The Visitation

by Frank Peretti

  She began to feel another fear—a fear for her husband’s sanity. “Sweetheart, that cabinet’s right up against the wall! You can’t hide back there!”

  He backed away. “You didn’t see him? He was standing right there!”

  She could only shake her head no.

  “Didn’t you see him run down the hall?”

  She switched subjects. “What did Rod say?”

  Brett stood in the middle of the kitchen looking disoriented. “He arrested Penny Adams tonight.”

  “Oh no.”

  “She’d been shoplifting from Florence Lynch’s store. He and Florence went over to Bonnie Adams’s place and found a closet full of stolen merchandise.”

  “And she just got her hand back.”

  Brett winced again, his hand on his leg. “Yeah, just like I got my leg fixed.”

  She didn’t understand. “What?”

  He picked up the gun again and slammed in the clip. “It’ll be okay. I’ll get it straightened out.”

  He went into the hall and grabbed his coat from the closet.

  “You’re not leaving!” Lori pleaded.

  “The town’s falling apart. I can’t just sit here.”

  He kissed her and limped out the door, leaving her alone, bewildered and afraid. Dan and Howie would not let go of her.

  MONA DILLARD didn’t know how to feel: happy or troubled, encouraged or frustrated. The Wheatland Motel was seeing all kinds of changes and enjoying a steady flow of business. Norman had a great brainstorm—a costly one, but it worked out: They converted two of their units to kitchenettes, and the moment they were ready they were rented—by the month—by some of Brandon Nichols’s followers. A steady stream of pilgrims took up the rest of the rooms, and now Norman was thinking of buying the old auto shop next store, razing it to the ground, and putting in a whole new wing. Things were going great—for the business.

  Things were not going so great between Mona and Norman. Oh, things seemed okay on the surface, but in her mind she was plagued by misgivings, by the nagging questions that can bother a woman when her man seems . . . uninterested. He’d been busy and preoccupied, of course, but it was more than that. It was . . .

  Well, it had to be another woman. It was unthinkable, but that’s what she thought. She had no direct knowledge, but she was sure of it. He was looking elsewhere.

  But it was worse than that. It was hard to describe, harder to believe, but she could sense a shifting, leering menace in his eyes that had never been there before, as if a different mind had moved in behind them, lustfully gazing everywhere else while looking toward her with disdain. She and Norman weren’t talking much. She couldn’t look at him. He showed no desire to look at her.

  Today, she was trying to bury her worries by concentrating on linen inventory: what they had, what they needed, and how much of each. She was rummaging through the supply room, counting sheets and towels shelf by shelf, trying to figure out Norman’s rotation system. Managing the supply room was usually his job, but he’d been busy with the kitchenettes, so the task had fallen to her.

  When she pulled a stack of folded sheets from a top shelf, a magazine slid out and fell on the floor.

  It was not necessary to pick it up or even look closer to know what kind of publication it was. The glossy photo on the cover told her all she would ever need to know. She backed away, clutching the folded sheets as if they would soften the pain now spiking through her heart.

  Was this the other woman? No doubt she was not the only one.

  Mona threw the sheets aside and reached up on the shelf, just above eye level, to feel for more. There were more. She pulled one out, saw it, dropped it, then pulled out another.

  She dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake baring its fangs, then backed away, clutching the sheets to her breast. Time froze, and so did she, her arms wrapped around the stack of folded sheets, gawking at the images on the floor. Every pain she had ever felt— and thought she could avoid by working in this room—tumbled back upon her.

  She’d buried herself in this task to forget her troubles with Norman, but now . . .

  AS SOON AS I returned from Southern California, I thought it important to discuss with Morgan and Kyle what I’d discovered, as little as it was, and to plan our next course of action. Kyle had church commitments that evening, but said Morgan and I should meet anyway. I called her and suggested we meet over dinner.

  “Uh, where can we do that?” she asked.

  It was a valid question. She was a minister, and it wouldn’t look right for her to have a man in her home. I wasn’t a minister anymore, but I was still concerned about appearances, and we both knew it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to be in my home either. If we met at Judy’s it would look like we were meeting socially, and the town was too small with too active a grapevine for something like that.

  “Why don’t we get out of town?” I suggested. “Maybe some place in Spokane.”

  “That would be more prudent,” she said.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Oh, why don’t you pick a place and let me know?”

  “All right.”

  That, too, was an overwhelming question. This was going to be a meeting with a professional lady of distinction. We couldn’t go to McDonald’s or Burger King. It would have to be a place with some class, some atmosphere, but not too much because this wasn’t a date. What did she like? I knew of a nice Italian place with great salads, but you usually had to sit and wait for a table. There was a Japanese, juggle-the-knives restaurant, but it wouldn’t be a good place for a serious discussion. I liked Mexican, but the salsa would have me blowing my nose all evening. We could try Mongolian barbecue, but building your own meal from raw meat and vegetables seemed too informal. There was a nice steakhouse overlooking the Spokane River. The falls would be spectacular this time of year, but that might seem presumptuous.

  “WOW!” she said. “Look at those falls!”

  We had a table right next to the windows. White tablecloth, cloth napkins, an oil candle in the middle, two forks. She was wearing a dark purple dress with long, sheer sleeves and delicate silver earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. I’d settled for a sport jacket and tie, but wore a cream-colored shirt, less formal than a white one.

  We started looking over the menu, talking about what we were in the mood for.

  “You ever done any singing?” I asked offhandedly, not looking up.

  She replied offhandedly, “Star Cloud Marmalade.”

  I couldn’t find it on the menu. “What’s that?”

  “The rock group I sang with. We did two albums and once warmed up for Led Zeppelin.”

  I dropped my menu. “You really did sing in a rock group?”

  She nodded. “I probably scarred my vocal cords. But we were quite good if I may say so, and I emulated Janis Joplin.”

  “Vocally,” I tried to qualify.

  “Gabe rescued me from the drug scene before I ended up like her.”

  “‘There, but for the grace of God . . .’”

  “‘. . . would have gone I.’”

  “How did you meet Gabe?”

  “He was a youth minister at a Methodist church and a friend introduced us. I liked him the first time we met, and we ended up falling in love. I’d done a lot to mess up the world. Gabe and I did what we could to put it back together again, at least our little corner of it. We were together fourteen years.”

  “I liked him.”

  “I liked Marian.”

  The waitress came and took our order. I went for a steak. Morgan decided on a spinach something-or-other.

  I told her about my visit to The Cathedral of Life. She listened raptly, her fingers on her chin, often chuckling at my account. Our dinners came and we gave them half our attention.

  “You really said that to Miles Newberry?”

  “I wouldn’t have been so bold twenty years ago.”

  “Justin Cantwell,” she mused. “I wonder if we’
ll find another name beyond this one.”

  “Our local messiah isn’t telling.”

  “But he still talks to you. He still tries to pull you in. That really interests me.”

  “He’s looking for someone to share his bitterness and disillusionment.”

  “No doubt.” She smiled and cocked her head. “So do you?”

  The thought chilled me. “I don’t want to end up like him.”

  “So how did he end up the way he is?”

  “The same way I got where I am, to hear him tell it.”

  “That’s spooky.”

  The waitress checked back. “Everything okay here? Can I get you anything?” The food was great and we were fine. She made her exit.

  “So how are things with you?” I asked.

  “Better.” She smiled a whimsical smile. “Remember that list of three items from our first meeting?”

  I probed my memory. “You and your congregation aren’t getting along, Brandon Nichols isn’t Jesus . . . and Michael the Prophet is your son.”

  “The third one is still a problem, but the first two . . .” For a moment she looked at the falls outside the window. “I’m moving into an irreversible situation. Jesus has become an issue for me, and some—not all—in the congregation don’t want me going there.” She smiled. “Still, like it or not, I’m there. I’m starting to address him by name, starting to view my faith as a relationship. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  I tried not to fully express my joy lest I embarrass her in public. “I know what you mean.”

  “Travis, I’ve been to seminary. I’ve been an ordained minister for ten years, and I was married to an ordained minister for fourteen. Gabe and I did all we could to bring out the best in people, but— it’s one of those things you only see looking back—there was always an evasive, missing element: relationship. Jesus was a religious abstraction, a historical figure we discussed and debated but didn’t know.” She looked around the room. “Some of my parishioners would make an issue of my having dinner with an evangelical, fundamentalist, Pentecostal whatever-you-are, but they’d be missing the point. It’s not my church or your church or which tradition is right or how many candles we light—it’s knowing Jesus for who he is.”

  Oh, I was enjoying this. “Preach on, sister.”

  She preached on, leaning so low toward me that her earrings almost went in her spinach. “And I think that’s Justin Cantwell’s problem. Plenty of church, but no relationship.” She settled back in her chair and thought a moment, the white, cascading falls reflected in her glasses. “Maybe Michael’s problem too.”

  “But . . .” I really wanted to ease her pain. “There could be a new beginning here, a new twist to the story.”

  She gave a weak smile. “Let’s hope so. Who knows? Maybe if Michael’s mother knows the real Christ, she can somehow wean him from a false one.”

  I smiled at her. “I’ll concur with that.”

  She abruptly switched subjects. “So how long did you pastor in Antioch?”

  “About fifteen years.”

  She leaned back as if for a better view and said, “Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to tell. . . .”

  “How’d you wind up in Antioch in the first place?”

  I closed my eyes and could see the memory playing through my mind like an old home movie. Some memories just never fade. . . .

  IT WAS A CALLING that made no practical sense. Marian was working at her company in Los Angeles and doing well. I had my teaching degree and some great prospects for employment in elementary education. Our budget was finally starting to look healthy. We’d moved to a bigger apartment and bought new furniture. We even had a second car.

  And then Dad called. Some folks wanted to start a Pentecostal Mission church in a little eastern Washington town called Antioch. He just thought I might like to pray about that. No pressure; he was just letting me know. I said I’d pray about it, and I did—“Dear Lord, I hope they find somebody”—and immediately put the subject aside. It came back. Sitting in our living room and hearing the police helicopter circling the neighborhood for the fifth straight night got me thinking about living in a quiet place and being a pastor again. Then I thought of Northwest Mission. No way, I thought. Never again.

  I mentioned Dad’s call to Marian. “They’re dreaming,” I said.

  “Maybe not,” she answered, but said nothing more.

  A week later, a voice from my past called: Brother Smith, the dean of men when I was in Bible college. He now held a position with the Northwest District of the Pentecostal Mission, and noticed how I’d taken pains to maintain my credentials. Perhaps I’d be interested in taking a new church in Antioch, Washington.

  “Well who’s running it now?” I asked. I didn’t want another territorial battle with somebody already there.

  “Nobody,” he said. “You’ll have to run the whole show, start it from the ground up. It’ll be your church, Travis. It’ll be your vision.” Brother Smith was no stranger to my nature, or my illustrious ministry career thus far. He knew I’d find the opportunity tantalizing.

  And I did. My own church! No religious machinery already in place. No customs or traditions to fight against, no one to say, “Well that’s the way we do things here!” No Sister Marvins, no Brother Rogenbecks. Just Marian and me.

  I tried to talk myself out of it, reminding myself that for the first time in our marriage we had some stability, some hope for a normal life. But the more I talked to the Lord and myself—aloud, pacing about the apartment—the more stirred up I got and I couldn’t sit still. “It’ll never work,” I told the mirror. “Would it work?” I asked the Lord.

  What about Marian? She had a good job with a great salary and chance for advancement. I couldn’t ask her to move to Antioch, Washington! I looked for Antioch on a map. It was marked with the tiniest little circle available. She’d never go for it.

  Brother Smith gave me some phone numbers in Antioch. I made some calls and got some details.

  I knelt by our bed and prayed some more. After I rose from my knees, I started preaching to the empty apartment. I already had a great idea for my first sermon. I’d talk about relationships, I thought. We didn’t have a big city church, but we had each other, and that was what mattered!

  Oh brother. What’s Marian going to think?

  “Lord, if this is your will, then speak to Marian’s heart. Give her a peace. No, not peace. Make her excited! Make her want to do it!”

  I was excited. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I couldn’t wait for Marian to get home.

  I was out of school and still waiting on a steady job, so I was pulling my weight by fixing dinner every night. Marian would scribble out instructions each morning and I’d give it my best shot. That night, when she got home, I served up pork roast and stir-fried vegetables over rice, and brought up the subject of Antioch.

  “How many are in the church now?” she asked.

  “Well, I talked to a guy named Avery Sisson. Right now there’s him and his wife and their four kids.”

  She held her fork in midair. “And?”

  “That’s it. Right now there’s no Pentecostal Mission church in that town.”

  “Why should there be?” She wasn’t trying to be difficult. It was a fair question.

  My answer was just as fair, I think. “I don’t know. According to Avery, there isn’t another Spirit-filled church in Antioch, and according to Brother Smith, the district thinks it’s time to get a church started there. Avery’s looked at a church building. It used to be an old Congregational church, but now the guy next-door owns it. He says we can rent it or buy it from him.”

  “And what would we do for a living?”

  “Avery says I can work for his brother in construction until I get a teaching job. Antioch has a grade school and a high school.”

  She took another bite of stir-fried vegetables, chewed a while, thought a while, and then said, “What are y
ou feeling, T. J.? What’s in your heart?”

  I looked down at my plate, a little reticent. “I think maybe I’d like to find out more . . . you know, think about it.”

  She reached over—we always sat close together—and tapped on my heart. “What’s in here?”

  I took a moment to search out the answer. “I just . . . I just want to do, you know, what Jesus did: I want to go about doing good. Win some souls, change some hearts, bring some light into this world. I want to tell people about Jesus because he’s a wonderful Savior and Friend.”

  “You think God put that in there?”

  I actually got choked up. “Since I was a kid.”

  She gave me that smile that always made me feel like a conqueror, and then she rose and hugged me from behind. “Then we’d better check it out.”

  MR. FRAMER owned the building, and met us there. “It needs a little fixing up. It hasn’t been used for a church in fifteen years.”

  Standing there on Elm Street with Avery Sisson, his wife, Joan, and Marian, I saw only future potential, not present condition. The plywood over the windows, the paint peeling off the lap siding, the wrinkled, moss-covered roofing didn’t discourage me at all. This was an adventure, a vision to be fulfilled.

  “How’s the roof?” Marian asked.

  “It leaks,” said Framer.

  “What about plumbing?” I asked.

  “Just a sink in the basement and no toilet. There’s an outhouse out back.”

  “Any pews?”

  “Burned ’em. There’s nothing in there but a bunch of lockers.”

  The old chapel sat forlornly in the middle of an unmowed field, looking as discarded and neglected as the rusting harrower, burned-out van, and immovable old bulldozer that sat in the grass alongside it.

  Mr. Framer led us through the grass and weeds to the front steps. “That bulldozer belongs to my son. He can come and move it if you want. I don’t know where that harrower came from.”

  “What happened to the van?”

  “Kids set it on fire. I was hoping to sell it, but now . . .”

  The front door sounded like it hadn’t been opened in a while. Inside, Mr. Framer turned on the lights—the building did have electricity and four simple chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. It was cold in there. It smelled musty. The floor was old tongue-and-groove planking painted gray.