middle-aged man. Tom made a habit of sizing up his customers. This one seemed to be happy and friendly, as he remarked, "I always feel guilty when someone older than me brings out my groceries."
"No problem, it's the store's policy. Glad to help."
"You seem, well, more on the ball than most other bag boys." Glancing at the name tag on the green apron he asked, "Where are you from, Tom?"
"From Cincinnati, but I sure like it in Fort Lauderdale. I'm a musician at night, a sax player, and just do this for a few hours a week to get out of the house and get some exercise."
As that unknown customer unlocked his passenger side car door, Tom spotted two or three books lying on the car seat. They were titled, "Standing After the Prodigal Returns." "Standing," Tom thought, "that's the word that Betty uses. Prodigal, return? No, it couldn't be the same."
As the man moved the books aside to make way for his groceries, Tom commented on the title. "That's an interesting name for a book. Can I ask what it's about?"
"Sure. It is about praying for an absent spouse, and then continuing to pray after God brings them home."
"Do these, ah, prodigals, ever come home?"
"They sure do, every day. Here take a copy. You might enjoy it."
"No thanks, I am happily married. Appreciate the offer though." Deep within, Tom wondered what was in that book. Attempting to change the conversation, Tom looked up at a huge airplane on final approach to the Fort Lauderdale International Airport. "Do you ever wonder who all those people are?" he asked.
"Do you ever wonder who all those people are?" Julie Grant asked her husband as she looked out the window of their plane as it descended into Fort Lauderdale. Reverend and Mrs. Tom Grant were coming to attend a three day Pastor's Conference.
"Yes, I suspect that many of them hurt very deeply. Somewhere down there is Tom Allison. If it is in the Lord's timing, I just wish we could meet."
After checking into their hotel on 17th Street Causeway, Tom and Julie had the rest of the evening free. They went walking, admiring the sights. Going past one yacht broker, the pastor asked his wife, "I wonder if that could be the place where Tom sells yachts?"
"Only the Lord knows. There's a grocery store. Let's pick up a danish and save paying hotel prices for breakfast."
"Sounds good."
As the Grants checked out, a man near fifty years old bagged their danish and orange juice. "You look like a preacher," he commented. "Tourists for sure, and I hear there's a huge convention starting tomorrow across the street."
"Right on both counts, tourist and preacher. Now that's a combination, isn't it? I'm Pastor Tom Grant. We're here for the first time from Indiana."
"I like that name," their bag boy replied, "I'm a Tom also."
"Glad to meet you. This is my wife, Julie. Thanks for bagging our things."
"Bye."
After Tom and Julie Grant were out of the store, Tom commented, "There is something about that man that checks in my spirit. He is trying to be happy, but his eyes looked so wounded."
"I sensed something also," Julie replied. "I almost wanted to ask him, if he had a wife named Betty."
"I had the same thought, but there is no way that a yacht broker would be sacking groceries in a place called Publix. Nevertheless, I sense that you and I need to pray for two hurting men named Tom in Fort Lauderdale tonight."
That night, after the grocery store had closed, Tom Allison tossed his green apron into his back seat, got into his convertible with a hole cut in the top, and headed home to Sandy. He was silently hoping that she would be asleep when he arrived.
After his car radio was discovered missing, he had borrowed a portable radio from Sandy. Coming to work in the daytime, he had listened to his oldie rock and roll station. Now at night, he could receive only one station being broadcast from a Fort Lauderdale church.
At first, the music sounded good, and some were even recognizable by Tom. Then a spot announcement played. A lady's voice declared, "There is a better way than divorce. Your marriage need not end that way. . ."
Those words hit Tom like a brick. He pulled his car onto the shoulder of I-595 as tears filled his eyes. First, the book about prodigals going home, then that friendly preacher who seemed so happy with his wife, and now this on the radio. Tom gripped his steering wheel tightly, as cars passing at 70 miles an hour honked warnings at him.
Directly east of him, over near the beach, a couple from Indiana were praying that the Lord might bring Tom to his senses and home to God and to his family.
"I feel like my life is going as fast as one of those cars," Tom said aloud. "God help me. O God, please show me what to do," he sobbed.
It happened in an instant. It was as though someone had popped a balloon to reveal a beautiful prize inside. As soon as Tom had cried out to the Lord, he had been told to go home. Tom sat frozen. What would he have to do? Quit his job at the store? Tell the band that he was finished? Divorce Sandy? Ask Betty if she would even have him back? Tom looked out the windshield of his motionless car. Up ahead was the I-95 northbound ramp. It was as though something said to him, "Just go home. Don't worry about the rest."
Tom did not take that northbound road. Instead, he continued on to Bonaventure. He found Sandy fast asleep. Tom gathered up his saxophone and few belongings and loaded them into his car. He left Sandy a rambling note, apologizing for having made a mistake by marrying her. He asked her to call the store, and Mort from the band, telling them he had moved back to Cincinnati.
Tom stopped at an ATM, withdrew his few dollars, gassed up the car, and headed north. He still wore his orange shirt from the store. The only item of Sandy's that was not returned was that radio. He listened to that Fort Lauderdale station until he was out of range, and then found another Christian station. Tom sought out station after station, all through the night. Tom drove, listening to music and preaching that sounded as though it was being broadcast just for him.
Although they were out of town, a distressing message was left on the Grant's answering machine late that night: "Julie, this is Betty. I'm giving up. Standing is just too hard and nothing is changing. Tom screamed at me this afternoon. Besides, he is married to someone else. I know the Lord is going to send me the husband that I need. I know you guys are out of town, but please don't call me back. Thank you for everything, but there is nothing else to talk about. Goodbye."
By dawn, Tom was in Georgia, still headed north as fast as he could go. He did not stop to sleep or to eat, but took breaks and had snacks when he purchased gas. His car had never run better, nor had he ever felt better that he did. When the sun came up, Tom felt as rested as though he had slept all night. Hundreds of miles behind him, Pastor Tom Grant was so convicted over the bag boy that he and Julie had met, that he skipped a noon session at the conference and went to Publix to talk with the manager about how to locate the man.
"I would be glad to help you if I could," a helpful manager stated, "but the guy's wife called this morning. Seems her husband left a note and ran away from home during the night. I tell you, they come and they go. I never would have suspected it from Tom Allison, though."
"Tom Allison!" Pastor Grant felt as though he had just been punched in the stomach. He jogged back to the hotel to tell Julie. "Lord, did I blow it? Father, wherever Tom is right now, please protect and guide him."
Pastor Grant skipped all the sessions that afternoon. He and Julie, both badly shaken, stayed in their room and prayed. Late that afternoon, Julie checked their answering machine at home and heard Betty's message. The Grants were even more devastated.
That afternoon, about 5:15 PM, Betty rounded the corner, on the way home from work. At first she though she was having a vision. Sitting in front of her home was a car that looked just like Tom's. Her heart began to pound. As she pulled into the driveway, she saw Tom, wearing a rumpled orange shirt, and in need of a shave, asleep behind the wheel of his car. The vehicle had a big hole torn in the fabric top. Covered with
Florida bugs and red Georgia mud, the car looked as rough as did Tom, but that did not matter. Tom was home, regardless of the reason. The Lord had answered her prayers.
Betty momentarily forgot the hopeless message that she had left for the Grants less than 24 hours before. Betty also forgot her flirtation with a customer that day. She also forgot her comment to Norma, her boss, following that incident; "If Tom doesn't want me, I'll find someone who does." Those events, as well as every hurt since their separation, had just been erased quicker than a crashing computer hard drive, just by the sight of rumpled Tom sitting in that driveway at home.
For a few seconds that seemed like hours, Betty stared at her sleeping husband. What had brought him home in a uniform shirt? What did the green apron and name tag lying in the back seat mean? Finally, she could wait no longer, and touched Tom's arm while gently calling, "Tom, honey, you're home." Tom instantly sprang from his car, wide awake.
Tom did not even wait to go inside to carry out the next step in his process of repentance. From the deepest part of his being, Tom confessed everything that needed to be