by Tim LaHaye
The question of the darkest hour before dawn, then, was whether Rayford Steele should risk a new, exciting relationship with Hattie Durham. He suppressed a smile. Was he kidding himself? Would someone with his reputation ever do anything but dream about a beautiful woman fifteen years his junior? He wasn't so sure anymore. If only Irene hadn't gone off on this new kick.
Would it fade, her preoccupation with the end of the world, with the love of Jesus, with the salvation of souls? Irene had become a full-fledged religious fanatic, and that somehow freed Rayford to daydream without guilt
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about Hattie. Maybe he would say something, suggest something, hint at something as he and Hattie strode through Heathrow toward the cab line. Maybe earlier. Dare he assert himself even now, hours before touchdown?
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rayford Steele Jr. sat in the house of God with a friend, Jeremy Phillips, he had known from his sixth-grade class in Mt. Prospect, Illinois.
"Calling you Raymie seems strange now," Jeremy said, his shock of dark hair reminding Raymie of the boy he had known.
"I know. And you look so much like your dad. Is he here?"
"Of course!" Jeremy said. "Dad?"
Instantly Jeremy's parents were at his side, smiling. "Raymie!" Mr. Phillips said, and his wife embraced Raymie.
"You look younger!" Raymie said.
"You look older," Mr. Phillips said.
"The strangest thing is that I feel older."
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"Me too," Jeremy said. "It's as if I understand stuff now I never even thought about before."
"So did you even know Raymie was a believer?" Mrs. Phillips said.
Jeremy shook his head. "We've been talking about that. I guess neither of us was too bold in our faith. I mean, I knew Raymie was a good kid, never got into trouble, didn't swear--that kind of thing. But I never put two and two together."
Raymie was laughing.
"What's funny?" Jeremy said.
"Just that I never knew you were a Christian either, but you weren't always such a good kid."
"Yeah, I got in my share of trouble. And I didn't always use the best language, did I?"
"That was my fault," his father said. "I didn't become a Christian until Jane here did, so there was a lot of garbage in my life that it took the Lord a few years to clean out. How about your folks, Raymie? They here?"
"Mom is. Pray for my dad, will you?"
"We'll put him on our list," Jane Phillips said. "There are a lot of people on it, but I have a hunch they will figure this out pretty quickly. They can't say we didn't warn them. In fact, I fear we turned a few people off, always talking about this very day."
"Has it only been a day?" Jeremy said. "It seems like we've been here A month already."
"I have a feeling," his dad said, "that it hasn't been more than a few minutes."
The angel host burst forth with more hallelujahs.
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"Maybe one of those was for your dad, Raymie," Mr. Phillips said.
"I can only hope. Put my sister on your list too, please."
Irene felt she had almost gotten used to her glorified body. To not worry about aches and pains and strain and fatigue was too good to be true. But she decided it was unlikely she would never take her new mind for granted. As any mortal, she had often wondered what it must be like to have the mind of God. To be able to know all and remember all and know the future. That last didn't happen to come with her new equipment, but the idea of knowing and understanding everything all at once--now there was a novelty.
Irene couldn't see Raymie, but she knew instinctively that he was within a quarter mile of her, and she even knew he was talking about her and Rayford and Chloe. The Phillipses, she thought. How wonderful. Who knew? Irene could transport herself directly into their presence, but that could wait. They had to be enjoying these festivities as much as she was.
What a parade of saints had already passed by the throne, their works tested by the fire, their crowns produced from the treasured residue. Irene thrilled to every story of a behind-the-scenes saint, unknown outside their tiny church or town, who had represented Christ every day for decades. From every city and
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village on every inhabited continent they came, people of all colors and tongues. From a woman in the bowels of India who had spent her own meager income on materials to teach the Bible in her squalid neighborhood, despite opposition from her government and people of other religions--to the man who had sold his lucrative businesses in Australia to move into the outback and spend his life reaching Aborigines for Christ.
Irene couldn't get enough of this. She had expected, of course, to see preachers and pastors and evangelists getting their rewards, but she had not considered that most of these would be men and women from places she had never heard of. Many had lived on pennies, wearing at most two sets of clothes, opposed by the enemies of God, often persecuted by the state, and yet persevering in spite of it all.
An invalid woman was praised by Jesus for making her sickbed an altar of prayer for more than fifty years, daily petitioning God for countless ministries and missionaries. Now she jumped and ran and skipped before the throne, whole, young, vibrant, and the recipient of the crowns of Righteousness, Life, and Rejoicing.
Next to a window in first class on a 747 bound for London, Buck Williams sat hunched over his laptop, executing the slow blink of the sleep deprived. He had intended
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to do so much, to get himself newly organized, but he felt unconsciousness invading. And it was such a warm, inviting wave that he knew he would be unable to resist it for long.
The elderly couple in front of him--he could see only the woman's head now--and the overweight, heavily lubricated businessman next to him were already sound asleep. Buck would be next, but he wanted to keep the computer screen from swimming before his eyes for another minute or so.
No luck. He roused with a start to realize he had keyed gibberish onto his calendar. And then he was out again.
Irene estimated that she had witnessed the judgment of more than two thousand saints so far. Only about 19,999,998,000 to go. Still getting used to her new abilities, she debated whether to bother God with her question, but as soon as she allowed the thought, He spoke to her heart.
"Just ask."
"Well," she said, "You see, I know time is different here, and--"
"In fact, nonexistent," He said.
"Yes, right. But just out of curiosity, how long have we been here?"
"In earth time?" A heavenly chuckle. "Approximately four minutes."
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"See, now, Amy, this is our problem. Here it is, nine o'clock on a weeknight, and here we sit."
"We've been through this," Amy said as Chloe closed her books. "You're going for best student in history, and that doesn't allow for much of a social life."
"But how about you? Do something! Go somewhere!"
"Yeah, I should call one of my dozen boyfriends, all of whom own Porsches, of course, and see which wants to take me on a pizza run."
"Pizza!" Chloe said. "That sounds fantastic. Who has a car?"
"You done studying?"
"I'm out of gas," Chloe said. "I could read some more, but I need fuel. Pizza would be just the thing."
"Let's order delivery."
"Nah. I need to get out of here awhile. Don't you?"
Amy nodded. "But we still need wheels. You want to borrow someone's car?"
"Whose?"
"Well, Phoebe's, but you don't like her."
"It isn't that I don't like her, Amy. I hardly know her. She just reminds me too much of my mother; that's all."
"She is a little old for her age, isn't she? But on the other hand, she does have a car. And what are you saying about your mom? She's so sweet."
"I know, but she and Phoebe only want to talk about God. God this and God that and "you should really come with me to Campus Crusade sometime.""
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disingenuous that they never use the full name of that club?"
"Campus Crusade for Christ?" Chloe said. "Sometimes they do."
"Yeah, but too often they don't. It's like getting invited to a party and finding out it's one of those multilevel marketing things."
"Ah, I guess they mean well. So, call Phoebe."
"You know her better, Chloe."
"I do not! She just thinks I'm a better candidate for Campus Crusade than you are. How does that make you feel?"
"Hopeless... or maybe she thinks I'm already in."
They both laughed. Chloe said, "You know she's going to want to go. She'll offer to drive."
"Don't tell her where we're going. Just tell her it's an errand. C'mon. Call her."
Chloe grabbed the phone and called the floor below them.
Phoebe's roommate answered. "Just missed her, Chlo'. She was running out to get us something to eat."
"That's what we wanted. How long ago did she leave?"
"I don't know. Five minutes maybe? Call her cell."
Chloe tried but got Phoebe's voice mail. She moved to the window and saw Phoebe's car still in the lot. "Maybe she's got her phone off, Amy. Let's see if we can catch her."
The girls pulled on jackets and headed for the elevator. "This'll take too long," Amy said. "The stairs!"
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They raced down the steps and burst out the door, and in the dim light from the lampposts in the parking lot they saw shoes, socks, jeans, a sweater, and undergarments between them and the car. Also in the grass, next to the concrete walkway, lay a purse and a cell phone.
"What is this?" Amy said, kneeling and reaching for the phone.
"Wait!" Chloe said. "Don't touch it! Maybe she was attacked. I'm calling the police."
"I'll call her roommate."
Chloe got a busy signal, even from 911. She dialed campus security. Same thing.
Soon Phoebe's roommate appeared in pajamas and slippers. "This is her stuff," she said, ashen faced. "Call somebody."
Chloe told her she had tried, and the girl, shaking, whispered, "I don't want to scare you any more, but on my way down here, I heard screaming on every floor."
"Stay here, Amy," Chloe said, dashing back inside. She found students everywhere, shaking, crying, running, trying to call for help. In her building alone, more than ten students had disappeared right out of their clothes, most in front of their friends or roommates.
Chloe, a knot forming deep within, dialed her father's cell phone, wondering what time it would be where he was. She got the message that the system was overloaded and that she should try later.
A girl grabbed Chloe from behind, hanging on as if she were drowning. "What's going on?" she wailed.
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"I don't know!" Chloe said.
"Have you heard? Lots of students' kids are gone. Some say all of them. And a couple of professors." The girl ran off.
Chloe tried her home number. "Mom? Dad? Are you there? Have you seen what's going on? Call me as soon as you can. We've lost at least ten students and two profs, and all the married students' kids disappeared. Is Raymie all right? Call me!"
Chloe ran to her room and began packing, hardly thinking about where she was going. Kids had TVs and radios blaring the news that this was a worldwide phenomenon. She had to get home. Why, she didn't know. She just had to. She threw anything and everything she needed into one suitcase and dragged it downstairs.
Amy was still standing guard over Phoebe's clothes.
"You might as well take that stuff up to her room," Chloe said, and she told Amy what she had heard. "I'm going to keep trying to reach my family, but if you hear from them, tell them I'm trying to find a way back there. I'll try to call them tomorrow if I can get a flight. Can you do that?"
"Sure. And, Chloe... be careful."
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
On Earth Irene would have called it telepathy; she had never had the gift and doubted anyone else ever really did either. She had heard stories and pseudomagicians make claims and demonstrate what seemed like impressive feats of clairvoyance, but she was a skeptic. No one had ever proved to her that the gift was real, except perhaps in rare cases of demonic activity. In fact, she had enjoyed reading books by debunkers or those who explained the secrets behind the tricks.
But here in God's house, she was able to communicate with Raymie without opening her mouth or even being in his presence. It was as if they were together, regardless of how far apart they were. Irene knew she could merely desire his company and he would be there. But she wanted to be sure he was free and wouldn't feel as if he were abandoning Jeremy or his parents.
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In an instant, Raymie was at her side. "I suppose you've noticed that things are different here," he said, smiling.
Irene still found it disconcerting that he had recently looked and acted and thought and spoken like a boy twenty years younger. She laughed. "Yes. I've noticed."
"I mean, there is no offense. If I leave Jeremy and Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, it's not as if I have snubbed them. We're all still here, we can still talk, and I can be back with them immediately. I could bounce back and forth between here and there every nanosecond, and you would all feel as if I were with you alone."
"Interesting," she said, "but please don't. It's just that I'm finding this judgment so fascinating that I wanted you next to me as I watched. Needless to say, I'm anxious about my own appearance before that flame."
"Me too," Raymie said. "I was so young, and I'm satisfied that I was earnest and devout enough. But even you were young in your faith, and we really didn't know what to do, did we?"
"I do now. From a whole new perspective. I'd like to have another chance at living the Christian life."
Raymie cocked his head at her. "No, you wouldn't. You have no more interest in leaving this place than I or anyone else here does."
"That's for sure," she said, interrupted by hallelujahs from the angels. She joined in the cheering and applause, then said, "I only wish I'd known then what I know now."
"I especially wouldn't want to be on Earth now,"
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Raymie said, "with what has to be happening. I mean, I would be a better witness. I'd be more overt about my faith, more enthusiastic, more bold, more insistent. I wouldn't be afraid or embarrassed. I might even be able to endure all the hardships. But I can't imagine ever again being out of the physical presence of Jesus."
Irene stared at the line that seemed to stretch for miles as saint after unknown saint was called to face the flame of judgment for their works on Earth. "I just want everyone I knew and loved to be here."
Over what seemed like the next week--but what Irene knew was more likely just a matter of minutes--she and Raymie watched and listened as the white-hot finger of fire rose and fell with the tempering of the gold and silver and precious stones of some works and the gush of flame at eternally valueless wastes of earthly time. Irene felt electrified to realize how many believers there had been in the world during her time on Earth. Names of every length and form represented millions of unknown Christians who had served Christ in unseen places and in unknown ways. Here the last were first and the first would be last. Irene looked forward to witnessing the judgment of the works of the heroes of the faith, contemporary and from the past, but she found the rewarding of these otherwise unknowns just as fascinating.
It had been during the middle of the morning rush hour in Bucharest--and for many the workday had just
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begun--when the Rapture occurred. Minutes later television news helicopters began landing on the lawn at the estate of the new Romanian president, Nicolae Carpathia. He immediately took Gabriella's assistant maid off phone duty, had her dressed in a business suit, and coached her on what to say:
"President Carpathia will address the nation in a few minutes. He is currently in seclusion
, mourning the loss of some key members of his staff."
In truth, of course, Nicolae was on the phone to New York, being debriefed by Leon Fortunato, who agreed that he should not face the cameras until the international media arrived. "You are no longer the man of the Romanians," Leon said. "You are the man of the hour for the world. Do you know yet what you will say?"
"Of course. Words of peace and comfort."
"Excellent. Scripted?"
"Of course not. The spirit will give me utterance."
"Amen."
"Leon, some of the press are peeking in the windows even now as we speak. I must appear to be about earnest, important business."
"Well, you are."
"Tell me, what do you make of the fact that some on my staff here have vanished? How could I not know of their true allegiances?"
"Perhaps they were loyal to you as well, Nicolae. Unless they were God, they would not have detected where your loyalties lay or who you are."
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"Could they be that naive? Would not our adversary have informed them, the way our spirit guide informs us?" "Apparently not."
It was not unusual for Bruce Barnes--visitation pastor of New Hope Village Church in Mt. Prospect, Illinois-- to read in bed as his wife slept. Too often his reading and turning pages kept her awake, and after wrestling with three kids, five and under, all day, she frequently asked how long he would be reading.