Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [185]
Thomas would do better than put it in writing. He would enlist Ravinia’s help in crafting a document that would stand up legally—no holes, no exceptions, no soft underbelly. He left a message for her, then called Grace with the news. In the middle of telling her, Thomas began to sob and couldn’t speak.
“I’m so thrilled,” she said. “So thrilled. I can only imagine how you feel.”
“Actually you can’t,” Thomas managed. “It’s been so long.”
“I’ll let the people at church know.”
“Tell them to keep praying. This has only just begun.”
Thomas carefully studied his library, looking for just the right progression of titles to try to slowly but surely bring Brady along in his fledgling faith. When he thought he had it figured out, he put Grace’s tape in his player and sat weeping as he listened.
I hear the Savior say,
“Your strength indeed is small!
Child of weakness, watch and pray,
Find in Me your all in all.”
When from my dying bed
My ransomed soul shall rise,
“Jesus died my soul to save,”
Shall rend the vaulted skies.
Jesus paid it all,
All to Him I owe;
Sin had left a crimson stain—
He washed it white as snow.
“So you snagged a live one, eh?” his daughter said when she called back at the end of the day. “Good for you.”
“I know you mean that,” he said, smiling.
“Well, a little faith can’t hurt these lost souls. I mean, what else does Darby have to look forward to? He still dies in less than three years, right?”
“Right.”
“He understands that, I hope. He’s not hoping for some break because of this . . . ?”
Thomas assured her he believed Brady Darby was genuine and sincere.
“How long has it been?” she said.
“Sorry?”
“How long since someone really changed under your influence—and you don’t have to remind me that it’s God, not you.”
She had hit him right where he lived, and he had been thinking that very thing all afternoon. It had been a lot of years and a lot of churches ago.
His silence must have unnerved his daughter. “I didn’t mean to bother you, Dad. I was just wondering. Just saying way to go. You know we don’t agree on all this, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you mean it. So this has to feel good.”
Death Row
Brady didn’t know if it was because Chaplain Carey had planted the idea in his mind or if the man had simply been right, but what he had predicted came true. The more Brady read and the more he learned, the more he was overwhelmed by the love of God and His perfection, His power, His might.
Brady was still relieved, and nothing made his new faith waver, but he began to feel so low, so worthless, so puny that he could barely stand himself. And then came the memories: not as ghastly as the scenes of the murder, but somehow someone or something was bringing to his mind every last thing he had done wrong his whole life.
Brady could not even begin to count the lies, the people he had swindled, the trouble he had caused, the damage he had done. He started a list, but it went on for pages. The induction material said that prisoners were not allowed to write letters to their victims or their families or try to make amends without approval from the warden’s office.
What could be wrong with apologizing and trying to make things right? He wouldn’t dare try to do that in the case of Katie and her family, because he knew how that would look. But what about how he had treated his aunt and uncle, his mother, his employers, Agatha, his teachers, everyone? The list seemed endless.
He submitted his request to see the chaplain in private again as soon as possible. Brady had so many questions, so many concerns, he was unsure where he should even begin. He sure hoped he didn’t bug this poor guy to death. It was just that there was so much to take in, to understand, to deal with.
His life had changed; Brady could already feel it. But like the chaplain had said, it was not going to be easy. Verses he had already read several times hit him anew. And when he came across John 10:10 again, quoting Jesus Himself, it made Brady wonder.