Page 44 of Spike

Gary’s studylooked like a set from an Indiana Jones movie. Volumes of leather-bound booksfilled towering cases. Old maps from around the world hung in ornate frames,along with antique hunting and exploring gear. Everything in the room, from thefurniture to the bear-skin rug screamed, “I am aman.”

“What do youthink?” Gary asked, clearly proud of his den.

“It’s nice,” Ireplied, glancing at the walls. “These maps all the places you’ve been to?”

“Some of them.Others are locations our church has set up ministry centers that I haven’tgotten the opportunity to visit yet.”

“What’s a ministrycenter?”

“Our ministrycenters range from anything to churches, medical facilities, and schools. Wecurrently have twelve set up around the world, with plans to add another eightover the next five years.”

“And the peoplewho go to your church pay for all that?”

“Any congregationmember or visitor to our church is free to donate to the Lifesprings ChurchWorld Services fund should the Lord prompt them. And I’m happy to say thatgiving has risen tenfold over the twenty years since we’ve been a part of theministry.”

“Your church mustbe full of some pretty charitable people,” I said, pointing to thesurroundings. “I do a lot of work for people in this area. I know what thesehomes cost.”

Gary smiled. “TheLord has been generous with his blessings for sure, but I haven’t drawn asalary from the church for many years. My family and I have benefited from mybestselling books, which I’m happy to say, keeps the lights on here at CasaMitchell.”

“But you stillpreach?”

“Writing has beena blessing for sure, but preaching is what God has called me to do.”

“I see,” I said,but I didn’t have a single fucking clue what he meant.

“What about you?”Gary asked. “You mentioned you do work in the area. What line of work are youin?”

“I’m a welder.Mostly freelance commercial work, but I also do custom jobs. I’ve designed andbuilt gates, railings, and staircases for a handful of your neighbors over theyears.”

“That’s justwonderful, son,” Gary said, condescension dripping from his voice.

“Those of us whofind our calling in life are pretty lucky.”

“I prefer the wordblessed. And to God be the glory.”

I gave Gary ashort nod.

“Would you excuseme, please while I visit the restroom. Feel free to take a look around thestudy,” he said, before disappearing through a side door.

Gary’s study wasfilled with a mixture of historical and religious books, and many that seemedto blend the two topics. The subject of Christian Archeology seemed to be hismain focus, based on his reading habits.

Equally aseclectic was his collection of artifacts. Pieces ranging from civil warbattlefield finds, such as a confederate soldier’s belt buckle, and a unioncaptain’s knife, to a tattered piece of cloth enclosed in a glass case. On thecase was a small brass plate which contained an engraving claiming the cloth tohave come from the uniform of a Roman soldier who was present at thecrucifixion of Jesus Christ. How a thing like that could be verified, let alonetrue, is beyond me, but there it was. Then came the modern era of the exhibit,which tilted heavily toward the JFK assassination. Framed newspaper clippings,photos, and “official” documents hung around a miniature diorama of DealeyPlaza in downtown Dallas, Texas, where the president was shot.

Gary came back injust as I was looking at it.

“Did you make thismodel yourself?” I asked as he approached.

“Every car,person, tree, and bird you see was lovingly and patiently painted by me.”

“Cutter, ourclub’s founder and president, would have loved this place.”

“Would have?Is he no longer with us?”

I nodded. “Cutterpassed away shortly after I became a prospect.”

“I’m sorry to hearthat.”

I smiled. “You’dprobably find it hard to believe, but the two of you would have gotten along.”

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