Island of Saints
“With the skill of a virtuoso, Andy Andrews continues his string of successful writing performances in
Island of Saints
, his latest entertaining masterpiece. The plot, characters, and storyline combine to summon the reader into an unforgettable experience.”
âRobert Silvers
Executive Publisher,
The Saturday Evening Post
“At the Maui Writers Conference, we have had the best in the country, including filmmakers Ron Howard and James L. Brooks, Pulitzer winners Wendy Wasserstein, Dave Barry, Jimmy Breslin, and Carl Bernstein, best-selling authors Elmore Leonard, Mitch Albom, Robin Cook, Tony Hillerman, John Saul, Elizabeth George, Barbara Kingsolver, and others. Andy Andrews is right at the top of the list. He is mesmerizing, funny, captivating, heartwarming, and just plain ol' good. To have one of his books on your shelf brings his hope-inspiring wisdom into your home.”
âShannon Tullius
Cofounder & Director, Maui Writers Conference
“
Island of Saints,
a powerful story, is told in such a way that it inspires life-changing forgiveness . . . motivating and upliftingâjust as Andy's first novel,
The Traveler's Gift.
”
âCordia Wilkinson Harrington
CEO, Tennessee Bun Company
“You will not be the same person after reading this book. Andy Andrews and his powerfully inspiring storytelling has literally changed my life!”
âJoe Camp
Film Director & Creator of the Canine Superstar Benji
“
Island of Saints
is a sweeping adventure filled with many emotions. The compelling narrative unites the past and present in a fantastic must-read!”
âBonnie Tiegel
Senior Supervising Producer,
Entertainment Tonight/The Insider
“The principle woven into this incredible story has changed my life.”
âTim Brando
CBS Sports Host & Commentator
“Andy has used his gift of storytelling to add perspective to the events we see unfolding before us each day.
Island of Saints
has a powerful message from the past that's right on for today.”
âJim McQuaig
Founder & President, Nations Home Funding, Inc.
“When Andy Andrews unburies the secrets under the wax myrtle tree, he unburies the heart of what makes us most human. This incredible story will resonate in every part of your life.”
âScott G. Halford
National Meetings Chairman, National Speakers Association
“If life had a âreset button'â
Island of Saints
would be it.”
âJoseph Farah
Editor and CEO, WorldNetDaily.com, Inc.
“Andy Andrews inspires me. I love Andy's writing. After reading
The Traveler's Gift
and
The Lost Choice
, I couldn't wait for the next one. I wasn't disappointed. Terrific story, powerful message, and always entertaining. I also believe that forgiveness and love are keys to a meaningful and happy life. All I can say is, âRead him.' I am glad I did.”
âDick Smothers
Comedian
“His writing and speaking will make you think, cause you to laugh, and help you smile inside. There's no one else like Andy Andrewsâhe is one of a kind!”
âCliff Hudson
Chairman & CEO, Sonic Corporation
“Andy Andrews has a rare gift for storytelling, and
Island of
Saints
is a rare gift for the soul. The emotional journey one experiences throughout this book challenges you to inhabit every page while thinking deeply about your own life!”
âGary Ryan Blair
President, The Goals Guy, GoalsGuy.com
ISLAND
of
SAINTS
OTHER BOOKS BY ANDY ANDREWS
The Traveler's Gift
The Lost Choice
Copyright © 2005 by Andy Andrews
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Nelson Books titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Interior photos: Jared McDaniel, Studio430.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Andrews, Andy, 1959-
   Island of saints : a story of the one principle that frees the human spirit / Andy Andrews.
     p. cm.
   ISBN 0-7852-6140-0 (hardcover)
   I. Title.
   PS3601.N5525I85 2005
   813'.6âdc22
2005008267
Printed in the United States of America
05 06 07 08 09 QW 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the Stimpson family
of Mobile, Alabama.
CONTENTS
IT IS EARLY SUMMER AS I SIT AT MY DESK AND FINALLY begin the process of sorting what I know to be true from what I merely suspect. As I form the words and type them into record, I shall endeavor to separate facts from the legend and myth in which they have now been shrouded for decades.
As an author, I usually have a particular work living in my headâcomplete with its title, plot, subplots, and endingâfor months before leaping, as fully formed as I can make it, onto the page. At present, however, I haven't even a working title for this manuscript. The book you are holding, if indeed it has come to that, was nothing I ever intended to write. My next two books have been outlined and are ready to begin, but I have become distracted by an attempt to solve a mystery literally thrust into my life by the earth itself. Let me explain . . .
I live with my wife, Polly, and our two boys on a small island situated along the Florida/Alabama coastline of the northern Gulf of Mexico. There is a single, small bridge connecting us to the mainland. Orange Beach, Alabama, just to our west, is where we bank, vote, attend church, and shop for groceries.
Perdido Key, Florida, is to the east. A thirty-second drive from the bridge in that direction crosses the Florida state line and passes the world-renowned Flora-Bama Lounge, a loosely constructed conglomeration of wood, brick, and tent material most famous, I suppose, for being famous. Therefore, it is always packed, and if the wind is right, sometimes late at night I can hear strains of “Redneck Mother” or “You Don't Have to Call Me Darlin' . . . Darlin'” from my dock.
Over the past twenty years, this previously ignored coastline has increasingly become a prime destination for summer tourists and winter snowbirds drawn to the area by the turquoise water and dazzling white sand. The beach, one of the few in the world to be composed of only one mineralâ in this case finely crushed quartzâis part of a one-hundred-mile stretch of beach that includes the Florida towns Panama City and Destin and is known as the “Miracle Strip.”
Our home is situated on a dune line that rises twenty-five feet from the water's edge and runs east to west, affording a view of the water on both sides of the island. The landscaping is minimal at best. Here and there we've managed to coax a few flowers out of the sand, and several potted palms grace the dock. Polly holds with the belief that “natural is better,” and I, having not forgotten the chores thrust upon me by my garden-crazy parents, am happy to agree.
So, instead of grass demanding to be mowed and azalea bushes begging to be fertilized or pruned or have pine straw placed by hand around their precious roots, we have sea oats and wax myrtles and ancient oak trees growing in the sand. And they grow quite nicely without any help from me. Most of the time.
Last September, I noticed the largest wax myrtle on our property had begun to die. In the almost one hundred years of its existence, the tree had grown to well over forty feet and shaded an area the size of a tennis court. It crowned the top of the dune near our kitchen porch, and boaters often noticed this magnificent monarch even before they saw the house. Because of its height and close proximity, my family was keenly aware of the tree's impending demise.
By the new year, no semblance of life was left in its branches. I was surprised to find myself strangely relieved, as if an old friend had finally passed away after a struggle that had become too difficult to witness. And after a proper period of what I called mourning and my wife termed “yard work procrastination,” I knew it was time to remove the tree.
The wax myrtle, also known as the southern bayberry, was used by the Indians and early American colonists to make candles. Its distinctive, fragrant scent comes from volatile oils contained in tiny glands on the leaves. These oils render the tree highly flammable and remain in the tree long after it dies. Dead wood infused with combustible resin is not a good combination when it is located so near a house, and so it was with a heavy heart (and a portable radio tuned to the NFL play-offs) that I struck my first blow against the trunk of the tree.
I am an ax man. Ever since, as a teenager, I saw the movie in which a chainsaw was the weapon of choice, I've never been especially keen on that particular sound. So, instead of a quick rip and a crash, it took until early afternoon to chop down the tree and haul its scattered pieces away, leaving only the stump as a reminder that anything had been there at all. But as much as we loved the tree, no one wanted the reminder. “Dig it up,” my wife urged in what she felt was an encouraging voice, and I did.
Granted, when surrounded by sand, a stump is not the formidable opponent it becomes when its roots have embedded themselves in clay or a rocky soil. There is, however, something to be said for a root system having spent a hundred years in search of nourishment. Tremendous mats of stringy, underground branches stretched in far larger networks than their leafy counterparts had ever accomplished in the sunshine. I was shocked and exhausted, I had a hole in the ground the size of my grandfather's Buick, and I was starting to think in regard to my dear wife,
What she doesn't
know won't hurt her
. I was about to reverse course and hide the roots that were left by covering up the whole mess when my shovel struck something that didn't feel like root.
For a brief moment, the shovel stuck. It was as if I had hit a monstrous wad of gum or taffy. And the sound was different. I had grown accustomed to the high-pitched
swish
of the steel shovel as it cut through the sand, but this tone reverberated as a dull
thunk
. At the time, I didn't think it sounded like metal, but that's exactly what it was.
With the shovel's retreat, I exposed a hand-sized portion of rusted . . . something. Sand poured into a slit in the object that had obviously been opened by the slicing of the shovel. On my hands and knees, I quickly pulled wads of tiny roots away from the item and, with my fingers, pried it loose. It was a can.
I turned the heavily rusted object over in my hands, being especially careful not to cut myself on any of the sharp edges. It was large . . . like the gallon-sized cans a restaurant uses for vegetables or refills of ketchup. The can was sealed at both ends, but the rust, I noticed, had created several tiny holes in its surface in addition to the large one made by the shovel's blow.
The presence of the holes made it apparent that the can was not filled with food or liquid of any kind, but still, it was heavier than an empty can should feel. And it rattled when I turned it. Although I assumed the clatter to be caused by shells and sand, I was curious and pried apart the thin, fragile metal.