Like Sheep Gone Astray
This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Leslie J. Sherrod
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Grand Central Publishing with Walk Worthy Press™
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ISBN: 978-0-446-55518-0
Contents
The table lamp crashed to the floor at Anthony's sudden lunge and the room plunged back into darkness. “Why can't I keep this money? I probably earned this much and a hundred times over! You know me, Jesus. You know my heart. I can't take this anymore!” His words were sobs and groans as he fell to his knees, steadying himself with a hand pushed down on a nearby coffee table.
“It's not illegal. I haven't done anything wrong. It was their fault. I'm not breaking the law!”
What about My law?
Anthony quieted at the question that spoke somewhere in his spirit…
For my family—past and present
All praise and thanksgiving first to You, Lord Jesus. I'm honored to serve You in this way, and I trust that You will get the glory You alone deserve, and that those who read these pages will be drawn closer to You. Thank You for opening doors, for leading the way, for giving grace, for loving me.
How do I even begin to thank everyone who has helped this come to pass? I know there are no coincidences in God's Kingdom and His timing is perfect, so everyone who has crossed paths with me has in some way contributed to the completion of this book. Thank you for the inspiration, the encouragement, and the lessons learned. I'm grateful.
My family deserves a standing ovation for the way you have supported me. Brian, you've given me my dreams—the chance to be a wife, a mother, and a writer. There is no way this book would have been finished without you. Because of your sacrifices, support, and steady pushing, we can both celebrate what God has done. You are a gift and a king to me. I love you.
My children, Neyla and Nathan, you have been the most accommodating preschoolers a writing mother could ask for. I write because of and for you. My desire is to be an example for you to see that following Christ and the passion and purpose He puts in your heart leads to a fulfillment like no other. Mommy loves you and always will.
To my parents, J. Adrian and Maxine Datcher: Thanks for raising me to believe—to know—that I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me. This book is for you, for believing and seeing it done, even before I knew what to write. Anna “Nana” Datcher, thank you for your prayers and wisdom. You do not know what it means to have a grandmother as hip and as holy as you are. Jo-celyn, thanks for being an encouraging sister. Your gifts and talents have pushed me along since childhood. May God bless you and your family.
To my “mother-in-love,” Ms. LaVerne Weambe: The gift you have given me in your son is rivaled only by the constant love and encouragement you bring my way. Your smiles and enthusiasm have carried me more than you know. Jenae, Marcus, and all the Sherrods, thanks for accepting me as one of your own. The excitement and support all of you have shown has been phenomenal.
And in the memories of Novella Cole's attention to detail, Robert Cole's storytelling, and John Datcher Sr. 's quiet confidence, I have felt the support and roots only generations past can hand down. To all of my extended family, your prayers and support have been priceless. Thank you.
Special thanks to the following people who said something or gave something, who dreamed with me or just listened, at a time when God knew I needed it: Angela Graham; Yan Gong; Valarie O. Allen; Sonia Brown; Kim-berly Taylor; Jackie Cooper; Lisa Beyer; Alexandria Lewis; Stacey Jones; Ms. Marie Harvey; Ms. Lottie Wright; Sha-landa Lyons; Cheri Shannon; Burnett Morsell (and the rest of y'all at EBMHP); my MOPS friends, especially Valarie Foster, Kathi Barber, Carla Jackson, and Tuesday Hayes. None of you know how much God has used you in my life.
Complete thanks to my pastor, Bishop Clifford M. Johnson—a man worthy of his title—and the entire Mount Pleasant Church family. Thanks for feeding me, nurturing me, and growing me.
To my publisher, Denise Stinson: I am honored to be associated with such a visionary woman of God. Your heart for His Word and for perfection in ministry has revolutionized the way I view writing. Thank you for the opportunity to live out this calling. You have been a direct answer to a specific prayer. Thanks to my editors, Frances Jalet-Miller, Karen Thompson, and Robert Castillo. Few people know how hard and exhausting this process is. I applaud you and everyone else at Walk Worthy Press and Warner Books. Here's a shout-out to my fellow scribes of the WWP 11: Mata; MaRita; Gloria; Claudia; Collette; Pam; Kristen; Rodney, Olivia, and Aubrey. Also, Ms. Barbara Holmes, Shawnol Jemison, Toni Robinson, and Andrew Foster—thanks for your services along the way.
To my readers: This book would have little purpose without you. Thanks for your support. I've prayed for each and every one of you. Be blessed.
And finally, to dreamers everywhere: I know God has put hopes and visions in your heart, some of which look impossible and seem too far away and out of reach. Seek Him first and His righteousness, and everything you need will be added to you. Don't take my word for it—take His (Matthew 6:19-21, 33; Habakkuk 2:2-3).
Love,
Leslie
A
t three A.M. on a Sunday, most of the community of Shepherd Hills sleeps. Perched at a window high above an abandoned corner, an observer notes how quiet and still the town is under the silver moonlight. A phone rings somewhere in the building, breaking the silence of the hushed moment. It is promptly answered amidst stirred dust and cobwebs. The call is right on schedule.
“I don't think he'll go through with it.” Fear is in the caller's voice.
“Don't worry. 1 knew that was a possibility.”
There is a long pause before the caller continues. “So how do you expect to pull this off?”
“You're forgetting the most important thing. He doesn't know where the money is coming from.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Impatience has replaced the fear.
“That has to do with everything.”
Sidetracked
All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.
(Isaiah 53:6 KJV)
I
t was a small church, the kind of white wood frame building that always finds a home on hilly back roads, with forgotten grave markers nestled under its shadow and a steeple that towers higher than the trees surrounding it. The pews were made of the same worn wood grain as the floor, and hymnbooks and Bibles lined each row.
This was the church that had been around long enough to serve as the refuge of underpaid domestics and first-generation steelworkers from now ghost-like train yards. It had been the meetinghouse of civil rights activists and countless committees; the training ground where little black boys and brown-skinned young girls grew to be decent “churched” folk; the sacred ground where God met those willing to walk the straight and narrow way.
The founding members walked to the small sanctuary, some leaving their homes before sunrise to get to Sunday school on time. But on this Sunday morning, cars filled the gravel lot. And instead of the tinklings of an old, out of-tune piano, synthesized chords from keyboards and guitars flooded out of the windows. The parishioners who came to the eleven-o'clock service walked down brand-new red-carpeted aisles and rested in cushioned seats.
Second Baptist Church of Shepherd Hills was not the only or oldest congregation in the area, but it was respected by many as a Bible teaching, preaching, and believing church.
And it was this respect that Anthony Murdock did not want to lose. From his seat in Pastor Green's small basement study, he could hear the lively service proceeding above him. The opening hymn, “Hold to His Hand,” was echoing through the rafters. As the entire church seemed to shake under the weight of many footsteps stomping in time to the music, Anthony felt his heart pounding in his ears. He looked down again at the letter in his hands. His own neat print glared back. He had written it three weeks earlier, and carried it around just as long. This Sunday he would finally give it to him. He would not lose his nerve again. He would give him the letter after morning service. No matter what.
Anthony sat limply in the leather chair, questioning his own resolve. Six months ago, he had been celebrated for his confidence and decision-making skills as the senior marketing director at Shaw Enterprises, the fastest-growing marketing firm in Shepherd Hills. But that was six months ago.
“You prayin'?” A little boy in a junior usher's uniform stood in the cracked doorway. “I don't mean to interrupt, but I wanted to make sure I had your introduction right.”
“I'm sure whatever you have is fine.” Anthony smiled.
He shook his head as the youngster disappeared. Anthony never did fully understand why the formal introduction always preceded his sermons every fourth Sunday morning. He had, after all, been a member of Second Baptist Church of Shepherd Hills his entire life, all twenty-nine years. Most of the people sitting above him had witnessed nearly every major milestone in his life. His walk down the church aisle to confess Christ when he was eight; his subsequent baptism; his high school then college graduation; even his marriage ceremony had been celebrated in the small reception hall in the basement of the rickety church. The evening he gave his trial sermon, the pews had been packed.
Everyone here knows me—at least they think they do.
Anthony's thoughts raced again. He loosened his necktie a little as the sweat began pooling around his neck. Taking one last look at the letter, he carefully refolded it and placed it securely between the pages of his Bible.
They'll all be surprised,
he reflected while mopping his forehead with the handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.
With a heaving sigh he stood up, grabbing his sermon notes. He stared blankly at the pages of his own scribbled writing, re-tucked his shirt, and headed for the stairs to make his entrance into the service.
“Lord, I guess this is it. It's all come down to this.”
Minister Anthony Murdock, the youth and young-adult leader of Second Baptist Church of Shepherd Hills, ascended the stairs and entered the main sanctuary.
The children's choir swayed in purple robes on the platform facing him, their voices and arms alive with the latest arrangement by the animated director, who clapped louder than all seventeen pairs of hands combined. “Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine,” they sang with all the breath within them.
Anthony felt a warm flutter inside as he welcomed in the innocence. Entering the sanctuary of his home church was like walking into a grandmother's kitchen. Here, he was satisfied and comforted. Here, he was loved.
As he made his way to the front of the church, he responded to nod after nod that greeted him. Sister Kellye Porter, the assistant pastor's wife, who had taught his childhood Sunday school class. Calvin Holmes, the old deacon who beat him year after year in the annual horseshoe tournament at the church picnic. Councilman Walter Banks, the revered politician who had taken him under his wing and mentored him from his adolescence.
I would not have known success if I had not known these people.
Anthony swallowed hard as he smiled at each nod. He knew that the letter tucked safely inside his Bible was the beginning of the end, and they would all be disappointed.
But hadn't it all already ended with that first phone call six months ago?
Before he could answer his own question, the sudden roar of applause shook him.