The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  It took a few seconds for Nevin to conclude that whatever cover story he’d concocted had already failed. “I, uh, I didn’t want to get into an accident, you know, go off the road in Mr. Macon’s truck.”

  “You might try sleeping at night,” she responded briskly. “Lucky for me, someone happened by and saw you sleeping in the truck with my perishables sitting in the back, out in the sun, about to go bad.”

  So he’d been caught. Worse than that: snitched on. “Who?”

  She went to the windows and pointed. “My new hired hand.”

  What? Pain and jealousy twisted around inside him, and Nevin hurried to the window.

  “He came to the front door with all four sacks in his arms and told me where he’d found you parked, snoring away while my yogurt sat in the sun. He’s very sweet and conscientious.”

  Nevin saw the big John Deere tractor emerging from behind the horse barn, pulling a trailer of hay. “What’s he doin’ on my tractor?”

  She cleared her throat. “On my tractor,” she corrected. “He’s transferring hay to the other barn.”

  “That was my job!”

  “You were sleeping, Nevin!”

  He looked at her with horror in his eyes and a wrenching pain in his stomach. “You’re giving him my job?”

  “Oh, we’ll see.” She cocked her head and gave him a motherly look. “He didn’t lie to me.”

  “But I paid for ’em! I paid for the second load out of my own pocket!”

  She waved her hand, not wanting to discuss it. “Give me time to think it over, Nevin. Take the day off. We’ll just see how everything works out.”

  Before turning on his heels and getting out of there, Nevin took a long, careful look at the man he knew he would hate. The fellow was young, with black hair and a beard, dark skin, blue jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, now looking his way and giving him a friendly, gloating smile and a little wave.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, with just a few hours of daylight left, Norman Dillard stepped out of his motel office and checked the sky. There were a few clouds up there still, drifting like small islands in a vast sea of blue and getting smaller and scarcer by the hour. The cloud watching at Antioch Mission might be ending soon. He removed his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to the idea that he should get up to the church to see what was going on. He didn’t want to. He was not a man of faith, and Praise the Lord types got on his nerves, especially women having Hallelujah conniptions. But he was supposed to be the knowledgeable guide who could answer questions and speak local facts, and that meant he had to see the sights for himself. It was business, pure and simple.

  He drove the few short blocks and pulled into the church parking lot to find about two dozen people gathered there, necks craned skyward, cameras ready. Hoo boy. Here we go.

  “Ooooh, it’s Mr. Dillard!” a woman shouted. He winced. He could hear her shrill voice through his closed car windows.

  Dee Baylor and Blanche Davis were right there to greet him as he stepped out of his car.

  “Norman! Praise the Lord!” Dee gushed, giving him a bear hug he wasn’t expecting and couldn’t wait to get out of. “We were praying you’d come!”

  “Just came to check things out,” he said limply.

  “Are you ready to see Jesus?” Blanche asked, pulling out some Polaroid snapshots. He tilted his head back so he could see the photos through his bifocals. “See here? He’s looking toward the east.”

  “Uh, which way is east—I mean, in the picture?”

  Blanche tilted the picture this way and that and finally decided, “This way. Now you can see his nose. Right there.”

  “Mm-hm.” His agreement was less than enthusiastic.

  “You can believe, Norman,” Dee said reassuringly. “Just put your doubt aside and you’ll be amazed at what you’ll discover.”

  He shied away, turning his attention—and hopefully theirs— to one lonely cloud passing over. “So . . . you’re the facilitators, right? Just how does one go about this? You know, what do you have to do?”

  “Just yield to the Spirit,” Dee told him. “Let God open your eyes and speak through his creation.”

  “The firmament showeth his handiwork,” Blanche added.

  Norman walked toward the front of the parking lot where people were standing about in couples and clusters, some singing softly, some praying, some counting rosary beads, all of them watching that one cloud approaching. He came upon the elderly couple who first discovered the face of the Lord in the hedge outside his office.

  They were sitting in folding lawn chairs with their heads resting back on inflatable neck pillows. She pointed. “Here comes another cloud, Melvin!” Her husband did not respond, but appeared to be praying. Then Norman heard a short little snore.

  The married couple and the brother-in-law from Yakima quietly began to sing “How Great Thou Art,” and others picked up the tune. Behind Norman, a rotund man with a Seahawks cap sang the words in a clear tenor voice, holding his small wife close to his side. To Norman’s left, two couples he recognized as local residents added harmony as they sat on lawn chairs in the back of a pickup. To his right, a Hispanic family of parents, grandparents, and children huddled together on the church lawn, singing when they knew the words and humming when they didn’t. Norman had to admit it sounded good, and as he stood in the middle of the music and watched the solitary cloud passing overhead, it even felt good.

  This was a nice place to be. It was sweet, peaceful, and enjoyable.

  It would be easy to send people up here who were inclined toward this sort of thing.

  Definitely good for business.

  Norman removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day and he was getting tired.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dee Baylor. “How are your eyes, Norman?”

  “Oh, about as bad as usual,” he answered. He’d never been very happy about his poor eyesight and the thick glasses he had to wear.

  “This is a place where God speaks through the eyes. I think he wants to heal you.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Hey, come on, now. I really think he does.”

  “That would be quite a trick.”

  “Why don’t you just take those glasses off and see?”

  “See what?”

  “Go on, take them off.”

  Well, it wouldn’t be good business to have Dee and the others mad at him. He removed his glasses and gave his eyes a little rub out of habit.

  “Now just look at the sky, Norman, and let God speak to your eyes.”

  He directed his gaze upward, but saw exactly what he expected: a vast, blue blur. If God was speaking, he was mumbling.

  “What do you see?” Blanche asked.

  “I see a blur.”

  “NO!” Dee corrected. “You have to speak your healing. Say you can see.”

  He looked at her. She looked better, he thought. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Believe you can see, and you will.”

  He looked at the sky again because he didn’t want to look at her. He was trying to think of a way out of this.

  Blanche coached him, “Say you can see.”

  He was incredulous. “Say what?”

  “Say, ‘I can see’.”

  “I can see.”

  “Say it until you believe it,” said Dee.

  He laughed nervously. “Ladies, we could be here a long time.”

  “We have all night.”

  He fumbled, fumed, and finally put his glasses on. “Well, I’m sorry, I mean, I really do apologize, but I don’t have all night. I have to get back to the motel and run my business.”

  “That’s all right. Baby steps, Norman.”

  “One little step at a time,” said Blanche.

  He smiled at them and hurried to his car before he said something unkind. Once he got the door closed and drove away, he did say it. And he believed it too. He kept on saying it and believing it all the way back to
the motel, gesturing wildly, wagging his head, addressing his reflection in the rear view mirror. Those people up there were crazy! They were an embarrassment! Fanatics! He was amazed they were allowed to roam freely about the town. People were traveling from far and wide for this?

  Yes, Norman, and staying in your motel, he reminded himself.

  By the time he got back to his office, he’d taken some baby steps toward getting used to the whole idea.

  MATT KILEY had no intention of getting used to it. Monday morning, when I stopped in at his hardware store for some molly screws, he was still fuming about a visit he’d had from some crucifix watchers.

  “I told ’em to spend some money or get out of here,” he said, propelling his wheelchair down the aisle where he stocked all his fasteners. He was still disgruntled. “If they can’t cope with it, that’s their problem. I cope with it because I have to and I’m not asking for any favors. What are you hanging, anyway?” Matt was a decorated Vietnam vet. He was proud of that, and I was proud of him. He still wore camouflage fatigues around the store when he felt like it, flew a flag over his front entrance, and kept a POW– MIA poster on the wall behind his cash register. I never found him overly rude or obnoxious, but he was crusty, no doubt about that.

  In his younger days he’d come out the winner in quite a few rib and nose breakers down at Judy’s—the other guy’s ribs and nose, not his. In Vietnam he’d dispatched his share of Vietcong and taken more than his share of risks for his buddies before a sniper put a bullet through his spine. Now, running his hardware store from his chair, he wasn’t bitter about the war or about his injury.

  He just didn’t like people fussing about it.

  “Some more shelves in the bedroom,” I told him. “A lot of heavy stuff.”

  “Got a stud finder?”

  “No, but you can sell me one.”

  “I’ll do that. Anchor to all the studs you can find. And here, these mollies’ll do the trick through the drywall.”

  He pointed them out to me and I grabbed as many from the little drawer as I thought I would need. Matt had four employees to do most of the stocking and high reaching, but customers helped by Matt were often responsible for reaching any items Matt couldn’t. We headed up the aisle.

  “They were all hot to trot. ‘Matt, you gotta come down to Our Lady’s so you can walk again!’” He abruptly turned left. “Stud finder. Magnetic or fancy?”

  “Depends on how much they cost.”

  He kept wheeling along, perfectly at home with every square inch of this place. “Like all I have to do is look up at that crucifix and believe, and that’ll do it. Trav, you know what it’s like. I’ve had crackpots before try to get me to walk.” He quickly added, “Well, not all of ’em were crackpots. You know what I mean.”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s just some people who can’t leave it alone, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah, sure you do. You’ve been there.” He grabbed a stud finder off the tool rack. “These are fun. You slide it along the wall and watch the little lights come on.”

  I checked the price. I figured I could swing it. “Great.”

  I followed him as he wheeled toward the front, executing snappy turns around corners and past merchandise. He rang up my purchase at a cash register built on a lower shelf just for his use.

  I paid him, he threw my goods into a sack, and then stopped to ponder. “Funny. I made some friends at the VA hospital, I’ve met some other folks in wheelchairs, and we got along fine. They never told me to go down and look at some crucifix or wash in some special kind of water or say some kind of magic prayer words. It’s always the walkers who know what you need.”

  Our eyes met. We understood each other.

  It’s always the walkers who know what you need. Matt Kiley’s words, his cynical wisdom born of experience, haunted me for the rest of the day. Yes, I understood. I had been there.

  I just didn’t want to go back again. . . .

  Six

  IWAS SEVENTEEN the year my father took a hiatus from the ministry and relocated the family from Seattle to a small, almost nontown on an island in Puget Sound. Back in Seattle, we had a great church with great worship and a great youth program. I had a girlfriend. I was a junior at the high school my brother and sister and several uncles had attended and had school spirit that bordered on pathological. I had some friends at that school—it had taken me long enough to make them. Then we moved, and I began my senior year in a run-down, fund-hungry high school with caved-in lockers, sagging floors, and three hundred total strangers.

  Like any plant torn up by the roots, I didn’t take well to the transplant. I used to have the acceptance of my peers, and now I couldn’t be sure I even had peers. I used to be part of something, but now I was an outsider. I was in pain. I was lost.

  Lost, and absolutely certain that it couldn’t be right, much less the will of God.

  You see, I knew God back then. I knew exactly what he expected from me and what I could expect from him. I’d grown up attending the Allbright Gospel Tabernacle, a Pentecostal Mission church in Seattle’s Rainier Valley, and when we gathered for worship, we always counted on God’s tangible presence. We felt no qualms about calling out to him aloud, right from our pews, right when we felt the need or the unction. We heard from God regularly in prophetic utterances that usually began with “Oh my people” and admonitions that usually began with “I hear the Lord saying . . .”

  We prayed for the sick and expected they would get well.

  Dad preached the Word of the Lord from the pulpit, and we worked it in at the altar afterward. Our sessions at the altar were usually noisy, often tearful, and altogether glorious. I couldn’t tell you now how much of the commotion was due to the Holy Spirit and how much was simple Pentecostal fervor, but I know I did precious business with God in that place. I got saved in that church when I was eight years old. Being Pentecostal, I received the baptism in the Holy Spirit in that church when I was twelve, kneeling at that wooden rail with my head on my coat sleeve until the pattern was pressed into my face. Over the years, I dedicated and rededicated myself to the Lord’s service, repented, praised, confessed, and petitioned, all from that little brick building in Rainier Valley. That was where I knew God.

  But Dad was tired, Mom was unhappy, and the family needed a change, so Dad quit preaching and we moved.

  The church we found on the island was . . . restful, you might say. Kind of like a stalled car. These folks didn’t smile much, sang all possible verses of really slow hymns, and absolutely, positively, never, ever clapped. As far as I could discern, God was not expected to move, speak, or convict—he was expected to follow the printed order of service and keep quiet like everyone else. There was never an altar call after the service. Instead, people worked the sermon out of their memories over coffee, cookies, and idle chatter in the basement.

  I was seventeen, living in a strange new place, enrolled in a school that felt foreign, and attending a church dedicated to deadness.

  Which made me a prime target for the Kenyon–Bannister movement.

  David Kenyon, a fellow senior I got to know in art class, pinned me down one day. “Hey, are you a Christian?”

  “Sure!”

  “Spirit-filled?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Speak in tongues?”

  “Yeah.”

  He extended his hand and we shook. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

  It had been a while since I’d met anyone excited about what God was doing, so while I worked on a sculpture and he worked on an oil painting, David talked and I listened.

  “The Holy Spirit’s moving,” he said. “Just blows my mind what God’s doing. I had a real confrontation with a demon yesterday.

  I think he knew we were moving into Satan’s territory. We had a prophecy last week and God told us to get our act together, get off the acid and grass and get high on Jesus. He was talking right to s
ome of the group and it really shook them up.”

  He started naming kids in school I’d known of but didn’t know.

  “Bernadette Jones—” Wow. She always impressed me as being tough and unapproachable. She had a crusty mouth when she could get away with it and never missed a chance for a smoke.

  “Karla Dickens—” I knew of her from drama class. It seemed every skit she did had something to do with marijuana.

  “Andy Smith—” Very musical. Had a rock band and was already working on a symphony.

  “Clay Olson—” Uh, no. I couldn’t think of a face to go with the name.

  “Benny Taylor—” I didn’t know him at all, except that he was one guy in school who had more pimples than me.

  “Amber Carr—” A quiet girl from drama class. I always liked her long brown hair.

  “Harold Martin—” What? Harold? The guy was a creative genius, but lived and breathed The Doors and always played knife-wielding psychotics in drama class.

  He named about five more. They were all strangers to me, but that wouldn’t be the case for long. During lunch period, David introduced me to every Christian he could find.

  “Hey, guess who’s a Spirit-filled Christian!”

  Bernadette Jones looked up from her fruit salad. “You’re kidding!”

  “Hey Andy, guess who’s a Spirit-filled Christian?”

  Andy Smith looked up from a copy of The Hobbit. “Well, praise God!”

  “Hey Amber! Guess who’s a Spirit-filled Christian?”

  Amber Carr pulled her long hair away from her face and smiled at me. “Wow. That’s really nice.”

  Clay Olson was eighteen but seemed older, wiser, too cool to be in high school. He shook my hand. “Great to have you on board.”

  Benny Taylor not only had more pimples than me, he had more brains, at least as far as math was concerned. “God bless you.”

  Harold Martin, who looked like he’d spent the night in a ditch, stared up at me blankly for a second or two. “It’s a heavy trip, isn’t it?”