Mackenzie Allen Philips' youngest daughter, Missy, has been abducted during a family vacation and evidence that she may have been brutally murdered is found in an abandoned shack deep in the Oregon wilderness. Four years later in the midst of his "Great Sadness," Mack receives a suspicious note, apparently from God, inviting him back to that shack for a weekend. Against his better judgment he arrives at the shack on a wintry afternoon and walks back into his darkest nightmare. What he finds there will change Mack's world forever. In a world where religion seems to grow increasingly irrelevant "The Shack" wrestles with the timeless question, "Where is God in a world so filled with unspeakable pain?" The answers Mack gets will astound you and perhaps transform you as much as it did him. You'll want everyone you know to read this book!
Mackenzie Allen Phillips's youngest daughter, Missy, has been abducted during a family vacation, and evidence that she may have been brutally murdered is found in an abandoned shack deep in the Oregon wilderness. Four years later, in this midst of his great sadness, Mack receives a suspicious note, apparently from God, inviting him back to that shack for a weekend. Against his better judgment he arrives at the shack on wintry afternoon and walks back into his darkest nightmare. What he finds there will change his life forever.
The Shack
By William P. Young
Hachette Book Group
Copyright © 2007
William P. Young
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9647-2923-0
Chapter One
A Confluence of Paths
Two roads diverged in the middle of my life,
I heard a wise man say
I took the road less traveled by
And that's made the difference every night and every day
-Larry Norman (with apologies to Robert Frost)
March unleashed a torrent of rainfall after an abnormally dry winter. A cold
front out of Canada then descended and was held in place by a swirling wind that
roared down the Gorge from eastern Oregon. Although spring was surely just
around the corner, the god of winter was not about to relinquish its hard-won
dominion without a tussle. There was a blanket of new snow in the Cascades, and
rain was now freezing on impact with the frigid ground outside the house; enough
reason for Mack to snuggle up with a book and a hot cider and wrap up in the
warmth of a crackling fire.
But instead, he spent the better part of the morning telecommuting into his
downtown desktop. Sitting comfortably in his home office wearing pajama pants
and a T-shirt, he made his sales calls, mostly to the East Coast. He paused
frequently, listening to the sound of crystalline rain tinging off his window
and watching the slow but steady accumulation of frozen ice thickening on
everything outside. He was becoming inexorably trapped as an ice-prisoner in his
own home-much to his delight.
There is something joyful about storms that interrupt routine. Snow or freezing
rain suddenly releases you from expectations, performance demands, and the
tyranny of appointments and schedules. And unlike illness, it is largely a
corporate rather than individual experience. One can almost hear a unified sigh
rise from the nearby city and surrounding countryside where Nature has
intervened to give respite to the weary humans slogging it out within her
purview. All those affected this way are united by a mutual excuse, and the
heart is suddenly and unexpectedly a little giddy. There will be no apologies
needed for not showing up to some commitment or other. Everyone understands and
shares in this singular justification, and the sudden alleviation of the
pressure to produce makes the heart merry.
Of course, it is also true that storms interrupt business and, while a few
companies make a bit extra, some companies lose money-meaning there are those
who find no joy when everything shuts down temporarily. But they can't blame
anyone for their loss of production, or for not being able to make it to the
office. Even if it's hardly more than a day or two, somehow each person feels
like the master of his or her own world, simply because those little droplets of
water freeze as they hit the ground.
Even commonplace activities become extraordinary. Routine choices become
adventures and are often experienced with a sense of heightened clarity. Late in
the afternoon, Mack bundled up and headed outdoors to struggle the hundred or so
yards down the long driveway to the mailbox. The ice had magically turned this
simple everyday task into a foray against the elements: the raising of his fist
in opposition to the brute power of nature and, in an act of defiance, laughing
in its face. The fact that no one would notice or care mattered little to
him-just the thought made him smile inside.
The icy rain pellets stung his cheeks and hands as he carefully worked his way
up and down the slight undulations of the driveway; he looked, he supposed, like
a drunken sailor gingerly heading toward the next watering hole. When you face
the force of an ice storm, you don't exactly walk boldly forward in a show of
unbridled confidence. Bluster will get you battered. Mack had to get up off his
knees twice before he was finally hugging the mailbox like some long-lost
friend.
He paused to take in the beauty of a world engulfed in crystal. Everything
reflected light and contributed to the heightened brilliance of the late
afternoon. The trees in the neighbor's field had all donned translucent mantles
and each now stood unique but unified in their presentation. It was a glorious
world and for a brief moment its blazing splendor almost lifted, even if only
for a few seconds, The Great Sadness from Mack's shoulders.
It took almost a minute to knock off the ice that had already sealed shut the
door of the mailbox. The reward for his efforts was a single envelope with only
his first name typewritten on the outside; no stamp, no postmark, and no return
address. Curious, he tore the end off the envelope, which was no easy task with
fingers beginning to stiffen from the cold. Turning his back to the
breath-snatching wind, he finally coaxed the single small rectangle of unfolded
paper out of its nest. The typewritten message simply said:
Mackenzie,
It's been a while. I've missed you.
I'll be at the shack next weekend if you
want to get together.
-Papa
Mack stiffened as a wave of nausea rolled over him and then just as quickly
mutated into anger. He purposely thought about the shack as little as possible
and even when he did his thoughts were neither kind nor good. If this was
someone's idea of a bad joke they had truly outdone themselves. And to sign it
"Papa" just made it all the more horrifying.
"Idiot," he grunted, thinking about Tony the mailman; an overly friendly Italian
with a big heart but little tact. Why would he even deliver such a ridiculous
envelope? It wasn't even stamped. Mack angrily stuffed the envelope and note
into his coat pocket and turned to start the slide back in the general direction
of the house. Buffeting gusts of wind, which had initially slowed him, now
shortened the time it took to traverse the mini glacier that was thickening
beneath his feet.
He was doing just fine, thank you, until he reached that place in the driveway
that sloped a little downward and to the left. Without any effort or intention
he began to build up speed, sliding on shoes with soles that had about as much
traction as a duck landing on a frozen pond. Arms flailing wildly in hopes of
somehow maintaining the potential for balance, Mack found himself careening
directly toward the only tree of any substantial size bordering the driveway-the
one whose lower limbs he had hacked off only a few short months before. Now it
stood eager to embrace him, half naked and seemingly anxious for a little
retribution. In a fraction of a thought he chose the chicken's way out and tried
to plop himself down by allowing his feet to slip out from under him-which is
what they had naturally wanted to do anyway. Better to have a sore butt than
pick slivers out of his face.
But the adrenaline rush caused him to over compensate, and in slow motion Mack
watched his feet rise up in front of him as if jerked up by some jungle trap. He
hit hard, back of the head first, and skidded to a heap at the base of the
shimmering tree, which seemed to stand over him with a smug look mixed with
disgust and not a little disappointment.
The world went momentarily black, or so it seemed. He lay there dazed and
staring up into the sky, squinting as the icy precipitation rapidly cooled his
flushed face. For a fleeting pause, everything felt oddly warm and peaceful, his
ire momentarily knocked out by the impact. "Now, who's the idiot?" he muttered
to himself, hoping that no one had been watching.
Cold was creeping quickly through his coat and sweater and Mack knew the ice
rain that was both melting and freezing beneath him would soon become a major
discomfort. Groaning and feeling like a much older man, he rolled onto his hands
and knees. It was then that he saw the bright red skid mark tracing his journey
from point of impact to final destination. As if birthed by the sudden awareness
of his injury, a dull pounding began crawling up the back of his head.
Instinctively, he reached for the source of the drum beat and brought his hand
away bloody.
With rough ice and sharp gravel gouging his hands and knees, Mack half crawled
and half slid until he eventually made it to a level part of the driveway. With
not a little effort he was finally able to stand and gingerly inch his way
toward the house, humbled by the powers of ice and gravity.
Once inside, Mack methodically shed the layers of outerwear as best he could,
his half-frozen fingers responding with about as much dexterity as oversized
clubs at the ends of his arms. He decided to leave the drizzly bloodstained mess
right where he doffed it in the entryway and retreated painfully to the bathroom
to examine his wounds. There was no question that the icy driveway had won. The
gash on the back of his head was oozing around a few small pebbles still
embedded in his scalp. As he had feared, a significant lump had already formed,
emerging like a humpbacked whale breaching the wild waves of his thinning hair.
Mack found it a difficult chore to patch himself up by trying to see the back of
his head using a small hand-held mirror that reflected a reverse image off the
bathroom mirror. A short frustration later he gave up, unable to get his hands
to go in the right directions and unsure which of the two mirrors was lying to
him. By gingerly probing around the soggy gash he succeeded in picking out the
biggest pieces of debris, until it hurt too much to continue. Grabbing some
first-aid ointment and plugging the wound as best he could, he then tied a
washcloth to the back of his head with some gauze he found in a bathroom drawer.
Glancing at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked a little like some rough
sailor out of Moby Dick. It made him laugh, then wince.
He would have to wait until Nan made it home before he would get any real
medical attention; one of the many benefits of being married to a registered
nurse. Anyway, he knew that the worse it looked the more sympathy he would get.
There is often some compensation in every trial, if one looked hard enough. He
swallowed a couple over-the-counter painkillers to dull the throbbing and limped
toward the front entry.
Not for an instant had Mack forgotten about the note. Rummaging through the pile
of wet and bloody clothing he finally found it in his coat pocket, glanced at it
and then headed back into his office. He located the post office number and
dialed it. As expected, Annie, the matronly postmaster and keeper of everyone's
secrets, answered the phone. "Hi, is Tony in by chance?"
"Hey, Mack, is that you? Recognized your voice." Of course she did. "Sorry, but
Tony ain't back yet. In fact I just talked to him on the radio and he's only
made it halfway up Wildcat, not even to your place yet. Do ya need me to have
him call ya, or would ya just like to leave a message?"
"Oh, hi. Is that you, Annie?" He couldn't resist, even though her Midwestern
accent left no doubt. "Sorry, I was busy for a second there. Didn't hear a word
you said."
She laughed. "Now Mack, I know you heard every word. Don't you be goin' and
tryin' to kid a kidder. I wasn't born yesterday, ya know. Whaddya want me to
tell him if he makes it back alive?"
"Actually, you already answered my question."
There was a pause at the other end. "Actually, I don't remember you askin' a
question. What's wrong with you, Mack? Still smoking too much dope or do you
just do that on Sunday mornings to make it through the church service?" At this
she started to laugh, as if caught off guard by the brilliance of her own sense
of humor.
"Now Annie, you know I don't smoke dope-never did, and don't ever want to." Of
course Annie knew no such thing, but Mack was taking no chances on how she might
remember the conversation in a day or two. Wouldn't be the first time that her
sense of humor morphed into a good story that soon became "fact." He could see
his name being added to the church prayer chain. "It's okay, I'll just catch
Tony some other time, no big deal."
"Okay then, just stay indoors where it's safe. Don't ya know, an old guy like
you coulda lost his sense of balance over the years. Wouldn't wanna see ya slip
and hurt your pride. Way things are shapin' up, Tony might not make it up to
your place at all. We can do snow, sleet, and darkness of night pretty well, but
this frozen rain stuff. It's a challenge to be sure."
"Thanks, Annie. I'll try and remember your advice. Talk to you later. Bye now."
His head was pounding more than ever; little trip hammers beating to the rhythm
of his heart. "That's odd," he thought, "who would dare put something like that
in our mailbox?" The painkillers had not yet fully kicked in, but were present
enough to dull the edge of worry that he was starting to feel, and he was
suddenly very tired. Laying his head down on the desk, he thought he had just
dropped off to sleep when the phone startled him awake.
"Uh ... hello?"
"Hi, love. You sound like you've been asleep." It was Nan, sounding unusually
cheery, even though he felt he could hear the underlying sadness that lurked
just beneath the surface of every conversation. She loved this kind of weather
as much as he usually did. He switched on the desk lamp and glanced at the
clock, surprised that he had been out for a couple hours.
"Uh, sorry. I guess I dozed off for a bit."
"Well, you sound a little groggy. Is everything all right?"
"Yup." Even though it was almost dark outside, Mack could see that the storm had
not let up. It had even deposited low, and he knew some would eventually break
from the weight, especially if the wind kicked up. "I had a little tussle with
the driveway when I got the mail, but other than that, everything is fine. Where
are you?"
"I'm still at Arlene's, and I think me and the kids'll spend the night here.
It's always good for Kate to be around the family ... seems to restore a
little balance." Arlene was Nan's sister who lived across the river in
Washington. "Anyway, it's really too slick to go out. Hopefully it'll break up
by morning. I wish I had made it home before it got so bad, but oh well." She
paused. "How's it up at the house?"
"Well, it's absolutely stunningly beautiful, and a whole lot safer to look at
than walk in, trust me. I, for sure, don't want you to try and get up here in
this mess. Nothing's moving. I don't even think Tony was able to bring us the
mail."
"I thought you already got the mail?" she queried.
"Nope, I didn't actually get the mail. I thought Tony had already come and I
went out to get it. There," he hesitated, looking down at the note that lay on
the desk where he had placed it, "wasn't any mail yet. I called Annie and she
said Tony probably wouldn't be able to make it up the hill, and I'm not going
out there again to see if he did.
"Anyway," he quickly changed the subject to avoid more questions, "how is Kate
doing over there?"
There was a pause and then a long sigh. When Nan spoke her voice was hushed to a
whisper and he could tell she was covering her mouth on the other end. "Mack, I
wish I knew. She is just like talking to a rock, and no matter what I do I can't
get through. When we're around family she seems to come out of her shell some,
but then she disappears again. I just don't know what to do. I've been praying
and praying that Papa would help us find a way to reach her, but ..." she
paused again, "it feels like he isn't listening."
There it was. Papa was Nan's favorite name for God and it expressed her delight
in the intimate friendship she had with him.
"Honey, I'm sure God knows what he's doing. It will all work out." The words
brought him no comfort but he hoped they might ease the worry he could hear in
her voice.
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish he'd hurry up."
"Me too," was all Mack could think to say. "Well, you and the kids stay put and
stay safe, and tell Arlene and Jimmy hi, and thank them for me. Hopefully I will
see you tomorrow."
"Okay, love. I should go and help the others. Everyone's busy looking for
candles in case the power goes out. You should probably do the same. There's
some above the sink in the basement, and there's leftover stuffed bread dough in
the fridge that you can heat up. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, my pride is hurt more than anything."
"Well take it easy, and hopefully we'll see you in the morning."
"All right honey. Be safe and call me if you need anything. Bye."
It was kind of a dumb thing to say, he thought as he hung up the phone. Kind of
a manly dumb thing, as if he could help if they needed anything.
Mack sat and stared at the note. It was confusing and painful trying to sort out
the swirling cacophony of disturbing emotions and dark images clouding his
mind-a million thoughts traveling a million miles an hour. Finally, he gave up,
folded the note, slid it into a small tin box he kept on the desk, and switched
off the light.
Mack managed to find something to heat up in the microwave, then he grabbed a
couple of blankets and pillows and headed for the living room. A quick glance at
the clock told him that Bill Moyer's show had just started; a favorite program
that he tried never to miss. Moyer was one of a handful of people whom Mack
would love to meet; a brilliant and outspoken man, able to express intense
compassion for both people and truth with unusual clarity. One of the stories
tonight had something to do with oilman Boone Pickens, who was now starting to
drill for water, of all things.
Almost without thinking, and without taking his eyes off the television, Mack
reached over to the end table, picked up a photo frame holding a picture of a
little girl, and clutched it to his chest. With the other hand he pulled the
blankets up under his chin and hunkered deeper into the sofa.
Soon the sounds of gentle snoring filled the air as the media tube turned its
attention to a piece on a high school senior in Zimbabwe, who had been beaten
for speaking out against his government. But Mack had already left the room to
wrestle with his dreams; maybe tonight there would be no nightmares, only
visions, perhaps, of ice and trees and gravity.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Shack
by William P. Young
Copyright © 2007 by William P. Young.
Excerpted by permission.
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.
William P. Young was born a Canadian and raised among a stone-age tribe by his missionary parents in the highlands of what was New Guinea. He suffered great loss as a child and young adult, and now enjoys the 'wastefulness of grace' with his family in the Pacific Northwest.
