Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [11]
So he was surprised that emotion eventually caught up with him when the funeral people wheeled in a plain casket and positioned it not six feet from him in front of the pulpit. They opened the lid, and the man who lay there looked gaunt and pale, as if he had aged thirty years since Brady had seen him.
Peter leaned over. “Is that Dad?”
Brady nodded.
“When did I see him last?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think I was five. He rubbed my head, and I didn’t like it.”
Aunt Lois sat next to Brady, weeping loudly and dabbing her eyes through all the songs and the simple eulogy that mostly just told the dates and details of her brother’s life and death and surviving family. Brady was embarrassed when she threw an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
Brady found himself intrigued by the pastor’s message.
“One thing we don’t do in this church—never have and won’t start now—is pretend. I’m not going to try to persuade you that Edward Wayne Darby was a devout man of God. I’m not even going to try to tell you that anybody here knows for sure whether the man is in heaven.
“He had his good points and he had his bad, and for most of the years I knew him, he wanted nothing to do with this church or the faith. But I can tell you this: he knew better. He was raised here, was taught the Scriptures, and at one time claimed to know the Lord.
“Truth is, most of the rest of his life he didn’t act like it, so only he and God know if he was ever sincere about it and truly saved. It is appointed unto man once to die, and after that, the judgment. But to as many as received Him—that’s Jesus—to them He gave the power to become sons of God, even to them that believe on His name.
“Do you believe on His name today, beloved? Regardless who we are or where we stand with God, unless Jesus comes back first, Eddie Darby’s fate faces each one of us. . . .”
5
Oldenburg
Thomas Carey had always enjoyed the honeymoon period in any new work. The people aimed to please, treating the new pastor and his wife like royalty, and all seemed right with the world. But Thomas had also learned the hard way the truth of the ancient adage “Beware the wagon that meets the train.”
At the end of the long, white-stone driveway that led to the ramshackle parsonage sat a monstrous black SUV. A well-dressed couple in their late fifties immediately clambered out. He was big and red-faced with thinning white hair and a meaty handshake. She was reed thin with short hair and glasses and carried a pie covered with a blue and white checkered cloth.
“Paul Pierce,” the man said, pumping Thomas’s hand. “Chairman of the elders and the deacons and the now-defunct search committee. And this here’s Patricia.”
“Oh, my,” Grace said, accepting the pie. “This is still warm! Thank you so much, Pat.”
“Patricia.”
“Sorry. Patricia.”
“Well, come on,” Paul said, pulling Thomas toward the house. “We’ll get your stuff unloaded, but you’re staying with us tonight until we can find you some furniture.”
“Are you sure?” Thomas said. “We’ve got air mattresses and can make do here if—”
“Oh, don’t be silly. If I’d had a little more warning, I’d have had the youth group clean this place up and even paint it, get the ladies to hang some curtains, make it nice for ya. But all in good time.”
Paul opened the torn screen door that had a hanging spring. He thrust a key into a sticky lock, and when the bolt finally gave way, he pressed his shoulder against the door, then kicked at the bottom until it broke free. He flipped on a light, and Thomas knew Grace had to have seen—or at least heard—creatures scattering. The must and dust assaulted him, but he tried to imagine the place with a little work. Okay, a lot of work.
Thomas found himself wondering about the pie. If Patricia knew he and Grace were staying with them, why bring it? But, of course, Grace was already exulting