Rooms - James L. Rubart [123]
“Finish it, Micah.”
Micah clenched his jaw and stepped forward. “It’s over. I will never listen to your lies from the pit again. By His blood and His glory, go. Now!”
Micah shouted the last word with everything in him, and before its echo had died, the demon vanished. A moment later the chair was gone as well. A stench lingered a few seconds more, and then light filled the room along with the scent of wheat fields.
He walked forward to where the demon had sat, puzzled to see the white cords lying on the carpet. He bent down and reached out his forefinger to touch them. They were warm, and a faint white light circled them. He looked back at Rick who nodded slightly.
Micah picked them up and held one in each hand. Heavy. The warmth grew till the heat penetrated his entire body. They felt more solid and more real than anything he’d ever touched. Then they faded. Their color changed from white to the color of his skin before they sank into his palms, slowly at first, then more rapidly till they disappeared completely.
He turned to Rick, and they grabbed each other in a crushing embrace.
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Micah stood on the beach in front of his home and watched the last shards of the sun sink into the ocean. An older couple to his left lit their fire; to his right a young family packed up their plastic buckets and shovels and headed for the path up to the parking lot a quarter mile north of Micah’s home.
A hint of smoke from the campfire squiggled up to him; he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes.
“Thank You.” He opened his eyes to gaze at the sky above.
This day would be burned into his memory forever.
As he ambled back to his home, he pondered what the next few days would bring. Great things. He knew it. There was no doubt in his heart. Tomorrow he would rest. Monday he would open the second to last letter from Archie. It would take him to a place unimaginable.
CHAPTER 43
Monday morning Micah rose before the sun, a cup of coffee laden with hazelnut creamer in his right hand, Archie’s eighteenth letter in his left. He sat on his couch in front of his massive river-rock fireplace. After switching on the lamp next to the chair, he slipped a table knife under the lip of the light brown envelope and sliced it open.
November 25, 1992
Dear Micah,
The room has always been ready for you, and now you are ready for the room.
You know, of course, the room to which I refer.
1 Corinthians 3:16–17.
For eternity and His glory,
Archie
Micah stood in front of the door of the brilliant room only a moment before it opened on its own. Light streamed out in a flash flood of power, surrounding him like a tidal wave.
It was too much ecstasy to contain. He stepped into the room and froze. It was glorious and overwhelming. Bliss flooded his heart, spilled over, and didn’t stop. His mind said this place was too holy, too right, too pure for him. But his heart didn’t agree. Micah fell to the floor, stunned. He knew where he was.
He stood in the presence of God. Surrounded by Him.
And this room was his own heart.
His heart.
His.
The holy of holies. The place where the Spirit of God dwells within the hearts of men.
Rick said it yesterday on the cape. The verse in Archie’s letter confirmed it. Yet till that moment it had been words. Just words.
Tears came, a hidden well broken open. Deep, cleansing tears. Freedom. Forgiveness. Peace. Nothing could separate him from this unquenchable love. Nothing he could do would make this Spirit of God love him any less.
Utterly and relentlessly loved beyond all imagination.
He had entered into the holiest place in the universe. It was inside him. Because God was in him and he was in God. And He had been there all along.
After ages passed, Micah rose to his knees. Images flashed across the walls all around him: mountains, oceans, deserts, lakes, all in the most brilliant colors he’d ever seen. The images shifted; now they were of him running, flying, lying in an emerald field hundreds of miles across, his face bathed in