Chapter One

It was a typical Friday night at Lucky Strike bowling alley. Loud pins crashing down, bowlers hooting and hollering at both their successes and failures. And the two men in Lane 12, Paul Wainwright and George Baxter, were no different. They had reached the end of their string, and Paul was clinging to a one-point lead. George was down to his last ball, and he was dealing with a split, with one pin still standing on the far left and the other on the far right. He had two choices: take the easy way out and aim to take out just one pin and settle for the tie, or get fancy with a much riskier strategy and try to knock them both down.

The young man took a deep breath, then grinned and briefly turned toward his opponent. “Time to show you how it’s done,” he said with confidence. He ran forward, the large, customized ball with his initials on it gripped tightly in his left hand. Then, just before reaching the red line on the floor, he released the ball in a swift, fluid motion that could almost be described as elegant.

The ball sailed down the right end of the lane, veering precariously close to the gutter, and in less than three seconds, it clipped the edge of the pin on the right, sending it flying across to its left and slamming down the remaining pin with a resounding crash.

George pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “How sweet it is!”

His bowling companion, Paul, didn’t seem at all disappointed by his razor-thin loss. When George returned to where they were sitting, Paul stood up and patted him on the back. “I have to be honest,” he said. “I thought you were crazy for trying that.”

With a modest shrug, Paul said, “Well, maybe I am crazy, but I’m a risk-taker, you know?”

Paul said, “I guess so. Well, that one paid off. C’mon, before we play another string, let’s go hit the snack bar. Losing to a show-off makes me hungry.”

With a grin, George said, “Excellent idea. I know we didn’t make a bet or anything, but isn’t it customary for the guy who loses to buy?”

As they started to walk over to the snack bar, Paul said, “Actually, I don’t think I ever heard of that custom; but, sure, it’s on me.”

After waiting their turn, the two friends ordered. George got some nachos and a soda, while Paul opted for a bag of peanuts and bottled water. Sitting down at a small table, speaking somewhat loudly because of the typical bowling alley noise, George gestured toward the peanuts Paul was eating. “I thought you said you were hungry?” he said.

“Yeah?” Paul replied.

George grabbed two of the greasy nachos at once, the gooey yellow cheese sauce dripping back onto the paper plate, and popped them into his mouth. After he swallowed them, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and washed it down with some soda. “Now this is the kind of stuff you need to eat when you’re hungry,” he said.

“It won’t satisfy you,” Paul countered.

George ate two more nachos. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Seems pretty satisfying to me.”

“But it’s all chemicals. Fake food, my first-year pre-med school daughter calls it. It only temporarily makes you feel full, but it has no real nutritional value.”

Looking at Paul like he’d just said something really strange, George asked, “You have two kids, right? I think you said they’re both in college or something.”

“Exactly,” Paul said, sipping on his water. “I guess you were paying attention after all.”

“Hey, listen,” George said. “I pay close attention to everything you say, Paul. I think it’s awesome that you have twins, and they’re both going to college. It was never really an option for me, and now I have a kid of my own. Hope he goes further in life than I’ve been going.”

Paul finished the last peanut in the bag, looked George straight in the eye, and said, “So what? There are lot of things in life more important than college degrees, money, and that sort of thing.”

With a somewhat cynical glare, George said, “Yeah, well, I hear people say stuff like that all the time, but when you’ve got a wife and young kid at home and you’re struggling to make ends meet, there doesn’t really seem like much else.”

“Well, there is more,” Paul said very directly. “The purpose of life is having a relationship with God.”

Now George was looking at his friend like he was maybe a bit loony. “God? Okay. What about Him?”

“Do you believe there is a God, George?”

Suddenly, the younger man seemed rather uncomfortable. He absently pulled on his beard, as he often did when he was feeling anxious. “I guess. I mean, we had to come from somewhere, right? But to be honest with you, I don’t really think about that stuff too much.”

“A lot of people don’t,” Paul replied. “But I know God thinks about you. A lot. He cares about you, and His purpose for you is to have a relationship with Him.”

Rather than being receptive, Paul’s words appeared to make George defensive. He seemed to be thinking he didn’t know Paul well enough to get into this kind of “deep” conversation with him. Not only that, but, in George’s eyes, they came from two different worlds, and for the most part, they were just “bowling buddies” and nothing more. Actually, though he looked up to the forty-something man, twenty-six-year-old George didn’t really know that much about him. In his mind, he quickly recounted how they had first met this past summer, several months ago.

George was at his job as a delivery driver for a local furniture store. He was delivering a new bedroom set to a nice center entrance, Garrison Colonial, in one of the more affluent (not rich, just comfortable) areas of town. He knew this delivery wasn’t going to be easy. His helper, Manuel, had called in sick that day, and George had to make the deliveries himself. Most of it involved relatively light orders like chairs or tables, oftentimes in a few sections that then needed to be assembled. But a full bedroom set, especially with heavy oak pieces like this one, was going to be a struggle. The fact that it was close to ninety degrees and humid didn’t help matters either. But George was young and strong and figured he could handle it. The last thing he wanted was to make a big problem out of it and anger his boss, Mr. Witherspoon, who could get really finicky seemingly at the drop of a hat. As much as George sometimes complained about his job, though, he was thankful to have it. His paycheck was just enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads.

He managed to get the bedframe and even the mattresses up to the second-floor master bedroom with the help of a handcart. But when it came to the long women’s dresser, it was awkwardly shaped and extremely heavy. He ran his fingers through his short buzz-cut brown hair, trying to figure out a solution.

That’s when a guy, who he later came to know was the homeowner, Paul, drove up in a late-model red SUV and immediately recognized the younger man’s dilemma. Without even going inside the house first, he walked up to George and said, “Need a hand?”

Initially, the deliveryman felt too proud to accept the kind offer. “It’s not your job, sir,” he said, “it’s what they’re paying me to do.”

“Nonsense,” Paul retorted, but in a friendly sort of way. “Besides, I could use the exercise.”

With the two of them working together, they had the new bedroom set in place in no time. Paul’s wife, Annie, brought out some lemonade, and since it was the last delivery of the day, George accepted and chatted with the couple for a few minutes on their patio overlooking their pool. It was mostly small talk, and toward the end of the conversation, Paul had asked if George and his family went to church in the area. George sort of half answered, muttering, “Um, well, not really.” Then he looked at his watch and said, “Oh, man, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get the truck back to the warehouse for the night. But thank you again, ma’am,” he added, turning toward Annie, “for the lemonade, and to you,” turning toward Paul, “for helping me out with the furniture. I think I might have broken my neck lugging that stuff up the stairs myself.”

Paul smiled and walked him out to the truck still parked in their long driveway. They exchanged email addresses and discovered that they both loved bowling, which was how these weekly bowling outings had begun.

Now, back at the bowling alley, it was several months later, and Paul, having mentioned God before, now seemed to be doing so a bit more frequently. George didn’t object, really; he just figured he wasn’t “ready” to delve into the whole topic. Trying to keep things polite, he said, “I hear what you’re saying, buddy, but, you know, I’m not, like, much of a religious kind of guy.”

Paul smiled. “Well, what I’m talking about isn’t ‘religion.’ What I’m talking about is a relationship.”

Now genuinely confused, George was about to reply when the ringtone on his phone (the theme from “Rocky”) sounded. “Sorry, got to take this,” he said, and he...