by Tim LaHaye
That night he was enjoying his favorite sports-weekly magazine, and, as usual, his wife gently murmured, asking how long the light would be on. Not long, he told her, hoping she would soon fall asleep and not hear the pages turning or be bothered by the light.
She sighed a few times as the pages crinkled, but soon he heard her breathing slowly and steadily and knew she was out. He resituated himself with his back to her and kept reading, planning to finish the entire magazine.
Soon Bruce felt the bed move and sensed that his wife had gotten up. He assumed she was going to the bathroom and hoped she wouldn't rouse so much that she would complain about his still having the light on when she got back. It didn't strike him until later that he had not heard her walk to the bathroom or heard any water running. She was a tiny little thing, so the lack of her weight on the bed was pretty much all he noticed.
Engrossed in his reading, Bruce suddenly became
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aware that his wife had not returned. He called over his shoulder, "Hon, you okay?"
No response. Maybe she was checking on the kids. Or maybe it had been his imagination that she had left the bed. He read for a few more minutes, then reached behind him to be sure she wasn't still there. She was gone. He turned over and noticed that she had also pulled the covers back up to the pillow.
Great. She was angry with him for still being up and having the light on, so she had likely retired to the couch. Bruce felt terrible. He went to apologize and coax her back to bed, resigned to quit reading and turn out the light.
But his wife was not on the couch. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kids' rooms. He didn't want to call out for her and wake the children. The lights were off all over the house, so he turned on the one in the hall to check their rooms again. Perhaps she was in a corner, rocking one of the younger ones.
From the dim shaft of light in the hall, Bruce thought the baby's crib looked empty. He turned on the room light, stuck his head out the door, and called down the hall for his wife. When he got no response, he turned back to the crib, saw the empty footie pajamas, and knew.
Bruce ran to each of the other two rooms, yanking back the covers and finding the kids' pajamas. Hurrying back to the master bedroom, he pulled back the covers on his wife's side to find her nightgown and her rings.
Bruce grabbed the phone and called Pastor Billings.
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He got the answering machine. He called other staff members. Same problem. He dug through the church directory, looking for older people who might not like answering machines. No answers.
As alone as he had ever been, Bruce jumped in his car and drove to the church. There he found one of the older New Hope secretaries sitting in her car, sobbing. They both knew what had happened. They had been left behind, and they knew why.
Chloe was horrified at what she saw as she dragged her suitcase through the campus and out onto the streets of Palo Alto. Bedlam everywhere. People cried and screamed, some ran, some collapsed into the fetal position. Others held each other. Many cried out to God. Some yelled for help, but there was nothing she could do for them. She just wanted to get home.
But there were no cabs, no buses, no trucks moving. A few small cars and motorcycles picked their way around the mayhem, but no one was stopping for hitchhikers. Chloe resolutely soldiered on with a vague notion that she was heading toward the San Jose airport. If she could just find a ride to the 101...
Raymie Steele sat next to his mother, mesmerized by the myriad stories that flashed across his mind's eye as
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thousands upon thousands of people faced the fire judgment of their works and then the Bema Seat for their rewards. As a couple and a woman--all appearing about the same age now, of course--approached the altar, the crowd, Raymie and Irene included, rose with applause.
Without announcement or fanfare, God somehow impressed on the hearts and minds and souls of the spectator saints the entire story of each supplicant. Raymie received the entire fascinating story of this couple and their daughter all in one piece and ruminated upon it as their works were burned to precious metals and gems and they were awarded crowns by Jesus.
John and Betty Stam of America had been missionaries to China. In 1934, John and Betty and their three-month-old daughter, Helen, were taken as hostages by the advancing Communists. When their attackers demanded a $20,000 ransom, John wrote in a note to mission authorities: "The Lord bless and guide you. As for us, may God be glorified, whether by life or by death."
During the night John was tied to a post out in the cold while Betty tended the baby. Before dawn she hid the sleeping Helen in a sleeping bag, praying she would be found by someone who would take care of her. In the morning John and Betty were stripped and led through town like common criminals, their hands bound behind them.
Along the way a man stepped from the crowd and pleaded for their lives. The guards ordered him to be silent, and when he would not desist, they dragged him
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away to be killed. John begged the guards to spare the man's life, but they ordered him to kneel. John was still speaking when one of the guards decapitated him with one ferocious swing of his sword.
Betty, kneeling beside her fallen husband, was murdered by the sword.
A local pastor was told that a baby had been left in the house where John and Betty had been chained. He hurried to find Helen in the little sleeping bag, hungry but alive. He bravely spirited her away, and a week later she was delivered to another missionary in a nearby city. Eventually she was returned to the States, where she lived until her death.
Raymie felt as if he had known the Stams and their daughter, even though all of them died long before he was born. He found it thrilling to see John and Betty receive their martyrs' crowns and be reunited with the pastor who had saved their daughter and with those who had raised her.
Stories like this were repeated hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times as Raymie sat there with his mother. He tried to compare it to the best entertainment he had ever enjoyed on Earth, but nothing matched this. He had loved a great ball game on TV, a last-minute victory. He had enjoyed mystery stories and heroic tales that kept him turning the pages until long after his bedtime. He had been to movies that amazed and delighted him and made him remember them for days.
But this made those seem like nothing. As each person approached the flame and the throne, his or her history
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was implanted in Raymie's mind. In full color with every sound and emotion he followed their feats as they served God, fighting persecution and the sword, trusting the Lord to deliver them, many dying for their faith, now enjoying their rewards.
From every century and every corner of the world they came, the throng rising to applaud them as everyone enjoyed the dramas of their heroic highlights. In every case, as their stories unfolded, the crowd exulted and the principals bowed at the feet of Jesus, deflecting all praise and honor to Him. The stories of humble pastors of tiny churches, persevering for decades in spite of seemingly no results, were just as uplifting as the dramatic tales.
Raymie had been fascinated by his mother's report that she had asked God how long they had been here-- in terms they would understand from an earthly standpoint--and found it had been just minutes. He wondered if God would feel he was being trivial if he asked for his own update.
And as soon as the thought crossed his mind, God spoke to his heart. "You are anything but a nuisance, Son. Still only moments have passed since you arrived."
Raymie hoped this would never end and then realized that it would not.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nicolae Carpathia waited until his people told him that the largest international-media outlets had arrived; then he took his time having his valet dress him in his most elegant, sedate, black suit with black tie and white shirt. Lingering in his dressing closet a few more beats, he finally left the mansion in a slow, seemingly sad gait with hi
s head down, approaching the microphones on his vast back lawn.
Carpathia stepped to the makeshift podium as still cameras clicked and reporters jostled for position. Pressing his lips together in what appeared to be an attempt to control his emotions, he stoically raised his head and cleared his throat.
"Forgive me, but like so many around the world, I am grieving this hour as well. It appears no one has been left untouched by this tragedy. I know that even now, virtually moments after the cataclysm has struck, people
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all over the globe are already expounding theories. At the risk of adding to the confusion, for now let me say that the idea that makes the most sense to me is briefly as follows:
"The world has been stockpiling nuclear weapons for many years. Since the United States dropped atomic bombs on Japan in 1945 and the Soviet Union first detonated its own devices on September 23, 1949, the world has been at risk of nuclear holocaust. I would not be surprised if scientists discover some atmospheric phenomenon interacting with all these stockpiled weapons that may have caused the vanishing of so many people instantaneously.
"I am not a scientist, but I am well-read in these subjects, and it could very well be that some confluence of electromagnetism in the atmosphere, combined with as-yet-unknown or unexplained atomic ionization from the nuclear power and weaponry throughout the world, could have been ignited or triggered--perhaps by a natural cause like lightning or even by an intelligent life-form that discovered the possibility before we did--and caused this instant action.
"Why the disappearances seem so random, striking some societies and cultures more than others, I am not prepared to speculate upon. It is possible that certain people's levels of electricity made them more likely to be affected. That would account for all the children and babies and even fetal material that vanished. Perhaps their electromagnetism was not developed to the point that it could resist whatever happened.
"I have already heard postulated that this may have been some cosmic act of God. Let me be careful to say
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that I do not and will not criticize any sincere person's belief system. Such tolerance is the basis for true harmony and brotherhood, peace and respect among peoples. I do not accept the so-called Rapture theory already being bandied about, because I know many, many more people who should be gone if the righteous were taken to heaven. If there is a God, I respectfully submit that this is not the capricious way in which He would operate. By the same token, you will not hear me express any disrespect for those who disagree.
"There may come a time when I will be presented the opportunity and privilege of addressing in a more appropriate setting my views of millenarianism, eschatology, the Last Judgment, and the second coming of Christ, but until that time I feel it would be best if I did not attempt to speak on those subjects informally.
"Let me just close by adding my condolences to all who have suffered loss this day and to respectfully decline questions at this time. Thank you."
As Carpathia strode back toward the house, the press called out, "Mr. President!" "Dr. Carpathia!" "Just one question, sir."
But he neither turned nor slowed. This had been his show, not theirs.
Raymie had never heard of Cyrus Ingerson Scofield, but he was certainly intrigued by the man's story. Scofield had been a successful lawyer and politician in the nineteenth
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century but had resigned from the United States Attorney's office under charges of political corruption.
By the time he was thirty-six, in 1879, Scofield had suffered spiraling losses in his personal life, having ended his political career in humiliation, lost a son, turned to drink, and undergone a divorce. He was also involved in many controversial court cases.
Raymie thought Scofield appeared repentant, kneeling before the flame as his works were tested in the fire. Despite his history, his judgment resulted in precious gems and gold and silver that shone. Jesus fashioned these into a Crown of Life for Scofield's persevering in ministry despite opposition to his theological views. Jesus also presented him a Crown of Glory, citing his feeding of several flocks as pastor of various churches. He also received a Crown of Righteousness as one who stood out as loving the very idea of Christ's appearing. And finally he was given the Crown of Rejoicing for his work having resulted in so many coming to faith in Christ.
"But, Lord," Scofield said, "I am unworthy. I wasted nearly half my life."
Jesus embraced him and said, "You of all men should know that the sins and omissions of the old life are not counted against you at this judgment. Your sins were covered and forgotten, and all that remains is what you did for Me after you were regenerated. Well done, good and faithful servant."
Raymie enjoyed the Scofield life story passing his mind's eye. A change had certainly been needed in the man's life. And now the masses were treated in their
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minds' eyes to the time in 1879 when Scofield had asked God to forgive his sins and for Jesus to take over his life.
From that moment the brilliant but flawed Scofield began to study and live for his newfound Savior. He stopped drinking, was discipled by a prominent pastor and Bible teacher, served many organizations, and was eventually called to be a pastor.
He led people to Christ, began cottage prayer meetings, married a Christian, saw his Dallas, Texas, church send out missionaries, and also saw the work grow and spawn new churches. He designed the Scofield Correspondence Course, which was later licensed to Moody Bible Institute and taken by more than 100,000 students. And he created a reference Bible to aid those just beginning to read the Bible, which became an authoritative guide to millions for more than a century.
Raymie had heard Pastor Billings mention his Scofield Bible, but he had never quite understood what he meant and was fairly certain he had never seen one. Now, as Raymie watched Jesus give Cyrus Scofield his crowns, he thought this was a man he'd like to talk with, and it was nice to know he had an eternity to do it.
Chloe caught a clumsy ride on the back of a motorbike, during which she and the young, terrified Asian rider struggled to keep her suitcase aloft. "You want to try the new Palo Alto airstrip?" he said.
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"I can't imagine anything's going out of there," she said. "I was hoping to make it to San Jose."
"Definitely closed," he said. "Heard it on the news."
"Palo Alto then," she said, which proved providential.
A harried, middle-aged woman behind the counter, her mascara having run from recent tears, told Chloe she was in luck, "in a manner of speaking." She said she was going to try and see how many rules she could break, learning that Chloe was immediate family of a Pan-Con captain. "Somehow I'll get you onto Pan-Con by the last leg of your trip, if I find even one plane on its way to Chicago."
The woman spent several minutes tapping away at her keyboard, talking to herself and maintaining a running commentary as she went. "Um-hmm. Interesting. Okay. Fine, let's try this. Nope. Here. Oh, my. Well, worth a try."
"What?" Chloe said, checking her watch. It had been an hour since she and Amy had discovered Phoebe's clothes on the ground.
"It's something--a long shot, not much."
"I'll try anything."
"I figured that. Because San Jose is shut down, we're getting some rerouting. More than we're used to and more than we can handle. There's a little military strip between here and San Jose, and it looks like there's going to be an Air California jet stopping there to refuel. I can get you on that. Some back roads are clear, so we can bus you to the strip."
"Air California? They don't leave the state, do they?"
"You do know your air travel, young lady. AC is an in-state airline, yes, but this one is on its way to Salt Lake City,
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only major airport open for hundreds of miles. There's an old piece of Pan-Con equipment there that's going to Oklahoma."
"Thought you said the only major--"
"I'm not talking Oklahoma
City or even Tulsa here, doll. Enid. Middle of nowhere. Military town."
"That's not on Pan-Con's routes."
"No, but Dallas is, and Enid's getting lots of DFW's slopover."
"Okay, where do I go from Enid?"
"There's an Ozark flight to Springfield, Illinois. I suppose you know that Ozark spelled backwards is Krazo."
Chloe was not in the mood. "Yep, I've heard "Em all. What are the chances I can get to O'Hare from Springfield?"
The woman shrugged. "That's as far as I can guarantee. Maybe you can get a bus from there. Looks like Pan-Con is running some ancient turboprops out of there, but who knows how long Chicago will be open. JFK is already closed, and O'Hare is taking every jumbo jet within five hundred miles. Can't imagine they won't run out of room soon. You want this or not? Got to get you on that bus right now if you're in."
"I'm in."
"Isn't this something, Mom?" Raymie said. "You're getting these mind pictures, right?" "I am."
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"These next two guys are from the first and second centuries!"
"I don't recognize their names," Irene said.
"I have a feeling we'll both be experts on them soon. Papias and Polycarp. Weird. And they were friends of John, the one who wrote the Gospel."
"And the epistles and Revelation."
"Just wait till it's his turn, Mom." But Raymie would find these two men every bit as captivating.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hattie Durham enjoyed the delectable secret that she was not quite as ditzy as she seemed to be. How people reacted to her--particularly men--she had recognized so many years before that she couldn't remember not using it to her advantage. Women seemed to baby talk to her, as if because she was a beautiful blonde she couldn't have a brain. And men seemed to talk to her with their eyes, as if their gibberish was meaningless, which it often was. It was, however, not true that Hattie was other than calculating. She had largely charmed her way to senior-flight-attendant status just after her twenty-seventh birthday--no small feat--but these jobs were not just handed out. She had had to study, to be a quick learner, to gain favor with passengers, fellow crew members, and superiors. They didn't give such a title to a body, a face, a hairdo, and makeup in uniform.