A Battle at the Fingertips: The IMFish.net Archives Book 1

By James C. C. Byerley

Everywhere we turn, the Internet is there. We access it through all kinds of devices, including some small enough to fit in our ears or wear on our wrists. And what does it serve up to us? Information. But most of that is not neutral. Good and evil, right and wrong, truth and deception, knowledge and ignorance—all of it is available to us on the internet. It is just a keystroke, a swipe, a bing away. In his book A Battle at the Fingertips, James Byerley tells a fascinating, frightening, and all-too-human tale of the dark and light sides of the internet world. Enter the archives Byerley has created. Discover the battle brewing there—a battle sometimes more true-to-life than many see or would care to admit. Entertaining. Thought-provoking. Chilling. A journey you'll not forget. —William D. Watkins, award-winning author, speaker, and teacher; president of Literary Solutions A Battle at the Fingertips: The IMFish.net Archives is a Christian fiction, techno-terrorism thriller set in contemporary times about two opposing, growing, closely knit social media communities that clash inside and outside the internet. While one community wields discipleship, love, and evangelism toward online users (IMFish.net), the other aims to spread anarchy, hate, and targeted bullying, especially against the Christian institution (ATH). Subtly, throughout this collision, powerful forces of God's hand support and sustain the former community, while dark capacities (as inferred, psychological influences) infiltrate and guide the latter. As this epic battle takes shape, new truths and understandings are learned by all of the A Battle at the Fingertips characters about God's goal to marshal his loved ones (including those entrenched in evil) and about internet usage as a whole. This novel—divided into historical "archives" rather than chapters—demonstrates how evangelism, especially through the use of technology, can bring about conflict indicative of the current spiritual battle raging, developing at the fingertips of a keyboard. It suggests how God is always in control and, in the end, victorious. It shows how chaos can lead to triumph through tragedy, especially when it is truth and God's love that is used as bait in the net. A Battle at the Fingertips leaves its readers with a new understanding of four truths that all characters discover by the end of the novel: 1) The internet is a powerful tool for ministering to the isolated and lonely. 2) Social media members are largely made up of a society of individuals looking for a community to call their home, exactly the type of scenario Jesus looks to for the enhancement of His kingdom. In an age with diminishing front-porch gatherings and ice cream socials, people are now more isolated. These communities are providing an avenue for camaraderie, good and bad. 3) Any attempt to make an impact within the internet will always succeed at the grassroots level, a truth the protagonists learn from mistakes they make in their vision of creating an online ministry throughout the novel. 4) The fourth truth is the most profound. Some of the opposing evangelists and anarchists discover how similar to one another they are in their counterculture efforts. The ATH community is angry with IMFish.net because they feel oppressed by their ideals. IMFish.net member Aiden eventually convinces Howard, the leader of ATH, that Christians are persecuted outcasts too, are not of this world at all, and are oppressed mostly due to secular culture. This is when the ministry at the grassroots level takes place, one-on-one, via "chat dialogue format," in the novel's gripping climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645849780

Book preview

archive1/wherethereissmoke.html

BLUF—bottom line up front. Simply follow my lead and all will be cool, Cord’s inner voice assured him. Resist my direction and you’ll screw things up, you clumsy fool, but nothing will go wrong if you just listen, trust, and obey. It dripped with confidence. After all, we are one, and you need me!

Cord had no intention of resisting. He never did.

It was an eclectic scene before him. Six stories high, Man was about to burn in the distance. A halo of lights along its perimeter was casting a strange, dusty, golden glow into the dark desert air all around the effigy. It was an enormously tall wooden human figure, with arms outstretched into the night sky in a display of triumphant anticipation. Its face was blank and expressionless, as if it was knowingly awaiting its fiery doom. Booming base was resonating from a distant ongoing concert. Shouts and screams of ecstasy could be heard on occasion. It was late Saturday on Labor Day, and the annual Burning Man event was approaching its climax on Black Rock Dry Lake, in the Black Rock Desert, near Black Rock City, Nevada.

The FIRE gang, as they had named themselves, had arrived four days before from their southbound trip of mayhem, traveling I-80 through much of northern Nevada. Typical for the desert, the heat had escaped like a thief into the dry, thin air after sunset. From a nearby wildfire and the area’s famous dust, a strange smog was blowing through in fingers, silver and brown breath that occasionally leaped upward into swirling dust devils outlined with flying bits of trash. Stars would disappear and reemerge. At times, it was difficult to distinguish the mutant art, bicycles, and vehicles from their motor home’s darkly tinted windows, even though bright neon lights from the surrounding sculptures and art seemed to swirl and blur.

Cord and the rest of the FIRE gang had decorated their motor home so that it could blend in with the art and be encouraged to enter the festival grounds. They had used neon fluorescent, washable paint—buckets of it—and each member had added their own element of creativity to its exterior. They had also added blue LED light strips, and the motor home now projected a face at the front with a bright, clown-like grin. The lights on its sides were blinking different strips on and off alternatively, giving an animated illusion. They liked it so much that Cord later wished that he had used nonwashable paint, but he knew that it would bring too much attention elsewhere.

While Cord had ventured outside the RV, the other four had remained inside, half asleep. He heard the propane heater kick in, which would keep them all warm and comfortable. Without much purpose and as if on an aimless mission, he found himself stacking some wooden pallets that someone had discarded. The stack was to be in front of the motor home, he knew, for it was something Leonard wanted, and therein was all the reasoning he needed. After stacking them, he leaped up onto them and circled the area to scout from a better point of view.

Most of Burning Man’s participants had ventured off to be closer to the Man. He sat down on the edge of the stack, staring at the sight of the motor home in angst, waiting for further instruction. It was a game of anticipation with Leonard, like waiting for a train to arrive, like how he knew that he would hop on board and ride that train again, clickety-clack, cool, calm, collected. An avid gamer, he compared it to his favorite, Game of Trolls, like how his interaction with Leonard often helped him wind down and escape reality. Also, likewise, while in control, he felt influenced to some extent by the game’s designer.

A distant cry from a crowd waned. A chill shot down his back, and he grabbed his long dark trench coat and stuffed his hands into its pockets. He laughed and then immediately wondered why he had done so. Was it for comfort from the cold or comfort from his direction?

As Cord struggled to find warmth, his legs and feet began moving—tapping—at the crates. Quiet techno music played rhythmically from the motor home’s interior, and he could hear muffled laughter coming from within. He smiled as he recognized the voice of Roxie, his one love.

Now, let’s go over the directive again, shall we?

And so it began again, the dire dance between two sides of one conscience. Cord pressed his head between his own hands, applying soothing pressure to a dull headache. Upon Cord’s forced submission, Leonard began to effortlessly prep Cord for the task. Cord had learned by now from experience: when dealing with Leonard, servanthood led to solitude, and inversely, defiance meant agony.

His head bobbed back and forth in a rocking, soothing motion. Leonard was only repeating what Cord already knew. The stack of pallets would serve as Cord’s podium. Leonard would be his teleprompter, and his audience would be somewhere online. One short uploaded video clip would complete the task.

None of the other gang members knew about Leonard, even though he was the guiding, driving power behind all that Cord and the other FIRE fighters had accomplished over the past year. Four burned-down churches, triangulated across the under-God-we-trust country. From San Francisco to Portland, then from Seattle to Twin Falls, the gang had left a wake of smoldering destruction. Under Leonard’s guidance, they had left no trail of their arsons, and now they were in Nevada, for a reason only Leonard knew.

They had named their gang after their first arson, a church in San Francisco. The acronym FIRE—Free Independents against the Religious Empire—reflected their cause and method. It was a dark vision, but Cord reasoned that it would lead them to a better place, and even, just maybe, to make a difference, to leave a mark on the unjust, oppressive machine.

Cord suspected tonight’s clip would launch them into a new mission, but he couldn’t imagine what new role his fighters would play. This uncertainty bothered him, yet he was excited; his squad of fighters was moving into new territory, and they all loved to travel.

To date, no one knew of the squad’s existence outside its own members. That all four were loners helped ensure their safety, and they had effectively developed a real sense of family toward one another. Cord knew that Leonard had eventually wanted to expand the squad, but the problem Cord had with growth was over the impact it had on their security. Also, their group required allegiance to leadership, and allegiance generally worked best in small numbers.

The gang followed Cord’s leadership dutifully, but Cord had only followed Leonard’s guidance, the true source of his leadership qualities. Because of this, Cord often mused himself as a puppet but lamented that the real joke was on the others who followed him unknowingly, as if he were some superstar to be worshiped.

After a brief pause, Leonard returned suddenly. Okay, we’re ready, Leonard’s voice thundered. Upon direction, he stood up atop the pallets and looked around again, this time with wilder eyes. Now, let’s get to work!

In obedience, Cord sighed, nodded, and facing the motor home, jumped down from the stack. Kicking an uncaring bottle as he went, he walked over to the RV and pounded excitedly onto its windshield. He pointed menacingly to the side door and beckoned. Everyone out! he shouted.

As they began exiting off to the side, he began barking out orders. It was a simple task, really. Alex readied his phone to record. From an equipment bag, he reached for a Bluetooth microphone/earpiece, connected it to his smartphone, and then handed it to Cord, who subsequently placed it into his ear. Cord told Frank to turn on the motor home’s headlights, and the pallets became a small well-lit stage. At Cord’s cue and after much fumbling, Frank gave an okay sign to show that the equipment was ready. Satisfied, Cord hopped back on top of the soon-to-be podium and sat on its edge again, facing the wash of the lights.

When you’re ready, Cord. Just give the word, Alex stated. He held the phone in front of him and stared at its display, moving left and right to get the best angle.

All right. Hold on. Let me think! Cord’s eyes narrowed and glanced around in a paranoid fashion. He felt vulnerable in the light; the area could be seen from a mile away.

Even though it seemed to the others that Cord was wealthy, he always kept the gang’s finances a tight secret. He had bought the equipment and motor home in faithful submission to Leonard’s direction. From various thefts he had made and some drug dealing, the gang had begun their rampage with over eighteen thousand dollars in cash after purchases. Now that well was nearly dry, Cord knew, but Leonard’s direction remained sure, and he had a feeling that this current task aimed to tackle that problem.

From stories he had heard, Cord knew some would call Leonard an alternate personality, but he didn’t mind; through research, he had often heard that gifted people often had these friends. Besides, Leonard gave Cord power—power he didn’t fully understand, but power that brought with it benefits. Power to read was one. An enhanced personality was another. Power to lead, power to proceed, as Leonard was often fond of saying.

Cord had met the others that made up the FIRE gang at a nightclub in San Francisco one evening, and he had impressed them with his extravagant spending and stories. At that time, Roxanne was their leader, and thanks to Leonard, Cord electrified her with his philosophy, jokes, and innuendos.

Over the next few weeks, she had found him amusing and a great lover. It was the first time a woman had shown any real interest in Cord, but as an added insecurity that never vanished, he knew Leonard deserved all the credit. As soon as Cord told her of his anti-Christian passion and of the money he had, Roxie introduced him to her friends—Frank, Jeff, and Alex. They, along with Roxie, had been looking for a way to attack the Christian institution, or the machine, as they referred to it. They, too, were without families and, like Cord, were on the road, looking for the next fun thing to do in an antidisestablishmentarian kind of way.

Progressively, and at Roxie’s insistence, Cord had become their leader. After their first church arson with Cord at the helm, Leonard had conceived the FIRE name.

Well? Alex persisted, increasingly annoyed by Cord’s lack of focus.

I need to be in the right mood, man, Cord responded in an annoyed tone. Just keep it on pause for now!

"As I said, whenever you are ready. But I’m getting cold!" Alex responded with guarded annoyance.

Cord shot back a cutting expression. What a wimp you are! he chided, and then noticed the energy building. He sounded powerful. Oh, a wee bit too cold for the big baby!

He could hear Frank, Jeff, and Roxie snickering. It would be fun, they thought, to see Cord put Alex in his place again. Lately, Cord saw Alex acting like the punk he was. Cord knew Frank, Jeff, and Roxanne were in a tight circle, but Alex was usually on the outside, and they all liked that, like a pack of wolves and their runt.

He grinned as he thought of his gang’s group dynamics. He had their undying loyalty. Roxie adored him to the point of worship, providing an example for the others. Jeff was needed physical strength at times, and Frank offered comic relief. While Alex tried to fit in, that desire ironically kept him from the acceptance he wanted. Alex even wished he were dumber sometimes, his cleverness often a barrier to acceptance. His rejection never drove him to leave, though. A slap on the back or a quick compliment from Cord inspired the dog to wag his tail again, happy to be recognized and noticed. And Cord knew how to play that hand only as needed.

Excitedly and with a grin, Cord blew into his hands. In an instant, Roxie glided from the darkness and reached out to Cord with some wool gloves. Cord took them with a smile and looked directly into her eyes. Even though her face was always rather pale, her eyes projected warmth, confidence, affection. Thanks, Rox! He grinned the way she loved, the devilish grin, as she liked to describe it. She stretched forward, warmly kissed his cheek, and then glided back into the darkness, eager for the unexpected to happen.

As if on cue, Leonard’s direction began again. Cool, calm, collected, boy! he boomed, audible only to Cord. Like you know your stuff and it’s gonna be your way and nobody else’s. Like you’re in control and know where you’re goin’, right and proper! Remember, I’m here to help you. Without me, you are a loser, born and bred. Can’t read, can’t lead, can’t proceed. Remember what I have said so many times? What is the key to the good life?

Thou shalt not resist, thou shalt not easily be resisted, Cord muttered. The others looked his way but dismissed it as another bout of his ramblings.

That’s right. You remember that, for that’s how we survive. Remember how you could hardly read before I came along? Now you’re a popular leader. Look how this group looks up to you!

Cord looked over at them. They had gathered by Alex, waiting for their leader to begin.

Now, I promise, we’ll get all the money needed for the upcoming missions. All we need to do is make this video segment. We’ve gotta do it here and now. See that Burning Man about to go up in flames? It’ll be in the camera’s view! That’s why we’re here. It proves where we are. It proves who we are. It has to be done right and proper, though. No screwups! You gotta look like the leader I am!

The attitude, Cord moaned under his breath. His tiredness was slowly reaching an intolerable level.

Now, get up and get ready! Just repeat my words.

Washed in the headlights’ beams, in front of the others and the camera, Cord sat upright on the crate and raised his arms in a stretch, arching his stiff back. He looked about for a moment, removed his gloves, and blew into his hands again. Behind him, in the distance, he could hear the crowd’s growing louder chants. The Man was about to burn.

It’s time, Alex, Cord said, looking hard at him. When I nod, you begin recording. And turn that trash off, Frank! he hollered to Frank, who immediately jumped inside the motor home and fumbled at the knobs.

Cord’s face looked sullen as he began his speech for an audience he did not know. His green eyes peered through his ragged brown bangs, and his head hung low, his hand scratching at the stubble on his chin.

As if on cue, Leonard’s voice came to him like clear, pouring water. It was easy. All he had to do was to drink that water and repeat and act as a mirror, a reflection. It was as if he had a game controller in his hand, pushing the right buttons without a thought. Or a transposer typing out a speech in real time. He gave Alex the nod, and the clip began. Alex signaled a thumbs-up. Cord felt a sudden power well up within him, a power that made his spine tingle and his arm hair stand. He began very slowly, almost monotone, as he repeated every word Leonard’s voice messaged, and the prominence of the Man, ready to burn, could be clearly seen in the backdrop.

It’s not our fault. It’s not our fault they hate us. It’s not our fault we don’t relate, and I won’t be oppressed any longer, he began with a shake of his head, looking downward.

Then he looked up, and an understanding, even caring, expression could be seen in Cord’s face and eyes as he brushed aside his long bangs. He peered searchingly through the camera’s lens, pausing to glance back down at the dusty ground around him to let the receiver contemplate his first, opening words.

Then, on Leonard’s cue, he began again. We’re the FIRE—Free Independents against the Religious Empire—fighters. Destruction of the establishment is our goal, for the common life is not lived by the common person. Whoever tells you the common life is the norm lies when they refer to the life of ‘normalcy.’ He paused.

The true common life is lived by people like you and me, always hated, shunned, ridiculed, and left alone! For they want it that way—those who live the lie—for they are reinforced by it all. It gives them power.

Staring back at the camera, he moved the bangs again from his face by pinching them behind his ears. Cord’s brown eyes looked strikingly alert and clear, sparkling in the washing light. "And who do I mean by they? he invited the viewer. Well, that is the question, isn’t it? For I tell you, it’s everyone who claims to have ‘friends’! Friends in the suburbs. Friends at the country club. Friends that know other like-minded friends. Friends at office parties. Most of all, friends at church! Friendship is what the current establishment supports, so long as you and your ‘friends’ fit in with their ideals, their material expectations, their notion of the American dream, a bygone, defunct ideal. And if you don’t hold their ideals on life, their morals, well, they’ll make sure you won’t make any friends, and they’ll literally go out of their way to make sure you don’t meet anybody like yourself. If you did—he laughed sarcastically—that would be a real threat to their system, wouldn’t it?"

Cord jumped from his seat, grabbed the top pallet, and angrily threw it to the ground. He stomped on it, ripped off one of its planks, and then threw it across the lot with great force. He then turned back to the camera, his eyes blazing. I hate it, I tell you, I hate it! It’s been a system held on to for centuries! ‘Don’t hang with the wrong people, or you’ll become like them,’ Cord quoted in the voice of a schoolmarm. Or so the saying goes.

He paused.

"But what if you like those people? he continued, patronizing. What if you relate to those people? What if you are one of those people?" he snarled, leaning forward ever so slightly.

He motioned for Alex to zoom in on him. In turn, he moved closer.

"Feel alone? Well, you’re not as alone as you think! We prove there are many others like you, so don’t be fooled! They, for example, are the media. Or the local, state, and federal governments. But also, always remember that they are your local Christian church, he said with a sneer. All they do is fling their morality, their laws, and their threats of spiritual suicide if you wander from their so-called straight and narrow path."

Cord looked down at his hands again, woefully toying with the ideas as if there were no hope. But then he raised his head and grinned through his hair that had fallen again. Cool, calm, and collected.

"Well, that old religion-governed system of stale dictatorship is so thankfully falling apart, due in most part to social media! Thanks to the internet, they can no longer keep us apart. There are literally millions of people like you and me who, after a day’s work at the jobs we hate, come home not to sleep but to log on and connect! And what do they call it? Internet addiction, or too much screen time, of all things. As usual, it’s like they know what’s best for you. Too much texting. Too much browsing. Too much gaming. Who are they to tell us how to spend our free time, what precious little of it we have? Who cares if our friends are all online? Is there not a human right to information? Or interaction? They are the ones who say relationships built online are prone to identity problems and credibility. It’s all censorship at the ‘bottom line.’

"Their rules would keep us from meeting and interacting. They are the ones full of stories about how fake, corrupt, dishonest, and incredulous information on the internet is, how it ruins lives. I say instead that it provides a wealth of information for us and empowers us. Most of all, it provides a format of freedom for people like us to finally learn and interact in spite of them.

"What about all the people meeting online who are instantly bonded? Lonely people the so-called establishment rejects are learning how un-alone we are. Millions like us are reaching out, learning, finding information and others to whom we actually relate! Social media is changing everything, and as a result, we are much stronger!

"We are the FIRE fighters! A group dedicated to get in the way of the ‘powerful them.’ If you want more information about us, contact us, text us, like us, tweet us, or better yet, go fund us! Meet us Wednesday, the sixteenth of September, at #FIRETHEM. Look for my counterpart, Leonard, and myself, Cord. There are six of us warriors who are working hard to keep people like us strong."

Frank, Jeff, and Roxie shared a confused look; they had no idea who Leonard was. Cord motioned for them to gather next to him. As Cord placed his arms around them, Alex kept on recording; the runt was left out again.

"We have already made progress in our assault of destroying the status quo, and we have a new method of chaos that will strengthen our line of attack. But there are only six of us. We need more help and assets. With more resources, we could organize a lethal front against all that’s holding us back. It’s a big, fat bag of dictatorship and oppression out there, but I assure you, we can join together. It gives us power few realize."

A loud distant cheer from a crowd could be heard. Cord turned to his rear and saw that the Man now had flames and smoke leaping up its lower section. Thunderous drums and electric base began to beat. The culmination of the festival had begun, and Cord suddenly marveled at Leonard’s timing of it all. A laughter leaped from deep within his soul, and it took all the self-control he could muster to harness it. He then turned and pointed directly at the camera, cool, calm, and collected.

"The good news? The good news, he reasoned, is that even big oppression, big censorship, so typically contained in big buildings, burn, baby!"

Then, in much surprise to the others, Cord pulled out two items from his dark pocketed cloak. One was a pressurized sprayer much like a mace gun. The other was a road flare. Circling the pallets, Cord used the sprayer to cover the stack of pallets with fuel within seconds. In four more, he lit the flare and sprayed a fiery stream into the stack of pallets, igniting it instantly. Then, with laughing anger, he threw the flare into the stack, turning back to the camera and laughing in confidence. His outstretched arms warmed in the ensuing fireball. Dancing one circle on its circumference, he then flew up to the camera until his face filled the screen, shouting, Occupy, don’t compromise! It is time to let your hate burn! Burn the Man! Alex then panned the camera to the Man and zoomed into the melee for a time. The huge effigy, with outstretched arms, seemed glad for its own doom as fire leaped up into the air at twice its tall height, flames reaching and growing, turning, until its tortured collapse had begun.

Alex stopped recording on cue, and they all jumped into the motor home and prepared to move closer to the burning celebration. With the Burning Man now in full view and on display through the large windshield, flames flickering on their faces, Frank asked, Where to next?

East, into the Rocky Mountains, Cord replied, really addressing them all and not Frank directly.

"That friend Leonard you mentioned, who the hell is he?" Alex asked from the driver’s seat.

I call him my rock-and-roll friend, a longtime buddy you haven’t met, that’s all. He’ll be on the IM session with me when we meet the receiver of that video.

Awesome. Who we sending it to? Frank inquired as he quietly leaned back into one of the seats behind the front.

Only one person will see it, Cord answered.

What will we need him—or should I say her—for? And how do you know all this? Frank asked again.

Cash, and you don’t need to know the answer to your later question. Just call it a premonition. You ask too many damn questions, Frank. Knock it off!

"Cash? Roxie, from the back, couldn’t believe the statement, and it mortified her. She had been homeless before, and the prospect of no money terrified her. Cash? I thought we had all we needed for months! She began freaking out, waving her arms from the back of the motor home, racing up and down the center. Here we go, down the homeless road!"

Relax! That’s what this is all about, Rox! Cord paused for emphasis, then yelled at all of them. "Have I ever let any of you down? Well…have I? he shouted into the motor home’s rear, as if he were being wrongfully accused for not taking care of his kids. Have I? You all have everything you need, all because of me! What more could you pansies want?"

How about a life and a home? Roxie asked and fell silent.

Cord pondered that for a moment and then smiled. Those just tie you down, Rox. Why would you ever want such a thing? he asked, slumping into his seat. It’s not like you. Then, after a moment, he added, Besides, we’ll have that, too, if that’s what you want, when we have the means. He turned back, stroked the side of her black hair, and smiled at her assuredly. We’re on the start of a great journey, Rox. So let’s head eastbound and camp! We’re going to Colorado!

Frank moved into the driver seat and began driving slowly out of the festival ahead of the crowd, its motor growling. The Man was still burning, but they would beat the masses if they left now, and it was obvious to all of them that important things, urgent things, were now ahead. It was time to move, something they all appreciated collectively. Not too bad, pal, Leonard boomed.

Why…what is all this now? muttered Cord.

Don’t ask, don’t tell, buddy. Just follow me, right and proper! You nearly let everyone on to me, but that was actually right on script! Next, you’ll edit and upload that clip to the cloud, then stream it to someone I’ll—we’ll—discover later. You’re turning into a real leader!

Cord peeked out of the blanket, turned, and looked at the back of the motor home. The rest of the fighters were having fun, hailing high fives all round and generally whooping it up. Somehow, they all felt they were in for something big.

They’re excited! They’ll do anything for you now. See what I’ve made you? What are you without me? Leonard chuckled with booming pride.

Cord was anxious. Burning churches was one thing. He had just begun to get used to it, even look forward to it. But this new agenda of Leonard’s was really beginning to concern him. You don’t trust me enough, pal! Leonard perceived.

You don’t give me reason to.

As if to distract himself, Cord looked over at Frank. Can you drive any slower? he asked rhetorically.

Yeah, you worm, Roxie added with a slap upside Frank’s head. Then she turned toward Cord, grinning coyly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her favorite Zippo lighter. After igniting it, she protected the large amber blaze and gazed into it as if it were a fragile child.

Alex and Jeff, sitting next to each other, chuckled nervously, and for a moment, Cord lamented at the vertical slits of flame reflecting in her eyes and regarded them as beautiful.

You know, without each other, Roxie warned, somewhat playfully, FIRE has no match.

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I can remember this scene as if I were still there. It happened later, at early dawn, near Chatfield Reservoir in Littleton, Colorado, our usual fishing spot.

Another perfect cast whipped a yellow fluorescent line through the crisp air as if to add a rhythm to the morning tranquility. In high contrast against the growing sunrise, the line cut a figure-eight pattern above a silhouetted figure four times. At the end of the line, a clear length of leader followed, onto which a nymph and egg pattern were tied. They landed softly onto the water along the edge of a ribbon of rapids within a two-foot target. After some moments of waiting, the rod lifted the line out of the water again, and a quick tug brought more from the reel after each forward cast, confirmed by a sound from the reel’s clicking drag. The cold rapids’ edge began to tug again at the line, bringing the pattern slowly across and down the babbling white water around a half-exposed boulder. My eyes narrowed, watching it all intently, and I tugged for more line length from the reel. The line and the water’s current then began to work in unison, pulling the pattern perpendicular across the river in perfect methodology. For both fisher and trout, this looked enticing, a striking opportunity, and I would repeat the process again and again.

Light fog was a quiet yet powerful presence here, and each cast seemed to cut away at it. Although quickly clearing, it began to develop arms that reached down to the surface of the stream and then creep upward, the air growing slightly warmer from the emerging sun.

The surrounding aspen trees were now splashes of golden coins hugging the shoreline, soon to shine triumphantly. I smiled in smug yet blissful confidence and shifted my right foot to a different anchor point under the stream’s babbling current to brace for another sequence.

Fly-fishing my favorite spot on the South Platte River south of Denver, I was reviving from a tough week, with yet another ahead of me. Another cast. Another perfect placement of the pattern. With each whip, I vacillated between thoughts of joy and sorrow, bliss and regret, as if each new throw were a reversal in fate.

Coffee, Aiden! a confident voice bellowed from the bank behind me. A smile could be heard in the word.

Pastor Paul Fallows had joined me this morning and had brought coffee beans, a crank grinder, and the kind of percolator that always seemed to make the best cup of joe. It was dented from years of use and abuse, its stainless shine having left long ago, and its bubble glass had become stained a yellowish brown. It had been resting on a small shoreline campfire for some time and had begun to percolate over the last five minutes, its aroma wafting through the patient game of waiting. I reacted with a nod that dropped the front of my Rockies baseball hat, reeled in my line, hooked the egg to the base of my rod, and waded through the babbling water over to the fire. Stooping over its warmth, I examined the color of the bubbling liquid at the top of the contraption. Without a word, Paul handed me a steaming mug. The aroma had infiltrated our noses, a heavenly aroma that suggested adventure. Dawn. Success. Even manhood.

This is living, I considered, looking around. Drinking in nature’s peaceful dawn of a new day. You couldn’t start a workweek better!

Such a crisp, cool morning in the wilderness made me feel alive, yet the meaningless, blasé abyss of my career always confronted me when I fished here. I had to keep my life in context, lest I become hubristic, boastful, for I had plenty to boast about yet so little to show for it. I had no friends, other than in Paul’s family. Instead, an accountant, I had numbers, I mused, and those numbers had brought me much success. But there was something spiritual here, I pondered.

This morning, according to plan, I had arisen from bed at 04:00 hours, showered, grabbed one of my bagged suits, packed my fishing equipment into my shiny blue sports car trunk, and left my Evergreen mansion to meet Paul here. I did this about once every week, or as often as a good night’s sleep would let me, sometimes with Paul, sometimes alone. My BMW two-seater now sat at the far bank, as though it were urging me back to work.

Any luck yet, Paul? I asked him, even though he knew the answer. He had been keeping an eye on me the entire time.

He shook his head, emphasized by his hat. Humph. Not yet.

We gazed upon the fire in a moment of peaceful contemplation, neither looking into the other’s eyes. A comfortably long time expired before the next word was spoken.

I think I found a good hole in the seam of the rapids over there, I suggested, pointing, on the other side of that fallen tree, behind that boulder sticking out.

Paul smiled, nodded, and then sipped at his mug. Looks good.

This September morning was something to behold. I felt as though Paul and I were the only humans in the midst of its beauty. The slow southern breeze hissing through the aspens at my back seemed to complement the white noise generated by the water’s downhill journey, until they both blended, undistinguishable.

Now this is peace, I acknowledged.

You know, between casts, I thank God for these times and for what He has created. Paul glanced upward toward the moon poking through the fog and nodded. It all reminds me how small we really are, no matter how important we think we are. Then, I thank God for how He can care for such a small being as me. That’s grace, that’s peace, and that’s part of Jesus.

In somewhat-awkward silence, I wondered if I should change the subject, listen, or agree and add to the discussion. Spiritual matters were difficult for me to address. So I simply stood, sipping occasionally and nodding.

It was going to be another beautiful day, but one I could not bask in. No, I had to be in the office in a couple of hours, back in the rat race of pencils and figures. Suddenly, a faint, unnatural chime reminded me that I was already in that race—there was no escape. It came from the smartphone zipped into a pocket on my fishing vest, an urgent text message. I removed it, unzipped its waterproof bag, grimaced, and then quickly returned it to its home.

Tell me that your phone is letting you know it needs charged—you don’t get messages this early! Paul asked.

I shook my head. Nope. It’s a text from work. It can wait, though, I lied.

Paul smiled, moved over to the fire, grabbed the percolator, and heated up his mug by adding more of the dark, steaming liquid. Instead of returning to where he once stood, he moved closer to me. As we stood looking at the muddy ground, I reflected on my past and current situation, something I only did at home alone and while I fished. An urge to share what I was thinking with Paul swelled within me, until I could no longer hold on to the comfortable silence between us.

So, Paul…

Yep?

Sometimes I wish that I had been born a generation or two ago, I grunted. Some people at work say that I’m too young for my job. You see, I’m the youngest person to ever reach executive level as CFO at Telecorp. They say I’m ambitious, that I have the charisma, the million-dollar smile, but that I lack the maturity.

Ha! So that’s what they say, huh? Paul inquired. He began stepping into the soft mud, analyzing the prints his boots made. Aiden, your past has made you the most mature twenty-five-year-old I have ever known. You seem to be able to always have some sort of plan, and—

But I know the reality of it all, though, and here it is, Paul. Kerr, my boss, only put me in as CFO because I have no family tying me down. Of course, ‘More time to dedicate to the job you’re so good at, Aiden.’ No wife, no kids, no financial woes…

Paul watched as my attention became distracted from the peaceful beauty of our surroundings and instead toward the dark, twisting ways of the world. A feeling of contextual worry for me swept over him.

Paul knew my history very well; we both danced around it in conversation as needed in order to avoid opening still-painful wounds.

Paul had been my father’s best friend until five years ago, and Paul’s wife, Kathy, was also friends with my mother, until they were both suddenly ripped from our lives, killed in a horrific, unexplained accident. My father had probably fallen asleep at the wheel, or so the police report had read. I often thought that maybe they had been sidetracked with conversation in the car—my mother always loved to talk. My parents had embarked on a trip for my grandfather’s funeral and to settle the real estate portion of his estate. My grandmother was moving into an apartment, unable to run her farm on her own. Their plan was to sell it and its equipment quickly. I was in college at this point, so I had remained behind. Along the way, on a South Dakota two-lane road at night, my parents’ car had somehow drifted into the oncoming lane and slammed, head-on, into a monstrous eighteen-wheeler. The truck’s driver had been hospitalized and could remember nothing of the event.

Afterward, days before they were to be buried, Paul; his wife, Kathy; and his two young daughters, Jessica and Susan, had taken me to my grandfather’s funeral in Minnesota. There, I saw my grandmother, who felt guilty for their deaths. She saw herself as the reason for their trip. The death of her husband was one thing, but the deaths of her daughter and son-in-law had been very tough to accept. I saw my grandmother at my parents’ funeral crying, asking me for forgiveness. Of course I gave it to her, emphasizing how the accident wasn’t her fault. It didn’t matter, though. She was too grief-stricken. She kept saying the words I now lived with and what Paul could well remember: Jesus, how could You? Jesus, how could You? Four months later, she had passed away along with most of my roots.

The whole event was so traumatic for me at that time that it gave me recurring nightmares of torment. I dreamed that I could hear my parents’ conversation while I feigned sleep in the back seat of my parents’ car that fateful night. Jack, I could hear my mother say to my father, we built our dream house large enough for a large family. We should be thinking about a sister or brother for Mark again.

We can’t think about that at this stage, Cindy, my father would answer. We’re way too old now. Besides, remember how we tried that before? Are you sure you want to get your hopes up again?

We can do it, Jack. Remember what Pastor Paul said? Anything is possible with prayer. I think we should maybe give it another…

At that point in my dream, the voices always stopped as lights filled the car’s interior. A horrible screech of tires. Someone—my mother—shrieked something before the crash. Fire. I woke up shaking.

As my parents’ only heir, I established a trust for myself in order to receive their assets, including the paid-for six-thousand-square-foot A-frame-like mansion Dad had built with his own construction company. It still did business in the region. I also inherited the residual assets from the farm after my grandmother had passed away. I was now young, single, wealthy, and rapidly climbing the proverbial corporate ladder. And as Paul considered daily in prayer, I had become very vulnerable.

After the accident, Paul had taken me into their family. My parents were longtime members of their church, and Paul tried to help me as a father would. While studying at college, and against Paul’s advice, I insisted on keeping his parents’ house exactly as it was before the accident, often explaining that I had wanted to move back into it someday. Now that I had my degree and a job, I still had not yet changed a thing other than the occasional cleaning and now resided in the same room I had occupied as a young boy.

I began breathing heavily as I continued our conversation, avoiding eye contact and looking around the peaceful scenery.

You see, if I were born a generation or two ago, I would have been with my family. I’d be a part of all the work that went on at the farm, part of all that family history. Instead, I’m lonely at home and tied to my smartphone all day, I lamented.

Paul spit on the ground, took a long breath inward, and replied, You’ve got to let your parents go, Aiden. They’re in heaven now, living in peace with Jesus. You’ll see them again. I feel sure of it. But keeping the house as it is now only puts off the healing process you need to begin. It won’t be easy at first, granted, but it’s holding you back from growing those roots you desire. And that takes time.

As I had grown, it was obvious that I was a lot like Pastor Paul in some ways. Both of us were work-driven and both came from hardworking families. Although I had drifted away from the Fallowses and Evergreen Community Church after leaving for college, I had liked the Fallowses and had grown in my friendship with Paul. I also enjoyed spending time with their two daughters, Jessica and Susan, whom I had by now regarded as my own sisters. Jessica was now just starting seventh grade, and Susan was in her senior year of high school. I often enjoyed teasing and taunting them like a good big brother would.

Kathy, especially, had a tough time coming to grips with the loss of her friend. But Kathy’s wound sometimes seemed to help me, giving us both a connection that would never diminish. And she was especially tough, I knew, and in that I had found comfort.

So how is church, anyway? I asked, changing the subject.

Evergreen Community Church? We’re getting by, I guess. We should be growing more than we are, and we need younger members and youth.

And the finances? I pried. How goes the ol’ budget?

Paul grunted. "Why? You wish to offer some CFO advice? It’s the same ol’, same ol’. God will provide as always, somehow. If we figure out how to grow our congregation, to reach out into the youth and to bring more of them into the church,