(Editor’s note: Each weekend we’ll publish one chapter of the new Christian novel Which One of You? here at Christian Heartbeat.)

Every story has its moment and this is mine. Granted, most stories have more than one moment and that’s true for me too. But of all the moments, of all the times when life changed for me, this is the one I remember most.

I had this friend at seminary we called Jerry Q. He was unofficial street fighting champion of our school. Not that seminary street fighting champ is much of a title -- especially since so many women are entering the ministry. And none of us ever saw him fight. But he had a blue collar swagger we young men admired, and scars on his face to back his claim that he’d dusted up the streets of Chicago with more than few would-be bad dudes. None of us wanted scars like his, so we took him at his word.

I mention Jerry Q. because of something he once told me. He said he’d never lost a fight because he had a sense of when to give in to the moment. When he felt the tipping point was at hand, he’d always strike the first blow. It was usually decisive.

Every story has a moment, and this is mine. I didn’t punch anyone in the face, but I sensed events were moving beyond my control and if I didn’t act someone else would write my story. That’s when God took over and my new life began.

Where do you go to find God? The answer is you don’t. You can search. But the truth is, God finds you. You can even run from God, but you really can’t hide. Just the same, there are “thin places” on this earth where many have claimed God’s voice is easier to hear -- mountain tops, deep forests, hospital rooms. God found me at the beach. From there a whole new world opened up to me.

I was lost when that Thursday began and a little drunk when it ended. Up early and already a day behind on writing my sermon, I drew a complete blank. I had nothing. The clock ticked off 6:30, then 7 and 7:30. No inspiration in my coffee cup. Not in the first cup, the second or third. I began leafing through the New Testament but nothing jumped out at me. At 8 a.m. I went for a run. A good sweat but no sermon. At 9 a.m. I decided to give up. I’d stand up Sunday morning and just say what was on my heart. Other preachers would call that suicidal but to me right now it had a certain ornery appeal.

The closest I’d come to the beach that summer was watching it while sitting at the bar with Sagan’s mom Monday afternoon. I put together my kit -- a little cooler, towel, book, sunscreen and a folding chair. I wore my suit under khaki shorts. I wanted to be alone and away from the cars, families and high school kids so I crossed the high rise bridge and turned south toward the national seashore.

The first parking lot was almost empty but the second was even more remote. Farther still and I’d risk getting into the nude sunbathers section. I crossed the dunes on the wooden walkover and then down the stairs onto an empty beach. Postcard perfect, I thought but I didn’t feel the relief I wanted. These sensations were new to me. I couldn’t name them. A tightness in my chest and a cold hollowness in my limbs. Concentration? Impossible. An alien in my own body. I’d felt it all morning and didn’t feel restored by my morning run, which is when I began to panic. I tried calling it anxiety but that wasn’t good enough. Bit walking out onto the white sand under the shimmering yellow sun started the healing. The heat helped focus my mind and I remembered the children’s story about a contest between the sun and the north wind and found myself hoping the sun would work its magic on me. A thoughtless, wordless prayer murmured in my heart.

The beach was wide, just past low tide, the ocean now beginning its slow creep back to shore. Another five hours would pass before high tide would pull the Atlantic close to the dunes. I unfolded my lounger a safe distance from the water and spreading my towel over it, slipped out of my shorts and tee shirt, placing them atop my cooler along with my book. Lying out on my back I reminded myself not to go long without rubbing in some sunscreen. Sweat beaded all over my body as the sun’s heat pierced through my skin into my muscles and bones. Lying there on my back, growing warmer and warmer, I felt my tension melt and suddenly I knew the word for what I’d been feeling was fear.

I was honest to God surprised. This was new to me but I had no doubt that‘s what it was. I’d gone skydiving once and felt a fearful thrill when we stepped from the plane and dropped through the air. I’d even had a gun pointed at me and felt a kind of fear when I thought, “he could kill me.” But this fear was different -- more haunting -- but once I saw it, I understood the whole thing. All my life I’d known I would be a preacher, like my Dad and his Dad. If I lose that, who am I? When that gun was pointed in my face I’d thought about being dead and gone. But to be alive and gone? That is scary.

Naming my fear helped. I began to feel my arms and legs belonged to me again. Sweat was rolling off me and I was deeply aware of being alive. The sun ruled the world and I was a part of it, inside and out. At the water’s edge shore birds danced back and forth as waves foamed in and retreated, leaving shallow feeding pools in the sand, apparently filled with something good to eat. A little shell fish called sand fleas, I’d heard people say, which seemed a crazy name for a crustacean. It had to be something, because with each cycle the birds went to work with their beaks, finding some sort of morning meal. I watched for awhile, then leaned back and closed my eyes.

As peace came over me, so did sleep. I don’t recall the moment of passing into rest but I do remember that just before I did, the inside of the my eyelids glowed with a crimson light, and I was smiling.

In my sleep a dream, a desert oasis, hot but without sweat or any discomfort. When I’ve shared the story of my dream there is a breeze and a billowing white linen shirt, but I may have added those from my imagination. At the center of the oasis, a spring but not just a spring, a stone fountain like in a city square. I place my hand in the spray of its waters and my whole body is cooled. No one speaks. On my left a small group of women and children close in next to me and place their hands in the water, each stirring up a widening pattern of circles, each set overlapping the others. On my other side a man with trouble on his face is imploring me, saying what, I don‘t know. Instantly I find myself sitting alone in a chair, watching a parade of travelers entering the oasis through the palm trees. Some are caring canvas sacks, their belongings I remember thinking. Someone is shaking my chair and I can hear him saying, “hey buddy.”

“Hey buddy!” I opened my eyes.

“Hey man,” the stranger said. “You were asleep. Falling asleep in this sun can be dangerous. Hope you don’t mind that I woke you.”

“No,” I said. “No. Thanks. I was just having a little dream. Funny, in my dream I could hear someone saying, ‘Hey buddy.’ But it was really you.”

“That’s funny,” he said. “I’ve had that happen myself.”

The stranger extended his hand and introduced himself as John Johnson. “Friends call me John-John,” he said. “John-John” sounded like a kid’s name, but I pegged him in his fifties, a stocky man with a big chest covered with white hair. He had less on his close-cropped head. A headset was draped around his neck and he held a long-handled metal detector. He saw me look at it.

“Metal detector,” he said.

“I see. Finding anything?”

“Ah, you know … you a tourist here or a local boy?”

“I’m local. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. Dietrich Waymire.”

He shook my hand and didn’t let go. “Waymire huh? I once knew a John Waymire.” He laughed softly at a private memory. “Those were the days.”

“My father is named John. He’s a pastor, was anyway, over in Orlando.”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me man!”

“Same John Waymire?”

“Could be. Could be. You know, seems to me … hey, if I was you I’d put a shirt on, or some more lotion, you’re shoulders are getting a little red.”

He was right. My chest too. “I must have slept longer than I thought. What time is it?”

He wore one of those big sports watches. “Almost noon.”

I leaned over the side of the chair but the shirt on my cooler was just out of reach. He grabbed it up, asking with his eyes, “this?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks John-John. Hand me that lotion too.”

I pulled on my shirt and then smeared lotion on my legs, arms and face. “How come you don’t work the other end of the beach?” I asked. “Seems with all the people down there it would be more lucrative.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “I work that area now and then. I don’t know, something was telling me come down here today. It’s nice and peaceful here. No cars. Different beach. I think you know what I mean; you came down here.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“Yea, me too,” he said. An awkward pause. I stood up.

“Why don’t we walk and you show me how that baby works. Maybe I’ll bring you luck.”

I wanted to ask how he knew my father, but he had the headset on as he swooped back and forth with the head of the metal detector. I could hear it beeping but each time he’d glance at me and shake his head “no.” False alarms I guessed. Finally, a louder beep and a green light lit up. He handed me a little garden shovel and pointed at a spot in the sand. I knelt and began to dig. It was a quarter. Fairly recent. Nothing special. “Better than nothing,” he said. I handed him the quarter and shovel and we continued.

We stayed at it another hour. I took my turn with the detector and headset. Honestly, when I’d seen people with these things I’d been tempted to think, “get a life.” But it was fun. An adventure. A search for buried treasure. I felt like a kid hanging out with my new buddy John-John. A loud buzz and the green light glowed.

“That’s a big piece of metal!” he said.

“The jackpot maybe!”

“Or a big piece of trash.” He was on his knees digging. “Pretty far down. Swoop it again.” I did and he altered his path slightly. We both spotted the gleam of golden metal at the same moment. “Oh yea!” John-John said. A man’s wrist watch with a gold metal band. He pulled it up and examined it. “Timex,” he said.