For the Sake of Appearances
by
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INTRODUCTION
Malachi sits alone on a faded wooden bench in The Park. It is Saturday noon. For the last three months, he has walked, day and night, along US 40.
Malachi began in Barstow, California. He is happy there, working forty-two years as a tour guide for the NASA Deep Space Network complex since he graduated from one of the town's two high schools. The complex seems the perfect place for Malachi. He marvels at the advancements of telecommunications at the hands of NASA's elite. Witnessing, unfiltered, the discoveries of planets and stars, unknown worlds, before newscasters distort the significant breakthroughs to the public, he listens in as others probe the universe for signs and sounds of life beyond his little world of Barstow. Yes, Malachi is happy there.
Guiding groups of school kids through the halls of the NASA complex is the closest Malachi achieves to living his lifelong dream of becoming an astronaut. He had the desire, even the athletic physique having run track throughout his high school career. Freshman tryouts for the football team, Malachi outran most of the other boys. However, having his mother’s short stubby fingers, he repeatedly fumbled the ball.
“Don’t look so defeated, son,” the coach said, taking Malachi aside after announcing the team’s roster the following week. “Football’s just not your game. But with your speed and stamina, you’d win state conference hands down in track.”
And he did. Malachi hadn’t been the tallest kid on the track team either, standing only 5’3’’ even as a senior, but he had been the fastest. The horde of medals that lined his bedroom walls testified to that. His grades weren’t half bad either considering he never made below a B in any of his classes.
No, what kept him from floating around in space was his fear of flying. Malachi was as brave as the next man, as long as his feet touched the ground. So instead of striving for astronaut, he settles for the tour guide position straight out of high school. At least he is around the science he loves. Yes, Malachi is happy here.
Then he hears a voice.
Malachi is on his late lunch break. Dr. Jameson permits Malachi to spend the last half hour pretending to scan the skies in the Signal Processing Center. With headset on, Malachi studies the radar screen while white static fills his ears.
"Malachi."
He looks around the room. Only three others are there, but no one is even looking in Malachi's direction. He shrugs his shoulders slightly and returns his concentration to the screen's dancing lights.
"Malachi."
Twisting off the headphones, Malachi stands to his feet.
"Who's calling me?"
Malachi is sure he's going to hear snickers from someone playing tricks on him, the dumb tour guide. He knows what the college interns say when they think he's not listening. It wouldn't surprise Malachi one bit to see one or two pop out from behind the console, but when he leans over to check his theory there is only empty floor. Slowly returning to his borrowed chair, Malachi repositions the headset, the microphone turned up and away.
"Malachi!" A third time and he finally understands. Malachi pulls down the microphone to his lips.
"Yes,?" Malachi whispers into the piece, darting his eyes around the room, but no one else is paying him any attention. "God?" Malachi remembers back to a sermon his father once gave on a young boy named Samuel. The console lights flicker, a livewire rainbow of color before his eyes. But I ain't no little boy no more.
"Malachi, it is time for you to leave." The voice drowns out the familiar static.
"And go where? I've never left here before."
"East."
"But I don't have a car." Malachi protest. "Just how far east are you talking about?"
"East, Malachi, as far East as I lead you." Malachi begs for more information, but gets no reply. In moments, the static returns. Oh, not Samuel. Abram. Moses even. Malachi lays down the headset and walks out of the Signal Processing Center shaking his head.
That afternoon, he leads a rowdy group of fourth graders on a routine tour of the complex. Before Dr. Jameson drives him home, Malachi turns in his picture ID to the front desk, still thinking he'll wear it again in the morning.
That night, Malachi dreams a dream. He is walking. For miles and miles, he walks. And when the sun stares down upon him through his bedroom window early the next morning, Malachi groans. Daddy didn't raise no Jonah, I guess. He grabs his wallet, laces up his good walking shoes, leaves his keys and walks out.
Day and night. Night and day. They blend together the longer Malachi is walking. At first he stops every few miles to rest, to eat, to sleep. Yet weeks into his journey, the slightest whiff of fast food restaurants or cookout in people’s backyards sends his stomach churning, begging to be filled, steering Malachi to the interstate.
It is along these wide stretches of concrete and asphalt that Malachi hears God’s voice again whispering to his heart.
Malachi.
“Yes?”
Trust me.
“But I’m thirsty.”
I am the Living Water. Drink from Me.
A garbage truck barrels past Malachi, its tires catching broken pavement. A loose piece flies off the interstate and he hears a tiny plop. Malachi walks down the grassy embankment, finding a shallow creek. He drinks.
“I’m hungry too.”
I am the Bread of Life. Eat of Me.
Looking across the creek, he sees a blueberry bush loaded with fresh berries even though its fruit was out of season. Malachi plucks the bush bare.
Walking, Malachi listens and God speaks, teaching Malachi to trust. During the heat of the day, he rests under shade trees, on park benches, under junction overpasses. In the cool of the evening and under the stars, he walks. On Sundays, Malachi enters the closest church. Here Malachi learns to watch, watch the people, and God guides him on how to read each person’s hidden emotions – on their faces, in their gestures, through their voices.
Crossing the Arizona state line, Malachi needs new shoes. The hot desert wind convinces him that airy sandals are best.
Malachi keeps walking.
When he walks into Amarillo, Texas, the button-up plaid shirt is worn straight through, and underneath, his once mulatto skin is now a dark chocolate brown. Malachi discards the threads and replaces it with a white tunic top, light and clean.
Malachi keeps walking.
In Little Rock, Malachi has to retire his stiff blue jeans in exchange for a feathery pair of slacks.
Malachi keeps walking.
Three months later, Malachi sits on a park bench in a tiny North Carolina town. The welcome sign reads East. Malachi gives a tired laugh, his wizened hands resting wide upon each knee. "Now what?"
"Rest. Tomorrow we go to church."
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About the Book
Malachi once dreamed of being an astronaut, but his fear of flying kept his feet firmly planted on the ground. Instead, he works for the NASA Deep Space Network as a tour guide in California. He’s held the same job for forty-two years, and he would have been happy to stay—until he hears a voice calling his name and soon realizes that voice is God.
God tells him to leave and go east—as far east as God leads him. Malachi trusts enough to head out and keep walking east. His travels take him from California, through New Mexico, into Texas, and all the way to the city of East, North Carolina, where Malachi wanders into a church service one Sunday morning.
There he realizes what he’s been sent to do. All the singing and praising, the smiling and waving between congregation members—it’s all a sham. Malachi sees right through them. Th e people of East, North Carolina, are frightened and weak. They need a revival, and Malachi, sent by God, may be the one man who can guide their souls back to Christ.
About the Author
Robin Nicole was born and raised in Weddington, North Carolina. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English and has taught both English and Latin. She currently works as a freelancer writer. She is a proud mother of two and resides in Weddington, North Carolina.