by Tim LaHaye
Irene estimated that she had witnessed the judgment of more than two thousand saints so far. Only about 19,999,998,000 to go. Still getting used to her new abilities, she debated whether to bother God with her question, but as soon as she allowed the thought, He spoke to her heart.
“Just ask.”
“Well,” she said, “You see, I know time is different here, and—”
“In fact, nonexistent,” He said.
“Yes, right. But just out of curiosity, how long have we been here?”
“In earth time?” A heavenly chuckle. “Approximately four minutes.”
“See, now, Amy, this is our problem. Here it is, nine o’ clock on a weeknight, and here we sit.”
“We’ve been through this,” Amy said as Chloe closed her books. “You’re going for best student in history, and that doesn’t allow for much of a social life.”
“But how about you? Do something! Go somewhere!”
“Yeah, I should call one of my dozen boyfriends, all of whom own Porsches, of course, and see which wants to take me on a pizza run.”
“Pizza!” Chloe said. “That sounds fantastic. Who has a car?”
“You done studying?”
“I’m out of gas,” Chloe said. “I could read some more, but I need fuel. Pizza would be just the thing.”
“Let’s order delivery.”
“Nah. I need to get out of here awhile. Don’t you?”
Amy nodded. “But we still need wheels. You want to borrow someone’s car?”
“Whose?”
“Well, Phoebe’s, but you don’t like her.”
“It isn’t that I don’t like her, Amy. I hardly know her. She just reminds me too much of my mother; that’s all.”
“She is a little old for her age, isn’t she? But on the other hand, she does have a car. And what are you saying about your mom? She’s so sweet.”
“I know, but she and Phoebe only want to talk about God. God this and God that and ‘you should really come with me to Campus Crusade sometime.’ ”
“I know,” Amy said. “And don’t you think it’s a little disingenuous that they never use the full name of that club?”
“Campus Crusade for Christ?” Chloe said. “Sometimes they do.”
“Yeah, but too often they don’t. It’s like getting invited to a party and finding out it’s one of those multilevel marketing things.”
“Ah, I guess they mean well. So, call Phoebe.”
“You know her better, Chloe.”
“I do not! She just thinks I’m a better candidate for Campus Crusade than you are. How does that make you feel?”
“Hopeless . . . or maybe she thinks I’m already in.”
They both laughed. Chloe said, “You know she’s going to want to go. She’ll offer to drive.”
“Don’t tell her where we’re going. Just tell her it’s an errand. C’mon. Call her.”
Chloe grabbed the phone and called the floor below them.
Phoebe’s roommate answered. “Just missed her, Chlo’. She was running out to get us something to eat.”
“That’s what we wanted. How long ago did she leave?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes maybe? Call her cell.”
Chloe tried but got Phoebe’s voice mail. She moved to the window and saw Phoebe’s car still in the lot. “Maybe she’s got her phone off, Amy. Let’s see if we can catch her.”
The girls pulled on jackets and headed for the elevator. “This’ll take too long,” Amy said. “The stairs!”
They raced down the steps and burst out the door, and in the dim light from the lampposts in the parking lot they saw shoes, socks, jeans, a sweater, and undergarments between them and the car. Also in the grass, next to the concrete walkway, lay a purse and a cell phone.
“What is this?” Amy said, kneeling and reaching for the phone.
“Wait!” Chloe said. “Don’t touch it! Maybe she was attacked. I’m calling the police.”
“I’ll call her roommate.”
Chloe got a busy signal, even from 911. She dialed campus security. Same thing.
Soon Phoebe’s roommate appeared in pajamas and slippers. “This is her stuff,” she said, ashen faced. “Call somebody.”
Chloe told her she had tried, and the girl, shaking, whispered, “I don’t want to scare you any more, but on my way down here, I heard screaming on every floor.”
“Stay here, Amy,” Chloe said, dashing back inside. She found students everywhere, shaking, crying, running, trying to call for help. In her building alone, more than ten students had disappeared right out of their clothes, most in front of their friends or roommates.
Chloe, a knot forming deep within, dialed her father’s cell phone, wondering what time it would be where he was. She got the message that the system was overloaded and that she should try later.
A girl grabbed Chloe from behind, hanging on as if she were drowning. “What’s going on?” she wailed.
“I don’t know!” Chloe said.
“Have you heard? Lots of students’ kids are gone. Some say all of them. And a couple of professors.” The girl ran off.
Chloe tried her home number. “Mom? Dad? Are you there? Have you seen what’s going on? Call me as soon as you can. We’ve lost at least ten students and two profs, and all the married students’ kids disappeared. Is Raymie all right? Call me!”
Chloe ran to her room and began packing, hardly thinking about where she was going. Kids had TVs and radios blaring the news that this was a worldwide phenomenon. She had to get home. Why, she didn’t know. She just had to. She threw anything and everything she needed into one suitcase and dragged it downstairs.
Amy was still standing guard over Phoebe’s clothes.
“You might as well take that stuff up to her room,” Chloe said, and she told Amy what she had heard. “I’m going to keep trying to reach my family, but if you hear from them, tell them I’m trying to find a way back there. I’ll try to call them tomorrow if I can get a flight. Can you do that?”
“Sure. And, Chloe . . . be careful.”
TWENTY-THREE
ON EARTH IRENE would have called it telepathy; she had never had the gift and doubted anyone else ever really did either. She had heard stories and pseudomagicians make claims and demonstrate what seemed like impressive feats of clairvoyance, but she was a skeptic. No one had ever proved to her that the gift was real, except perhaps in rare cases of demonic activity. In fact, she had enjoyed reading books by debunkers or those who explained the secrets behind the tricks.
But here in God’s house, she was able to communicate with Raymie without opening her mouth or even being in his presence. It was as if they were together, regardless of how far apart they were. Irene knew she could merely desire his company and he would be there. But she wanted to be sure he was free and wouldn’t feel as if he were abandoning Jeremy or his parents.
In an instant, Raymie was at her side. “I suppose you’ve noticed that things are different here,” he said, smiling.
Irene still found it disconcerting that he had recently looked and acted and thought and spoken like a boy twenty years younger. She laughed. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”
“I mean, there is no offense. If I leave Jeremy and Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, it’s not as if I have snubbed them. We’re all still here, we can still talk, and I can be back with them immediately. I could bounce back and forth between here and there every nanosecond, and you would all feel as if I were with you alone.”
“Interesting,” she said, “but please don’t. It’s just that I’m finding this judgment so fascinating that I wanted you next to me as I watched. Needless to say, I’m anxious about my own appearance before that flame.”
“Me too,” Raymie said. “I was so young, and I’m satisfied that I was earnest and devout enough. But even you were young in your faith, and we really didn’t know what to do, did we?”
“I do now. From a whole new perspective. I’d like to have another chance at living the
Christian life.”
Raymie cocked his head at her. “No, you wouldn’t. You have no more interest in leaving this place than I or anyone else here does.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, interrupted by hallelujahs from the angels. She joined in the cheering and applause, then said, “I only wish I’d known then what I know now.”
“I especially wouldn’t want to be on Earth now,” Raymie said, “with what has to be happening. I mean, I would be a better witness. I’d be more overt about my faith, more enthusiastic, more bold, more insistent. I wouldn’t be afraid or embarrassed. I might even be able to endure all the hardships. But I can’t imagine ever again being out of the physical presence of Jesus.”
Irene stared at the line that seemed to stretch for miles as saint after unknown saint was called to face the flame of judgment for their works on Earth. “I just want everyone I knew and loved to be here.”
Over what seemed like the next week—but what Irene knew was more likely just a matter of minutes—she and Raymie watched and listened as the white-hot finger of fire rose and fell with the tempering of the gold and silver and precious stones of some works and the gush of flame at eternally valueless wastes of earthly time. Irene felt electrified to realize how many believers there had been in the world during her time on Earth. Names of every length and form represented millions of unknown Christians who had served Christ in unseen places and in unknown ways. Here the last were first and the first would be last. Irene looked forward to witnessing the judgment of the works of the heroes of the faith, contemporary and from the past, but she found the rewarding of these otherwise unknowns just as fascinating.
It had been during the middle of the morning rush hour in Bucharest—and for many the workday had just begun—when the Rapture occurred. Minutes later television news helicopters began landing on the lawn at the estate of the new Romanian president, Nicolae Carpathia. He immediately took Gabriella’s assistant maid off phone duty, had her dressed in a business suit, and coached her on what to say:
“President Carpathia will address the nation in a few minutes. He is currently in seclusion, mourning the loss of some key members of his staff.”
In truth, of course, Nicolae was on the phone to New York, being debriefed by Leon Fortunato, who agreed that he should not face the cameras until the international media arrived. “You are no longer the man of the Romanians,” Leon said. “You are the man of the hour for the world. Do you know yet what you will say?”
“Of course. Words of peace and comfort.”
“Excellent. Scripted?”
“Of course not. The spirit will give me utterance.”
“Amen.”
“Leon, some of the press are peeking in the windows even now as we speak. I must appear to be about earnest, important business.”
“Well, you are.”
“Tell me, what do you make of the fact that some on my staff here have vanished? How could I not know of their true allegiances?”
“Perhaps they were loyal to you as well, Nicolae. Unless they were God, they would not have detected where your loyalties lay or who you are.”
“Could they be that naïve? Would not our adversary have informed them, the way our spirit guide informs us?”
“Apparently not.”
It was not unusual for Bruce Barnes—visitation pastor of New Hope Village Church in Mt. Prospect, Illinois—to read in bed as his wife slept. Too often his reading and turning pages kept her awake, and after wrestling with three kids, five and under, all day, she frequently asked how long he would be reading.
That night he was enjoying his favorite sports-weekly magazine, and, as usual, his wife gently murmured, asking how long the light would be on. Not long, he told her, hoping she would soon fall asleep and not hear the pages turning or be bothered by the light.
She sighed a few times as the pages crinkled, but soon he heard her breathing slowly and steadily and knew she was out. He resituated himself with his back to her and kept reading, planning to finish the entire magazine.
Soon Bruce felt the bed move and sensed that his wife had gotten up. He assumed she was going to the bathroom and hoped she wouldn’t rouse so much that she would complain about his still having the light on when she got back. It didn’t strike him until later that he had not heard her walk to the bathroom or heard any water running. She was a tiny little thing, so the lack of her weight on the bed was pretty much all he noticed.
Engrossed in his reading, Bruce suddenly became aware that his wife had not returned. He called over his shoulder, “Hon, you okay?”
No response. Maybe she was checking on the kids. Or maybe it had been his imagination that she had left the bed. He read for a few more minutes, then reached behind him to be sure she wasn’t still there. She was gone. He turned over and noticed that she had also pulled the covers back up to the pillow.
Great. She was angry with him for still being up and having the light on, so she had likely retired to the couch. Bruce felt terrible. He went to apologize and coax her back to bed, resigned to quit reading and turn out the light.
But his wife was not on the couch. Not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kids’ rooms. He didn’t want to call out for her and wake the children. The lights were off all over the house, so he turned on the one in the hall to check their rooms again. Perhaps she was in a corner, rocking one of the younger ones.
From the dim shaft of light in the hall, Bruce thought the baby’s crib looked empty. He turned on the room light, stuck his head out the door, and called down the hall for his wife. When he got no response, he turned back to the crib, saw the empty footie pajamas, and knew.
Bruce ran to each of the other two rooms, yanking back the covers and finding the kids’ pajamas. Hurrying back to the master bedroom, he pulled back the covers on his wife’s side to find her nightgown and her rings.
Bruce grabbed the phone and called Pastor Billings. He got the answering machine. He called other staff members. Same problem. He dug through the church directory, looking for older people who might not like answering machines. No answers.
As alone as he had ever been, Bruce jumped in his car and drove to the church. There he found one of the older New Hope secretaries sitting in her car, sobbing. They both knew what had happened. They had been left behind, and they knew why.
Chloe was horrified at what she saw as she dragged her suitcase through the campus and out onto the streets of Palo Alto. Bedlam everywhere. People cried and screamed, some ran, some collapsed into the fetal position. Others held each other. Many cried out to God. Some yelled for help, but there was nothing she could do for them. She just wanted to get home.
But there were no cabs, no buses, no trucks moving. A few small cars and motorcycles picked their way around the mayhem, but no one was stopping for hitchhikers. Chloe resolutely soldiered on with a vague notion that she was heading toward the San Jose airport. If she could just find a ride to the 101 . . .
Raymie Steele sat next to his mother, mesmerized by the myriad stories that flashed across his mind’s eye as thousands upon thousands of people faced the fire judgment of their works and then the Bema Seat for their rewards. As a couple and a woman—all appearing about the same age now, of course—approached the altar, the crowd, Raymie and Irene included, rose with applause.
Without announcement or fanfare, God somehow impressed on the hearts and minds and souls of the spectator saints the entire story of each supplicant. Raymie received the entire fascinating story of this couple and their daughter all in one piece and ruminated upon it as their works were burned to precious metals and gems and they were awarded crowns by Jesus.
John and Betty Stam of America had been missionaries to China. In 1934, John and Betty and their three-month-old daughter, Helen, were taken as hostages by the advancing Communists. When their attackers demanded a $20,000 ransom, John wrote in a note to mission authorities: “The Lord bless and guide you. As for us, may God be glorified, whether by life
or by death.”
During the night John was tied to a post out in the cold while Betty tended the baby. Before dawn she hid the sleeping Helen in a sleeping bag, praying she would be found by someone who would take care of her. In the morning John and Betty were stripped and led through town like common criminals, their hands bound behind them.
Along the way a man stepped from the crowd and pleaded for their lives. The guards ordered him to be silent, and when he would not desist, they dragged him away to be killed. John begged the guards to spare the man’s life, but they ordered him to kneel. John was still speaking when one of the guards decapitated him with one ferocious swing of his sword.
Betty, kneeling beside her fallen husband, was murdered by the sword.
A local pastor was told that a baby had been left in the house where John and Betty had been chained. He hurried to find Helen in the little sleeping bag, hungry but alive. He bravely spirited her away, and a week later she was delivered to another missionary in a nearby city. Eventually she was returned to the States, where she lived until her death.
Raymie felt as if he had known the Stams and their daughter, even though all of them died long before he was born. He found it thrilling to see John and Betty receive their martyrs’ crowns and be reunited with the pastor who had saved their daughter and with those who had raised her.
Stories like this were repeated hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times as Raymie sat there with his mother. He tried to compare it to the best entertainment he had ever enjoyed on Earth, but nothing matched this. He had loved a great ball game on TV, a last-minute victory. He had enjoyed mystery stories and heroic tales that kept him turning the pages until long after his bedtime. He had been to movies that amazed and delighted him and made him remember them for days.
But this made those seem like nothing. As each person approached the flame and the throne, his or her history was implanted in Raymie’s mind. In full color with every sound and emotion he followed their feats as they served God, fighting persecution and the sword, trusting the Lord to deliver them, many dying for their faith, now enjoying their rewards.
