by Nancy Rue
What people are saying about …
Unexpected Dismounts
“Nancy Rue has once more proven that Christianity doesn’t necessarily arrive in a double-breasted suit or wearing pearls. Sometimes it roars in on a Harley, packing more punch than a three-part sermon.”
DiAnn Mills, author of Under a Desert Sky
Praise for …
The Reluctant Prophet
“I love this book! Hop on and ride with this ‘reluctant prophet’—but hold on tight, because the call of God not only takes Allison the Tour Guide out of her comfort zone, but the reader as well. An important novel about the awesome, quirky, breathtaking adventure of obeying God’s Nudge.”
Neta Jackson, author of The Yada Yada Prayer Group novels and The Yada Yada House of Hope series
“In Allison Chamberlain, Nancy Rue has created a fresh and unique protagonist to challenge all who follow Christ. How will we change the world? By being willing to leave our comfortable pews and habitual routines to truly listen to the voice of the Spirit ... and show the world that Jesus called us to love. Not to take care of ourselves, but to take risks in loving others. The Reluctant Prophet is a wonderful book with the power to changes hearts and lives.”
Angela Hunt, author of The Debt
“In her latest novel, The Reluctant Prophet, Nancy Rue asks this question: What can God do with broken people? The answer Rue comes up with is humorous, hopeful, and challenging. A story to remind us that God is involved in the everyday, and in love with everyone. You’ll cheer this motley band of people who decide love is more important than living a safe, easy life.”
Bonnie Grove, award-winning author of Talking to the Dead
“If you believe following Jesus can be an exciting adventure that is baffling at times and even a little messy, with zero tolerance for self-righteous complacency, then The Reluctant Prophet is a book for you.”
Bill Myers, author of The God Hater
“The Reluctant Prophet is a bold, wonderful novel. If you have ever felt a Nudge and thought it might be God trying to get your attention, read this book. It might just give you the courage to follow that Nudge and see where it leads. Nancy Rue writes about the tough issues of life and faith with grace, love, and daring. I am so glad God Nudged Nancy to write and so glad that she followed, Harley and all!”
Joyce Magnin, author of The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow and Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise
UNEXPECTED DISMOUNTS
Published by David C Cook
4050 Lee Vance View
Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.
David C Cook Distribution Canada
55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5
David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications
Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England
The graphic circle C logo is a registered trademark of David C Cook.
All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,
no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form
without written permission from the publisher.
The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.
John 13:14–15 quote taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc™. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
Matthew 7:15 quote taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Copyright © 2000; 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
LCCN 2011934564
ISBN 978-1-4347-6492-8
eISBN 978-1-4347-0459-7
© 2011 Nancy Rue
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920
C. S. Lewis quote in chapter fourteen paraphrased from Surprised by Joy, published by Harcourt in 1955 © C. S. Lewis PTE Limited, ISBN 978-0-15-100185-9
William Sloane Coffin quote in chapter sixteen paraphrased from Protestantism in America by Randall Balmer and Lauren F. Winner © 2002 Columbia University Press, ISBN 978-0-231-11131-7
The Team: Don Pape, Jamie Chavez, Amy Konyndyk, Nick Lee, Renada Arens, and Karen Athen
Cover Design: DogEared Design, Kirk DouPonce
Cover Photos: iStock
First Edition 2011
For my fellow pilgrims at Academy 31, who have shared their Nudges, and their Whispers, and their Unexpected Dismounts
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
AfterWords
Discussion Questions
The Nudge
My Latest Nudge
Acknowledgments
There are two kinds of readers—those who skip the acknowledgments and those who see them as peeks at what breathed real life into a book. If you fall into the latter category, enjoy a glimpse at the people I counted on unashamedly.
Rich Petrina, who introduced me to the term “unexpected dismounts.” I made several in my vain attempt to learn to ride a Harley.
The staff at Bumpus Harley-Davidson in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, who provide an endless supply of information (including how to lift a fallen motorcycle after an unexpected dismount) and wonderful Harley-isms, and who are always willing to assist me with my Harley wardrobe. It’s all about looking cute on the passenger seat.
Pamela Talley, whose research assistance kept me from making up adoption details as I went along.
John Painter, RNC, MSN, FNP, whose expertise kept all the medical scenes from looking as if I obtained them from an episode of House.
Jackie Colburn, prophet and friend. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
My Tea and Talk friends, whose input got this second book in the Reluctant Prophet trilogy under way: Gail Seavey, Wesley Paine, Margot Baeder, Margery Mayer, Carolyn Oehler, Judy Chambers, Lisa Ellis, Kendall Hinote, Karen Dahlinger, Nancy Lown, and Kacky Fell. Bright, eloquent women all.
The Reverend J. Mark Forrester, MDiv, Vanderbilt University Methodist chaplain and director of the Wesley Foundation, whose sermons and spiritual direction have kept me on course, and who introduced me to the work of his mentor, William Sloane Coffin.
St. Augustine’s Chapel, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee, where my feet have been washed and anointed with oil many times. Jesus was always there.
The works of Abraham Heschel, 1907–1972, and Rami Shapiro, whose understanding of prophets both biblical a
nd contemporary opened the strange new world for Allison.
The entire editorial and marketing staff at David C Cook. Don Pape, who took a leap of faith for this trilogy. Ingrid Beck, whose patience with me is angelic. Karen Stoller, who believes enough to keep on marketing Allison et al., and Renada Arens, who has the thankless task of keeping me on track with details.
Jeane Wynn of Wynn-Wynn Media, who may be personally responsible for your knowing about this book.
My editor, Jamie Chavez (www.jamiechavez.com), who truly is one of the best in the business, and who has cared for Allison and her crew like friends.
My agent, Lee Hough, without whom the last eight years of my career would have paled. I am blessed to have such a godly man representing me.
My husband, Jim Rue, who takes me anywhere I want to go on his Harley. We have yet to make an unexpected dismount together.
The Academy for Spiritual Formation, Academy 31 class, to whom this book is dedicated. I am a different kind of Christian because of them. And so is Allison.
Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.
—John 13:14–15
Every time I think I’m lost, that this world’s nothin’ but luck God always sends someone down, just to stir things up.
—Radney Foster, “A Little Revival”
CHAPTER ONE
You’d think I would know what my next move was supposed to be.
Seriously. I found Jesus seven years ago. Two months ago I’d finally discovered what to do with him. But now, as I squinted through eyelids that were supposed to be closed in contemplation and peeked at the five women kneeling around the trunk-turned-coffee-table, I had no idea what Jesus was doing with me. For somebody who’s supposed to be a prophet, that would be an important thing to know.
Hank opened her eyes and reached for the soup bowl we were using for the ashes. She always seemed sure of her next move, which made me wonder why she wasn’t the one God picked out for the whole prophecy thing. If God had asked me, I’d have said Henrietta D’Angelo was infinitely more qualified than Allison Chamberlain. But then, I hadn’t been consulted.
“My Sisters,” Hank said.
The other four heads came up. Hank spread her fingers just above the fine black dust, and Mercedes eyed it suspiciously, pursing the voluptuous lips that let no mess go unscolded-at. She had scrubbed the trunk top within an inch of its gone-shabby life before we started the service, and I’d have bet money she had a sponge at the ready in her lap right now so she could wipe off any escaping specks. Mercedes could not be convinced that “Cleanliness be right next to godly-ness” wasn’t a verse in the Bible.
“It was the custom among the early Christians,” Hank said, “to use this season of Lent to prepare new believers for holy baptism.” She swept the group with a warm gaze. “That would be you.”
Jasmine’s big liquid eyes, of course, spilled over. Mercedes handed her a Kleenex.
“And it’s a time for anyone who’s turned away from God to change direction and—”
“I ain’t no Catholic.”
We all looked at Zelda. Her face was pinched, though, granted, some of that was due to the way she had punished her drug-broken hair into a pitiful ponytail. But her eyes slit down even farther as she pointed her chin at Hank like an accusing finger.
“Lent isn’t just for Catholics,” Hank said, with vintage patience. That particular Jobesque quality was the reason I wasn’t answering the questions.
Zelda sniffed. “My granddaddy was a Mefodis’ preacher and he never did no Lent.”
Sherry leaned into a shaft of noon light shooting across the tiny living room. “Maybe he should have.”
“I ain’t the only one need to ‘change my direction,’” Zelda snapped back at her.
Hank folded her compact hands, my cue to take over. I did know the answer to this one.
“Exactly,” I said. “You notice that I’m kneeling right here beside you with my own pile of stuff.”
“We don’t got to say it out loud, do we?” Zelda chopped her arms into a fold across her chest. “I ain’t doin’ that.”
Mercedes mumbled something—I thought it was “Well, you got to do it sometime …”—but I shook my head at Zelda. “This can be between you and God. It’s about feeling the separation and wanting to close it up.”
Jasmine let a small sob escape. Zelda pulled her glasses down her nose and peered at her. “I don’t got to cry, do I?”
“What you got to do is hush up so we can concentrate,” Mercedes said.
I put my hand on Mercedes’s arm and nodded Hank on. A smile played at Hank’s lips. She probably hadn’t run into this kind of discussion at Ash Wednesday services when she was an army chaplain. There wasn’t a lot of saluting and accepting without question around here.
“Ladies,” Hank said, “this is an invitation to continue looking at yourself and going to God with the things that are getting between you and him.”
Jasmine sniffled. Zelda snorted. I squeezed the lifeblood out of Mercedes’s arm.
“We’ll all have the opportunity to pray and fast and think about God’s Word,” Hank went on. “And if we want to deny ourselves something to bring this time into deeper focus, we’ll support each other in that.”
“I don’t got to deny myself nothin’.” Zelda’s voice was like a tight rubber band. “Y’all have done enough denyin’ for me.”
Jasmine burst completely into tears. “Miss Angel, can’t you stop her?” she said to me. “She ruinin’ everything.”
Mercedes gave her signature mmm-mmm, followed by, “Somebody got to, and I know you don’t want me doin’ it.”
Yeah, see, this was where it was blatantly obvious to me that I was not cut out to be the prophetic spiritual leader of this little band. I did okay when I actually got the Nudge from God on how to proceed in these kinds of situations. But recently God hadn’t been so much with the Nudges or the shoves or, for that matter, the slightest hints.
I surveyed the full gamut of expressions in front of me: Jasmine’s puffy-eyed pleading, Zelda’s adolescent resentment in a thirty-year-old face, Sherry’s pale but powerful I’m-about-to-smack-somebody, and Mercedes’s dark, smoldering I’m-about-to-smack-everybody. I’d have taken an out-and-out punch in the face from God right now. Since I wasn’t getting that, I had to go with what I already had in the bag.
“All right, here’s the deal,” I said. “Every one of us is in a different place, so every one of us is going to approach this differently.”
“Or not at all,” Zelda said.
“Or not at all.”
Sherry raised an almost-transparent white hand. “But if somebody doesn’t even try, does she still get to stay? I mean, I could have this all messed up in my head, but isn’t Sacrament House about wanting to get healed from all your junk?”
Zelda’s face nearly came to a point. “You sayin’ I ain’t already workin’ my steps?”
“Okay, look,” I said. “We’re here to go from wherever we are … to where God wants to take us. There are ways to open up to God doing God’s thing in us, and that’s what this is about. So, what do you say we just listen to Hank and take it from there?”
Mercedes devoured Zelda with her eyes. “In other words—”
“I don’t think we need any other words on that at the moment,” I said. “Hank, let’s go for it.”
Zelda sat back on her heels. Hank waited until Mercedes stopped breathing like a freight train and then held her square hands out, palms up, over the bowl. All the straight-up Boston smoothed from her face as she tilted her dark head back and spoke.
“Father, you have made us from the dust of the earth. Please let these ashe
s be a sign of our human failing and our desire to be reconciled to you. Help us to remember that it is by you that we are forever forgiven.”
Finally, Sacrament House was wrapped in the cotton silence I loved. With Zelda hardening like a corpse beside me, I knew it wouldn’t last long, but I settled into the moment. I hadn’t done that much settling in the past few weeks. Maybe that was why it felt like God had given my assignment to somebody else, somewhere else, and I was left alone to deal with four recovering drug-addict-former-prostitutes in a thousand-square-foot house.
Just a little poke, God. It doesn’t have to be Allison, go buy a Harley. Although, if you will recall, I did that, along with everything else you’ve pushed me to do …
“You’re free to just stay in this quiet space,” Hank said.
I sneaked a glance at her to make sure she hadn’t telepathically heard my thoughts, as, personally, I believed she did half the time. But her gaze was once more sweeping over the Sacrament Sisters.
“If you’d like to have a cross in ashes on your forehead, just nod as I touch your hand.”
Jasmine was already bobbing her head and soundlessly weeping. God love her. She cried every time Mercedes smashed a cockroach in the kitchen. This was sending her right over the top. She had about thirty years of held-back tears to shed, and she’d cried only fifteen years’ worth since she came off the street.
Hank dipped her thumb into the ashes and placed it against Jasmine’s bronze forehead. “Remember that you are dust,” she said, “and to dust you shall return.”
Beside me, Zelda went so stiff I was convinced rigor mortis had set in. Hank turned to Sherry, who nodded and seemed to turn another shade of pallid as Hank pressed a cross just beneath her thin hairline. The starkness of it made her look even younger than her twenty-three years.
Mercedes didn’t have to nod. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to Hank like she was waiting for a kiss. The cross nearly disappeared against her earthy skin, but I had a feeling it burned on the inside. Among the four of them, no one worked harder to own her stuff. I was convinced all Mercedes’s oven scrubbing and toilet disinfecting was a reflection of the scouring going on in her soul. I felt like a slacker next to her on a daily basis.