by Tim LaHaye
As the line grew shorter and shorter, Irene saw three more rise from the twenty-four elders, plus one more woman and two more men. She had been keeping track mentally of the Bible greats she had seen here and the ones she knew were yet to come. She was pretty sure she knew who these last six were, and she could hardly wait to find out if she was right.
Christopher Smith felt as alone as he had ever been in his life. As he sat listening to the Jersey radio outlet he learned that communication lines were jammed all over the world, so the disappearances affected people from every continent. Medical, technical, and service people were among the missing. Every civil service and emergency agency was on full red-alert status, trying to keep up with the unending chaos. Chris had seen coverage of natural disasters and terrorist attacks and mass-transit crashes that saw hospital, fire, and police personnel called in from miles around. He could only imagine that multiplied tens of thousands of times.
Even the newscasters' voices were terror filled, as much as they seemed to be trying to cover it. Every
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conceivable explanation was proffered, but overshadowing all such discussion and even coverage of the carnage were the practical aspects. What people wanted from the news was simple information on how to get where they were going and how to determine whether their loved ones were still around and to contact them if they could.
Chris had to flip off the news and reconnect with a tower when they were instructed to get into a multistate traffic pattern that would allow them to land at O'Hare at a precise moment, now just hours hence. Only two runways were open, and every large plane in the country seemed headed that way.
Thousands were dead in plane crashes and car pileups. Emergency crews were trying to clear expressways and runways, all the while grieving over their own family members and coworkers who had disappeared. One report said that so many cabbies had disappeared from the cab corral at O'Hare that volunteers were being brought in to move the cars that had been left running with the former drivers' clothes still on the seats.
Cars driven by people who spontaneously disappeared had careened out of control, of course. The toughest chore for emergency personnel was to determine who had disappeared, who had been killed, and who was injured, then communicate that to the survivors.
"Cap," Chris said, "I hate to ask, but do you think we could get somebody in the Chicago tower to try to connect me--us--to our home phones?"
Rayford shrugged. "Worth a try." So he asked.
He was laughed off.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
With only half a dozen saints to go and Raymie glorying in what he had found in his personal living space, Irene watched and listened as a tall dark man slowly approached the altar and fell to his knees.
His works were tested and polished by the fire, then formed into a beautiful Crown of Life, which Jesus gave to him following an embrace and a "well done."
"Just as the virgin was chosen," Jesus said, "so were you, My earthly father. This reflects your perseverance through many trials for My sake."
"But at first I was angry," Joseph said. "Frustrated, confused. I did not respond as one chosen."
"As soon as you knew the truth, you gave of yourself for Me and My mother and treated Me as if I were your own."
"It always felt to me as if You were."
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Irene enjoyed peeking in on Joseph's life and eavesdropping on his conversations with Mary, with the angel, and with Jesus at various ages. She couldn't wait to test the features in her mansion and physically enter the world at any place and era she wished.
For the first time in his life, Christopher Smith understood what it meant to be beside oneself. His private agony was so acute that it was as if he had left the very presence of his body and could see himself from afar. There he sat in his usual spot behind the cockpit controls he knew so well. And yet his soul wrestled within.
He made himself sick. Something about this horrible universal incident had forced him to shine a spotlight on his character, and he could not hide from himself. His life was a waste. He was worthless. And he was desperate to connect with his real wife, his boys.
Why? Why now after all these years? What could Jane do? What did the boys have to offer, other than some theological treatise they had learned at church or mumbo-jumbo camp? And even if they could tell him this was indeed somehow connected with God, what would that do for him? It was too late to become one of "those." He had traveled his own road much too long and much too far. God could never forgive what he had done, could not really change who he was.
It wasn't answers Chris sought from his wife and kids. It was some remedy for this enormous loneliness. Why
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did he feel so isolated? Had he done this to himself? Of course he had. He had made Jane in particular an emotional hostage, and he might as well have abandoned his sons. They had offered little protest, apparently not needing him. And that was okay. That helped assuage any guilt. Maybe his presence and support--being the sorry excuse for a man he knew himself to be--should not be missed.
But now. Now. He needed theml How might they respond to such a cry of want? He knew them. They were good people at heart. Even with what he had become, they would rally round him, be there for him despite the fact that he had been so detached from their lives for so long.
Chris didn't know what he would do if he could not somehow reach them soon.
"I am most unworthy," the man said who now knelt before the altar of flame.
"You were a doubter, Thomas," Jesus said. "But I forgave you of that, and once you were convinced, you became most energetic and devout. See how you atoned for your disbelief! Your works have tested favorably. The stones will make a beautiful Crown of Righteousness. You were one who wanted to know where I was going, so you could be here with Me."
"And here I am!" Thomas said.
"And here you are."
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Funny how a terrifying disaster changes a man's perspective, Rayford thought. Any thoughts, hopes, or desires for Hattie Durham now struck him as the most ludicrous ideas he had ever had. If she had thrown herself at him right then, he'd have cast her aside. Cold? Yes. Mean? That too. Rayford had, after all, been encouraging her for weeks. But what in the world had he been thinking?
All he wanted now was to reunite with Irene and Chloe and Raymie. But deep in his gut he feared the worst: that Chloe and he would be the only half of his family left.
Rayford had told Hattie that he didn't know what was happening any more than she did. But the terrifying truth was that he knew all too well. Irene had been right. He and Chloe and most of his passengers had been left behind.
Thirteen-year-old Lionel Washington was proud of his mother, but for reasons other than that she seemed wise in the areas of forgiveness and acceptance. The truth was, with her job as Chicago bureau chief of Global Weekly magazine, she was the star of the family. Not just Lionel's family, but the whole Washington clan. They traced their roots to the freedom riders on the Underground Railroad during the days of slavery, and many of his ancestors had been active in the civil rights movement, fighting for equal opportunities
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among the races. His mother was one who had proved that a person--regardless of her color or the housing project she had grown up in--could achieve and make something of herself if she really committed herself to it.
Lucinda Washington told Lionel that she had been born and raised in a Cleveland ghetto, but "I loved to study. And that was my way out of the projects." She said she fell in love with reporting and writing. She had graduated from journalism school and worked her way up finally to Global Weekly.
She made good money, even more than her husband, Charles, who was a heavy-equipment operator. He was as proud of her as anyone, and secretly Lionel was proud of her too.
But Lionel had another secret, and it caused him no end of anxiety. Lionel knew something no one else in the family even suspected. He was
not really a Christian, even though the whole family history revolved around church. Family legend said his mother had taken him to church when he was less than a week old.
Actually, he liked church a lot. Church was what the Washington family was all about, but Lionel knew it went deeper than that. His mother not only loved church; she also truly loved God. And Jesus. And the Holy Spirit.
Lionel admitted to his mother's younger brother, his uncle Andre, that he had never really become a Christian. Andre was the criminal of the family. Lionel told him, "Everybody thinks you're a Christian who has bad
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spells once in a while. They think I might become a preacher or a missionary someday."
"You ought to talk with your mother about this," Uncle Andre said. "I'd rather see you grow up like her than like me."
"I can't. It'd kill her. She thinks I'm one of the best young Christians she knows. Hey, Uncle Andre, aren't you afraid it might all be true and we might end up in hell?"
Andre threw back his head and cackled that crazy laugh of his. "Now that I do not believe. I may have once, but I've outgrown that. Some of these stories and legends about what's going to happen at the end of the world--I don't know where the preachers get them. I can't imagine they're in the Bible."
The evening before, the last time Lionel had seen his mother, she had pulled him close and said, "Isn't the Lord wonderful? Don't we have a good God? Hmm? Aren't you glad to serve a God who loves you so much?"
"Um-hmm," Lionel said. "Sure, Mama. "Course I am."
He felt terrible. Like a hypocrite. Like the liar he was.
There was no clock in the basement of the Washington home, where Lionel slept. The next morning it seemed too bright, too late, when he awoke. He didn't feel like moving. He merely opened his eyes, squinted at the sun rays that had somehow found their way through the tiny windows, and watched the dust dance in the columns of light.
When the phone rang upstairs and Lionel heard no footsteps, he groaned and whipped off the blankets,
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marching up to answer it. It must have been really early for his mother to not be up yet. And his dad usually made some racket heading out. Lionel noticed that his dad's truck was still parked in front of the garage, where his mother's car was kept. Both still sleeping? Strange.
The call was from Global Weekly, asking after his mother. Lionel was stunned to see that it was the middle of the morning. He could be the hero, the one who roused everyone so they wouldn't be even later for work.
Lionel went from the kitchen through the dining room toward the stairs that led to the upstairs bedrooms. He noticed something in his peripheral vision. On his dad's easy chair lay his oversize terry-cloth robe. Lionel stopped and stared. He had never known his father to take his robe off outside the bedroom. Mr. Washington considered it impolite to walk around in public in just his pajamas, even referring to his own family as the public.
Maybe he had been warm and shed his robe while half asleep, not thinking. But that wasn't like him. He had always taken great pride in not being "one of those husbands whose wife always has to trail him, picking up after him."
Lionel's father's slippers sat on the floor in front of the chair. The robe lay neatly, arms draped on the sides of the chair almost as if Dad's elbows still rested there. When Lionel saw the pajama legs extending from the bottom of the robe and hanging just above the slippers, it was obvious that his father had disappeared right out of his pajamas and robe.
It was as if life had switched to slow motion. Lionel
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was not aware of his body as he carefully advanced, holding his breath and feeling only the pounding of his heart. The harsh sunlight shone on the robe and picked up sparkling glints of something where Dad's lap should have been.
Lionel knelt and stared at his father's tiny contact lenses, his wristwatch, his wedding ring, his dental fillings, and his hearing aid. Lionel's hands shook as he forced himself to exhale before he exploded. He felt his lips quiver and was aware of screams he could not let out. He crept forward on his knees and opened the robe to find his dad's pajamas still buttoned all the way up. Lionel recoiled and sat back, his feet under him. He lowered his face to between his knees and sobbed. If this was what he feared it was, he knew what he would find upstairs.
He ran to the stairs and bounded up two at a time. The master bedroom was more than he could bear. His parents' bed was still made, his mother's nightclothes draped on one side, where it was obvious she had been kneeling in prayer. How Lionel wished he had been taken to heaven with his family and that he had been found reading his Bible or praying when Jesus came.
Only for an instant had Lionel wondered if he was dreaming. He knew better. This was real; this was the truth. All doubt and question had disappeared. His family had been raptured as his church, his pastor, and his parents had taught.
And he had been left behind.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Everybody in God's house knew who the young woman who now approached the altar was, and all, including Jesus Himself, rose to cheer and applaud her. As she knelt facedown before the flame, the praise continued as her works were tried by fire.
Irene found it amusing that she felt a kinship with Mary, simply because she also was a woman. There, she decided, any similarity ended. Well, Irene had had children, as Mary had. And she had been married. But clearly Mary had been a young person of such character that God chose her for the greatest responsibility a woman could sustain. Irene was eager to enter that first-century world and get to know Mary as a child and then the young woman so chosen.
As Irene watched, the young Mary was startled to see the angel Gabriel appear to her. Abject terror marred her
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face, but Gabriel said, "Rejoice, highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!"
Mary was speechless, pale, and trembling.
Gabriel said, "Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bring forth a Son, and shall call His name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Highest; and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David. And He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of His kingdom there will be no end."
Mary said, "How can this be, since I do not know a man?"
Gabriel said, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Highest will overshadow you; therefore, also, that Holy One who is to be born will be called the Son of God. For with God nothing will be impossible."
Mary said, "Behold the maidservant of the Lord! Let it be to me according to your word."
Now, as Mary rose from the altar and approached the throne, Jesus presented her the crowns of Life and Righteousness, embracing her and saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant."
Mary said, "My son has become my Father. My soul magnifies You, O Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior. For He regarded the lowly state of His maidservant, and all generations have since called me blessed. He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name. His mercy fell on those who feared Him from
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generation to generation. He showed strength with His arm; He scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted the lowly."
By the time the plane began its descent into Chicago, Buck Williams noticed that the senior flight attendant looked dangerously shaky. He beckoned her and reached for her wrist, looking again at her name tag. "Hattie, we're all going to go home and cry today. But hang in there. Get your passengers off the plane, and you can at least feel good about that."
His words didn't help. She began to sob. "You know we lost several old people but not all of them. And we lost several middle-aged people but not all of them. And we lost several people your age and my age but not all of them. We even lost some teenagers."
Buck stared at her. What was she driving at?
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"Sir, we lost every child and baby on this plane."
"How many were there?"
"More than a dozen. But all of them! Not one was left."
The man next to Buck finally roused and squinted at the early morning sun burning through the window. "What in blazes are you two talking about?"
"We're about to land in Chicago," Hattie said. "I've got to run."
"Chicago?" ~
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"You don't want to know," Buck said.
The man nearly sat in Buck's lap to get a look out the window, his boozy breath enveloping Buck. "What, are we at war? Riots? What?"
Smoke. Fire. Cars off the road and smashed into each other and guardrails. Planes in pieces on the ground. Emergency vehicles, lights flashing, picking their way around the debris.
As O'Hare came into view, it was clear no one was going anywhere soon. There were planes as far as the eye could see, some crashed and burning, the others gridlocked in line. People trudged through the grass and between vehicles toward the terminal. The expressways that led to the airport looked like they had during the great Chicago blizzards, only without the snow.
Cranes and wreckers were trying to clear a path through the front of the terminal so cars could get in and out, but that would take hours, if not days. A snake of humanity wended its way slowly out of the terminal buildings, between the motionless cars, and onto the ramps. People walking, walking, walking, looking for a cab or a limo.
Raymie Steele was pretty sure he knew who the next man to be judged was, and his suspicion was immediately proved right as a rugged young man fell weeping before the altar. His works shone brightly in the flame, and there was certainly no wood, hay, or stubble. He had
