God, Are You Still There?: A story of... hope

By Mark Hegele

Don't the persistent little setbacks, aggravations, and pressures of life sometimes drive you kind of crazy? You know, that piling-on effect that, after all, is usually the real source of most of the stress in our lives. And what if all those perpetual pressures only culminate in one horrifying, life-threatening tragedy that brings you and your family to your knees? That's the kind of thing that often leads to the desperate moment when a person cries out in anger, "God, are you still there?" Or more importantly, it begs the question "Does God--if there is a God--even know that you are still here?"

That's the story of David Tabor's life, one that had so much potential but which was rocked by so many compounding stressful frustrations. When a family tragedy brings him to his knees, he snaps. Everything that he hoped he knew about God and the purpose of life and "the great unknown" is suddenly called into question--with an amazing answer waiting for him where he least expected to find it.

This captivating story encompasses all the things that make all of us vulnerable, uneasy about the future, and maybe even a little scared to know the answer to the title question. But there is comfort and revelation in the simple and poignant wisdom of a seasoned old pastor and miraculous truth in the quiet and life-changing discovery of the answer to the question "God, are you still there?"

Tim Parish, Senior Pastor

New Life Church, Louisville, KY

A page-turner that will capture the attention of the seeker and the mature-in-faith alike. Thoughtful and enlightening, suspenseful and entertaining to the end. I couldn't put it down!

Dr. Justin Velez-Hagan, Ph. D.

Economist and Economic Advisor

Washington, D.C.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886167962

Book preview

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God, Are You Still There?

A story of... hope

Mark Hegele

ISBN 979-8-88616-795-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88616-796-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Mark Hegele

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

Prelude

Virginia, fall, 1758

The bright sun of the beautiful, misty Virginia autumn had scarcely been up for an hour when the fire of Jeremiah Wilson's kiln was already very hot and ready for the day's first round of silver melting. The J. Wilson, Master Silversmith shop was well-known in the greater Potomac area for his production of very fine silver jewelry as well as some of the most sought-after silver and pewter goblets, mugs, and various other precious artifacts in the region. Jeremiah didn't particularly relish the idea of making pewter jewelry for folks, since it usually was, well, a little beneath his realm of expertise shall we say—not to mention the fact that those folks who wanted custom pewter jewelry usually didn't have deep pockets and sometimes were rather slow to pay at all. The silversmith trade, on the other hand, was more intriguing to him, as he could really let his fine craftsmanship show forth in the silver art pieces that adorned the necks and wrists and gowns of many of the ladies of the Virginia aristocracy of the day.

In a moment that was unusual for this time of morning, the entry bell at the front door of his shop rang out its gentle ting-a-ling as a shabbily dressed young Black man entered and politely made his presence known to the good jeweler.

Morning, Mr. Wilson, the young man softly said, as if to not offend the shopkeeper with this extra early entrance.

Jeremiah strained to see the intruder against the bright light of the early sun streaming through the front store window. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he called out, Jacob?

Yes, sir, Mr. Wilson, it's Jacob.

Well, what in the world are you doing here so early in the morning? replied the silversmith.

Well, sir, sorry to bother you so early like this, but I was told to come check on the progress of the—

Yes, I know, I know, Jeremiah said, quickly interrupting. Your master wants his locket done yesterday, and I am sorely behind in my work.

Well, that's no problem, sir…, Jacob responded, as if to attempt to deflect the conversation from turning ugly, quickly.

No, no, I get it, Jeremiah continued. Please tell him that I am at this moment getting ready to fire it in the kiln and will have it ready for him by noon tomorrow, at the latest. It's my top priority today.

Yes, sir, yes, sir, I will certainly tell him that, and thank you, sir, Jacob quickly said, as if to breathe a sigh of relief knowing now that he would not have to deliver bad news to the powers that be. And Missy wanted me to ask you if you'd like some fresh Johnny cakes and maple syrup this morning. She's cookin' right now, and I'd be happy to bring you some, he cheerfully continued, like one good neighbor to another.

Well, I appreciate that, but I've already had my breakfast. Although it's always hard to turn down Missy's cooking, Jeremiah added, for Missy's culinary expertise in the kitchen was nearly as famous in the area as Jeremiah's expertise with crafting fine jewelry. The two men laughed at the thought of that last statement. You tell Missy I said thank you, and come back here at noon tomorrow and that locket will be ready.

Many thanks, Mr. Wilson, many thanks, Jacob concluded as he backed toward the front door and began his return walk to the plantation just down the road. Jeremiah Wilson likewise turned to the kiln; took in a deep breath as if to say, Let's get busy—it's going to be a long day; and took a small silver ingot from a nearby desk, ready to make a simple but significant piece of jewelry that would soon bring joy to the hearts of a loving couple…and perhaps one day change a little piece of history as well.

Chapter 1

Every story is supposed to begin with something like It was a brig ht, cheery spring day in [fill in the location]…, right? Something to get the reader feeling good about where this story is headed. Well…the fact of the matter was that it was a gray overcast April morning in Louisville, Kentucky, the Derby City, the kind of day the Chamber of Commerce doesn't exactly want to admit happens when the city is nearing time for the greatest two minutes in sports: the Kentucky Derby. The Mardi Gras of the north, with a bit more class. Chance of showers today: 70 percent.

But that didn't matter too much to a young man named David Tabor of the not-too-famous Louisville, Kentucky, David Tabor family. David was in the mood to shop, at least for a few minutes on his way home from a half day at work. It was the Wednesday of the Great Derby Steamboat Race, and this whole week might as well be a state holiday. Chase Bank gave all its branch managers the afternoon off to attend the boat race if they wanted, so David was at least going to take advantage of this perk. He and his wife, Stephanie, had recently purchased their new home, the second of their mostly young marriage (eight years is still just past the honeymoon stage, right? At least they made it past the seven-year itch without any infidelities), and this house was a good buy—$45,000 worth of equity built-in from the day of closing in what was supposed to be a sellers' market. If they could only do that every other year, they'd be millionaires in, like…their lifetime. More or less.

Now the Peddler's Mall is one of those wonderful/awful dens of antiquity and iniquity, where one can usually find what one usually doesn't need and may not really want—but, hey, it's just such a good deal, right? (Insert here: I once went to an estate auction with friends; and in order to fit in with the auctioneering crowd and avoid having to buy any more lukewarm coffee and stale apple pie from the so-called concession stand, I bid $10 on some more-than-well-used shovels that I didn't want and certainly didn't need, only to find out—after I won the bid—that it was my choice of the three tired-old shovels. What the heck? I could have bought a new one for $12! But I digress…)

Still, the Peddler's Mall can…on rare occasions, in my opinion…offer some good bargains for those poor unsuspecting folks who want to potentially waste two hours of their precious time rummaging through that stuff, looking through velvet Elvis throw rugs, scratched 78 LPs of the Bee Gees and their eighty-year-old compadres, and gray wooden yard art that wasn't pretty back in the day and ain't lovely now. Not to mention the… Well, you get the idea.

As David rounded the corner of the eleventh aisle (do they ever end?) of the main gallery of this Peddler's Mall, his eye fixed on a collection of interesting old…very old…little boxes and knickknacks that Stephanie just might like. She was getting into this whole farmhouse look that was so popular in home decorating—which, of course, would be replaced in two years by some other newest and bestest look that would be sure to sell well for another two years. A collection (and that's putting it graciously) of three little old boxes of descending sizes—kind of like those Russian nesting dolls—was most intriguing, as they seemed to have a distinctive and unusual aire about them, you know, like they should be worth some money but maybe not, but maybe? And since things in David's world had been a little rough lately—like for the past several months, okay…years—he thought it might be worth the investment of $12 to see if his hunch might possibly be right. And if not, well, no one need know…

You got your eye on those little boxes, eh? said a kindly old lady's voice from the next booth over. Some elderly countryfolk seem to be inherently destined to have Peddler's Mall booths—this gal was one of them.

Uh, maybe, replied David, a little taken aback that anyone had seen him actually looking at those boxes.

Well, the guy who owns that booth says they might be worth some money. Says they are pretty old, and I guess that makes everything worth more—except for me, she said, laughing at her joke a little more than it was worth.

Yeah, maybe so, replied David, hoping that he would not have to get into a lengthy conversation with this person. Dear God, would that be boring and uncomfortable? Glancing at the omnipresent lottery sign above him, he replied, I think I'd have a better chance of winning the lottery, right?

You like those wall shadowboxes too? said the genteel booth mate. I got some of them here, too, if you want them.

Okay, maybe, replied David. After all, Joanna Gaines says they are very ‘in' right now, so perhaps a good wife-pleasing investment?

Jo Gaines says they are the thing these days, stated his new bestest bargain buddy. How did she know? Do they have mind readers at these flea markets too? he thought.

After a few more polite exchanges and a small ex-grocery cart three-quarters full now of well-worn, musty-smelling…stuff…, David made his way to the front checkout, flopped out the old credit card (hoping it still had enough credit left on it to cover this…stuff), and then left with his treasure chest of top-value trinkets and headed for home, hoping for an evening of well-deserved R&R with his wonderful wife and best friend. Stephie did so enjoy fixing up the new home, and making her happy was pretty darn fulfilling to David as well. Happy wife, happy life, you know…

Out the door of that humble mall, David searched the parking lot for his new turbo Porsche Cayenne. Well, new to him anyway. It was actually a gently used three-year-old version, only 46,000 miles, that he and Stephanie had just purchased last month—sporty but not too sporty, somewhat practical, just the car that up-and-coming almost-forty-year-olds should have in their investment portfolio. You know, the kind of car that says, I'm a player in the financial world, without being too pretentious. And the style and condition of it were such that you couldn't tell if it was brand-new or almost new. Perfect. Check that one off the list. And it only took two years of savings to accomplish. Cha-ching! Stephanie's Honda Accord was almost ten years old and with 150,000 miles on it, but hey—they can work on it next.

Reaching the edge of the potholed minefield called a parking lot, David noticed a one-way sign on Jackson Street that wasn't there last week.

Why does every street in this freakin' city have to be a one-way street now? said David in frustration over the constant reworking of the traffic patterns of Louisville streets. All I need today is to get a ticket for going the wrong way on what used to be a two-way street last week!

About a half mile down that street David, noticed an Arby's, his favorite fast-food restaurant. Arby's: it's about the meat! Yup, lunchtime, and that sounds good. But to his surprise, that Arby's told him that they no longer sell coffee. His favorite turkey and Swiss wrap, yes sirree. But not the coffee. What the hell? he barked at the drive-thru speaker. What kind of restaurant in America doesn't sell coffee?

We just didn't sell enough to make it worthwhile, sir, was the reply from the powers that be.

Well, why don't you just use a Keurig coffee maker and sell one cup at a time? You could charge three dollars a cup and make a killing with no waste!

I don't know, sir. I just know we don't sell coffee anymore.

After that pointless exchange with this powerless quick culinary expert, David decided to accept his Arby's wrap and quickly visit the Thornton's gas station down the road for the missing cup of java. Let's get on with this.

Cell phone rang. Doesn't that always bring that momentary pause while you think, Is this good news or bad news? For David these days, the chances of it being bad news were greater than the good news version.

David Tabor, he said cheerfully and optimistically without looking to see the caller ID. Hoping against hope?

Hey, young man, said the cheerful voice on the other end.

"Hey, Mr. Hargrove, was David's swift reply. He said Mr." with a slight smile, like he was politely acknowledging the authority of the other man while realizing his friendship at the same time, knowing that the voice on the other end was a pal and mentor, the man whom he would call his boss. Miles Hargrove was the bank VP in charge of branch management and a darn good one too. Compassionate but firm, a good leader and a fair man, but one whom you didn't dare cross. Doing so could bring some sad and swift repercussions, all of which David would not want to incur.

What can I do for you, sir? quipped David as he pulled over in the Thornton's lot to take this call. Might as well sit here for a minute and eat, drink this frothy java, and talk to a friendly voice.

Well, it's more like what I can do for YOU, replied the boss. We're coming close to the end of our fiscal quarter, and I just noticed that you, my friend, have a very real shot at closing the most installment loans of any branch in the district. And, of course, you know that means—a nice $2,000 bonus for you if you can keep that lead.

With eyes wide open and slightly startled by this news, David replied, Wow, I didn't realize that we had done that many loans. That's…that's great news. Oh, baby, was that ever great news? An extra two grand right now could go a looong way. I think we have about six more installments that are pending right now, so I will do my best to see if I can get those closed before the end of the week, he said as he glanced through some of the Peddler's Mall booty while juggling the sandwich and coffee too.

That would be outstanding, young man, said Miles. "I'd love to see you get that check before Derby. That way, we can