Russ Masterson - 40 Days without Food

Russ tells a story filled with contemplative and entertaining insight. His prose proclaims that the faithfulness of God is experienced bit by bit in slow drawls as much as in sudden, blinding epiphanies.

Jordan Green, editor of Burnside Writers Collective, www.burnsidewriters.com

Though quite entertaining, and casual in style, 40 Days with Food caused me to confront the motives behind my daily actions. The book is a short yet profound look at what it means to truly livesomething todays fast-paced society woefully lacks.

Jim Reimann, editor of bestselling books My Utmost for His Highest and Streams in the Desert

Russ has done an excellent job in opening a window into his inner life to reveal to us the human side of faith.

Dr. Michael Youssef, founding rector at the Church of the Apostles in Atlanta, Georgia, and president of Leading the Way, a worldwide media ministry

In 40 Days without Food Russ courageously tells the truth about himself with unfailing insight, negotiating the treacherous internal terrain of self-doubt and self-pity, deftly avoiding the pious pitfalls that normally plague such accounts. He fearlessly allows us to witness his fearfulness, not to mention Gods love for him in the midst of it. For anyone wrestling with questions of purpose and valueof what it means to be humanthis book will be a source of immense wisdom and comfort. I can think of no better guide to connect all of us weary travelers with the heart of the matter.

David Zahl, editor of Mockingbird Blog, www.mbird.com

Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

Visit Russ Masterson online at www.russmasterson.com.

TYNDALE and Tyndales quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

40 Days without Food: Divine Goodness to a Starving Soul

Copyright 2011 by Russ Masterson. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph copyright Image Source/Corbis.

Cover and title page designed by Jacqueline L. Nuez

Edited by Caleb Sjogren

The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary, 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible , New Living Translation, copyright 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-4143-6648-7 (ePub)

This book is dedicated to Kristy, who went to sleep alone and supported me always, while I built a kite.

Authors Note about the Book

I took the liberty of changing peoples names to respect their privacy; the character of Mac is a composite character based on a friend and a former coworker. In addition, I compressed the timeline of a few events in order to tell a more coherent story.

Through all this, I attempt to tell an honest story about faith, purpose, and love.

I once went 40 days without food. Toward the end of each day I wrote some thoughts in a journal. Six years later I read those pages and found a story of divine goodness to a starving child.

Before the Beginning

She laid the long wooden platter in front of me, almost dropping it, no care or gentleness shown. A metal plate rested in a carved-out portion on the platter, and a steak the size of Minnesota was on it. The waitress said not to touch the plate. Burn your pretty little hands off, she said. The juices from the steak hissed and popped on the hot metal. Some of the juices leaped off the plate, landing on my arms, little fireballs hurled at my flesh. I lifted my napkin to shield myself until the steak fury calmed. Nathan and Dan laughed at me until their plates arrived, and then they did the same.

Nathan and I didnt really know much about Dan. He was tall and thin, with manicured gray hair parted to the side. He was a business partner of my uncles who lived in Houston but commuted and stayed in New Orleans each week. Dan had an apartment in the trendy Warehouse District of New Orleans, just a short walk from the French Quarter, and he was gracious enough to let my best friend and me crash there. Nathan and I were in town for a weeklong class at our seminary.

Earlier in the week Dan mentioned taking us out to eat on Thursday night, some steak place people kept telling him about. Dans 7-Series BMW chirped, and I quickly hustled for the shotgun seat. He fiddled with the GPS screen in his dash while I settled into the leather seat. Dan, so whats the deal with this steak place?

He looked up after typing in the restaurants address. Im not sure. People tell me its quirky but fantastic. Ive never been there. It looks to be about ten minutes away.

Last night we ate at Paschals Manale, Nathan said from the backseat. You ever had their bread pudding?

Dang, look at you guys, high rolling.

Not really. My dad loves that place, and he said hed pay for us to grab a meal there.

Oh, okay. Anyways, that place is great; their barbecued shrimp is unbelievable. I probably eat there once a month or so.

Nathan and Dan talked about good restaurants in the French Quarter, and I looked out the window, watching the trendy Warehouse District turn into the Garden District. We drove down St. Charles Avenue, a grand street lined with ancient oaks, moss dangling from the branches. The city trolley moved down the landscaped median. The street was home to 19th-century Southern mansions with wide porches and tall columns. We turned off St. Charles onto a quiet side street. After a few more turns we were in a rough area of the city. New Orleans is like thatpoverty hidden behind privilege, mansions to mayhem. Gangs of angry-looking young men were gathered on stairways of slum apartments. They gave the BMW and our neatly ironed, collared shirts disapproving looks.

Well, guys, this is it. This is the address, Dan said. My friend said it was a hole in the wall.

Lets just hope your car is here when we get through eating, I added.

It was a rundown, two-story brick building on a corner. The entire building looked vacant. The brick was stained by dirt and grime. A sign hung above a nondescript door: Charlies Steak House and Bar . The door looked like an employee entrance. We entered hesitantly, finding ourselves in a dark stockroom. We began to laugh, unsure what we had gotten ourselves into, scared the angry men might come in and rip our nice collared shirts from our backs. We quickly heard noise coming from a room tucked behind a corner toward the back. Light shone through the doorway. We walked into a room the size of a living room scattered with tables. The walls were 70s paneling. The ceiling was stained from years of steam rising from the food. An old black-and-white television sat on a bar toward the front of the room, an NBA game barely visible through the squiggles.

An older lady, thin with long gray hair, walked by. She never looked at us, just sort of shouted into the air, Sit anywhere you like. Ill get to you.

There were no menus on the table or anywhere else to be seen, and there was no one to ask. Everybody else in the place had their food and was merrily shoveling it into their mouths. People werent coming up for air. The older lady was the only waitress, hustling back and forth from the kitchen serving food. After ten minutes she approached our table, all business. What do you like?

Is there a menu? Nathan responded. This is our first time here.

Not really. We have T-bones. Small and large. Potatoes, onion rings, and salads. You probably want a small. The large is large. And rings and a salad. Coke to drink. Sound good?