Returning Point

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The wood creaked as the old man pushed the window open as far as it would go. During the heaviest rains it had been swollen by the damp—and kept firmly closed. Now, dried out, and with the rain stopped, the wood yielded to gentle persuasion, allowing bright sunshine to enter.

Noah shielded his eyes against the brilliant light. He’d opened the window when his floating zoo had come, with a decisive thump, to rest against the mountainside. He hadn’t seen peaks—or sunshine—for a long time. The air smelt blue not green, like water not grass. The birds he loosed came back, unable to find a place to land.

So he waited, opening the window and looking out every day, curbing his impatience. All the inmates were restless, anxious to get out, to feel solid ground under their four feet, two feet, ten feet, three hundred and fifty-four feet, or no feet at all.

They were all that was left, too few to afford to make a mistake and leave the safety of the ark before God had made adequate provision for them. Everything else was gone, a world scrubbed clean by the brush of the Almighty.

They would have to start again.

But the birds had kept coming back.

Then the last one didn’t.

Like an old hound, Noah sniffed green on the breeze, heard the Voice, and turned toward his traveling companions bunched up behind him.

“Out!”

Years later another old man stood outside the entrance to the great city, staff in hand, watching a floodtide of humans and animals flow past, heading toward the wilderness.

They carried, carted, or drove everything they owned—along with bags and chests of items that their “hosts” for the last four hundred years had eagerly thrust on them. Was it compensation for years of ill treatment? Or desperation? The cries of bereaved Egyptians could still be heard even above the tramp, shuffle, and creak of the Hebrews.

When the crying stopped and the anger set in, Moses knew that they would be pursued. He shaded his eyes, looking to see if the end of the column was visible yet. They had to hurry, get as far as they could as fast as they could.

For Moses, what was happening on this day was a kind of redemption. Years ago he had tried to do what God had done today—rescue his people. He’d failed miserably. He carried that failure into the desert. Now, a better and more humble man, Yahweh had brought him back to Egypt, to do it right, to take His people toward a brighter day and greater prospects.

“Forward!”

Forty years later Moses was dead. Joshua felt his absence. For all those years he had followed the old man, listened to his instructions, obeyed his orders, and seen God work through him. Now, the newly-minted leader stood on the shores of the Jordan and wondered if he was capable of wearing Moses-sized sandals…or if he wanted to.

He’d witnessed the stubbornness of the people Moses had led out of the Egypt. Just because those he was leading were of a new generation didn’t mean much. They still had the same genes, and the same propensity to want to do their own thing their own way.

Across the river lay fortified cities, and people stronger and more numerous than the Hebrews he led. He had seen them. Though he knew that Yahweh would give them what He had promised—a homeland—he also knew that gaining it wouldn’t come cheaply.

Still, it was a new beginning. At long last, entrance into the land promised to their forefather, Abraham, awaited them.

The priests stood at the edge of the river. Between them, carefully carried, was the Ark of the Covenant that represented the promise the great I AM had made to them—and the commitment they had made to Him.

They waited for Joshua’s command. Behind them, still and silent, were the soldiers and the citizens of this new nation.

He shrugged off the heavy cloak of his fears, remembering that late night encounter with Someone much senior to him. He may have succeeded Moses as leader but he knew he wasn’t the real commander.

He raised his spear.

“Cross!”

Yes, cross—another new beginning.

Rock Solid

“Bricks?”

“Check.”

“Trusses?”

“Got ‘em.”

“Window frames with glass?”

“Check.”

“Doors, front and back?”

“Double check.”

“Nails, various sizes?”

“Ditto.”

“Paneling?”

“That went out with the ice age, but if you insist, check.”

“Paint, several shapes of blue?”

“Why blue?”

“Reminds me of the sea. You know; tranquility, sea birds, setting sun, and all that.”

“Right. Anything else?”

Mr. MacLean scanned his list, and seeing only checkmarks, sighed in relief.

“Nope, everything is present and accounted for. Tomorrow we begin to build.”

And so it was that as soon as dawn broke the next day, MacLean’s crew began work on his fine brick house nestled among the trees by the river. Day after day, they toiled. The weeks past as the investment of McLean’s lifetime took form before his proud eyes.

MacLean was a fine man, upstanding and well respected in his community. He gave generously of his time, and his considerable wealth, to support charities and worthy causes of all kinds. People commented that he deserved his new home by the river. It was a tribute to hard work, clean living, and an open hand.

The property had been his own choice, for which he had spent a great deal of money. The sound of the current fascinated him, as it tumbled over the rocks in the shallows of the river. The boathouse would go just to the left of the house so as not to obstruct his view.

As the masterpiece of human art and craft took shape, MacLean did have his moments of concern. The river was not his to control, or to own. There were others who were building nearby. Just off to the right, and higher up on the bluff, another house was under construction.

Just think. I worked all my life for this land and this house, and someone gave this guy that land.

MacLean had seen his soon-to-be neighbour around town. The man wasn’t ashamed to tell everyone of the gift that he had been given. He seemed a man without pride in his accomplishments, though it certainly could not be said that he was any less generous than MacLean himself.

As the summer wore on, the two houses rose together. The townsfolk often came to check up on the progress of each, marveling at their similarities, and their differences.

“Well, they are certainly houses,” commented one observant individual.

Doors, floors and furnishings; in the basics, they looked the same. However, MacLean’s neighbour seemed content to let his house take the shape of the land it sat on, while MacLean made the land conform to the blueprints he had so carefully drawn up.

Finally, the house by the river was finished.

“Mr. MacLean, you got a winner here,” said the foreman as he finished gathering up his tools and his crew. “That guy up there will be feeling some stiff breezes while you enjoy this sheltered corner of the river bank.”

“Yes, indeed, there’s no doubt about it, I have built a great house of which I can be justifiably proud.”

And MacLean entered his house; sat in the expensive furniture he has carefully selected from the finest stores, and watched the river flow by his door.

In November, cold air from the north heralded the coming of the first of the early winter storms. The breezes, about which the supervisor had commented, turned into stiff winds that buffeted the house on the bluff. Down by the river, the trees sheltered MacLean, and he hardly noticed that the climate had changed. He went to sleep in peace, with the sound of the currents filling his dreams.

He awoke to a loud banging on his front door and two inches of water splashing across his bedroom floor.

“MacLean, hurry. The river is rising rapidly. You have to get out now.”

It was the neighbour from the bluff. MacLean flung open the front door. The boathouse was already gone, and his beautiful home was creaking and groaning, already buckling as the swelling tide of river water lashed at its walls and posts.

There was no time to save anything and in what seemed like an eternity of minutes, MacLean found himself in the house on the bluff, watching as the river washed away all that was so valued by him. The water never reached his neighbour’s house.

“Where did I go wrong?”

His neighbour placed a comforting hand on MacLean’s shoulder.

“You wouldn’t have lost anything if you had built on the Rock.”

Leaving the Family

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“You know, you don’t have to do this. You could just walk away, disappear.”

Tom, surprised that he was being offered an “out,” hesitated for only for a second.

“No, I’ll go. If I don’t, the rest of the family will wonder why I didn’t show up and that could lead to complications.”

“Fine. It’s your funeral if things go wrong.”

“I know.”

The meeting with the family was a regularly scheduled event. Not only was it scheduled; attendance was required. He straightened his tie and jacket, exchanged one last glance with his concerned companion, and left the building by a back door.

A half an hour later, Tom pulled up in front of a wrought iron gate supported by a ten-foot high stone wall. The video camera hanging from the gatepost swung in his direction as he reached out and pushed the button on the intercom that connected to the house. The gate slowly opened. Whoever was on duty on the other end of the camera had confirmed Tom’s identity and his right to admission.

Moments later he entered the house. There was no need to be told where to go—he was, after all, related. He greeted the others as he always did when these meetings were called. The words sounded normal, the gestures from cousins, uncles and from those who had “married” into the family, concealed no malice that he could identify. Nevertheless, Tom could feel the electric tension in the air, like the oppressive stillness before a storm.

Do they know? Does someone suspect that I betrayed the code, that I broke ranks?

He thought the word betrayal because the world would judge his actions as such, but he knew in his heart that a much greater betrayal had marked the life that had been, until recently, his only world.

His uncle sat enthroned at the head of an enormous teak conference table. The light coming in from the French doors behind him created an aura that wrapped itself around the old man. The position was deliberate, planned and posed. His face was like granite, his thoughts unknowable and inviolate. As was his privilege, Tom took his place to the right of the current family patriarch.

At precisely the hour assigned for it, the meeting began. As expected, the head of the family took the lead.

“Report.”

Everyone present knew to what the old man was referring.

“Two houses were raided this week…”

“…As was the warehouse…”

“Someone’s been nosing around the offshore accounts.”

The news was grim from every point of the table’s compass. Over the past several weeks, the noose around the family’s neck had inexplicably and inexorably been tightening.

They don’t know, or they wouldn’t be talking so freely…

The muffled beeping of a cell phone interrupted Tom’s thoughts and brought a startled silence to the table. For anyone to dare to call when the inner circle of the family was meeting could only mean more bad news. Without a word, the old man pulled the phone from his pocket, listened, then broke the connection. Slowly he turned toward Tom. If there were feelings behind that stony, expressionless face, the business at hand took precedence over them. All eyes followed those of their don. Something tangible, but as yet unidentifiable, had taken possession of the room. Instinctively, the others waited for the capo, the head of the family, to personally deal with the specter that had suddenly raised its ugly head at his table.

No one saw the gun. From that close, the bullet couldn’t miss even though the silencer slowed its progress. It missed the wire of the tiny microphone taped to Tom’s chest, and plowed through several vital body parts.

Jesus, I tried to put it all right. I wish I had known you sooner …

As the life drained from his body, Tom’s second-to-last thoughts focused on the conversation with the FBI agent who had offered him an escape from this very possibility.

…It’s your funeral if things go wrong.

Was this right or wrong? The recording of the discussion around the table would help to convict those present. There would be no time for the gun, or his uncle’s fingerprints, to disappear before federal agents came charging through those French doors. Humanly speaking, things had gone wrong for Tom, but whatever happened from this moment on would help to make things right.

Tom’s last thoughts were of his new family, now gathered and waiting to meet him.

He smiled.

A Bridge Is...

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A tiny cry
Lustier now
One large finger reaches
Five tiny ones grasp
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is born.

A solid thump
Dignity hurt
Tears fall, wailing starts
Some comfort sought
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is strengthened.

Oh lonely walk
School begun
Strangers at each turn
Seek kindred souls
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is started.

Cross my heart
And hope to die
The pledge is given
Friendship forever sealed
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is cemented.

This sweet love
The first to be
With every intention
Of lasting past forever
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is expanded.

Long black robes
And sweaty palms
Fine speeches made as
Superior becomes equal
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is spanned.

Nine to five
Joyous terror struck
Until new minion is
Equal to old master
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is possible.

A coffee shop
Pumpkin pie
Double sugar, double cream
Eyes meet, hearts unite
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is completed.

Some angry words
Senseless battle
Second thoughts, wisdom prevails
One face turns to another
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is repaired.

Two, then one
Alone again
House empty, heart full
One thing forever sure
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is gone.

In stillness now
The bonds released
Peace fully and forever known
A nail-scarred welcome
Hand reaches out for hand.
A bridge is crossed.

Forever Beginning

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“Grandpa? Grandpa? You okay?”

Joey peered around the corner of the doorway. The groans that had called him away from his play had also sent a tingle of fear up his young spine. The sun had climbed down from its midday heights and now streamed through the windows that looked west across the garden.

“Grandpa?” Once more came the question, this time as a plea.

The boy used to play in the sunroom where his grandfather now lay, stretched out on the daybed. However, since his last heart attack, the old man now occupied the room. The stairs to the bedrooms on the upper floor just took too much effort.

The boy eased into the room. Finally, love overcame fear, drawing Joey closer to the prone figure. He reached out a tentative hand. His parents had told him that his grandfather might not be with them much longer. The family visits had become more frequent. The adults meant to reassure him with such frank talk, but every grunt and groan now filled him with terror.

At Joey’s touch, the old man seemed to rouse himself. He rolled over, squinting at the bright light forming a halo around his grandson’s figure.

“Joey? That you, laddie?”

“Yah, grandpa. I heard you groan, and I thought, well, I thought, …” The boy’s voice trailed away. How could he mention death to a man he wanted to live forever.

The old man chuckled, pushing himself to a sitting position. He took a moment to catch his breath after the effort, then pulled the boy into the sheltered gap between his knees.

“You thought I was dying when you heard the groaning. No, I was just complaining to the good Lord.”

At the boy’s puzzled look, the old man laughed again. “Guess I’d better explain. You go to Sunday School so you know about creation, don’t you?”

Joey nodded.

“Well, things were good back then at the start. Everything was just the way God wanted it. And then…”

Now into the story, Joey was eager to show what he knew.

“Then Adam and Eve ate the apple.”

His grandfather smiled. “Well, it might not have been an apple, but you got the rest right. When those two sinned, the whole world started to die, and it’s been dying by bits and pieces ever since. But just like me, it’s not going quietly.”

By this time, Joey had climbed up on his grandfather’s knees, and then thought better of it as the old man winced. He began to wiggle his way down.

“No, stay. It’s okay. Remember you were telling me about earthquakes and all them plates rubbing together and causing the ground to shake?”

Grandpa’s ears provided fertile soil for the seeds of learning that Joey was accumulating. He was pleased that his grandfather remembered, and smiled in acknowledgment.

“Well,” continued the old man, “those plates bumping, grinding, and rubbing each other are like my knees—they’re telling anyone who’ll listen that the pieces don’t fit right anymore. And when things don’t work like they’re supposed to, they complain.”

“You sure complain a lot,” observed Joey.

His grandfather looked at him in mock surprise. “Who, me?” He laughed, then said, “What does your mommy do when you complain about being sick?”

“She does stuff to make me feel better,” replied the boy.

“Sure. She lets you stay home from school, gives you medicine, and fills you full of red Jell-O®. Well, God’s doing stuff to make me, and the earth, feel better too.

“But, you’re gonna …” Joey’s voice trailed off again.

“Die? Sure.” He hugged the boy close, feeling his anxiety. “At the start everything was good. Now it’s all coming to an end, dying from sin. To get back to the beginning we have to get past the end. The end is where the beginning starts all over again. Dying is an end God planned so that He could fix things, to give us a new beginning, to make us like we once were.”

“Can’t I come with you?” protested the boy, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Not now But, I’ll tell you what; I do know how you can get ready to come, not just for a visit, but to live a beginning that never ends with me and Jesus. Do you want to know how?”

Joey gravely nodded his head.

As the gathering darkness seeped across the tiles of the sunroom, Grandpa’s forever beginning dawned in a little boy’s heart.

---

Abusing Grace

Alexi Harlamov

(Author's Note: Part of this morning's message at church reminded of this story. I thought I'd share.)

She lived on the streets, but she was not a vagrant or a streetwalker. Grace eagerly embraced the opportunity to be where people constantly passed, but she was not selling her services, or begging for leftovers. Unlike many forced to live exposed to the meaner things of life, Grace had chosen her path eagerly. Instead of darkness and despair, she radiated light and hope. As she walked the sidewalks and greeted each person who passed, those who bothered to pay even the slightest attention were impressed.

Day and night, summer and winter, Grace never abandoned her place in the thoroughfares of life. Most ignored her—an amazing error in judgment considering what she was offering. Her approach was never offensive though it often gave offense. People react oddly at times, so she discovered.

A few were tempted, but even among these there were some who thought her too good to be true, and walked away. They were half right: She was good, so good that she WAS true.

However, there were others who saw her charm, appreciated her willingness, saw the advantage of a closer relationship, and thought to take advantage.

"She's an easy mark. It shouldn't be hard to take her."

This from a shriveled little soul, with a slight green tinge around his mouth. He resented it when others had something he didn't. He wanted to be the first in line for this prize. However, the leader of his group enjoyed certain privileges, aided by his being a much bulkier man with weight to throw around. Calculation was etched on his face as he responded to his underling's prompting.

"Of course, adding her to our stables will represent a coup of huge proportions. She is special."

"Do you think her Master will object?"

"From what I hear, he wants us to take her."

The leader snorted. "Well, what did you expect? She's out walking the streets, offering herself to everyone who passes. My question is, how much is she worth?"

Another offered: "I heard he's offering her for free." He had left all his possibilities to pay for anything attached to a now-empty six-pack occupying space in a dumpster in a nearby alley. Free was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

That got the attention of a fourth member of the gang.

"What? She must be diseased, or undercover. Free? Impossible."

This comment came from a sly slip of a man who hoped that his suggestions, based on absolutely no facts, would divert the attention of the rest. He could use a piece of the action himself.

He continued: "Can't be as good as she looks, then. There's no such thing as a free ride, a free lunch, or "

The greenish man ruefully added: "Nope, seems legit. I know some people who know her intimately. Never seen such a haphapless bunch."

He had been about to use the words "happy" and "healthy," but caught himself in time. Such positive remarks about the band's rivals would earn him a cuff across the back of the head.

The comments bounced back and forth until at last, tired of talking, the parties came to a decision.

"Well, let's try her out. We don't have anything to lose."

They were wrong.

The gang approached Grace. The girl was sitting on the broad, stone steps of a church. She was well dressed, her hair shone in the sun, and she smiled invitingly at each person who passed by. As the men sauntered up to her, Grace looked up and smiled.

"Good morning."

She said nothing more, waiting.

The leader reached out and took her hand in his and pulled her up, toward him. She didn't resist, but continued to smile, her brilliant eyes meeting his in open invitation.

"Come with me, baby—your beauty to my beast. We'll make beautiful music together."

"I'd love to go with you—with all of you."

Hopes rose. This should be easy pickings.

"But " Grace hesitated, pausing to bestow a warm look on each face that met hers. She then continued: " though I specialize in beasts, I don't do beastlies. You'll have to leave those behind."

Objections spewed from three sets of lips.

"What?"

"Honey, I am what I am. I don't change for nobody."

"Freebies can't be fussy."

To this point, the leader of the band had been silent. When everyone else had finished protesting, he grasped Grace's arms in a vise-like grip.

"Look, little girl. Your boss sent you out on the streets looking for people like us. Joining the gang will make you look good, attract business your way, so to speak."

A piece like her on my arm would turn heads.

"Besides, a beast isn't a beast without his beastlies."

Grace's smile broadened.

"Precisely."

"So?"

"So, to have me, you have to let my Master deal with the beastlies."

The green-tinged man grew greener.

Another shook his head, thinking his drink-induced fog must be affecting his hearing.

"You're lying," objected a third. It takes one to know one, he added to himself.

Their leader released Grace, holding up his hand to signal silence among his companions.

"You do charge for your services then. Word on the street is that you are free, that your Master is offering you to any, and to all who want you."

"My services are free. But you are mistaken about the relationship. It's not me hanging around with you; it's you hanging on to me. You won't make me look good; your knowing me will make you not only look good, but be good. Your life will change from the moment you accept my Master's offer. You won't want the beastlies anymore."

Horror rose like smoke from hell at her words.

"What? Not want what I want? Impossible."

"Not be what I am? Nothin' doin'."

"Lose my identity for you? Dream on."

Grace picked up on the last comment, fixing her beautiful eyes on the bowed figure peering from behind his master's tattered dungarees.

"Do you honestly believe that what you are now is what you were meant to be? My Master's offer is to restore to you your true identity; that of a child of the King and a citizen of Heaven, free from beastlies and reborn to beauty."

Sensing the weakening resolve of his compatriots, the leader of the pack signaled his henchmen away from Grace. She sighed, sadness tempering her features. Reluctantly she returned to her duties on the street corner, amazed as she always was that people preferred a fatal disease to perfect health.

"Excuse me."

Grace sensed his approach and was already turning as he spoke.

"Yes?"

"I heard what you said. I'd like to sign on, sign up, volunteer, joinwhatever the appropriate word is for taking advantage of your offer."

Grace made no judgment calls; that was neither her job nor her nature. If she had been one to distinguish between people, she would have preferred this one to her previous companions. He was well-dressed, casual but neat, sincerity gripping the hand of politeness.

"You understand the terms and conditions?"

"Oh yes. I want to be a child of the King and a citizen of heaven. I beg forgiveness and renounce "

He listed an impressive number of beastlies, the mention of each one broadened Grace's smile just a little more. As he finished his list, she touched his arm. A current passed from her to him, something like a rush of swift water over rocks. She linked her arm in his. Together they walked to the door of the church where Grace had been sitting not long before.

"Go in there, and they will teach you more of what you need to know about my Master and the step you have taken today."

He smiled and opening the door, disappeared from view.

Four pairs of eyes watched from an alleyway close to the church.

"There's another one gone," said the liar. "The big boss will not be pleased."

His comment was followed by a snort of disbelief from the leader of the gang.

"Don't believe everything you hear. Just watch and wait. Grace thinks she so smart. She ought to develop a little more savvy about the people she deals with."

"She saw through us, didn't ?"

Three turned on the fourth with savage disgust.

"Shut up!"

The leader of the band loosened the grip he had held around the throat of his talkative follower. He cocked a crooked smile. Then, looking back around the corner, said:

"Wait. You'll see. Keep Grace in sight."

And so they did. Day and night they watched. Days passed and so did they. They stopped to talk to her as she spoke to the passersby. She always looked at them with hopeful eyes, and renewed her offer. If they thought to waiver and consider what she said, their leader was quick to smash the idea to smithereens with his fists or his tongue during their nightly consultations at the back of the alley.

Time passed. They noticed that the man with whom Grace had spoken on that fateful day, entered and exited the church quite frequently. He stopped to talk to Grace and she would touch him again, just as she had done the first time. She often entered the building as well.

Then one day, the little green one sidled up to his boss. He had something to report.

"Hey, man. Gracie is looking a little peaked."

Sure enough, four pairs of eyes peering around the corner of the church all noticed the same thing. It was the same Grace, but different. Her dress was smudged. A tiny rip showed in her sleeve and her stockings had a run in them.

"I told you so," crowed the leader of the group, his eyes crinkled up with glee. "Now, listen."

Four pairs of ears became fined tuned to the conversation on the street. People passed Grace by. More than a few took a look at her bedraggled appearance and laughed. Some who seemed as though they wanted to stop and talk with her, moved away, doubt marking their faces. The only ones who lingered were some of the people from the church. They came more frequently than ever. Oddly enough, they were less polite now, and the silver of sincerity seemed more than slightly tarnished.

Grace began to look more ragged, though the brilliance of her eyes and her manner never changed. The rips were longer, the dirt more pronounced, and there was blood on a bruised thigh.

"Let's go. Let's find out if Gracie hasn't swallowed some of her pride. Maybe she'll like our terms and conditions better now."

The band of miscreants sauntered down the street, past the church, and stopped on the corner where Grace was working.

"Well, well, look what we have here. If it isn't our friend, Grace. Looks like you've been having a bad day, or should I say bad days?"

Chuckles followed the wisecrack of their leader.

She smiled too—without the evil intent.

"So, your new friends aren't treating you too well. Maybe you should call a cop, or better yet, report them to your Master. Looks like business is dropping off too. Looks like you've lost a little of that credibility stuff. People are convinced that you're too easy? Or cheap? Or ineffective? Give it up, Gracie, your grace-nics aren't livin' up to the advertising."

Not content with having the boss hog all the action, her cohorts chimed in.

"Yah, they're comin' too often "

" and takin' you too lightly."

"I hear they like studying Tai Chi more than theolo-chi in there," chortled another.

"Face it, Grace, they think you're a joke—and so do all the people who know them and see you. Those people in there don't care, Grace. So much for your 'terms and conditions.'"

"So much for them givin' up the beastlies."

"So much for even wantin' to give up the beastlies. Your Master's plan don't work. They took what they wanted and only gave up what didn't matter to 'em."

"They lied," exulted the liar, looking with friendly, longing eyes toward the church.

"They used yah and abused yah, Cheap Grace."

The insults and taunts at last brought tears to Grace's beautiful eyes. Nevertheless, though bruised by her own and battered by those she longed to make her own, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, straightened her skirt, and her spine.

"I know. But I'll still be on this street this afternoon, tomorrow, and the day after that."

"You're the perfect victim, Gracie," sneered the head bully. "If I try harder, things will get better," he mocked.

"If you're so concerned about me, why don't you accept my Master's offer and make the difference? Yes, there are some who claim to follow in his light, but are still blanketed by your darkness. But right now you're here, and they're not. You could show them what walking in the true Light is really like. Take what I offer—what He offers. Take it with a whole heart."

Stunned silence responded to the gentle words. Before the band's incredulous eyes, the rips faded, the stains softened. The blood on Grace's leg glowed scarlet, pulsing with life. The light from those beautiful eyes pierced through layers of evil to strike at souls long shriveled and dry.

"You you still make this offer in spite of the abuse that you have taken?"

Grace smiled gently. The voice that then spoke was not hers. Deeper, and overwhelming in its compassionate, it reached down from the heavenlies and said:

"Yes, come."