Author: Henry O. Arnold

My first encounter with cigarettes was at the tender age of nine. During church one Sunday morning, my friend and I sat together in a separate pew away from the adults, the individuation had begun. I was given a quarter each Sunday to drop in the collection plate. On this day it had been prearranged for me to go home with my friend. So when the ushers started coming down the aisles with the collection plates, he whispered, “Keep your quarter. We’ll buy cigarettes with it later.” Oh, how temptation can start in the church pew.

How was I going to pull this one off? Like God, my mother was always watching. But I suddenly had an idea that was sure to fool heaven and earth. I secured the quarter between two fingers, cupping my hand to conceal the twenty-five cent piece, and when the plate came down our row, I waved my hand over it as if dropping my offering into the plate before passing it on. Mother smiled, and I tucked my quarter inside my sweaty palm until she looked away and I could slip it into my pocket. With such slight-of-hand skills I could have become a magician.

My friend lived next to a drugstore, and after lunch, the two of us went outside to play…ostensibly. His mom’s supervision was lax, which meant increased levels of mischief were available, like smoking behind the garage. As we ambled over to the drugstore I reached into my pocket and pulled out my quarter, purloined from God. The money entrusted to me for an offering was about to be spent on tobacco. The grip of sin was cold and hard on my young mind and heart.

Since I had never bought a pack of cigarettes in my life I had to entrust the purchase to my more experienced companion. He made frequent trips to the drugstore on cigarette runs for his smoker mom. Once hidden behind the garage, the preparation to smoke was like a Japanese tea ceremony. Those few seconds before lighting up when that cylinder dangled from my lips was the moment I began to shed the skin of childhood. With my first puff, I was transformed into Prometheus stealing fire from the gods.

Three cigarettes consumed and my joy turned to sorrow. The gods had sent the eagle to feast upon my liver. My head detached from my neck. There was a tingling in my extremities. My eyes began to water. I crawled a short distance on all fours, but my muscles had become like jelly. And then my stomach started to boil and the hurling began. I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon. I don’t remember coming home. What I do remember is entering my parent’s bedroom after my siblings were asleep and bursting into tears. My first cigarette led to my first confession and my first experience with grace. My parents said I had suffered enough and sent me off to bed. That day, I learned that confession and grace are a beautiful thing.

Before Albert Einstein became internationally famous and his face was everywhere, he came to America to give a series of lectures. There was no mass media at the time or press teams mobbing the great scientist. He traveled the university speaker’s circuit with a chauffeur who just happened to favor Einstein in looks and build.

After so many dinners and lectures and giving the same speech again and again, Einstein was weary of speechmaking. The chauffeur had listened to the lecture so many times that he knew it by heart. So they devised a plan for the scientist and the chauffeur to switch roles. At the next lecture, Einstein dressed in the chauffeur’s uniform, the chauffeur in the scientist’s rumpled suit.

Einstein sat in the packed lecture hall contentedly listening to his own words brilliantly recited by his chauffeur. The chauffeur even answered a few simple questions from the audience. Then a supremely pompous professor rose from his seat and asked a complex question about anti-matter formation. The question was worded in such a way as to show off the professor’s great knowledge.

The whole room was riveted by the question and all eyes were fixed upon the imposter who just laughed at the question and answered, “Sir, the answer to that question is so simple that my chauffeur on the front row will answer for me.”

I’ve been an actor for a long time. There is a big difference between playing a character and actually being the man you are portraying. I’ve played a lawyer, but you don’t want me to argue a case for you. I’ve playing a doctor, but you don’t want me to perform surgery on you. I’ve played an artist, but you would never commission me for a painting. You want the real thing.

And the real deal, the real Einstein lived every day with a “holy curiosity” about the universe. “The important thing is to not stop questioning,” Einstein wrote. “Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day. Never lose a holy curiosity…” This taken from Old Man’s Advice to Youth: Never Lose a Holy Curiosity.

Our world is full of wonders all around us, above and below us. Each of us are also wonders of creation. We are wonders of God’s design fit into this “marvelous structure of reality.” Be filled with a holy curiosity every day.

In a recent The New Yorker article on the use of suspense in literature this phrase, “preaching to the nerves,” jumped out at me. It was used by the highbrow critics in the nineteenth century to describe the “tawdry” and “ignoble” aspects of the rise in modern fiction of the time that appealed more to “provoking curiosity and excitement, rather than offering aesthetic fulfillment.” With my new novel, The Stranger at the Door, I plead guilty for preaching to the nerves, though I might have snuck in some “aesthetic fulfilment” along the way.

The main character, Maxwell Crane, has blood on his hands. The Mercy Seat church may be celebrating Christmas, but Pastor Maxwell takes no pleasure in the season. He is haunted by the accidental fatality of a Hell’s Canyon gang leader and the mother who grieves the loss of her son long after Maxwell took justice into his own hands.

When a mysterious young woman appears at the doorsteps of the church, Maxwell and his family are eager to take in the stranger, but this act of kindness leads to unexpected and dire consequences. The Crane sisters and the young woman go missing, their whereabouts unknown, until Maxwell receives a call informing him the three girls have been abducted by a ruthless cartel. The family gathers. Close friends are summoned. Plans are made, but the strategy for rescue is fraught with danger, one that could cost more in human life than in treasure.

Maxwell is confused and hurt by what he perceives as God piling more agonizing weight upon his already broken soul with the kidnapping of his daughters, but he cannot help crying out to God. He cannot help calling out, demanding that God pay attention. Don’t you see what is happening here? Don’t you care? Who else could Maxwell call upon? Who else might protect and save? His daughters might be lost to him, but are they lost to God? Maxwell would rush into the gates of hell to rescue his daughters, but would he get there in time?

E.M. Forester wrote in his work Aspects of the Novel, that every work of fiction, no matter how lofty, must be built around a story… “and that story must have only one merit: that of making the audience want to know what happens next.” If you’re looking for a good novel to “preach to your nerves,” may I humbly suggest The Stranger at the Door.

When I was wrapping up the final edits on The Mercy Seat, Kay and I had dinner with dear friends Bill and Derri Smith. Derri had recently retired as the director of an organization devoted to rescuing victims of human trafficking. I shared with them the story of The Mercy Seat and that I was considering a sequel that would have human trafficking as a theme. Derri committed to “looking over my shoulder” in the writing of The Stranger at the Door. Thus began a beautiful back and forth of Derri confirming or correcting my choices throughout the course of writing.

As with The Mercy Seat, The Stranger at the Door was plotless when I sat down to write. Because it is a sequel there was much I needed to address. The story begins six months after the ending of The Mercy Seat and opens with Maxwell Crane struggling with emotional and psychological pain as a result of his impulsive choices to defend his son against a real and present danger.

Once I established Maxwell’s trauma, a stranger arrived at the front door of the church and the Crane family takes her in. Life spirals out of control. I created a world that was dark and dangerous but based in a reality that few of us truly know or want to know. Thanks to Derri Smith, the created world of The Stranger at the Door rings true and the twists and turns of the action and the character choices follow a fascinating logic.

I always enjoy the process of writing, but Stranger had a special pleasure because every character (the old ones and the new) had a believable persona and a character path with specific motivations that allowed them to make believable choices—good and bad—in hopes of achieving what they desired. I tried to keep out of their way and let the story unfold as they wished for it to be told. I never knew what my characters might do until they appeared in my imagination. I just prayed my fingers wouldn’t fail me as I kept typing.

The Stranger at the Door takes a hard look at human trafficking that happens in plain sight, yet so often is never seen by the general populace. My desire is that the reader will have a meaningful experience in this journey through unfamiliar territory, and while at times it might make the reader squirm, I hope it will also offer an understanding for those who cry out for rescue from the dark corners of the world.

It should come as no surprise that I love to amble well-worn paths through the great outdoors. I live by Gandolph’s line in The Hobbit, “All that wander are not lost.” Though there was that time on the Isle of Skye when Kay dropped me off along the southern coastline, and she took off in search of the famous Fairy Pools when the rugged coastal path turned east into the emerald hills and I was, huh, bewildered.

When I descended into the valley the trail disintegrated into an open field with a flock of sheep scattering at my approach taking several escape routes, all of which could qualify as the trail I needed. The hills and pastures were before me and the sea behind me. No sign of humanity except for one lone cottage on the other side of the inland. I looked to the north and saw where two hills converged. Even if there was no path, I believed I would gain enough elevation to find a way out.

Eventually, a path appeared, and just at dark, Kay met me on a one-lane road. In our hours of separation, she found no fairies or pools. I found the renewed sense of wonder at the beauty of land and sea, hill and sky, clouds and weather.

I discovered a John Muir quote that references the etymology of the word “saunter.” In the Middle Ages pilgrims would travel to the Holy Land. As they passed through the villages along the way and were asked where they were headed, the response was, “A la sainte terre, To the Holy Land.” The pilgrims became known as “sainte-terre-ers” or “saunterers.”

Muir did not care for the word “hike” or for all that it demands of the person before one even gets to a trail. Muir thought such detailed preparations for “hiking” robbed the soul of the enjoyment being in the presence of natural beauty. Muir said, “People ought to saunter in the mountains—not hike.” He considered our American landscapes “our Holy Land,” and to reverently saunter through them.

I remember as a young boy my father singing this lyric from an old German folk song, “The Happy Wanderer.” The lyric went, “I love to go a wandering along the mountain track. And as I go I love to sing, ‘My knapsack on my back.’” Dad was like Muir, always encouraging his kids to get out there and become a part of the wonder and beauty of nature.

Find a trail. Saunter for a while. Wander.

I was born into a world of whiteness: neighborhood, private school, and church; shuttled through that triplicate of colorless environs without wondering or questioning what other members of the human race might exist beyond those confines. In childhood my only exposure to other racial groups was when missionaries came to our church and gave slide-show presentations of their adventures in “seeking and saving the lost” in exotic places around the world. It was the only time I ever heard my mother complain about our required attendance at church. “Lord, spare me from seeing another picture of a smug missionary posing with the indigenous people he’s baptized.” Such impiety from a worship leader’s wife.

When I was nine we moved to Bloomington, Indiana for Dad to begin his doctoral pursuit in choral music at Indiana University. We lived there two years, and my world was turned upside down. I attended public school, which exposed me to multiple nationalities. I formed three close friendships with a boy from Israel, one from Sweden, and an African American, Raymond Brown (top left, me, and bottom right, Raymond). Raymond and I had an instant bond probably because of the constant smile on his face. Raymond looked at the world and found it humorous.

One day after coming inside from recess, Raymond and I still had some energy to burn and we began to scuffle. Isn’t that what boys do…scuffle? The teacher had yet to enter the classroom so we had no fear of her reprimand. Our bodies got entangled, and we fell upon my desk on the back row crashing onto the floor. We had only seconds to right the desk, get in our seats, and feign an expression of innocence before our teacher entered the room. As a result of our playful scuffling, I had cut my hand and Raymond had skinned his knee, both wounds producing a fair amount of blood.

“Let’s be blood-brothers,” he exclaimed. And I thought, why waste two good wounds? So, I slapped my bloody hand down upon Raymond’s bloody knee and our bloodstreams comingled. A few years ago, I learned of Raymond shuffling off his mortal coil. Given his joyful nature, I’m sure he left behind many wonderful memories for his family and friends. I have my own memories of my delightful friend, and the science to match it.

Once upon a time, way back in the day, my sister, Nan, and I attended Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. One day Jon Voight came to the campus to talk to the students. The film “Deliverance” had just released, and as our family was “of the theatre” as well as being white-water enthusiasts, Nan and I were dying to meet him. We waited for the right moment after his presentation and were able to walk him to his car sharing our theatrical background and canoeing stories along the way. He then invited us to come see him in “A Street Car Named Desire,” with Faye Dunaway.

Here was a dilemma: we were now BFF’s with Jon Voight, and his personal invitation to see his show; however, we were economically unable to commit to such an expensive event. In the hustle and flow of creative alternatives to find a way around our pecuniary quandary our imaginations began to stir. We could only afford one ticket, a student ticket at that. And here was where our delinquent minds kicked into gear.

There were multiple entrances into the theatre, and the night we attended, we scoped out which entrance was most clogged with patrons. We spied a bottleneck at one entrance, and Nan squeezed herself into the middle of it. The next thing I knew, she was waving at me through the glass window from inside the lobby.

The purchased ticket got me inside, and I then gave Nan the stub for the legit seat while I waited for the houselights to go out before slipping into the theatre. When I was stopped by an usher, I explained that my sister had the ticket, and I would sit on an empty back row and join her later never specifying how much later. That fabrication proved sufficient, and I watched the play from the back of the house.

After the show we went outside to the stage door and slipped in when no one was looking. We explained to the security guard that we were here to see Mr. Voight, and Nan flashed the ticket stub for good measure. He pointed down the hall to the dressing rooms and said, “Mr. Voight’s name is on the door.”

When Jon opened the door he was a bit surprised to see the brother/sister duo, his new best friends and fellow thespians from Pepperdine University. He “acted” like he remembered us, inviting us into the room, and introducing us to Mrs. Voight sitting in a corner, feet propped on a chair, her hands perched atop a rounded tummy. She was great with child and indulged us with a smile while patting her belly housing the future Ms. Angelina Jolie. And so, given our close and personal history, I keep waiting for the call to co-star in Ms. Jolie’s next film. I mean, come on, we’re friends…right?

Psalm 90 is the only psalm attributed to Moses. Likely written at the end of his life, this psalm is seasoned with age and wisdom. Moses lived his life in three acts: as an Egyptian prince, as a shepherd, and then the demanding life as a leader of a nation. Psalm 90 is a short reflection on what he lived through and how God established the work of his hands.

Moses recognized two attributes of God in this psalm in relationship to Israel: first, that God had been their dwelling place, even in the howling wilderness with no permanent place to dwell; and second, God’s covenantal presence was everlasting.

Before creation, God was, is and always will be. Moses can only offer a numerical explanation to this aspect of God’s nature, “For a thousand years in Your sight is like a day.” He compares that to the temporal duration of a human to seventy to eighty years. Even with our advances in science, that lifespan hasn’t changed for millenniums. The true meaning here is that God is not subject to our sense of time.

Moses acknowledges the burdensome weight of his leadership, which is to say, his job, but in his final days, was probably spent with a host of scribes putting the final touches on the Torah, fine tuning his experiences, and recording the communication with and the instruction from God. Then Moses climbed Mount Nebo for a front row seat to watch the parade as Israel crossed the Jordan. I can imagine his sigh of relief once the Levites shouldered the Ark of the Covenant and led the way into the promised land.

In his final thoughts, Moses encourages the reader to seek God for wisdom to know how to make the most of one’s work in the brief time we have on earth. He closes his psalm saying “…establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.” This is not a plea to shield us from hardship or to make us successful and increase our personal wealth. Rather, to establish our work so that it might glorify God. In spite of the toilsome nature of our work, our labor can be proved as a redemptive gift. I pray that for the coming year the Lord will establish the work of your hands. Go forth mightily.