by Ted Dekker
Yes indeed. In its own way, God’s silence was as powerful as his presence. If for no reason other than it nudged you toward that hole. Taking the plunge was another matter. That took faith. Believing God was present when he felt absent.
She closed her eyes and moaned at the ceiling. “God, where have you gone?”
I have gone nowhere.
The voice spoke quietly in her spirit, but loudly enough to make her stop halfway down her groove.
Pray, daughter. Pray until it is over.
Now Helen began to tremble slightly. She sidestepped to the bed and sat heavily. “Over?” she vocalized
Pray for him and trust me.
“But it is so difficult when I cannot see.”
Then remember the times when you have seen. And pray for him.
“Yes, I will.”
The voice fell silent.
A wave of warmth swept through Helen’s bones. She stretched her arms for the ceiling and tilted her head back. How could she have ever doubted this? This being who breathed through her now? “Oh, God, forgive me!”
Her chest swelled, and tears spilled from her eyes, unchecked. She opened her mouth and groaned—begging forgiveness, uttering words of love, trying to contain the emotions burning in her throat.
Helen sank to the mattress twenty minutes later, thoroughly content, unable to rid her face of its broad smile. How could she have possibly questioned? She would have to tell the pastor in the morning. It was all painfully obvious now.
An hour later, all of that changed.
Because an hour later, half an hour after she’d fallen into the sweetest sleep she could imagine, God spoke to her again. Showed her something new. But this time it did not feel like a soothing breath sweeping though her bones. This time it felt like a bucket of molten lead poured down her neck.
A scream woke her, filling her mind like a blaring klaxon that jerked her from the dream. It was not until she’d bolted up in bed and sat rigid that she realized the scream was coming from her own mouth.
“God, noooooo! Noooo! Noo—”
She caught her breath mid-wail. God no what? Why was she drenched in sweat? Why was her heart racing like a runaway locomotive?
The vision came back to her like a flood.
Then she knew why she had awakened screaming. She moaned, suddenly terrified again.
Darkness crowded her, and she glanced around the room for references, for some sense to dash this madness. Her wardrobe materialized against the far wall. The French doors glowed with moonlight. Reality settled in. But with it, the stark vision she had just witnessed.
Helen dropped to her back and breathed again, pulling in long, desperate breaths. “God, why, God? You can’t!”
But she knew he could. Knew he would.
It took her three full hours to find a fitful sleep again and then only after changing her pillowcase twice. She thought it might be the wetness from her tears that kept her from sleep. But in the end she knew it was just the terror.
God was dealing in terror.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KENT DRAGGED himself to the bank Wednesday morning, gritting his teeth in a muddle of humiliation and anger. He’d managed his way back to his office yesterday after the Bentley fiasco—fortunately without encountering a soul. For two hours he’d tried to work—and failed miserably. At eleven he’d left, brushing past Betty, mumbling something about an appointment. He had not returned.
Today he entered through the front door, but only because of his attorney’s insistence that he maintain normalcy—act like nothing under the sun was bothering him when actually he was falling apart inside. He hurried through the lobby with his head down, fiddling with his third button as if something about it required his full attention. One of the tellers called out his name, but he pretended not to hear it. The button was far too consuming.
He rested his hand on the door to the Information Systems suite and closed his eyes. Okay, Kent. Just do what needs to be done. He pushed his way in.
Betty stared at him uncomfortably. Oversized fake black lashes shielded her eyes from the fluorescents. He had an urge to pluck one of them off. Then when she batted her eyes, there would be only one lash fanning the reception room; the room was too small for two anyway.
He nodded. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she returned, and her voice cracked.
“Borst in?”
“He’s in Phoenix today. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Thank God for small favors.
Kent walked into his office and closed himself in. Ten minutes later he came to the grinding conclusion that he could not work. Just couldn’t. He could pretend to work and play Dennis Warren’s game if it would reward him with a fat settlement. But with the door closed, pretending felt absurd.
He punched up a game of solitaire and found it dreadfully boring after the second hand. He tried to call Dennis but learned from the little bimbo at the law offices’ front desk that he was in court.
When the knock on the door sounded at ten, it came as a relief. A kind of put-me-out-of-my-misery relief. Kent punched the dormant solitaire game off his screen. “Come in,” he called and adjusted his tie knot out of habit.
The new transfer walked in and shut the door. Cliff Monroe. All crisp and clean and charged to climb the ladder. He smiled wide and stuck out his hand— the same hand that Kent had ignored two days earlier.
“Hi, Kent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” His pineapple-eating smile covered the full spectrum—a genuine ear-to-ear grin. “Sorry about the other day.”
Kent took the hand and blushed at the memory of the other day. “Not your fault. I should apologize. Not the best first impression, I guess.”
Cliff must have taken Kent’s tone as an invitation to sit, because he grabbed a chair and plopped down. His eyes flashed a brilliant green. “No, it wasn’t a problem, really. From what I’ve picked up between the lines, if you know what I mean, you had every reason to be upset.”
Kent straightened. “You know what’s going on?” Cliff was still wearing that grin. His teeth seemed inordinately white, like his shirt. “Let’s put it this way, I know that Kent Anthony was primarily responsible for the creation of AFPS—I knew that while I was still in Dallas. That’s where I transferred in from. I guess the boys upstairs decided that you could use another decent programmer. It’s not permanent yet, but believe me, I hope it becomes permanent because I love this place. Even if I don’t have my own office yet.” Somewhere in that long preamble Cliff had lost his grin. He pressed on before Kent could refocus him. “Yes sir, I would absolutely love to move to the mountains here in Denver. I figure I can crack code during the week, make some decent dough, and the slopes will be mine on the weekends. Do you snowboard?”
The oversized kid was a piece of work. Kent just stared at the programmer for a moment. He’d heard of this type: all brain when it came to the keyboard, and all brawn when it came to the weekends. He smiled for the first time that day.
Cliff joined him with a face-splitting grin of his own, and Kent had an inkling that the kid knew exactly what he was doing.
“I’ve skied a day or two in my time,” he said.
“Great, we can go sometime.” The new transfer’s face dropped long. “Sorry about what happened to your wife. I mean, I heard about that. It must be hard.”
“Uh-huh. So what do you know besides the fact that I was responsible for AFPS?”
“I know that things got a bit topsy-turvy at the convention. Your name was somehow bypassed in all the fuss. Sounds like Borst grabbed all the glory.” Cliff grinned again.
Kent blinked and decided not to join him. “Yeah, well you may think that’s a cheesy let’s-all-have-a-grin-about-it affair, but the fact is, Borst not only got the glory, he’s getting all the money as well.”
The kid nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
That set Kent back. The kid knew that as well? “And you don’t have a problem with that?�
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“Sure I do. I also have a problem with the fact that the slopes are two hours away. I came to Denver thinking the resorts are out everybody’s backdoor, you know. But unless we can find a way to move mountains, I think we’re both kinda stuck.”
Yes, indeed, Cliff was no dummy. Probably one of those kids who started punching up computer code while they were still in diapers. “We’ll see.”
“Well, if you need my help, just ask.” Cliff shrugged. “I know I will.”
“You will what?”
“Need help. From you. My responsibility is to dig into the code and look for weaknesses. I’ve found the first three already.”
“Look for weaknesses, huh? And what makes you think there are any weaknesses? What three?”
“Todd, Mary, and Borst.” That grin wrinkled the kid’s face again.
Kent could hardly help himself this time. He chuckled. Cliff was looking more and more like an ally. Another small gift from God, possibly. He’d tell Dennis about this one.
He nodded. “You’re all right, Cliff. But I wouldn’t be saying that too loudly around here, if I were you. You know what they say about power. It corrupts. And by the sound of things, Borst has found himself a load of power lately.”
Cliff winked. “Not to worry, Kent. I’m on it already. You got my vote.”
“Thanks.”
“Now seriously, I do have a few questions. Do you mind running me through a few routines?”
The kid was a walking paradox. At first glance, clean cut and ready to brown-nose the closest executive, but something entirely different under the starch. A snowboarder. Spencer would get a kick out of this.
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
They spent the rest of the morning and the first afternoon hour plowing through code. Kent’s instincts proved correct: Cliff was a regular programming prodigy. Not as fluent or precise as Kent, but as close to him as anybody he’d met. And likable to boot. He’d set up shop down the hall in an office that had served as the suite’s overflow room before his arrival. He retreated there shortly after one.
Kent stared at the door after Cliff ’s departure. What now? He picked up the phone and began to dial Dennis Warren’s number. But then he remembered that the attorney was in court. He dropped the phone in its cradle. Maybe he should talk to Will Thompson upstairs. Recruit the loan officer’s support on the matter of the missing bonus. That would mean walking past Betty again, of course, and he could hardly stand the thought. Unless she was taking a late lunch.
Kent shut his computer down, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.
Unfortunately, Betty was back from lunch, unwittingly transferring blush from her well-oiled face to her phone’s mouthpiece while gabbing with only heaven knew who. Some other lady who had absolutely no clue about banking. Her beautician perhaps.
Kent didn’t bother reporting his plans. He found Will upstairs, banging on his monitor again. “You need some help there, young man?”
Will jerked up. “Kent!” He sat back and nodded in a bouncing motion.
“You still having problems with that monitor?”
“Every time you come by, it seems. The thing keeps winking off on me. I need to inadvertently push it off the desk and requisition a new one. Maybe a twenty-one incher.”
“Yeah, that’ll definitely push the loans right along. The bigger the better.”
Will conducted a few more of his nods and smiled. “So I heard that you had a run-in with Bentley yesterday,” he said.
Kent sat calmly in the guest chair facing Will, ignoring the heat suddenly washing over his shoulders. “And how did you know that?”
“This is a small city we work in, Kent. Complete with built-in, free-flowing lines of communication. Things get around.”
Good night! Who else knew? If big-mouth here knew, the whole world would soon hear. Probably already had. Kent glanced around the room and caught a pair of eyes resting on him from the far side. He shifted his eyes back to Will.
“So what did you hear?”
“I heard that you walked in there and demanded to be named employee of the month for your part in the AFPS development. They said you were screaming about it.”
The heat spread right down Kent’s spine. “Employee of the month? That lousy imbecile! I could . . .” He bit off the rest and closed his eyes. They weren’t messing around, then. He had become their fool. The poor fellow in administration who wanted a bigger pat on the back.
“You didn’t actually scream at—”
“You’re darned right I screamed at that jerk!” Kent said. “But not about some lousy employee-of-the-month parking space.” He breathed heavily and tried to calm his pulse. “People are actually buying that?”
“I don’t buy it.” Will sat back and glanced around. “Keep your voice down, man.”
“What’s everybody else saying?”
“I don’t know. They’re saying that anyone who screams at Bentley about employee-of-the-month status has got a screw loose, to be sure.” A slight grin crossed the loan officer’s face. “They’re saying that if anybody should get employee of the month it should be the whole department because AFPS came from the department.”
Something popped in Kent’s mind, as if someone had tossed a depth charge in there and run for cover. Kaboom! He stood to his feet. At least he wanted to stand to his feet. His efforts resulted in more of a lurch. The room swam dizzily.
He had to get to Dennis! This was not good!
“I’ve got to go,” he mumbled. “I’m late.”
Will leaned forward. “Kent, sit down for heaven’s sake! It’s not a big deal. Everybody knows you were the real brains behind AFPS, man. Lighten up.”
Kent bent for his case and strode deliberately from the desk. He only wanted one thing now. Out. Just out, out, out.
If there had been a fire escape in the hall, he might have taken it in favor of chancing a face-to-face encounter with another employee. But there was no fire escape. And there was another person in the elevator. She might have been Miss America, for all he knew, because he refused to make eye contact. He pressed into the corner, praying for the moments to pass quickly.
The backdoor released him to the alley, and tears blurred his vision before the latch slammed home. He bellowed angrily, instinctively. The roar echoed, and he spun his head, wondering if anyone had heard or seen this grown man carrying on. The alley lay dark and empty both ways. A large diesel engine growled nearby— an earthmover, perhaps, breaking ground on someone’s dream.
Kent felt very small. Very, very, very small. Small enough to die.
WHILE KENT was dying at work, Helen was doing her best to forget the images that had visited her the previous night. But she was not doing so good.
She stirred the pitcher of ice tea slowly, listening to Spencer hum “The Martyr’s Song” in the other room. All of their lives seemed to hinge on that song, she thought, remembering how Spencer’s grandfather had loved to sing it in his mellow, baritone voice. From grandfather to grandson. Ice clinked in the tea, and she began to sing softly with him. “Sing oh Son of Zion . . .”
If the boy only knew.
Well, today he would know a little more. Enough for things to brighten.
She hobbled past Spencer, who sat, as usual, cross-legged on the floor, then she eased into her worn green rocker. A small glass bottle sat in the hutch, ancient and red, glaring at her with its history. It held its secrets, that glass vile, secrets that brought a chill to her spine still. She swallowed and shifted her eyes. Now the picture of the cross with Jesus spread out, dying on its beams, stared directly at her, and she kept up with the boy in a wobbly soprano. “. . . I’ve been waiting for the day, when at last I get to say, my child, you are finally home.”
She would have to hold it together now—in front of the boy at least. She would have to trust as she had never trusted. As long as she could keep her eyes off the scales of justice that had found their way into her mind, she would do fine
. As long as she could trust that God’s scales were working, even though her own tipped, lopsided, in her mind, she would make it.
Funny how so many saw that cross as a bridge over the gulf between God and man—between heaven and earth—and yet how few took the time to cross it. No pun there, just a small nugget of truth. How many were busy looking for another way across? How many Christians avoided the death of God? Take up your cross daily, he’d said. Now, there was a paradox.
“Spencer.”
“Yes, Grandma?” He looked up from the Legos that had held his attention for the last half-hour. He’d built a spaceship, she saw. Fitting.
She looked around the room, thinking of how best to tell him. “Did your father talk to you last night?”
Spencer nodded. “Sure.”
“About his job?”
Spencer looked up at her curiously. “How did you know that?”
“I didn’t know. That’s why I asked. But I did know he was having . . . complications at work.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. Did he tell you about it?”
“No. But I wanted to help you understand some things today about your father.” Spencer let the Lego pieces lie on the floor and sat up, interested. “He’s having a hard time.”
“Yes he is, isn’t he?” She let silence settle for a few seconds. “Spencer, how long do you think we’ve been praying for your father to see the light?”
“A long time.”
“Five years. Five years of beating on the brass heavens. Then they cracked. You remember that? Almost three weeks ago?”
The boy nodded, wide eyed now. “With Mom.” Spencer scrambled to his feet and climbed into “his” chair opposite Grandma. The air suddenly felt charged.
“It seems that our prayers have caused quite a stir in the heavens. You should know, Spencer, that everything happening with your father is by design.”
The boy tilted his head slightly, thinking that through. “Mom’s death?”
The boy was not missing a beat here. “It has its purpose.”
“What purpose could God have in letting Mom die?”