Down from the Cross (18 page)

Keene listened to the prayers of the woman in front of him, her forehead resting against his, her words on his behalf touching his heart in a way he’d never known.
Can all this God stuff she keeps spouting at me be true? Is there really a God up in heaven with the power to heal His children if they ask Him to?

No one had ever prayed for him like this before. Perhaps his mother had, but never in front of him. Never laid her hands on his shoulders and prayed so earnestly. And if he ever needed prayer for the healing of his throat, it was now. Now more than ever.

He opened his eyes when she said, “Amen,” hoping she wouldn’t see his tears. Rising slowly, he opened his arms wide, and she slipped into them, looping her arms about his waist and hugging him tight. “Thanks, Jane. I–I don’t know if your prayers will help, but they sure can’t hurt.”

She raised misty eyes to his, and the concern he saw there melted his heart. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

“I–I wish I had your faith.”

She pressed herself against him, burying her head in his chest. “It’s yours for the taking. All you have to do is believe.”

“It… it can’t be that simple,” he murmured softly against her hair.

Again, she lifted misty eyes to his. “What’s really keeping you from it, Keene? Pride?”

“Maybe. And I’m not even sure, if there is a God, that He’d want me.”

“Wouldn’t want you? Of course He wants you! He said, ‘Whosoever will may come.’ That is you, me, the guy down the street, the woman behind the counter at the grocery store, the greeter at Wal-Mart. Everyone. He isn’t willing that any should perish but that all would come to Him.” She reached up and cradled his cheek with her hand. “Be a man and face up to the fact that you’re lost, and turn your life over to God. None of us knows what a day may bring. Tomorrow may be too late.”

He folded her hand in his, bringing it to his lips and kissing her palm. “You really are concerned about me, aren’t you?”

A tear rolled down her cheek as she gazed into his eyes. “Yes, Keene. I am truly concerned about you. You’re… you’re very important to me.”

He stared into the pale blue depths of her eyes. He wanted so much to hold her and kiss her, but the reality of his sore throat hit him when he tried to swallow. The last thing he wanted to do was give his illness to her, so he held back. Looking at her longingly, he wished he could tell her how he really felt at that moment. But he couldn’t. He knew, even if he told her that he loved her, she could not and would not accept that love. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her either. To let her believe he accepted her God when he had not. From the beginning, he had been truthful with her. He could not start lying to her now. It would not be fair. “Keep praying for me, Jane. Who knows, someday I just might begin to believe in your God.”

“I have to go now,” she said, backing away and pulling free of his grasp. “The UPS man is coming to pick up some packages, and I don’t have them ready.” She motioned toward his bed. “Why don’t you take a nap? It’ll be good for your throat. I’ll come back in an hour or so with another cup of lemon juice.”

He gave her a shy grin. “You think your God needs the help of the lemon juice to heal me?”

She wagged a finger at him as she backed through the door. “He did make the lemons, you know!”

Keene watched her close the door then crawled into his bed and pulled the quilt up over him. His throat still hurt. He smiled, remembering her sweet prayer and the way she had knelt in front of him. Maybe this God thing would not be so bad after all.

At three, and again at four thirty, Jane brought warm lemon juice in to Keene, standing beside him until he had gargled with each drop. He almost hated to admit it, but his throat actually seemed a bit better.

She rapped on the door at five, saying she would see him at the church—if he felt like singing.

“I’ll make it. I think the lemon juice is helping.”

“The lemon juice or the prayer?”

From his place beneath the quilt, he snickered. “Both!”

At five thirty, he showered and dressed. Then he nibbled on the soft oatmeal bars and the fresh peach Jane had placed on a plate beside his bed after she reminded him he needed to get some food into his stomach.

By six-thirty, he was seated on a stool in front of a makeup mirror while Shirley Gordon, one of the beauticians who had volunteered her services each night, applied bronzer to his face.

“Shirley, you’re a Christian, right?”

She stared at his image in the mirror and gave him a weird look. “Sure, why do you ask?”

“You do know I’m not, don’t you? A Christian, that is?”

“Yeah, I heard that you told the folks in the choir you weren’t.” She went back to applying the bronzer.

“And you really believe Christ died for our sins?”

“Sure.”

“So you admitted you were a sinner?”

She tilted his face toward her and appraised her work. “Had to. Everyone’s a sinner.”

He frowned. “What could you have done that was so bad?”

She screwed the lid on the makeup jar and stared at him. “Hey, it wasn’t any one thing that I did that made me a sinner. It was everything I did that separated me from God. The biggest sin of all was rejecting Him. I can’t believe I put off confessing my sins and accepting Christ as my personal Savior as long as I did.” She picked up a pencil and began darkening his already dark brows. “Close your eyes.”

“So you’re telling me it made a real difference in your life?”

“Difference? I cannot tell you what a difference. Not that everything has been rosy since then. It hasn’t. We live in a mixed-up world with all sorts of temptations. Accepting Christ does not make you perfect. Far from it. But it does make you a sinner saved by grace.”

He swiveled his chair toward her and grabbed her wrist. “Then why, Shirley? Why would anyone want to be a Christian?”

She paused thoughtfully, the pencil still in her hand. “Do you remember when you were a little boy and fell down and skinned your knee? Who did you run to?”

“My mother, of course.”

“How about when you needed something?”

He thought about it before answering. “My mother.”

“Who did you run to for comfort when the kids teased you or you felt bad?”

“My mom.”

“And what did she do?”

He gave her a scowl. “She comforted me, of course, and told me everything was going to be okay.”

Shirley leaned over him and dabbed her finger at his brow, removing a smudge. “Those are just a few of the things God does for us. He is always there waiting to kiss our boo-boos, supply our needs, and comfort us when we need comforting. My dad died when I was fifteen, and you know what? God promised to be a Father to the fatherless, and He was. Whenever I needed my dad’s advice, I would go to my heavenly Father in prayer, and He always came through for me. My mom, bless her heart, missed him, too. God also promised to be a husband to the widows. I’m not sure she would have made it without my dad if God hadn’t been there for her.”

She pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at her nose. “I’m a single mom, Keene, and I’ve had some rough times, believe me. There were many days when I was attending cosmetology school that I did not have the money for next month’s rent. But I turned to God and laid my needs at His feet, and somehow the money always came in just in time. He supplied my every need and still does. He tells us to cast all our cares on Him, and do I ever!”

Keene gave her a warm smile, appreciative of her willingness to open up her heart to him. “I guess you’d highly recommend Him, right?”

Her thumbs-up appeared in the mirror. “Oh, yes, I highly recommend Him.” With a wink, she pulled the plastic covering from his shoulders. “And if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll accept Him, too.”

He rose and leaned toward the mirror, turning his face first one way and then the other. “You do a good job.”

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, someone told me some big wheel is in the audience tonight, all the way from New York City.”

“Big wheel?”

“Yeah. I think he said he was an editor from the
New York Times.
Probably came all this way to hear you.” Trying to appear nonchalant, Keene shrugged. “Could be.”

Jane elbowed her way through the many people backstage and headed for Keene’s dressing room, a classroom that had been assigned to him, anxious to check on his throat.

“Jane!” The voice came from somewhere in the throng of people near the wardrobe racks.

“Oh, hi, Pastor,” she said, turning with a smile. “Can you believe the crowds that’ve been coming every night?”

“Amazing, isn’t it? Sure glad the board voted to add those big screens. We never would never have made it without them, and the free-will offerings every night have been amazing. Even with the additional expense we’ve acquired, we’ll more than adequately meet our budget, even after we pay Mr. Moray the full amount.”

“Have you seen Keene?” she asked, scanning the wardrobe racks.

“No, but have you heard the managing editor of the
New York Times
is in the audience tonight? He called me when he arrived in town, asking for a ticket.”

“No, I hadn’t heard. I wonder if Keene knows he’s here.” She moved on past him, motioning in the direction of the classroom where she hoped to find her boss. “I’ll be sure and tell him.”

“There you are!”

Jane smiled warmly when Keene approached her. “How’s the sore throat?”

He tugged her away from the hubbub of the busy wardrobe area toward the hall. “Better! Not gone. But better. I think the lemon juice gargle did it.”

She lifted a questioning brow, a smile playing at her lips.

“Maybe the prayer,” he conceded. “Guess we’ll never know which.”

“You’d better make sure to use that lemon juice gargle again tonight before you go to bed, and it wouldn’t hurt to use it several times tomorrow. Maybe you had better hold your singing back a bit tonight. We don’t want you to strain your voice and not be able to sing for tomorrow night’s final performance.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, that reminds me. Did you know some editor—”

“Is going to be in the audience tonight? Yes, I heard about it when I was in makeup. If it’s the guy I think it is, he’s a pretty tough critic. I had better pull out all the stops tonight. I sure want a good review.”

“But your throat!”

“I’ll be careful, Mommy. I promise.”

“I’ll be praying for you,” she hollered after him, watching him disappear into the crowd. She glanced at her watch then checked her makeup and garment in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall near one of the long wardrobe racks.
It’s time to get onstage. The performance will begin in five minutes.

Jane took her place after breathing a quick prayer for Keene, asking God to continue to place His healing hand on Keene’s throat. She also prayed for the audience members, that God would open their hearts and minds while they listened to the gospel set to music.

Later in the performance, when it came time for the ascension scene, Jane hurriedly found a place in the wings where she had a full view of the stage. On each of the other six nights, she had been so busy helping everyone remove their costumes and hang them on hangers after her last time onstage, she’d missed it. The big platform was still clothed in darkness.

Suddenly a blinding light flashed, and in the center of the stage, Jesus appeared on a mountaintop, adorned in a pristine white robe, His arms stretched out wide, His countenance radiant. As He stood there, His face lifted toward heaven, the narrator’s voice recited John 5:24. “Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my Word, and believeth on Him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into judgment; but is passed from death unto life.” When he finished, Christ ascended up into heaven.

On a small platform suspended up near the high ceiling, a spotlight trained on three trumpeters who heralded Jesus’ entrance into heaven. Then a deep male voice boomed out dramatically over the speakers, “This… is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

On each of the previous six nights, she had thought Keene’s performance could not have been improved. But tonight, even with his sore throat, he had outdone himself. Surely, it was because God, the Great Physician, had answered prayer and touched him. Then she remembered the New York editor. Could Keene have done his best for that man? And not for God?