Solomon's Porch

Praises for
Solomon’s Porch

Solomon’s Porch
brings home an important message to those led astray by the shallow materialism of contemporary society and is an accurate portrayal of life for those seeking Christ in American prisons.

—David Patton MA., Mdiv., Publisher, Dynamis,
St. George Orthodox Cathedral

One would hope that many a sermon in our churches could be as powerful, informative, and effective as
Solomon’s Porch
—a potent message—fully consistent with Orthodox Christian teachings.

—Helen Tzima Otto, Phd., researcher and publisher

for The Verenikia Press

Phenomenal.
Solomon’s Porch
is a unique yet powerful book filled with truth. It will keep you rivited and will give you much to ponder.

—Ruth Magan, author of
Laughing With Angels,

My Angel, My Friend,
and
Visions of Earth Beyond
2012

Solomon’s Porch
is a must read for anyone who enjoys reading christian fiction. Wid Bastian provides the reader with great character development and a riveting plot line that highlights good versus evil. This book is for all who wish to see a positive alternative to life’s hardships.

—Fr. Dominic Briese, O.P.

Dedication

For Deacon Harry, who taught me that
the Bible was just the beginning.

“And through the hands of the apostles many signs

and wonders were done among the people. And they

were all with one accord on Solomon’s Porch.”

Acts, Chapter Five,

Verse Twelve

Author’s Foreword

We were created in the image and likeness of God. Our souls are eternal, but for a brief time the immortal is hidden within flesh, the timeless joined to the temporary. Trapped in this imperfect state, we strive to find ourselves and our Creator, our souls desperately seeking to become reunited with the Immortal One.

The characters in Solomon’s Porch struggle between the conflicting calls of world and spirit, they reach out for God’s mercy in the darkness. Through my imagination, they do battle with themselves and against evil, stumbling down the path of life making mistakes, sometimes horrific ones.

They ask, as we all do, why are we here? Is there a God and, if so, what does He want from us? What is our destiny? What is happiness? What is love? What is truth? Is it possible to make sense of a world that exalts the most violent, profane, and merciless among us?

The Son of God touched me, reached out to a very determined sinner and atheist, and by His grace is leading me toward salvation. While I by no means have all the answers, I no longer need them. Faith has replaced cynicism. Knowledge of Christ, who He is, and what He has called each of us to become, now lights my way as I patiently await the Lord’s mercy.

Let all who read Solomon’s Porch
see if they can find their own road home through the One who assured us that He, and He alone, is “the way, the truth, and the life.”

One

Of all of the places in all of the world, this was the last one Peter Carson ever expected to call home. He came from a good family, and had been blessed with a privileged upbringing and a pampered lifestyle, but all that was history. Now he was stuck here in this purgatory, in the sweltering July heat of South Carolina, methodically mowing the grass at a federal prison camp. Once he traded futures and options and managed millions of dollars. Now all he had to exchange was his pint of milk for an extra cookie at chow. It was nearly as depressing as it was humiliating.

The misfiring two stroke engine had a calming effect on Peter’s fragile nerves. The rusty machine was a convenient distraction, focusing on the whirs and clangs of the old motor took Peter’s mind off of his all too dismal reality. Mowing had become Peter’s favorite escape, and he lost himself in the simple and repetitive task of cutting the grass whenever he got the chance.

But, without fail, within an hour or so of starting, Peter Carson would simply run out of lawn to mow. It was then that the demons returned with a vengeance and continued their attacks. Peter’s life had become a living hell.

Three hundred miles away in Atlanta was the world Peter had been forced to leave behind. There was an ex-wife, who he considered to be the nexus of his misery, and a young son, barely ten, who desperately missed his father. Kevin Carson spent his days wondering why his dad left him, why his mother remarried a jerk like Walter, and why God was so cruel. Once a curious and playful child, Kevin was now anything but these things. Kev didn’t seem to care anymore and, as kids are apt to do, he somehow believed the mess his life had become was all his fault.

Peter’s calls and letters to his son were increasingly being met with hostility from both Kev and his ex, Julie. He was learning the hard way that when you’re in prison, in many ways it’s like you’re dead. You can offer little comfort to those on the outside, and even less support.

So, on this day, Peter decided to skip his weekly call to his son. This would not be the first time he had opted out. He wondered, would he be missed, or rather, would Julie and Kevin be grateful not to have to deal with him? Slowly, but inexorably, Peter Carson was removing himself from his family’s life. He was pursuing self-destruction, unknowingly serving a false god who offered only lies and pain.

Although he was permanently barred from the securities industry after his conviction, Peter Carson still charted his favorite stocks like a hunter who could no longer kill, but now only stalk his prey. Carefully and methodically he plotted price and volume numbers, kept abreast of the latest economic trends, and tracked the major stock indexes. He kept detailed notes, whole files even. Why he couldn’t really say, but like mowing the grass going though the motions of being a stockbroker seemed to dull his pain.

But, on this day, by the time Peter put the mower away and sat down with his outdated copy of a less-than-adequate small town paper’s financial page, his misery was peaking. The waste of it all, the seeming finality of his failure as a husband, a father, and especially, as a man hit home like never before. Peter had reached the stage where he despised his own soul without mercy. On this day he would stare into the abyss and see only blackness.

Finding a semi-private corner of the small library at the Parkersboro Federal Prison Camp, Peter rolled himself up into a ball and started to cry. His heart was breaking from the weight of his unforgiven sin. His mind was on fire, his spirit groaned, and he wished for the peace of death.

Mr. Peter Carson, the golden child, the MBA, the former owner of a fine home and a Porsche, husband of the beauty queen, the perpetual winner and success story, was now nothing more than an empty shell, a broken vessel. Everything Peter valued had been taken from him. Only a pitiful pool of pain and sorrow remained from the tidal wave generated by his prosecution and conviction.

In other words, God basically had Peter right where He wanted him.

“Panos Kallistos,” a voice from behind Peter softly called. “Turn and face me and be of good courage. The angel of the Lord encamps all around those who fear Him, and delivers them.”

Panos Kallistos. That was a name Peter Carson had not heard spoken, or even thought of, since he was a child. It was in fact his proper Christian name given to him at baptism long ago. After Peter’s parents, Nicholas and Neitha Kallistos, died together in an automobile crash when Peter was two, he was adopted by his first cousin on his mother’s side and her husband, Marie and Thomas Carson. His name was legally changed to Carson before he was old enough to speak it, yet someone now standing behind him knew him by this name.

Peter gathered himself, turned, and looked up at the striking face of a man who he was sure had to be a new arrival at the camp. With only two hundred or so inmates on the compound, everyone knew most of the faces, even if they didn’t always remember the names.

“What did you call me?” Peter asked, at the same time using his sleeves to wipe away the last of his tears.

“Your name, of course. Panos Kallistos, son of Nicholas and Neitha. Do you object to being called by your proper name? Do not be offended by what is holy.”

Do not be offended by what is holy?
Peter’s wits were rapidly returning to him and his first thought was that some psycho had gotten a hold of his Bureau of Prisons file and was now playing games with him.

“Who are you?” Peter asked.

“Gabriel,” was the reply.

“Well, Gabriel, I don’t know who you are or how you know my birth name, but don’t screw with me. You are new here, obviously. F****with people in here and you could get hurt, pal.”

“There is that word again. I hear it everywhere I go on earth these days. So crude and ugly an expression for such a beautiful act of love. Why do you use such coarse language, Panos?”

Okay,
Peter thought to himself,
whoever this fool is, or thinks he is, it’s time that I get away from him.
A year and a half in prison had taught Peter Carson that every inmate was a potential threat. He underestimated no one, and because he was white, forty years old, and had only minimal fighting skills, this was a wise policy.

“Where are you going, Panos?” Gabriel asked.

“Back out on the yard, Gabe. I’m going through some heavy sh. ., ah stuff, right now and I need some space. I’ll catch you later.”

“Panos, please, sit down.”

With that Peter headed for the door. As he did so he thought,
weren’t there two other guys in the library when I came in?
The place was empty now, except for Peter and the mystery man.

Looking out of the window at the yard, Peter did a double take. What he saw could not be real. Everyone, inmates, staff and visitors, were all on the compound as they should be, but no one was moving. People appeared to be frozen in place.

Peter closed his eyes and opened them again. This made no difference; there still was no change to the now paused world. It was as if someone had taken a snapshot and inserted it in place of the full motion of life.

Terror gripped him. Peter’s legs got rubbery; he felt the urge to vomit and began shaking uncontrollably. Somehow he managed to fall into a chair.

“Now that I have your attention, why don’t we start again? As I said, my name is Gabriel.”

All Peter could do at that moment was stare, grunt, and nod. He felt himself being held captive, but by what he was not sure. An invisible force of some kind? Even if he could, which he couldn’t, he no longer wished to run. At least part of him didn’t anyway.

“Do you believe, Panos?” Gabriel asked.

“Believe in what?” came the weak reply.

“God the creator, His son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit,” was the response.

Of course, I believe,
Peter thought, but did not say.
I have always believed.
Obedience, that was another story.