by Davis Bunn
He settled on the Psalms and found a rhythm in reading a passage then shutting his eyes and letting the words sink in deep. Whenever his knees grew tired he stood up and walked around, carrying the Bible with him, stopping whenever he felt it was time to turn back to the Lord.
The hours passed. The outdoor Saturday noises dimmed, the birdsong and the dogs and the children and the lawn mowers. Now and then the phone rang, but Buddy felt no need to answer it.
Around midday his attention began to wane. He was down on his knees at the time, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to stretch out on the rug and let the drowsiness sweep up and over him.
When he awoke the shadows were beginning to lengthen across the backyard. He felt mildly hungry, especially since he hadn’t fasted in years, but not too uncomfortable. He went back to his knees, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and reached over to reopen his Bible.
An authority seemed to descend upon him and the room and the day and the world. One that had been waiting just beyond his field of awareness, waiting for him to open his eyes and return to the position of prayer. One that was so strong the afternoon sunlight dimmed to insignificance.
The power was absolute, so strong that it could move with complete gentleness, speak in utter silence, and still dominate his being. In fact, had the power not been silent, Buddy knew with utter certainty that it would have shattered his mind.
He did not know how it was possible for silence to communicate in words. Nor did it matter. There was no room for objective questions. In that moment the silence spoke to him, and he heard with faultless clarity.
It is coming.
Buddy could not control his reaction. Sobs wrenched his body. Every dark shadow was illuminated, every failing, every mistake, every sin. All that he had not done, all that he had done for any motive but the purest. His whole life, his entire being, was revealed with perfect clarity. He was shamed to weeping submission.
At the same time, the power of Christ’s sacrifice was incandescent. So far had his sins been separated from his eternal forgiveness that the Spirit saw them not. As far as the east is from the west, that was the distance separating his imperfections from the perfect One.
It is coming.
The sobs wrenched him still. He could not help it. The communication was planted within his mind and soul along with an absolute sadness. An immutable determination. Buddy had no doubt that the horror he had seen in his dream was indeed coming. He was totally convinced. It was indeed coming.
He raised his tear-streaked face to the unseen ceiling, and whispered, “When?”
Thirty-eight days.
He moaned aloud. The pronouncement was as powerful as the pounding of a funeral bell. Hardly more than a month. It was no time at all. “How long will it last?”
Seven years.
He clutched his chest, not in pain, but terror. Seven years of famine. Seven years of devastation. Seven years of need.
You must warn them.
“Who?” He could only manage a croaking sound, but he had no doubt that he was heard. He was not speaking aloud for the Spirit, but rather because the pressure required release. “Whom do I tell?”
All who will listen.
He almost cried the words, “What do I say?”
But there was no reply. Not this time. Instead the Presence began to recede, and with it the sense of overburdening sorrow. Buddy was instantly on his feet, aching with the absence of what was now disappearing. He raised his voice and shouted out the back window, “But why me?”
The response was a whisper, certain and steady and commanding.
All who will listen.
–|| EIGHT ||–
Thirty-Seven Days . . .
As usual, Buddy arrived at church a half hour before the first Sunday service. He was both deacon and usher, and the group liked to gather for a little prayer time before the day began. Afterward he accepted his sheaf of bulletins and stationed himself by the side doors. This was as public a profession of faith as Buddy had ever cared to make—smiling and greeting the people, trying to make them feel welcome, having a friendly word for every newcomer.
Only today his smile was a little strained, his greeting not as heartfelt as usual. Each passing face seemed a silent accusation. Should he tell this one? And if so, how? Surely God hadn’t chosen a man as shy and reserved as he was to stand up in front of the entire congregation.
“Buddy, how are you this morning?”
“Hello, Clarke. Fine, fine.” Clarke Owen was the church’s assistant pastor and a friend. When the old preacher had retired, they had passed over Clarke and offered the pastorship to a dynamic young man. Attendance and membership had rocketed as a result, but Buddy still preferred the quieter ways of the older man.
“No, you’re not and don’t fib on a Sunday.” Molly stepped lightly up the stairs, halting next to Clarke. “Good morning, Pastor Owen.”
“You look pretty as a picture this morning, Molly.”
Molly blushed crimson. One hand reached up to hide the scar rising from her high starched-crinoline collar. But she forced her hand back down and clenched her purse. She turned to Buddy. “You need to talk with him.”
Clarke stepped aside to allow people through the doors, then returned to say, “Why don’t you come by my office after the service, Buddy? We’ll have us a little chat.”
Even before Buddy had settled in his seat, Clarke Owen asked, “Now what’s this I hear from Molly about nightmares?”
“I’ve sure been having them.” The church office on a Sunday after services was a good place for sharing confidences. Outside Clarke’s closed door were the sounds of people hurrying off, sounds gradually replaced by the stillness of a big empty place. “Every night for more than two weeks.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Clarke was the perfect man to discuss this with, and Molly was a gem for having paved the way. He was a graying man in his early sixties, far too mild-mannered to have ever made a dynamic sermonizer. Yet he was adored by the parishioners, the one they always turned to in times of stress and strain. Clarke was a steady listener who knew the value of an open heart.
Even so, Buddy did not answer him directly. “What would you say if I told you I thought maybe God was giving me a message?”
Clarke leaned back and eyed him over steepled fingers. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know.” The calm was a comfort to his soul. Here he could be honest, and honesty was what was called for. “Well, yes. Yes, I think He is.”
“Buddy, I’ve known you for how long, thirty years? You’ve been a deacon for most of that time. You’ve seen us through two building programs, loaned us the money, looked after our accounts, done just about anything we’ve asked you to. You never look for thanks; you never ask for the limelight. You are one of the most selfless servants I have ever had the honor of knowing.”
Buddy looked askance at the pastor. This was the last thing he had expected to hear. “Clarke—”
“Hang on a second. You should know by now never to stop a pastor in mid-sermon. Now then. I know you to be a good husband and father. You are also known throughout the town as someone to approach with a financial problem. Half the houses in these parts are owned through mortgages you have personally written. You have the ability to help people see what they can and can’t afford, and you do it without offending them or making them feel that you’re prying or trying to take advantage. You’re the only banker I’ve ever met who counsels people away from debt if they can possibly help it.” Clarke allowed a small smile to break through. “Have I forgotten anything?”
“I feel like you’ve been talking about somebody else,” Buddy replied. “Somebody I just wish I was.”
“Natural modesty is a fine trait, so long as it doesn’t keep you from being all you can be.” Pastor Owen paused a moment and then finished, “Or all the Lord wants you to be.”
Buddy stared at his old friend. “Does that mean you
believe me?”
“I haven’t heard what you think you’ve heard. But I have to admit that my natural inclination would be to say yes. If Buddy Korda tells me that the Lord has given him a message, and if the message stands up to scriptural inspection, I’d be inclined to accept it as truth.”
Buddy found the same question welling up that had remained unanswered the day before in his den. “But why me?”
“Why not you?”
“Because I don’t like people noticing me.” The mere thought of it was enough to make his hands damp. He wiped his palms down the legs of his trousers and went on. “I’m a nobody, Clarke. I’m a second-rate bank clerk in a small town midway to nowhere. I don’t know the first thing about talking to people.”
“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Pastor Owen reached to the desk for his Bible. “We’re really facing two parts to your question. The first part is why would the Lord choose you to receive a message from on high. The second is why would He want you to pass it on.”
“I guess that’s it.” Relief was so strong it made his eyes burn. Not only was he dealing with a solid man of the church who believed him, or at least was willing to, but here was also someone who had the ability to put things into perspective. “That’s it exactly.”
“Fine.” He handed Buddy the open Book, pointed to the bottom of one column. Start right there, First Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse four.”
Buddy found his place and read aloud. “‘There are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. There are differences of ministries, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of activities, but it is the same God who works all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to each one for the profit of all: for to one is given the word of wisdom through the Spirit.’”
“Okay. Now I want you to stop thinking of this as something that is going to make you declare yourself as an old-style prophet. Instead, see this as simply one more responsibility in your life as a believer. You have been given a message. And the message is for the common good.”
Buddy saw where this was headed and tried to steer away from it. “You don’t even know what the message is yet.”
“Hear me out.” Pastor Owen was not to be distracted. “Now, if the Lord has indeed given you the gift of a message, how can it be for the common good unless you share it?”
“It can’t, I guess,” Buddy mumbled.
“Exactly. How this is to be done is not for you to determine, do you see? If the Lord is truly behind this, then He will show you exactly where and how the message is to be shared. If He had wanted somebody who would have sprung directly into the limelight, appeared on television, and declared the message to the world, He would have gone elsewhere. If He has chosen you, then He has chosen you with some special purpose in mind. Simply keep your eyes and ears open, Buddy. He will open the doors if this is indeed His will.”
Clarke Owen stopped there and waited long enough for Buddy to have a chance to object. When Buddy remained silent, Clarke asked, “Do you want to tell me what you think you heard?”
Buddy took a deep breath and let it out. He set both hands on the open Bible. He took another breath. “I think there’s going to be a major financial collapse. An economic disaster. Followed by a time of commercial famine.”
The pastor remained stock-still, his gaze steady. “When?”
“Just over a month.” Buddy’s voice cracked under the strain. He swallowed and tried again. “In thirty-seven days, the third Tuesday of next month.”
Buddy waited for the soft voice to calmly dispel his fears, to echo all he had told himself through the previous night’s sleepless hours. How it was natural in such unstable times to be worried. How things had often been far worse than now, and somehow disaster had been averted. How every economic indicator now said that things were good and getting better.
Instead, Clarke nodded once. A slow up and down, and then he said, “I think you should share this with the deacons.”
“Clarke, no, I—”
“You know there’s a finance meeting tonight. I want you to tell them what you’ve just told me.” Before Buddy could object further, Pastor Owen lowered his head. “Now why don’t we join together in prayer and ask the Lord to show us exactly why He has spoken to you, and what it is He intends for us to do.”
–|| NINE ||–
It seemed the longest afternoon of Buddy Korda’s life.
As soon as lunch was over, he fled to his study. Sunday afternoons usually began with a nap on his couch, but today he started wearing a path in the carpet, pacing from the window to the door and back again. The idea of standing in front of the church’s deacons and declaring he had received a message from on high was appalling.
Then a thought struck him. And he stopped in his tracks. His first smile of the day spread across his features. An expression of pure bliss.
Buddy walked over to his desk. He seated himself and pulled over his pad. He had always liked to have important points down in writing. He ignored the feeling that he was trying to make a deal with God. He was a banker and had a banker’s eye for details. He simply wanted to get his understanding down in black and white.
A sign. That was it. He needed a sign before he gave himself up to this. A sign.
He wrote a contract, at least in his mind. On paper he simply put down a few terse words, numbering them one, two, and three. But in his mind it was set down as firmly and precisely as a loan document. He was asking for three signs. If a man as strong as Gideon could ask for two, then Buddy Korda needed at least three.
First, his darling shy wife would not only agree to go with him and be there in public at his side, but she would suggest it herself. Second, his wayward brother would not only return to the church, but he would offer to work with Buddy on this. And third, every single member of the finance committee would agree that Buddy Korda had received a message from God.
Buddy folded the paper and slid it into his top drawer. He released a contented sigh. If the signs did not appear, he was going to be able to walk away from this with a clear conscience. The first two signs were pretty impossible, but the third was straight from a fairy tale. The finance committee couldn’t be unanimous over how much coffee to serve for the Wednesday night Bible study.
Buddy leaned back in his chair, thoroughly satisfied with the world.
He found Molly working in the kitchen. “You busy?”
“No more than usual.”
“I think it’s time I told you what’s been going on.”
His wife had a quiet way of moving, as though she wanted to pass through life without disturbing a single blade of grass. She glided over, pulled out a chair, and seated herself.
Buddy laid it out flat. No inflection, no embellishments. The nightmares and the pains and the Bible passage. He finished with the previous day’s prayer time. Then he stopped and waited.
After lunch Molly had changed from her Sunday clothes to a housedress, one with a stiff collar that reached almost to her chin. All her dresses and blouses and nightgowns had high collars. They helped to hide her scar.
Molly was a naturally shy person. To have such a vivid scar only amplified her natural reserve, turning it into almost a phobia. She had spent much of her life hiding from public inspection. Even if Buddy had been determined to go ahead with this crusade, he could never have asked his wife to join him.
And yet, when she finally spoke she said, “I knew it was something like this. Even before you told Paul to wait with the new business, I knew.”
“You did?” His voice sounded dull in his own ears. “How?”
“I don’t know. But I did. And I knew it was something I was going to need to do with you.”
Her eyes were brown, like her hair had been before age had turned it to strands of silver. Buddy stared into them now, looking straight into her heart. He felt shocked beyond speech.
“I’ve been praying about it all week. And the only thing I’ve felt come to me is how happy I’ve be
en these past few years, with the boys grown and busy with their own lives.”
Buddy wanted to ask, What about how you are with strangers? What about the bad days, when you ask me to drive you to the shopping mall and walk around with you so you don’t have to be around strangers by yourself? He wanted to ask her all these things and more, but not because he was interested in her response. No. There was too much honesty in Molly’s words for him to be less than fully honest with himself. He wanted to push her away from where he felt she was headed.
“I was glad to be a mom,” Molly confessed. “But I’m much happier being a grandmother. It means I can concentrate on being a wife again.”
She had often said this to him these past few years. The words had come to be an intimate confession just between the two of them. Buddy waited for her to finish with something like, I don’t want to leave this now. He even wanted to speak and say the words for her, because he most definitely did not want to be anywhere but here. Yet the words simply would not come.
She looked around the kitchen. “I like being just the two of us. I like being here with you at home.”
He reached over and took her hand. He wanted to push away what he was hearing, what it might mean. But the love that welled up in him for his wife gentled away his ability to object.
“It’s home the way we like it, quiet and cozy.” She looked around again, sad this time, as though she was already saying good-bye. “I’ll miss it.”
He finally managed to force out the words, “We’re not going anywhere.” Yet even before the words were out of his mouth, Buddy knew they were wrong.
Molly did not answer him. Instead she simply reached over and placed her free hand on top of his. She sat there, looking around, looking at him, and then back again at their home. Her gaze was quiet and searching, seeing beyond the walls and the years, saying farewell to all that was and once had been.
