"MYSTERIOUS WAYS"
"We're on in ten minutes, honey," Sherrill Ann prompts Reverend Joe Ray. They are each seated at their own dressing table, with the big mirrors, lights all around, clusters of make-up bottles and sprays, combs and brushes spread out before them. "You want me to finish up for you? You know I like doing your make-up." "
No." he sighs, distracted, staring at himself in the mirror. "I've got it." He reaches for a comb but just leaves his hand, holding the comb, resting on the dressing table.
"You have just got to pull yourself together,” Sherrill Ann insists. She gives her auburn, curly Big Hairdo a double-handed fluff up, then a side-to-side flip, happy with this morning’s dye and perm. “I mean, everybody will be watching. You know that. Especially tonight,” she adds before a couple of vigorous blinks to make sure there’s no loose mascara. Satisfied, she pulls down her make-up bib and collar, turns to face her husband.
"Yeah, I know," Joe Ray responds, still focused on his image in the mirror, the warm brown eyes with the flecks of gold, the strong jaw, beautifully capped teeth, smile lines and crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, all topped off by that thick mane of chestnut hair with the reassuring touch of gray at the temples. What a piece of work am I, he thinks. Knock, knock, who’s there? That famous, quirky little grin of the Reverend Joe Ray Smathers, America’s premier televangelist, flashes back at him from the mirror, but this time it fades as quickly as it appeared. He sighs, looks down at the array of cosmetics spread out on the table between him and his mirrored image, lets the comb drop.
"You want a drink? How about I fix you a nice bourbon and water," Sherrill Ann offers. “Nothing like a little pick-me-up to drown those butterflies,” she adds brightly, feeling Joe Ray is having a real problem, but she doesn’t want to show such a feeling, let alone admit it to herself.
"Not tonight," Joe Ray responds, his voice firm if dull. That’s the last thing I need, drowned butterflies. He imagines a spiral of beautiful butterflies, all colors—gold, white and silver, black, purple and orange, green, yellow and blue—all those gorgeous, hypnotic, fluttering jewels of creation—jewels that should decorate a bright spring meadow, lift the spirit, enliven the soul—all of them twirling down a vortex, in a sea of blood. Isaiah? he wonders. Revelation? Job? Has to be Old Testament.
"Well, c'mon then. Let's show some spirit,” Sherrill Ann continues, determined to strike up the bright, bouncy, Cheerleader for Jesus tone for which she is famous and which, she feels, is her special, crucial contribution to their ministry. “I mean, we know the Lord's with us, but the people have to see that. The joy of faith, that's what they tune in for, that’s what the Lord has sent us to provide them. That’s us, dear, that’s our calling, our mission, our responsibility, our place in His plan."
"And that’s what they come to the rallies for, too," Joe Ray add, wistful, not responding, as he always has before, to his wife’s enthusiasm, not getting caught up in and buoyed up by her infectious energy. In his mind’s eye, the descending spiral of dying butterflies has been replaced by the image of a wall of sound, an overwhelming, pulsing wall of open mouths stretching from left to right, tall as the sky, screaming.
C’mon, c’mon. What’s wrong with you? Let’s get with the program. You know what has to be done, what you’ve got to do. Sherrill Ann shoots her' husband an angry glance in his mirror. She knows what his problem is but also knows, even more, that it shouldn’t be a problem, not for him. She’s not going to let it be a problem. If people only knew what I have to put up with, knew who really has the joy of faith, knew who is the real force behind this ministry. But they’d never accept a woman. I have to be his rock, his staff to lean on. "Last week’s Natchez revival was our greatest triumph." she insists. "Fifty thousand people, at least."
"At least," Joe Ray echoes, his voice at once ironic and resigned. He turns to face his wife. Part of him wants to tap into her energy, find his way back to his old self there, cast off there what he now thinks of himself, shake it off, make what stares back at him from the mirror disappear into her beautiful, cerulean, untroubled eyes. The other part thinks, Abandon hope, all ye who enter there.
"And most of them hot-blooded youngsters, the devil's delight,” Sherrill Ann continues, trying to catch her husband’s eyes in his mirror, not liking what she sees there, that thousand-mile stare, determined to exorcise what she sees in his unfocused visage. “But you, she emphasizes, “you brought them to Jesus. The Lord was there that night, working through you." Joe Ray grabs at the lifeline she’s throwing him. "I felt like I was charged with lightning," he agrees, trying to recapture the spirit. "Invisible, electric power leaped from my outstretched hands to fifty thousand hearts. It felt so good. I'd call for an amen, and ‘Amen!’ came thundering back. I'd call on people to stand up for Jesus, and the whole crowd stood as one, the stadium shaking at the thunder of their pounding feet, the army of the Lord marching in place.”
‘Shaking,’ ‘shaking,’ catches him up, pounds through his head. I shouldn’t have said that, not that. He envisages her lifeline slipping away, that lifeline born of true love, a busy, productive, purpose-driven life made together, that bright-as-a-new-penny lifeline passing beyond his frantic reach. “I tell you,” he hears himself saying, “power like that can be frightening. If I hadn't been sure the Lord was working through me, I'd have been terrified. All those people at my fingertips . . . ," he winds down, stares down at his hands. "I felt it, too,” Sherrill Ann rejoices, refusing to hear his tone of voice, to acknowledge the infection it injects into the meaning, the heart of his words. “The glory of the work, it lifted me so high, I was soaring over the stadium," she concludes, raising up not only her voice but her arms, though her eyes remain fixed on her husband, searching for a sign she’s breaking through. "Weren't you scared?" Joe Ray says, still looking down at his hands, he, too, refusing to respond to her tone of voice, to the message, the plea, the command her eager, energetic voice carried to him.
"Why should I be scared?” Sherrill Ann says, lowering her arms, resting her hands in her lap, unable to hide her anger completely now. “The Lord was with us, and all those people loving Him uplifted me. Uplifted you, too, that’s what I saw that night, just like all those other nights, even more so. You can’t deny that,” she argues, “you’ve gotta remember that, hold onto it, ride it forward."
"Well, maybe we should have been scared.” Joe Ray says sharply, stung by her challenging tone, seeing her resolve, her commitment transform—for him, not for her, of course—into self-deception, like a deep pool of clear, cleansing water that somehow—no one ever knows quite how—springs a leak and drains out, spreads out, becoming a shallow oily sheen of pollution dirtying all it touches, all the eye can see. “I mean,” he tries to explain, feeling guilty about doubting what she is, what makes her life bright and bouncy, a life more than just worth living, trying to take it back, knowing he can’t, never will be able to do that. “I know I was leading God's people toward the Promised Land. But what if I stumbled? What if I let the devil trick me into leading those good people astray? . . . Why didn't I think of that?" "The Lord is sending you these doubts to test your faith, dear. “Just remember, He wouldn't give you the power without the wisdom to use it for His glory."
"That night, everything was so clear. There was white, and there was black. All I had to do was point people toward the light and keep them from the darkness. And I did that. . . . Then" "Yes, yes, you certainly did,” Sherrill Ann jumps in, determined to ambush his thought. “You were magnificent!"
"'Magnificent'? Five people dead, you call that magnificent?" The Reverend’s voice is challenging. He shoots his wife a quick glare in the mirror. A part of him wants to insist on that challenge, remain strong and sure in that glare, but another part quickly retreats from the challenge, stumbles from the glare to drop his gaze, soft now, down to his hands again. I just don’t know, . . . don’t know where to stand anymore, he confesses, but only to himself.
"But they were evil. Murderers, they killed babies in the womb. You know that. They deserved to reap what they had sown. You know that. We all know that. The judgment of God Almighty; we must strike back at evil, drop it to the ground where it stands. Those who do not condemn evil, fight it, overwhelm it, those who don’t stand up for good, against evil, they are fellow-travelers with the evil ones, as bad as they are. That’s what the Lord teaches us, has shown us again and again." Sherrill Ann speaks with assurance, deep conviction, more the solid school teacher than the irrepressible cheerleader now.
"I know that," Joe Ray responds, knowing the truth of what Sherrill Ann is telling him, warmed by the heat of her resolve, yet not enveloped by it, resigned to his doubts working like a fire wall keeping him cool, cold even, amidst the encircling, beckoning, thrilling fire of her faith—which used to be his faith, too.
"They deserved to die," Sherrill Ann declares, firm, not shrill.
"That, I don't know, not anymore. That night I knew it. That's what that guy read in me. That's why he said I'd inspired him to set the bomb. The courage of my convictions gave him the courage to act. That’s what he said, what he wrote in the note he left." Joe Ray feels like a child filled with wonder, not the exhilarating wonder born of staring at God’s firmament on a warm, clear, velvet night but the transfixing wonder of watching a stampede of large, crazed animals racing toward you, then around you. You’re only a speck, no more substantial than an insect, overwhelmed by the frantic forces weaving toward then all around you, having no idea what it all means, no idea how long you will remain standing, knowing only that whatever will happen to you is totally beyond your power or even comprehension. Like such a child, what Joe Ray desperately wants is to be whisked up and away, saved from this chaos by sympathy, compassion, an understanding of how lost he feels—a comforting, accepting caress.
"The Lord's will. We are soldiers in the army of the Lord, each in our own way," Sherrill Ann responds, feeling like the soldier who grabs the tattered, fallen flag, jumps on the riderless stallion, and racing back and forth behind the faltering lines, waving that banner, dedicates his life to rallying his routed troops.
Joe Ray stares at his wife, still wanting to cling to her but resigned now, feeling the stampede tearing them apart. "The armies of Satan are legion," he reminds her, gently, knowing it's futile, hearing that in the certainty of her voice, seeing it in the steadiness of her eyes that will not see what she does not want to see. No sympathy here, no compassion, no saving grace of understanding that can accept me for what I am, cherish me in spite of my weakness. She’s a beacon all right, a guiding light that can keep us off the splintering shoals, but it’s a cold, inspiring light, not a warm, consoling one.
"We are in the Lord's army," Sherrill Ann reminds Joe Ray.
"But how can I be sure of that? I mean, when I raise up my voice, thinking I'm making a joyful sound, thinking I'm leading His people to their Father's bosom, . . . and five people end up . . . dead. How can I be sure?"
"You have to hold fast to your faith, dear. You can't let go; you just can't. We all depend on you—you know that—me, the kids, the office staff, the folks working the show. Back home, the whole town depends on The Joy of Faith. And all the people, those who watch the show, those who come visit the theme park, attend the rallies far and wide, they all depend on you, they are reassured, are brought to Jesus, and support our work because they have confidence in you." Sherrill Ann reaches across to her husband, takes his hands in hers, squeezes them, wills him to look into her eyes, meet and hold her gaze, renew their vow there, not only a marriage vow, but their vow of a shared vocation, a shared life of dedicated service.
"I haven't lost my faith. I know God is with us. I know He's called me to do His work,” Joe Ray reassures Sherrill Ann, seeing that that is what she needs. ”It's just . . .," his voice fades off. He hesitates to continue, knowing she will not accept, cannot understand, so can never be comforted by the explanation he has to offer. Though she is sitting right in front of him, squeezing his hands, looking deep into his eyes, it’s as if she’s sliding away, a chasm growing between them, her smiling, beckoning visage growing smaller and smaller.
"It’s just what?" Sherrill Ann blurts out in exasperation.
Okay, okay, I guess I’ve got to give it a try, do that no matter how small the chance. "I used to feel I was striding along, like the Archangel Michael brandishing a flaming sword, slashing the evil away from the good.” Joe Ray is sure she can grasp that, wishes—for her sake—that he could stop there but knows he has to move beyond that, plunge them into what she cannot grasp. “Now, I feel like I'm crawling on my hands and knees, feeling my way in the twilight, where everything is a shade of gray."
"You must never, never ever tell people that," Sherrill Ann responds quickly, whispering, distressed, looking around to make sure no one could have heard.
"If I don't, I'm damned," Joe Ray tells her, his voice both firm—because he feels he’s coming to grips with where he is—and sad—because he knows that whatever foundation he is finding for himself is made of ground being eaten away from under Sherrill Ann.
"But the people will turn from us. They want a leader firm in his faith. That, above all else," Sherrill Ann implores, squeezing his hands even harder but dropping her gaze from his eyes to look at his hands in hers, seeking there the reassurance that only the solidity of touch can bring.
"I told you, I haven't lost my faith in God. It's me I doubt, my understanding of His message. It’s like I’ve been guilty of the sin of pride, strutting across the stage, God’s chosen one, not realizing that even if I were that, maybe even especially if I am that, there’s no way to be sure of that, no way that I should think I can be sure of that. Now, I have to make my way—our way—full in the knowledge that God has revealed to me, to us, at the terrible cost of five lives lost. . . . Can you understand, dear?"
"What will become of us!" Sherrill Ann cries.
"He will provide," Joe Ray says, calm, getting up and moving behind her chair to lean down, put his arms around her and give her a big hug, burying his face in her hair, not caring how he musses her do.
There is a knock at the door. "Reverend," a voice calls, "it's time."
No." he sighs, distracted, staring at himself in the mirror. "I've got it." He reaches for a comb but just leaves his hand, holding the comb, resting on the dressing table.
"You have just got to pull yourself together,” Sherrill Ann insists. She gives her auburn, curly Big Hairdo a double-handed fluff up, then a side-to-side flip, happy with this morning’s dye and perm. “I mean, everybody will be watching. You know that. Especially tonight,” she adds before a couple of vigorous blinks to make sure there’s no loose mascara. Satisfied, she pulls down her make-up bib and collar, turns to face her husband.
"Yeah, I know," Joe Ray responds, still focused on his image in the mirror, the warm brown eyes with the flecks of gold, the strong jaw, beautifully capped teeth, smile lines and crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, all topped off by that thick mane of chestnut hair with the reassuring touch of gray at the temples. What a piece of work am I, he thinks. Knock, knock, who’s there? That famous, quirky little grin of the Reverend Joe Ray Smathers, America’s premier televangelist, flashes back at him from the mirror, but this time it fades as quickly as it appeared. He sighs, looks down at the array of cosmetics spread out on the table between him and his mirrored image, lets the comb drop.
"You want a drink? How about I fix you a nice bourbon and water," Sherrill Ann offers. “Nothing like a little pick-me-up to drown those butterflies,” she adds brightly, feeling Joe Ray is having a real problem, but she doesn’t want to show such a feeling, let alone admit it to herself.
"Not tonight," Joe Ray responds, his voice firm if dull. That’s the last thing I need, drowned butterflies. He imagines a spiral of beautiful butterflies, all colors—gold, white and silver, black, purple and orange, green, yellow and blue—all those gorgeous, hypnotic, fluttering jewels of creation—jewels that should decorate a bright spring meadow, lift the spirit, enliven the soul—all of them twirling down a vortex, in a sea of blood. Isaiah? he wonders. Revelation? Job? Has to be Old Testament.
"Well, c'mon then. Let's show some spirit,” Sherrill Ann continues, determined to strike up the bright, bouncy, Cheerleader for Jesus tone for which she is famous and which, she feels, is her special, crucial contribution to their ministry. “I mean, we know the Lord's with us, but the people have to see that. The joy of faith, that's what they tune in for, that’s what the Lord has sent us to provide them. That’s us, dear, that’s our calling, our mission, our responsibility, our place in His plan."
"And that’s what they come to the rallies for, too," Joe Ray add, wistful, not responding, as he always has before, to his wife’s enthusiasm, not getting caught up in and buoyed up by her infectious energy. In his mind’s eye, the descending spiral of dying butterflies has been replaced by the image of a wall of sound, an overwhelming, pulsing wall of open mouths stretching from left to right, tall as the sky, screaming.
C’mon, c’mon. What’s wrong with you? Let’s get with the program. You know what has to be done, what you’ve got to do. Sherrill Ann shoots her' husband an angry glance in his mirror. She knows what his problem is but also knows, even more, that it shouldn’t be a problem, not for him. She’s not going to let it be a problem. If people only knew what I have to put up with, knew who really has the joy of faith, knew who is the real force behind this ministry. But they’d never accept a woman. I have to be his rock, his staff to lean on. "Last week’s Natchez revival was our greatest triumph." she insists. "Fifty thousand people, at least."
"At least," Joe Ray echoes, his voice at once ironic and resigned. He turns to face his wife. Part of him wants to tap into her energy, find his way back to his old self there, cast off there what he now thinks of himself, shake it off, make what stares back at him from the mirror disappear into her beautiful, cerulean, untroubled eyes. The other part thinks, Abandon hope, all ye who enter there.
"And most of them hot-blooded youngsters, the devil's delight,” Sherrill Ann continues, trying to catch her husband’s eyes in his mirror, not liking what she sees there, that thousand-mile stare, determined to exorcise what she sees in his unfocused visage. “But you, she emphasizes, “you brought them to Jesus. The Lord was there that night, working through you." Joe Ray grabs at the lifeline she’s throwing him. "I felt like I was charged with lightning," he agrees, trying to recapture the spirit. "Invisible, electric power leaped from my outstretched hands to fifty thousand hearts. It felt so good. I'd call for an amen, and ‘Amen!’ came thundering back. I'd call on people to stand up for Jesus, and the whole crowd stood as one, the stadium shaking at the thunder of their pounding feet, the army of the Lord marching in place.”
‘Shaking,’ ‘shaking,’ catches him up, pounds through his head. I shouldn’t have said that, not that. He envisages her lifeline slipping away, that lifeline born of true love, a busy, productive, purpose-driven life made together, that bright-as-a-new-penny lifeline passing beyond his frantic reach. “I tell you,” he hears himself saying, “power like that can be frightening. If I hadn't been sure the Lord was working through me, I'd have been terrified. All those people at my fingertips . . . ," he winds down, stares down at his hands. "I felt it, too,” Sherrill Ann rejoices, refusing to hear his tone of voice, to acknowledge the infection it injects into the meaning, the heart of his words. “The glory of the work, it lifted me so high, I was soaring over the stadium," she concludes, raising up not only her voice but her arms, though her eyes remain fixed on her husband, searching for a sign she’s breaking through. "Weren't you scared?" Joe Ray says, still looking down at his hands, he, too, refusing to respond to her tone of voice, to the message, the plea, the command her eager, energetic voice carried to him.
"Why should I be scared?” Sherrill Ann says, lowering her arms, resting her hands in her lap, unable to hide her anger completely now. “The Lord was with us, and all those people loving Him uplifted me. Uplifted you, too, that’s what I saw that night, just like all those other nights, even more so. You can’t deny that,” she argues, “you’ve gotta remember that, hold onto it, ride it forward."
"Well, maybe we should have been scared.” Joe Ray says sharply, stung by her challenging tone, seeing her resolve, her commitment transform—for him, not for her, of course—into self-deception, like a deep pool of clear, cleansing water that somehow—no one ever knows quite how—springs a leak and drains out, spreads out, becoming a shallow oily sheen of pollution dirtying all it touches, all the eye can see. “I mean,” he tries to explain, feeling guilty about doubting what she is, what makes her life bright and bouncy, a life more than just worth living, trying to take it back, knowing he can’t, never will be able to do that. “I know I was leading God's people toward the Promised Land. But what if I stumbled? What if I let the devil trick me into leading those good people astray? . . . Why didn't I think of that?" "The Lord is sending you these doubts to test your faith, dear. “Just remember, He wouldn't give you the power without the wisdom to use it for His glory."
"That night, everything was so clear. There was white, and there was black. All I had to do was point people toward the light and keep them from the darkness. And I did that. . . . Then" "Yes, yes, you certainly did,” Sherrill Ann jumps in, determined to ambush his thought. “You were magnificent!"
"'Magnificent'? Five people dead, you call that magnificent?" The Reverend’s voice is challenging. He shoots his wife a quick glare in the mirror. A part of him wants to insist on that challenge, remain strong and sure in that glare, but another part quickly retreats from the challenge, stumbles from the glare to drop his gaze, soft now, down to his hands again. I just don’t know, . . . don’t know where to stand anymore, he confesses, but only to himself.
"But they were evil. Murderers, they killed babies in the womb. You know that. They deserved to reap what they had sown. You know that. We all know that. The judgment of God Almighty; we must strike back at evil, drop it to the ground where it stands. Those who do not condemn evil, fight it, overwhelm it, those who don’t stand up for good, against evil, they are fellow-travelers with the evil ones, as bad as they are. That’s what the Lord teaches us, has shown us again and again." Sherrill Ann speaks with assurance, deep conviction, more the solid school teacher than the irrepressible cheerleader now.
"I know that," Joe Ray responds, knowing the truth of what Sherrill Ann is telling him, warmed by the heat of her resolve, yet not enveloped by it, resigned to his doubts working like a fire wall keeping him cool, cold even, amidst the encircling, beckoning, thrilling fire of her faith—which used to be his faith, too.
"They deserved to die," Sherrill Ann declares, firm, not shrill.
"That, I don't know, not anymore. That night I knew it. That's what that guy read in me. That's why he said I'd inspired him to set the bomb. The courage of my convictions gave him the courage to act. That’s what he said, what he wrote in the note he left." Joe Ray feels like a child filled with wonder, not the exhilarating wonder born of staring at God’s firmament on a warm, clear, velvet night but the transfixing wonder of watching a stampede of large, crazed animals racing toward you, then around you. You’re only a speck, no more substantial than an insect, overwhelmed by the frantic forces weaving toward then all around you, having no idea what it all means, no idea how long you will remain standing, knowing only that whatever will happen to you is totally beyond your power or even comprehension. Like such a child, what Joe Ray desperately wants is to be whisked up and away, saved from this chaos by sympathy, compassion, an understanding of how lost he feels—a comforting, accepting caress.
"The Lord's will. We are soldiers in the army of the Lord, each in our own way," Sherrill Ann responds, feeling like the soldier who grabs the tattered, fallen flag, jumps on the riderless stallion, and racing back and forth behind the faltering lines, waving that banner, dedicates his life to rallying his routed troops.
Joe Ray stares at his wife, still wanting to cling to her but resigned now, feeling the stampede tearing them apart. "The armies of Satan are legion," he reminds her, gently, knowing it's futile, hearing that in the certainty of her voice, seeing it in the steadiness of her eyes that will not see what she does not want to see. No sympathy here, no compassion, no saving grace of understanding that can accept me for what I am, cherish me in spite of my weakness. She’s a beacon all right, a guiding light that can keep us off the splintering shoals, but it’s a cold, inspiring light, not a warm, consoling one.
"We are in the Lord's army," Sherrill Ann reminds Joe Ray.
"But how can I be sure of that? I mean, when I raise up my voice, thinking I'm making a joyful sound, thinking I'm leading His people to their Father's bosom, . . . and five people end up . . . dead. How can I be sure?"
"You have to hold fast to your faith, dear. You can't let go; you just can't. We all depend on you—you know that—me, the kids, the office staff, the folks working the show. Back home, the whole town depends on The Joy of Faith. And all the people, those who watch the show, those who come visit the theme park, attend the rallies far and wide, they all depend on you, they are reassured, are brought to Jesus, and support our work because they have confidence in you." Sherrill Ann reaches across to her husband, takes his hands in hers, squeezes them, wills him to look into her eyes, meet and hold her gaze, renew their vow there, not only a marriage vow, but their vow of a shared vocation, a shared life of dedicated service.
"I haven't lost my faith. I know God is with us. I know He's called me to do His work,” Joe Ray reassures Sherrill Ann, seeing that that is what she needs. ”It's just . . .," his voice fades off. He hesitates to continue, knowing she will not accept, cannot understand, so can never be comforted by the explanation he has to offer. Though she is sitting right in front of him, squeezing his hands, looking deep into his eyes, it’s as if she’s sliding away, a chasm growing between them, her smiling, beckoning visage growing smaller and smaller.
"It’s just what?" Sherrill Ann blurts out in exasperation.
Okay, okay, I guess I’ve got to give it a try, do that no matter how small the chance. "I used to feel I was striding along, like the Archangel Michael brandishing a flaming sword, slashing the evil away from the good.” Joe Ray is sure she can grasp that, wishes—for her sake—that he could stop there but knows he has to move beyond that, plunge them into what she cannot grasp. “Now, I feel like I'm crawling on my hands and knees, feeling my way in the twilight, where everything is a shade of gray."
"You must never, never ever tell people that," Sherrill Ann responds quickly, whispering, distressed, looking around to make sure no one could have heard.
"If I don't, I'm damned," Joe Ray tells her, his voice both firm—because he feels he’s coming to grips with where he is—and sad—because he knows that whatever foundation he is finding for himself is made of ground being eaten away from under Sherrill Ann.
"But the people will turn from us. They want a leader firm in his faith. That, above all else," Sherrill Ann implores, squeezing his hands even harder but dropping her gaze from his eyes to look at his hands in hers, seeking there the reassurance that only the solidity of touch can bring.
"I told you, I haven't lost my faith in God. It's me I doubt, my understanding of His message. It’s like I’ve been guilty of the sin of pride, strutting across the stage, God’s chosen one, not realizing that even if I were that, maybe even especially if I am that, there’s no way to be sure of that, no way that I should think I can be sure of that. Now, I have to make my way—our way—full in the knowledge that God has revealed to me, to us, at the terrible cost of five lives lost. . . . Can you understand, dear?"
"What will become of us!" Sherrill Ann cries.
"He will provide," Joe Ray says, calm, getting up and moving behind her chair to lean down, put his arms around her and give her a big hug, burying his face in her hair, not caring how he musses her do.
There is a knock at the door. "Reverend," a voice calls, "it's time."