Rooms - James L. Rubart [100]
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“Am I losing my mind, Rick?”
“No.”
Rick worked on a breakfast fit for a ranch hand, even though it was past 1:00 p.m. Micah only had coffee, which he hadn’t touched.
“Then what is going on? Some kind of twisted cosmic joke God is playing on me to entertain the angelic host? The ultimate Candid Camera?”
Rick shoved the last of his eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce into his mouth.
“Are you listening to me?” Micah said.
“Yep.” Rick went to work on his sourdough toast.
“Do you hear what I’m saying? Two weeks ago everything at RimSoft ran like a Swiss watch. As of today I’ve gone from seriously rich to having virtually nothing. Not only am I no longer president; I don’t own a single share of stock. What’ll I lose next? My life?”
“Uh, maybe, I don’t know,” Rick said as if Micah mentioned it might rain.
“Are you hearing what I’m saying?” Micah popped his hand down on the table hard enough to rattle all the silverware. A few surprised looks came their way, and the waitress who was about to fill their water glasses did a 180 on her heel and skittered back toward the kitchen.
“Knock it off.” Rick looked up, his eyes dark and intense. “You know exactly what is going on here. And you’ve made the choice to make it happen every step of the way.”
“What? I’m living in The Twilight Zone, and you’re saying it’s obvious what’s going on? What choices have I made? Enlighten me.”
Rick stood, took wrinkled ten- and five-dollar bills out of his wallet, dropped them next to his plate, and looked down at Micah. “If you need it spelled out for you, it’s in Matthew in black and white. Chapter 13, verses 44 through 46. For you it’s jumped off the page and turned into real life. An amazing gift. But you have to make a final decision on whether it’s worth the price.”
When he got home, Micah slammed the door and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Lord, where are You? Why are You doing this to me?” He hurled his keys at the kitchen counter and watched them crash into the coffeepot, shattering the glass.
He knew he should pray but was exhausted. Tired of no concrete answers. Tired of trying to figure out which life was real and which one he wanted. Most of all tired of seeing his life disappear out from under him.
He glanced at his coffee table in front of his picture windows. Archie’s remaining envelopes sat there, mocking him. He glanced at the calendar on his refrigerator. Six days early. He didn’t care. Micah snatched up letter number fifteen and ripped open the envelope. With the fourteen previous letters, he’d shot up at least a quick prayer for wisdom and understanding. Not this time.
November 4, 1991
Dear Micah,
I have prayed before each letter written in an attempt to write only the words the Lord God would have me write through His guidance and the guidance of the angel I told you about in my last letter. However, in the end I am just a man, and it is only in Him and in His strength I can approach perfection.
That is a lengthy introduction to say I have most assuredly made mistakes in the letters you have read so far, and for that I offer my apologies and ask for your forgiveness. My prayer is that you are taking every scene, decision, and circumstance these letters stir up in you to deep prayer, that my mistakes might be filtered out, and the only remnant that remains would be pure truth.
In the end only one voice matters. Only one.
Micah set down the letter. Of course. In the end only one voice mattered. His own. And he hadn’t been listening.
The end of your journey is coming soon.
Seek Him.
For eternity’s sake,
Archie
Micah folded the letter, then slid it back into its envelope. A sliver of hesitation and apprehension had grown toward the voice, but he pushed through the emotion and strode down the hall. Archie was right. One voice mattered.
Micah pushed open the door and eased inside. “Hey, you awake?”
“If you’re awake,