Redemption's Road Read online

  Also by CJ Murphy

  frame by frame

  The Bucket List

  Five Point Series

  Gold Star Chance

  Forever Chance

  Redemption’s Road

  (Five Point Series – Book 3)

  By CJ Murphy

  ©2020 CJ Murphy

  ISBN (book) 9781948327640

  ISBN (epub) 9781948327657

  ISBN (pdf): 9781948327664

  This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely coincidental. 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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Desert Palm Press

  1961 Main St, Suite 220

  Watsonville, CA 95076

  Editor: CK King, Raven’s Eye Editing

  Cover Design: Murphy’s Law Ink

  Blurb

  My name is Rebekka Deklan, and I’m one of the most unconventional pastors you’ll ever meet. I’m covered in tattoos and frequently can be found on a sawhorse at the local brewery with a 1956 Gibson on my knee. Grandpa taught me to play, and I use those gifts to share God’s grace at House of the Rising Sun, my non-denominational church. From the stage of an old opera house in Thomas, West Virginia, this retired rock star turned spiritual leader tries my best to imitate the pastoral style of my former lover, Naomi Layman. Years ago, when we were together, I broke her heart during a night I can’t remember. Sometimes, it’s hard to teach lessons of grace when I can’t find a way to forgive myself for the biggest mistake of my life. Until then, my life is helping others find their path, while I wage war inside myself to balance the saint within the sinner as I make my way down Redemption’s Road.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve been asked, several times, a question that has a complicated answer: “Which of your characters do you most resemble?” I think many authors will say that there are bits and pieces of their true selves in many of their characters. There is a good portion of me in Sheriff Chance Fitzsimmons with the fire and rescue incidents you read in the Five Points Series. Readers have told me that the stories seem so real. The reason is that many are based on real-life incidents from my near thirty years in emergency services. The crevasse rescue in Gold Star Chance is based on an actual event, horses and all.

  In this book, you’ll be reading the first-person perspective of Pastor Rhebekka Deklan. This point of view was a new style of writing for me, but it also felt like that was exactly how I needed to write this story. It’s intimate and familiar. Part of Rhebekka’s past is also mine in fictional form. I'm talking about her upbringing as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’d wager a bet that you’ve encountered one or more of these evangelizing individuals when you’ve answered a knock on your door to find someone wanting to “share the good news” and talk about the Bible.

  Her faith is another trait we share. Rhebekka’s story gave me the opportunity to reveal an important aspect of my life. Despite negative experiences as a Jehovah’s Witness, I gratefully accept God’s grace and do my best to live out my faith.

  From the age of four or five, I was a door knocker, trying to sell my magazines. I did so until the age of twenty, when I completely broke with them and their beliefs. What people saw of the witnesses that showed up at their front door was very different from what went on behind the doors of the Kingdom Hall. I experienced a closed society of male-dominated, brainwashing control. Recent investigations have revealed the abuses others have experienced within the Watchtower and Bible Tract Society.

  In the middle of writing book two of this series, Forever Chance, a completely different story took control of my writer’s brain. A character with a varied background developed in my head. Once I started writing Rhebekka’s character, I realized her view of organized religion was coming from my own childhood and young adult experiences. What I lived was spiritual manipulation, as well as emotional and physical abuse as a female in a male-dominated, head-of-household ruled religion. From a young age, I suppressed the fundamental fact that I am a lesbian. In that society, acting or admitting that you were LGBT was automatic grounds for shunning, or disfellowshipping, from the organization.

  Writing Redemption’s Road was extremely cathartic, as I banished my demons into the world of a fictional book. I assure you, some of the details are anything but fictional.

  I hope you'll enjoy Rhebekka and her family of choice, because there is so much more to tell from this group of characters.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the many ex-Jehovah’s Witnesses who have been forced to create a new family because they’ve been shunned by the one they were raised with. May you find the grace you’ve long been denied and the love you deserve with your family of choice. To the vilified sexually, physically, and emotionally abused who’ve been made to feel like it was your fault, you are not alone. No matter what they say, there is no time to remain silent on these things. Speak up, let no one take your voice or your choice.

  "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." Buddha

  Chapter One

  I’ve learned that casting your net in the right water is important. The fish won’t come to you. Instead, you have to make your way to the river or the pond where they are. With that logic in mind, I sat there at the bar, applying one of my unconventional ideas about how to be what Jesus referred to as ‘fishers of men.’ This little brewpub had become the perfect place to spread a little grace, spiritual bait, in the pint glasses of the patrons. Not just any brew pub, Redemption’s Road was secretly purchased with proceeds from my former career. I wasn’t always the spiritual leader of a non-denominational church in Thomas, West Virginia.

  The woman with the blonde dreadlocks, sitting beside me, was giving me a curious look. “So, you’re really a preacher?”

  A small sigh left my body. If I had a nickel for every time I’d heard the question Senna had just asked, I could be retired. With that kind of money, I’d be enjoying a sandy beach in the Caribbean with a tan that would be sure to mute the colors of my many tattoos. “I prefer pastor compared to preacher, but yes, I’m Pastor Rhebekka Deklan. One with more than just an online ordination to marry people.”

  My conversation with the newcomer took a sharp right turn, as the word pastor fell from my lips. The shocking revelation that someone wearing a Metallica T-shirt—whose tattooed arms were adorned with an angel wing down one and a demon’s down the other—could be a minister, had obviously sent Senna into a contemplative trip down the proverbial rabbit hole. In reality, all five foot eight, one hundred and sixty pounds of me was, in fact, a minister.

  “No shit?” She shook her head.

  I held up my right hand as if giving an oath. “I actually have a degree in theology.”

  Senna’s pint jar traveled back to her lips, as I watched her try to wrap her head around the latest tidbit. The taproom area was small and dimly lit. Most patrons sat in front of the hand-hammered, copper bar top on stools that resembled sawhorses with wide seat boards.

  Her eyebrows went up. “Definitely a different kind of preacher. That’s so fucking cool.” Senna slapped her hand over her mouth, as her face turned crimson. “Sorry.”

  The woman standing beside me in a flannel shirt with baggie jeans tucked into Doc Martens, washed her warm gaze over me. Something about her scre
amed crunchy granola and had my gaydar needle pegged. As a pastor, I was always observant for subtleties in body language and demeanor.

  “Don’t worry about it. The word fucking is merely a present-participle adjective, unless you mean the verb. That is something totally different.” I decided it was time for a subject change. “Karmen over there tells me you’re new in town.”

  Senna took another drink and nodded. “I am. I’m a chef at her fresh food grocery store, three days a week.” She pointed to her glass. “This beer is so good.”

  Karmen was the unofficial welcome wagon, as well as being one of my best friends. An invitation to one of my beer and Bible gatherings was on the tip of my tongue. “Total agreement there. Let me personally welcome you to our little piece of heaven. I’m sure, by now, you know most of the entertainment spots and places to eat?”

  Senna lit up, and a wide grin graced her face. “I’ve devoured pizza at Sirianni’s, had the best guac I’ve ever eaten from Hellbenders, and inhaled a mouthwatering corned beef sandwich from Big Belly Deli. Haven’t I seen you play at The Purple Fiddle?” Senna finished the rest of her pint and looked toward the bartender.

  I raised my hand and caught Tank’s eye, motioning for her to get Senna a fresh beer on my tab. “I do a set once in a while, around town. You’ve already found the best beer.”

  “I can’t believe how many craft breweries are in this one little area.”

  There was the crack in the door I’d been waiting for. “A small group of us do a tasting of the latest offerings, twice a month, at my place.” My place meant House of the Rising Son, the church I created where saint and sinner were welcome as equals.

  It was obvious that Tank had heard my lead-in, as she set the fresh pint in front of Senna.

  “She’s telling the truth. I provide our latest beers for the event. The reverend here provides the Bible trivia. A little bread with the wine, so to speak.” Tank wiped at a water ring on the bar top and winked at me before she moved back to serve another customer.

  Senna turned to look directly at me. “When do these epic beer and Bible soirées take place?”

  God bless you, Tank. “The second Tuesday and the third Thursday of each month, six in the evening, right down the street from where you work with Karmen. It’s in the old community theater. Look for the sign on the door that says—”

  Senna laughed and nearly spit out her beer. “The place that says House of The Rising Son, the one with the big Jesus?”

  Clever irony struck like lightning the day I decided on the official name of my church. The double entendre played to my advantage as much as it was tongue in cheek.

  “That’s the place. The giant Jesus was accidentally created when I placed a small fountain of Christ with outstretched arms in the courtyard. Once it got dark and the floodlight came on, the fountain cast a large shadow of the Messiah on the side of the building. It would have felt sacrilegious to take it down after that.”

  I’d endured a good bit of ribbing for it over the last few years, but it’d become something of an iconic place for tourists to visit. With one last drink, I finished up my beer and put the Mason jar back down on the counter. As my tongue snaked out to lift the froth off my lips, Senna’s eyes were drawn to me like a moth to a flame. Oh, yes, very gay. “Senna, I’ve got to roll. It was nice talking with you this evening. Again, welcome to town. Feel free to stop in if you’re interested in the beer and trivia night.”

  Senna nodded her head. “Shouldn’t you be working on a sermon for tomorrow morning or something?”

  It was close to ten o’clock. I laughed and was about to throw out one of my best lines, when Tank came to retrieve my glass.

  The former Marine, built like a brick wall, winked at me again. She knew my shtick so well. She could repeat it with flattering imitation.

  “The Lord can’t do no savin’ on Sunday without sinners from Saturday night. Be careful on that bike, Reverend. See you in the morning.” Tank saluted.

  Senna’s eyes showed shock and alarm. “You rode a motorcycle in this weather?”

  “Not a motorcycle. Tonight, my ride home is a Salsa Mukluk fat bike.”

  “That lime green one chained to the post out there?”

  I nodded my head. “The very one.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Radical. Shiny side up, Pastor.”

  I pointed up to the ceiling. “God willing.”

  I grabbed my helmet from the shelf, before pulling on my leather jacket and gloves. With a wave to everyone, I took a step out the door where the frigid night air stole my breath. I fastened my helmet in place. Eyes heavenward while muttering a small prayer, I expressed my gratitude that home was less than a mile away and that the snow wasn’t too deep. After pulling my neck warmer up over my face, I unchained Marvin. I’d named my trusty steed after the Looney Tunes character, Marvin the Martian. I even ordered a sticker and secured it on the frame right after I bought Marvin. As I slung my leg over the bike and settled my right foot on the pedal, the wide expanse of midnight sky and stars that twinkled from a million miles away took me aback.

  “Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power not one is missing.” For the curious, that’s Isaiah 40:26.

  I pedaled my way down a back street to avoid the snowplows on the main road and the ill prepared tourists, who had mostly arrived on Friday night to take on the slopes. The streetlights illuminated dirt-streaked snow, piled high and packed with rocks and grime, left by the plows as they cleared the roads.

  January had brought exceedingly low temperatures and steady snowfall, good news for the tiny mountain communities and their small businesses. They’d be able to pay their bills from the tourism dollars.

  I avoided a section of ice and used a small snowbank as a ramp, launching myself slightly into the air before landing in softer snow that led into my courtyard. Jesus’ shadow welcomed me home with open arms.

  With my bike on my shoulder, the three ice-covered steps into the back door of the church weren’t easy to manage. After a struggle with the door, I hung Marvin vertically on the hooks I’d positioned above a tray that caught the melting snow. My favorite low-top Chuck Taylors, without laces, replaced my snowy boots. Heading to my loft, I scuffed my way up dull stairs that had long ago lost their finish to thousands of footfalls.

  “God, my fingers are freezing.” I blew on my hands and sprinted up into my private sanctuary that sat above my spiritual one.

  Senna was partially right; I had a sermon tomorrow, but my preparation was already done. With the flick of the switch, the loft’s interior was bathed in soft, white light. Each step on the hardwood floor produced the creaks and snaps that had become part of my everyday world. Like a song stuck between the individual boards, they sang out with each footstep. A strong aroma of cinnamon drifted to me, a sure sign that Karmen had visited before stopping by the bar. Covered in glorious white icing, a plate of freshly baked sweet rolls sat on the counter. There was a note.

  Bite me.

  Joyous laughter bubbled up from my belly, along with a hungry growl. Karmen’s wicked sense of humor inspired either love or hate.

  I poured a cup of coffee into a small metal pan on the stove, to warm it exactly as I’d seen MaMaw do a thousand times. In fact, I was still using that exact pan that held no more than a cup or two. My parents bought her a microwave one year, and they never heard the end of it. I watched MaMaw use the pan every day of my childhood, all the way through until the day she died. It was one of the few things I’d asked for when the other grandkids were asking for money or her 1988 Oldsmobile. I also ended up with her recipe box. The chicken scratch-like handwriting on the scraps of paper was barely legible. It was decipherable only by those who’d spent years reading birthday and Christmas cards from her. Amazing that I could read them at all, as I’d never celebrated my birthday or Christmas until I was
nearly twenty-one.

  Having grown up as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, those occasions were for the others. Always us versus them. I nearly scorched my coffee reliving that feeling of separation. The God I’d come to know was very different than the one I’d prayed to for my first twenty years.

  With a full cup, I pinched out one of the rolls and went to my small, soundproof studio in the corner of my loft.

  Heather-gray acoustic tiles lined the walls and ceilings. I’d hired a professional to come in and build it for me. Writing songs and making music was like a drug to my system, the only kind I indulged in. I chewed off a giant bite of the roll and let my eyes flit back in my head, as the sweet sugar rush met my taste buds. Bless you, Karmen. Self-taught, true, but the most incredible chef I’d ever run across. In my travels around the globe with the band, I ate in the finest restaurants staffed by French chefs and still had never found anything as decadent as Karmen’s creations.

  The steaming cup of coffee drew me in with its aroma. I’d never been a coffee snob by any means. For me, Maxwell House beat a thirty-dollar bag of organic beans any day.

  A swallow of coffee washed down the rest of the sweet roll, and I pulled my grandfather’s 1956 Gibson L7C Sunburst off its stand. The story was that the organ, at the Baptist church they attended, had died. He decided to learn how to play for the choir. MaMaw had a voice like butterfly wings that would land on your ears so gently you weren’t sure you’d actually heard it. They were quite the pair.

  I strummed a few chords of Grandpa’s favorite hymn, It Is Well With My Soul. The melody poured from my fingers and transported me right back to that rickety wooden porch, where he taught me to play the instrument I held in my hands.