War Room: Prayer is a Powerful Weapon

War Room: Prayer is a Powerful Weapon

War Room: Prayer is a Powerful Weapon

War Room: Prayer is a Powerful Weapon

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Overview

Juggling motherhood and her job as a real-estate agent, Elizabeth Jordan wishes her husband could help more around the house. But Tony’s rising career as a pharmaceutical salesman demands more and more of his time. With a nice home in the suburbs and a lovely young daughter, they appear to have it all—yet they can’t seem to spend time together without fighting.

Hoping for a new listing, Elizabeth visits the home of Clara Williams, an elderly widow, and is both amused and uncomfortable when Clara starts asking pointed questions about her marriage and faith. But it’s Clara’s secret prayer room, with its walls covered in requests and answers, that has Elizabeth most intrigued . . . even if she’s not ready to take Clara’s suggestion that she create a prayer room of her own. As tensions at home escalate, though, Elizabeth begins to realize that her family is worth fighting for, and she can’t win this battle on her own. Stepping out in blind faith, putting her prayers for her family and their future in God’s hands, might be her only chance at regaining the life she was meant for.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781496407283
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers
Publication date: 08/04/2015
Pages: 416
Sales rank: 215,631
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

War Room

Prayer is a Powerful Weapon


By Chris Fabry, Sarah Mason

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2015 Kendrick Bros., LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4964-0729-0


CHAPTER 1

Elizabeth Jordan noticed everything wrong with the house she was selling before she ever knocked on the front door. She saw flaws in the landscaping and cracks in the driveway and a problem with the drainage of the roof near the garage. Just before she knocked three times, she saw chipping paint on a windowsill. This was her job. Presentation was everything. You had only one chance to make a first impression with a potential buyer.

She saw her reflection in a window and straightened her shoulders, tugging on her dark jacket. She had her hair back, which accentuated her strong face. Prominent nose, high forehead, and chocolaty skin. Elizabeth had a lineage she could trace back over 150 years. She had taken a trip with her husband and infant daughter ten years earlier to a plantation in the Deep South where her great-great-great-grandmother had lived. The little shack had been rebuilt, along with other slave quarters on the property, and the owners had searched the country for any relatives. Just walking inside made her feel like she was touching the heart of her ancestors, and she fought back tears as she imagined their lives. She'd held her daughter close and thanked God for the perseverance of her people, their legacy, and the opportunities she had that they could never imagine.

Elizabeth waited until the door opened, then smiled at the slightly younger woman before her. Melissa Tabor held a box of household items and struggled to maintain the cell phone balanced on her shoulder. Her mouth rounded into an O.

"Mom, I gotta go," she said into the phone.

Elizabeth smiled, patiently waiting.

Over her shoulder, Melissa said, "Jason and David, get rid of the ball and help me with these boxes!"

Elizabeth wanted to reach out and help her but had to duck as a kickball flew past her head. It bounced harmlessly in the yard behind her and she laughed.

"Oh, I am so sorry," Melissa said. "You must be Elizabeth Jordan."

"I am. And you're Melissa?"

The box nearly fell as Melissa shook hands with Elizabeth. "Yes. I'm sorry. We just started packing."

"No problem. Can I help you with that?"

A man with a briefcase and a work folder slipped past them. "Honey, I gotta be in Knoxville at two. But I finished the closet." He held up a stuffed bear and dropped it into the box. "That was in the refrigerator."

He passed Elizabeth on the front step and stopped, pointing at her. "Real estate agent," he said, sounding proud of himself. Not a name but a title he put on her. She was someone to put in a pigeonhole in his head.

Elizabeth smiled and pointed back. "Software rep."

"How did you know that?" he said, his eyes wide.

"It's on that folder you're holding in your hand." She was just as good at categorizing and commentating. She had to work at the connecting with others. Especially with her husband.

He looked at the folder and nodded with a knowing chuckle as if impressed by her observational powers. "I would love to stay but I have to leave. My wife can answer everything about the house. We realize it's a disaster and we've agreed to blame it on our kids." He glanced at Melissa. "So I'll call you tonight."

"Love you," Melissa said, still holding the box.

With that he was gone, down the walk to the car. He passed the kickball and didn't seem to notice.

"I understand," Elizabeth said. "My husband does the same thing. Pharmaceuticals."

"Oh," Melissa said. "Does he get tired of the travel?"

"He doesn't seem to. I think he likes being able to drive and clear his head, you know? Instead of being cooped up in an office all day."

"While you're showing houses and dealing with people in big transitions."

Elizabeth stepped inside and noticed twelve things that would have to change if they were to make a sale. More first impressions. But she wouldn't list them all at the moment because she also saw something in Melissa's face that was close to panic.

"You know, they say that outside of death and divorce, moving is the most stressful change you go through." She put a hand on the woman's shoulder. "And this is probably not the first time you've moved in the past few years."

Melissa shook her head. "These are the same boxes we used last time."

Elizabeth nodded and saw missing paint on a ding in the wall but tried to focus. "You're going to get through this."

Right then a boy with spiked blond hair ran down the stairs, followed closely by another waving a tennis racket. Both were about the same age as Elizabeth's daughter and had enough energy to light a small city for a year. Who needed power plants and windmills when you had adolescent boys?

Melissa sighed. "Are you sure about that?"


* * *

Tony Jordan had begun the day in an upscale suites hotel in Raleigh. He was up early, working out in the weight room alone—he loved the quiet, and most people on the road didn't work out at 5 a.m. Then he showered and dressed and had a bowl of fruit and some juice in the breakfast area. Other travelers hurried through, eating donuts or waffles or sugary cereal. He needed to stay fit and keep the edge so he could stay on his game, and his health was a big part of that. He'd always believed that if you had your health, you had everything.

Tony looked in the mirror as he headed out the door. His close-cropped hair was just the right length. The shirt and tie were crisp and hugged his running-back neck, strong and wide. His mustache was tightly trimmed above his upper lip, a goatee on his chin. He looked good. Confident. To tune up for the meeting later, he flashed a smile and stuck out a hand and said, "Hey, Mr. Barnes."

As an African American, he'd always felt like he was one step behind most of his white coworkers and competitors. Not because he lacked skill or ability or eloquence, but simply because of his skin color. Whether that was reality or not, he couldn't tell. How could he crawl inside the mind of someone meeting him for the first time? But he had felt the questioning looks, the split-second hesitation of someone who shook his hand the first time. He'd even felt it from his bosses at Brightwell, especially Tom Bennett, one of the vice presidents. Tony saw him as part of the old-boy network. Another white guy who knew somebody who knew somebody else and had eased into management, working his way a little too quickly up the ladder. Tony had tried to impress the man with his sales ability, his easygoing demeanor—the attitude that said, I got this. Trust me. But Tom was a hard sell, and Tony couldn't help but wonder if his skin color had something to do with it.

Accepting the reality he perceived, Tony vowed he would simply work harder, push harder, and live up to every expectation. But in the back of his mind he felt this unseen hurdle wasn't fair. Other people with a lighter skin color didn't have to deal with it, so why should he?

The hurdle in front of him today was Holcomb. There was no getting around the difficulty of the sale. But what was an easy sale? Even the quick ones took time and preparation and knowing and seeing. This was his secret—the intangibles. Remembering names. Remembering details about the customer's life. Things like the Ping driver he had in the trunk.

Calvin Barnes was going to salivate when Tony handed him that driver, as well he should. It had set Tony back a few hundred, but it was a small price to pay for the look on his boss's face when he heard Tony had sealed the deal.

The boardroom was tastefully decorated, the smell of leather permeating the hallway as he walked in and put his sample case on the redwood table. Calvin Barnes—who did not like to be called Calvin—would walk through the door and shake Tony's hand, so the driver needed to lean against the chair to Tony's left, out of view. He placed it there, then moved it into the chair and let the grip stick out over the back. When he heard voices down the hallway, he put the driver back on the floor. He needed to be more subtle.

Mr. Barnes walked in with another man—a familiar face, but for a moment Tony froze, unable to remember the man's name. He tried to relax, to recall the name using his mnemonic device. He'd pictured the man standing in a huge landfill with a John Deere hat on. Dearing. That was the last name. But he couldn't remember why he was standing in a land—

"Tony, you remember—"

"Phil Dearing," Tony said, extending a hand. "Good to see you again."

The man looked stunned, then smiled as he shook Tony's hand.

Mr. Barnes threw his head back and laughed. "You just won me twenty bucks. I told you he'd remember, Phil." His eyes fell on the golf club. "And what have we here?"

"That's the one I was talking about, Mr. Barnes," Tony said. "I'll be shocked if it doesn't add at least thirty yards to every drive. Your job is to make sure they're straight down the middle."

Mr. Barnes picked up the driver and held it. He was a scratch golfer who played three times a week and had designs on retiring to Florida. An extra thirty yards on his drives meant Barnes could exploit his short game, which meant that seventy-two for eighteen holes could come down to a seventy. Maybe lower on a good day.

"The weight is just perfect, Tony. And the balance is phenomenal."

Tony watched him hold the club and was certain he had the sale even before he opened his case. When they'd signed the papers and cared for the legal parts of the transaction, Tony stood. He knew he cut an impressive figure in his suit and tie and athletic build.

"I need to get you back on the course and work on that putting of yours," Mr. Barnes said.

"Maybe next time I'm through," Tony said, smiling.

"You don't mind coming all the way out here—even this early?"

"No, I do not. I enjoy the drive."

"Well, we're excited to do business with you, Tony," Mr. Barnes said. "Tell Coleman I said hello."

"I'll do it."

"Oh, and thanks for the new driver."

"Hey, you enjoy it, okay?" Tony shook hands with them. "Gentlemen, we'll be in touch."

He walked out of the room almost floating. There was no feeling like making a sale. As he neared the elevators, he could hear Calvin Barnes crowing about his new driver and how much he wanted to take the afternoon off and play the back nine at the nearest country club. While he waited, Tony checked his phone for anything he'd missed during the meeting, when he made a point of keeping it in his pocket. This was another thing he always tried to do. Value clients enough to make them the central focus. Never make your clients feel like there is anyone on the planet more important than them. They are your priority. Every. Time.

A young woman walked down a white staircase before him, carrying a leather folder and smiling. He put his phone away and smiled back.

"I see you made the sale," she said.

He nodded confidently. "Of course."

"I'm impressed. Most guys run out with their tail between their legs."

Tony extended a hand. "I'm Tony Jordan."

"Veronica Drake," she said, shaking with him. Her hand was warm and soft. "I work for Mr. Barnes. I'll be your contact for the purchase."

She handed him her card and brushed his hand slightly. Nothing overt, but he felt something click with her touch. Veronica was vivacious and slim, and Tony imagined them together at some restaurant talking. Then he imagined them by romantic firelight, Veronica leaning toward him, her lips moist and pleading. All this happened in a second as he stared at her business card.

"Well, Veronica Drake, I guess I'll be seeing you again when I return in two weeks."

"I'll look forward to it," she said, and the way she smiled made him think she meant it.

She walked away and he turned and watched her a little too intently.

As he waited for the elevator, his phone beeped and he looked at the screen.


Bank Notice: Transfer.

Here he was with the biggest sale in months, something he'd worked on and planned intricately, and right at the apex of his elation at the sale, he'd been given another smackdown by his wife.

"Elizabeth, you're killing me," he whispered.


* * *

Elizabeth sat on the white ottoman at the foot of her bed rubbing her feet. The time with Melissa had been good—she'd been able to make a list of all the repairs and staging decisions that had to be done. The two boys hadn't made things easier, but children always had a way of complicating home sales. It was something you just needed to work with and hope you could navigate.

It had been a long day, with another meeting in the afternoon and then getting home before Danielle arrived from her last day of school. By the time she sat down, Elizabeth was exhausted and ready to curl up and sleep, but there was more to be done. There was always more to be done.

"Mom?"

Elizabeth couldn't move. "I'm in here, Danielle."

Her ten-year-old daughter walked in carrying something. She had grown several inches in the last year, her thin, long body sprouting up like a weed. She wore a cute purple headband that highlighted her face. Elizabeth could see her father there—that bright smile, eyes full of life. Except her eyes were a little downcast.

"Here's my last report card. I still got one C."

Elizabeth took it and looked it over as Danielle sat and shrugged off her backpack.

"Oh, baby. You have an A in everything else. One C in math is not that bad. But you get a break for the summer, right?"

Danielle leaned forward and her face betrayed something. She sniffed and then reacted like the room was full of ammonia. "Is that your feet?"

Elizabeth self-consciously pulled her foot away. "I'm sorry, baby. I ran out of foot powder."

"That smells terrible."

"I know, Danielle. I just needed to take my shoes off for a minute."

Her daughter stared at her mother's feet like they were toxic waste. "That's, like, awful," she said, repulsed.

"Well, don't just sit there looking at them. Why don't you give me a hand and rub them right there?"

"Ewwww, no way!"

Elizabeth laughed. "Girl, go set the table for dinner. When your daddy gets home, you can show him your report card, okay?"

Danielle took her report card into the kitchen, and Elizabeth was alone again. The odor hadn't been a problem until a few years earlier, and the foot powder seemed to take care of it. But maybe she was kidding herself. Maybe the odor was the sign of some deeper problem.

What was she thinking? Some disease? Some problem with her liver that leaked out the pores of her feet? She had a friend, Missy, who was constantly looking online at various aches and pains and connecting them with her own symptoms. One day she'd be worried about a skin problem and conclude she had melanoma. The next day a headache would be self-diagnosed as a tumor. Elizabeth vowed she would not become a hypochondriac. She just had stinky feet.

She picked up one of her flats and sniffed. There'd been a cheese served at the hotel where she and Tony had honeymooned that smelled just like that. She dropped the shoe. Funny how a smell could trigger her brain to think about something that happened sixteen years earlier.

She ran her hand over the comforter and thought about that first night together. All the anticipation. All the excitement. She hadn't slept in two days and the wedding had been a blur. When her head hit the pillow in the honeymoon suite, she was just gone. Tony had been upset, and what red-blooded American male wouldn't be? But what red-blooded American females needed was a little understanding, a little grace.

She had made up for her honeymoon drowsiness the next day, but it was something they had to talk through. Tony had talked a lot in the year they had dated and been engaged, but not long after the I dos, something got his tongue and the river of words slowed to a drip. She wished she could find the valve or tell where to place the plunger to get him unclogged.

They didn't have a bad marriage. It wasn't like those celebrities on TV who went from one relationship to the next or the couple down the street who threw things onto the lawn after every argument. She and Tony had produced a beautiful daughter and they had stable careers. Yes, he was a little aloof and they'd grown apart, but she was sure that drift wouldn't last forever. It couldn't.

Elizabeth put her shoes away, as far back into the closet as she could, then went to the kitchen to start dinner. She filled a pot with water, put it on the stove, and dumped in the spaghetti. The water came to a slow boil, and she stirred the tomato sauce in a pan next to it.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from War Room by Chris Fabry, Sarah Mason. Copyright © 2015 Kendrick Bros., LLC. Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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