"When our minds are controlled by the Spirit of God, we shall understand the lesson taught by the parable of the leaven. Those who open their hearts to receive the truth will realize that the Word of God is the great instrumentality in the transformation of character." 5
“George ,George, wake up!”
Slowly, far too slowly, George awoke from
a deep sleep, not a sleep of peaceful slumber, but the sleep of
shock and disbelief.
He staggered and would have fallen had he
not bumped into a tree. Like a boxer, absorbing hammer blows to
the upper body, he slumped and almost slid down the smooth trunk,
out for the count, he waited only the inevitable moment of death.
“Daddy,” Billy shrieked. “Daddy.”
George was mesmerized by the bright light
that had instantly robed him of his night vision and turned his
otherwise normally placid world into a charnel house populated
by brightly illuminated ghosts of orange-yellow flames. They danced
a weird macabre dance, complete with shrill chants and incantations.
Leaping, bowing, slithering, gyrating they advanced inexorably
forward, eagerly intent upon devouring their victim who was helplessly
immobilized by their other wordily enchantments.
“Daddy!” The terror filled cries
became more insistent. But the ghosts were nearer now, leaping
and writhing in eager anticipation.
A hand seemed to shake George, grabbing
him by his belt and forcing him upright. He could feel the hand
shaking him and urging him to consciousness.
Fully awake, terror filled every fiber of
his being. The fire was advancing with frightening speed propelled
by hurricane winds. Sparks, the vanguard of this terrifying army,
were alighting all around him, instantly setting the dry leaves
and grasses afire. Explosions, sounding as if an army were discharging
a hundred artillery pierces directly upon the spot where he stood,
echoed throughout the forest. A crackling sound, of a thousands
cellophane wrappers being crushed, filled his ears as the flames
sought for and found new fuel for their rage. His nose and mouth
filled with acrid choking smoke, not altogether unpleasant. It
smelled vaguely like one of the wood fires he often made in the
fall to roast marshmallows.
Perhaps it was the smoke more then anything
that finally got his attention. He never did like burned marshmallows
and, besides, this was not a marshmallow roast and he certainly
wasn’t going to be the marshmallow.
Already the fire was advancing past him
as he turned and grabbed Billy. Trees literally exploded into
hundred foot torches. The fire leaped forward through the canopy
of dried branches before it advanced along the ground.
The heat became an unbearably searing pain
on his exposed skin. Sparks and embers fell in his hair and on
his shirt. Brushing these off while clutching Billy under his
arm like he would carry a rolled up newspaper, he headed down
hill, his way fully illuminated by the fire.
Adrenaline flowing, he ran with leaps and
bounds, like a deer in flight from the hunter, in mortal terror
for his life. Feet first, Billy, firmly clutched under George’s
arm, waved his little hands vigorously, urging his father onward
with terrified shrieks and screams
George’s mind was racing, but he had
no idea what to do or how to escape the devouring monster that
was all about him. No matter how fast he ran, flames licked at
his feet, threatening to ignite his pant legs. He swatted at his
hair and clothes, as if chasing a thousand grants. He choked and
gaged from the smoke that filled his lungs and seared his eyes.
Snatching at his pocket, he grabbed a handkerchief
and placed it over his mouth. This afforded a momentary respect
from the smoke but left the sparks free to settle on his head
and clothes.
With a thunderous crash, a flaming tree
fell diagonally across his path. No time to go around it. Although
it was on fire along the length of its massive trunk, there was
no other way. Taking a deep breath, he had the presence of mind
to thrust his handkerchief back into his pocket before using his
free hand to grasp a branch and haul himself over the trunk and
down the other side, oblivious of the burns he received.
Only one thought filled his mind, he must,
somehow escape the flames. He could clearly see the valley far
below. With horror, he realized that there was no where to hide.
The trees marched downward in a steady procession, to halt briefly
at the creek, then begin their irregular march up the opposite
slope.
Where was his truck, he wondered, scanning
the orange landscape, his eyes squinting against the smoke and
blinding light? If he could find his truck, he might yet escape.
Leaping from a mound of earth near a tree
trunk, he plunged downward, landing on the barbed wire fence he
had so gingerly avoided only a few minutes earlier. He never heard
his own scream of pain for the screams of a dying forest drowned
out his own voice.
“Billy, where are you,” he shouted
above the roar of flames and exploding trees. All nature was now
in convulsion. The ground was shaking as tree after tree fell
to its death, sending showers of sparks to ignite grass, leaves,
and brambles as the dance of the yellow demons continued.
He saw Billy lying ten feet down hill from
where he was crouching. As he attempted to disentangle himself
from the barbs, flames were advancing toward his feet. With a
terrified panic he wrenched his pants free from grasp of the wire.
Bounding down hill, without pausing, he grabbed his son and, together,
they covered the last several hundred yards to the creek in a
blinding stumble.
His lungs seared with heat, his eyes nearly
blinded by light and smoke. Coughing, stumbling, cursing, he fell
head long into the ravine.
A loud explosion of sound and light overwhelmed
him. His truck had died.
* * *
Grace paced back and fourth, back and fourth,
as she had done for hours, looking out of the living room window
at the torrential rain. All nature was weeping over the tragedy
that had snuffed out so many lives. She had prayed for rain, to
end the drought, but not this way and nor at this cost.”
Standing silently in the corner, contemplating
the gray, misty world, Henry watched Grace with a mixture of sympathy
and desire. He didn’t know what to say, what could he say
to a woman who had just lost her husband and son to a raging inferno.
They were certainly dead. Hadn’t the radio announced just
that morning that nobody had survived in the area where Grandma
Baxter lived?
Tall and thin with prematurely gray hair,
a long nose and high forehead, Henry usually wore a suit and tie
in a false sense of dignity. Seldom did he relax or unwind. His
only pleasure, aside from an examination of the feminine charms
of women, was restoring an old car. A good financial provider,
he was intelligent but emotionally cold.
Grace stopped her pacing to sit beside Beth.
Crossing her right leg over the left one, her sobs momentarily
quieted, her hands clutched a Kleenex folded in her lap, she gazed
absently at her dearest friends.
George and Grace Ballard lived in a pretty,
yellow, one and a half story ranch house set among the rolling
hills west of Morristown, Tennessee, some little distance north
of the Appalachian mountains, in an exclusive section of the community.
Their home was surrounded by several acres of lawn, shade trees,
shrubs, and flower beds which were lovingly tended by Grace. She
adored the natural beauty of flowers rather then the artificial
adornments that so often disfigured the houses of the well-to-do.
From their back porch they could feast their eyes upon the hills,
trees, flowers, and, on not a few evenings, the wondering white
tailed deer, raccoon, or the less savory, occasional skunk that
might wonder through their neighborhood.
Henry watched grace as the tears filled
her eyes. A diminutive woman, slightly built, yet amply endowed
with all those feminine attributes that cause men to turn their
heads and woman to feel slightly envious. She wasn’t petite
but the nearest thing to it. Her smile melted man's hearts and
turned a dreary day into the brightest sunshine. Her musical laugh
was filled the house with whit and charm. Not that affected charm
that bordered on hypocrisy but an unassuming charm that was the
more beautiful and captivating for its obvious natural qualities.
She was unaware of her positive influence upon others, Henry had
often commented to his wife, believing, instead, that few people
cared about her. Filled with an intense self-distrust, she did
not realize her inner strength of character or the love that radiated
from her like a sweet smelling perfume.
With shoulder length blond hair, a peaches
and cream complexion, light pink lipstick and fingernail polish,
she was dressed in a full light pink skirt and pastel blouse open
at the throat to reveal a delicate neck and just a hint of her
bosoms.
Henry sighed at the spectacle of the lovely
woman so filled with grief and bereavement. In deep sympathy,
he removed a pocket handkerchief, carefully opened it, blew his
nose, then just as carefully refolded it and stuck it in his back
right hand pocket. People liked her far more then she realized.
They saw her quiet unassuming ways, her love for George, her children
and her God, saw her womanly charm, her natural beauty, and wished
they could be like her.
Beth clasped Grace’s hand in
genuine affection for her friend’s bereavement, searching
for words to express her own sorrow, “What can I say, Grace,”
she said, for she genuinely couldn’t think of anything to
say to comfort her.
The rain beat upon the window lashed by
remnants of the hurricane, as silence fell over the three friends.
Mists floated among the leafless trees, a brown river of water
and mud carved a deep gully along side the driveway, several bushes,
beaten to the ground by the winds and rains, lay prostrate, their
lifeless branches mute testimony to the ravages of the natural
forces.
Finally, Henry spoke. “Grace,”
he said, “you love the Lord! It was more a statement then
a question.
She nodded.
You must believe that he will take care
of George and Billy.”
“Do you really think so,” she
inquired in a listless, careworn voice, as she absently examined
her fingernail polish for chips or blemishes.
“Grace,” Beth responded, tugging
at her girdle, “God can do all things for those who believe.”
“I want to believe,” she confessed,
rising and walking toward the window to watch the rain, “but
I’m not sure that my faith is strong enough.”
“There is a scripture that has often
comforted me,” Beth replied, as Grace continued to stare
mournfully at the rain, “I believe, help thou mine unbelief,’”
she quoted from memory. “God said, in His word, that He gave
each of us a measure or an amount of faith when we were born.
Like playing the piano, which you do so well, we must practice
our faith until it grows strong as steel.”
“But how do I exercise faith when I’m
not sure God can save them,” Grace asked as she turned from
a contemplation of the ceaseless rain to gaze at Beth with a mixture
of reproachfulness and doubt in her face?
Through her tears, Grace saw a plain, stout
woman with short stringy light brown hair standing before her
wringing her hands in abject misery. Ample bosom, drooping shoulders,
sad looking eyes filled with resignation. Beth could be lovely,
Grace thought, if she lost several pounds, fixed her hair, and
wore shorter skirts.
“By making a deliberate, conscious
choice to believe,” Beth replied. “Just as we choose
to doubt, so we choose to believe. It is an act of the will, a
conscious decision to trust the Lord, no matter what the circumstances
or evidence of our senses.”
Beth stared at Grace with an expression
of hope mingled with self-doubt. Her look of perpetual sadness
drew her eyes downward while her narrow lips curled into a frown
of concentration.
“Paul said that ‘faith is the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’”
Henry, who had remained silent while the
two women conversed, inquired with some incredulity in his voice,
“are you saying that if we have faith, we have the thing
we desire? That faith is the thing we want? That if we have faith,
we have the evidence that George and Billy are safe?”
Beth hesitated. Had she gotten in over her
head? Fidgeting slightly, she glanced away from her husband’s
defiant stare. “I’m not saying that, dear, the Bible
says its so.”
How foolish of her to quote scripture, he
thought. What could the Bible possibly offer at a time like this.
So dour and sour faced, his wife radiated none of the joy he supposed
flowed from the pages of this sacred book. If this was Christianity,
and if this was the best hope she could offer, well, he shrugged,
save it for children.
Looking at his wife with a quizzical expression,
what he saw displeased him. He knew she was afraid of him but
this thought only deepened his displeasure. What does she know
about the Bible?
Turning his attention upon the attractive
form of Grace, he mentally contrasted the two women.
Something of a connoisseur of beauty, he
slowly savored Grace’s charm, as a famed chef would savor
the smell of a succulent roast turkey. Not an ounce of fat covered
her body, except in the places where nature intended it to enhance
her figure. Long, slender, shapely legs, well rounded breasts,
that begged to be caressed, full, sensual lips, luxuriant blond
hair that curled around her chin, a petite nose, soft and full
eyes with delicate eye lashes and a dainty chin drew his admiration
as his wife’s ample figure could never achieve.
With Grace’s eyes closed, her dark
lashes stood out prominently against her soft creamy skin. She
was the embodiment of every man’s princess. To posses her,
to hold, caress, and comfort her would be a joy on an otherwise
dreary day. Without further hesitation, he resolved to sample
this delightful rose amide the garden of blooms.
The large, brightly lit, spacious living
room, filled with Billy’s laughter only days before, fell
silent while the rain beat against the windows. A deep blue pile
carpet spoke of modest elegance, while matching blue, plush chairs
invited relaxation and companionship. Not ostentatious, the Ballard’s
lived a quiet upscale life of comfort and convenience as befitting
a successful entrepreneur.
Before Henry could counter her thoughts
with another question, his wife continued. “The Bible says
without faith it is impossible to please God. We approach Christ
through faith alone, faith that He hears us, and will do for us
what is in our best interests.”
“Is it in the best interests of George
and Billy to escape the fires and hurricane,” her husband
asked sarcastically?
“Certainly, it is,” Beth replied
demurely to her husband’s challenge. She felt frightened
by his questions, so direct and challenging of her small faith
and knowledge of the scriptures. He could so easily overwhelm
her with his forceful personality, quick intellect, and logical
questions.
Ignoring, for the moment, the presence of
the grieving woman in the room, Henry looked at his wife, saw
her timidity and fear, but asked the question anyway. “Isn’t
faith just for Christians. Can people, who aren’t Christians,
have faith in Christ, also.”
Beth squirmed under his intense gaze while
she tugged at her girdle, but something inside her responded to
his implied challenge. “We all begin life as non-Christians,
or unbelievers in God. When a baby enters the world, he or she,
already possesses faith in its parents to provide for its needs.
In most cases those needs are met, thus strengthening the infant’s
faith in God, for parents stand in the place of God to a new born
baby.”
Her husband laughed, “If that’s
true, then God help us for most parents are rotten role models.”
“I agree,” she replied, and this
is part of Christ’s problem when he desires to inspire faith
in Him. When we come to Christ we often respond to Him in the
same way we respond to our earthly parents.”
Grace stood at the window, half listening
to her visitors talking between themselves, while the other half
of her mind was on her husband and son. Fervently desiring to
believe they were safe, yet doubting God’s love and ability
to save them.
“What happens to that faith of yours
if parents fail to correctly represent Christ, teaching their
children to distract Him,” her husband queried while blowing
his perpetually runny nose. Waiting her answer, he carefully folded
the pocket handkerchief, then thrust it into his back pocket.
All the while, his gaze never left hers.
“Then they have a hard time trusting
the Lord,” she replied.
“Isn’t faith a difficult thing
to acquire and practice?”
“No,” Beth replied. “It is
as simple as falling off a log. Especially is it easy when we
realize how much Christ loves us. When we understand what He did
for us on the cross, giving His life for us while we were sinners,
giving us salvation before we knew Him, keeping us alive all these
years, giving us everything we have, then it is easy to trust
a God like that.”
Beth quivered inside with fear and apprehension.
It was one thing to speak the words but in the face of her husband’s
intensive stare, she quailed over his possible reactions.
“Its been a week,” Grace said
softly, breaking the silence that followed Beth’s conversation
on faith. Her eyes filled with tears. She could imagine her George
and Billy, laying on some remote, lonely road or hill side, their
charred bodies, unrecognizable. The thought of their last terrified
moments almost made her faint. How could God allow this to happen
to them, to her precious, foolish Billy?
Henry, ever the stickler for details replied.
“Actually, Grace, its only been four days.”
“Four days,” she sobbed again,
“Four day or a week, what difference does it make. Their
dead and God only knows if George died trusting the Lord. That’s
what really bothers me,” she said, returning to her chair
to face Henry. “George made no pretense of loving God. He
never prayed. Only occasionally did he go to church, just to please
me. I can’t bear the thought that he died without having
an opportunity to know Christ as his Savior.”
She broke down in a fresh torrent of tears.
Reaching for the Kleenex Beth offered her,
she rose and walked to the window. For the hundredth time that
afternoon, she scanned the street, hoping to see George’s
pick up truck pulling into the driveway.
Henry rose and gently placed his arm around
Grace. Responding to this warm, loving gesture, she buried her
face in his shoulder. Henry pulled her even closer, felling her
softness and warmth against his body. Gently caressing her hair,
he smelled her fragrance.
Would the tears never stop, Grace wondered,
surrendering to the comfort of Henry’s embrace. She was tired,
so tired after four sleepless nights of crying and praying. To
loose both her husband and Billy, no, that was just too much.
“Why did I send them on that foolish
errand, why did I let Billy go, how could I be so foolish,”
she demanded through her tears?
“Grace, don’t blame yourself,”
Beth said as she rearranged her skirt, “you didn’t know
what would happen, nobody could have foreseen the rapidity with
which the hurricane traveled north. The weather reports all predicted
it would turn west, instead.”
“Beth, I know your only trying to comfort
me,” she replied, “but I sent them on that stupid trip?
Why did I have to do it? Why couldn’t I have waited? The
piano wasn’t worth their lives.”
Listening to the two friends, Henry
contemplated this lovely woman he held in his arms. George was
a fool not to value her. Gently stroking her head, he enfolded
her closer into his embrace. He knew George and Grace weren’t
getting along all that well. He often thought him a fool for the
indifference with which he treated this woman.
Allowing his arm to slip down, he felt her
shoulders heave with sobs. Glancing at Beth, he noticed an unconscious
look of disapproval on her face while her left shoulder twitched
spasmodically. Now here was a woman for George, he thought, as
he sized up his wife’s ample waistline and dour looks. She
never appreciated his need for feminine companionship. Jealousy
simply doesn’t become a wife, certainly not his wife. He
gently pressed his arm tighter around Grace’s shoulders,
feeling the softness of her breasts pressing into his chest.
Why was he stuck with this foolish women,
as a wife. So religious, yet so easily frightened whenever he
glowered at her. He deserved someone better, someone like Grace.
Now here was an interesting thought. But then he dismissed it,
she was just too religious. Trusting in God was fine, for small
children, but you outgrew such things later in life, but appearances
had to be maintained, especially if you wanted to move in his
circle of friends.
Pulling away slightly, but no too far, he
looked down at Grace, saw her inviting light pink lips and desired
to kiss them but resolutely held himself in check. “God loves
George and Billy. He will protect them. Somehow, I think they
will survive, I don’t know how but God can work miracles.
Certainly He will work a miracle in answer to your prayers.”
“Do you think so,” Grace said
softly, with the first hint of hope in her voice. She respected
Henry’s faith. If he believed George would survive then maybe,
just maybe, God would bring him home again.
While an unbeliever himself, Henry had lived
and worked among believers long enough to speak their language
when it suited his purposes. “God loves them,” he continued.
“If George is unready to face eternity, I believe God will
gave him another opportunity. People can survive amazing tragedies.
Perhaps he is out there somewhere in the mountains, right now,
him and Billy. Certainly he would be praying.”
After all, George is no fool, he thought,
he will do anything to save himself, including prayer. Maybe God
will hear. Wouldn’t that be interesting.
Drying her tears, Grace turned to face her
friends. “Henry,” she inquired, “will you go up
into the mountains and search for George and Billy?”
“I don’t know,” he mused,
“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to begin.
And besides,” he added, hopefully, “hundreds of rescue
workers are already combing the burned areas looking for bodies.”
“Please,” Grace pleaded with her
eyes as well as her voice. “Do it for me, Henry.”
He was displeased and repulsed by the suggestion
but he could not resist her as few men could when she turned that
charm upon them. Besides, to refuse, wouldn’t look well.
Reflecting on the unpleasantness of the task, he would have to
wear casual clothes, perhaps even jeans, on such an adventure,
he reasoned that he might spend several hours in a desultory search
around the fringes of the burned area and then return, pronouncing
George most certainly lost beyond all hope of discovery. Yes,
that would do. Just several hours, no more, that would satisfy
this beautiful but unreasonable woman. Lets not take this love
thing too far. Certainly George was a sinner and not deserving
of Grace. Perhaps the world would be better off without him..
“Grace, I would be happy to search
for Garage.” Giving her arm a gentle squeeze, he disengaged
himself form her embrace. “George is my best friend. I was
just thinking about looking for him the first thing in the morning.”
Looking out of the window, at the unremitting rain, he realized,
thankfully, that it was getting dark. “I’ll take Hans
with me and we'll drive as close to the area as we can. Maybe
we’ll find something.”
Grace beamed at him. “That’s wonderful,
Henry. I’ll pray for you tonight that God will prosper you
and keep you safe.”
“Be careful,” Beth said, nervously.
“I hear there are still fires up there despite all the rain
we’ve had.
Henry laughed at the unreasoning fears of
his wife. “Of course, I’ll be careful.”
Grace and Beth talked while Henry called
Hans to make preparations for the trip the next day.
“God bless you,” Grace enthused
as they put on their rain coats, so unused lately, and disappeared
down the front walk into the curtain of rain.
Grace struggled with her thoughts and fears.
She desperately wanted to believe that the Lord would save her
husband and beloved son but like a noxious weed among the roses
of her garden, doubts crept in, unbidden. Would she ever see them
again? Would she ever comfort her son when he awoke from a bad
dream?
As the evening drew on the stillness of
the house became oppressive. LuCinda, was staying over night with
a friend which left her alone to endure the whispering of doubts.
The hours dragged by in silence. Her doubts increased. Was she
already a window, destined to spend the rest of her life bereft
of her only solace and comfort? She thought of playing the piano,
perhaps the old time gospel hymns would encourage her, but she
dismissed the idea. Music, at a time like this, almost seemed
repulsive.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, then
faltered. Summoning some inner strength, she again raised her
voice in prayer. “Dear Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.”
Lifting her head, she absent-mindidly glanced
toward the stair way leading toward Billy’s bedroom door
and was startled to see her Billy standing there smiling at her
in his impish manner. He just stood in the doorway, shifting from
foot to foot, as was his usual custom, staring at her, neither
advancing nor frisking away.
Overwhelmed with joy and curiosity, how
had he arrived home unknown to her, she was about to rise with
gladness and pleasure in her heart when he vanished.
Grace stared at the empty doorway, consternation
filling her mind, an evil foreboding in her heart. Was this her
Lord’s way of answering her prayer, letting her know that
Billy and George were dead? Sinking back into her chair she buried
her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.