by Bill Myers
“Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.”
Her father gave one more gasp, more desperate than all of the others. And still Julia sang.
“Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.”
Her throat ached. The tears continued. And still she sang.
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“Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.”
She felt Ken wrap his arm around her shoulders. She moved in closer to him—to this man who had flown across the country to be by her side, to this man who could love her and forgive her, warts and all.
Her father’s entire body convulsed. Suddenly his breathing stopped as if he was holding his breath. And then, ever so gradually it relaxed, slowly exhaling as all air slipped from his lungs.
Julia watched, her throat constricting. But she continued to sing. She had to. She sang for her father, she sang for her family, and mostly, for the first time in a very long time, she sang for herself.
“Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible tells me so.”
v
Leon Brewster swung hard, and to his amazement he actually connected with the ball. It was a hot grounder that scooted between Maggie at third and Scott, who was playing shortstop.
“Atta boy!” Conrad shouted. “Run, Leon, run!”
Leon, who hadn’t swung a bat since a police raid at his porn studio eight years earlier, took off for first. His gait was not as smooth as it could be, mostly because of his designer shoes, but somehow, someway, he made it to the base before the ball.
“All right, Leon!” Conrad clapped and laughed. “Way to go!”
They were at another softball field. It was similar to the one on the West Coast where Conrad had first met the hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 332
332 group—although this one was a bit higher class, with bleachers rising some thirty to forty feet into the air. Suspecting that he might be too old to play and maintain any sense of dignity, Conrad opted for standing behind the backstop and rooting.
At the moment Leon’s side was down by three, but things were looking up. With Leon on first, Brent on second, and Trevor on third, things were definitely looking up.
He glanced at Suzanne, who was clapping and cheering beside him. She was always beside him now. And he was always beside her. Just like old times. No, better than old times. Because now, at long last, he had finally found what he’d been looking for. He had finally found that “something”
to fill up his emptiness. And it had nothing to do with women, or fame, or work.
Lately, the group had been teasing the two of them about setting a wedding date. And a date would come; there was no doubt about it. But neither of them was in any hurry. After all, she was already a part of him, and he was already a part of her. It had been that way since they’d first exchanged vows nearly thirty years ago. It had simply taken Conrad a few decades longer to finally grasp it.
Over five weeks had passed since Eli’s lynching and since he had first appeared to Suzanne. Initially, even Conrad had found it difficult to believe her claims, thinking they had to be some sort of hysterical fantasy. But after Eli had appeared to the guys down at Kentucky Fried Chicken, where he insisted upon eating a wing (extra crispy) and cole slaw to prove he wasn’t some vision or ghost, then appeared to Scott and Hector and gave them an afternoon Bible study, pointing to over three hundred prophecies he had fulfilled during his stay on earth, and later when he’d appeared to those hundreds of people at the local mall . . . well, word was quickly spreading that Eli’s resurrection was more than somebody’s wishful thinking or overactive imagination.
Of course, Dr. Kerston and his associates were going out of their way to dispel what they insisted to be rumor and fab-hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 333
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rication. On at least two separate occasions, the guards at the morgue were featured guests on his TV talk show, where they carefully explained how they had fallen asleep on duty, and how Eli’s followers must have broken in and stolen the body.
Interestingly enough, they were never discharged from their services as security guards, and, according to a little inves-tigative reporting by Gerald McFarland, the new religious cor-respondent for Up Front magazine , both of them had received lifetime memberships to visit the City of God.
Earlier, Eli had given strict orders to the group that they were not to leave Salem County. He’d said they were to stay put until he sent some sort of “Helper,” the one he’d promised them the night of his arrest. Where and when that would happen was anybody’s guess. But it didn’t matter to Conrad. Not anymore. Conrad was done setting agendas. If Eli wanted them to wait, they would wait. If Eli wanted him to stand on his head whistling the national anthem, he would stand on his head and whistle the national anthem. It may not make sense, it may be totally absurd, but if there was one thing Conrad had learned, it was that Eli Shepherd could be trusted.
Not only in the predictions he’d made about himself, but in that upside-down, Kingdom of God living he was so fond of describing.
“Uh-oh.” Suzanne lowered her head and chuckled.
“What?” Conrad asked. He looked over and saw Jake approaching the plate. Uh-oh was right. The big man’s batting average had not improved since the first time Conrad had seen him at the plate. It still hovered around .000. With two outs and the bases loaded, this was not a good sign.
“Come on,” Suzanne shouted encouragingly. “You can do it, Jake. You can do it.”
“Oh, brother,” Conrad muttered—and then received an elbow in his side, with her admonition.
“Be nice.”
Reluctantly, he joined in the clapping. “Come on, Jake, let her rip.”
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The big guy took a couple practice swings.
Out on the mound, his brother, Robert, went through his prepitching ritual, rolling his head, squinting at the plate, until finally he lobbed the ball . . . right across the strike zone.
Jake’s swing came a moment or two later.
“That’s okay,” Suzanne shouted. “You’re doing great, you’re doing great!”
“Anybody ever accuse you of being an optimist?” Conrad teased.
She continued clapping while flashing him a smile.
“Guess I’ve always believed in the long shots.”
Conrad caught her drift and grinned back. How glad he was for that to be the case.
Robert went through his wind-up routine and lobbed the second pitch. It was just as perfect as the first. Once again Jake swung, and once again he missed.
“Shake it off!” Suzanne shouted. “Shake it off! This one’s got your name on it now. This one is all yours!”
Jake nodded, wiped the sweat from his face with his big, meaty hand, and took a couple more practice swings.
“Keep your eye open for the high lob, outside corner.”
The voice came from behind them, up in the stands. Conrad turned, shielding his eyes from the sun. Someone was standing on the very top bleacher.
Jake heard him too. He gave a half glance before directing his attention back to the mound and taking another practice swing.
“Watch for the outside corner pitch,” the stranger repeated.
Now it was Suzanne’s turn to look, the sun also causing her to squint.
Conrad looked back at the mound. Robert stared up into the stands, a little miffed. The stranger had created a problem. If he threw an outside corner lob, would his brother be expecting it? Or would Jake expect just the opposite since it had just been broadcast from the stands? It was an interesting dilemma, a choice both would have to make.
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Back at the plate Jake crouched, pr
eparing for the pitch.
Beads of sweat reappeared on his face.
Robert started his wind-up ritual—rolling his head and squinting at the plate. The runners on their bases prepared to take off. This was it. Two strikes, bases loaded. It was now or never.
Jake took one more practice swing, focused, and waited.
At last Robert pitched the ball. As it came toward the plate, Jake stepped forward, preparing for an outside corner lob. He guessed correctly.
CRACK!
The ball flew off the bat, sailing high into the air. Everyone froze. No one believed their eyes—most of all, Jake. It was a home run, a grand slam!
“Atta boy, Jake!” Suzanne shouted. “Run, Jake, run!”
But Jake barely heard. Instead, he turned toward the stands and looked up at the stranger standing in the sun. A grin spread across his face. Then, still holding the bat, he started to run. But not toward first. Instead, he started around the backstop toward the stands.
“Jake!” Suzanne shouted.
But the man didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow. “Eli!” he cried, and continued to lumber forward.
Conrad whirled around and stared up into the stands. Of course. Why hadn’t he recognized him before? His heart began to pound. It had been six days since Eli’s last appearance. For Conrad, each visit was more meaningful than the last. And for good reason. That was his life standing up there, his purpose for living. Still holding Suzanne’s hand, he also started toward the bleachers, at least a dozen steps ahead of Jake.
They reached the bottom of the steps and started up. Eli remained standing in the sun, some thirty, forty feet above them. As they ran, that same children’s song started to ring in Conrad’s ears, the one he and Suzanne used to sing to their Sunday school class so many years before. He wasn’t sure where it came from or why he was hearing it now, but it was definitely there.
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Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.
The steps were steep, and Conrad could already feel the strain in his legs. Apparently so did Suzanne. That’s why after only a dozen or so she let go of his hand. “You go on,” she panted. “I’ll catch up.”
Conrad nodded and continued. His heart beat harder now; he could hear it pounding in his ears.
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.
His breathing grew more difficult. He definitely wasn’t as young as he used to be. But he wouldn’t stop. After all, that was Eli standing up there in the sun, stretching out his arms to him.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Conrad’s legs became more and more unsure. The pounding in his ears grew louder. And his breathing became more difficult. He could feel the burn in the back of his throat. Felt his lungs crying for more air. But still he ran.
Eli was just ahead. In the blinding glare of the light Conrad could see him opening his mouth. He was saying something, but they were still too far apart for Conrad to hear.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
His legs started to lose feeling. Again Eli spoke, and again Conrad strained to listen. But there was only the song and the pounding in his ears. The thunderous, rapid pounding. And it was no longer a steady rhythm. Now it had become erratic, out of sync.
He breathed harder, gasping for air, trying in vain to fill his lungs.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
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His legs turned to rubber, becoming foreign objects. And still he ran. He was less than ten feet away now. Ten feet from Eli, who stood arms outstretched. Even in the sunlight, Conrad could see him grinning. And Conrad grinned back.
Despite the exhaustion, despite the lack of air, he couldn’t help grinning.
The pounding grew wild, deafening. Out of control.
Again Eli spoke, and again Conrad strained to hear. But he could not. Not yet.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
They were six feet apart.
Suddenly his legs were gone, no feeling, no control. His right one almost buckled, nearly throwing him into the steps.
But he kept pushing. His lungs burned like fire, screaming for air, but he continued.
Four feet.
Eli stretched his arms wider, preparing for the embrace.
The Bible tells me so.
One step to go. Conrad stumbled, began to fall. But he was close enough that it didn’t matter. He was close enough for Eli to catch him. And he did. He fell into Eli’s arms and they embraced. Conrad clenched his eyes against the tears. It was so good to hold him, so good to be held.
And then, suddenly, the erratic pounding in his ears stopped. Now there was only silence. Lovely, tranquil silence.
His lungs no longer burned. They no longer needed air—as if being in Eli’s arms gave him all the air he needed. He tightened his embrace, burying his face in Eli’s neck. Nothing else mattered. Not his hopes, not his desires, not even his breath.
Only Eli.
After a long moment, he opened his eyes. The light behind Eli now surrounded him, surrounded them. It had wrapped its brilliance about them. Blinding, overpowering, yet full of love—full of the same love as Eli’s embrace. In fact hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 338
338 ... it was Eli’s embrace. Part of Eli held him in his arms, while another part enveloped both of them in his light. Eli was both the light and the embrace.
He was also the motion. Conrad was not sure when it had started, but they were moving. It could be a thousand miles per second, it could be gentle drifting, he wasn’t sure, but they were definitely moving. He looked about, caught up in the splendor and wonder of what he saw. Finally, he whispered, “Where are we going?”
Eli smiled warmly. And then in that tender, loving voice of his, he answered, “We’re going home, my friend. We’re going home.”
v
It had been ten minutes since Conrad Davis had stopped breathing. Ten minutes of tears, quiet reflection, and, just moments ago, a little prayer that Julia had asked Ken to say.
The request for a prayer had surprised her almost as much as it had surprised Ken. But the past forty-eight hours had brought many surprises.
The ICU nurse entered and silently placed a rolled-up towel under her father’s chin to keep his mouth from sagging open. Then she turned and quietly exited, letting them have the time to themselves. A moment later, Ken prepared to slip out. Sensing her need to be alone, he encouraged Cody to say his goodbyes, then turned to Julia and said, “We’ll wait for you in the lobby.” He gave her a slight embrace, and she patted his hand in thanks.
Now it was just mother and daughter standing in the room. Neither said a word. After a long moment, Julia’s mother slowly bent down and kissed his cheek. The words she spoke were quiet, so soft that Julia nearly missed them.
“Sleep well, my love. Sleep well.” And then, with quiet dignity, she rose, looked down upon him one last time, and turned to walk out of the room.
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Now Julia stood all alone. There wasn’t even the ragged breathing to disturb the silence. Her mind churned with a thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions. So much had happened in such a short time. It would take weeks—
months—to sort it out, but something had changed. Inside her. Something deep. And although there was intense sadness, there was also a lightness. A weight had been removed.
A weight heavier than anything she had ever imagined.
She stepped closer to the bed, unsure what to do. After a moment she reached out and gently stroked his exposed arm with the back of her hand. It was already growing cold.
“Goodbye, Daddy,” she whispered. She looked down at the bandaged face. “I guess I’ll see you a little later.” It was a simple statement, but the only one she could think of. She took another breath, let it out, then turned and started for the door.
But she stopped
in the doorway. Another thought had come to mind. Something closer to her heart. She turned back and spoke. “I know you’re not perfect. I guess none of us are.
But . . . I love you, Dad.” She swallowed hard and continued.
“I will always love you.” Then, slowly raising her hand, she crooked her little finger. And, smiling through brimming tears, she added, “Pinkie swear.”
With that, she turned and headed out of the room to join her family. The family that had been waiting for her all these many years.
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A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Bill Myers (www.billmyers.com) is the author of the best-selling trilogy Blood of Heaven, Threshold, and Fire of Heaven, as well as the series McGee and Me!, The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle, Forbidden Doors, and Bloodhounds, Inc.
He is a writer and director whose work has won over forty national and international awards and whose books and videos have sold nearly five million copies.
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Enjoy this excerpt from
Blood of Heaven,
Book One of
Bill Myers’s
Fire of Heaven
Trilogy
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“You come in here with some story about the blood of Christ, and you—”
“No one said we had the blood of—”
“—expect me to be your guinea pig?”
“Please, Mr. Coleman . . .” Murkoski swallowed. He appeared to be regrouping, trying to start again. He threw a nervous look at O’Brien, who sat beside him in one of the three fiberglass-molded chairs. They had been in the attorney/client room with Coleman for only thirty minutes, and the killer already had Murkoski on the ropes, looking like a fool.
And not just Murkoski. O’Brien had underestimated the man as well. They had carefully researched him, studied his psychological profile, medical workup, X rays, blood chemistry; they had even run covert EKGs, EEGs, PETs, and a CAT scan on him last summer. Clinically, they knew everything they could know about the man.