Who is the other thief?
Today I'm delighted to welcome author Frank McKinney to my blog. His book, The Other Thief, has just come out and took 6 months to design and finalize. Each of his last three book covers were painstakingly designed to look like a coming-attractions movie poster. The novel took over a year to write because the author went back and rewrote much of the middle and ending after receiving valuable input from his editor, her 24 year-old intern, and from an acclaimed filmmaker. So it should be seriously good! In his other life he says he’s a real estate “artist” where he creates multi-million dollar oceanfront homes on speculation on the sun-drenched canvas of the Atlantic. It’s a life he’s lived 10 years longer than that as an author. And he's here to tell us something about the hows and whys of the wise things he does. Over to you Frank...
On the first night when I arrived in Florida from Indiana as
an 18 year-old without the hope of education beyond graduating high school with
a 1.8 GPA, I slept under a pier because I didn’t have a place to stay. I chose
the soft sand under the pier over the hard concrete of sleeping under a bridge.
The next day I began work as a golf course maintenance
worker, waking at 4am to take a taxi from the pier to meet my coworkers. I was
scared to death, and when I arrived I realized I was the only white person who
would be working on that Deerfield Beach golf course. I worked amongst
Haitians, and quickly earned the nickname “the white Haitian” because of my
strong work ethic. I may believe in the welfare system, but I don’t believe in
an entitlement mentality. I’ve never been afraid to work hard.
Fast forward to today, where, through our Caring House Project Foundation (CHPF.org), we’ve built 28 self-sufficient villages in 25 Haitian cities over the last 16 years. We’ve provided a self-sustaining existence to 12,000+ children and their families who were living in mud or tin shacks covered in palm fronds for a roof with rodents the size of cats running across their dirt floors.
Our Haiti villages contain 40-50 brightly pastel colored
concrete homes for families of eight, a community center that houses a school,
church and clinic, clean drinking water, renewable food and some form of free
enterprise so the village can be self-reliant. In addition, we provide meals in
our schools and orphanages (2 part protein, 1 part carbohydrate).
Knowing that for each copy of The Other Thief we sell
we’ll be able to provide nearly 200 meals to the hungry children in our Haiti
villages and orphanages made me anticipate the 70,000 words I would write with
joy and purpose. As I was writing I often thought back to my Haitian coworkers
on that golf course, and the deep love I still have for them and the place they
came from.
So... not just a well-edited and fascinating story, but a well-grounded and life-giving one as well. Here's a few details, and then an excerpt, perhaps...
Synopsis:
Francis Rose, lead singer
for a meteorically popular Christian rock band, has it all—fame, fortune,
family, and deep faith. With the support of his loving wife, young daughter,
and Down-syndrome blessed son, he’s gone from performing for an audience of 20 at
his tiny Lutheran church in Keeler, Indiana, to selling out 20,000-seat arenas.
His impact is global, soulful, and seemingly unstoppable.
The seven deadly sins don’t
stand a chance against a man of Francis’ character, morality, and faith. Or do
they? Their alluring assault is relentless as Francis encounters each of them
along his ascending path to superstardom.
Author bio:
Frank McKinney is a true
Renaissance man: a five-time bestselling author (in 4 genres), real estate
“artist” (creates multi-million dollar oceanfront homes on speculation on the
sun-drenched canvas of the Atlantic), actor, ultramarathoner, aspirational
speaker.
The mediagenic author has
been featured in countless TV & print articles, including Oprah (twice),
20/20, and the cover of USA Today.
Frank’s other books include: The Tap, Dead Fred, Flying Lunchboxes, and
the Good Luck Circle, Burst This! Frank McKinney’s Bubble-Proof Real Estate
Strategies, Frank McKinney’s Maverick Approach to Real Estate and Make it Big!
49 Secrets for Building a Life of Extreme Success.
A “philanthro-capitalist,”
Frank has made an enormous humanitarian impact in Haiti through his Caring House
Project, where he has created 27
self-sufficient villages in 24 cities in the last 16 years, impacting the lives
of 11,000+ children and their families. Frank, his wife, Nilsa, and their
daughter, Laura make their home in Delray Beach, Florida, where Frank wrote The
Other Thief in his oceanfront treehouse office.
Purchase Link:
Social Media:
Website: http://www.TheOtherThief.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/FrankMcKinney
Instagram:
https://www.instagram.com/thefrankmckinney/
Chapter 13 – The Other Thief
Sleep
eluded me, in spite of having gotten plenty of exercise in the blazing Arizona
sun with the kids, riding ride after ride and slide after slide at the water
park. They’d been so happy all day, yet seeing their joy at spending time
together as a family only served to drive a dagger of shame through my heart.
Mary had looked so happy, too. It was hard enough to watch her play with the
kids with such love in her eyes and in her soul. But each time she turned those
love-eyes on me, I had to force my return gaze or look away. It was becoming
more and more painful to receive her loving attention. Thank God for dark
sunglasses.
Tired of
staring through the black of our bedroom toward the ceiling, I got up around
4:30 a.m. again and retreated to my home studio. It felt good to put some
physical distance between me and the angelic presence sleeping so soundly
beside me. I didn’t deserve to share her bed. I needed to get alone with my
thoughts, alone with God, and plan my course of action—my confession. I wanted
to rehearse the words so thoroughly that I couldn’t second-guess myself. Even
though I continued to pray for strength and courage, each time I tried to
gather my thoughts, I was consumed with the memory of how horrifically my first
confession had gone.
I could
still back out—at least partially. I could still just tell her about Paulina.
That would probably be easier. After all, according to Dr. Shapiro, she seemed
about to regain her memory anyway. Or I could just tell her about Cindy, which
seemed the worse of the two options. Either of those options would be easier
than making a double confession! But as I thought about what Pastor John had
taught me, I realized that in order to cut both ungodly soul ties, I would need
to confess to both sins. Yes, it would have to be done that way, I resolved. I
would do it as soon as Mary woke up.
I went
into the kitchen and brewed her a strong cup of coffee, hoping the aroma would
wake her. Killing time by opening messages in my office, I read another
reminder from Stephanie to meet her in the studio to sign off on Forgiven. I
started rationalizing my plan to talk with Mary first thing when she woke up.
Surely, I couldn’t drop a bomb like that and then leave her alone while I was
at the studio all day. I decided I’d better meet with Stephanie first, so that
the rest of my day would be clear for consoling Mary. I took care of mundane
office tasks until after sunrise, left Mary’s coffee in the microwave with a
note on the kitchen counter, let Stephanie know I could meet her, and headed
out for the studio.
I got to
the studio before Stephanie. It was just after sunrise and the early rays of
sunshine splashed across the lobby walls, highlighting Justus’ framed photos,
awards, and our platinum record for Sanctified.
The rays reflected off that album back into my eyes, making me wonder how I had
strayed so far from the path that had gotten me here. It was as if God was
sending me a message. His light was what had gotten me this far, and I longed
for it again. In my mind, I begged God to allow Philippians 3:13 to bear fruit:
“I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and
straining forward to what lies ahead.” I so desperately wanted to leave this
unfamiliar Francis in my past.
When Stephanie
arrived, I was grateful to find her in all-business mode, anxious to get the
final listen-through taken care of. As she fired up the equipment, I felt my
phone vibrate in my pocket. I glanced just long enough to see that it was a
call coming in from Cindy. Really!
This early? Anger surged through me as I sent the call to voicemail
and turned off my phone. The last thing I needed was for Stephanie to see Cindy
calling me, giving her an opportunity to reopen that line of interrogation with
me.
“I’m so
excited!” Stephanie said. It felt great to see her smiling in my direction
again. That hadn’t happened much lately. “The press conference for Forgiven is
all set up for next week, followed by a spectacular release party at the
Beverly Hills Hotel! And the week after that, you’re off to Haiti to collect
your medal of honor. God is so good!”
“Wow,
that’s fantastic!” I said. “We sure have come a long way, haven’t we Steph?”
“I was
just thinking about that,” said Stephanie, wistfully. “Do you remember when we
recorded our first song, ‘Justus,’ about the 14th disciple? We
didn’t even have a record contract yet. We begged our way into that tiny,
makeshift studio in the back of the Sam Goody Music store at 2:00 a.m. when no
one was around.”
“I
remember,” I said. “Our only plan then was to sell the song after each mass at
church and at church festivals, to anyone who would buy it! And even though we
barely made any money, we had all agreed from the start to split the proceeds
with the church’s soup kitchen that fed Keeler’s homeless. We went all over
town stapling flyers onto telephone poles!” My heart melted a bit, thinking
about our humble origins and how simple things were back then.
“Do you
remember how we celebrated the wrap-up of that first recording?” she asked, the
twinkle in her eyes telling me she remembered it well.
“I do!” I
said. “We scraped together just enough money to take the band, families, and
Pastor John out to a celebratory dinner at Applebee’s!” I beamed at Stephanie,
noticing her moist eyes and realizing how much our work together had meant to
her all these years.
“I’ll
always remember that dinner,” she said. “No matter how over-the-top amazing
this Beverly Hills Hotel party turns out to be—and believe me, it will be
amazing!—nothing will ever beat the excitement and innocence of that first
celebration. I hope you don’t mind that I told the catering staff at the hotel
to have the same Buffalo wings and nachos that we had that night.”
“Not at
all! Great idea! Can you imagine if we’d had a crystal ball at that first
celebration, and could see what we were destined for?” Right after the words
left my mouth, their full implications hit me. All the fame, all the money, all
the good I’d been able to do in the world—that’s what I was initially thinking about
when I imagined my younger self looking into that crystal ball. But what if the
crystal ball had also revealed the shitpile I’d made of my personal life? It
would have shattered young Francis’ heart.
We put on
our headsets to begin the final listen. The rest of the band had already signed
off, and it was always me and Steph who had the final say. The tracks sounded
fantastic—even better than I’d remembered them. I turned up the volume to
really feel their impact. At the end of each song, Stephanie and I gave one
another nods and high-fives to indicate our approval.
But when
the very last song came on—the title song—my insides began to churn. It was the
most powerful song Justus had ever recorded, and the most impactful lyrics the
Holy Spirit had ever moved me to write. But something just didn’t feel right.
Somehow the song just didn’t feel like it had felt when I’d written it. It felt
sharp. Painful, even. I listened to myself sing, “All I need is you to love. For you to set me free. All I need is your breath
inside of me. To give me life. Bring me back to my knees.” Unable to bear
it any longer, I pulled the headset off.
Seeing
that Stephanie had noticed my discomfort and wanting to avoid a conversation
with her, I quickly said, “Yep! That’s a wrap. Everything sounds great. Thanks
for meeting me here today and getting this over to the label.” I grabbed my
keys and tried to make a beeline for the door.
“I
understand why that song upset you, Francis.”
Stopped by
her words, I quickly turned around to face her. “I’m fine. All’s good. This
album is going to sell millions. Let’s get it to the record label right away.”
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
I got the
sense Stephanie wanted to question me. She wanted a status update on Cindy. I
could feel it in her. But she must have also been able to feel me. My emotional exhaustion. My soul’s
ache. My remorse and my shame. She walked over to me and put her hands on my
shoulders.
Softly,
she said, “You are stronger than you feel. You’re a better man than it seems
right now. And you will come through this season of your life.”
She hugged
me for a long time, allowing her friendship and her belief in me to sink deep
into my soul. Unable to articulate my immense gratitude, I gave her a quick,
“thank you” squeeze and left the studio. Blinking into the bright midday sun, I
pulled out my phone to text Mary. I steeled myself, gathered my nerve, and
typed, “Hi, sweetheart. Meet me at the Sanctuary for lunch?”
Mary’s
reply came back immediately. “So Forgiven is a wrap? That does call for a
celebration! I’ll be there as soon as I pick Heather up from swimming and drop
her off with Eddie and Delia.”
Driving to
the Sanctuary, I tried to rehearse my confession. But imagining Mary’s face
upon hearing what I’d done was too painful. I decided the confession would have
to just come out naturally in the moment. If I kept trying to plan it, I was
afraid I’d back out. It was like making a plan to saw off your own leg. The
more you thought about it in advance, the less likely you’d be to actually go
through with it.
I asked
the hostess for a quiet table in the corner and ordered a root beer.
“You’re in
Justus, aren’t you?” asked the shy waitress as she set a basket of chips on my
table.
“I am,” I
said, extending my hand. “Francis Rose. Good to meet you.”
“I’m sure
people ask you all the time—so you don’t have to say yes—but do you think we
could take a picture together? My boyfriend will never believe this.”
“Of
course,” I said, leaning into her photo. “Would you like an autograph?”
“Thank
you! Could I have two?”
I
fulfilled the waitress’s requests, sending her happily off her shift. I
nervously scanned the room. It was taking Mary much longer to arrive than I
expected. My mind ambled down dark pathways of possibility. Mary had said she’d
be going by the house first. What if Cindy had been there, waiting to talk to
her? Or what if Cindy had called her? Maybe Cindy was angry with me for
ignoring her call and took revenge by spilling our secret to Mary. God, I would
be glad when all of this shit was over. Just a few more minutes and I wouldn’t
have to be tortured by this anymore—at least not the secrets part.
Sensing
commotion at the restaurant entrance, I looked up to see Mary barreling toward
me with a terrified expression I’d never seen on her before. Eyes wide, hair
frazzled, she accidentally knocked over a chair as she rushed across the
crowded restaurant. Adrenaline shot through my bloodstream. Oh shit. Oh shit,
shit, shit. It had happened! She’d found out!
Two valets
came running after her, calling “Ma’am! Ma’am!” One put his hand on her arm and
she twirled to face him, looking disoriented, as though she couldn’t imagine
why he’d stopped her.
“I need
your car key, Ma’am,” he said—apologetically, because her distress was
palpable. Mary gave him the keys in her hand, and angrily took the stub offered
by the other valet.
My heart
stiff with fear, unable to breathe, I stood up, utterly unready for whatever
was about to take place.
Mary
lurched to the table like a zombie and leaned against it, staring at me.
“Honey . .
. honey, say something,” I said, bracing for the worst. When she didn’t
respond, I started rambling. “Mary, it’s terrible, I know. God help me, I can
explain. I talked to Pastor–”
Mary
grabbed me around the neck and sobbed, “It’s the worst thing, Francis! Why?
Why?”
Shaking, I
rested my forehead on her shoulder. How could I answer that question? It was
the same question I’d been asking myself, but I’d never gotten any kind of
answer that made sense. Why? Why? Why had I done this to her? My mouth dry, I
pulled her away from me to look into her eyes. “Mary, please know how much I
love you. I made a terrible, terrible mistake.”
“Why did
it happen? Why did it happen, again?” she sobbed.
Her question stunned me. She was finally remembering my
first confession after all this time, and now she was asking how it could
happen again with Cindy!
I
struggled to get my response right. I opened my mouth to speak, but there was
no air to even push out of my lungs. Before I could formulate an answer, she
sobbed, “I guess I should have known better than to drive that route, but I
wasn’t even thinking about it. And then, just as I passed that spot on East
Camelback where we crashed . . . Oh God, I saw her again!” Mary fell into my
arms, dissolving into tears, unable to continue.
Slowly, it
dawned on me. Mary didn’t know. She. Didn’t. Know. Mary still didn’t know my
shameful secrets. She’d had one of her visions, and that was what all this was
about. The rollercoaster ride of my emotions was making me too dizzy to support
her so I led her to a chair at the table and scooted my chair right up next to
hers.
“It was
just a vision, sweetheart,” I said, my hands shaking.
“But Francis,
it wasn’t the same! It was awful! It was the clearest one I’ve ever had,
and you were in it this time! You
were lying on the side of the road. It was so terrible; it looked like you were
dead! It was you and that same woman I’ve seen before. Oh, how I’ve come to
hate her, Francis! That woman with the skin-tight black clothing and the red
lipstick and that long, shiny, black hair. Only . . . only this time, the hair
started to change, Francis! It
seemed to be turning from black to blonde! It was like the woman herself was
changing into a different woman, starting with the hair, but then it all
disappeared before I could see any more. Why? Why does this keep happening to
me? Make it stop!”
My
thoughts formed a tornado in my mind as I took my sobbing, trembling wife into
my arms. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. It’s over now,” I said.
Wiping her
eyes and dabbing at her nose with a napkin, Mary asked, “Francis, why did you
say you made a terrible mistake?”
I froze.
Mary
continued, “It wasn’t your mistake, honey. I know you don’t like to drive. It
was my mistake that we crashed that night.”
Awash with
more emotions than I knew how to process, I needed to step away to get my
bearings. I said, “Let me get you a drink, sweetheart,” and headed for the bar.
What if this newest vision brought flashes of memory with it? What if she were
about to remember the conversation in the car that preceded the crash? I had to
tell her before she remembered it on her own! But how could I tell her when she
was in such a disoriented frenzy?
“Hey, look
who it is!” said the bartender. It was Dave, the one I’d met the night I’d been
here with Cindy.
“Just a
glass of Chardonnay,” I said, hoping to let him know, with my tone, that I
wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“That
blonde you came in with the other night, Mr. Rose—wow, what a hottie! I bet
women throw themselves at you like crazy! That Christian rock thing must really
melt the chicks’ hearts—and panties!” He winked at me, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Can you
just get me the wine?”
“Sure,
sure, I’m getting it. I bet it’s for that other beauty you have lined up over
there in the corner. I gotta hand it to you, man, it’s a great gig! What an
act!”
I threw
money on the bar and took Mary’s wine. “Cindy is a longtime family friend,” I
said, “and that beauty over there is my
wife.”
Dave
smiled broadly. “Okay, Mr. Christian rock star! Your secret is safe with me!
Rock on!”
Mary was
still visibly shaken when I returned with her wine. Frustrated and at the end
of my rope, I said, “Damn it, sweetheart, I’m so goddamn sorry this keeps
happening. What can I do to help you?”
“Just
please help me make it stop, Francis. With all of Eddie’s issues lately, and
with you being gone so much working on Forgiven,
I’ve really been struggling. I need you now more than ever.”
Mary
brought my hand up and gently laid it to the side of her cheek, searching my
face for reassurance that I would be her hero and protector, just as I’d always
been. Over her shoulder, I saw Bartender Dave watching us. Catching my eye, he
made the zipper-across-the-lips gesture, insinuating that his lips were sealed.
I slouched
back in my chair, leaning my head on the headrest, dead and empty inside. All
my hopefulness at being near the end of my self-inflicted torture, all my
resolutions and pure intentions—I watched it all melt away like the ice in my
root beer. The confession wasn’t going to happen—not now, and probably not
ever. I would never be unburdened of my sin. I had done the deliverance with
Pastor John and that would just have to be the extent of my repentance.
Whatever weak, pathetic, sinful creature I’d become, it was time for me to
accept the truth of it and move on.
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