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The Soul Saver

By Dineen Miller

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The tremble of wind chimes roused her from slumber, beckoning with their familiar call. Darkness blanketed the room in peaceful silence. The last vestiges of her dream seeped away like sun-kissed mist, leaving only the clear image of a seedy bar—and her trepidation.
Where was God sending her this time?
As she freed herself from the covers, Lexie Baltimore touched Hugh’s arm, whispering a prayer of blessing and protection over her husband. His sleepy warmth tempted her to snuggle next to him, but her fingers itched to reveal the face of her next mission.
She stepped into her slippers and slung a cotton robe over her shoulders then left the room and her husband undisturbed. At the end of the hallway, she peeked into the small bedroom that once belonged to her as a child, confirming the rise and fall of her son’s chest. In sleep, Jeremy’s lips still puckered like they did when he was a baby. Awake, he was all boy and a “young man of eight” by his own definition.
Last night’s salmon dinner met her nose at the bottom of the stairs. She crossed the kitchen to the door leading into the
5
Dineen A. Miller
6 breezeway. The wind chimes sang in tune with her steps and spurred her to the opposite door. A familiar urgency drove her on.
In the pale moonlight, her studio appeared more like a surreal world of shadows and deceptions than a small garage made into a workroom. On a small pedestal sat her latest commission—the bust of Pief Panofsky, the renowned physicist who’d passed away last year. Hugh had gotten her the gig for the symposium to honor his life next month. But tonight God called her to a mission, the face of which he would reveal through the work of her hands.
The basic form of a head stood on another pedestal, covered in plastic, waiting for her to release its identity. She’d sensed God would send her into action yesterday and had prepared the clay ahead of time.
After trading her robe for an apron, Lexie lifted the plastic. The earthy smell of red clay filled the small room. As she kneaded the ball of clay set aside to build the details, she studied the featureless head staring back at her. The clay warmed in her fingers and softened. Her hands tingled and took on a life of their own. She broke off pieces to form the nose, cheeks, and brow. Slowly a face began to form. The process captivated her, like a bystander observing, yet she remained fully aware of her hands doing the work.
A strong forehead—her first indication of a man. Sculpted jaw with an indent in the chin. Heavy-lidded eyes above high cheeks. Short hair, average ears, thinnish lips. With precision she moved over the rest of the structure, using either her fingers or various tools to fine-tune the face into the image forming simultaneously in her mind.
As she smoothed the last bit of his features into place, the urgency left, signaling completion. The ache in her shoulders registered in her consciousness like an ignored child, petulant and

demanding. Her eyelids blinked across sandpaper. By the glow 7 coming from her one small window, dawn had broken. She’d already worked for hours, and the day had just begun.
She rinsed her hands until only her cuticles remained the orange color of the clay and removed her apron. Just as she’d seen her mother do so many times when the studio had been hers. This time she was the one who stepped back to admire her creation.
This face seemed different, yet oddly familiar. The eyes kept drawing her in—kind and unassuming. The lips seemed to perpetually smile. No obvious reasons why God wanted her to reach out to this one. She leaned on her worktable, chin cupped in her hands. How many of these images had she created over the last few years? She never kept count. The only ones she recorded were her commissioned pieces. But God most certainly knew.
The aroma of coffee chased away the earthy smell of clay. A mug slid in front of her. With a slow and somewhat sleepy gaze, she traced her husband’s long fingers, broad palm, and sleeved arm up to his familiar face. “You are a godsend.”
“So you’ve told me.”
Oops. She’d done it again. Hugh’s evasive replies to anything faith related were her signals to back off. She sipped from the mug, anxious for the caffeine to hit her bloodstream. Al- most time to get Jeremy up for school.
Hugh tilted his head to look over her shoulder. “How’s old Pief coming along?”
She rested her free hand on the plastic-covered bust. “Good. I’m almost done.”
He stood in front of her unknown subject, studying the features. “Is this another commission or one of your practice pieces?”
“Practice.” How could she tell him it represented a living, breathing person somewhere out there—one she would soon
The Soul Saver
Dineen A. Miller
8 meet? He’d think she was crazy. And in reality, it was practice. Physically, because she honed her talents each time she did one, and spiritually, because each mission taught her more about obedience and strengthened her trust in God. It’d all be so much easier if Hugh believed.
The deep ache hit her again. She longed to share this aspect of her faith with him more than anything—the exhilaration of God’s touch, the satisfaction of helping another human being, and the completion and peace she felt when she did what God asked of her. How could she share the deepest part of herself when Hugh didn’t even believe God existed?
She set down the mug and wrapped her arms around her husband, catching the snuggle she’d relinquished earlier. Anything to feel close to him in some way. “Don’t go to work. Stay home with me.”
A soft rumble vibrated his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “My students wouldn’t appreciate that.”
“They’re adults. They need to learn to deal with disap- pointment.” She smiled and let a giggle bubble up. “Besides, it’s Friday. I bet half your class won’t come.”
“Lex, this is Stanford, not community college. If I don’t show up, I guarantee you my students will hunt me down. Physics students are the most tenacious of all, I think.” He kissed her full on the lips.
His familiar smell and touch wrapped her in indescrib- able comfort. Could she just stay in that place for a while? For a moment, she had not a care in the world.
Then he let her go. “I’ll try to get home early for our date night. Did you get a sitter?”
“Yep. All set.”
“See you later then.” With a wink, he smiled and went out through the breezeway, grabbing his briefcase along the way.
Lexie stayed by the door until he drove off, praying her
usual prayers for protection and salvation. She probably 9 sounded like a recording by now. Four years had passed since
she’d run back to God, and Hugh had chosen a different direction.
When, God, when?
She wandered into her studio, clinging to her last few moments of peace before waking her eight-year-old dynamo.
The bust stared back at her.
“See you soon. Whoever you are.”
Who went to a bar at 10:00 a.m.?
Lexie crossed the empty street, about ten yards north of
her destination. Just like her dream had revealed—seedy and rundown. She always took a lay of the land, so to speak. Got a feel for what she was about to walk into.
Especially this time. What a doozy this joint looked to be. Why hadn’t the city condemned the place yet? The owner must have someone on the city payroll.
She slowed her steps once she reached the sidewalk. Urine and vomit mixed into one gagging odor and slammed her. She covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve until her body adjusted and could block it out. The smell dredged up memories of her past—wild days and nights on college spring breaks. And then the usual torments came. The clear image of her husband, Hugh, standing alone beside a precipice of fire.
“Very funny. As if that would stop me.”
Same old routine. The enemy’s tactics never failed to amuse her. But he still managed to hit her where it hurt. What about Hugh, Alexis? You reach others. Why won’t your Jesus let you reach him? Then that rasping laugh. . .
The taunts always grew worse when she had an assignment.
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Dineen A. Miller
10 But she went where God sent her regardless. Today would be no different.
She left the fall morning chill and stink of the San Francisco street and entered the bar. Stale smoke scented with sour liquor filled the room like a foggy morning by the bay. Lexie cased the joint with a quick scan.
The bartender barely glanced at her, more interested in the receipts and calculator strewn on one end of the bar. Judging by the sour look on his face, business wasn’t so good, but he wasn’t her assignment.
A couple sat, backs to the door, huddled together on one side of a booth in the shadows. Fuzzy tufts like spun sugar poked out of splits in the orange vinyl. She’d seen enough to trust her gut instinct, and her heart went out to the spouses these two had betrayed. She tried to get a better look at the man’s face.
Peace settled on her shoulders like a comforting mantle.
Keep walking, Lexie.
She ventured another five feet inside. A nice looking man sat at the other end of the bar. He appeared too neat and clean to be a regular. And sober, too. Lexie searched for a more ragged candidate.
Him. He’s the one.
She froze midstep, glanced back at the guy. Yep, same high cheeks and dimpled chin. She’d done this before, but seeing the real-life face of her clay subjects never ceased to surprise her.
He gave her a half smile but not a come-on. More of a “how can I help?”
Lexie spun toward the door and didn’t stop until her loafers hit concrete. Great. Did she have her wires crossed again? Satan had tricked her before and sent her on a wild goose chase, which resulted in her getting mugged. She’d only

had to experience that once to learn caution. The scar on her 11 shoulder was a constant reminder.
Go back, Lexie.
“But he’s so normal looking.” Just like the bust. She could almost sense God’s laughter rumbling down from the thick clouds holding the city in dreariness.
Trust me.
She blew a corkscrew curl from her face and barged back inside.
The guy now sat near the end of the bar, close to the door. He stood and gestured to the stool next to him.
He’d actually waited for her. What made him so certain she would come back? And what was this guy looking for?
Lexie squinted. He reminded her a lot of Hugh. Simi- lar build—tall, solid, and the same enveloping gaze. Only his hair was blond where as Hugh’s was light brown.
“Care to join me?”
She’d trusted God in weirder situations so why stop now? She forced a smile and sat down. Obviously this guy needed something from her. Why else would God send her?
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Well, that was a good sign. Not a drinker. At least not this early anyway. “Sure. Coffee’s just my speed.”
He lifted a brow and gave her an approving half smile. “Two coffees, please.”
The bartender left his paperwork and bustled to a coffee pot behind the counter.
“Nate Winslow.” He held out his hand, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his blue-gray eyes. Almost the same shade as Hugh’s.
She shook his hand just as the bartender deposited their coffees along with a container of various sweeteners and creamers. “Lexie Baltimore.”
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Dineen A. Miller
12
He seemed surprised that she gave her name so easily. Did he expect her to come out with a name like Misty or Tawny? With no last name? She looked down at her jeans and a black button down shirt over a white cami. Pretty staid in her book, but after eleven years of marriage, she had no idea what turned a guy on these days.
“So Lexie Baltimore, what brings a nice girl like you to a bar at”—he glanced at his watch—“ten fifteen in the morning?”
“I could ask you the same thing. But a, uh, nice guy?” She stared pointedly at the wedding ring on his finger and then to the couple making out in the back booth. Nate didn’t look to be the adulterous type, but one never knew.
His blush indicated he caught her implication. He took great interest in pouring two packets of sugar into his coffee. “What do you do, Lexie?” His tone had an odd quietness.
No better way to say it. Direct always worked best. Besides, he’d either fly the coop or confess his pathetic life story. Either way, the job got done.
“I work for God.”
He coughed on his coffee and nearly dropped the cup. His chuckle bled through the napkin he held to his mouth. “I do, too. I pastor a church about a block from here.”
Absolutely unbelievable. What in the world was this man—a normal, cheerful, married pastor—doing in a bar at ten in the morning? The pastors she’d met would never step foot in a seedy place like this. And he sure didn’t seem mired in a pit of misery. Maybe God had sent her as his way out from temptation.
“Nate, where’s your wife?”
He twisted the wedding band between his thumb and finger then cleared his throat. “She died a year ago.”
All her assumptions about this man hit rock bottom and
scampered away. Was this why God wanted her here—to help 13 this grieving widower pull himself back into life? Had the
man turned to “love in all the wrong places?” How could she
help? Even after four years, her own grief lay still too fresh to share. Mandy. . .
“I’m sorry. That must be really hard. Has your congrega- tion been able to help you?”
“Yeah, actually, they’ve been great. But work’s my life- saver. That’s why I come here. This place seems to attract the ones who need help the most.” Nate rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I couldn’t save my wife, but I can help here.”
Just like she couldn’t help Mandy. No one could have saved her baby girl. “Sounds like we have the same job.” She wanted to ask how his wife died but sensed he’d closed the subject. And she completely understood that place. Sometimes it was better not to know.
He pointed to the band on her finger. “What about your husband? Does he work with you?”
There it was, the big question. It inevitably came in some form or other when she revealed her place of service. Did her husband share her faith, her beliefs, her purpose?
Like she always said, direct was best. Except where Hugh was concerned. “No, my husband’s not a believer.”
Hugh Baltimore glanced out the window of his office over- looking the campus, needing a break from the most recent attempt at theory by one of his students. When would they learn to postulate with facts first, based on solid research, and then, and only then, project their hypotheses?
He dropped his pen and leaned back in the chair that had belonged to his predecessor—one of the lucky ones
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Dineen A. Miller
14 who’d managed to gain tenure—and let his eyes focus on something less taxing. Students sat or stood in clusters across the courtyard. A few singles rushed in various directions. The arrival of fall had turned the temperatures cooler, and foggy mornings heralded the rains soon to return. Despite the atrocious paper still waiting for his critical eye, he loved this time of morning. Peaceful.
A rap against the doorframe to his office drew his atten- tion upward. The department chair stood there with a quirky smile. A portly man of sixty, Richard McClellan had a head full of hair and ideas to match. Some more wild than others and usually on the opposite side of the part from Hugh. Most of the other professors had learned to work around him.
Most of them.
“Have a moment to talk?”
Hugh lifted the stack of student papers for Richard to
see. “Great timing. You very well may have saved my life.” He gestured to one of the chairs normally reserved for students.
David’s desk on the other side of the room stood con- veniently empty. The department chair knew his assistant professors’ schedules better than his own, and therefore most likely had an agenda for this visit. He usually did.
Three steps brought McClellan to the seat, but he remained standing. “Did you give any more thought to my question?”
“If you mean David’s paper, I gave him the pertinent research. He should have more than enough information now to present his theory.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Hugh sighed. David Connor’s ego was more inflated than his supposed theories. Hugh wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain neutral and tactful. “I have no need for my name to be included. David’s done the work. If it’s published”— which would be a disaster in Hugh’s opinion—“he should

have all the glory.” 15 Besides the fact that tagging his name on a theory he
didn’t even believe possible would be just plain wrong. “What aren’t you saying?” By the way McClellan crossed
his arms, tactful ways were about to end.
Hugh picked up his pen and pretended to study the
abomination on his desk. “Condensed matter is not my area of expertise.”
“But having your name on another paper could do a lot for your tenure candidacy.”
Hugh looked up, met Richard’s penetrating stare. “To be honest, I don’t agree with David’s postulations. I won’t put my name on something I’m not one hundred percent behind.”
McClellan dropped his arms. “I see. Then I suggest you start putting together something you do believe in. This department has a high standard to maintain. And right now David is looking like the stronger candidate.”
Hugh held both ends of the pen, taking the moment to rein in his irritation. Perhaps he was reading too much into it. Perhaps not. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing. Just keeping you informed. You know we always have more candidates than positions here. I don’t want to see your career in the academic world come to an abrupt end.”
And then the smirk. They all knew the smirk. The telltale I’ve-won-and-have-the-last-word smirk of doom.
Hugh clenched his jaw. After seven years as an assistant professor, he’d sweated his way through the review process for tenure. The final decision now rested in the hands of the committee. And he had his eye on a Mel Schwartz Fellowship to catapult his own research, something he wasn’t ready to share with McClellan yet. How much harder would he have to work to keep ahead? “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. I’ll expect an outline by the end of next week.”
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Dineen A. Miller
16 McClellan headed for the door then paused and turned at the threshold. “By the way, I e-mailed you some ideas I think will help you get started. Keep the Schwartz Fellowship in mind when you look at them.”
McClellan made this clicking sound with his mouth while pointing at Hugh like some seventies lounge lizard then merged into the flow of students in the hall.
The chair squeaked as Hugh sat back and launched his pen across the room. How did McClellan always manage to know what buttons to push? And the Schwartz Fellowship was a big one. The tension headache waiting to happen hit him full force in the back of the head. His current workload gave him little breathing room. He’d have to create time somehow to give McClellan what he wanted within his unrealistic time f rame.
He pulled out his phone and punched the speed dial for Lexie’s cell. Her recording came over the line. The lilt in her voice made him smile, but it didn’t last long. She wouldn’t like his message, but what choice did he really have? Just a little longer and he’d have tenure and time.
“Lex, I have to work late tonight, so you and Jeremy should eat without me. I’ll grab something on the way home. Love you.”
She would understand. She always did.

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