Resurrecting Fledgling: The Lazarus Project In the Shadow of San Petra

By Jack Weitzel

This is a story of healing set in the context of a wealthy philanthropist who gathers a dedicated group of Christian faithful to resurrect a dying town by creating a high quality medical center. It is more than the challenges, labor and sacrifice required by this ambitious ten year project. We enter the lives of multiple citizens from this poor and medically underserved area. The rich ebb and flow of their hardships, disappointments, and redemptions is the real meat of the story. Humans, of course, are God's creations, so the reader also finds joy, along with the satisfaction of seeing a main character's hatred and quest for revenge quelled by compassion, reconciliation and love. 1 Corinthians 13:13. — Bill E. Barry MD

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098063900

Book preview

1

Hannah Smith, eighteen (born 1990), and her mother, Constance Smith, thirty-eight (born 1970), lived in a rather modest rural town in America. Like every other town of its size, nothing really set it apart from all the others going through much of the same growth (or stagnation) in the first decade of the twenty-first century. There was a main drag, Main Street, just over a half mile in length. Every so often, a parade would make its way down the short thoroughfare like the yearly Madison High School Homecoming and the Thanksgiving/Christmas Parade with the various floats passing in review by the few estate-like homes on either side of Main Street. Downtown was the library (which wasn’t used nearly as much as it had been in the 1960s—because of the World Wide Web), the Sheriff’s Office, the courthouse, several attorneys’ offices, the intimate Giorgio’s Italian Restaurant, Matson’s Jewelry, Main Street Memories Tea Room, and Citizen’s Bank. Further down toward the end of Main Street were a used-car lot, a Laundromat, and the 7-Eleven gas station, and a McDonald’s, the only fast-food restaurant in Fledgling. Of course, seemingly on every corner was a denominational church: Baptist, Methodist, Catholic, Presbyterian, and the Central Church of the Nazarene (the only church in town for you if you were of a mind to raise your hands during a worship service). At the other end of town there was a Food City, where Hannah would be working this summer; the Bowling Alley; and the Cineplex Theater, where four movies were playing.

Constance, a single mom, worked behind the counter of the Marathon Service Station just outside of town. The term service station is archaic and applied only up to the 1960s or so when we all began pumping our own gas. Before that time, there really were attendants who checked all the fluid levels under the hood, cleaned your front windows (long before the love bugs), and even checked the tire pressures and smiled though there was no tipping! They would tell you that you were down a quart of oil.

That was then; this was now. No one was interested in anything under the hood of the vehicle in 2008. Auto-repair shops were plentiful if there was a problem. Now the big calling card was the convenience store attached to the gas pumps originally referred to as the 7-Eleven, which were its store’s hours. Those stores of today are rather referred to as 24-7, meaning they never close. They compete by offering the Big Gulp or the refillable hot mug of coffee to wake us up. A step further in today’s world, and we are back to what has happened at Walmart and Sam’s Club where you have a self-service checkout system. Yes, there are still two or three cashiers to assist you if necessary. What happened to the cashiers? Many have been assigned to other tasks like stock persons during the graveyard shift. I suppose that many were laid off (the courtesy gas-station attendants just disappeared—the future world is here!). Fledgling, to this point, has yet to have a nearby Walmart or Sam’s Club, one having to drive an hour to the nearest more up-to-date amenities.

You might remember the little mom-and-pop stores on every other corner prevalent in the late ’50s when this author was a kid: a pack of cigarettes for dad; a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, maybe some cold cuts; five-cent packs of baseball cards with a stick of bubblegum inside (and don’t you just wish you could have that cigar box of baseball cards now worth a fortune if you can uncover the treasure in the third-story attic in grandma’s old house?); a Coke machine; a place to take glass soda bottles to redeem for two cents apiece, courtesy of the construction workers who built our neighborhoods and drank from glass bottles of soda (the aluminum can replaced glass bottles in the mid-’60s), pouring terrazzo floors and forming the wooden frame all over America’s premodern world of mid-twentieth century when religion was the source of truth and reality. God’s existence and revelation were givens. Then the stores closed, and malls were built in the modern era. Science became the source of truth. Confusing terms, aren’t they, because they are all relative. Now in a postmodern world, the most confusing and most relative, it’s the era where the individual reigns supreme, way above God and even science. It is truly all about me!

In the late ’80s, Walter Edward Smith and Constance Becker met at the popular bowling alley (the only bowling alley in the town on Beechnut Street). They were on opposing mixed-league teams and were somewhat competitors with each other. They lived for Tuesdays and Thursdays to bowl, but really, they lived to be together.

Walt was in love with Constance, or Connie, as he liked to call her. Both were above-average bowlers, close to 200. They were on different teams, and they competed with each other Tuesday and Thursday nights. If they weren’t up bowling, you could find them usually drinking root beer or Coke, smoking cigarettes, and watching the others bowl. They were quite mature for their ages of eighteen and twenty, both high school graduates from Madison High: well above-average intelligence but neither interested in going to college at the time. They were mostly interested in each other. Walter worked the midnight shift as a stocker at the relatively new Walmart an hour’s drive from Fledgling. They married and settled down in a mobile-home park. Constance was pregnant when they wed, a well-hidden secret—not a shotgun wedding but very close at eighteen and twenty.

Connie was twenty-three and her husband twenty-five. He had lost what pep there had been between them during their short courtship. Walt was fired from his job when he came in drunk one night. Constance was not in love for very long. Walter didn’t have much, if any, of a work ethic, and so he slept in and didn’t work.

He had stayed drunk most of his waking hours and couldn’t keep a job even though there were jobs to be had. He was not the breadwinner in the family. When he was with them, he occasionally would tell them that he was going to walk to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes and possibly wouldn’t come back—and he didn’t! For once, he had been true to his word!

There was only a halfhearted search for him. On her meager salary, Connie couldn’t afford much of a search. One Attorney Robert English had a detective on the case, but he didn’t get very far in looking for Walter. His tracks ended in the drug culture. Mainly it would have been nice to find out if he was alive (to pay child support) or if he were dead (there was a life insurance policy once that he probably had already cashed in). He was not missed, and there were no fond memories.

When Hannah was five years old, Walt decided that he wasn’t father material. Fortunately, Constance had a good job at the Marathon Station and a great next-door friend who watched Hannah for her while Constance was at work. Vivian had two small children of her own and a good family man supporting them. Hannah was no burden. Constance offered to pay, and Vivian wouldn’t have it. She helped raise Hannah as her own.

Though Walter was what he was, their union had brought Hannah into the world. She was the pot of gold at the end of a nonexistent rainbow. For Constance, Hannah was her world, the reason to take her next breath! They were best friends.

Constance was grateful for her job and had been faithful to it since before her daughter was born. Hannah had several babysitting jobs in the mobile-home park that added to their meager budget. They were thankful that their home was paid for. Hannah would sit for kids even at her own home, making it convenient to do homework. She was a smart, kind petite eighteen-year-old gem.

They lived on just about nothing, and nothing was just about what they needed to get by. They were never hungry because God seemed to provide all that they needed, just the two of them. They were both children of God! They were members of First Baptist Church of Fledgling. They had not been attending any church. One Easter Sunday when Hannah was eleven, they visited First Baptist Church, sitting in the back pew, not wanting the embarrassment of being pointed out as visitors. They did fill out a visitation card and placed it in the offering plate. That evening, they were visited by Pastor Frank Nash and his wife, Lauren. That visit led to both mother and daughter trusting in what Christ did on Calvary two thousand years ago. It was an exciting time for them, drawing them even closer together.

They did not have a Bible at first. The following Wednesday, a small contingent of folks from the church made a follow-up visit and presented them both with KJV Bibles with their names engraved on the front cover. Constance made certain that her schedule from that time on included Sundays off for church and Sunday school attendance. It was very difficult to have that kind of a special request granted by the powers to be, but her work ethic and loyalty and her earnest prayers paid off in a big dividend for her.

The grammar school and combined junior and senior high schools were just about a mile and a half from home. Hannah was a good student, but into the first half of her senior year of high school, she wasn’t certain of what she wanted to do next. Her options were limited due to scant financial resources. They had a Mustang left over from the mid-’80s, which carried Constance to work and occasionally Hannah to school (if it was raining), but more often she took yellow school bus number 22. Yes, the Mustang had aged, and it was nearly a classic. There were no modern safety features, the upholstery was quite worn, and thank God there was no longer a vehicle-inspection law. If there were, this car would have failed miserably. Believe it or not, the odometer read seventy-eight thousand miles, only just broken in.

There had been the recent acquisition of a large plot of land to the south of their park, and they were afraid that their homestead might possibly be involved. Their park was surrounded on three sides by a pine tree forest. Constance prayed that their homesite would remain as it was. Rumor had it that perhaps sixty acres of that land would be for the building of a teaching hospital. Yes, there was the Community Hospital in Fledgling which had decided to stay with the status quo of the ’60s, refusing to keep in step with the rest of the medical world. It was beyond stagnation. Folks drove the hour-plus distance to other hospitals for specialized care. The community had always prayed for something better for their families. As it was, it was a convenient outpatient clinic and an otherwise quiet emergency room. The powers to be were quite farsighted and believed that if they could raise enough funds, they could convert the existing one-story hospital building into a family YMCA and physical therapy clinic. If possible, EMS was instructed to bypass Community with emergency patients. Time also was factored in.

Where they sit close to the four-lane highway, they are equidistant from at least sixty to ninety minutes to the nearest more modern hospitals: University Hospital (an hour’s drive to the west) and Southern Memorial Hospital (of course, to the south of Fledgling). Both hospitals were outside the county lines. There was no significant medical care from where they were except an Urgent Care facility about ten miles away. Community Hospital was about twelve miles away, but its reputation was such that people prayed someday they would have modern medical care, state of the art. If you were desperate, you could go to one of the other hospitals, but they were at least sixty to ninety minutes away or longer, depending on the time of day and the traffic patterns. They had heard good and bad about Community. What was their own personal experience with the hospital?

Boyfriend Alex Martin had suffered with Hannah through her emergency pelvic surgery: appendicitis/ ovarian cyst rupture. The surgeon was confused with the findings at surgery but went ahead with the removal of the slightly pale appendix and a mild amount of thin blood in the pelvis which was cultured—really suggesting a ruptured ovarian cyst, a common occurrence in young females and mimicking appendicitis. A young female presenting with a tender right lower quadrant, you could almost diagnose by a flip of the coin. The surgeon’s explanation pre- and postoperatively was that you can live without your appendix, and the risk of the operation was almost negligible. But if your appendix becomes gangrenous and ruptures, the complications are many and may include death if not treated. The tired, lone sixty-eight-year old surgeon was staunch in his decision not to get involved with laparoscopic surgery techniques and minimally invasive surgery. He was firm in his comfort zone and still made the right lower quadrant transverse incision three to four inches long with at least four weeks of discomfort with minimal activity. (Laparoscopically, normal activity in less than a week with well healed Band-Aid one-inch incisions.)

When her ganglion cyst was operated on at the beginning of their senior year, Alex carried her books for her as often as his schedule would allow. The same tired surgeon who told them at one point that years ago people were treated for a ganglion cyst on the wrist by slamming it with their Bible, also told them that it might come back. He said that he would talk to them more, but he had to go see a lady in labor! Abdominal surgery, wrist surgery, delivering babies, Dr. Phil was the jack-of-all-trades and, he wanted to keep it that way. He was the town’s surgeon!

Alex and Hannah, both eighteen years old, had been going together since near the end of their junior year of high school. They lived barely a mile from each other and had been riding the same school bus since the tenth grade. You would have to say that they were camouflaged one from the other at the first on bus number 22. Love must have crept up on them, seeing but not seeing until the eleventh grade. Alex was the one to fall in love, and fall he did; but for Hannah, it was more of a Hi, how are you? friendship. She showed no special looks of emotion toward him on the bus as though he didn’t exist. She seemed to look straight through him, if at all. No real acknowledgement of what might have been in her heart.

In their senior year, they clicked. Their juices must have surfaced because they had become a couple. They spent a great deal of time together at her mother’s front doorstep saying good-night. At the first, neither had a driver’s license. Alex finally got his, and for the first time, they had the freedom to be in his 1991 Dodge Dart, and they occasionally took Sunday rides to the lake, fishing and usually catching a largemouth bass or two. Just enough to keep them coming back, waiting for a keeper seven or eight pounds to have it stuffed and mounted. They still liked occasionally walking to school, and still they stuck to those front-door kisses—and they were passionate! Ah, the tenderness of a first love, never to be repeated with future loves, not even close. More than a few times, Mother Constance had to break up what seemed to be endless make-out sessions at the front door. From Constance’s viewpoint, Alex, though she liked him, was a bit too pushy, and Constance feared for her daughter. Something could get way out of her control, and perhaps Hannah could be harmed.

You would have to say that they were a special young couple because, to that point, they had remained chaste and very loyal to each other (like going steady in the ’60s). They were good kids, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t push the limit a bit further as time went along. Almost unheard of at the turn of the millennium and Y2K to have a couple of kids of that age to not have been intimate. Not that they didn’t come close. There had been two drive-in movie theaters in earlier years, a popular hideaway for kids fortunate to be able to drive. What was the movie? It didn’t matter, for you couldn’t see the screen for the fogged windows. If you kept the windows down, you had to deal with the mosquitoes—take your pick. Both were converted to competitive flea markets on the weekends and on Wednesdays. With satellites in space, the ability to buy your own movies, first with VHS and subsequent DVDs, drive-ins became vacant lots.

The Martins, Alex’s parents, were, in name alone, Catholics, rarely attending Mass as Alex’s father would basically force his family into their van. Dad would raise his voice, and that stern look of his meant trouble for somebody. Alex had two younger sisters: Pamela Carol, nine, and Linda Jean, thirteen, who at times felt frightened by their father. Alex was their guardian. Alex would often question his parents as to their faith. Some might say that they were nonpracticing Catholics. They never seemed concerned about heaven and hell. There were no discussions about religion. They felt that Alex could make up his own mind about those deep questions. Answers were not forthcoming from his parents at all and never had been. No discussions. You would have to say that they were aloof when it came to religion.

Alex’s diversion was anything that had to do with science, mainly biology. He did not consider himself of any faith. He had broken his mother’s heart when he began dating outside the faith. Something about excommunication. He did have those deep existential questions all young people have to deal with. We all must deal with those deep-seated, unanswerable questions: How did I get here? What is my purpose for living? Is there a God, one that cares about me? What happens when a person dies? Is there a heaven and a hell? He was on the right inquisitive path for answers. Hannah’s excitement about religion incrementally piqued his interest the year that they were together. Alex only occasionally went to church with Hannah. He felt very uncomfortable at service, especially when the invitation was given by the pastor. That was the main reason for his rare appearances at First Baptist. Alex was still searching for answers, and biology was an exciting field seemingly full of answers about life. Biology, nature, had become his god. He couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

It just so happened that Valentine’s Day was rolling around, and rumor of a party was being circulated, mostly for the senior class. Alex had been accepted at State University for their summer session, and Hannah had no firm plans yet but had a summer job at Food City on the outskirts of town as well as her babysitting jobs. About two weeks before February 14, they were invited to a party, or rather heard of a party, to be held on the Saturday of Valentine’s Day. There was no formal invitation with RSVP. No, it evidently was through the gossip avenue! No colored marker designs on white posters or hearts seen on lockers. The senior class had only eighty-six students looking forward to graduation.

* * * * *

Ben’s parents were on a cruise ship to Naples, Italy, but had arranged for two couples to chaperone the party on that Saturday evening from seven till midnight. When first hearing of the party, Ben’s mother literally spent hours arguing with herself about the scheduling conflict. This cruise had been scheduled and the nonrefundable tickets paid for several months in advance when suddenly this party situation reared its head. What to do? It was an important corporate event held every two years. Associates from across the states would be in attendance to iron out perceived difficulties, catch up on old friendships, as well as new innovations pertinent to the corporation, and the election of officers. The schedule was a full one: business seminars and plenary sessions interspersed with fancy cuisine, all the food and beverages, a show every night, not to mention all the fun and, for those from the northern part of the country, that tan that most of the ladies really came for to take back home to wow their neighbors and friends.

Ben’s parents had great faith in their young son, or they wouldn’t have allowed it. They prepared well, shopping for drinks and finger foods and chips and several valentine-shaped cakes and, of course, there was the punch bowl. They had even pulled out some of their old CDs and groups like Casting Crowns, an Avalon DVD, and MercyMe; and from their own generation, Johnny Mathis and Frank Sinatra. (Question: how do you dance to Christian music? I just haven’t been a party person lately. Like fifty years ago, most of rock and roll had a romantic element like, for instance, Johnny Mathis!)

No one needed directions to the party’s location. It was the largest home among several large houses not two miles from the Madison High School campus. (When was the last time you walked and drove over a brick road? The clatter of tires on bricks echoes back to a time when Model Ts rolled leisurely along back roads. Downtown life was less rushed, and neighbors had time to chat.) A large concrete birdfeeder was in the middle of the front yard for the mockingbirds. Several different fruit trees were scattered over the three acres of plush green lawn. During the early spring, the house would be surrounded with an abundance of bright flowers and, of course, several crepe myrtle trees and rose bushes. The most likely to succeed senior in the graduating class called this house home.

Among senior student Ben Decker’s chores was to mow the lawn as often as needed depending on the time of year. He was the defunct yardman/gardener, and he took pride in his work. It was hard work; three acres was a big space, especially in the summer when the lawn work needed to be done twice a week. For this reason, he was glad when the winter months came around—less mowing. He was destined for an enlistment and perhaps a career in the Coast Guard.

Although the house was well past two decades old, it was pristine inside and out. It was a two-story colonial style. There were four bedrooms, two upstairs and two downstairs, with four bathrooms. One of the downstairs’ bedrooms was the family office.

Word of mouth is very effective, but it has its downside: itching ears may hear the message. Gossip follows. An unexpectedly large crowd presented itself that evening which, spilled over to the backyard and, unfortunately, to the upstairs bedrooms—no one had anticipated the size of the crowd. The town’s population was about 8,200 with 86 graduating seniors. Though no count was officially made as people were coming and going, there was a ballpark estimate of Ben’s of near 120 teenagers.

Two married couples had agreed to act as chaperones. Those were the original plans. As it turned out, at the last moment, one couple who had signed up to chaperone could not attend because of illness. The remaining chaperones knew many of the seniors, but there were many unfamiliar faces shuffling in and out of the premises as well. Because of the ages of those attending, no alcoholic beverages were allowed. The kids were watched as closely as possible so that the punch was replenished and specifically so that no one would spike the punch. Ben and his girlfriend, Stephanie, were recruited as additional sets of watchful eyes over the punch bowl. Most of the music was civil. Hearts and roses set the decorations, and the slow music added to the romantic touch. Ben had help from a couple of the girls, along with Stephanie, to set the atmosphere of Valentine’s Day with the proper décor. Songs like Teach Me Tonight played: "One thing isn’t very clear my love, teachers shouldn’t stand so near my love. Graduation’s almost here, my love, you’d better teach me tonight!"

Don’t get me wrong. This was an especially well-behaved group of kids. Still, even in this small town, security was always an issue. Neighbors were appraised of the plans. The family knew the sheriff and his deputy sheriffs, who lived generally in the same vicinity. Their office was even made aware of the event. The chaperones had left about eleven, assuming the party was trickling down. To that point, the music was tame, but then became a bit louder and faster. The party was quietly crashed by two male students from State University who had heard through the grapevine of the party. Apparently, they had been drinking and/or smoking something before coming to this gathering. Their behavior bore witness. They stood out! By the loudness of their voices and their staggering, it was obvious that they were either drunk or high or both. They thought they would liven up the party by spiking the punch. To this point, a delicious punch was all that had been provided by the chaperones, along with finger foods, and the kids brought their own favorite soft drinks and chips. The new party crashers waited for the opportune moment. For a typical party of this nature, this was a very tame gathering—again, with no liquor being allowed. Shortly after the two chaperones silently left the party, it was a sign to the older kids to liven up what was left of the gathering. A small