The Followers

By Laura Williams

Lavina, alias Nana, Spencer's impulsive middle-of-the-night e-mail to her grandson's place of work sets off a chain reaction that moves her from her beloved ten acres in the country to a grand mansion in the city. She begins an adventure of God's making that eventually draws her whole family, and many others, down new paths. With her Bible-based theories of business offered to Harlan Morgan the Fourth, who is desperately trying, as the fourth generation, to save the family business he inherited on the death of his father, these two, one old and astute and the other young and inexperienced, begin following the path God has set before them, with nothing but their faith that He has put them together and that Nana's theories will turn the business around. Elizabeth, the almost-an-architect granddaughter and beautiful watchdog over her much-loved Nana, quickly captures Harlan's grieving heart with her gentle compassion for him and joins them on the path laid out before them; and, along with her brother, Ben, the struggling grandson whose family was at the center of Nana's concerned e-mail, they soon gather others around them and into the Lord's master plan. Joined by the company's board members; by Arleta, a refugee from violent gangs in Mexico; by Jack, the old Norwegian and brilliant co-conspirator in making Harlan a "big executive"; by the company's resident atheist and fellow opera lover, Tony; and finally by her missionary son, Peter, and daughter-in-law, Jen, Nana becomes the central figure in the drama that unfolds as the Lord works in each life for his purpose. Through much joy and some sorrow, they are all led by the Lord's hand to an "expected end" (Jeremiah 29:11).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643498898

Book preview

One

A Leap of Faith

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.

John 10:27

The tall, Gothic windows of the president’s office at Morgan Fine Furniture, Inc., faced west, framing a view of grimy brick warehouses and small manufacturers. It was an uninspiring landscape, a dreary view even in summer and now, in midwinter, a bleak scene of snow plowed up in blackened, wind-sculpted mounds barricading the narrow street. The only living thing in sight was a volunteer tree struggling valiantly upward from the cracked pavement of the parking lot, its frozen, naked branches clacking together in the gusting wind like boney fingers raised in a plea for mercy to the brassy sky above.

On this late afternoon in January, the harsh light of the Minnesota winter sun, subdued through the filter of the long-unwashed windows, reflected hazily off the room’s dark paneled walls and the gold-embossed spines of leather-bound books in floor-to-ceiling cases, then, after spilling its way across a faded Oriental carpet, finally coming to rest benignly on the back of the lanky young man seated at a grand mahogany desk in the center of the room. He seemed out of place in this setting of unpolished opulence, dressed in a worn leather bomber jacket (a relic from his WWII pilot grandfather), T-shirt, and jeans. His sandy hair, burnished with glints of red by the dust-mote-filled shafts of sun, was rumpled and standing on end just now from his fingers dragging through it as he intently studied the screen of an outdated computer whose tangled wires cascaded off the desk and snaked their way over the old carpet to outlets on a far wall.

The young man’s face was handsome in an angular way, rough and unshaven, and with a South African safari-acquired tan which had faded since his return to winter into a color like the dregs in a cup of latté. Just now his face, ashen with exhaustion under his blotchy tan, was marked with a desperate concentration as his sad, darkly circled, deep brown eyes scanned the long list of numbers on the screen before him.

Rising abruptly from the squeaking old desk chair (like his jacket, a relic from his grandfather) and gripping his hands tightly together behind his back, he walked slowly to the windows. As he looked out unseeingly, he said under his breath, through clenched teeth, I’ll never make any sense out of this! His thoughts then continued despairingly, It needs a college degree to get it turned into understandable language. I should have listened to Gran! She said I’d regret not finishing college to prepare myself for this! Now here I am, Harlan Morgan The Fourth, owner, Chairman of the Board, and President of Morgan Fine Furniture, Inc., and as ignorant about the workings of the company as a little kid!

His inheritance of the company on the death of his father two months before had thrown Harlan into his present dilemma, and this first day of the New Year had also been his first full day at the office. He had sought the quiet of the place on the holiday to try to get a handle on the workings of the company; and now, as he looked out on the dispiriting winter scene, blinking owl-like against the lowering sun, he felt more tired than he had ever been on safari.

His eyes grew distant as he remembered the contentment of jolting for hours across the veldt in his guide’s ancient pickup truck, with heat waves distorting the landscape around them, just to get a few more really good photos for the feature he was working on. Despite often having a pounding headache from the brutal heat, he would still insist on just one more photo until even his experienced guide would finally have lost patience and say with a snap, It’s enough! and turn back to camp. When he finally reached his tent, Harlan would collapse on his cot until the evening meal was served, sleep like the dead all night, and be up before dawn the next day to repeat the same pattern.

Giving his head a shake, he came back to the present and sat down again, the old chair protesting loudly. Pushing the keyboard away from him and leaning his arms on the desk, he rested his forehead wearily on his clasped hands and began to pray. With tears making small pools on the desk’s crackled surface, he said gravely, Lord, I can’t do this! I’m all alone in everything now. Please help me to get through this, to know what to do!

As he wept, he began to realize that he wasn’t crying only for the mess he was in with the business or for his grief over the loss of his much-loved father but also for himself, for his aloneness, and for the loss of what he had thought of as his independence. He had come to recognize over these past weeks that this independence that he had set such a high value on was really a lie he had told himself. Only now becoming aware of his deep dependence on his father, not only for his financial support when he needed it but, more importantly, for the limitless emotional support that Harlan had simply taken for granted, he felt his loss even more acutely.

A weak smile crossed his face as he remembered Dad telling him, the last time they had talked on the phone, how their friends had asked, So, how is ‘The Boy’ doing? Where is ‘The Boy’ this week? Is ‘The Boy’ still doing the photography? They had laughed together over it at the time, but Harlan had also felt a little resentful that he was still considered The Boy at the age of twenty-nine!

Well, he thought, shaking himself again and mopping his wet face and the desktop with tissues, it was no more than the truth! And now I need to grow up and fast! A lot of people are depending on me to do the right thing, and I’d better figure out what that is!

"One thing I can do is to go through Dad’s e-mails, he said aloud, thrusting out his stubbled chin defiantly. He sat up straight in his vocalizing chair; pulled the keyboard back within reach; and, after a thoughtful pause, added fatalistically, That shouldn’t take me more than six months!"

This certainly wouldn’t be an easy job, as the messages had accumulated exponentially over the last two months. He scanned through them, passing over advertisements, and finally picked one of the most recent, dated the night before, from the inbox, and opened it, wondering at the length of the message, and began to read:

Dear Mr. Morgan, (it began)

I have just one question: How do you stay in business? I am a great-grandmother, and I know I could do a much better job of running your company, and making a profit from it, than you are!

What in the world?! Harlan exclaimed and then continued to read.

My grandson has worked for your company for several years and has made a significant amount of money for you. His name is on many of the design patents that have been among your top sellers, but he is unable to receive a pay raise because of your salary structuring or even a bonus for his profitable designs.

Very unwise! A competitor will likely offer him a job, and he will be eager to accept. He is loyal to your company, but he has serious financial obligations.

He is presently unable to meet his bills because of medical debts. Your new health insurance’s co-pay is costing him a thousand dollars each time for the MRI’s his wife needs to track her Multiple Sclerosis. Despite his taking on a second job as a consultant in another field, their debt continues to grow. You should address the issues that will cause your best people to leave for other jobs in order to survive financially.

I’m sure you are saying now, Who is this Old Trout to be telling me how to run my company? Well, I am just an ordinary woman who has become incensed with the inequities of the business world: the waste, the short-sightedness, the lack of the most common of common sense, and the treating of people as so many numbers rather than as the most important component in the success a company has achieved, or will ever achieve.

Here, Harlan paused again, thinking aggressively, That’s true, but I already know it!

My unasked-for advice is start from the bottom up! Get to know your employees, take advantage of their talents and knowledge and treat them right! Restructure your salary policies and add some way to financially recognize their contributions, from the janitors up to the officers. And get a better insurance plan! This is just for starters! I don’t speak without experience, as my husband and I ran his very successful architectural firm together for nearly forty years until his death.

My grandson is unaware of my writing to you, so please don’t approach him. His plate is so full now that he can’t handle much more.

I am praying for your company and for better success for you and all your employees.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Lavina Spencer

Harlan, his face grown rigid with anger, pushed back from the desk, staring in amazement at the message on the screen. His first incensed reaction that this self-described Old Trout would talk to his father that way quickly faded as he realized that she must not know of his father’s death. He read the message through again and sat in deep thought as the light from the windows gradually receded and the room grew dim.

After all, he thought, I was just praying for your guidance, Lord. This would sure be the fastest answer to anything I ever prayed for!

The spectral glow from the computer screen lit up his anxious face, revealing its gradual change from angry to thoughtful. After reading the letter a third time, and rising from the complaining chair, he switched on the chandelier hanging over the desk and began slowly pacing the large room. As his speed gradually increased, he occasionally rubbed his hands together and chuckled to himself.

I’ll do it! he whispered, then shouted, I’ll do it! and began a jubilant dance around the room. I believe, Lord, that you’re leading me! Thank you for answering my prayer so quickly!

As he danced his way across the rug, getting his feet caught up in the computer cords, the door to the office was edged open and his secretary’s salt-and-pepper head appeared cautiously around it. Did you call me, Harlan? she said nervously as she saw him bouncing around the room.

Florrie! he said in surprise, abruptly ending his gyrations. I forgot you were here! I didn’t call, he said through a big grin, but I do need your help. Can you stay for an hour or two longer? I know it’s getting late, but I’m going to put together a presentation for the board of directors, and I need a proofreader.

In the fifteen years she had been secretary to Harlan’s father, Mrs. Florence Jensen had never seen him dancing during office hours. However, being fiercely loyal both to the company and to the Morgan boys, as she affectionately thought of them, she willingly overlooked this odd behavior in the son. In fact, it was a relief for her to see a smiling Harlan, rather than the somber and burdened young man he had been since his father’s sudden death.

She had watched him as he grew up, running freely around the offices and shop, and had been saddened over the last few weeks to see the increasing tension in his face as he studied the financial statements containing too many minus signs. She was determined to do everything she could to help him get a grasp on the workings of the company, including volunteering to come in to the office on this New Year’s Day.

Yes, of course, I’ll be happy to! she replied with an answering smile, glad to receive such an ordinary request after witnessing the solitary dance-without-music around the office.

Great! he exclaimed. First, I need to write a reply to the e-mail on the screen. Then we’ll get to work on my proposal to the board!

Two

Following the Impulse

And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.

Isaiah 30:21

Early the next morning, Lavina Spencer was seated at her computer, frowning and shaking her head over the order she was placing. She was a small, slim woman, with long gray hair spilling from an alligator clip at the back of her head, just now cocked to one side as she scrutinized an order on the screen. Through her wrinkles, traces of a pretty face could be seen; and the face was still an appealing one, with sculpted cheek bones and intelligent, striking gray-green eyes surrounded by laugh lines. Her casual outfit of boots, heavy twill pants, and a wool plaid jacket over a soft turtleneck showed where her thoughts were this morning: working in her gardens—as soon as the first signs of spring revealed themselves. The order she had researched so carefully was for what she referred to as trampers, the lightweight, short leather boots she liked to wear when working in the woods and gardens on her ten acres.

I hope this pair will fit me! she thought. I hate sending things back! It feels like throwing money to the wind, to pay shipping on things you can’t keep!

Her eyes wandered from the screen to the windows and out through the grove of ancient oak trees with the large tree house built in their tops, which were just now filled with sparkling flurries, and to the snow-covered fields beyond, glowing pink in the first rays of the rising Sun. There was never a beautiful sunrise that didn’t cause a wave of loneliness for her late husband to wash over her. This morning brought the memory of the spring after they bought the land, standing with him on this very spot and sharing their first cup of coffee, looking out through the grove and over the freshly plowed fields to the far horizon.

She recalled his long arm draped over her shoulders and his words to her then: Vinnie, he had said, this is where your office will sit so you can look out on the land. I know you need to feel connected to your acres!

With a deep sigh, she thought wistfully, No one calls me Vinnie anymore; then, giving herself a shake, she turned again to her computer. After placing her boot order, she brought up her e-mail account, which she religiously kept down to as few messages as possible, following a maxim she tried to live by: Clutter saps energy! Many of the saved messages were addressed to Mom, coming infrequently from her missionary son and his wife in Brazil; but most were addressed to Nana, from her two grandkids. These were often accompanied by pictures of her two great-grandkids, belonging to her grandson and his wife, and which, of course, had to be saved to encourage her on dreary and rainy or below-zero and snowy days, like