Question: Does the lack of conversation add to our hero's sense of isolation or does it make the story more boring? On a side note and Good News! that doesn't mean I don't need to add some conversation to what I already have between him and Ashley and him and the Good Reverend. Now welcome to Chapter Seven of Sky Pilot!

Chapter Seven

When I get to the Military Academy Seminary Program, discipline began as soon as we got off the boat with physical training in the rain. They can’t make it rain, it just seems that way. Being in a rain forest helps though.

They also have this special way to start training. It’s called the Personal Physical Barrier Test. They say the goal is to find the limits of a plebe’s physical endurance. Senior Students call it “Pant, Puke, and Pass Out.” New students start running a cross country course over steep hills, through rocky valleys, and into deep bogs until we, obviously, pant, puke, and finally pass out.

According to legend someone drowns about every five years because they pass out in a bog. They aren’t found for hours and by then it’s too late. It’s possible; and I can see how that’s the perfect legend told by upperclassmen to plebes. It’s also the reason I puked in the bog and passed out on the rocks. I didn’t drown, but it hurt like hell.

As for patching me up, I was doused with some ancient elixir and dumped in my cell with a Hebrew bible, a Greek bible and a couple of dictionaries. What year is this and I’m sitting in a rain forest reading paper? Maybe the first miracle of Jesus was wine at the wedding in Cana, but getting paper not to dissolve in a rain forest must be the latest. Why we aren’t using tablets must be another version of discipline. Scripture on paper in ancient texts, this is going to be a fun summer.

The worst part, the absolute worst part of all is the music. It’s nothing but flutes and gongs and computer tones going on and on for hours with brief choral interludes. I remember some churches doing this “music” at home, but it never was for me. It makes me want to gouge my ear drums out of my head. I can just barely concentrate. I’ve taken to making ear plugs made out of shirt tails. I’m guessing it’s not approved by the Commander, but I’ll take my chances. After what has happened to me I’m more than willing go to the brig over bad music. It would be my luck that they would pipe that infernal sound into my prison cell at triple volume though.

So it was ironic that I ended up being detailed to the library archives. I was one of the plebes cataloging music. I ended up with 20^th Century music. Classical, I never appreciated classical music. Some people loved it; I thought it was only so much screaming. Why couldn’t I get something better? Not more modern mind you, I can’t stand that garbage; but classical music is not my idea of a good time either. At least these tunes range about three minutes instead of hours on end. That’s a bonus.

My first day in the archives they put me in front of a listening unit with a pair of headphones and a database. So I start listening. How in the cosmos do I decide where to start? I’m not the first plebe to dig into this database. There are gaps all over 20^th Century music. There are about a dozen genres like Rock, Jazz, Blues, Reggae, Country/Western, and Soul. Then there are subgenres like Ska, Afropunk, Bubble Gum, Roots, and whatever Country Rock is along with hundreds of others. I think some people take this job a little too seriously.

I decided to find the most obscure name I could and decided to go with Lenny Kravitz, and then I saw his picture; Black, pierced, tattooed, hair styles I had to look up known as dreadlocks or Afro. Reading his biography I found out his mother was a Caribbean Christian and his Father was a New York Jew. The credits on the recordings also showed he played most of the instruments himself. He played rock, rhythm and blues, soul, even cover songs. With a dozen or so recordings this would be a good month worth of cataloging. I prayed to God his music was as interesting as his bio.

So that was my day, pant, puke, pass out, listening, studying, and sleeping. The best part was if I was completely exhausted at the end of the day I would be less upset about how I got here.

Sky Pilot, Chapter Six

Friends, sorry for the delay! It has been all my fault.

As for the suggestions I have asked for, I've gotten two and they have been very insightful. One has been to be more descriptive, particularly sensory, particularly olfactory. This suggestion has opened up a whole new world to me to look at the story because I know how smells have brought memories back to me. Good stuff.

The other suggestion was that the narrative is fine, but there needs to be more conversation. So far the only speaking has been A&W reaming out Our Hero in Chapter Five and Our Hero ordering drinks in Chapter One. This one is going to be a little harder. I tend to work in my head so I need to find voice for these characters as well as narrative. But let's face it, great suggestion, eh?

So a million thanks to my readers and to those who share, a million more thanks to each of the people who read from their share. I love you all and please keep reading and commenting and helping me make this better.

And now on with the show...

Chapter Six

The speedy trial came more quickly than I imagined. The court even speeded up the process, something about the witnesses leaving after graduation. Everybody wanted to get rid of me as quickly as they could. The evidence that I might have been drugged was disallowed, but that was the only way I could have made it back to her place without knowing it. Or at least I guess that’s what happened. My lawyer proved that I couldn’t have committed a sexual assault without transferring hair to her, and since none of my hair was on her I couldn’t have done what they accused me of doing. Of course seeking the evidence was a humiliating experience. As for the DNA transfer, I don’t know how that was done. I can imagine a couple of ways. I don’t want to imagine any of them, but I can.

In the end, the sexual assault charge against me was dropped but I was found guilty of some lesser assault charges. How I ended up in the hospital and with assault charges is beyond my imagination, but that’s what happened. The judge decided to try an interesting deferred sentence. She decided to conscript me to a Military Academy Seminary Program where I would have no contact with women and have significant contact with “study, prayer, and discipline.” There was a way the judge said “discipline” that made me believe I was on the express train to hell.

Welcome to the land of no choice. I had a criminal record. I had judgment against me. I would get three years in seminary and five in the service, more if my term ended and I couldn’t get home or was “involuntarily reenlisted.” All for an assault I didn’t commit.

What happened? These were all people from church these people sat near me, beside me. We played basketball together. We played touch football, they had all heard about how I played tackle. They knew I was tough and could play in pain, that’s probably why they used four guys and drugs to beat me to a pulp.

We took care of kids, the kids; I’ll probably never get to look at another kid with this hanging over me. These were my friends, but one of them did look at me differently. There was a gleam in his eyes that was different from any other look I had ever seen before.

Friends. Friends who are on fire for the Lord. Burning. Burning. That’s it, burning. One of those four guys was sitting a couple of pews behind me the first time I went to University Reformed Church. I remembered a burning sensation on the back of my neck that day. Maybe that was the reason I felt someone staring a hole in the back of my head. Is that what this is? Jealousy? On the day of my sentencing he was with Ashley. I’m conscripted and he’s “picking up the pieces.” A&W DeMoss looks glad there’s someone to care for his baby girl.

I wish I could take the prison cell rather than seminary. Instead after sentencing I’m moved to what they call a “monk’s cell” to begin my study. This doesn’t even come off of my seminary or service time. It’s pre-prison. It’s a time of preparation for seminary. They give me a syllabus and a schedule. Study, prayer, and discipline are getting off to an early start. Everybody just thinks it’s better to keep me away, get me off the streets. This way I’m not a constant reminder to anybody. I’m not even a member of anybody anymore.

As they take me away, my lawyer gives me her final bill. Really, a final bill for this? Eight years for being railroaded? My cash is gone. It’s either been used to settle my parent’s bills, pay for their funerals, pay for my education or my defense. I have one thing left.

I give my lawyer the engagement ring. It’s not even Ashley’s engagement ring any more, it’s just the engagement ring. “Keep the change” and I’m led off. 

Sky Pilot, Chapter Five

Welcome to Sky Pilot Chapter Five. If you enjoy the book, share it with your friends, if you  don't tell me, I'd love to get better.

Chapter Five

A couple of weeks later I was finally getting back on track. “Getting better” was beyond my capacity, but “back on track” was a goal I could move toward. Thank God my last semester was filled with nothing I needed for graduation. I declared a major early and stuck to the program so I finished my major classes last fall. This semester was just getting enough credit hours to fill out the elective credits so there was nothing too difficult on the schedule. I only needed passable grades at that; I didn’t need high grades to graduate. How else could I play so much soccer and football?

I tried to get stuff ready for church with Ashley, but she sensed I wasn’t really into it. I met with her father an awful lot over the next six weeks. I couldn’t tell if it was pre-vocational advice or post-crisis counseling, I could use both; not that I wanted either. We sat and talked. I don’t think I talked enough to suit him, but that’s life, so to speak. I do think I drank more of his Scotch than he expected, but he kept offering it to me, so that’s life too.

I was just six weeks from my parents’ inurnment to the end of school. Who knew how death would expand my vocabulary? Inurnment, who knew disposing of cremains had a word of its own too. Because of their death, along with study, sport, tests, and Ashley there were accountants and lawyers.

I knew my parents didn’t have a lot of money, I just didn’t know they didn’t have a lot of other assets either. By the time the life insurance was sorted out and the house was settled and the bills were paid off, there wasn’t much left from the settlement. It barely covered a quarter of my student loans and I didn’t borrow close to the maximum. I sat with the lawyers and the accountants and with the Reverend Doctor’s lawyers and accountants to look for errors. They did find one error and it wasn’t in my favor!  Thank God I had signed the final estate settlement; otherwise I would have lost half of what I had received.

After I finished my finals but before the graduation ceremony Ashley had a women’s church conference so I decided to go throw darts. While I was there I ran into a girl from church who I hadn’t seen her in the pub before. We started throwing darts and I moderated my drinking. She knew Ashley, so we started talking about the last year. She told me how blessed I was. My eyebrows went up, I’m blessed? I mentioned my parents’ death, and she mentioned Ashley. I smiled, she was right about that.

We talked about our degrees and graduation and our plans. She was going into her father’s financial firm and told me about her salary and all of the zeroes and commas that she would be handling. I told her about seminary and being close to Ashley in Med School and she said that makes me a lucky dog too.

Yep, a lucky dog. Was it all just luck? Was it a blessing? Am I drinking too much? Why is the room spinning?

I excused myself. I felt like I was getting ill, that’s not a way to impress the girl from church. By the time I got out the door, I really felt woozy. Sick, but not really. Dizzy, but sleepy. Ill, but not quite. She offered me a ride home. How did she know where I lived? Whatever.

It was a couple hours later when I was half awake because I was in real pain. I was groggy and sore, but why were my hands and nose broken and why was my face bleeding and swollen? The big question though was why was she wrapped in a sheet screaming? Passing out seemed like a blessing.

Waking up again wearing a paper gown and getting my picture taken for a mug shot made me decide that passing out again wasn’t such a blessing after all.

This is what my public defender told me about how I spent the night:

I met the girl from church in the bar, I remember that part. She was taken with my dart throwing skill, I didn’t think she was “taken with” anything, but I let that go. Then we left the bar together. Not that I did not remember. We went back to her place and we had sex. This is the weird part, it appears that she had sex and it appears she was “covered with my DNA” but things didn’t quite add up. Why would I have sex with her? I haven’t had sex with Ashley! I didn’t want to have sex with anybody but Ashley so why would I have sex with her? My lawyer would later remind me that I had been very sexually active and then went without sex for nine months. The story didn’t sound far fetched and “I was woozy” didn’t sound like an argument in favor of my innocence.

He also reminded me that “Didn’t quite add up” was a matter for the DA and the jury, not the police. Getting back to the story…

Her boyfriend comes back to her the apartment with three of his buddies, seeing her in trouble they “tear me off of her and beat me senseless” before calling the police. That brings me to a Sexual Assault charge. This was my turn to demand a toxicological screen. If you’re going to test me for all sorts of physical evidence, I want to find out why something made me feel so “different” that night. Thankfully I got in contact with a better lawyer, the lawyer who handled my parent’s estate. He knew someone who could at least get me bailed out of jail.

When I did I went directly to Ashley’s house. I had to talk to her. God only knows what she had heard. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I could tell her the truth, I could tell her what I did know. I’m sure the rumors and allegations had made it around the block before I had even gotten my shoes laced. I didn’t get to see her though. I saw her father.

The Reverend Doctor Andrew W. DeMoss, Jr., Alphabet Soup had some things he wanted to spell out for me. We went to his study. I honestly believe his chair was two inches higher than mine just to make it easier to look down on me. He laid it out for me.

Ashley did not want to see me. The woman and the four guys, everybody in the room that night was from church and I was a pariah. Yes, in this country a defendant is innocent until proven guilty, but in his study, about his parishioners, about his daughter, I was guilty as sin and that was that.

As for seminary, he told me “I hope you go to prison for a good long time just for the amount of pain you caused my family and should this get cleared up in your favor and you attend seminary; you will not be attending seminary close to my daughter. You will not attend seminary within a thousand miles of my daughter. As for your financial aid, I wish you well.”

He didn’t call me “Son” this time and he expelled me from the house.

Sky Pilot, Chapter Four

Sorry for the delay, all my fault, here's Chapter Four...

Chapter Four

I got the news on Monday night.

I was at Ashley’s house to meet my parents because the Fraternity House isn’t always the best place for parents. My folks were late, but my mom loved to stop for every historical monument, every tourist trap, every wide spot in the road on the way. This time they were the reason people stopped. The road was curvy. She loved roads that curved and rolled, my dad hated them. He liked them straight and fast. According to the Highway Police my dad tried the worst of both; he was driving fast on a curvy road.

The damage to their vehicle didn’t look like it hit a big animal like a deer. Maybe my dad dodged to miss something. At any rate, he sideswiped some sort of sign and that led him into a large tree. They were dead before the fire caused by the accident engulfed the scene.

They were an hour past due when the Highway Police found us. An hour was not too late for my folks, so I had only begun to worry about them, still. The doorbell rang and I went from slightly worried to numb in the time it took to open the door. I let out a cry that made God himself shudder.

Ashley and her parents came with me to the hospital, the morgue actually. The good Reverend drove. I cried. The wailing had passed for the moment, but I was a mess. Everything was all planned, everything was all laid out. We were going to finish school. We would get married. We would find a place to live. We’d start classes. Med School and Seminary were both three year programs so both of us would be living, loving, and studying our tails off then graduating just in time for internships. There would be time for family. Our parents would become grandparents. The future was in front of us and then mortality slaps me in the face and says “Good evening and remember, if you need anything just call…”

This week was supposed to be about joy and celebration. It was going to be a time for families to come together and gel. It was a time for two families to come together to become one. In love, in marriage, in joy; one and one make one! With my parents gone though, what I was planning faded. It all took a back seat to grief. I planned to propose over dinner Friday night, now that’s when the gathering begins. They were burned so badly there will be no viewing.

Of course we couldn’t leave for a couple of days. The Coroner’s Inquest took a day to make its preliminary findings. Nothing could be fully signed off until all of the toxicology reports were done and that would take a couple of weeks to get the results, but everything looked decent and in order. There was enough paperwork to choke a small horse. Thank God for the ladies of the church, there was always more than enough food and drink. Considering the fire, cremation was the only way to go with their remains.

I spent the rest of Spring Break on the phone with my parent’s friends, loved ones, and distant family. Some called checking on arrangements. Some called to see how I was doing. Some called to offer condolences. Some called to say “how awful it was when their Uncle Phil or Auntie Em or Sister Sue, or whoever it was died” and “I’ll get over it just like they did.” Those were the worse of all. The best were the folks who came by with a beer or a bottle of scotch and told funny stories about the folks. Ashley would sit by my side and rub my shoulder or my thigh and moments would be passable.

On Friday we took the cremains to my parent’s place and scattered them in the hills. I just thought they were called ashes, but no, cremated remains are called cremains. I never knew that. Who did? There was a brief hillside service. There’s a plaque with their names and dates of birth and death in the columbarium at the church. Columbarium, I didn’t know a wall of cremains had a name too. I don’t know why it bugged me, a “grave,” a “hole in the wall” with nothing in it. It did though.

I could put gloves in there, maybe a spare set of keys. At least then it would serve a purpose greater than an empty hole. In its own way, it spoke to how I felt by the end of the week. All that’s left of my parents is scattered to the winds and there’s a hole in a marble wall that matches the hole in my heart.

My parents will never hear about our engagement, or seminary, or Ashley becoming an MD, or me becoming a Youth Pastor, or grandchildren or kindergarten or… and that’s when I broke down. I don’t even know where we were. I think we were on the road, returning after the funeral, but I’m not sure about that. I hope I didn’t make a scene, but if I did there would be pictures and that would be… nice? When I regained my faculties I was in the backseat of the Reverend’s big vehicle, my head in Ash’s lap, sobbing.

I have class on Monday? No, I feel a trip to Student Health coming.

Sky Pilot Chapter Three

Thanks again to everyone who is reading and enjoying Sky Pilot. If you are enjoying it, please share and comment and tell me what you like, or more, what you don't like. Also, please know insults won't make it any better! Thanks again and here's...

Chapter Three

The next weekend I played another football game with my fraternity brothers, I twisted my ankle just so I could see Ashley at Student Health. She was a sight for my sore eyes and my sore ankle. I began to think I could handle any pain just as long as she was there to hand me the ice pack. She asked me if I was planning to be in church on Sunday. I considered playing hard to get, but decided against it. She said she went to church with her family so I couldn’t pick her up… but I could meet her there, and sit with her. Up front. With the kids. In plain view of her father. I wondered if she could see me gulp. I wondered if my voice went up two octaves when I said yes.

I was floating on air for the rest of the week, but at least my athletic exploits were limited to darts. My sore ankle could handle eight feet to the board and eight feet back, especially if the losers kept buying my beer. Cricket, 301, 501, I was on fire. But it was different. I was like a bug zapper to barflies, but I didn’t that night. My brothers used to call me ABC because in the bar I would “Always Be Closing,” but not that night. They thought it was a fever. I told them it was church. They didn’t know it was a girl at church.

Keeping secrets, that’s a sign.

So I went to church on Sunday. Ashley started her lesson by telling the kids about Samson and Delilah. I thought it was kind of a racy story for the kiddies, but she was teaching the lesson, so I listened. That’s what I thought until she asked me to join her up front and it wasn’t an invitation I could say no to either. I had to join her up front and I had no idea what she was thinking. I could see her father in the grand chancel wondering what was going on too. Suddenly I was playing Samson to her Delilah. I was the strongman, she the temptress. I was the Nazirite; she was the woman from the Valley of Sorek, the tool of the Philistines.

Ashley told the story and I hammed it up as Samson. She played Delilah as a femme fatale. The kids got to play the Philistines so they jumped and crawled all over me. I had a blast with a dozen little surrogate nieces and nephews. Everyone smiled, the parents clapped. People were amused and, as Ashley explained from the scripture, it was all fun and games until Samson loses an eye. Of all things, that was what she was trying to teach the kids, play nice because it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Considering how we met, I laughed at that.

Lunch that day was fried chicken. It was also the first time we kissed. It was like kissing a thunderstorm and being touched by lightning. Every pore in my body tingled with the touch of her lips, the lightest tease of her tongue.

I became more and more active in the church. Eventually I started leading the children’s time with Ashley. We would always plot what we would do during service during the week. We would plan for the Wednesday night meeting. She would come to my football and soccer games. She even got me into bible study and the University library. When I went to see my parents for a couple of days at the end of Fall Break they thought they saw something new about me. I didn’t say “I’m on fire for the Lord!” like lots of folks do. I love Jesus, but I hate cheesy displays of faith. I guess the people who say those things are sincere, but when I try those words come out of my mouth and smack me in the face. Different strokes for different folks.

I didn’t even say that I met the perfect woman, a girl nice enough for Mom to love and a woman hot enough for Dad to punch me in the shoulder and say under his breath “Good work, Son!” Not that my dad would do that, but still. When they saw me though, they sensed things were different, and considering my laundry didn’t smell like the usual six different perfumes they knew things were serious.

Things were going well on the academic front too. Ashley took the Medical College Admission Exams before we met and was getting acceptance letters from Med Schools all over the world. Her future was looking better and better everyday. I was going to graduate without any problem, but until recently I had thought nothing more about my future than next week’s game, this weekend’s party, and Ashley. I was guessing The Reverend Doctor A&W DeMoss was getting the same feeling about me, and that’s when he pulled me aside.

“Son,” face it, it’s going to be trouble when someone who is not your father calls you ‘son,’ “Son,” he says, I know that you and my daughter have been seeing a lot of each other lately.” So I nodded, “and you know my daughter has a good future ahead of her and I love her more than anyone but Jesus.” My mind kept repeating “don’t say anything stupid, keep nodding,” He continued, “but I’m guessing you haven’t had strong feelings about your future have you?”

“No sir.” He’s not stupid, don’t lie to him. If he catches me in a lie he’ll probably have me on an express train to hell.

“Son, I’ve noticed you have a way with the youth, have you considered ministry as a vocation?” That’s when I could have been knocked over with a feather. Ministry? Me? Yes, I love God, but ministry? I’m a B student. Isn’t there more study to enter ministry? Oh no, I can see the stains beginning to swell up on my shirt. Yes! Deodorant failure! Never let the man see you sweat, too late now.

“Well, sir, no I haven’t considered it. But now that you mention it, it sounds wonderful. It would be great to be sort of a Christian guide for those kiddoes, wouldn’t it?” We talked a bit longer. He told me that there was more to the vocation than that. He even explained the difference between vocation and a job. He explained that I would need to complete my degree and go to seminary and learn about the bible, and learn Greek and Hebrew. I would have to learn about pastoral care and Christian Education. I would have to learn about church history and trends projected for the church’s future. Then he told me that he had connections, connections that would help me pay for seminary, and that’s a big help. I had gotten some grants and taken out some student loans to get this far, so connected money is good money.

With his support, by the time Spring Break rolled around Ashley had picked a medical school and I was accepted into seminary not far from her med school, her Father’s alma mater. It was imposing to meet in an auditorium named after Ashley’s great-grandfather though. I knew her dad was a big deal, I didn’t know her family was four generations of a big deal.

When Spring Break rolled around, my parents decided to come out and make a week of it. I wondered how they could afford it, but it was nothing to wonder about, it was going to be fun. My folks would finally get to see more of Ashley than pictures and short videos and shorter 3D scans. We would all get together and I would propose.

But no.

Sky Pilot, Chapter Two

I want to thank everyone who read Chapter One of Sky Pilot, and I especially want to thank everyone who made a comment or gave me some feedback. Feedback does two things... encouragement and assistance. I appreciate both. Be sure to tell me what you like and don't like about the story. Please remember that this is just Chapter Two, there's a way to go yet and honestly I don't know where it's going to end up yet. So now here it is...

Chapter Two

It started about ten years ago…

It was my senior year at University. For the most part things were going according to plan. I wasn’t a star athlete, but I was good enough for the fraternity soccer and football teams. I know, it’s football and American football, but I was born in what used to be called Missouri and people there didn’t forget it was Missouri. So while the world calls it footy we call it soccer. Sue me.

I was quick enough to play the midfield. I didn’t have the quick strike power needed for the front line, but I was more than tough enough for the middle. My specialty was setting picks and making blocks. I got penalties nearly every weekend. After a season I had enough yellow cards to tile a bathroom. I wasn’t playing a dirty game, but I played so hard there was more blood than usual on the pitch. The ladies liked to count the scars too, and I let more than a few take inventory.

On the gridiron I played tight end and free safety. My blocks were good enough to open running lanes for the backs and take pressure off of the quarterback and the receivers. My hands were good enough to catch the unexpected short pass too. On the defensive side of the ball I played strong safety, and played it like a free agent in the secondary. I would consider the situation, watch their quarterback, watch their receivers, watch the motion and put a lick on the guy closest to the ball. I would play with strong fundamentals too, make tackles. Fierce hits look tough on SportsCom, but if the receiver takes the hit and scampers off while I say “But did you see that hit” then I’m the reason we’re losing. Six points them. Make the tackle and it’s all good, if I dislodge the ball keeping the receiver wrapped up so he can’t make a circus catch, that’s even better.

If it seems like my mantra is “hit somebody” that’s probably right. I was mid-size and pretty tough. I always had something taped, something bruised, something on ice, and I liked it that way. My folks thought they should get a punch card at the Emergency Department of the Health Service, ten punches and they would get dinner for two at some fancy restaurant. I was at Emergency so often they’d probably have gotten that thing filled up once every three years or so.

That’s where I met Ashley. She volunteered at University Student Health. Long legs, great eyes, and long hair that matched her name, Ash. She made me feel like I could take on the cosmos and my friends suspected I tried to do just that so I could be in Student Health every weekend. She was majoring in Pre-Med, that’s why she was working in Student Health. The Nurse Practitioner would greet me in the exam room with a nod that said “not again” but her eyes always seemed to say “well hello there” just for me. I said that to my roommate and I looked up just in time to find a pillow making it’s way into my face.

That was the day I broke my nose so my face hurt when it got a snoot full of goose down, but my pride was wounded too. They say time heals all wounds and that may be true, but let me tell you, time wounds all heals. There’s truth in that little twist that transcends the words.

I didn’t have any trouble with dating, but it was different with Ashley. At the time I couldn’t put a finger on why, there was something different about her. She was smart. Now I was pretty smart, the women I dated were smart, but she was in a different league. She not only knew about her studies, she knew music and sport, which are my favorite things. So we had that in common too, not just young lust. We could talk at the beginning and the end of a date. That was new to me.

Then I discovered her idea of young lust and mine weren’t the same. I had a faith life, I think, I guess. I went to church with the folks, but it wasn’t as if I took it seriously. I participated but it wasn’t as if faith touched me. I went to camp but only because I did love those “nature hikes” but a living faith that could bear any weight? I didn’t have one of those. While at University, I was more likely to worship at the First Church of Popeye, I am what I am! I was a B student who spent more time on the pitch or the pub than the library. It was Ashley who would turn that around.

Ashley DeMoss is the daughter of the Reverend Doctor Andrew W. DeMoss, Jr. and he had some letters after his name but I could never keep those straight. The Reverend Doctor was the Senior Executive Pastor of the University Reformed Congregation across from campus and yes, Ashley lived at home. Oh joy, oh rapture. If I was going to win Ashley’s heart today then I had to win her Father’s approval sometime last year.

So what to do? No matter what I tried it was going to look shallow so I figured I’d live into it. No, I wasn’t going to shake his hand after the 9:30 service and say, “Wonderful homily Reverend. Who am I? I’m the guy trying to get into your daughter’s skirt.” No, not that guy. But to deny that I didn’t have eyes for his daughter would be dishonest and stupid. I didn’t think he would be gracious about being treated like an idiot.

I went to University Reformed. It was early in my senior year, I was still wearing the tape over my nose but the black eyes had faded somewhat from the broken nose. I sat and I listened. I sang and I prayed. He spoke about grace and community. I was interested. I was most interested at Children’s Time when Ash taught the children before they left the sanctuary. Ash in a lovely dress, her hair flowing. I thought I could smell her perfume. Then I wondered how I could smell her from fifty feet away. I smiled, she smiled too. I thought it was for me, and then I saw her pick up one of the kids and give her a big hug. My smile got a little bigger, half for the little girl, half for being a fool for love.

Warning, danger! We haven’t really met and I’ve got “fool for love” flitting through my head. I should just calm down and pay attention. Then there’s that burning sensation on the back of my neck too.

After worship I joined the line to meet and greet the Reverend Doctor Andrew W. DeMoss, Jr., followed by assorted letters. I was ready to say “nice sermon, sir” when Ashley popped up beside her father. “This is him Daddy, the boy whose nose I was allowed to assist while the PA-C set it! Don’t the Nurse and I do good work?” and it was off to the races. I was invited to lunch with her family that day, pot roast. Then we sat together and talked over coffee for an about a half hour or so. Or that’s what I thought when I noticed it was getting dark.

We became inseparable.

Until we weren’t.

Sky Pilot, the quick introduction and Chapter One

A couple of years ago, Dan Krotz, the author of "Coffee with John Heartbreak" suggested I write a book. He has always been supportive of my ministry and my writing. Recently he suggested I write a "Christian Science Fiction novel. *smile* The "protagonist" will deliver wonderful sermons to burnt out Christians living in the ruins of organized Christianity and, along the way caution them to stop listening to new age crap music." Along with Dan There are others deserve thanks for this work beginning with my wife Marie, without her none of this would be possible. Without her, none of this would be worthwhile. It was the Reverend Doctor Cynthia Rigby who told me that there’s a place to consider and celebrate where faith and music and writing dance together. Not her precise words, but that’s how I got here from a Seminary project called “A Theological Conversation between Karl Barth and Lenny Kravitz.” Finally, thanks and praise to God Almighty who makes all things possible. Especially love and rock music. Here's the first chapter of Sky Pilot. Here's hoping you enjoy finding out as much about him as I will writing about him.

Chapter One

It’s six o’clock on a Monday morning and I’m sitting in a bar with a bottle of beer, a shot of tequila, and my last cigar. The last cigar on this whole barge unless someone is better at rationing theirs than I am with mine; and if they are then bless their heart. It’s been five, almost six years since we left port, and that’s a long time to keep a stash. Then again that’s why the butt tastes stale. Humidify all you want, six years is too long. Who would think Earth is the only place in the galaxy that grows tobacco.

Other planets have their own herbs, but only Earth has Cuban cigars, thanks be to God. Now there’s a phrase that has gotten me into more trouble than I ever thought it would, “thanks be to God.”

When I left the Seminary they told me that sharing the Word of God was an honor, a responsibility, and a burden. People will love you for it, but not enough, and people will hate you for it, but more than you can ever imagine. It’s Monday morning and after yesterday these words never rang more true. That’s why I look at the tequila and shoot it down.

Agape and agave. One is a word in ancient Greek and the other is a cactus. Agape, that’s Greek for love, not family love or brotherly love or erotic love either. Agape is the everlasting eternal love of God. Agape is the love that Paul writes about in his first letter to the Corinthians.

Agave, that’s the cactus that makes tequila. Thanks be to God and that crow on the label. It’s Monday. It’s six in the morning. I’m on my last cigar, the one I meant to smoke when I finally got off this stinking barge, and I’m in a bar. I can’t find agape, but I found agave. Here’s to agave. “Bartender, another.”

Out in deep space, where there is no sun, no stars, and gravity is artificial, why do we stick to a twenty-four hour day and a seven day week? It’s not my fault. I’m fine with “Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy,” but on Earth and here before my current posting when I led a regular “Sunday” service I took my Sabbath day on Friday. It’s important to rest and recover. God wants it, we all want it. Everybody needs a day of recreation—break it down—re-creation. We need it. God commands it.

In space though, the whole twenty-four-seven thing seems arbitrary. I would have thought those medical and psychological experts would have studied this long enough to be able to find a more optimal schedule. Something with a siesta! Please God a siesta! What would possibly be wrong with that?

I wonder if it’s military. They do love that whole 1600 hours thing. If the day suddenly had 3000 hours or 2000 hours then all of their reports would have to be translated from their automatic group think, the rest of us be damned. Then they would have to get new clocks and that would cost billions. I bet it’s the military, but now I’m military too, so damn them, damn me.

So if time is arbitrary, aren’t the “hours” this tavern is open arbitrary too? On a barge that operates twenty-four-seven, why would this place be closed from two until six in what we arbitrarily call the morning? The overnight? The predawn hours? Speaking of arbitrary! When the station controls lighting controlling night and day, nothing could be more arbitrary than night and day!

But this leads to another question; who in the cosmos would be the poor sap stuck opening this joint at six o’clock on a Monday morning. I mean God bless him, but that’s a shift nobody should want. Who comes in this time of day? Oh, look around, just me.

Yeah, that’s where my mind wanders at six in the morning when disaster and melodrama loom. I’m making too much of this. Most of this won’t matter a bit in the turning of time and space, but to some it’s everything. That makes me too drunk or not drunk enough; it’s a fine line when I have to be on the flight deck at nine. No, that’s now 0900 hours.

To drink or not to drink?