The Gate

© 2013 by Dann A. Stouten

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-4056-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com

Some Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ESV Text Edition: 2007

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

Dann Stouten is a master storyteller. There is a real world all around us. We taste and feel it every day. There is also another world where God dwells and those who have gone before us live with Jesus. Dann Stouten helps us discover that these two places intersect more than we often notice. If we pay close attention, we just might see, smell, and learn to taste the goodness of a world beyond this one. Here is my advice: get this book, pour a cup of coffee, find a comfortable chair, and enjoy!”

—
Kevin Harney
, lead pastor of Shoreline Church in Monterey, CA, and author of
Reckless Faith
and the Organic Outreach series

Dedicated to the people I love, the people I've lost, and the God who's promised to prepare a place where all of us can spend eternity together with him.

Cover
1

Title Page
3

Copyright Page
4

Endorsements
5

Dedication
7

Acknowledgments
9

1. Lost
11

2. Choices
31

3. Perseverance
45

4. Questions
57

5. Encouragement
71

6. Priorities
85

7. Self-examination
101

8. Forgiveness
131

9. Potential
141

10. Hope
165

11. Limitations
177

12. Evil
193

13. Communion
215

The Benediction
247

About the Author
249

Back Ads
250

Back Cover
252

I
want to thank Kevin Harney for being my friend, for believing in my writing, and for badgering people in the publishing world into giving the book a second look.

I want to thank Vicki Crumpton for taking my rambling stories and turning them into a book. Her skill as an editor and her passion to make this book better have made all the difference.

I want to thank everyone at Baker Publishing Group and the Revell division for investing in me and my writing.

I want to thank the congregation of Community Reformed Church for their partnership in the gospel all these years and for their willingness to listen to my stories.

And finally I thank God for his grace, for my family, and for the way that each has shaped my life. Words fail to express my gratitude.

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

J. R. R. Tolkien,
The Lord of the Rings

T
he ad on the internet intrigued me. I'd been looking at cabins and cottages when the picture of an old inn caught my eye. I couldn't be sure, since it had been over forty years since I'd been there, but for the life of me, it looked like the cottage my family rented every July when I was a kid. The ad said that it was being used as a supper club. It claimed that the food and the view were heavenly and that it could be booked by the week or purchased outright. For a few minutes I studied the pictures in the ad and let my mind play with the possibilities.

Across the front of a huge screened-in porch were fieldstone columns, spaced about four feet apart, lined up like soldiers. The outside was covered in white lap siding with moss green–colored wood shingles tucked inside each of the peaks and the portico. The window trim and doors were painted in a darker green accented with red trim, and from the pictures, it looked to be well maintained and ready for occupancy.

The property was listed by a guy named Michael DeAngelo from Paradise Realty. The ad said, “Angel's Gate—the back door to God's country,” and I noticed there was an open house scheduled for the weekend.

I showed the ad to Carol and said that this was the kind of place our grandkids would want to come and visit. We didn't have any grandkids yet, but I wanted to be prepared.

“You know I've given this some serious thought,” I said. “And I've decided that I want to be the fun grandpa. I want to take them fishing and teach them how to swim, and sail, and roast marshmallows on a stick. And having a cottage would help in that department.”

“Maybe you should go check it out on Friday when the girls and I go shopping in Chicago,” Carol said. “You've got the week off anyway.”

I had scheduled a week of vacation so that Carol and I could get away for a few days. I'd been under a lot of stress at work, and I needed a break. But when our daughter Kelly heard we were going shopping in Chicago, she thought it sounded like fun, so Carol invited her to go along. Then a few days later, Carol talked to our two other daughters, Tara and Kate, and somewhere along the line, Chicago became an all-girl getaway, and I got the boot.

They thought my Outback would be better for carrying packages, so they left me with Carol's Volkswagen. It was kind of girly—robin's egg blue with a dove gray convertible top. I pretended to be embarrassed to drive it, but to be honest, I was just as happy. It had been a while since I'd been up north, and I was going to put the top down and get a little sunshine.

The idea of spending a little time alone sounded pretty good to me. I'd been burning the candle at both ends for too long, and a few days with nothing to do and no one to worry about sounded like heaven.

———

I'd lost a lot of people I loved in the last year, and death has a way of layering up on you. It has this cumulative effect. It's like putting rocks in your knapsack. You hardly notice the first one, but the more you add, the more it starts to weigh you down. You
still might be able to hobble your way along, but the people who care about you can't help but notice that something's wrong.

That's where I was. Carol kept asking me if I was all right, and I kept saying, “Sure, I'm fine. I'm just tired.” But we both knew better.

Especially with what happened earlier that week.

It was a Tuesday, about ten in the morning, and I didn't see it coming. My cell phone rang, and the voice on the other end of the line said, “We've got a problem, bro!”

I recognized the voice, and the words were ones I'd heard many times before. It was my brother, Ben. He had a knack for getting into trouble, and I was the first one he called every time “we” had a problem. Today was no exception.

The two of us owned a used car lot together, but there had come a point in my life when I felt like God was pressing me toward something else. I'd dropped out of college during my senior year when I saw the chance to make some real money in the car business. It was a decision I'd always regretted, so finally after ten years I went back to school. It took me about a year to get my undergraduate degree, and during that time I continued to work with Ben at the lot. When I entered the doctor of psychology program at State, Ben sort of took over the business, and he'd been running it ever since. I still went to the auction once in a while, and I tried to cover Ben when he went on vacation, but Europa Motors was his baby now. For the most part, Ben ran a clean house, and there were certain lines I wouldn't let him cross, but he had a habit of sticking his toe over the line when I wasn't looking. This was one of those times, and I hadn't been looking.

We owned the lot, but Old State Bank owned the cars. They gave us a line of credit called a “floor plan,” and our limit was 250 thousand. That limit was one of those lines that Ben liked to cross, but usually he was able to sell a car or two before the bank realized we were over. The bank knew it happened, but as long as it didn't get out of hand, they'd usually look the other way. The
vice president in charge of the auto group was Jake Vander Molen. He'd been with Old State for thirty years, and even when things got a little hairy, I could usually talk him off the edge.

“You've got to call Jake,” Ben said, “and tell him to get that new checker off my back. I'm doing the best I can. It ain't like there are a lot of buyers out there. The market's soft. It's been soft for over a year. They're just going to have to float it for a while.”

“Calm down,” I said. “Tell me what's going on, and I'll see what I can do.”

“Like I said, they got this new checker. Said his name was Larry. He's nothing but a kid in a suit, and he was playing hardball with me. He said he'd jerk our floor plan if we'd didn't get things under the line by next Friday.”

“Okay,” I replied. “So sell something. Wholesale something if you have to.”

“Don't go all big brother on me! We're in a little deeper than that. Our cash flow has been running downhill for a while now, and you're blind if you didn't see that. And, well, I did what I had to do. I sold a car or two and used the money to pay some bills, and I guess I didn't pay off the bank.”

“A car or two?” I asked. “The bank doesn't usually get that upset about a car or two.”

“Okay, it was seven cars and a pickup, but I always intended to pay them off. I just needed a little time. We always get caught up, but when I told this Larry that we were good for it, he said, ‘God may give you grace, but not Old State.' I'm telling you, that kid was a whisper away from me smacking him. I wanted to take him out back and teach him some manners.”

“Like that would do a lot of good,” I said.

“Sky, if you'd have been here, you'd have felt the same way. You've got to call Jake and fix this.”

When Ben was little, my given name, Schuyler, was too much of a mouthful, so he shortened it to Sky. Now that's what most everyone calls me.

I hung up and called Jake, but the news was worse than I thought.

“Listen, Sky,” Jake said. “You know I've always liked you and your brother. We go way back, and your old man was always straight with me too, but my job's on the line with this one. The home office sent Larry out here to clean up some of the paper. The bank got hurt in the mortgage meltdown, and now they're dotting the i's and crossing the t's on everything, including floor plans. I pulled a loan on the sticks in your office for twenty, shuffled a few things around, buried a couple bills due from the Chicago Auction, and ignored a couple more from Grand Rapids, but that's only going to buy you a month or so.”

“You put my office furniture up as collateral without talking to me?” I asked.

“It was that or shut you down, so you better just thank me and then get down here and sign the loan.”

“Why didn't you take the loan out against the lot?” I asked. After we paid off our loan years ago, we signed up for a line of credit using the lot as collateral for exactly this sort of thing.

“Your brother took a major loan on the lot last year, and property values have dropped some since then. You know that. You co-signed, remember?”

“Oh, I guess so,” I said, knowing that Ben must have signed it for me. Like I said, he had a habit of sticking his toe over the line. “So tell me, Jake, how bad are things looking?”

“It's pretty bad, Sky,” Jake answered. “Your little brother's been upside-down since he and Mary Alice got divorced. Why he let her have the house and all I'll never know.”

“You know Ben,” I replied. “If Mary Alice mentioned their kid, he melted like a snowman in August. There's probably more to it than that, but that's what I know. Anyway, I'll get a handle on things and get back with you, and I'll get down there tomorrow to sign that note. And Jake . . . thanks. I appreciate you covering for us.”

I drove over to the car lot to find Ben sitting with his feet
up on the desk talking to Donny. Donny was our lot boy. Ben always said that if Donny was a girl he'd marry him. He never questioned anything you said, never gave you any back talk, and did whatever you told him to do.

Donny was thirty-six, and to put it gently, he was slow. He was a wiry little man with slicked-back, jet-black hair. He had on his typical costume: blue jeans cuffed up too high, red high-top Michael Jordans, and a white T-shirt with our logo on it. Chest high, the T-shirt said “Europa Motors” in bold, black block letters that were set in a multicolored band of international flags that ran all around the shirt.

“Hello, Mr. Sky,” Donny said.

“Hey, Donny! Would you take this ten-spot and run over to the 7-Eleven and get us all a Coke?”

“And E-Z too?” he asked. E-Z was Ezekiel, Ben's boy, who was out in the wash bay waxing a black Audi A6. We called him “Easy,” but with Donny's southern drawl, it came out “E-Z.”

“Of course, get Easy one too, and a candy bar if he wants.”

When Donny was out of earshot, Ben looked at me with his head tilted, flicked his longish dishwater-blond hair out of his eyes, and asked, “You don't like him much, do you, bro?”

“Listen,” I said. “This isn't about Donny and you know it. I called the bank to clean up your mess, and I found out you took out a loan and signed my name on it.”

Ben looked like he'd been pulled through a knot hole. There were dark circles under his eyes, he hadn't shaved, and his gray stubble made him look like an older Sonny Crockett from
Miami Vice
. He was wearing a crisp, yellow madras plaid shirt with a polo player on the pocket, khaki pants, no socks, and blue Docksides. For the first time ever, I noticed that my younger brother was getting old. He took a long, deep breath, and for a minute he looked down at the floor and slowly shook his head. Then he looked up at me with stern, steely gray eyes and squinted like Clint Eastwood in those old spaghetti westerns.

“It had to be done,” he began, “and you weren't around to do it. It was when you were in Florida last year, and I didn't want to spoil your vacation. I meant to talk to you about it, but something always came up. First Mom died, then Grandma Great Kate, and then Mary Alice and I separated, and I guess I haven't had my mind on business much.”

“Well, you better get your head in the game, or you'll be selling sporting goods at Walmart.”

“Are you threatening me, bro?”

“No, I'm not threatening you, I'm telling you how it is! If I didn't back your play down at the bank, you'd be going to jail tomorrow instead of going to the auction.”

Just then Donny and Easy came in with the Cokes, and even though there was a lot left unsaid, we let it slide.

Easy asked if there was anything good on the presale sheet for tomorrow's auction, and Ben said he had his eye on a few cars, but for sure he had to get the casket gray Tribeca for a customer from up north.

Ben took a deposit on the car on an “if,” which is to say he had it sold if he could find a car that fit the customer's parameters. The Tribeca was close, so he was going to bid it to the nines. Of course, when he described the car to the customer, he told him the color was old world pewter. It worked that way with every color. If we were selling it, it was executive silver, but if somebody was trying to sell it to us or trade it in, then it was garbage can gray. Ben was a master at coming up with these names. Black was midnight pearl if we were selling it and a tar pit dust magnet if we were buying it.

“The old man could sell ice cubes to Eskimos,” Easy said with a grin.

Looking at him, I couldn't help but think that Easy was looking more and more like Ben did before the accident. He was tall and handsome, with long, blond, curly hair, a muscular build, and a mischievous smile. Easy was going to be a sophomore this
fall, and already the girls were falling all over him. Like his dad and his grandfather, he was a natural athlete. He was the starting guard on the Indians varsity basketball team, and he could pull up and hit the three anytime. On the basketball floor he'd earned the name “Big Easy,” and even now, everybody knew he had a scholarship in his future. Easy wanted to play football, but Ben had talked him into golf.