had proceeded toward him instead.

Hank was a God-awful sight.  I seen blood was comin’ from his eyes and his ears.  His nose was all busted and . . . he was tryin’ to stand up.  I got to him and yelled for him to be still.  I told him help was on the way.  I told him he was goin’ to be okay.  His boots wasn’t on his feet.

Hank’s boots were later found inside the cab of his truck.  He’d been hit with such force that he’d been ejected from them in an instant.

I finally got Hank to lie down, Mitch had testified.  He was mumblin’ somethin’ about Claire, his wife.  I seen the blood on his head was pourin’ mostly out of his right ear.  I turned his head to the side and pressed my hand over his ear to stop the bleedin’.  I didn’t know what else to do.  All of a sudden, Hank got very still.  I thought he might be dead but I could see he was still breathin’.  I stayed there with him like that until the emergency folks arrived.  I sort of remember Ben Suggs bein’ there.  I think he was watchin’ for traffic.  There was another man with him.  I figured he was the driver of the truck what done hit Hank.  I really don’t remember much after that.  One of them emergency fellas checked me out, I guess.  I learned they’d given me a pill to calm my nerves.

Hank had been airlifted to Danville General Hospital.  He’d left the hospital thirty-seven days later in a wheelchair with permanent paralysis of his left leg and minor paresis of his left arm.  The doctors said it was a miracle that Hank was not a paraplegic.

~

Returning home, Claire found Hank still asleep and slumped in his wheelchair by the television, where she’d left him an hour before.  She thought he looked small, like a half-full sack of feed, and she moved into the kitchen quietly to begin preparing his meal.  In time, Hank would moan himself awake, eat what he could, watch television, and moan himself back to sleep.  Except for quick forays to handle their affairs, Claire remained with him at all times to minister to his needs.  And since he’d gotten home from the hospital, minus the occasional visitor, this was their typical day.

~

Under Claire’s loving care, Hank improved rapidly.  One day, he awoke mid-morning with the fuzzy remnants of a dream, his usual headache, and a question for Claire about the day’s weather.  Thunder was rare this time of year and he hadn’t slept well after the loud storm passed through in the night.  Hank called for her, but she was not at home.  This was not entirely unusual.  She wouldn’t leave him for long.  He would wait for her.

At 10 o’clock, Hank’s phone rang.  It was Sam, his brother.  Have you seen dad lately?  Mom said he’s missin’.  Their father was still quite active at the age of seventy-three and it was not uncommon for him to go off alone.

He ain’t been here that I know of.  Probably out scoutin’ for deer or . . . .

Mom said his truck is still sittin’ in the driveway . . . and his phone is still in the charger.

Hmm.  Did you try Tim?  He could’ve picked him up.

Already called.  Tim ain’t seen hide nor hair of him neither.  I’m gonna run over to . . . .

I’ll call Claire.  She ain’t here at the moment but maybe they’re together.

Okay.  Call me back if you learn anythin’.  Hey, while I’ve got you, I seen me the purtiest ten-pointer this mornin’.  A big boy sportin’ a massive rack.  The Higdon’s dearly loved to hunt and Sam wanted to lift his big brother’s spirits and motivate his recovery.  He knew this would do the trick.

Where was he at?  I’ll bet money it was my buck.

I can’t say, good brother.  You’ll just have to get out and find him yourself.

Don’t worry.  I know where to find him.  He’s mine.  I’ll call you back after I talk to Claire.  Hank wanted that buck so bad he could taste it.  He’d been tracking it for two years.  He wasn’t about to let a bum leg and a weak arm keep him from having it, either.

Hank tried to call Claire and found it exceedingly strange to hear her Blue Highway ringtone bouncing back to him.  She never went anywhere without her phone.  Never.  It sounded as if it was coming from the kitchen.  Wheeling himself in that direction to inspect, Hank noticed Claire’s car was parked in its usual place.  What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here? he muttered.  His mind was now spinning in high gear.  Two vehicles are parked, two phones are left behind, no notes, and two people are missing.  This doesn’t add up.  Before he had the opportunity to call Sam with this disturbing assessment, Hank’s phone began gobbling.  It was the custom Tom Turkey ringtone his brother, Steve, the goofy one, had programmed into his phone.  Hank could not figure out how to delete it and he was not in the mood for Steve’s silliness this morning.

Hank here.  What’s happenin’, Steve?

Turn on the news.  Channel 7.  Somethin’ crazy is happenin’.

What?  Steve, I ain’t got time for . . . .

Hank!  Just do it.  Now!  Channel 7.  The tone of Steve’s voice was not silly.  His voice reeked of disaster.  So, too, did the newscaster’s.

~

. . . has declared a global state of emergency.  Remain in your homes.  We repeat: We have now received confirmed reports from all over the world that millions of people have simultaneously and mysteriously vanished.  This morning, the Secretary-General of the United Nations has declared a global state of emergency.  Remain in your homes.  WLAR will be reporting live for the duration of this crisis.  Please stay tuned to this network for further developments.

~

Preface

If I’m going to read a book, I prefer to learn something, as well as be entertained.  That’s why I typically read and write historical fiction.  But, after writing eight such books, I was eager to try something a bit different.

Initially, I was intent on writing a non-fiction piece; a challenging first.  As planned, "The Blessed Hope was going to be a For Idiots" primer on eschatology (please stifle your yawn for a few paragraphs, thank you).  Here are the reasons I felt such a book was warranted:

Most people, including far too many Christians, are ignorant or confused about the subject.  While the level of indifference remains shockingly high, recent internet search results indicate a marked increase in interest (the end of time accumulated over five-million hits per day and is trending upward).

Unfortunately, there is an alarming lack of quality, Biblically-accurate, and clearly articulated information available on the internet.  However, there’s a ton of false and misleading misinformation.  It’s actually rather scary, given the seriousness of the subject.

Most hard page-turners do not like the taste of—and their spiritual stomachs (and wallets) cannot easily absorb—the rich theological works of the few published scholars who have written about eschatology.  It’s a sad fact: most readers want easy-to-digest baby food.  And there is very little of it available on the subject worth reading.

Thus, a Biblically accurate layman’s primer seemed to be in order.  And, suffice it to say, I wanted to be the one to write and publish it.

Nevertheless, in the course of researching and planning for this project, I found myself being pulled in a different direction.  I was saddened.  I was sad for the nation of Israel and the spiritually lost.  I was sad for those who are persecuted for their faith and for those who are martyred.  Accordingly, I began thinking of writing a different sort of book.

Specifically, I wondered what it would be like in real-time for those people who will be left behind after the Rapture.  I realized that they comprise the spiritually lost who will be left to face the horrors of the Tribulation alone without a foundation of understanding.  They will be in desperate need of an anchor of hope and a trusted guide.  All true Christians will be gone.  On top of this, the immediate