The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “Like what, Helen. What are you talking about?”

  “There’s electricity in the air. Can’t you feel it?” Helen moved her arm through the air and felt her hair stand on end. “Heavens, Bill, it’s everywhere. Close your eyes and calm yourself. Tell me if you feel anything.”

  “I’m not the one who needs calming—”

  “Just do it, Pastor.”

  The phone went dead for a moment before he came back on. “No. I’m sorry. I see only the backs of my eyelids over here. It’s raining outside.”

  “It feels like heaven is about to tear loose, Bill. Like it’s a bag of white-hot light, bursting at the seams over here.”

  He didn’t answer right away, and she was suddenly impatient. She should be out walking and praying. The thought brought another shiver to her bones. “Glory,” she whispered. Bill’s breathing suddenly went ragged in the receiver.

  “Helen . . . ?” his voice warbled.

  Her pulse quickened. She spun from the window. “Yes? You see something?”

  “Helen, I think something is going to happen . . . Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  “Bill!” She knew it! He was seeing something right now. Had to be! “Bill, what is it? Tell me!”

  But he just mumbled on. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” His voice wavered over the phone, and Helen fought a sudden urge to drop the receiver and rush to his house. He was over there seeing into the other side, and she was standing here on this side, holding this ridiculous phone and wanting to be over there.

  “Come on, Bill,” she suddenly blurted. “Stop mumbling and tell me something!”

  That put the pause in him. But only for a moment. Then he started again. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” It was not anything akin to swearing. Quite the opposite. This much Helen knew with certainty: Pastor Bill Madison was peeking into the heavens this very minute. And he was desperately yearning for what he was seeing, yes sir. The truth of it oozed from his shuddering voice as he cried to his God. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

  He fell silent suddenly.

  Helen took a deep breath and waited a few seconds before pressing again. “What was it, Pastor? What did you see?”

  He was not talking. Perhaps not listening, either.

  “Bill . . .”

  “I . . . I don’t really know,” came the weak reply. “It just came like a blanket of light . . . like last time, only this time I heard laughter. Lots of laughter.”

  “Ha! You heard it, did you? Well, what did I tell you? You see? Have you ever in your life heard such laughter?”

  He laughed a crazy little chuckle. “No. But who is it? Who’s laughing? . . . Do you think it’s God?”

  Helen lifted her arm and saw that the hair stood on end. She should walk. She needed to walk now! “The laughter is from humans, I think. The saints. And maybe from angels as well.”

  “The saints are laughing? Laughing, huh? And what about God? Did I see him in there?”

  “I don’t know what you saw, Bill. I wasn’t there. But God is responsible for the light, and you saw the light, right? I think he is mostly loving and being loved and laughing—yes, laughing too—and weeping.”

  “And why, Helen? Why are we seeing these things? It’s not common.”

  “No, it’s not common. But it’s real enough. Just like in biblical times, Bill. He’s nudging our stubborn minds. Like my walking—impossible yet true. Like Jericho. Like two-thirds of the Scriptures, impossible yet true and here today. He has not changed, Bill.” She gazed back out the window. “He has not changed.”

  “Yes. You are right. He has not changed.”

  “I have to go, Pastor. I want to walk.”

  “Yes, you should walk. It’s supposed to snow today, they say. First snow of the season. You dress warm, okay?”

  Snow? Goodness, that would be something, walking in the snow. “I’ll be fine. My legs are not so concerned with the elements these days.”

  “Go with God, Helen.”

  “I will. Thank you, Bill.”

  Helen grabbed a light jacket on the way out and entered the gray morning air. Streetlights glowed like halos in a long string down the glistening pavement. One of those Volkswagen bugs drove by, its lights peering through the mist. The sound of its wheels running over the pavement sounded like tearing paper. She pulled on the jacket and walked into the drizzle, mumbling, hardly aware of the wet.

  Father, thank you, thank you, thank you. Her body shivered once, as a chill swept through her bones. But it was not the cold; it was that light, crackling just behind the black clouds, that set off the tremor. True enough, she could not actually see it, but it fizzled and snapped and dazzled there, just the same. Her heart ran at twice its customary clip, as if it too knew that a rare power streamed through the air, unseen but fully charged.

  Perhaps the prince of this earth wanted to put a damper on things. Soak his domain with a cold, wet blanket in an attempt to mask the light behind it all. But she was not seeing the blanket at all. She was seeing that light, and it felt warm and dry and bright. Glory.

  Helen glanced at her white running shoes, stabbing forward with each stride. They flung droplets out ahead of her, christening the sidewalk like a priest flinging water on a baby’s head. Blessed be these feet, walking by the power of God. It might have been a good idea to pull on long pants and a sweater, but she was not following good ideas these days.

  She had run out of words in this prayer-walking weeks ago. She might have prayed through the entire Bible—she didn’t know. But now it was just her heart yearning and her mouth mumbling. You made this earth, Father. It’s yours. There’s no way a few drops will stand in your way! Goodness, you parted a whole sea for the Israelites—surely this here is nothing. In fact, maybe it’s your rain. How about that?

  Helen lifted her hands and grasped at the drops, smiling wide. For a brief moment her chest felt as though it might explode, and she skipped for a few steps. Another car with lights glaring whisked by, its tires hissing on the wet street. It honked once and sped on. And no wonder; she surely looked like a drowned rat with her matted hair and drooping wet dress. Crazy old woman, walking in this stuff. She’ll catch her death!

  Now there was a thought. Take me, Father. I’ll gladly come. You know that, don’t you? Don’t get me wrong here. I’ll do whatever you wish of me. But you know I’d die to be with you. To be rid of this flesh and this old wrinkled face and this hair that keeps falling out. Not that it’s so bad, really. I thank you for it; really I do. And if you’d want me to, I’d bring it with me. But I’ll tell you this, my God: I would give anything to be there with you. Take me any way you choose. Strike me dead with a bolt of lightning, roll me over with a monster truck, send a disease to eat away my bones—any way, just bring me home. Like those before me.

  She jumped once and swung her arm—a grandma-style victory whoop. “Glory!” This was how the martyrs had felt, she thought. Marching to Zion!

  The sky slowly but barely brightened as the hours faded. Helen walked, scarcely conscious of her route. The path took her due west along side streets. She’d been here before, numerous times, and she knew the four-hour turnaround point well. If she took a loop around the fountain at 132nd and Sixth, she would end up back at home eight hours after her morning departure. The fat Buddha-looking statue at the fountain’s center would be wet today, the goldfish swimming at its feet doubly doused.

  Helen groaned at the thought of rounding the fountain and heading home. It should have come as a comfort with all the rain drenching her to the bone and the dark sky foreboding a storm, but it didn’t. Not today. Today the thought of heading home made her heart sink. She wanted to hike right over the distant, crackling horizon like Enoch and climb under the black clouds. She wanted to find the light and join in the laughter. Glory!

  The traffic was light, the normal straggle of pedestrians absent, the shops eerily vacant. Helen approached Homer’s Flower Shop on the corner of 120th and Sixth. The old man stood under his eaves wi
th folded arms and raised brows as she came near.

  “They say snow’s coming, you know. You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “I’m fine, old man. This is no time to stop. I’m near the end now.” He squinted at the comment. Of course, he could have no idea what she referred to, but then, a little mystery now and then never hurt anybody.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, old lady,” he said.

  She was even with him now and kept her head turned to meet his stare. “Yes, indeed. You have warned me. Now hear the warning of God, old man. Love him always. With every last breath, love him madly.”

  He blinked and took a step back. She smiled and walked on past. Let him think that one through. Love God madly. Glory!

  She’d come to a string of street merchants who’d packed it in for the day, all except for Sammy the cap man who, truth be said, was more a homeless freeloader than an actual merchant, but nobody was saying so. Those who knew him also knew that he had sincerely if unsuccessfully tried at this life’s game. Sometimes the ball rolls that way. He’d left a dead wife and a bankrupt estate in his wake. No one seemed to mind forking over a ten-dollar bill for a cheap, two-dollar cap— not when it was Sammy collecting the money. He stood under the eaves beside two large crates filled with his hats.

  “What on Earth are you doing out here in the rain, Helen?”

  She veered under the overhang. “Morning, Sammy. I’m walking. You have a cap for me today?”

  He tilted his head. “A hat. You’re soaked to the skin already. You think a cap will help now? Snow’s coming, you know.”

  “Exactly. Give me one of those green ones you had out the other day.”

  He eyed her carefully, trying to decide if this bit of business was meant in sincerity. “You got a ten on you?”

  “No, but I’ll have it tomorrow.”

  Sammy shrugged and dug out a green hat sporting a red-and-yellow parrot on its bill. He handed it over with a smile, playing the salesman’s role now. “It’ll look great with that yellow dress. Nothing quite so appealing as a woman wearing a hat—dress or pants, rain or shine, it don’t matter. It’s the hat that counts.”

  She pulled it on. “Thanks, Sammy,” she said and turned up the sidewalk. Truth be told, she did it for him. What good would a hat do her? Although now that she had stretched it over her head, the bill did keep the drizzle from her eyes. “Glory!”

  The horizon fizzled and crackled with light—she could feel it more than see it with her eyes, but it was real just the same. And she knew that if she could reach up there and pull those clouds aside she’d find one giant electrical storm flooded with laughter.

  Helen walked on toward the turnaround point, toward the horizon, toward that sputtering light beyond what Homer or Sammy saw. If anybody was watching her on a regular basis they would notice that today her pace was brisker than usual. Her arms swung more determinedly. On any other day she might look like a crazy old woman with outdated fashion sensibilities, out for a walk. Today she looked like an ancient bag lady who’d clearly lost her mind—maybe with a death wish, soaked to the bone, marching nowhere.

  Helen walked on, humming now. She stabbed the air with her white Reeboks, stopping on occasion to pump her fist and blurt out a word.

  “Glory.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  KENT DROVE to the liquor store at three in the afternoon, two hours after he had awakened and discovered he had only half a bottle of tequila left. He had decided it would be with booze and a bullet that his world would end, and half a bottle was not enough. He would drink himself into a state just this side of comatose, place the barrel of the nine-millimeter to his temple, and pull the trigger. It would be like pulling an aching tooth from society’s jaws. Just enough anesthetic to numb the nerve endings and then rip the rotting thing out. Except it was his life decaying, not just some bony incisor.

  He navigated the streets in a daze, peering lethargically past the drizzle. Sleet and the occasional snowflake mixed with the rain. The sky loomed dark and ominous. Decay was in the air.

  He bought three bottles of the best tequila Tom’s Liquor sold and tipped Tommy three hundred dollars.

  “You sure? Three hundred dollars?” The man stood there with the bills fanned out, offering them back as if he thought they might be contagious.

  “Keep it,” Kent said and walked out of the store. He should have brought a couple hundred thousand from his mattress stash for the tip. See what Tommy would say to that. Or maybe he’d give the rest of the money to the priest. If he could find a priest to hear him. One final act of reconciliation for Gloria’s sake. For Helen’s sake.

  He drove back to the apartment and pulled out the pistol. He’d shot it into the dead body at the bank a few times—three times actually, blam, blam, blam— so he wasn’t terribly surprised to find six bullets in the nine-round clip. But it would only be one blam this time. He felt the cold steel and played with the safety a few times, checking the action, thinking small thoughts like, I wonder if the guy who invented safeties is dead. Yes, he’s dead and his whole family is dead. And now he’s going to kill me. Sort of.

  Kent turned off all the lights and opened the drapes. The red numbers on the clock radio read 3:12. Snow now drifted silently past his window. The earth was dying slowly, begging him to join her.

  It’s time to lie down, Kent.

  Yes, I will. As soon as I confess.

  But why confess?

  Because it seems decent.

  You’re going to blow your brains against the wall by the bed over there! What does decent have to do with that?

  I want to. I want to tell a priest that I stole twenty million dollars. I want to tell him where to find it. Maybe he can use it.

  You’re a fool, Kent!

  Yes, I know. I’m sick, I think.

  You are human waste.

  Yes, that’s what I am. I’m human waste.

  He backed to the bed and opened a bottle. The fiery liquid ran down his throat like fire, and he took a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that he was going to stop feeling soon.

  He sat on the bed for an hour, trying to consider things, but the considering part of him had already gone numb. His eyes had dried of their earlier tears, like ancient abandoned wells. He was beginning to wonder if that voice that had called him human waste was right about blowing off the confession. Maybe he should stick to blowing off his head. Or maybe he should find a church—see if they even heard confessions of a dying man on dark wintry afternoons.

  He dragged out the phone book and managed to find a listing of Catholic churches. Saint Peter’s Cathedral. Ten blocks down Third Street.

  Kent found himself on the road driving past the darkened cathedral thirty minutes later. The sign out front stated that confessions were heard until 7 P.M. each night, excluding Saturdays, but the dark stained-glass windows suggested the men of God had made an early retreat. Kent thought perhaps the sign should read, “Confessions heard daily from 12:00 to 7:00 except on dark wintry days that depress everyone including priests who are really only men dressed in long black robes to earn their living. So give us all a break and go home, especially if you are suicidal. Don’t bother us with your dying. Dying people are really just human waste. Priests are just ordinary people, and dying people are human waste.” But that would hardly fit on the placard.

  The thought drifted through his mind like wisps of fog, and it was gone almost before he realized he’d thought it. He decided he might come back later to see if the lights had been turned on.

  Kent went back to his dark apartment and sat on the edge of his bed. The tequila went down smoothly now, not burning so much. It was five o’clock.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE BUDDHA-BELLY fountain came and went, and Helen did not stop.

  It was as simple as that. She had passed the fountain at 11 A.M., and every other day she had turned around at the four-hour mark, but today she didn’t want to turn around. She wanted to keep wal
king.

  She could hear the water gurgling a full block before coming up on Mr. Buddha, and the impulse struck her then.

  Keep walking, Helen.

  I’m four hours from home if I turn now. I should keep walking?

  Just keep right on walking.

  Past the fountain? To where?

  Past the fountain. Straight ahead.

  Until when?

  Until it’s time to stop.

  And how will I know that?

  You will know. Just walk.

  So she had.

  That first step beyond her regular turning point felt like a step into the deep blue. Her heart raced, and her breathing thickened, but now it was not due to light spilling from the seams. This time it was from fear. Just plain, old-fashioned fear.

  Certain facts presented themselves to her with convincing authority. Like the fact that every step she took west was one more step she would have to repeat later, headed east. Like the fact that it was now starting to snow, just like the weatherman had forecasted, and she wore only a thin jacket that had been soaked before the rain turned to snow. Like the fact that she was a lady in her sixties, marching off in a storm toward a black horizon. Like the fact that she did indeed look ridiculous in these tall, red-striped socks and wet, dirtied running shoes. In general, like the simple fact that she had clearly graduated from the ridiculous to the absurd.

  Still she walked on, fighting the thoughts. Her legs did not seem to mind, and that was a good thing. Although they could hardly know that she was taking them farther from their home instead of closer. The first hour of walking into the cold, wind-blown snow had been perhaps the hardest hour Helen had lived in her sixty-plus years. Actually, there was no perhaps about it; nothing had been so difficult. She found herself sweating despite the cold. The incredible joy she’d felt when first walking a few hours earlier had faded into the gray skies above.

  Still, she had placed one foot in front of the other and plodded on.

  The light returned at three. Helen was in midstride when her world turned. When her eyes snapped open and she saw clearly again. That was exactly what happened. Heaven did not open up to her—she opened up to heaven. Perhaps it had taken these last four hours of walking blindly without the carrots of heaven dangling out in front to set her mind straight.