Rendezvous with God - Volume One: A Novel

Publisher: Fidelis Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1735428581

About the Book

Bill reads sample chapter. Audiobook now available.

“If you have ever wished for a personal encounter with Jesus Christ, Rendezvous with God may be the next best thing. Bringing Jesus into contemporary times, Bill Myers shows us what Jesus came to do, and why He had to do it. This little book packs a powerful punch.”
Angela Hunt
New York Times bestselling author of The Jerusalem Road series


A reclusive college professor’s life is turned upside down by his impulsive, runaway niece who decides she’s going to live with him. To make matters worse, he begins slipping back in time to watch various Gospel narratives unfold that include off-the-record discussions with Jesus Christ. Soon he realizes his conversations tie directly into the drama, pain, and bitter-sweet comedy of his own life.

Rendezvous with God Reviews

“If you have ever wished for a personal encounter with Jesus Christ, Rendezvous with God may be the next best thing. Bringing Jesus into contemporary times, Bill Myers shows us what Jesus came to do, and why He had to do it. This little book packs a powerful punch.”
Angela Hunt
New York Times bestselling author of The Jerusalem Road series
“A teacher and a storyteller, Bill Myers welcomes, disarms, then edifies in this tight and seamless weave of story and truth. It’s innovative, “outside the box,” but that’s why it works so well, bringing the reader profound and practical wisdom, the heart of Jesus, in modern, Everyman terms—and always with the quick-draw Myers wit. Jesus talked to me through this book. I was blessed, and from some of my inner shadows, set free. Follow along. Let it minister.”
Frank Peretti
New York Times bestselling author of This Present Darkness, The Visitation, and Illusion
“Gritty. Unflinching. In your face. Emotionally wrenching. Rendezvous with God is Bill Myers at the top of his imaginative game. A rip-roaring read you can neither tear yourself away from, nor dare experience without thinking.”
Jerry Jenkins
New York Times bestseller, novelist, and biographer. Writer of the Left Behind series.

Rendezvous with God

IT WAS TOO realistic for a dream. And I never dream in color. But off in the distance I saw a cobalt blue horizon smeared with growing traces of pink. I seemed to be standing on some sort of bluff. Below, stretched a large, flat plateau; black, except for the pockets of fog. Then there were the smells—cool dampness, the roasted-oat smell of dried grass, and the feted mixture of dirt and animal. But it was the quiet sobs that drew my attention. They came from a boy, I’m guessing around six, silhouetted on a boulder overlooking the plain. The light was too dim to see much detail, except for his wavy, black hair, and the coarse robe he was wearing.

I quietly cleared my throat so I wouldn’t startle him.

He didn’t even flinch, just slowly turned to face me.

“Hi there,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand. He gave a quiet sniff and asked, “Who are you?”

I stayed where I was so I wouldn’t frighten him. “My name is Will.”

“You’re not one of them,” he said.


He motioned to an empty tree limb not far away, then to a couple boulders. Suitable locations for any imaginary friend.

“Um, no,” I said. “I’m real. Well, sort of.”

He gave his eyes another swipe and giggled.


“Your clothes, they’re funny. You don’t live here.”

I glanced down to see I was still in my pajamas. “Apparently not.”

He grinned and looked back over the plain. The horizon was growing more pink.

“Should you be up here by yourself?” I asked.

He motioned to the empty limb and boulders. “I’ve got them.”

“Right,” I said. “And your parents?”

“Mom’s visiting my aunt and uncle. He’s old. He’s going to die.”

“And your dad?”

“Which one?”

Ah, I thought, a blended family. I said nothing more, just sat in the silence broken only by a slight breeze. The boy also remained silent. I thought it odd to see a child sit so patient and still. But as the designated dreamer, I knew it was my responsibility to move things along, so I asked,

“Were you crying?” He shrugged.

“You can tell me. I’ll forget everything by morning.” I eased toward the closest boulder and pretended to address his imaginary friend. “May I?”

The boy giggled again. Permission granted. I turned back to him and was drawn to his eyes. Golden brown with lighter flecks that almost sparkled.

“You sure you’re okay?” I said.

He took a deep breath. “I just wish—I wish I had some friends.”

“Ah,” I said as I sat. “I can relate to that.”

“You can?”

I nodded. “Big time.”

“You’re a bastard, too?”

“What? No. Is that why you don’t have friends?” He looked to the ground.

“What is this, the Dark Ages?”

“Not yet,” he said. Then with another breath, he added, “It wouldn’t be so bad if I could do stuff for people. You know, like healing Ben Hazarah. He lives next door and—”

“Hold it. ‘Healing’?”

He grimaced. “Sorry, I’m not supposed to tell.”

“I bet.”

“But doing stuff for people, that’s the best way to stop being lonely, you know.”

“Pretty insightful, for what, a six-year-old?”

He gave a heavy sigh. “Another one of my problems.

But it’s so hard.”


“To see everybody hurting. And knowing you can do something but just having to sit around and wait.”

“Wait?” I said. “For what?”

“I’ve got so much to learn.”


Another sigh. “Feeling what you feel, thinking like you think.” He paused and looked back out over the plain. “Everyone’s so sad and lonely. That hurts the most. How can you stand it? What do you do?”

“I have a dog.”

“A dog?”

“And a cat.” He gave me a look.

It was my turn to shrug.

“Maybe if you helped people more,” he said. “That’s why we made you, right?”

“Excuse me?”

He started to answer, then shook his head as if he’d said too much.

“What about you?” I said. “Up here crying all by yourself?”

“I told you. Nobody wants to be with me.”

“Right,” I motioned to the empty tree and boulder.

“Just you and your little buddies.” Another giggle.


“They’re not so little. And they can be real helpful, but . . .”


“They’re not like you. They don’t have our . . .” he paused. “They weren’t made in God’s image.”

I scowled. “Six years old, right?”

He ignored me. “They weren’t made to be his friends.”

“His friends—God has friends.”

“That’s why he made you. To be his friend so you can play with him.”

“God wants to—play with me?” He nodded.

“So that makes me like what, his toy, a little puppy dog?”

“You’re silly.” Before I answered, he continued. “Is that why you have children? Why your mommy and daddy made you?”

“Of course not.”

“So, why would it be different with God?”

“Um, because he’s God.”

“And you’re his boy. And like a good dad, he wants to play with you.”

“And if I don’t want to play with him?”

“It makes him sad.”

“So—without me, God is sad.”

“Without God, you’re alone.”

“How’d talking to some kid turn into a deep, theological discussion?”

He sighed again. “It happens—a lot.”

“No wonder you don’t have friends.”

He nodded. “Tell me about it.”

“You might want to work on those social skills. Oh, and for the record, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t have children.”

He gave what might have been a smile. “Not yet.”