Authors: Derek Jackson
“I’ll swing by in about an hour, Arlene. Don’t you let them eat it all up, you hear?”
“You got it, girl!”
Ten minutes later, now traveling east on Highway 76, Lynn calculated in her mind that if she really focused she just might get everything done today,
including
getting that dish of banana pudding. And she certainly didn’t mind pushing herself to be productive, because in a few days the only meaningful tasks she would be engaging in would be clicking a remote control and dialing out for room service.
Breakfast in bed . . . my own personal masseuse . . . sunsets to simply die for . . .
Those tempting thoughts instantly made her giddy with anxiousness. She sighed and stretched her neck, daydreaming ahead to future massages and tantalizing hours spent in the Jacuzzi . . . so she really wasn’t concentrating on driving . . .
As a result, she only casually noticed the tan-colored pickup truck to her left as she approached the three-way intersection, at which she had the right-of-way. She thought nothing of it. Because after all, she
did
have the right-of-way. But had she been more focused on driving, and driving defensively for that matter, she probably would have observed that this truck was not going to heed the stop sign.
Her mind still captivated by spas and her awaiting Jacuzzi, too late she saw that the truck was not stopping. The acute shock of the impending driver’s-side collision was too much for her senses to handle and she screamed.
Then her entire world faded to black.
A split second later, she felt nothing when the truck plowed into her compact car. Didn’t even feel a thing.
F
IVE MINUTES SHY OF TWO O’CLOCK
found the sun finally forcing its way past the thick, cotton-like clouds that had enveloped the sky all morning. The air was not yet humid, though, a small relief to the man sitting along the banks of the Congaree River. This stretch of the river and its surrounding land, located twenty miles southeast of Columbia, had recently been designated a national park, in part because the swampland preserved the largest intact tract of old-growth floodplain forest in North America.
The man was interested in neither the park’s serenity nor its beauty, however, as he leaned against a bald cypress tree towering one hundred feet into the sky. He longed for the rest that still eluded him.
God, this place is beautiful . . .
Though he’d stumbled onto this park almost by accident, he couldn’t imagine being anyplace else. After conducting a little research at the public library a few days earlier, he’d found that no other place in the eastern United States held a larger contiguous area of tall trees. And since tall trees equaled privacy and seclusion, this park had quickly become his outdoor sanctuary.
His old black leather Bible lay open in his lap, the pages turned to a highlighted passage of scripture he’d spent years poring over—Isaiah 53. He knew the passage so well he could have recited it just as easily backwards as forwards.
“Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”
“The suffering servant, Jesus Christ,” the man muttered through clenched teeth. “On the cross, You bore my sins and iniquities . . . my infirmities so I wouldn’t have to. Then tell me this, God. Why . . . why do I still have all this pain? If You bore all my pain, then why am I still
suffering
? I shouldn’t have to feel all this pain.”
A few minutes passed by, and when there was no answer, the man cried out in anguish.
“
Why!
Why, God? Why did my love have to be taken away? What did I do to deserve this? Are You hearin’ me?”
Again, no answer. Not that he was expecting one. He had a thought to shake his fist toward the heavens, but resisted; he knew the fine line between anger and stupidity in questioning the Almighty. Though he might never understand why God had allowed Nina to be taken away, God was still . . .
God
. And who was he to challenge that sovereignty?
“Why’d you even give me this?” he asked quietly, looking down at his hands. He turned them around and over with the fascination of a newborn baby, looking at these ten-fingered appendages as if for the very first time. They looked normal enough—five fingers to either hand with two joints on each finger. The underside and palms were slightly callused from years of outdoor manual labor.
“Why’d you even give me this gift, if it’s not for the people who mean the most to me?”
Tilting his head back against the tree, he closed his eyes, inviting sleep to mercifully take him away from his reality. But sleep would not come. Gnats whined and buzzed around his head incessantly, and he spent several minutes swatting at them to no avail. Frustrated and tired, he slid down the base of the tree. His mind traveled back in time to the happiest day of his life. His wedding day.
Oh, God . . .
Most people considered weddings to be the happiest day of a
bride’s
life, but the same was true for the groom, at least when such a man was deeply in love.
And he had been—as he’d watched Nina gracefully sashay down the aisle, the white veil covering the loveliest face he’d ever laid eyes on, he was unaware that he’d been temporarily holding his breath.
Due to circumstances beyond their control, their wedding had only been a small affair. But it didn’t matter who had been invited to witness their celebration of love—this was his and Nina’s special day.
“Do you take Nina Reneé Harris to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the minister had asked, looking earnestly into his eyes. “To love and to cherish, to have and hold from this day forth, in good times and bad, in sickness and health, till death do you part?”
“I do,” he had answered, speaking two of the most important words he’d ever been honored to say.
“I. Do.”
“THE REHEARSAL SOUNDED GREAT
from where I’m sitting, Sister Arlene,” Pastor Gentry remarked, looking up from his daily devotional. “But I’m not sure I recognized the voice on the solo. Who was singing?”
Arlene walked farther into the office, gently placed a manila folder on the desk, and took a seat opposite her pastor. “That was Sister Dana—doesn’t she have the most amazing voice? I’ve been trying to get her to lead out for months now, and since we’re rehearsing some Milton Brunson classics for the concert series, there was no way I was letting her wiggle out of leading. I’m telling you, Dana sounds just as good as Kim McFarland, if not even a little better.”
Pastor Gentry smiled at his choir director before leaning back in his chair. “That’s a bold statement. I won’t mention to Kim that you said such a thing next time I see her—Kim and I go back a few years, you know. Anyway, ‘I Tried Him and I Know Him’ is one of my all-time favorite songs. And it’s going to sound even better once we get our state-of-the-art audio equipment installed in the main sanctuary in three weeks.”
Leaning forward again, he opened the manila folder and scanned the pages inside. After a minute or so had passed, he nodded his head. “Everything looks to be in order for the fall choral concert.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re getting more churches from the surrounding counties involved this year—it’s going to be a tremendous event.”
“I have no doubt of that. I take it the public relations committee is ready with their advertising?”
“Absolutely.”
Gentry smiled and closed the folder. “It’s enough to give God praise for having you over the choir. It’s such a blessing to never have to worry about a thing concerning the music ministry—you run a tight ship.”
Arlene respectfully lowered her head and was about to respond when the red light on Pastor Gentry’s phone began blinking.
“Excuse me,” he said, before picking up the receiver and swiveling around in his executive chair.
With Faith Community’s current status as the fastest-growing church in the Carolinas, all of its members had grown used to the pressing demands on Pastor Gentry’s time. It had nearly gotten to the point where one was deemed fortunate just to have an uninterrupted meeting with the man. Arlene understood this as well as anybody, busying herself with picking imaginary lint from the fabric of her pantsuit while her pastor spoke softly into the receiver from a few feet away. She assumed it was merely another routine business call, but when he quickly swiveled back around and almost dropped the phone back into its cradle, she immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Lord Jesus, have mercy,” Pastor Gentry breathed, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Pastor? Is . . . is something wrong?”
Ten seconds passed before he opened his eyes. “Sister Arlene, please gather the intercessory team together—we need to pray as a church family. That was Brother and Sister Harper, on their way to the hospital.”
“The Harpers? The
hospital
? Wha-what happened?”
“It’s Sister Lynn,” he said slowly. His voice was now notably strained. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he began, measuring his words. He knew how close the relationship was between Arlene and Lynn. For that matter, he regarded Lynn Harper as his own daughter. “She’s been in an accident.”
All the color drained from Arlene’s face. “Oh, God . . .”
T
HE DOUBLE DOORS OF
Palmetto Memorial Hospital electronically burst open, clearing the way for the lead paramedic to rush through, communicating on a walkie-talkie. In seconds, two nurses appeared from around the corner, ready to assist the first responders.
“Woman, five-nine . . . early thirties,” the paramedic announced in rat-tat-tat staccato. “Auto collision, driver’s side. Trauma to head, concussion, possible internal bleeding. Broken left leg . . .” Seconds later, a gurney rolled through, carrying the body of an immobilized woman. An oxygen mask covered the woman’s face and her neck was secured in traction. The entire left side of her body seemed to be covered in blood.
“Get her to trauma room 2,” boomed the voice of one of the nurses.
Not far behind the stretcher, Leonard and Jeannette Harper stumbled through the double doors. Leonard half held, half supported his wife as they moved as quickly as they could, the end result looking like a pairing in an awkward three-legged race. Jeannette’s eyes were wide and darting around inside their sockets, and she was incoherently mumbling to herself.
“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Harper?” The lady at the front desk called out, standing and raising her hand in a futile attempt to gain their attention. But the Harpers weren’t about to be slowed down by some woman behind a desk. Not when their only daughter was clinging to life mere feet away from them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harper!” the receptionist called out again, more loudly this time. At the sound of her voice, one of the nurses turned around to see the couple attempting to gain entry into the trauma room.
“I’m sorry, but you two
cannot
come past these doors,” the nurse sternly cautioned, holding out his hand to block their path before they reached the doors leading to the operating room.
“My daughter!” Jeannette screamed. “Get out of my way! My daughter is back there!”
“I understand, ma’am,” the nurse replied gently, holding his ground. His facial expression radiated the perfect blend of sympathy and sorrow. “But I can’t let you past these doors. The doctors are doing everything they can for her right now.”
Jeannette sagged against the nurse’s arms, her screams now turned into a mournful wailing. “You’ve got to let me . . . my daughter . . . Lynn . . .”
Leonard placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, gently leading her away from the doors. “It’s in the Lord’s hands now,” he whispered.
“My baby . . . Lynn . . . oh, sweet Jesus . . .” Jeannette continued mumbling.
“I know . . . I know,” Leonard repeated, encouraging himself as much as his wife. “But we’re going to make it through this.”
They slowly made their way back to the desk, where the receptionist offered them a sympathetic smile. “If you’ll just fill out these insurance forms . . .”
THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER
Pastor Gentry, Arlene, and four ministers from the intercessory prayer team arrived to find Leonard and Jeannette sitting in the waiting area, holding each other.
The pastor walked over to them, briefly placing his hand atop Leonard’s shoulder. He’d known Leonard for thirty years, dating back to when they were both students at Morris College. Alonzo had been the chaplain for the Baptist Student Union, and Leonard had been the first man he’d led to the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ. The two had remained close friends ever since, and Leonard had been one of the charter members when Alonzo had founded Faith Community Church. Alonzo had also introduced Leonard to his future wife, Jeannette, at a church barbecue, he had been in the hospital for the birth of their daughter, Lynn, and he was known to stop by a few times a year for Jeannette’s delicious German chocolate cake. Jeannette had long since returned the favor by introducing Alonzo to her longtime friend Shanice; the two had been married now ten years.
“Leonard, this is . . . this is a shock to us all,” Alonzo began, sitting down in the chair next to Leonard. He allowed a few seconds to pass in contemplative silence. “But I want you to know that we are all here for you. Have the doctors said anything further about Lynn’s condition?”
Leonard shook his head. “We don’t know anything yet. The . . . the impact on her left side . . .” He shook his head as his voice trailed off. He had seen Lynn lying on that stretcher—a sight no parent should
ever
have to see.
Pastor Gentry closed his eyes and squeezed Leonard’s hand. “Father, we know that You are Jehovah-Rapha, the Lord that healeth us. We pray that You would now touch the hands of the doctors who are in the operating room as we speak. We know that nothing is too hard for You, and we release our faith for a complete healing for Lynn Harper. We ask that You would strengthen our hearts in the midst of this crisis. Above all, though, we pray Your will be done. In Jesus’s name, amen.”