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The Termite Man with a Prophetic Word, Part 1

6/28/2016

Rachel's Raft Excerpt
Summer 2013

      The last couple that had looked at our house was concerned about termite damage. There was a very small, 2-3 inches long, section of rotten wood on the exterior of our home. Andy, the son of our neighbor and our handyman friend, was coming to fix it. We’d had two termite inspectors come to look for termites within that time who said we had no sign of termites, so I wasn’t worried.
     Pulling the peanut butter from the cabinet, I turned to scoop the baby up out of her chair. Opening the fridge, I pulled out some apples. As I was cutting up the food for lunch, I saw Andy walk to the side of the house.
     “Oh good, he’s here. He’ll fix that small patch and we’ll tell that couple it was nothing."
     Hungrily, the kids came in to grab a plate and an apple slice as I heard the tearing of the wood.
    "He’s probably already done.”
     Then, I heard a knock on the back door.
     I put the baby back in her chair and told the kids to go sit at the table.
     I opened the door.
     “Hey, Andy. How are you?”
     “Not too good.”
     Then he held up a piece of wood about a foot long.
     “Rachel, I know you’ve had two termite inspectors come, but if these aren’t termites, I’d like to know what they are.”
     My eyes glazed over. I looked down at the piece of wood. Then, I saw them--tiny little white ants all over the wood.
     “Oh, oh no, Andy. Please tell me you are kidding me. There’s no way we have termites.”
     “I’m going to call an inspector one more time. I know they’ve told you twice that they aren’t termites, so I’ll get them over here again to see if we can find out what is goin’ on.”
     I stood in disbelief.
    “Maybe it’s not termites, right Andy? Maybe it’s just some bugs or ants. We’ve had ants before. Surely two different inspectors would have caught it.”
    “Well, I would’ve thought so, too but these sure look like termites,” his words throwing weight on my already heavy heart.
     “I’ll call Larry at Barnett’s and have him come and take a look.”
      Andy walked back outside and pulled out his cell phone.
     I turned around and looked at Mary Manor, still sitting in the Bumpo.
     “No way would God do this to me, not today.”
     I walked into the dining room and sat down with the kids who were eating happily.
     “What did he say, mama?” my son asked.
     “Well, we have some bugs living in our wood, and I’m just hoping it’s nothing serious.”
     Outside, I could hear Andy pounding and scrapping, still removing the damage from the house. A while later, a white truck pulls up outside. A man, who looked to be in his 50s, got out of the truck and disappeared onto the other side of the house.
     Then, there was a knock on the back door.
     “Hey, I’m Larry. I’ve been looking at your house, and I’m not sure how I missed it before, but you definitely have termites.”
     My mind reeled.
     “You’ve got to be kidding me. . .let me see.”
     I pushed through the inspector, and turned the corner, my olive green skirt twirling around my knees.
     “Oh Lord. . .”
     And as I stared at the remnants of what used to be the side of my house, I got it. I finally got it.
     “Oh God, that’s me. It’s a picture of me. God, I see it, it’s me. This is all that is left of me—studs. You have completely torn me down to the studs. You’ve stripped me down to this. I see it.”
     At that moment, I knew God was giving me a physical picture of what was happening to me spiritually. Andy had pulled off layer after layer of rotten wood, leaving the interior of our home exposed, the insulation hanging out, and a pile of rotten, termite-ridden wood in a pile.
     “You’ve taken me down to nothing. I have nothing left.”
      “Well, let’s talk about different treatment options, m’am, if that’s okay with you. Do you want to stand under that tree?” He pointed to the dogwood tree that was no longer in bloom.
     “I think I need to sit down. Can we go inside?” I asked.
      We turned toward the house, toward the damage, and walked inside. I took him into the living room and offered him a seat on the couch opposite of mine. It was hard to listen to what he was saying. In my mind I was wondering how I would tell Michael about the termites. How would we pay for it? How extensive was it? A million things were running through my mind.

To Be Continued . . .

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Three Questions for God

6/22/2016

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Rachel's Raft Excerpt

Fall 2013

     Again, and hopefully for the last time, I got in my car to go to the church in attempt to reach school’s staff and book author visits. It was a wearisome routine activity for me, and I had no heart left in the effort. But I desperately wanted to help out, so I packed my laptop and headed out the door.
     When I arrived at church, I glumly walked down the all too familiar hall to the Gleaners Sunday School classroom. The teacher’s vinyl seat and the small wooden table looked the same as it did last time--cold. Plugging my laptop into the wall, I pulled out a sheet of paper for notes.
     "Okay. Let’s see. What schools have I not yet tried,” I thought to myself. “Hendersonville area. I’ll call them.”
     “Good morning. Pleasant Heights Elementary.”
     “Hi. My name is Rachel Kelley, and I am a children’s book author. I was wondering if I might speak with your librarian about a possible school visit.”
     “Yes m'am. I’ll put you through.”
     “This is Mrs. Daniels. Please leave a message.”
     “Ah, voicemail,” I thought as I left a message.
     “Next school,” I said as I scrolled through the online lists from the Nashville area.
      On and on I went for two hours--leaving messages and speaking with people who didn’t seem interested in what I was offering.
      And as I was writing down the schools I had called I heard,

     “I want you to share your story.”

      It was so clear I actually wrote the words on the list of schools that I had tried to reach.
     “This is really going nowhere. I’m done. And empty.”
      I picked up my laptop, curled up the cord and shoved it into the case. Digging into my purse, I found my keys that would take me back to the same situation, the same house, the same prison of weariness.
      My case swung over my shoulder, my purse in my hand, I walked down the unlit hallway. And from the depth of me I asked God three things,

     “God, if you still love me, if you still care about me. . .if you are still in this, I need to know. I need to know today.”

     Pulling into my driveway, I knew that I was at an all-time low. I walked in through the back door where I found Michael dressed with his hair wet from showering. The kids were running from the parlor through the kitchen and the baby was in her Bumpo chair, crying.
      “Hey! Mason’s called and said I could come in this afternoon. How were your calls?”
      “Not good. No one was interested.”
      A pit growing in my stomach.
      “Well, I’ve gotta go. Andy’s coming by in a minute to take a look at the house. Let me know what he says,” Michael said.
      And with that, I kissed him, told him I loved him and watched him close the back door.

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The Day I Buried My Books in the Backyard

6/14/2016

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Rachel's Raft Excerpt

Summer 2013

            The next day, Michael was making calls for shows. We had asked a friend of ours, Michelle, to help with the calls when Michael was working at Mason’s. He’d gotten five ministries interested in hosting a show together as one unit in a small town in Georgia. However, he could not find a church to host the show, not one.
            “How is it that five ministries are wanting to have a fundraiser and no church will open its doors?” he asked.
            Our friend, Michelle, a pastor’s wife, also tried to call, and had come up with the same results.
            “I’m completely surprised,” she said. “I have no idea how you’ve done it all these years. They either aren’t interested or they won’t call me back.”
            It was a new level of frustration for Michael. Never had we experienced anything like this.
            “Let me get this right,” I said. “You have five ministries wanting a show and no one to host it?”
            “That’s right. I’m amazed,” Michael said. “I think this is my sign. This is the end. This is where I completely stop performing altogether.”
            “Really?”
            “Yeah. It’s ridiculous. I have all these people wanting to do this and not one place to host it.”
            Mary Manor was upstairs taking a nap and the kids were having a quiet time. Sitting down in the parlor, I thought about all the lines I’d also thrown out—market, agents, publishers, schools, and festivals. Thinking about it more only convinced me further--I, too, was finished. Thumbing through my years of journaling and realizing how many closed doors we had encountered—a sense of finality flowed through me, as well.
            “That’s it. I’m done,”
            The baby woke up, and the kids came back downstairs. Michael was on the couch looking through e-mails when I walked in and said,
            “Do you mean it? Are you done performing?”
            “Yep, I mean it.”
            “You know what? Me, too. I’m done. I’m done trying to get my stuff off the ground. It’s like the Bible verse, ‘unless the Lord builds the house, the laborers labor in vain,’ unless God builds this, our efforts are in vain,” I said.
            “If God wanted to make this happen, He could do it. But it’s not happening, so I’m gonna stop trying.”
            At that moment, I had an overwhelming desire to really do what we were saying. Make a physical representation of it. I walked into our kitchen and took one of Michael’s brochures. I grabbed one of each of my books and walked back into the living room.
            “Alright, you mean it?” I said as I held our products in my hands.
            “Yes, I really do.”
            “Okay, then let’s bury them!” I exclaimed. “Let’s bury them, because it’s dead as far as I’m concerned.”
            Michael looked at me.
            “Sure, let’s bury it. It’s dead anyway.”
            The kids gathered around us.
            “What’re you doing?” Caroline asked.
            “Burying our gifts and talents,” I said as if it were completely normal.
            Michael stood up. I had the products in one hand and the baby on my hip.
            “Let’s go,” said Michael.
            We all walked out into the back yard, and Michael picked up a shovel.
            “Right about here,” he said as he walked over to the swing set.
            “Great,” I said.
            He took the shovel and dug a hole. I placed all that was in my hands into the dirt, and Michael covered it back up.
            “There,” he said, “It’s buried.”
            “Good.”
            We walked back into the house.
            “Let’s pray,” Michael said as he took my hand.
            We all gathered in a circle and held hands as Michael prayed. He asked God to bless us, protect us and to put us in the center of His will.
            “And, God, we’d love to use our gifts for you, but if that’s not Your desire, then we’re okay with that. We’re letting go of all of it. Lead us and guide us, Lord.”
            As we stood in the circle, and I was holding the baby and Michael’s hand, I listened carefully to what he was saying. I was glad that we were done with all that caused so much heartache and grief for our family. But I was mourning, too--like a funeral. A funeral service for a dream that lived in our hearts for many years. The eternal rest of a calling. The passing of a close friend. And as I began to cry at the loss of what we believed God had called us to I heard the Lord clearly say,
            “A baptism, not a death.”

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Why the name, "Rachel's Raft"?

6/7/2016

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Rachel's Raft Excerpt, Summer 2012

           In June, we drove to Louisiana for a fundraiser in Lake Charles. Pulling a trailer loaded down with props, sound equipment and my children’s products, we turned onto their street out in the middle of the country. When we did, the trailer started to slip then got stuck in the mud. Michael put our car into forward gear then into reverse, several times--it didn’t budge. We all got out of the car, and Michael tried to push it--to no avail. We walked to Sarah’s house to see if Terry could come help Michael push the trailer, and when they finally released it from the mud, they were dirty and tired. Michael was running late to the show and was stressed when he arrived. Feeling frazzled afterwards, he forgot his computer and had to drive thirty minutes there and back to get it. After he got it, he had to make calls to book more shows.
            I was worried about him. It wasn’t just this episode; it was that this was the norm for us. He seemed tired and worn out. All of the traveling, booking, calling, performing—it was all on his shoulders, and I could tell it was weighing on him. I called a friend the next morning.
            “I’m worried about him. This is a lot on his shoulders.”
            “You know, I’ve been thinking and praying for you guys, too,” she paused, “Rachel, I have no idea how y’all are going to keep up at this rate.”
            “Yeah,” I paused, “that’s what I’m worried about.”
            After we hung up, I sat down at the barstool at Sarah’s house. I opened my Bible and skimmed a few pages. Then, I bowed my head.
            “God,” I said, “You know, I’m worried about Michael. He has so much on him, and I don’t know how he’ll ever keep up.”
            Then I sat there in silence.
            With my eyes still closed I envisioned Michael, treading water.
            “Yes, God, that’s Michael. He’s treading water.”
            With my eyes still closed, I saw him, in my mind, treading.

            Then, a raft came in.

            While I was thinking about Michael treading water, a raft came in a scooped him up. He was at ease, and he was happy. That was the vision in my mind--a raft that made the treading cease.
            “Lord,” I prayed, “Send the raft. You know what it is. I ask you to send it, whatever that may be.”
             It was such a clear picture to me. So, I asked my mom and my friend, Eppie, in Texas to also pray. I told them I didn’t know what it was; I just knew God needed to send it.
             “Please pray for God to send a raft,” I asked them.
              I would continue to pray this prayer, myself, for sixteen months. Never having a clue what it was or how it would arrive. Just trusting that it would.

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The Termite Man with a Prophetic Word, Part 1

Three Questions for God

The Day I Buried My Books in the Backyard

Why the name, "Rachel's Raft"?

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