Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [210]
He rolled out of bed and onto his knees on the cold floor. “Oh, God!” he cried out, unable to stifle himself. Suddenly Brady understood why Jesus had pleaded with His father to let “this cup” pass from Him. But Jesus had also insisted that His Father’s will, not His own, be done. Brady couldn’t do that, couldn’t say it, didn’t want to.
“I want out!” Brady said, sobbing. “God, please!”
He fell silent when he heard others rising from their beds, and he knew they stood at the fronts of their houses, watching, listening.
“We’re with you, man,” someone whispered.
“Yeah, Brady. Hang tough, bro.”
Then Skeet, voice coarse and diction poor: “If any of you wants to be My follower, you must turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross, and follow Me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for My sake, you will save it.”
The others tapped and rattled stuff against their cages, and Brady was overcome. He wept bitterly, pleading with God to give him the willingness Christ had exhibited in His darkest hour.
After nearly an hour of mental anguish, as his neighbors gently encouraged him with comments, scraping, rattling, Scripture verses, and even singing, Brady managed to rasp, “Not my will but Yours be done.”
As he collapsed back onto his cot, Brady realized he still had ninety minutes before first count and breakfast. He had been asked what he wanted for his last meal, and he had said he wanted what everyone else was having. The warden told him that was a first. Brady couldn’t imagine caring about food when you were about to die.
He rose and sat at his tiny table, sliding from the envelope his latest letter from Aunt Lois.
Brady,
We love you and we’re going to watch this thing only because you made us promise. I go back and forth between being mad because you made us say we would and knowing that we probably need to see it like everybody else.
Just know we’ll be praying for you all day. Carl and I will be there for the burial, but we know you’ll be in heaven. No word yet from your mama about whether she can make it. You never know.
We’re so proud of you, Brady. Just think, you’ll be with Petey soon. We’ll miss you, but we know we’ll see you again someday.
Love, Aunt Lois
With ten minutes to go before the officers came around for the count, Brady found himself jumpy. One knee was bouncing, and he just wanted to get on with this. He prayed he would be able to be like Jesus, who was at once submissive and authoritative, enduring what He had to endure, willing but not eager.
Brady slipped the latest tape from the chaplain’s wife into his player. He was alarmed at how weak and frail she sounded. She took deep breaths between phrases and long pauses between verses, but to Brady that made it only that much more poignant. Someone called out for him to turn it up.
King of my life, I crown You now,
Yours shall the glory be;
Lest I forget Your thorn-crowned brow,
Lead me to Calvary.
Show me the tomb where You were laid,
Tenderly mourned and wept;
Angels in robes of light arrayed,
Guarded You while You slept.
Let me, like Mary, through the gloom,
Come with a gift to You;
Show to me now the empty tomb,
Lead me to Calvary.
May I be willing, Lord, to bear
Daily my cross for You;
Even Your cup of grief to share,
You have borne all for me.
Lest I forget Gethsemane;
Lest I forget Your agony;
Lest I forget Your love for me;
Lead me to Calvary.
As soon as Brady was aware of the officers approaching, he moved to sit on his cot, ready to rise. But today, unlike every other day, there was no shouting or banging. In conversational tones the officers merely announced the count and moved somberly from cell to cell, noting that each man was alive and well.
“Morning, Brady,” one