The Five Times I Met Myself Read online

  Acclaim for James L. Rubart

  “If you think fiction can’t change your life and challenge you to be a better person, you need to read The Five Times I Met Myself.”

  —ANDY ANDREWS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF HOW DO YOU KILL 11 MILLION PEOPLE, THE NOTICER, AND THE TRAVELER’S GIFT

  “A powerfully redemptive story with twists and turns that had me glued to every page. With a compelling message for anyone who longs to relive their past, The Five Times I Met Myself is another James L. Rubart masterpiece.”

  —SUSAN MAY WARREN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHRISTIANSEN FAMILY SERIES

  “The conclusion of the Well Spring series is full of action and conflict. Although the novels deal with spiritually challenging concepts, Rubart makes them understandable and accessible. Overall a very exciting and fitting end to a thrilling saga.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS ON SPIRIT BRIDGE

  “The second novel in Rubart’s Well Spring series picks up the fast-paced narrative right away and doesn’t quit until the end. The author has penned another amazing tale of angels, demons, and what it means to be truly connected to God’s plans for the future.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS ON MEMORY’S DOOR

  “This book is provocative in its material. It forces the reader to consider components of God’s nature not normally focused on. It’s a quality novel for young or older Christians of any theological background.”

  —CHURCH LIBRARIES ON SOUL’S GATE

  “Readers with high blood pressure or heart conditions be warned: this is a seriously heart-thumping and satisfying read that goes to the edge, jumps off, and ‘builds wings on the way down.’ ”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ON SOUL’S GATE

  “Powerful storytelling. Rubart writes with a depth of understanding about a realm most of us never investigate, let alone delve into. A deep and mystical journey that will leave you thinking long after you finish the book.”

  —TED DEKKER, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR ON SOUL’S GATE

  “Tight, boiled-down writing and an intriguing premise that will make you reconsider what you think you know about the spiritual realm.”

  —STEVEN JAMES, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF PLACEBO AND OPENING MOVES ON SOUL’S GATE

  “Soul’s Gate takes readers on a wild flight of fantasy into the spiritual realm, where we find the battle for our souls is even wilder than we imagined—and very, very real. With vividly drawn characters, startling imagery, and the power of a spiritual air-raid siren, the story is at once entertaining and breathtakingly enlightening. James L. Rubart has crafted a stunning piece of work, a call to arms for everyone who yearns for the freedom of the abundant life Christ promises us—and is willing to fight for it. Rubart knocks it out of the park with this one.”

  —ROBERT LIPARULO, AUTHOR OF THE 13TH TRIBE AND COMES A HORSEMAN

  “Don’t read this unless you’re ready to see with new eyes. Through evocative prose and masterful storytelling, Rubart transports you to the spiritual realm—a realm of vision, mystery, healing, and power. A deep and thoughtful—and jet-propelled—spiritual journey of a book.”

  —TOSCA LEE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR ON SOUL’S GATE

  Other Books by James L. Rubart

  The Well Spring Novels

  Soul’s Gate

  Memory’s Door

  Spirit Bridge

  Rooms

  Book of Days

  The Chair

  Copyright © 2015 by James L. Rubart

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8612-3 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rubart, James L.

  The five times I met myself / James L. Rubart.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8611-6

  I. Title.

  PS3618.U2326F58 2015

  813'.6--dc23

  2015020704

  15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Taylor and Micah.

  What father could be more proud?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  “The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don’t know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened.”

  —James Arthur Baldwin

  “In my dreams I never have an age.”

  —Madeleine L’Engle

  Chapter 1

  MAY 10, 2015

  The dream had come again last night, just as it had sliced into Brock’s subconscious the night before that. A dream now dominating a significant portion of his waking moments. He had to talk to someone about it—someone with at least a smattering of psychology. Someone he could trust. His best choice was Morgan. His only choice, really.

  Brock crossed Seattle’s 4th Avenue and looked up at the sky as it surrendered to dusk. Not long till the spring evenings would hold the light till after nine o’clock. He reached the other side of the street, strode up to the front doo
r of Java Spot, yanked the door open, and stepped inside. Three-quarters full. The perfect number of people. Not so many that newcomers would turn away, but enough to tell people it was a place to be. Morgan had to feel good having that many customers at six twenty.

  Brock glanced around at the 1940s motif. Posters of Rosie the Riveter and Ted Williams, an old Coca-Cola sign, and the famous shot of the sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square hung on the walls. Definitely captured the hope of a post–World War II populace. Or maybe Java Spot simply appealed to those who wanted an alternative to the corporate giant that had more coffee shops sprinkled throughout Puget Sound than 7-Elevens.

  On one side: a cluster of what looked like college students, a few couples, and some solo acts. The opposite side: three people hunched over their Mac laptops, and a large group of midforty-somethings laughed and pointed at each other in rapid-fire succession. What Java Spot put in its drinks was obviously the right concoction, which made Brock smile again, because he’d developed those concoctions being consumed in all fifteen of Morgan’s locations as well as the rest of the country and overseas.

  Brock took one more glance around the coffee shop, then strolled behind the counter and said, “Not a bad crowd for a Monday night.”

  “You can’t come back here.”

  “Deal with it.”

  “Nope. Employees only. Get out. Now.”

  Morgan Myers lugged his sizable girth toward Brock and grinned. When he reached Brock, Morgan grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him like he was a stuffed animal. Yeah, maybe Morgan had put on more than a few pounds since their college days, but even after thirty-one years, he hadn’t lost any of his linebacker strength.

  “Amazing,” Morgan said. “You actually have the hint of a tan to go with your slightly graying mane. A vacation you call work—but at least you got some sun.”

  “It was work.”

  “Uh-huh. A week in Costa Rica sipping coffee and checking out beans. Brutal. How did you survive? What, you were probably slaving away three, maybe four hours a day before you hit the beach?”

  “Four and a half.” Brock grinned at his friend.

  “When did you get back?”

  “Five days ago.” Brock lowered his voice. “That’s when they started.”

  “When what started?”

  “When you get a moment, I need to talk.”

  “The doctor is in.” Morgan tapped his chest.

  “A degree in psychology you never used makes you a doctor?”

  “I use it every day.” Morgan waved his paw of a hand at the crowd. “Spill it. Problems with Karissa? Tyson? Work?”

  “A dream. More like a nightmare.”

  Morgan beckoned with his finger and led Brock to the back room and into the office. After they settled into the small space, Morgan beckoned again with both hands. “Let’s go. Tell me about dem cah-razy dreams.”

  “Strange dreams, not necessarily crazy.” Brock glanced at Morgan’s office door to make sure it was shut.

  “You said nightmare.”

  “Not exactly. I’m not sure how to describe it—I’d almost call it spiritual but not in an uplifting way.”

  “Like a God dream?” Morgan’s eyes were expectant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean God dreams, where you know he’s trying to tell you something.” Morgan leaned forward and opened his hands. “Where he’s talking to you through the dream, warning you, or letting you know something is coming, something to get ready for.”

  “God does that?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “It’s not like that, I don’t think. It’s more . . . You ever have one of those dreams that’s so real you can’t tell if it’s a dream or not, and when you wake up, you know intellectually it had to have been a dream, but you’re still not one hundred percent sure?”

  “Yes.” Morgan’s voice grew softer and he repeated his earlier request. “Tell me about the dream. In detail. And why it’s freaking you out so much.”

  “My dad is in it.”

  “Oh boy, here we go.”

  “The dream isn’t just a dream.” Brock leaned back and focused on the ceiling of Morgan’s office. “Yes, it’s a dream, but Morg, I know it was more. My dad is young, early thirties I’m guessing, in the days before his nervous breakdown. The days before he started hating me.”

  “He didn’t hate you.”

  Brock ignored the comment. “The light in his eyes is like fire. And he wears a jet-black fedora straight out of the fifties—so now I finally realize where the name of the company came from. He never wore a hat like that in life, and yet it was more him than anything I ever saw him wear.” Brock glanced at Morgan. “You get that?”

  Morgan nodded.

  Brock paused. “You know how most dreams have elements of fantasy in them? Things that couldn’t happen in real life? This wasn’t like that. Everything was as it should be. And it would take the push of a feather to convince me it really happened. That I was truly there. It was more real than real life.”

  “Go on.”

  The memory of the dream engulfed Brock and he lived it again, for the millionth time.

  Brock,” his dad rumbled as they sat next to each other in Brock’s boyhood backyard on a summer evening, both of them facing west, the sun starting to set.

  “Yeah?” He gazed at the Douglas fir tree in the northwest corner. The tree he’d climb to the top when he was nine and ten and eleven and twelve to get away from his father.

  “You need to listen to me.” His dad held a small rectangular box wrapped in brown paper, which he tapped on the armrest of his chair. He pointed to the box and raised his eyebrows. “You see this? It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Pay attention.”

  “I am.” He turned to face his dad.

  “No, not listening with one ear out the door like you always did.” Dad beckoned with his finger right next to his ruddy cheek. “Right here. In my eyes. That kind of listening.”

  “Okay.” The air warmed and his father’s eyes grew more intense. Brock had the urge to bolt from his chair, but his body wouldn’t move. “I’m really listening.”

  “Good. You need to. Yeah, you really, truly need to.” He turned the box over in his hands. “You have to make peace with Ron. Have to.”

  “Peace with Ron? Yeah, sure, Dad. Peace with a brother who’s a year and a half younger but acts like he’s three years older? One with a life mission to beat me in everything he does?”

  “Same mission as yours.”

  “I’m not as bad as—”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “No, he’s my business partner.” Brock clutched his chair’s armrests as anger rose inside. “And you gave him fifty-one percent of the company, which he lords over me every moment.”

  His dad turned away and gazed out over the darkening horizon. Once again he tapped the rectangular box in a slow rhythm on the armrest.

  “It’s coming, Brock, turning toward you just like the rotation of the earth. You can’t stop it. It won’t be easy. Definitely not easy. But good. You probably won’t believe me, but it’s good.”

  “What’s coming, Dad?”

  “Embrace it, Brock, even though it will be difficult. Face the truth, though it will be painful, for the truth will set you free.” His dad leaned over and smacked his palm into Brock’s chest so hard he caught his breath. “You need to get ready.”

  Brock pulled back. “Why’d you—”

  “If you don’t, it’s going to bury you. If you don’t, I’m going to bury you. Got it?”

  “What’s coming?”

  His dad rose and grabbed Brock’s shirt with both hands, yanked him out of the chair, and shook him hard. “Get ready!”

  “For what?”

  “Get ready!”

  Louder this time.

  “Tell me what’s coming, Dad!”

  Brock’s dad pulled his face so close their noses touched and his voice d
ropped to a whisper. “For—”

  But each time the words left his dad’s mouth, the colors around them swirled and buried Brock, and he woke, breathing hard.

  Brock stared at Morgan and whispered to his friend, “I have to get control of that dream. Get rid of it. My dad scares the snot out of me every time, and I’m tired of it.”

  “What’s coming, Brock?”

  “I don’t know. I wake up every time before he tells me.”

  “You’ve had the dream more than once?”

  “Five times in the past five days.”

  “Wow, someone wants to get your attention.” Morgan leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

  “This is God’s way of saying hello?”

  “What does Karissa say about it?”

  “I haven’t told her.”

  “Why not?”

  Brock closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto his chair. “I don’t want to get into it right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Morg?” Brock cocked his head and opened his eyes. “Give me a break.”

  “No worries.” Morgan held his hands up. “What did you see and feel in the dream? Not with your mind, with your spirit.”

  Interesting question. On the surface there was nothing more than what he’d told Morgan. But underneath, there were layers he couldn’t put into words.

  “Like I couldn’t stop whatever my dad says is coming, and yet I have to try.”

  “What else?”

  “It’s as if I was higher . . . I don’t know how to describe it . . . The dream was clearer than it should have been, if that makes any sense. It gave me hope and fear at the same time.”

  “Yes.” Morgan smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I was there. I saw my dad, but not only saw him, I saw deeper. As if I was seeing the true self that was buried while he was alive. The dream was the most normal scene you can imagine. But it felt like I was touching the past and the present and the future all at the same time. And what he told me didn’t come from me or my subconscious, it truly came from my dad. Do you understand, Morg?”

  “It was like he was alive. In the present.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he looked young. In his thirties.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re thinking he’s talking to you from heaven.”