by Davis Bunn
Buddy sighed and nodded silent acceptance. At five years of age, Jennifer could be the most stubborn lady any of them had ever met. As he walked out to the car, he found himself perking up at the thought of seeing his auburn-haired angels.
Scarcely had he come through the door before his legs were enveloped by two pairs of eager arms. “Granddaddy!” Buddy lowered himself and embraced them before rising to greet his son and daughter-in-law.
He scarcely seemed to hear what he said or was said to him. What was far more important than the words was the simple joy of being back among his family, in the place where he most belonged on this earth.
Molly sat across from him, content to be where she could watch him enjoy their family. Buddy sat with a mug of lemonade in one hand, a ham sandwich in the other, and a smear of mustard on one cheek, listening to three conversations at once, as happy as he had ever been in his life.
“All right.” Trish broke up the gathering with a clap of her hands. “Veronica, it’s so far past your bedtime we might as well plan for tomorrow. You, too, Jennifer.”
Veronica, the younger child, reached out her hands. “Take me, Granddaddy, take me!”
Buddy scooped up Veronica and started across the room. “Say good night, honey.”
She nestled her face into the space beneath his chin, and waved five fingers over his shoulder. “Night-night, everybody.”
His daughter-in-law started up the stairs behind him and murmured, “Be sure to notice the fish.”
So he went into their room, settled his granddaughter on the bed, turned to the goldfish bowl on her desk, and exclaimed, “My, what lovely pets you’ve got there.”
Little shoulders scrunched up in pleasure. “They’re mine.”
“Well, of course they are. Have you named them yet?”
“Oh, yes.” A finger pointed vaguely at one of the identical pair. “That one is called Chili. And the other is Con Carne.”
“Is that a fact?” Buddy glanced a question over to where their mother leaned in the doorway.
“What can I say?” Trish replied. “My baby girl is nuts about spicy food.”
He went from one bed to the other, hugging Jennifer and Veronica close and listening to their prayers. When the lights were out and Buddy stood in the doorway with Trish, he found himself reluctant to go back downstairs.
“You should see yourself,” Trish observed. “You look about fifty times better than you did when you got here.”
“Of course I do.” Buddy stayed where he was, staring down at the two night-clad figures in their little beds. “Right here is as close to heaven as I’ll ever find on this earth.”
Aiden had never looked lovelier than it did that Sunday morning. Buddy sat in his back garden watching the morning gather strength, feeling blessed by birdsong, sunlight, and every late-blooming flower. His empty coffee cup sat on the lawn beside his chair; his Bible rested open but unread in his lap. Everywhere he looked, he saw the divine.
“Buddy?”
He turned to find Clarke Owen slowly approaching with Molly. Clarke wore a strange expression. Buddy reached out a hand to his wife, and smiled a welcome to the assistant pastor, “Hello, old friend.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Clarke said. “You, more than anyone else I know, deserve a day to yourself.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not disturbing anything. Pull up a chair. Both of you.”
“I can’t.” Still, Clarke’s countenance remained odd, as though the man was seeing him for the first time.
“I can’t either,” Molly told him. “I’ve just gotten a call from some people at church. They were wondering if I’d speak to the adult Sunday school classes this morning.”
Buddy inspected his wife’s face. He saw none of the old fear and uncertainty there, but rather a sense of calm resolve. As much for that as for the news, he said, “Molly, that’s just wonderful.”
“Not about your message,” Molly went on. “It seems as though everyone has heard that by now. They wanted to hear my personal testimony.” She hesitated and then added, “I was wondering if you would like to come with me.”
Buddy did not need to think it over. “I’d be honored.” He rose to his feet, very glad indeed that the morning’s glory seemed to stay with him. He asked Clarke, “Is this what’s brought you over?”
“No.” Clarke hesitated before saying, “When I walked into the yard, it seemed as though I could actually feel the peace around you.”
He started to say that it had seemed the same way to him, but decided that some things were best savored in silence. He glanced at his wife and accepted her smile and her knowing gaze. Buddy asked Clarke, “What did you want to see me about?”
“Alex has gotten a call from the organizers in Richmond. They wanted to confirm that you’re still on for their rally a week from this coming Thursday.”
“Of course.”
“It’s just,” Clarke hesitated, then went on, “that’s only five days before meltdown.”
Buddy started back toward the house. “I realize that.”
“Well. Fine.” Clarke seemed to be looking for some further reaction. “They’re estimating eighty thousand men will be there.”
Buddy nodded acceptance of the news, more concerned with the grace that accompanied him back into the house. He said to them both, “Give me a second to get on a jacket and tie.”
The feeling of being embraced by the morning held him throughout the drive to church. It left him quietly isolated even when people began coming over and greeting him and welcoming him back. Buddy seated himself and watched as Molly was guided toward the front of the largest chapel.
Once at the podium, she glanced down to where her husband was seated, smiled a greeting to those gathered before her, and began, “Throughout these weeks of watching my husband share his message, I have not had a single experience of the Spirit. For that matter, I have never felt much of anything throughout my entire life’s walk in faith. But the absence has bothered me. Then one night while I was traveling with Buddy, I asked him to pray over me. Nothing happened that night either, but the next morning I awakened with a sense of having been granted a message cloaked in the mystery of silence, the same silence I have known from God all my life.”
Buddy could scarcely believe his ears. He leaned forward, wondering if anyone else in the entire audience realized what an effort this was for his wife, what it cost her. Yet as he watched, he began to see that it was costing her nothing at all.
Molly’s voice held to its normal quietness, yet the assuredness with which she spoke was utterly new. “I have spent a great deal of time over these past couple of weeks wondering just what this silence means. And I’ve come to recognize that it is not an absence of God. All I’ve had to do is look out over the auditoriums and churches and meeting halls and see that God is there with us. I’ve come to see God’s silence as essential. It has also occurred to me that this is often the way God deals with us. In essential silence.
“Imagine, if you will, a grand heavenly orchestra. The conductor raises his baton. The entire orchestra is poised, ready, silent. God forms such an essential silence in us so that our ears can become more carefully tuned. We are being prepared to receive His message. We are being invited to still our busy minds and our hyperactive lives so that we can hear the heavenly host sing out in eternal glory, ‘Hallelujah! Praise His holy Name.’”
Buddy fought back the misting which threatened to cloud his vision. He did not want to miss an instant of this. He gave the pews to either side quick glances, just enough to see that the people were concentrating with a rapt silence of their own. He turned back to the front. He was so proud at that moment that he felt he would positively burst.
“What God communicates in faith,” Molly continued, “is far greater than by vision and rushing wind. My isolation from these experiences has been an immense blessing. Otherwise I might have begun to limit my faith by grasping for them. I might have started to live for the
experience and not for God.
“A mystical experience is not the defining moment. There should be affirmation from others within the church. And the written Word of God must confirm.” Molly stopped there. She reached over and touched the closed Bible beside the podium.
Buddy strained to keep his vision clear. It was strange how such a simple act as his wife reaching out and touching the cover of the Book could affect him so deeply. Yet she seemed to be reaching across the distance that was separating her from God simply by reaching for the written Word.
Molly raised the Bible and held it to her as she went on. “I did not want to join Buddy as he took God’s message and went on the road. I have always loved my small town, my little responsibilities, my stable world. Yet God has drawn me out from my comfortable routine. He has drawn me farther and farther along His chosen path with His silence.
“My expectations were not enough. My horizons were too small. I said to God, I like it here. God said to me, I want you there.
“In accepting His message of silence, I have come to see a larger directive, one that has consequence for all of us. The ninety-fourth Psalm calls death the ‘land of silence,’ the place where God is absent. Yet Jesus goes into death, the farthest recesses of empty silence, to seek and to save. He has shown us that His love is greater than sin or eternal death. He accepts our darkness, our death, and our well-deserved everlasting silence upon Himself. Through Him we have been given the glory of never-ending life. Through Him we may hear the eternal song of praise.”
Molly bowed her head and said, “Let us close with a moment of prayer.
“Lord Jesus, You are the light that drives out darkness and saves us from the endless silence. You are the light that draws us to holiness. Help us make this day a living hymn of praise. Teach us to appreciate the moments of silence, that we may better hear Your call.”
–|| THIRTY–SEVEN ||–
Thirteen Days . . .
Wednesday morning found them in Decatur, and that was where the storm started growing fiercer.
The previous Monday morning they had flown to Indianapolis, where Buddy had given a luncheon address that filled the city’s largest church to overflowing. Then it had been on to Lafayette for a press conference, a speech, and a too-short overnight stop. Tuesday had started in Kokomo, then across the state line to Champaign, Illinois. A morning speech in Urbana, then a fast drive to Decatur. His luncheon address drew almost a thousand people. Buddy had long stopped thinking about the numbers.
The newspapers were becoming increasingly vociferous, such that Clarke did not even mention them unless he felt it was something important for Buddy to see. But after the Decatur meeting a man approached, introduced himself as a local broker, and asked if Buddy was planning on changing his dates.
“Of course not.”
“Don’t get me wrong, brother.” The man was both sincere and nervous. “I’ve heard about you from a dozen different people. Today’s gathering only made me more certain that what you say is right. But do you realize the date you’ve set is less than two weeks from today?”
“I am counting the hours,” Buddy replied fervently.
“But the market is stronger than it’s been in years!” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his palms, then his face. “I’ve got people calling me from all over the state, friends I’ve known for years. They’re selling everything they own and putting their money in options.”
“This is good news,” Buddy said.
“Is it?” Another swipe, and then he nervously stuffed the handkerchief away. “If the market doesn’t move as you’re predicting, and on the day you say, these people are going to lose a lot more than they can afford.”
“Other than the fact that the Lord reigns in heaven above,” Buddy replied, “I have never been as certain of anything in my entire life as I am about this.”
“And the date is set?”
“In stone,” Buddy confirmed.
The man gave a grim nod. He offered Buddy his card as he said, “Call me if anything changes, will you?”
Buddy watched him walk away, then he moved to where Clarke stood comparing schedules with Wesley Hadden. He asked, “What are the papers saying?”
Clarke shook his head. “I’ve stopped worrying about them.”
“And you don’t want to know,” Wesley Hadden agreed.
“Tell me.”
Wesley expelled his breath in a rush. “Well, the small-town dailies are split. Most of the editorials can be pretty hard on you, but every once in a while there’s somebody who claims that you are sounding an all-important wake-up call. They’ve usually attended both a press conference and a gathering of the faithful. They talk about the evidence you give, but they also mention the power of your message.”
“And the others?”
Wesley glanced toward Clarke before reluctantly saying, “The closer we come to the date, the worse they sound.”
“Show him the cartoon,” Clarke said.
Wesley looked pained. “Why?”
“He wants to know. Let him see it.”
Wesley reached into his briefcase, pulled out a magazine, riffled the pages, and said, “It’s in this week’s Time.”
One glance was enough. The political cartoon showed him in a long white beard and three-piece suit. The cross hanging from his neck was so big it dragged in the dirt. He carried a sign that said, THE END IS TUESDAY. Tuesday was crossed out, and Friday scrawled beneath it, and Monday beneath that, and on down until he ran out of room.
Buddy handed it back, gave a thin smile, and said, “It looks a lot like me.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Clarke was astounded. “This doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it, when we’re seeing the crowds get bigger every day, and we hear that people are acting on the message?”
“No reason,” Clarke agreed, exchanging a glance with Wesley. “None at all.”
Wednesday evening they drove to the airport and checked in for a flight to St. Louis. Buddy could feel eyes watching him as they checked in. He tried not to let it bother him. The crowds were growing, the word was spreading, and time was running out.
As he went through the boarding process, Buddy reviewed their plans for the final days. Alex and Agatha were condensing as much as they could. Alex sounded increasingly tired every time they talked, but so did everyone else. Buddy’s hurried conversation the previous afternoon with Agatha confirmed that Alex was doing as well as could be expected, and that his brother continued to hold up under the chemotherapy. Buddy let it go at that. The rest could wait until after. Everything had to wait until after. The countdown became an unspoken chant they all shared. Just thirteen days to go.
Christian radio and television networks were organizing live feeds to stations around the country. Alex had agreed without even discussing it with Buddy, hoping the message’s power would carry over the wires and through the air.
They were working straight through this weekend; Buddy knew he could neither object nor beg for another time at home. It was a flat-out race from here to the finish.
Buddy settled into his seat on the airplane and was busy with his seat belt when a voice said, “Mr. Korda?”
“That’s me.” Buddy looked up to find two men in business suits and briefcases hovering in the aisle. “Can I do something for you?”
“You already have.” The older man offered a meaty paw. “Just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing.”
Buddy accepted the hand. “Thank God, not me.”
“I do, sir. Every morning and every night and sometimes in between.”
The other man said, “I heard your message on a tape they played in our Sunday school class last weekend. I’ve never seen people get so excited over something on a cassette. Went out and invested every cent I had into put options, just like you said.”
“That’s good,” Buddy said. “Now make sure your friends don’t just listen, but also act. Tell them to reme
mber the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“I’ll do that, sir. I surely will.”
When the pair had shaken his hand a second time and moved off, Clarke leaned over and said, “Now is as good a time as any, I suppose. You’ve been invited to appear on national television. Lonnie Stone Live wants to do two segments with you, one next Thursday night and one the following Monday.”
“Fine,” Buddy said, and it was. “Tell them yes.”
“Buddy, these television people,” Clarke hesitated, then willed himself to say it aloud. “They want to set you up, then once the date has passed, they want to shoot you down.”
“I don’t care what they want.” Buddy turned to meet his friend’s gaze full on. “Thursday night and Friday morning of next week will be the last chance we have to get the message across.”
Clarke mulled that over, then asked, “And the following Monday?”
“I have to tell them to take their money and get out,” Buddy explained. “Before it’s too late.”
–|| THIRTY–EIGHT ||–
Eleven Days . . .
By that Friday Thad was beginning to feel secure in his position, and much more at home in New York. He was still housed in the Plaza, still living as a visiting exec on the company’s expense account. But that was about to change.
From his suite high in the Plaza Hotel, New York’s mythical image seemed almost true. The skyscrapers looked factory fresh as they reached up with beckoning arms to wish him a good morning.
The sordid reality was all too clear, however, down at street level. Even from the back of a limousine there was no disguising the beggars, ten to a block. The crazies were also out in force that morning. Two weeks in the place and already Thad knew to waste no time on the dregs scattered everywhere, clogging every alley and doorway, hands out like a ragged chorus line, begging for change. Ignore them all. It was the only way to survive in this town. Live like they weren’t even there. Thad had already decided the city burned so bright because the darkness ran so deep.
