For those who like fiction with a twist...
 

Jacob’s Cell 

by Rick Barry, © 2004

(Originally published in Breakaway magazine, Sept. 2004)

Jacob Ivanov opened his eyes. As soon as he did, though, he wished he hadn’t. Above him was the familiar ceiling of rough cement. A naked light bulb dangled crookedly, its power now cut off. High in the wall over Jacob’s bunk, a hazy, gray light filtered through the barred window.

So, it had been no dream. He was really here, still locked inside the cell where he had spent more days than he could count. And with each new dawn Jacob opened his eyes with a sliver of hope that this place had been nothing more than a twisted nightmare.

The battered mattress beneath Jacob’s body barely cushioned him from the rusty bed frame. Even now, as he lay motionless, he could feel through it where each of the creaky springs supported his weight. In grim humor, he wondered how many prisoners had died on that thin padding.

Jacob’s eyes meandered back to the barred window. “Should I try looking out this morning?” he mused. “Will I be able to see her today?”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jacob mustered his strength and pulled himself to a sitting position. The chipped cement floor was chilly on his bare feet, but not intolerable. Winter would be worse. Today, though, when the sun had risen higher, the cell should warm up a little.

Keeping to his morning ritual, Jacob slid to his knees beside the bunk. “Dear God,” he began aloud, “help me to stand firm for You. Yesterday, when the warden offered to free me if I would sign a statement that I reject my faith, I almost agreed. Forgive me for my impatience to be free. Thank You for strengthening me in my weakness. And please, send me a copy of Your Word to warm my heart in this cold place.”

Breathing a weary “Amen,” Jacob glanced again at the little window above the bunk. His heart longed to see her again. After all, she was the only woman he ever got to see these days.

“Not yet,” he decided. “It’s still too early.” He reminded himself that on foggy mornings he couldn’t see enough to make the strenuous climb to the window worth the effort. Better to wait, just in case.

Jacob rose to his feet and regarded the heavy door. How sick he was of that locked portal! Peeling flecks of gray paint covered its ugly surface. On the floor inside it stood his aluminum bowl and cup, mutely waiting beneath the food slot where he had placed them the night before.

“Hm. Too early for breakfast.”

The thin gruel that Jacob received twice a day barely qualified as food. Surely it could not provide many nutrients. But at least the stuff quieted the nagging in his stomach for a while. Even better were the days when the gruel arrived still lukewarm. Running his tongue over cracked lips, he hoped breakfast would not be long in coming today.

He eyed the glass peephole in the door. Was a guard watching him that very moment? He shrugged. Impossible to know for sure. But from the warden’s sarcastic remarks, Jacob understood that guards sometimes spied on him as he prayed. They simply could not understand why he continued to kneel and talk to someone they could not see. Insanity, some of them concluded. Religious fanatic, others declared.

While he waited for his meal, Jacob decided to stretch his muscles. Beginning at the door, he took five steps along his bunk and stopped, his nose nearly touching the wall. He had done this so often that he no longer noticed the bed bugs and roaches that previous occupants had smashed there. He turned left. Four more paces brought his eyes within inches of the next wall. Turning left once more, he took five paces back to the door, carefully avoiding the bucket in the corner. After all, existence in the cell was already wretched. Jacob didn’t want to worsen his plight by knocking over the crude toilet. If the guards wouldn’t provide water for washing his body, it was certain there would be none for scrubbing floors.
         “We had so much freedom,” he muttered. “But usually my friends and I squandered it. Sure, I went through the motions of going to church, but my heart wasn’t in it. So many people like me—even my parents—were too busy chasing pleasure to worry about the changes in our land. No wonder the atheists were able to seize control.”

His grandfather, the one who used to live in Moscow, had wagged a finger in Jacob’s face and warned him not to underestimate ungodly men. “I have known dedicated Communists,” the elderly man declared more than once. “A man who turns his back on God has no reason to live a moral life. Even worse, a man who hates God hates God’s people. Such zealots will take over this country if good people sit on their hands and do nothing!”

Jacob sighed. “I used to laugh at his predictions, but he was right. Not until too late did I open my eyes and realize where our government was headed. Yes, I finally got serious about my faith. But by then it was too late to accomplish much good. Instead, they just arrested me to shut me up. Maybe prison is what we Christians earned for not actively living our faith.”

Still pacing, Jacob winced at the memory of the many times he could have shared a word about Jesus with friends or neighbors—but didn’t. He wished he could turn back the clock and live his life differently, not be so self-centered. He also regretted that he had committed so few Scripture verses to memory. But it was too late. The past could not be altered. All he could do now was worship God alone as best he could.

Just then, a cheery ray of sunlight spilled through the bars of the window. Jacob paused and held his fingers in its brightness. The light’s delicate warmth fetched back memories of days when he could freely walk and run in the park.

Should he try to see her now, or should he wait a little longer? Jacob’s impatience settled the matter. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to see her again, and he might not have the strength to climb up there for many more days.

Turning to the bunk, he folded back the flimsy mattress and exposed the bare springs. Next he shuffled to the corner and retrieved the stinking bucket. He was grateful for its wooden lid. The bucket in his previous cell was not covered. “If not for this lid,” he reflected, “I wouldn’t have a way to perform my little trick.”

Placing the bucket on the bedsprings, Jacob stepped up and steadied himself beside it. Gingerly placing his right foot on the middle of the lid, he hoisted himself until his hands caught the bars overhead. Finally, standing on the tips of his toes, he managed to pull his eyes up to the window. Holding himself in that position was a strain, but this morning the exertion proved worthwhile.

“Yes!” he exulted. “I can see her today!”

 Despite the discomfort of his position, Jacob’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. Across the water—difficult to see from the cell but still visible—stood the huge, pale-green statue of a woman lifting a torch to the sky.

END

The Next Fithian

By Rick Barry, © 2008

(Originally published in Breakaway, February 2008 issue)  

A woman’s scream tore Rankin’s attention from the magazine he’d been reading. In the next instant, a muffled explosion erupted somewhere outside the aircraft.

“They’re shooting at us!” a man shouted.

The Boeing 747 tilted into a gut-wrenching dive. Instantly Rankin Johnson’s trip to Israel as an exchange student became a bedlam of shrieking, shouting, terrified passengers.

“What’s happening? Who’s shooting?” Rankin yelled into the chaos.

Was it a fighter jet? Or maybe missiles shooting up from ground launchers? From where he sat in one of the middle seats, Rankin couldn’t see whatever the passengers at the windows were screaming about.

Another explosion—much louder—sent a violent shudder throughout the jetliner.

“We’re going to die!” the grandmother beside Rankin wailed.

He still didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t doubt she was right.

Yellow, plastic oxygen masks dropped from the overhead bins. Just as Rankin reached for his, a final deafening explosion assaulted his ears.

Suddenly the jetliner was gone! Rankin glimpsed only blue sky and clouds as his body hurtled through icy air. His lungs gasped for breath.

 In sheer terror the teen shut his eyes and uttered a final prayer: “God! I’m yours!”

Nowhere, everywhere

When Rankin next opened his eyes, his heart was still pounding, but he had no idea where he was. Instead of plummeting to a horrible death, he found himself surrounded by…what?

Neither standing nor sitting, the teen seemed to be suspended in white haze. Absolute peace had replaced the screams, explosions, and rushing wind of the previous seconds.

“Am I dead?” he wondered aloud.

“To the contrary. You have never been more alive.”

Through the haze a man drew closer. The face reminded Rankin of an elf. His white-clothed torso faded into nothingness below the waist. Rankin guessed what he must be.

“That is right, Rankin. I am an angel. Call me Fabriel.”

Rankin’s heart still thumped rapidly, but with a new kind of fear. “But… you said I’m not dead. Where am I?”

Fabriel smiled. “Difficult to explain. For the moment you are everywhere, but nowhere. You are every time, but no time.”

“Huh?”

The angel’s smile widened. “Perhaps it will help to think of yourself as in a bubble. The physical universe is not a natural phenomenon. It was created—”

“By God. Yes, I know. I’ve accepted Christ as Savior.”

“Precisely. That is partly why you have been chosen. But have you ever considered that time itself is not a normal condition? Our Lord created time for the convenience of creation. Here, you and I occupy a bubble in the fabric of your reality.”

His heart slowing slightly, Rankin’s next questions were more astute. “What’s this all about? Does everyone who dies go through one of these ‘bubbles’?”

“No. And I repeat—you are not dead. This bubble was necessary to preserve your natural body from the death. Now it protects you as you transit from your previous existence into another. You are a chosen vessel, Rankin. You are to become the next Fithian. You will bear witness of the Savior in another galaxy, or more precisely, in another dimension.”

 Rankin’s next reaction was swift and automatic. Moving his right hand to his left, he pinched the back of his hand—hard! But he did not wake up. It was no dream.

Later, after the angel had departed, Rankin struggled to recall how long Fabriel had talked to him about the teen’s upcoming “mission.” Rankin recalled specific portions of the conversation, important bits of information. But sometimes the answers were so far removed from life on earth that he could only partially fathom their meaning. Had the discussion lasted for minutes, or for days?

“What’s a Fithian?” Rankin recalled asking.

“Fithian is both a name and a title. It signifies a chosen messenger of the Light. Not simply as an evangelist from one city to another, but from one dimension to another. From now on, you are no longer Rankin Johnson. I name you Rankin Fithian.”

“Another dimension?” Rankin had repeated.

“Your world, your universe from the farthest star in one direction to the farthest star in the opposite direction comprises only part of God’s creation. It is one facet of reality, or one dimension. But there is another reality, an intersecting dimension. That is where I am taking you.”

“Why me?” the teen had asked.

“For multiple reasons. You have a sense of adventure. Your faith in the Savior is strong. You have won souls for the Kingdom. Also, because your parents are already with the Lord, you will grieve leaving earth less than another. Finally, because the aircraft you were in was destroyed, your departure will not be noticed.”

“Destroyed?”

“No survivors. Except you.”

Now Rankin tried to remember all that Fabriel had said about the “other dimension,” the place Rankin was being taken to even now.

“In your dimension, sin entered soon after the Creation. The first man and woman fell into sin, affecting every descendant. However, in the intersecting dimension it was not so. Men and women lived in joyful harmony with God—until recent times.  Sin entered. Some turned from God to their own misery. Spiritual death, too, has entered.”

That was how Rankin learned the mission of a Fithian. The Son of God would not suffer and die a second time for the alternate dimension. A messenger who knew the Gospel was needed to explain the Way to ones who were dying…

Zemna

In the middle of Rankin’s musings something solid bumped against his heels. Like a soap bubble popping, the protective sphere vanished. The teen found himself standing in a grassy, bowl-shaped depression in the ground. Overhead stretched a pale-purple sky.

“You’ve arrived. This is the planet Zemna.”

Rankin turned to find Fabriel standing at his side, this time in a completely visible body.

The angel pointed up one of the surrounding slopes. “Walk that way. You will find some who need to learn of the Savior.”

Rankin swallowed. “How will I talk to them? Don’t tell me people on Zemna speak English?”

“No. They speak the original tongue your own planet once spoke. Here, no Tower of Babel occurred to confuse the languages. We are now speaking that language too, although you are unaware of the change.”

Rankin pulled the New Testament from his pocket and flipped it open. “But this is in English. I still understand it.”

The hint of a smile appeared on Fabriel’s face. “True, your brain can still comprehend the written Word in English. But your thought and speech patterns are now in First Tongue. Trust me.”

The angel’s body began rising into the air, and he pointed once more. “That way, Rankin.”

“Wait! I still don’t totally get it. What do I do?”

“The same as on earth. Share your faith. Point souls to the Savior.”

A final question nagged at Rankin’s mind. Was this his last chance to ask it? “You called me ‘the next Fithian.’ What happened to the last Fithian?”

Fabriel’s body was becoming transparent as quickly as he was rising. But his reply sounded out clearly: “He was killed.”

“What do you mean, killed?” Rankin shouted. But the pastel purple sky remained silent.

For a long while Rankin stood rooted to the spot. Then, as if rousing from a dream, he started up the slope. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I don’t even get an R2D2 for company.”

When he reached the rim of the depression he’d been standing in, Rankin gasped. In the distance stood the blackened remains of a town. Here and there, wisps of smoke curled upward. Was he in a war zone?

Summoning his courage, Rankin began trotting. “God, help me to know what to do.”

When he entered the smoking outskirts, Rankin found no dead bodies as he dreaded. The style of architecture was different from anything he had seen on earth, but still not like anything out of Star Wars.

“No cars? No trucks? How do these people get around?”

Suddenly a whining sound broke out overhead, growing louder and more menacing by the second.

“Run!” a voice seemed to blurt inside Rankin’s head.

No sooner had he dashed across the street than a series of high-pitched explosions shattered the silence behind him. Adrenalin kicked in, and Rankin bolted over a scorched plaza, down a narrow walkway, and into the protection of one of the few buildings standing intact.

Outside he heard a steady droning, as if an enormous dragonfly was somewhere out there. Not wanting whatever it was to find him before he knew what it was, he pressed deeper into the building.

Contact!

“This is so freaky,” the teen muttered to himself. “Like being swallowed by a sci-fi flick.”

Suddenly a command rang out: “Halt, or I’ll vaporize you!”

Rankin’s heart lurched, but his body froze as commanded. Slowly he shifted his gaze to find the source of the voice. What he saw was a man—apparently wounded—crouching behind some kind of console. In his hand was a device the teen didn’t recognize.

The man’s skin was darker than Rankin’s, and his eyes appeared slightly oriental, but he was definitely human. As if weary, he lowered the weapon. “I thought you were one of them. Now I see you’re not—even though I’ve never seen garments like those before.”

Rankin glanced from his blue jeans to the man’s clothing, which resembled an orange karate outfit to Rankin.

“You thought I was one of what?” Rankin asked.

“One of them.” The man slumped, and Rankin saw behind him a woman on the floor. She was beautiful, but unmoving.

“Is she…”

“Not yet. We’re both dying. The sickness is on us. Flee; save yourself.”

The word save sparked something inside of Rankin. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew something these people needed.

“Listen, I must tell you a story. It’s important to the saving of your souls.”

“Our souls are damned,” the man nearly sobbed. “We turned from the Creator. The heavens are closed to us now.”

“No! There is hope. You must listen!”

As Rankin talked, he reached toward the man for emphasis. One glimpse of the boy’s palm caused the man’s eyes to widen. “The Intersection of All Things! You…you are a Fithian!”

Confused, Rankin twisted his hand to view his own palm. There he found something new—not a scar, but a dark reddish mark. It formed a perfect cross. Was that the Intersection of All Things?

The woman’s eyes fluttered open. She stared at Rankin in amazement.

“Yes, I’m a Fithian. Now listen!”

Step by step Rankin explained how God had sent His Son to sinful mankind to save them from their sin... About how they rejected and crucified Him… About how He rose again and conquered death that all who believe on Him might gain new life… Rankin didn’t explain about Romans or Jews or even where those events happened. Just that they did happen.

Despite obvious pain, the man and woman hung on Rankin’s every word.

“Do you believe?” Rankin finally asked.

“Praise the Creator, I believe!” the man said.

“I believe!” the woman echoed.

“Then let’s seal your belief in prayer to the Creator,” Rankin suggested.

The couple struggled to a kneeling position and lifted their countenances to the ceiling, as if basking in unseen radiance. Instead of bowing his head, Rankin followed their example. Each one prayed in turn.

“So be it,” the man concluded moments later. But the exertion proved too much. Both he and woman collapsed onto the floor.

“Thank you, Fithian,” the woman whispered. “We can depart in peace.”

With a final effort, the two embraced. Moments later, the sound of their breathing stopped. They moved no more.

Rankin bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for getting me here on time.” When he reopened his eyes, it was just in time to see a yellow glow enveloping the prone figures. Then the bodies winked out of existence.

“Boy, do I have a lot to learn,” Rankin told himself. “Starting with, what does a Fithian do now?”

To be continued…

My Life in the Refrigerator 

By Rick Barry © 2006

(Originally published in In Touch online)

Imagine waking up in the middle of a mid-winter’s night. Your face, a hand, and any part of your body that’s not under the blankets are icy cold. In fact, the temperature in your bedroom feels about five degrees lower than the inside of an igloo.

Has the power gone off? you wonder. Did the furnace break down?

Then your eyes fall upon a bone-chilling sight. Against all logic, someone has opened your bedroom window about eight inches, allowing in an arctic breeze! Beside you in the bed, your guilty spouse sleeps blissfully.

Welcome to my world.

To be honest, when my wife and I got married, I don’t recall reciting any vows like, “For richer, for poorer; for hotter, for colder….” If I had, that might have been the first clue that my blushing bride has ice water in her veins. They say that love is blind, but I never realized it could also be numb.

Hot versus cold

Me? I relish hot days and all the sunshine, beaches, and barbecues that go with them. My lovely wife, on the other hand, barely endures warm weather. With the help of air conditioning, ceiling fans, and sparkling glasses of iced tea, she survives until autumn. What Pam really thrives on, however, is cold weather—during which she continues to enjoy the same ceiling fans and glasses of frosty tea.

“It’s hot in here!” Pam will often comment.

To which I might reply, “No, it’s not. Your internal thermostat is just broken.”

Speaking of thermostats, my ideal setting is around 72° - 75° Fahrenheit. My other half, however, would set our thermostat at 64° (or lower) year round, if I let her. While we’re home together, we compromise at 68°, which is warm to her, but chilly to me. (I’m sure the setting plunges southward when I’m away.)

According to one author, men are from Mars and women are from Venus. I don’t see how that can be. Being so close to the sun, Venus must be a fairly hot planet. Judging from my wife’s love of cooler climes, I suspect that at least some women must come from Neptune. Maybe even Pluto.

For most people the word Frigidaire refers to a manufacturer of refrigerators. For me, it could be an adjective that describes what I breathe whenever I’m home.

Cool advantages

Of course, I have ways of escaping the icebox from time to time. For instance, whenever I tire of scraping frost from my computer screen, I can head out to the garage, fire up the lawn mower, and work up a decent sweat while basking in glorious summer sunshine.

Another way to get my blood thawed and pumping again is to don my running gear and jog a few miles around the neighborhood.

But if I’m going to be indoors, summer or winter, I can plan on wearing flannel shirts or thermal underwear (while my wife sports shorts and a tee-shirt and continues to remark on how hot our house is).

Sure, there are some benefits to letting my wife keep our house as chilly as an ice-skating rink. For example, new acquaintances often tell me I look ten or twelve years younger than I am. I suppose that’s to be expected. After all, it’s normal for meat kept in a refrigerator to stay fresher for longer.

Another advantage is the free winter sports. I mean, it’s not every home where you can toboggan from your second floor bedroom down to the ground-floor living room. Plus, after only a couple of swipes with the Zamboni, our kitchen floor is ready for figure skating.

Overcoming differences

For some couples, disagreements about thermostat settings or those icicles hanging in the shower stall could spark arguments, or at least subdued tension. After all, each human being naturally wants his or her own way. When we don’t get what we want, there’s a genuine temptation to gripe or criticize.

But even though my cold-blooded wife and I function on totally different temperature systems, we remain best friends. How? Well, for one thing each of us keeps in mind the goal of pleasing the other. Rather than opposing each other to please self, we both compromise our personal desires in order to satisfy the other.

One Biblical instruction for us husbands is to love our wives and not be bitter against them (Col. 3:19). God’s Word also tells each husband to honor his wife (1 Peter 3:7). No doubt, part of loving a wife includes providing a safe and comfortable environment (even if a nippy one) for her to live in.

On the other hand, the Scriptures encourage married women to submit to their husbands (Col. 3:18). So, even though I know my wife would submit if I set the thermostat to my liking and ordered her not to touch it, my love for her and desire to honor her keep me from making hot-headed decrees. Instead, we each make concessions in harmonious love.

Sometimes I wonder… Was the Lord smiling when He led Pam’s and my mismatched body temperatures to each other? I can’t say.

But what I do know is that, like snowflakes, no two people are alike. Every husband and wife duo will be similar in some ways, but different in others. Those differences, however, are no excuse for anger and quarreling. Like an Olympic bobsled team, spouses need to hunker down together as they navigate the dangerous twists and turns of marital life.

In conclusion, please excuse me if I’ve committed any typos while writing this article. I do know how to spell—but it’s kind of tricky keyboarding while wearing gloves.

P.S. When we all get to Heaven, if the Lord asks for a volunteer to be in charge of the thermostat—will somebody please make sure that Pam doesn’t raise her hand?

END