The pursuit of a million dollars is an arduous task for a sixth grader trying to figure out why he was being ridiculed for not fitting in. This path leading him to believe that he needed to start planning sooner, rather than later, or else he'd be forced to accept the identity being defined right before his eyes. Ascension above an adolescent mediocrity began after he realized if his ship wasn't coming in, he'd have to swim out to it. Unexpectedly, the man he grew into finds a love he settles for rather than letting the Lord settle it for him. After going through the motions of deciding which he wanted more, he discovers that self-defining a treasure map of sorts is the best solution to curtailing any further adverse relationship decisions. Landing a job at Delta Airlines he recognizes that questions he was asking were being answered by the lessons learned while flying through a cloudy perspective to suddenly arrive at the bluest skies he'd ever seen. Through the clouds is his journey through those sometimes turbulent skies as he was trying to figure out what was most important. Would he find himself so far up a million dollar dream that he isn't open to a love who finds him wanting? Or would he stay below the clouds long enough to wait on what God was planning all along?
Through the Clouds
A Journey of Self Discovery and the Lessons I Learned While Flying Through the CloudsBy C. Wes MercierAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 C. Wes Mercier
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4685-3824-3Contents
1. Who Am I?..................................................................12. The Picture Of Mediocrity..................................................133. Yeah, That'll Be A Table For One!..........................................254. The Covered Dish Delight ... And What Do I Bring?..........................455. Am I Mr. Right, Or Mr. Right Now?..........................................566. Can This Really Be Love?...................................................697. The List...................................................................908. Barrelling Beyond Before...................................................1009. The Chutzpah Of Columbia County............................................11110. Lincoln Logs ... Building Something Out Of Nothing.........................13711. A Departure From Normality.................................................14712. A Russian Bride Without Being Anywhere Close To Russia.....................16713. Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places...................................18014. A Cup Of Instant Instanbul, Please.........................................18815. The Emphasis On Ephesus....................................................20216. My Own Little Fairy Tale For A Million Dollars, Alex!......................216
Chapter One
Who Am I?
THIS QUESTION HAS PROBABLY BECOME THE QUESTION OF ALL questions in our lifetimes, and its answer may solve some of the problems we have about defining ourselves. The belief is that if definition can be given to a single object, then that object may present itself to us, in a formatted version of the truth. So where do we actually find a solution then? As for me, I begin somewhere between the road to nowhere and childhood. A road paved with good intentions while entering those peculiar years of adolescence. In high school, I never had the vigor or the self-esteem to finish anything. Yeah, I'd begin it, and with passion that would have William Shakespeare proud. But then as I wondered within my own realms of reality, I'd find the end result was just too far out of reach, that I wouldn't even bother progressing.
North Augusta, South Carolina is a small town for sure. To an extent, it has aspirations to acquire that big city feel while maintaining an ever prevalent quaintness. There's even a hint of fresh air steadily blowing off the banks of the Savannah River. And in those early years, we always found our way down there for aquatic refreshment whether my mother knew where we were or not. I can imagine this particular town being just like many others of its size. With or without the river, I believe every town has its ups and downs. People who are actively involved in just about anything they can get their hands on, and then those who aren't. There were the mothers who couldn't bear to send their little tadpoles off to school. As if they were going to follow them down the halls securing a seat for their kid at the popular table. Oh! And how about the fathers who were at every football practice, whether their son was any good, or not? To me, that was the funniest thing about small town America. They would rather sacrifice any kind of success just to placate an active booster. There were some of us who thought we were talented enough to play. But yet, for some ungodly reason, we were left to sulk into our own sense of stardom on that beautiful place we called the bench. I remember there being coaches who were no bigger than a jockey from the nicely manicured racetracks of Kentucky. You would've thought they ruled the athletic world from what they were saying about themselves.
There on a hot steamy August afternoon, I was sulking that even though I was as big as anyone on the team, I wouldn't play one play. If I wanted to be part of North Augusta Yellow Jacket Football, I would have to do so from where, you guessed it, that all so purposeful bench. I got so disturbed one time that I came home to vent my frustration. Maybe even to quit. But my mother or father wouldn't hear of it. She said, "You chose to start this season, now just finish it, and next year you can do what you want!" Needless to say there was always something about a mother's reassurance that would turn a big boy into the child his mother still saw him as. So doing what I had to do, I suppressed my anger and vested my time within the solitude of that sweltering practice field.
The consensus was that I'd persevere and just finish the season. But life as I knew it was about to change. What I didn't know was there was Coach Long who coached Defensive Line, and he was about to give me an opportunity of a lifetime. A powerfully built defensive line looking man who himself had successfully completed his high school career at North Augusta, howbeit a lot earlier than I. So Coach Long looks at me in those befuddled eyes of mine, and directed me, "Mercier, I want you to come here and play over here." He was pointing at the tackle position on the Defensive line. And as excited as I was to be taken from the tackle dummy position, I still pondered as to why he chose me. Maybe it was because I was so tall and I could knock the ball down in the event that the quarterback threw a screen pass or something like that. To this day, I don't know why. It really isn't important though. But what is important is that I will always be thankful that he gave me that much anticipated time off the dummy's dinger. And then there was the day when those Jockey coaches would see the way I tackled.
We had a scrawny old Head Coach who didn't seem to want us to tackle. At least tackle correctly anyway. I believed that this should be done as to stop the other player from going anywhere. That's the point right? You immobilize your opponent as to keep him from moving forward. So why was this man trying to conceal the art of tackling from us? His belief was this would only be done at game time, and only during game time. The instructions he gave us seemed as if he was trying to hold us back. Wait a minute, I just said us, as if I was part of that group that he would look at, and then bark out his commandments. I have to remember I was the one he would look through just to see someone else. Until that day anyway, I thought I was invisible to this man. Coach Long had strategically positioned me with his starting defensive linemen. Taking what was unfamiliar territory, the all so sacred practice field, I'd look around the linebackers to wave to my buddies on the tackling dummies. As if they were routing me on. It really was a nice thing to see. So, being placed somewhere I thought was so far out of reach that there must have been a look of bewilderment on my face. But I stood there confidently among the giants within my own state of a beanstalk mentality.
So there was our Head Coach, let us just call him Coach Jockey. He looked at the defense and barked in what seemed to be a West Virginian dialect, "All right guys, I want you to go 110%." Excited to be standing there with marching orders in hand and I was free to show them I could play. The belief was that I could actually go full steam ahead when I truthfully never heard these "All Out" words before. It seemed like to me that finally, we were doing what it took to win football games. The offense broke huddle. The first team players placed their hands gingerly upon the ground. Waiting there for the commands from their own signal caller, they would wait patiently. "Blue 32, Set, and Hut!" I heard it as if cannons went off in my head. All I wanted to do was make an impression with Coach Long. I believed that he was the only one on that field who saw something more in me than I did within myself. So if I was going to be successful for anyone, it'd be for him.
Rather than sit there and wait for the offense line to react, I chose to jump over the person who was lucky enough to be in front of number eighty six. Low and behold there was the quarterback that happened to be there when I landed on all fours. So I did what most people would do on a field like this, make sure that my coach knew that I would no longer be their tackling dummy. That my will would be forced upon my quarterback, and ultimately he would fall. I hit him with as much of the 110% percent I had left. After this hit, both of us were there on the ground, he was wondering why he had been hit with such an awesome thunder. I was there knowing that the thunder he felt rattle his bones was me. Then I heard something that sounded like a mouse trying to squeeze through a cheese whiz nozzle. A high pitched whine coming from the mouth of Coach Jockey, I could barely hear what he was trying to say. But from what I could render, he was screaming while grabbing my helmet, "Get up, you imbecile, why did you hit my quarterback?" I remember hearing him spitting those words out as if his madness had suddenly become the chemical compound of water. Otherwise known as H2 Spit, and I wasn't able to tell where his spit began and my sweat ended. Once again, this was the man who never showed anyone on this team how to tackle. And in one instance, this tall lanky defensive lineman had just given his teammates a Smithsonian display of what it means to pummel your opponent into ultimate submission. I promise you that I heard one hundred and ten percent. But apparently what was actually said was something a hundred percent farther down that proverbial line. This Coach said ten percent not one hundred and ten percent. Imagine that!
Here I was in total amazement at how I had just finished my entire season in one snap and we still had ten games left. Needless to say I didn't help the quarterback up from his billowing slumber. I really did hit him with a hundred and ten percent, so I felt that if I'd done what Coach didn't want me doing in the first place, then it really didn't matter if I helped him up or not. Coach Jockey was still losing his mind and his ever increasing anger was more present now than ever before. Feeling totally isolated, I just stood there as if to say, "Just tackling here, might be a thing or two you guys want to learn." He then smacked my shoulder pads and grabbed my grass stained helmet with his hands, "Who is going to play quarterback?!!! You hit him, you gonna play quarterback?!! You see anyone here who's gonna play if you knock him out for the season?!!" His spit was hitting my face as if it were a driving rain. I started smiling as all my teammates began to notice this boyish grin. Then in the beat of a heart, I quickly responded with confidence, "Hey Coach, I'll play quarterback! You ask who'll play, and all I want to do it play football. So if that's the position you want me to play, I'll do it just as long as you let me play." That wasn't something a man who had just seen his star player getting his bell rung wanted to hear. He hit my shoulder pads again, and took my practice jersey in his hands. And then he yelled, "Boy! You see those receivers, get over there and get out of here, you need to get away from me, you flipping idiot!" The emotions I had then were somewhat demure. I had just demonstrated to our team what I thought it would take to win football games. To tackle as Coach Long would have us tackle. With as much authority as it would take to revolutionize North Augusta football, at least to that point anyway. However, Coach Jockey thought I'd be better suited to spend the next couple of months with the Tight Ends. Which was really kind of fun, except for the friends I'd made on those tackling dummies would now be on the other side of the field. For a second I thought I'd be sent to my ruin within the confines of the tackling dummies. But from there I was sent to oblivion, not really knowing where I would play, somehow delegated to what I thought would be a second string Tight End.
Then another incident happened. And number eighty six here was really up to the challenge. Coach Long would always seem to want me back, but never voiced his opinion because of his position. At least that is what I thought anyway. During practice one day Coach Jockey called a play that was designated for me, the Tight End. "This is it, a chance to show this team I can be an asset rather than a liability!" I said to myself. I broke huddle and started to line up so that the defense would not know this would be the day the Lord had made for me. The same call that I heard when I played defense I heard then except that I would be the one who initiated the cannon blast. The quarterback roared as he purposely looked over to me, "Hut, hut!" I wish I had really paid attention more to it because this was the payback play. At least it seemed that way anyway.
Before I finish, have you ever heard the old steam engine at Disney World? The sound of its whistle when it blows can be heard basically from anywhere in the park. And sometimes even on the monorail. But once the monorail leaves the park it drops you off at the parking lot. That sound becomes a distant reminder of the fun you enjoyed for the day. When you get to the car, it's the one place in the park where the train can't be heard. Well, I believe that is where I was the day that play was called for me. I was in my car all the way back in the furthest part of the parking lot. Let's just call it the Donald Duck lot because ducks don't have ears and I didn't hear anything. So needless to say, I didn't sense anything. It seemed as if this would be a major turning point in my football career. It didn't matter if I could hear the whistles or not for I was about to take off on my own. All I heard was, "Hut!" I knew that this screen pass had number eighty six written all over it. The center snapped the ball. The quarterback who shall remain nameless except for number seven took the snap. And with a twirling acrobatic move he danced around his center who was preoccupied with a nose guard of his own. I ran what I thought to be the correct route and then every inch of number seven's arm strength was released. A rocketing bullet meant for me, and I was intent on showing these people I was not out of my league. I knew I could catch. All I needed was the ball. Now, they would know and we'd be one big happy family. Yeah right? However, that's when the train came. As if lightning struck right beside me I felt an electrifying jolt that seemed to turn the lights off within my own mind. I knew I had the ball. And I believed there were more yards I could have gained. But of course, the train I'm talking about came by way of a strong safety who just happened to be the best friend of guess who? Really now, is it that simple? Yes it is, it was the quarterback, of which Mr. tackling dummy here, turned defensive line extraordinaire had politely laid out just a couple of weeks before. I didn't see it coming. But it's as if this Coach Jockey had set this up just to show the other tackling dummies that when he says ten percent, that's what he means.
The smell of Bermuda grass is a wonderful smell in the middle of summer. Having just mowed the lawn, it glistens with a soft fragrance of mist. The grass I'd become so acquainted with while mowing it, smelled altogether different that day. Not as soft. Actually after that though, I don't remember much, but here I was, a boy on his back who didn't know where he was at the moment. Then, like the sun would seep through the fog, I could hear distinct voices. Some sounded like tiny birds chirping, others sounded like mice nibbling on a mound of Gouda cheese. Then there was a discrete laughter. And I wasn't at all amused. Dazed and confused were the emotions on tap for that minute. Coach Jockey stood over me with a precarious smile. Along with the other offensive coaches, they were all overly excited to see that this strong safety had made contact. I don't remember if they even asked me how I was doing. But as if the light switch came on and the light began to creep back into my head. I asked, "What are you guys doing in my room?" I felt that I accomplished something because I still had my fingers wrapped around the ball. And yards were gained. It was ultimately a success. I'd now become part of this team.
So for the rest of the month we practiced hard. I was relieved to know that I earned my way on the second team. I thought that for five games anyway. We were playing at home against Greenwood and it was midway through the second quarter. I was procuring my original place on the bench, and I stood up to start walking around. You know in mid-September, the Gatorade is really cold when you're not moving around. So I had to start moving for nothing more than the sake of staying warm. The yellow jackets were swarming and gaining ground. Catching something out of the corner of my eyes, it made me jump up out of my own little comfort zone, and run over to Coach Jockey.
The starting Tight End had been injured. And I was the second team Tight End. Number eighty six was finally going to see game time. On the home field as well, this was sure to be one heck of a good day. My helmet fastened tightly upon my chin, and I waited patiently for Coach Jockey to usher me in with the play. I thought it'd be the same one I had gotten my bell rang earlier in the season. But I didn't care, I just wanted to play. He turned around, looked at me ready to go, and turned his head towards another direction. One in which had me confused. The seconds that I stood there seemed like hours but I was standing there ready to take the field. The direction in which he turned was nowhere close to mine. He turned to the second team quarterback and asked, "Dodge, do you know these tight end plays?" This was a moment that made me feel as if I was the only one in the stadium. I looked at him angrily and in absolute disgust. As to why he would call someone other than his second team Tight End was far from the current answers that I knew. But he did.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Through the Cloudsby C. Wes Mercier Copyright © 2012 by C. Wes Mercier. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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