“Luke!” Ammon cried, pushing himself to his feet.
“I’m so sorry,” Luke repeated.
Ammon ran to his brother, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close to his chest. “It’s over now, Luke.” he cried in relief.
“Come on,” Luke answered. “It’s time to go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sometime after Lucifer and his angels were cast out of heaven, the physical world was completed and, beginning with Michael, those who had kept their first estate were sent down to earth. A chosen few had been assigned to come later in time, and they continued their training, developing their talents and preparing themselves for the challenge of living in a physical world, a world where Lucifer was now free to roam. Those who had fought Satan in the premortal world, having tasted his temptations and seen the hateful being he had become, having witnessed the jealousy that raged in his angels’ souls, understood they would need extraordinary character to protect them on earth.
Not surprisingly, those who had not engaged Lucifer in the war, those who had not fought in the forefront of the battle, those who supported the plan of salvation but were not as valiant in defending it–all these spent far less time preparing for their time on earth. A lesser commitment had carried them to this point, and they saw no reason why it wouldn’t be sufficient to carry them through to the end.
But those who fought Satan understood they were wrong. Their time was coming. And the test would be real.
* * *
Like many of the valiant, Ammon and his siblings were withheld from the world until the very last day, until the very last hour, being sent down when Lucifer was at the peak of his power. As the time grew near, Father called them together to give his final instructions and tell them good-bye.
As they approached, the Father smiled and they ran to his side.
“Are you afraid?” he asked Elizabeth, and she nodded her head. He reached out and placed his hand on her cheek. “Passing into the next world isn’t like passing through a thin veil. It is more of a dark and long washing, like black water coming down, washing you, immersing you, sending you into the second estate. It’s a little bit frightening,” he nodded to Beth, “and you are going to feel pain for the very first time. But it won’t be anything you can’t handle. I have a very deep faith in you.”
The siblings were quiet. They would all go down soon–first Sam, and then Ammon, followed by Luke and then Beth.
Luke shot a worried look toward Beth as he thought of the vision he’d seen. “Will it be like Lucifer showed me?” he asked worriedly.
The Father frowned a little. “I’m afraid that it will.” He put his arm around Beth. “But you will make it,” he assured her. “I know how strong you’ve become. And remember, all of you, that I will always be there.
“Now come. I want to show you something before you have to go.”
As they looked up, they saw the heavens opened, and they beheld the universe, the galaxies and stars, the worlds without number, like the sands of the sea. The creations went on forever, beyond what they could comprehend or endure.
Then they saw one great family working and laughing and playing with God, a sustained march of people that extended from brother Michael to the last child born, one chain, an eternal lineage of brothers and sisters and husbands and wives. And there were children, so many children, young and beautiful. And all of the family, every single individual, looked content and joyful, full of peace and happiness.
Sweeping his arms across eternity, the Father explained, “I am sending you to earth at a very treacherous time. Once you are there, you will forget everything. And the things you will deal with will seem so important to you. Your everyday problems will seem incredibly large–your work and your school, your family and friends, what to wear, how you look. Are you fat? Are you strong? Are you pretty? Are you smart? Do you make enough money? Do other people like you? Why weren’t you chosen for a game or group activity? Why isn’t life always fair? Worries such as these may consume you and take all your time.
“You may obsess with disappointments; you may put all your focus on the pain. It will be easy to forget that life is always good–that whether you are here or on earth, you are meant to find joy.
“So on quiet nights in the summer, when you are still and peaceful, I want you to look up at the heavens, the moon and the stars, so your spirit can remember these things I have shown you today. And if you do, you will remember, somewhere deep in your soul, that you are a part of a heavenly family, a heavenly plan, something eternal and wonderful and incredibly large. You will remember that your family is up here cheering for you, that family is the only thing that matters, the only thing of any significance. And though your human language won’t have words for the feelings I will place in your hearts, your spirit will remember and you will long to be with me again.”
Beth reached toward her Father, touching him with a trembling hand. “But Father,” she pleaded, “how will we know? Everything will be forgotten. Everything we have worked for–all the sacrifice and hope, all the trials and the lessons that brought us to this place–all of it will be forgotten when we pass through the veil.
“So please, won’t there be something to remind us of who we used to be? I’ve seen the world, dear Father, and it’s a dark, dangerous place. And if we can’t remember that you love us, how are we going to know?”
Father thought a moment as he considered her words. “You are right, Beth,” he answered, “the world is a dangerous place. The war with Satan isn’t won; it has only changed battlegrounds.
“But if you listen, I will tell you. If you listen closely, you will know. I will whisper to you through father’s blessings and a mother’s sweet songs. I will talk to you through my prophets and the words they write down. I will give a special blessing to you through a chosen patriarch. And there are other gifts I will send you: bishops, teachers, family members, and friends. I will send my Spirit to guide you. I will not leave you alone.
“And remember, my children,” the Father said, looking at all of them, “it doesn’t matter so much what you know, but it very much matters who you are! And who you are isn’t left here in this premortal world. The veil over your memories won’t change the spirit inside. Who you are doesn’t change when you go down to earth, and the sacrifices you have made here will help to carry you through.”
The Father stepped back and cast a piercing eye at his sons. “Now, I have a word of warning to give you,” he said solemnly. “Each of you will be blessed with incredible prosperity. You will never lack for freedom or protection or food. You will never go hungry or fear for your lives. You will not suffer overmuch with ill health or live with disease. Instead, you will enjoy every luxury and live a life of great ease.
“But I want you to open your hearts to the fact that there is great suffering in the world, suffering you may not readily care about because it won’t be easy to see–little children who are starving, cripples who beg on the street, children who live every day in fear of their lives, malnourished and scared and lonely and cold.”
“But Lord, it isn’t fair,” Ammon cried in distress. “Why will you give us so much while others are left to beg?”
“I ask different things of different children. The challenges I give others I will give for reasons I know. But in the end, there is more parity to the test than will be evident at first.”
“Then what will you ask of us, Father?”
“I only ask that you share some of the bounty I give. And when it comes to my kingdom, you have to be willing to give whatever I ask. To a great measure that is how I will judge you when you come back to me.”
The siblings looked at each other. It was so little to ask. Then the Father put his arms around them and drew all of them close to him. “I have one more thing to ask you,” he said in a loving voice.
“What is it?” Samuel answered. “You know we will do anything.”
“Sometime on earth, you will come into cont
act with each other. How and when that will happen must remain a mystery to you. But when you meet up with each other, the Spirit will speak to your souls, This is my brother! My sister! I must help them if I can!
“So think on this, my children, for it might be the most important thing I can say. Your salvation would be hollow if you don’t help each other come home. Remember we are family, and families leave no one behind.”
Afterword
Monday, October 4
Chevy Chase, Maryland
The night was quiet, the dark so still and heavy it seemed to suck up the light from the stars. Then the moon disappeared behind a wall of thin clouds, a sudden wind blew, and the night came alive with the sound of fall leaves blowing along the paved lane. The leaves crackled, brittle and dry, a reminder of past summer days. The wind picked up to a howl, almost seeming to moan, blowing a low fog that swept over the ground.
Neil Brighton stared at the dark. He lay restless and agitated; he had been restless all day. He had been restless all week, and he didn’t know why. Something was coming–he could feel it deep in his bones–something moving, something watching, something that was bringing an evil change. He could feel the frustration, but he didn’t know what it was. He glanced at his wife, who was asleep on her side, her blonde hair tossed about her, the streetlight on her face. He watched her sleep a long moment, her breathing heavy and slow; then she winced and pulled back, as if she was experiencing the same feelings in her dreams. Neil reached out to touch her, placing his palm on her cheek; she pressed against his fingers and leaned into his touch. But she didn’t wake fully and soon was in deep sleep again.
Neil lay back and listened to the leaves rustle in the yard. He felt anxious and tight, a sprinter ready to explode from the blocks. He fought the anxiety, then finally sat up on the side of the bed.
He shook his head to clear it, but the fear only settled deeper in his chest. The blackness seemed to consume him; he’d felt nothing like it before. He glanced at his wife, then pushed himself out of bed.
Something was happening. And it was happening at that very moment.
He walked down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs. He placed his hands on the rail, feeling the beautifully carved oak. He listened for a moment to the grandfather clock ticking at the foot of the winding stairs, then took a deep breath, fighting the anxiety within. He was surrounded by luxury, the highest house on the side of the hill, but he felt naked and exposed, like standing on the edge of a cliff. He stood a long moment, alone, in the dark.
Then he thought of his sons and turned suddenly for their room, a bedroom they shared at the top of the stairs.
He opened the door just enough to let in a crack of light from the hall. As he pushed the door open, he got a whiff of the smell: sweaty jerseys, leather basketballs, gym bags, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn–the tangy smell of youth that he knew so well.
But his sons were no longer children. They were growing into young men.
They stirred under the blankets, but neither one of them woke. The older son, Ammon Parley, eleven minutes older than his brother, lay asleep on his bed, his hair, blond like his mother’s, in a tousle on his head. His younger brother, Luke Benjamin, dark haired and tan, rolled to his side and turned away from the light. Looking at his children, the father flashed back almost fourteen years, to the first time he held them on the second day of their lives. Eight weeks premature, the two boys were just beginning to prove that they wanted to live. Surrounded by doctors and nurses, machines and tubes he did not understand, Neil had picked up his sons, holding them up one by one, talking to them quietly while staring into their dark eyes. Their bodies were so weightless it was almost like holding a doll, with their tiny heads against his fingers and their feet on his wrist. They were four pounds of perfection, with soft faces and staring eyes.
As he held them, a wave of emotion had swept through his soul. He felt a sense of eternity as the veil brushed his face. In his mind, he saw a vision of who his sons really were, of what they had accomplished on the other side of the veil, of the decisions and choices that had brought them to this time, to this family and place.
“My brothers,” he had muttered as the tears rolled off his chin. “My brothers. My children.” He swallowed. “My sons.”
And now, in the darkness, in the hallway, in the quiet of his home, having been driven from his bed by a dark power that seemed to move across the land, Neil looked at his children and felt much the same way. Staring at their faces, he knew they were greater than he. “My brothers,” he muttered as he stood in the hall. “What are your missions? What is the reason you’re here?”
He lowered his head as a sudden warmth filled his chest. He trembled and stepped back, a look of awe on his face. He shook his head suddenly and brought his hands to his eyes. He stumbled, his legs so weak he almost fell to his knees.
Heavenly Father had answered his question, at least as much as he could. He had shown him a vision of what lay ahead.
The last days were unfolding. And Great Ones were here!
“Pray for them,” the Spirit told him as he lowered his head. “Pray for your children. Pray for your sons. Pray they will grow into the men that I intend them to be. Pray for the lost one, Samuel Porter, for he was once a great leader who has lost his way. He is alone now and lonely, and I need him on my side. He has no one to turn to, so you must pray for him too!”
Neil shuddered, then pushed himself away from their bedroom and sat on the stairs. All night he knelt in the darkness and prayed as the Spirit had directed him to.
East Side, Chicago
Many miles to the west, the same cold wind blew outside a tenement building, a large and dirty brownstone on the east end of Chicago. A young mother named Mary stared through the kitchen window of her fifth-floor apartment. Six feet in front of her was another brick wall, another tenement building, dirty and blackened from a century of soot. Five floors below her, a homeless man slept on the grate. Steam rose around him, but still he shivered from cold. Mary watched him, then glanced up at the only patch of night sky she could see from her valley of mortar and stone; there were no stars in east Chicago and she could not see the moon.
She reached out to open her dirty kitchen window, pushing up against three or four coats of white paint, but the window held tight. How long had it been since she had opened it? She pressed upward again and the thin pane finally moved. She opened the window a few inches and the cold air blew inside.
She stood by the sink, letting the air chill her bare arms, and took a deep breath to savor the smell. The air had come up from the park, for it carried a faint scent of trees and wet brush. It was quiet outside, at least as quiet as Chicago could be. With the taxies and MLK Highway, the elevated train on its track, music from the bars, and the thugs on the streets, she never heard actual silence, just a reduced roar. She glanced down at the drug dealers on the street corner. They were there every night, come heat, snow, rain, or shine. She wondered when they ever ate, where they slept, where they lived. It seemed they were a permanent part of the sidewalk, like the cracks in the cement.
At forty-three, Mary was small and petite, with silver beads in her dark hair, a thin face and small nose. Her name, Mary Shaye Dupree, was an old southern name that went back three hundred years, back to the mistress of an old French plantation owner on the outskirts of New Orleans. Four generations before, her kin had migrated north, looking for jobs and freedom from the cotton fields.
Mary was a strong and fine-looking women, but her strength was fading fast, for the world and its burdens were bringing defeat. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she shivered from the night air. She studied her reflection in the window, staring into her own eyes. Seeing the defeat, she turned quickly away.
Walking down the narrow hallway, Mary came to her bedroom, where her daughter slept on a small mattress on the floor near her bed. Entering the bedroom, she stared at her daughter’s gaunt face. She was beautiful still, though her ha
ir had grown thin and her lips were drawn tight. She was sleeping in pain; that was clear from her groans. Mary stared at her daughter and felt the pangs of despair. She was no longer angry; she only felt empty now.
The only good thing she had ever done in her life was taking this orphan and bringing her into her home. The only time she had ever been happy was when she held this child in her arms. For almost six years she had loved her as if she were her own; no, maybe more than six years–she didn’t know. All she knew was she loved her until she couldn’t love anymore.
And now her little girl was being taken, piece by piece, day by day. The vibrant laugh, the soft hugs, and the wonderful smile–all of it fading, all of it dying away.
Her daughter opened her eyes and looked up at her mother. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mary said quietly.
“I had a very strange dream,” Kelly Beth answered, her voice drug out from fatigue.
“Tell me about it.” Her mother sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know, Mom. It was so real. So clear. But it doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s the way of dreams,” Mary answered softly.
Kelly Beth waited, catching her breath. “I was watching a funeral,” she began. “There was a horse and a wagon, and lots of military men around, and this beautiful little girl–the funeral must have been for her dad. And when it was over, she looked up at the sky as if she was talking to God.”
Her mother listened, then nodded. “Is that all?” she asked.
“No, Mom, and this is the part that I don’t understand. As I watched this funeral, I had the very clear impression it was for someone I knew, someone close and very dear . . . almost like a brother, I think.”
Her mother smiled, then pulled her close. “But you don’t have a brother, Kelly.”
The girl relaxed against her pillow. “But the feeling was so clear.”
Her mother patted her hand, then kissed her cheek. “Think about it,” she said. “And maybe you’ll figure it out.”
The Great and Terrible Page 18