Free The Ambition by Lee Strobel Page B

uses?”
    “Unequally yoked.”
    “Yeah, right. Married to someone who isn’t a Christian. The problem is I’m sure Strider believes I won’t marry him because I don’t think he’s good enough for me anymore.”
    “It’s not that. It’s because the conflict would escalate after you got married. There’d be arguments over how to manage your money, and how to raise your kids, and how to spend your weekends, and everything else. You’re going to be viewing the world — more and more — from conflicting perspectives.”
    Gina strolled to the window, looking out at the children chasing each other in an impromptu game of tag. “I thought faith was supposed to bring peace,” she said softly. “That’s not what I feel. I know Strider’s got rough edges, but I still love him.”
    Audrey, a blue–eyed redhead whose long hair was pulled back, played absently with a rubber band. “Do you think he’d ever be open to considering faith?”
    Gina didn’t take her eyes off the children. “He says no. And I think he means it.” She closed the blinds and turned to Audrey. “He’s from the old school of Chicago newspapers — skeptical of everyone and everything. You know their motto, right?”
    “No, what is it?”
    “ ‘If your mother says she loves you — check it out.’ “
    Audrey laughed. “That’s pretty skeptical, all right.”
    Gina didn’t crack a smile. “Maybe I should call him,” she said, more to herself than to Audrey.
    A bell sounded. Audrey stood and walked to her friend. “Gina, be careful,” she said. “I know it’s tempting to try to reconcile, but what happens then? Relationships aren’t static; would you be inching toward marriage again?”
    Gina didn’t answer.
    “I know you care about him, and that’s fine,” Audrey said. “But there’s a line you shouldn’t cross.”

CHAPTER
FIVE
    I
    A shrill, ear–piercing scream jolted Garry Strider to full attention. The shriek — from a young girl, maybe nine or ten? — cut through the somber atmosphere inside the chapel, reverberating off the sandstone walls, the blue and red stained–glass windows, and the high, arched ceiling.
    Strider leapt to his feet, instinctively patting his pocket for his cell phone in case he needed to call 911, and scanned for the source of the squeal. Along the side of the oak pews, all the way toward the front of the medieval–looking chamber with its ornate altar topped by an oversized gilded Bible and flickering candles, he saw a frenzied commotion among a knot of people.
    Strider had been sitting inconspicuously in the back of the chapel on the ninety–acre campus of Diamond Point Fellowship. In contrast to the glistening glass–and–steel, ultramodern auditorium where Eric Snow would pack in thousands for his weekend services, this auxiliary building was much smaller and far more traditional, designed to resemble an aged British church, complete with stone archways, a rugged wood–beamed ceiling, and ashlar sandstone pillars trimmed with Indiana limestone. Many people, especially those who had grown up in mainline denominations with their liturgy and rituals, preferred this kind of atmosphere for prayer, weddings, and funerals.
    Strider had stopped by the service unannounced, making mental notes as he strolled inside (how much did this place cost?). His investigation of Snow was grinding slowly, and he decided to see if he could find some colorful details for the story he would eventually write.
    He had been intrigued to hear that the elders held a weekly prayer service in the chapel for people facing a crisis in their life — an illness, a job loss, a broken relationship, whatever. Maybe, he thought, he would run into Debra Wyatt so he could squeeze her for insider information about the sleazy judge who ended up getting the Nick Moretti murder case. Or perhaps he could catch the elders in some wacky, tongue–talking faith–healing — the kind of offbeat anecdote that could breathe life