If

By Aaron Warner

One promise made thousands of years ago. Two strangers whose lives and stories would soon be intertwined forever, impacted by its words. Based on 2 Chronicles 7:14, If tells the story of a God-sized revival that begins with one little girl, Emily, and her courageous choice to step out in faith one fateful evening in spite of the unmistakable pressure to conform and the pending consequences if she didn't. John, a middle-aged man at a crisis point in his life, was there to witness it all. Emily's decision and John's response set a snowball of fate into motion that, once started, could not be stopped. If ponders the questions "What might happen if someone lived as if this promise were true? How might God use the act of faithful obedience from one child? What if?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685701864

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If

Aaron Warner

ISBN 978-1-68570-185-7 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68570-186-4 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Aaron Warner

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

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

(John)

Something has to change! I fumed out loud but only so I could hear. I had reached a point of crisis in my life and knew full well that continuing down the same road wasn't an option. Disaster would've been waiting around the next corner, and if not, then certainly around the corner after that. But how that change could be achieved was a question that left me wanting to throw my hands up in the air.

The tires of my classic cherry-red 1969 Ford Mustang squealed and spun up gravel as I left the driveway of our house on Maplecrest Avenue. The car, which I considered my prized possession, brought me no joy that night. The smell of its luxurious leather did nothing for me. Neither did the shiny chrome sparkling in the moonlight or revving its 375 horsepower engine. I had painstakingly restored this gem over the years. But as I headed down the street, I thought of it as I would any old clunker, just the means to get away from home and Carol.

It was another in a long line of fights with my wife. And although they'd become quite common, this one was especially tense. The worse in the for better or worse vow we made to each other hit a new all-time low. I stormed out of the house accompanied by the slam of the door, something which was becoming a regular occurrence in the Lyons' household, along with the declaration I needed to blow off some steam.

At that moment, if asked, I undoubtedly would've said I'm not sure where I'm headed or I just need to drive around to clear my head. But truth be told, I knew exactly where I was headed. The same place I always went. My default in good times and bad, my office in Boston, which sat roughly thirty minutes away. At the pace I drove on that night, though, I'm positive I shaved off at least five.

I've provided my wife with everything she's ever asked for, I thought in an attempt to reassure myself. A large house in the suburbs, check. The car she instantly fell in love with, check. A country club membership, double-check! Doesn't she understand that all of these things come at a cost?

I replayed this convincing argument over and over in my head as if I were a world-class lawyer arguing a case before the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court. In my mind, it was airtight, so I couldn't understand why Carol was blind to these truths. I wondered why she couldn't ease up on her expectations of me and my time.

Broadway Street, where my office was located, seemed completely abandoned. Sure, there were a few cars out and about, but nothing like the rush to leave work a couple of hours earlier. I parked the Mustang in my customary spot, clearly marked with a bright-green sign indicating my name and title, John Lyons—CEO. Another sign, an enormous one, that read Burkhead Associates hung overhead. Nearly thirty feet up, it was impossible to miss as it shed more than enough light to illuminate the whole block, or so it seemed.

As the company's head, I often wondered if the exorbitant cost to keep that darn thing lit up was justified. I had to tell myself over and over that it gave us a much-needed presence in the community and made our rivals look like amateurs in comparison. As I stood in the parking lot, fumbling for the correct office key, on that dark and starless night, I was relieved that I hadn't talked myself into having it turned off just yet.

And then there was the extreme cold. It only took a minute or two, approximately the time to walk through the parking lot and up the walkway, to discover how frigid it had become. Not overly surprising for a mid-December night in the northeast, but nonetheless, I was underdressed. The icy air, which circulated off the nearby ocean, stung my face and hands before working its way through my lightweight jacket. With my numbing fingers, I struggled mightily to hold on to the metal keys, even dropping them a couple of times, but eventually, I gained entrance to the building.

Howdy, Mr. Lyons, came a greeting seemingly out of nowhere, as I frantically blew warm air on my hands.

Startled, I looked up. Dwayne Edmonds, the maintenance director of the building, was walking toward me with his pronounced limp. A man of only about fifty years, Dwayne had a workplace accident some years back that left him with damage to his right knee. Two surgeries and countless hours of physical therapy took care of the pain, for the most part, but it tended to stiffen up on him from time to time. Mostly when the cold reared its ugly head.

It looks like you're hard at work, I said with a perfectly fake smile. There was no doubt in my mind he saw through it.

I see you are too, Mr. Lyons, and on a Friday night no less.

Yeah, well, I've got a project that's falling behind. Gotta meet those deadlines, I lied. With the holidays right around the corner, we were experiencing our yearly December slowdown. There was no pressing project to speak of.

Oh, yes. I completely understand. You're a hard worker, Mr. Lyons, but you know I've had my worries. In fact, I was saying to the wife just the other day, I fear you are working too hard. I told her about how often you work late into the night.

Dwayne, I appreciate the concern. Another lie. But I have everything under control.

I'm sure you do, but—

Now dam… I caught myself before cursing, something I rarely bothered to do anymore. Now, Dwayne, that's enough. I don't wish to discuss it any further. We both have jobs to do. Good night. I rushed off down the corridor toward my office before he had a chance to respond.

After firmly shutting the heavy oak door, which separated my sizable office from the outside world, I plopped myself into the graphite-gray Posturepedic office chair that served as my throne for countless hours a day.

Dwayne really didn't deserve that attitude, I thought. He's a good guy who was just looking to help. I don't know what's wrong with me.

I gently lowered my head on to the mahogany desk in front of me. With the smells of wood and furniture polish wafting into my nostrils, I removed my glasses to relieve some of the building tension. But just as I'd begun to feel relaxed, my conversation with Carol, the one which preceded our latest fight, smacked me right in the face.

John, where are your priorities? I could her voice harping in my ears as if she were sitting right beside me.

Look around. The kids are growing up and will be out of the house before you know it. Why, Gretchen is sixteen already, almost seventeen. She's… That's less than two years before she's on her own, and Kyle will be out the door a year later. And Zoey… It may seem like you have a lot of time left with her, but she'll be starting high school next fall, and you know how quick those years will fly by. They need a relationship with their father, and you can't do that on ten minutes a day!

I get it, Carol.

Do you? she questioned.

Feeling my defenses going up, I countered, It's a real balancing act between work and family. I will try—

Wait, John. If that's another one of your promises, just hold your breath. To see you actually keep one would speak volumes, but I can't remember the last promise you followed through with, to the kids or me!

I cringed hearing those words. I knew, on some level, there was truth in what she was saying, but I wasn't in a frame of mind to listen. You just think of me as a failure. My face flushed red with anger at this point. Say it! You think I'm a failure.

Let me pause right here, for just a brief moment, to let you know that what you're hearing and will continue to hear is the sanitized version, of course. Turning off my audience such a short way into the story is something I'd like to avoid if possible. Just know, I was in a pretty bad place, and my salty language was a clear indicator of that.

Well, Carol reacted to my anger with a very different type of emotion. One that can only be described as a cry of desperation. "Failure? When did I ever use that term? Is that what you're afraid of? To be seen as a failure? Truth is, you've always succeeded at whatever you set your mind on. I only wish your family could've been one of those things!"

That would've been a good point to step in and comfort the woman I promised to love, protect, and cherish. Alas, I shake my head now just thinking about it, but I took another path. One that stemmed from the guilt riddling my soul, no doubt. I let loose a two-minute tirade about the state of our marriage, at least the way I saw it. In the course of doing so, I put the blame squarely on everyone's shoulders, except mine. After finishing, I looked around the room and saw Zoey's head quickly duck behind a counter in the kitchen. I wasn't sure what she heard, but I suspected it was enough. Once again, I had the opportunity to step up to the plate, this time with Zoey, but instead, I opted to head out the front door.

The bronze antique clock chiming six o'clock brought me back to the present. I raised my head off the desk and gazed around the room, hoping to find some sort of distraction. I first looked at the Chinese prints surrounding the clock on the wall directly facing me. Each one had been purposefully situated to create positive energy, to harmonize with the environment, or so they taught us at the feng shui seminar I had taken in the past. I wasn't sure if I really bought into the practice or if it was merely hocus-pocus, but I did whatever was necessary to get a leg up on the competition.

My eyes shifted to the wall on the right. Slightly more Americanized in its decor, the focal point was an enlarged photograph of Lou Gehrig giving his famous farewell address at Yankee Stadium in the year 1939. The beloved hero, who was dying at the hands of a disease which would one day bear his name, was standing in front of a whole host of microphones, telling the world he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. How often I went to that photo for inspiration.

Slowly, my look shifted to a much smaller picture on the same wall. My entire body was drawn in its direction, as I stood up and instinctively walked to where I could remove the frame from the nail bearing its weight. The caption read, The Day We Said I Do—November 25, 1998. Looking at a younger version of Carol and myself made me smile, ever so briefly, and think back on the whirlwind courtship of two young, naive, and impulsive souls over twenty years ago.

We met shortly after I finished my freshman year at Boston College. That summer, my options were twofold. I could either help on the family farm, back in my hometown in Vermont, or get a summer job in Boston. It really wasn't much of a choice. My fondness for my family and country upbringing was beyond question, but I had obtained a certain taste for city life with all its comings and goings. I wasn't going back. I just couldn't. Not then. Not ever. Sure, I would make an occasional, quick visit to catch my breath and see the folks, but that was all.

During that summer of 1998, I spent the long, hot days working my first real, full-time job at a little tool and die shop on the city's south end called Sullivan Enterprises. It was your typical, menial-labor type of job, but I couldn't have cared less. I was where I wanted to be and was certain Boston would soon open all its doors to me.

Before I'd left for college, nine months earlier, my mom had impressed upon me the importance of finding a good church in the city. She even offered to come down to help select one, but like any typical teenager, I rebuffed her suggestion out of hand. I planned to respect her wishes. I really did, but between freshman orientation, a busy class schedule, and my on-campus job in the cafeteria's dish pit, it never happened. By the time spring semester rolled around, it wasn't even a thought in my head—that is, until one particular Sunday in early June.

I woke up, much earlier than anticipated, by the phone ringing next to the bed. Initially, I thought it was my alarm clock, so I made a couple of weak attempts at swatting it with my pillow. When realizing what I was dealing with, my next course of action was to ignore its incessant noise and hope it would stop. But by the fifteenth or so ring, I gave up altogether and answered.

Hello? I croaked.

Good morning, honey! Did I wake you? My mom's cheery voice was usually a welcome sound, but to wake up to it, not so much.

Hi, Mom. Oops. I remembered what day of the week it was and felt caught. I cleared my throat to buy some time.

Why did I answer the phone? I thought.

Seemingly unfazed by the awkward pause, she continued, You know, you really should get up if you're going to make it to church on time. When does it start? Is it one of those newfangled churches that plays the drums and has a light show during the music? She clucked her tongue in disapproval. The house of the Lord is no place for a rock concert.

Despite being suddenly stirred into consciousness, I tried to answer as coherently as possible, but to no avail. Mom, stop. I'm not… I mean, I just… I was just about to get up.

I had learned, sometimes the hard way, you just don't argue with Mom. It was pointless. Without fail, she'd win. So within twenty minutes, I had showered, shaved, attired myself in the cleanest clothes found in the hamper, and was off to church, any church. Because if I didn't, I knew full well I'd have to either lie to my mom or avoid her phone calls until she forgot entirely. Neither struck me as a sensible option.

Whether it was fate or merely just the first church I happened upon, I pulled into the parking lot of Maple Grove Baptist. The crisp white sign at the corner of the front lawn informed me I was exactly ten minutes late. That had little to no bearing on my master plan, though, which was quite simple. I would slip into the back pew, and as soon as the pastor concluded his sermon, I would slip right back out unnoticed and head straight for my apartment and, to be more specific, my bed. I thought maybe I could even be fast asleep before the service had wrapped up with its final hymn and benediction. Of course, I hadn't anticipated one thing: Carol Mitchell being in that back pew.

I must admit I didn't notice her immediately, but it wasn't exactly my fault. In between us were three gray-haired ladies, all in their Sunday finest, which included stylish dresses and color-coordinated bonnets.

The choir was singing Amazing Grace, as I found my seat, and to my amazement, I caught myself singing along—that is, until the third stanza anyway.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come;

'tis grace hath brought me…

I stopped abruptly on the me when my eyes finally connected with Carol's, and it was all I could do to pay attention to what was happening on the front stage. Two more songs, then on to the pastor's energetic sermon. To my credit, I was able to take in a good share of what he preached from the pulpit as I sat on that creaky, rock-hard pew. It was from the passage in Matthew chapter 4, when Jesus called his disciples. Come, follow me, the pastor quoted boisterously, and I will make you fishers of men! Let me ask you something right now. Church, are you a fisher of men? Have you heard the call of the Lord and heeded his voice?

I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. I hadn't been very good at heeding God's voice. I'd been so caught up in studying for classes and making new friends; I knew God wasn't a top priority for me. As I listened, I resolved to change. I thought back to the decision I'd made to follow Christ, ten years earlier, in a one-room church in Putney, Vermont, at the annual Summer Vacation Bible School.

I'm sorry, Lord, I prayed silently. I'll do better at coming to church. I promise.

After another hymn, the service ended. By choice, I tossed the master plan out the window and began to work on a new one, to meet the mystery gal. I tried making a move in her direction but was quickly thwarted. It became apparent, I would first have to get past the three ladies, the ones who had sat between us. And it was abundantly clear, they had set their sights on me, forcing me to fend off what appeared to be an endless list of questions.

Is this your first time at Maple Grove?

What did you think of the sermon?

What's a good-looking boy like yourself doing here all alone?

Two of the ladies monopolized the conversation, while one just smiled and held my elbow firmly. The questions continued.

What are you studying at that college?

Do you have a young lady in your life? That appeared to be their favorite line of this impromptu interrogation.

I did my absolute best to answer each question swiftly and politely while making sure Carol hadn't exited the building. I was relieved to see that she was actually watching the proceedings and seemed amused by the predicament I got myself in. I was sure she must've been wondering how I would escape. Later, I was to find out that these ladies had quite the reputation of putting eligible, young men on the spot, and since the church was only a handful of blocks from Boston College, they had plenty of opportunities to perfect their craft on unsuspecting visitors.

Using all the determination I could muster, I was finally able to successfully excuse myself from the ladies. Even the one with a clawlike grip on my elbow was no match for my desire to meet Carol. She, with her eyes shining, seemed eager to become acquainted with me as well. We finally came face-to-face in the center aisle. She was wearing a beautiful white-and-pink summer dress with matching white open-toed shoes. Her blond hair glistened in the sunlit room.

So, I hear you go to Boston College, she said, admitting her eavesdropping with a smile. I'll be starting there myself in the fall.

Really? Well, maybe I can give you a tour of the campus.

Carol blushed and pulled her blond hair back from her shoulders. With those deep eyes, she looked at me, and I melted into my shiny black shoes.

Wow, I thought. Mom got this one right. Thanks for that phone call.

Our initial conversation ended up lasting over three hours. We talked about anything and everything, and it was only briefly interrupted when a deacon of the church informed us it was time to lock up. Undeterred, we walked down the street to Brown's Buffet and continued until Carol sneaked a peek at her watch.

Three o'clock? How can it be three o'clock? She looked up at me and smiled. Then we both laughed heartily until she said, I've gotta go. My parents are going to wonder where I am.

No problem. I'll walk you back to your car at the church.

Thank you. I'd like that. She blushed.

I paid the bill, and we slowly walked those few blocks hand in hand.

Just five months after the inquisition with the older ladies, as it was humorously referred to from then on, and our subsequent date at Brown's Buffet, Carol and I were married. Five months may seem like an awfully short time, but there was no one alive who could've been persuasive enough to talk us into slowing down. Not that anyone really tried. My family adored Carol, and the same could be said of Carol's for me.

Besides our families, nearly two hundred people attended the marriage ceremony at Maple Grove Baptist. Among them were the three ladies, each of them smiling from ear to ear. As I glanced over at them, I wasn't entirely sure if they were there to support us or to find their next project. It didn't matter. I was convinced they had no small role to play in my meeting Carol, and for that, I owed them a debt of gratitude.

There was