Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [206]
The debt of love I owe;
Here, Lord, I give myself away—
’Tis all that I can do.
To a smattering of polite applause, Gladys hurried away.
“Gentlemen,” Warden LeRoy said, “I don’t want to spoil the mood. You boys are having some kind of church in here, and that’s all right with me. Several of you requested visits from the chaplain, and, well, here he is. I’m overruling the policy that says you got to wait until the review board approves it. He’s gonna go right down the line and talk with each of you as long as you want. That all right with you?”
“Can that lady come back and sing for us again sometime?” someone said.
“I don’t see why not, if she’s willing and you all act respectful. You know there’s no assembling here, but I don’t guess it violates anything if we bring the meeting to you. Everybody has to agree to it, though. One of you holds out and we can’t do it. Anybody?”
No one spoke up.
“No guarantees, no promises, and no second chances. One incident and this all goes away.”
Revival in a prison—and not just any prison but a supermax? And not just in any cellblock but on death row? Thomas felt he could have left for heaven right then.
Frank LeRoy turned and gave him a long look before departing, and Thomas read into it everything he thought was implied—that the warden was impressed, stunned though he was, and that Thomas should do whatever was necessary to ride this wave as long as it lasted.
Brady took a break while Thomas began his rounds of visiting the prisoners. Apparently none of them wanted to miss Brady’s recitations, so no one complained.
Some of the men were more articulate than others, but all expressed some variation of not knowing what had come over them. Some admitted they were embarrassed, but all asked for Bibles. Thomas would have to check his inventory. Running out of New Testaments had never been an issue before.
When he finished with the last man, he addressed them all. “I’m going to ask the warden if I can schedule a brief meeting like we just had—with some Scripture, a prayer, and even Gladys singing—every Friday if the Row has no incidents during the week. Fair enough?”
There was clapping and rattling.
Someone said, “No offerings now, hear?”
It wasn’t long before the Death Row Revival leaked—likely through a corrections officer—and the story rivaled time on the air for the coming unique execution.
The cons seemed to enjoy hearing about themselves on the news, and somehow they were able to uphold their end of the bargain. As for the warden, the question was barely out of Thomas’s lips before he said, “Yeah,” not even followed by a “no.”
“Got to love the reward system, Reverend. You’ve learned a thing or two here, haven’t you?”
“I have, but I wouldn’t have predicted this in a million years.”
“Me either, but it’s got to be a God thing, don’t you think?”
“That’s your assessment, Warden? You’re giving God the credit?”
“Well, I’d love to say it was your doing or Brady’s. Truth is, I’d love to take credit for it, but it just happened. And you say nothing just happens, right?”
“You won’t get an argument from me, Frank. I do need to requisition some more New Testaments.”
“Right now you can have just about anything you want.”
72
Adamsville
D-day was approaching too rapidly. Thomas had come to love Brady Wayne Darby as a son and was already grieving the coming loss. The transformation in the man was unlike anything Thomas had ever seen. And the resultant revival in the most unlikely corner on earth had spread to other pods and cellblocks and showed no signs of abating. In fact, Thomas was busier than ever.
He found it harder and harder to leave Grace every morning. Her nights were becoming more difficult, and the doctor had urged him to admit her to a hospital or at the very least to start looking into hospice care at home.
“But hospice sounds like the beginning of the end, Doctor,” Thomas said.
“Reverend Carey, your wife has been adamant about no radiation, chemo, or heroic measures. Her headaches, weakness, blurred vision, and balance