Rooms - James L. Rubart [110]
“Everything.”
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Sleep, and the dream, didn’t come till 2:00 a.m. Micah stood in the middle of a wheat field. Rolling hills swept out from him in all directions, the late afternoon sun turning the wheat into waving strands of gold. He did a full turn, squinting as he looked into the sunlight. Nothing but fields of gold . . . wait! A silhouette on the horizon. As Micah stared at the figure, he began floating toward it.
The man stood on a three-foot, splintered platform straight out of the late 1800s. Just like the man. He was tall, with white hair swept back till it touched the collar of his light brown, turn-of-the-century suit. A wide circle of lush, jade green grass surrounded the platform.
The instant Micah entered the circle, the man’s words rang out crisp and powerful. If the man noticed Micah arrive, he didn’t respond. The man fixed his gaze on the field, the heads of wheat like a vast audience hanging on every word. Perspiration trickled down his forehead into his eyes, but his focus was absolute, nothing distracting his fierce countenance.
“The fields are ripe for harvest! Beseech therefore the Lord of the harvest to send workers into the field to gather the wheat from the tares!” The preacher glanced down at the ragged Bible in his hands. “Now heed the words from the Revelation of John from chapter 3, verses 15 and 16.” His voice dropped to half its former volume as he read from the old Bible. “‘I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.’”
The preacher looked up slowly and fixed his eyes on Micah and repeated the last sentence. “So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee of my mouth.”
As he repeated it a third time, the preacher’s face changed. All but his eyes, which only increased in intensity. This time the words were a whisper, and when he’d finished, the transformation was complete.
It was Jesus.
A moment later Micah woke, soaking wet. He looked at his watch. Already twenty minutes past noon.
After a quick shower Micah stepped onto the veranda of his condo to collect his thoughts before doing the obvious and heading for Cannon Beach. There was still hope. If the dream was only a warning, there was time to fix the mistake of returning to Seattle, and time to restore things with Sarah.
If coming to Seattle caused his life in Cannon Beach to vanish like a vapor, returning to the beach would restore it.
It had to.
As he packed, he considered calling his office to let them know he was leaving. But for what? By the time he reached Cannon Beach, his role with the company could be significantly different. A phone call now might not even exist by the time he got back to the beach.
He took one last look around his condo. Would he ever see the twenty-first floor again? What would he miss the most? His eyes swept over the awards and pictures lining the walls. Pictures of him standing next to the pretty and powerful. Trips around the world. Could he take the photos with him? Or would they just disappear on the way down to Cannon Beach, leaving empty frames crowding his backseat?
So what if he ended up as one of the up-and-coming computer programmers at RimSoft or RimWare or whatever it would end up being called by the time he got back up to Seattle. So what if his salary was only a quarter of what it had been and there was no stock?
He didn’t care. Nothing here mattered. Not anymore. He would still have gold: Sarah, Rick, and God.
Time to go home.
When he crossed the border between Washington and Oregon, a subtle pain brought overwhelming relief. His ankle started to ache.
At 7:50 that evening he parked on Main Street and headed for Osburn’s. Adrenaline pumped through him. He’d stood in front of some of the most influential men and women in the world of business, his neck tight and mouth dry. But as he stood on Main Street looking up