Peter nods. “I hope so. You seem like a good man.”
“Well, you don’t know me that well.”
He laughs. “Look, I also wanted to say, I know this whole thing with this serial killer probably doesn’t help your view of religion and Christianity, but Christianity is truly a religion of love. Jesus’ death may have been violent, but it was still an act of love. Everything He did, even subject Himself to torture and death, was done because He loved humanity.”
“I’m sorry, I know you believe in all of this, but I don’t,” I say. “None of it makes sense to me. God could have skipped over sacrificing His Son because He’s an all-powerful god, but He didn’t.”
“Omnipotence might mean something different to God than it does to us,” he says. “And God is inconceivably more intelligent than we are. It’s not our job to try to dissect His actions. We are just meant to stand in awe.”
I shake my head. “Trust me, I’m in awe. And I don’t mean that in some mean, sarcastic way. I can actually understand wanting to go through all of that pain for someone I love. I would do the same thing.”
“For Lauren?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But also for humanity.
He smiles. “See, Tobias. You’re a good man.”
“You’re a good man too,” I say. “Do you need someone to drive you back home?”
“Ah, no,” he says. “I enjoy walking outside and taking the subway. You get to hear everybody’s stories and listen to everybody wrapped up in their own lives. Don’t worry about me. Keep your concerns on Lauren.”
“I will,” I promise him.
He stands up and shakes my hand. “It’s always good to talk to you, Tobias,” he says. “May God bless you.”
I force a smile even though he can’t see it. I’d take any help from any higher power at this point. I feel like I’m running in circles and the next time the killer attacks, it won’t be a near miss.
Chapter Eight
The Son (1 year ago)
Lionforth University Hospital is one of the leading university hospitals in clinical research, especially for physical disabilities, but as they roll me into the operation room, it occurs to me that the hospital has often boasted this fact, but I’ve never seen what their exact standing is for clinical research. Are they #2 in clinical research? Or are they still considered “leading” if they’re in the top hundred?
“I don’t know if I can go through with this,” I say, panic edging my voice.
“You’ll be fine,” a man’s voice says. “Everyone gets jitters before surgery. It’s natural. Your mind is telling your body to be ready to experience some pain, so your body is responding.”
“Maybe I’m being too greedy,” I say. “God punishes the greedy.”
“Well, I’m the one doing this surgery, not God,” the man says. “And I’m telling you there’s a good chance that everything is going to go well.”
“Good chance?” I blurt. “That isn’t reassuring. I don’t want anything left to chance.”
“I’m a surgeon,” the man says, “not a magician. I can’t guarantee anything. Just take a few breaths and tell me when you’re ready.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t imagine this will work.”
“You were excited before,” the surgeon says, impatience growing in his voice. “Remember how I told you that these eyes were from a priest that was rumored to be able to perform miracles? That should bring good luck. You said yourself that it should be a sign that this will be your miracle. Just breathe, Peter. When you’re ready, Dr. Jerald will put the anesthesia through your IV.”
I nod. I can’t turn back now. If I am able to see—this concept that has always eluded me—it will be worth it. If this works, I’ll no longer have any doubts that God exists. I have dreamed of this my whole life—or at least from what I can remember since retinoblastoma took my sight when I was four.
“I’m ready.”
The words come out half mumbled, half slurred, but I can feel the energy in the room come to life, so they must have understood me. As I hear noises of metal clanging against metal, the sound of shoes scuffing against the floor, and the buzz of a machine, my eyelids become heavier and heavier. I try to keep them open because I don’t want the surgeon to begin replacing my eyes before I’m unconscious, but then I can’t keep them open any longer and the darkness pulls me down into deep sleep.
I open my eyes and, for the first time, I can see. But I’m not in the hospital—I’m in a large building that reminds me of how I’ve heard gothic churches described—pointed arches, spires, high ceilings, and decorative architecture, except that the whole building is made of glass. I’m standing inside of it and peering through the building, I can see that outside of this place. The ground seems to be made of smooth pale rocks and the knowledge that these are smooth rocks comes to me as if I had seen rocks a thousand times. I walk down the halls of the building, amazed by the details of the work inside it. My heart almost aches with this sudden ability to see. If a miracle was an emotion, it would be the feeling I’m experiencing now.
Every few feet, floating lights send warmth down my body as I pass by them. I begin to cry, large tears sliding down my face, and I don’t realize why until I reach a circular room that has a massive throne in the center of it. The throne appears to be made of tiny crosses, so I know I must be dead and I have ascended into Heaven.
As I stare at the throne, I see something I can’t explain—even if I had been able to see my whole life, I don’t think I could explain it. It’s light and dark, huge and small, solid and immaterial, chaotic and serene.
You aren’t lost.
The words aren’t said by a voice and they aren’t heard by my ears. I can just sense the words as if they’re carved into my heart.
You are found.
This is God.
Light made of various colors—some of them that I instantly know have never been seen by man—flow out of God and slip into my eyes.
I take a deep breath and for the second time, I open my eyes. I’m back at the hospital and I know this because for the first time on Earth, I can see.
Chapter Nine
The Son (9 months ago)
“People ask this question all the time: if God wanted us all to join Him in Heaven, if God didn’t want us to go to Hell or if God wanted us to do certain things, why didn’t He just make it that way? These people say He’s all-powerful and therefore, He must use His power. But they don’t understand that God’s love for us extends past His love of power. He gave us a choice. He looks at me and tells me, Peter. You have a choice today. You can choose to believe that I exist and that I sent my only Son to be nailed to the cross and die for your sins, or you can choose not to believe that. I’m not a dictator, so I’m not going to force you to make a decision. I love you and I have faith in you to make the right choice. I only wish that you have faith in Me, too.
“He says something like that to every single one of us. I know all of you out there that truly believe this can hear that message. It’s okay to have doubts sometimes, but the important point is to always return to the same choice—believing in Him and giving your whole heart to Him.”
I stop in front of the podium, closing the small leather Bible on it.
“That’s what I want you all to think about this week. Thank you for your time. God bless you all.”
The congregation rises. Some of them begin to shuffle out of the small church, while a few of them walk up to me.
“Brilliant speech, Peter.”
“You are a gift from God, Peter.”
“God has truly blessed you.”
Their praises are kind and appreciated, but in the end, it’s simply what God has led me toward. He gave me sight and I gave Him my heart.
After the crowd thanks me, there’s one young woman at the end of the line. Something twists in my stomach the moment I see her—her light brown hair styled into a long braid, her round face, and her baby blue eyes—but
it’s not lust or anxiety. I feel like my soul recognizes her soul and it’s simply reacting toward this sudden encounter.
“Hi,” she says. “You don’t know me but…” She clears her throat and tries again. “This is going to see really awkward and weird.”
And in the same way God has been delivering messages straight to me, I know exactly who she is. “You’re the daughter of the pastor who donated his eyes…the eyes which were given to me.”
“Yes,” she says, her face breaking out into a smile. She’s a beautiful woman—created with the loving hands of a loving God. “This is actually your third sermon I’ve listened to. I was too shy to approach you before, and I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
“I owe your father everything,” I say. “My life has turned out so much better than it ever was. It’s not just that I have my sight back, but it led me straight into the arms of God. Is there something that you need? I don’t have a lot of money, but I can give you a little bit to help you along—”
“Oh, no,” she blurts. “No, it’s not that at all. I just…my father had been the most devoted follower of Jesus you will ever meet. In fact, from your passion about God, I think you two would have been able to talk about Him for decades. Before he died, he left behind this Bible that he had scribbled all of his thoughts in. I thought you might like it. I have a feeling that you’ll read some of his thoughts and some of the same verses he enjoyed and they’ll reach into your heart in a way that will continue to change you and bring you closer to God.”
“Of course, I would love his Bible,” I say.
She pulls the Bible out of her purse. It’s smaller than I expect—barely larger than my hand—and it’s been clearly well used to the point that the book doesn’t seem to be able to lie flat and the cover is ripped in between the H-O and L-Y of Holy.
I touch the worn cover. “I see that it was well-loved.”
“My father didn’t know how to not well-love something,” she says. “He woke up every morning, reveling about the miracles of life.”
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Miss Brache.”
“Miss Brache,” I say.
“Have a good day.”
She flashes me another smile before she walks away. As the door of the church closes behind her, I flip open her father’s Bible.
It seems that every page has writing all over it, lines underlined or circled. Some things are starred, while others have references to other verses written beside them. I feel like I’ve stepped into a mad genius’ laboratory except the laboratory is only filled with words. Very, very tiny words that seem to fill every blank space.
I flip through the Bible until I land on a page where the binding has begun to fall apart. One verse is highlighted.
explaining and giving evidence that the Christ had to suffer and rise again from the dead, and saying, "This Jesus whom I am proclaiming to you is the Christ."
Acts 17:3.
It’s a pretty standard verse, but it sticks into me like a thorn. I follow a line that connects to the last word, Christ, and find that Brache wrote a note about it. I squint to read it.
Revelations—followers of Jesus will resurrect—end times, John 5:29—followers will rise to life, nonbelievers will be judged—likely sent to Hell. If Jesus was a man and had to suffer to rise again, can all men? Matthew 25:40: if it’s done to man, it’s done to Jesus. Holy Spirit=Jesus in all men? SAVE THEM.
Suffering in the world because humans must suffer to resurrect? But life is easier now, so maybe there’s not enough suffering and they won’t rise again. If sinners suffer enough, they could be saved. It’s my duty to save as many as possible.
As I stare at the page, there seem to be flickering lights trailing across Brache’s notations. I look around me, but there’s nowhere the lights could be coming from. I’m standing directly in a shadow. As I look back down, I realize the lights remind me of when I was under anesthesia and walking in God’s castle. He wants me to read this. As I continue to stare at Brache’s words, they seem to stand out even more, growing bigger until they’re all I can see and they’re all I want to see.
Chapter Ten
The Son (6 months ago)
Laced with Alloy is a music festival filled with rock artists and bands that are known to use shock tactics—such as the band Pentagram Rivals taping fake bombs to their chests while they perform—to get people interested in them and lyrics that ensure every song they release has a parental advisory on it. As I walk through the crowds that have gathered around the booths of these musicians, I can imagine them all spending eternity in Hell. It makes me feel sick. I can only pray that God will intervene for some of them, but I need to find one whose heart has hardened too much for them to see Jesus even if He were standing right in front of them.
Brache believed those who broke one of the Ten Commandments were the least likely to make it in Heaven since those were the rules that God took the time to emphasize and the sinners blatantly ignored them. It seems to me that my best choice is to go down the list of the Commandments and save at least one of each. It ensures that I’m never too biased in who I save, and I treat each sin the same. I know my path is dangerous and many people will try to stop me, but it’s what I have to do. The right path was never meant to be easy, just like Jesus’ life was never easy. God has steered me to this responsibility and I won’t fail Him.
The First Commandment says to only worship God, so I have to find someone who worships a god other than our one true and living God, and I must save them.
After passing by dozens of people wearing pagan symbols, I see her. Not the one I will save, but a daughter of Eve. Her hair reminds me of summertime—the sun, the fresh taste of lemonade, the flowers blooming in everybody’s garden—and her eyes are like spring—robin eggs, clear skies, and the sight of lakes after the ice has melted. She is not only beautiful, but I’ve seen her before, five months ago at a Christian camp.
She’s an oasis in the desert and I feel myself drawn toward her. She smiles as she sees me approaching and it lifts me almost as high as God’s love.
“Hello, Peter,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t think this was your kind of place either, Mary,” I say. “Especially now that you’re becoming famous.”
“I’m trying to reach out to as many non-believers as possible,” she says. “I could sing in as many churches and religious concerts as I wanted, but most of those people have already chosen the path of God. These people haven’t. There’s no point in preaching to the choir, so I’m performing with these other bands. Some of them are actually very nice, though some of them can’t stop themselves from a snarky remark about my relationship with Christ. It’s part of being one of His followers, though. The world hated Christ first, so it is natural that they aren’t fond of us either.”
“They don’t understand,” I say. “But I can’t imagine that you’re too successful.”
“Most of them just tell me they enjoy the music, but don’t support the message,” she says. “But I hope I can at least get one person to question their lack of faith.”
“How can you be certain though, even if you do convert one of them, that they’ll stay converted?” I ask.
“I can’t,” she says. “In fact, I think it’s probably natural for them to go back to their atheism. But there’s still a chance, and if I can save one soul from Hell, it will be worth it.”
“What if there was an easier way?” I ask.
“There isn’t,” she says. “The ones we need to save the most are here—we have to accept our losses sometimes.”
“Maybe we don’t,” I say, handing her Brache’s Bible. I’ve already marked the page that God had led me to before. “There’s a way to get them to believe, and they’ll stay converted until they get to Heaven.”
She takes the Bible from me, her fingertips brushing against my hand. It sends a shiver through me. I had been enamored with her while I was at the camp she
had been attending, but she had barely turned eighteen, so I never took my feelings any further than friendship. I had thought this is the woman who could drag me straight into Hell and I can’t let that happen.
“Good luck with selling your merchandise,” I say. “I’ll come see you later and we can talk about how to get more people to accept Jesus and take their place in Heaven.”
“I can’t wait,” she says.
I turn, my heart thumping hard in my chest. Mary Fitzgerald would be incredibly helpful to my cause—she has a voice that has touched so many people and caused them to deepen their relationship with God. Her Holy Spirit is so strong that it comes out in her voice and people are drawn toward it.
I thought I had to do this alone, but I should have known that God would never leave such a large task to one man. They say God works in mysterious ways, but sometimes His plans are so recognizable that their truth can be seen by anyone who is willing to look for it.
Chapter Eleven
The Son (4 months ago)
Nikki Parker is a twenty-six-year-old woman with bright red dyed hair and a tattoo of an upside down cross on her throat. This cross is actually the Cross of St. Peter, but anti-religious people have tried to commandeer it for their own. But that’s not the reason I chose her to be first—I never want to choose someone out of anger or spite. The moment I saw her, my heart could feel the weight of her sins. I just want to set her free. Once she’s in Heaven, she’ll realize that what I did was out of love. We must all love in the way that God loves us—sometimes pain is necessary.
“For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly also be united with him in a resurrection like his. For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin--because anyone who has died has been set free from sin. Now if we died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him,” I quote from Epistle to the Romans in Brache’s Bible. “But you refused to acknowledge Jesus’ sacrifice, didn’t you, Nikki? You say that you believe now, but how can I know that you’re telling the truth when you’ve lived so long, wrapping yourself up in lies?”
Vengeance of the Son (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 3) Page 6
