THE REMNANT- CHAPTER 2

John sat on the raised ledge at the far end of the cell, pushing a pile of sand back and forth with his tattered shoe. From the light filtering through the barred window above him, John knew dully that the time was somewhere around two o’clock in the afternoon- almost time for his weekly questioning ritual- but he didn’t care. He moved the sand to the right, and then repositioned his foot and moved the pile back again, a little push at a time, over and over again.

John had ignored the overtures made by his mother, by Paul, and even by Mary for the greater part of a week, brushing them off with mumbled half-replies. If he had cared enough to look up around the cramped room, he would have seen many people glancing concernedly in his direction. By and large, though, the rest of the Bethel Lutheran group seemed to be taking Michael’s death in stride, which angered John. They had benefited from him just as much as any of the other church bodies in the cell. The Bethel youth group, of which John was a member, had relied heavily on Michael’s Tuesday morning Bible studies. And where were they now? Sitting in the center of the room, laughing with Pastor Rick, who seemed to be telling a funny story from his childhood.

John’s mind struggled to function. Thoughts and feelings swam back and forth, running around in repetitive circles- an endless stream of meaningless consciousness. The people around him were a blur as his mind whirled faster and faster, an out of control mental explosion of all the passions of the last week.

A scene swam before his tired eyes: the first time they had met Michael, who had just arrived together with the faithful of his church by prisoner caravan from the West Coast. He didn’t know them, and they didn’t know him, but within an hour of his arrival he had reorganized each church’s youth group, which had understandably fallen into disrepair, and was busy leading his first Bible study with the kids from Bethel.

John remembered distinctly how Michael’s eyes would light up- his eyes were his most distinguishing feature, always doing something. When someone cracked a joke- rare these days- Michael’s eyes would laugh, dancing in the dim light. When someone was dealing with grief, Michael’s eyes wept with them, sympathizing with a simple look in a way that the best psychologists could never understand. But it was in the Bible studies that Michael’s eyes came alive the most. As soon as he touched the tiny pocket Bible that he had somehow managed to smuggle through the guards, his eyes would light up as if illuminated by an inner fire. And when he spoke, in that soft yet forceful voice he used when explaining God’s Word, his hands would wander around, extrapolating on his words, and his eyes would burn with passion. The entire youth group- the entire prison cell- was in awe of him.

John sighed, and kicked away the pile of dust that he had been building, shaking his head. How could God have let this happen? They needed Michael; he needed Michael. Despite how some of the others were faring, or pretending to fare, John knew that everyone was struggling. It wasn’t easy being wrenched from a normal life and being thrown in prison for doing nothing wrong. Michael had undoubtedly been going through the same turmoil as everyone else, but he somehow found the spirit and strength to be a friend, mentor, and comforter to all those who needed one.

Probably the hardest part about confinement, John thought, was the uncertainty of tomorrow. One of the favorite mind games that the SES- Secular Enforcement Squad, who were in charge of the prison complex- loved to torture their prisoners with were the random execution days, like the one that had claimed Michael last week. It was speculated that there were up to a dozen prison chambers like the one they were in now arranged around the complex, and every day a different cell would be chosen for random executions. What that meant was that the regular popping of gunfire would be echoing from the central courtyard every afternoon. It was that sound of continual martyrdom that was almost as unnerving as the certainty of eventual execution oneself.

Another tactic the SES used was the regular interrogations that every prisoner underwent on a weekly basis. And if John had counted correctly, today was his day. Coming out of his stupor, he calculated the time by the amount of window light as approximately three in the afternoon. Guards would be coming any minute.

Looking up at the light streaming in from the tiny window, John reflected silently at the turmoil of the last month. The sunny day outside was a stark contrast to the dim suspense and horror of daily prison life in the cramped room that John was slowly beginning to adjust to. Sure, the toilet facilities were less than primitive, privacy was nonexistent, creature comforts were a thing of the past, and the threat of death was a very real certainty, but Prison Block #4 was beginning to feel somewhat like home.

John brightened somewhat as a soft voice spoke words of hope in his heart. He looked up at his youth group, still laughing with Pastor Rick. They were being joined by some of the teens from First Presbyterian of Duncanville- a church from close to where John had grown up. John stood to his feet, stiff from sitting for hours on end. It looked as though the youth groups were assembling for a combined worship service. John grinned; this activity always infuriated the guards, but there was little they could do to stop it. Singing in prison always reminded John of the biblical story of Paul and Silas; they hadn’t gotten an earthquake yet, but they were praying and, as Michael had reminded them constantly, with God all things are possible. The thought of Michael threatened to bring back the clouds of depression again, but the rising strains of "Shout To The Lord" lifted John’s spirits again, and he hurried over to join his friends, grinning at the red face of an SES officer glaring through the bars of the cell door.