THE FALL (Rapha Chronicles #1) (The Rapha Chronicles) (36 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Second Chance

Once Cain’s bones were buried next to his brother’s, Eve aged before Rapha’s eyes day by day. She explained that after so many years in a hostile environment she just wanted rest, but Rapha knew better. The fight was gone from her eyes like a soldier who languishes when the war is over.

She ate and drank only the least required to sustain life. One faithful servant remained from Eve’s years in Cain’s land; without that kind woman’s stubborn, mute insistence, Eve might not have eaten at all. The woman had been called Ilda, meaning ill-favored—resembling an old, knotted tree, her body bent and knobby at every joint—but Rapha changed her name to Isla, explaining through the signs of his hands that she had now become an island of refuge to her mistress.

Daily Eve fought the kind woman’s ministrations, but Isla was nothing if not persistent, ignoring Eve’s hands that waved away food, anointing her mistress with fragrant oils, and maintaining the gloss of Eve’s still-lustrous hair. And when the day came that Eve would not rise from her bed, Isla concocted healthful drinks from the plants that thrived in their mountain oasis.

But still Eve declined as if she had chosen to end her days on Earth. Try as he might, Rapha could not rally her spirits, and even his own talent with herbs and tonics was wasted.

One night, Isla moved Eve’s bed to the opening of her tent for the cool breeze and view of the stars. Rapha joined her.

“Look at the heavens,” Rapha said. “The celestial hosts speak of new hope and comfort.”

“Not for me, old friend,” Eve said. “I have remained too long. I have seen too much. Evil thrives and mankind worships those who devour them. My comfort lies in leaving the pain of living to those young enough to hope.”

Rapha spoke of Adonai’s goodness and power, of His love for all creation. “Remember how He made all things new, how He held you and Adam close to His breast and promised redemption through your seed.”

“We chose evil,” her voice was flat, dead. “We are corrupt. I am old. Adam must hate me, or he has produced children with another and has forgotten me. What good can come from us now?”

Rapha leaned forward and grasped Eve’s cold hand. “Adonai does not change. Therefore we have hope.”

“Stop!” she snatched her hand away. “It hurts too much. I have failed Adam. I have failed Adonai. I have accepted that.”

Rapha walked away from her tent with the despairing words still ringing in his ears. She was right. Hope was gone. Eve was far beyond the age of childbearing and, with her mate wandering the earth shrouded in madness, it would appear Adam’s line was ended, while Lucifer’s offspring enjoyed no opposition. Rapha could only imagine, with their hopes so vanquished, and his kingdom thriving, that Lucifer no longer even considered them a threat.

But, for one fleeting instant, Rapha had seen a flicker of agony in Eve’s eyes. Good. A live coal yet burned beneath the ashes.

A strange peace settled over Rapha as he gazed upon the bright star in the east. Adonai’s best work was always accomplished when all was lost.

He came on a day when smokes of war hung in the wind and the sun’s heat had not allowed a whisper of cooling breeze for days. He was battered, had taken the long journey through despair and madness, but his heart had led him home.

From his seat among the tall poplars that forever point heavenward, Rapha watched this shadow of a man stumble up the stony path toward him. Throughout the night he had waited and prayed while Adonai whispered joy and renewal. Now, the miracle stood before him.

Adam had come home.

The reunion of Adam and Eve was a quiet affair, no shrieks of joy or weeklong feasts. Eve rose from her bed, smoothing a shaky hand through her hair while Adam, still covered with the dirt of countless hills, and sporting long, mud-encrusted braids on his head and face, knelt before her. Down she fell to join him, heedless of the hard ground, and there they stayed, melting, leaning into one another’s tired bodies, and taking deep, contented breaths.

When Rapha stepped unnoticed from Eve’s tent, he stumbled back to the poplars and fell on his face to weep—his heart so full, so amazed by the Holy One’s quiet wisdom, so stunned by heaven’s beauty radiating through brokenness, that he remained there, floating outside of time, nestled in Earth’s bosom and basking before the celestial throne, until a thick mist rose around him, the physical presence of heaven’s glory flowing from a grateful heart.

Ten years later…

Rapha stepped into the small, stone home, out of the frigid night, and into peace.

“Come see, old friend.” Adam rose from his stool by the crackling hearth with a snuffling bundle held tightly in his arms and crossed the room with an agility Rapha had not seen in him for a century.

“He will never look at me again, Rapha,” Eve’s tired, contented voice quipped from her pallet in the corner where Isla hovered, discreetly bathing her mistress and whisking away blood-soaked linens. “I am forgotten. Booted from the throne of his idolatry by that tiny foot.”

“You are a miracle, my love,” Adam laughed and rushed to her side. “You may vex me every day as long as I live, and only make me more your devoted servant.” He leaned down and, with the bulky bundle pressed between them, kissed her with a noisy smack on the lips, and then remained to gaze at her smiling face—his eyes devouring every plane of her flushed cheeks, sweat-beaded brow, and eyelids that fluttered, losing the battle against slumber.

“So, my beauty,” Adam whispered, “shall I send the discarded angel and meddling woman away so I can ravish you in peace?”

A hand leapt from the covers for a slap to his shoulder. “Hush, you old goat,” she admonished, but her fingers lingered to caress his face. “You will teach our son bad habits.”

As if on cue, a wail like the bleat of a tiny lamb rose from the folds of the blankets. “Come Rapha,” Adam beckoned. “See if you still possess your old magic.”

Rapha approached and held out his arms to receive the bundle with one tiny fist flailing from the warm folds. As the squalling weight settled into the crook of his arm, he pulled a corner of the swaddling back to look into the wrinkled, red face. When he saw Rapha, the babe grew quiet and blinked, its over-large, clear eyes proclaiming a wordless, “It’s you!”

Rapha pulled the babe closer, his hair forming a curtain around their communion, and placed a kiss on the velvet skin of the babe’s brow as he drank in the most glorious scent in all creation, Adonai’s breath of new life.

He reached to stroke the tiny fist that opened to grasp his finger, and felt every fiber of his being bow in awe.

“Adonai is good,” Rapha managed to choke the words past the lump in his throat. The favor of the Most High filled the air and Rapha heard words well up from his innermost being. He opened his mouth and Adonai’s promise leapt from his tongue.

“Behold, when all is darkness, My light shines forth. Through this seed will I bring my Holy One, the hope and redemption of all creation. Remember, My promise cannot fail. I make a way where there is no way.”

Then Rapha took the babe to Adam and clasped his old friend’s broad shoulder. “He looks just like you.”

Adam gazed down at the baby boy, wonder etched in the wrinkles of his handsome face. “We will call him Seth.”

A fresh, cold wind whisked a cloud from the moon’s face as Rapha stepped into the night and held his face toward the silver glow. Surely the stars had drawn closer since he had met the babe.

He shut his eyes and listened, a slow smile spreading across his features. Yes. The sound was getting louder, swirling in his heart and rushing throughout the depths of the earth before galloping back to the heights of creation.

Thousands of celestial voices shouted with joy as hands of light applauded, the chorus building until earth’s weight dropped from Rapha’s shoulders and his soul shot up to the clouds, taking flight to join the dance.

The End… of the beginning

The Story Behind Rapha Chronicles:

The Fall

The journey of The Rapha Chronicles caught me completely by surprise and, to this day, I’m a bit stunned by the ride.

It began in a quiet, pre-dawn summer prayer time in 2007. There, face down on the beige carpet of our walk-in closet that doubles as my private sanctuary, after a few minutes of praise and stretching (good tip for staying awake) the moment developed laser-like clarity. There are few moments like this in life—the birth of a child, a rainbow that stops you in your tracks, or even staggering catastrophe such as those first images of the Twin Towers on 9/11—the moments when there’s no past, no future, just the right now. This was one.

Understand, I believe God is always right now, and right there, but I rarely unplug from distraction long enough to soak in that fact. That’s the power of entering His presence through praise. It helps us to focus. Anyhow, in this moment, I was fully aware He was there, humming with power in my humble closet. That thought blew my mind. Everything ground to a decisive halt and I melted—realizing my own insignificance as I grappled with the fact that, “He. Knows. My. Name.”

For a long moment all I could do was weep. My heart and mind were so filled they were literally bursting as I just drowned in… do I call it love… purity… holiness? At any rate, it was the most blissful pain I could endure. For once things were in proper priority—God IS. Everything else is nothing in comparison.

Every now and then the vague thought would flit through that my hubby was going to come in and promptly call the men in white jackets to report I’d lost my mind. But the moment stretched on, feeling for all the world like I was breathing in as God exhaled and I might, at any moment, just step on through to heaven.

Finally, it was absolute peace and my satiated brain was in a stupor. No audible voice. No vision. Just felt God ask,
“What do you want?”

A strange question for such a moment. For once, I couldn’t want anything. For once I was completely free of self-absorption, stress and hurry. I didn’t even want to remember my lengthy prayer list. But you don’t take such an offer lightly.

My first reply was something along the lines of an overawed, “You tell me,” since God obviously has a much better view of what I need. Finally though, I began to realize this overwhelming, fulfilling, scorching love from the Creator of All just didn’t fit. There were things I had been taught, things I had assumed, characteristics I had attached to my image of God, that were blown away by basking in just one pure drop of the presence of I AM.

So I asked a question. I thought it was a simple one, something about the angels, but it was like reaching out and grasping a rocket during countdown. The answer blew my mind and I yelped, “Oh my God!” to the silence of our still sleeping household.

It was just one bit of information, one missing piece of the puzzle that, when slipped into place, lit up the switchboard of Bible stories and Scripture I’d been exposed to all my life. It was shocking, giving instant stretch marks to my brain, but it made perfect sense, especially regarding those nagging questions about God’s true character.

So began a discussion that had me waking before the sun for the next three months as this new factor wedged its broad shoulders into my narrow spiritual worldview. This was both an exciting and painful process as many “truths” fell apart like poor construction during an earthquake, revealed in the glaring light of God’s love for what they were: assumptions and prejudice.

Each day, I grappled with new insights like a blind man suddenly seeing what he’s imagined all his life. I typed the journey into my computer, trying to wrap my brain around concepts that fried its circuits. At the end of those months, I knew the 200 plus pages contained vital information, but I really didn’t know what to do with it. I called it “Fruitbasket Turnover” and showed it to my husband who graciously did not label me a heretic. His assessment: “This needs to be a novel.”

Hmmm. Sounded like a LOT of work and this little pilgrimage had already absorbed three months of my “normal” writing time. Couldn’t I just publish it “as is” or stick it online alongside other off-beat ideas? Besides, who the heck was I to assume I could pass on spiritual revelations? No theological degrees. No political aspirations. Nothing famous or infamous enough for people to care what I had to say.

For a second opinion, I sent the manuscript to Adam, a writer friend, who came to the same conclusion: “This needs to be a novel.”

The next morning, a story began to take shape during my prayer time as if I was getting glimpses of a movie. So, I went to my customary coffee shop table and worked my way through the first scene, keeping my eyes on the simple step I could accomplish that day rather than the huge mountain ahead.

When I got home and checked e-mails, there was one from Adam titled “Some inspiration for you.” I opened the attachment to discover a full-screen image of warring angels with the words “FALLEN—a novel by Chana Keefer,” inscribed on it.

About a month later I had a complete summary, scene by scene, of the entire novel—twenty-five pages worth that told me loud and clear this was just the beginning of a huge undertaking. But my husband’s feedback after reading it was the spark I needed to take a huge gulp and plunge ahead. “I knew you could write but… damn!”

Adam’s assessment was both humbling and daunting: “This has the potential to be the Screwtape Letters of this generation.”

Whoa! Now I knew it was beyond me. But the task drove me to my knees every day. Not a bad working environment.

Even now, after three and a half years, several drafts and rewrites-I-thought-would-never-end as well as countless moments of facing an impenetrable, unscaleable wall of writer’s constipation, the task still amazes and humbles me. It was much more than writing a novel. It was a pilgrimage that crushed, shaped and changed me; the way I think, the way I pray, the way I love, even the way I view current events.

And the real beauty of it? There is no end in sight.

The Fall
is a novel that demands response. Perhaps your response will be anger and offense. I wouldn’t blame you a bit. But my prayer is that, like me, this story will take you on a journey of deeper fascination with your Maker and spark a lifetime of questions and answers of your own.

Sincerely,

Chana