The opening quotation is from "Porgy and Bess".

CUMI

One of these mornin's you gonna rise up singin',
Then you'll spread yo' wings and you'll take the sky…
I.Gershwin/D.Hayward

Thrown back into his cell, he didn't even have the energy to try to keep his head from bouncing on the concrete floor. He couldn't tell if he was dazed by the fall or not, but he seemed to be somewhat conscious; at least conscious enough to be aware of the jangling nerves throughout his body, each one trying to out-scream the others. He tried to sort through the thick hedge of pain to see if any part of his body was less damaged, and therefore might support the rest. His right shoulder seemed intact, and his right hip. Perhaps if he rolled very, very carefully he could lie on his right side and ease the pain in his buttocks and thighs. They had been tonight's target, along with the general beating, punching, and twisting of limbs.

He took a couple of breaths, as deeply as his ribs allowed. Then, bracing his vocal cords to keep his lungs inflated against the avalanche of pain he knew was on the way, he pulled up his knees and rolled onto his right side. Tears ran from his eyes as he gasped in pain, the gasping causing even more pain. Too tired to vocalize, he prayed within his mind, "Oh, Father! What an astounding number of nerves you have created!" The tears continued to flow. "It… is… so… hard… to love… these men… who beat me. Jesus, You'll have to love them through me: I don't think I can do it." His breathing quieted a little. "Father, please protect your people here, now that I'm not with them. Not that I was any great protection for them, but they are such gentle sheep. They need a shepherd to guard them and to lead them and to teach them. Please send my love to my wife; comfort her, protect her." Somehow the pain blurred enough for sleep to come.

What was that? Was it morning already? Sleep clung desperately to his mind, but the blaring trumpet ripped it away. Thus begins another day, he sighed. But the air seemed fresher, even bracing. He longed to fill his lungs with it… and found that he could. Then he heard the voice, a gentle voice of infinite compassion: "Rise up, my beloved, and come away."

She walked joyfully along the road, reveling in the sun, the sand, the dry, white clouds, the poor thirsty stream. Balancing her load majestically on her head, she strode toward the village. She had come this way many times in the last few years, bringing a little food, a few clothes, and a heart brimming with laughter and love.

She was still amazed by the joy. It was so different from the deep dread and terror of her childhood. Back then, what was feared was worshiped, and what was pleasant was distrusted. Rarely had she smiled – or seen anyone else smile. Playmates disappeared, and you quickly learned not to ask what had happened. Her people tried desperately to appease the spirits, but never seemed to know exactly how. And the spirits never seemed to care at all for the people: the spirits only got angry. It was like living under darkness, even in the brightest daylight. Nobody even talked about the night.

Then it had changed. She met people who introduced her to a God who was stronger than the spirits and Who – the thought was almost beyond imagination – actually loved His people… loved them!

The village children saw her, and ran to greet her, laughing and chattering and gamboling about. Some mothers and older women smiled in welcome as she came to the middle of the group of huts and put down her load. The men were hunting, but the elder welcomed her to the village. She bowed before him, then started distributing her meager gifts. Singing blossomed around her and from her, and she began singing the story she loved to tell: about Jesus who freed her from demons and filled her with joy. Some sang with her, but some scowled and refused her smiles and her gifts.

Then she heard the voice, a voice ringing with triumph: "Rise up, my beloved, and come away." She stood and raised her arms in ecstasy.

The room was filled with the scent of perfume, musk, cigarette smoke, and human bodies. The orange lights joined with the pulsing music to create an atmosphere of sensual delight. He had just come in, and as his eyes adjusted to the light he glanced over the group, smiling: it was going to be a good night. He recognized many of the people, but there were some he did not. It was always good to have new guys and gals join in. Yes, there were some definitely interesting ones here tonight, and the action was already underway. He paused for just a second: he knew he'd feel guilty and rotten tomorrow. Well… he'd deal with that tomorrow. After all, that's what forgiveness was all about, right? His pulse quickening in time with the throbbing music, he hurried to the locker room, out of his clothes, and back to the main room.

Was that a car horn? He'd never heard street noises in here before. Then he heard the voice, a voice like a fresh mountain breeze: "Rise up, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come away."

"No!" he wailed in an agony of shame, "Not now! Not when I'm here!" He tried to crouch down into a tight ball, but instead of falling down, his knees rose up to his shoulders. Weeping bitterly and trying to cover himself with his hands, he rose up through the ceiling.

"No, you have nothing to worry about, my dear," she said soothingly. "Have a pleasant day." She hung up her phone.

Can't these idiots figure anything out for themselves, she fumed silently. Why is it that every cock-and-bull news story requires a comment from the senior pastor? Where is my staff? They should be taking these calls.

Then she took a deep breath and answered herself: I know, it comes with the territory. Turning back to her manuscript she continued reviewing her editor's latest comments. This was an important book, the best she'd written and the most far-reaching. The years of research were now crystallizing into propositions and defenses, extrapolations and examples. Everything was so clear now, and she intuitively knew that her book would be a great step forward, away from the poor, superstitious and simplistic understanding of the Bible and into a deeper yet more enlightened appreciation of that great piece of literature.

The recent phone call jiggled back into her mind. One of her congregants had called asking if it was true that the Second Coming was near. Good Lord, she thought, are there still people who believe that's supposed to be a literal event? Of course they had no real acquaintance with First Century philosophy, but any child should be able to see that St. Paul was obviously writing in a code to protect himself and his readers.

Any child… Yes, she remembered when she was nine or ten and first got excited about religion. She'd even walked down the aisle in a church in her home town, gone to Sunday School, memorized verses… the whole nine yards. That was why she had decided to be a pastor in the first place. Fortunately, her seminary professors gently helped her see the childishness of that early way of understanding the Bible, and had opened entire worlds for her intellectual growth. She was now a much better, much more effective pastor than she could ever have been if she'd remained locked in that Medieval, literal mindset.

"Was the Second Coming near?" Chuckling, she flipped the pages over to her comments on the Letters to the Thessalonians. Her attention was momentarily distracted by a loud noise. That's odd, she thought, the organist usually notifies the staff when he uses the Festival Trumpet stop… those pipes are so loud!

"Rise up, my beloved, and come away."

Not even looking up from her manuscript, she automatically replied, "I'm sorry, I can't possibly leave for another hour."

"Rise up, my beloved, and come away!" The voice was endearing but firm.

"Who are you? How did you get in…" her voice died away as she looked up and saw a bright figure in the sky above her. Astonishment washed every thought from her mind. As she flew upward toward the Man, she managed to stammer, "You mean… you mean it was all… literally… true?"

"…and thank You for this food. Amen."

"Amen."

"So what did you do at school today, Buster? And have some green beans."

"Oh, same old stuff. English class is such a drag."

"Well, what did you enjoy? There must have been something."

"Pass the meat, please."

"Here, Mom. Um… well, chess club was great."

The family continued eating dinner and talking ("Not with your mouth full!"). Dad told about some of the difficulties of the project he was working on. Mom described getting past the writer's block she'd had for the past week. Buster waxed enthusiastic about the chess game he won, and Cissy recited the differences between nouns and verbs. When the meal was finished, Mom cleared off the leftovers and Dad brought in the pie.

"Oh, boy! My favorite!"

"Mine, too!"

"As always, my dear, you've outdone yourself."

The pie had just settled onto the table when they each heard the voice, a voice that somehow mixed warm domesticity with wild excitement: "Rise up, my beloved, my beautiful one, my brave one, my bright one; and come away." Their eyes shone brighter than the light in the ceiling as they jumped up to meet the Owner of that voice.

They rose from hospitals, from houses, from prisons, from churches, from parks, and from work places. They rose from cities, from villages, from farms, from jungles, from deserts, from steppes, from pampas, from hills, from mountains, from valleys, from rivers, and from shores. They rose through day, through twilight, through night, and through dawn. Some rose in joy, some in astonishment, some in shame, some in relief, and some in regret. They rose to meet the One Who summoned them, and Who, at the same time, greeted each as an individual although their numbers could not be counted.