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Authors: Creston Mapes
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ice.
Plopping down on my favorite leather chair, with the kind of worn brown leather you see on a pilot’s jacket, I opened the package. Inside was another long, narrow box wrapped in brown paper and labeled with my name and the address of our fan club. The return address simply read: Karen Bayliss—Topeka, Kansas.
The red rose inside was still fresh, thanks to the miniature water tube attached to its thorny stem. The note was written on several small pages of yellow stationery. The paper actually smelled fragrant; whether from the rose or Karen, I wasn’t sure. The slanted, bubbly handwriting had become all too familiar…
Dear Mr. Lester,
In case you didn’t know it, the yellow rose I brought you in Kansas City stood for friendship. I hope you will accept my friendship, even though we do not have a lot in common.
The red rose in this box stands for love. I sent it to remind you that while this world and the things in it give us no hope, Jesus gives us hope. Jesus loves you, Mr. Lester.
His blood is red like the rose. His blood ran down His arms and feet for you and me. He doesn’t want you to be without Him any longer. He stands at the door and knocks and assures you He will come in and comfort you and live inside you and give you peace if you’ll just cry out to Him, confess your sins, and believe in Him.
Today, Jesus is calling out to you. He wants you to understand, clearly, how much He loves you. His love is red like the rose.
My prayers go up to the Father many times each day for you…while I work, while I drive, and while I do chores around the house. It’s up to His Spirit to draw you, and I am confident He is doing that as you read this note.
May He bless you and keep you, until next time.
Sincerely,
Karen Bayliss
P.S. The small Bible in this box is for you. Check it out!
I just closed my eyes, shook my head, and smirked.
Unbelievable .
Carelessly, I picked through the tissue in the box till I found the palm-sized brown Bible, examining it for a good long while before opening it to see if she had written a note. Leafing through the first few pages, I found my name written in it, in Karen’s handwriting, along with this: John 10:27–28.
After a rather extensive, yet unsuccessful, search through the pages of the small book, I resorted to the table of contents, where I found a list of Old and New Testament books. Finding the page number for the book of John, I thumbed my way to the verses to which Karen had referred me.
“My sheep recognize my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them away from me.”
With my finger in the book I slumped into my favorite chair and stared off into nowhere for a long time. Then I read it again.
His sheep follow Him, I thought. They are well protected. And He gives them eternal life.
This was not the “Other Side” Endora was selling. I knew it in my bones.
This eternal life was something different. It was forever, with God. And it was for sheep, for those who would quietly follow Him. It was for people like Karen, the polar opposite of the Endoras and Everetts of the world. For Karen, who seemed bright and pure and innocent; who seemed to live so boldly, so cleanly, and with so much refreshing wind in her sails.
Although I wished it could be, this paradise was not for me. No, I would have to put my money on the Other Side. It was for all people, including reprobates like me.
The ice in the Scotch had melted. The tall glass was wet. And I sat in my chair until every last drop was gone.
6
GRAY HARRIS FUMED. So did the band. Dozens of business partners and thousands of DeathStroke fans were aggravated as well. My drug binge after Liza’s death had set us way behind on the recording of our latest album in California. And Endora’s unexpected collapse had forced me to cancel two shows on the Rowdy tour.
By the time I caught up with the band in Detroit, I was getting the cold
Plopping down on my favorite leather chair, with the kind of worn brown leather you see on a pilot’s jacket, I opened the package. Inside was another long, narrow box wrapped in brown paper and labeled with my name and the address of our fan club. The return address simply read: Karen Bayliss—Topeka, Kansas.
The red rose inside was still fresh, thanks to the miniature water tube attached to its thorny stem. The note was written on several small pages of yellow stationery. The paper actually smelled fragrant; whether from the rose or Karen, I wasn’t sure. The slanted, bubbly handwriting had become all too familiar…
Dear Mr. Lester,
In case you didn’t know it, the yellow rose I brought you in Kansas City stood for friendship. I hope you will accept my friendship, even though we do not have a lot in common.
The red rose in this box stands for love. I sent it to remind you that while this world and the things in it give us no hope, Jesus gives us hope. Jesus loves you, Mr. Lester.
His blood is red like the rose. His blood ran down His arms and feet for you and me. He doesn’t want you to be without Him any longer. He stands at the door and knocks and assures you He will come in and comfort you and live inside you and give you peace if you’ll just cry out to Him, confess your sins, and believe in Him.
Today, Jesus is calling out to you. He wants you to understand, clearly, how much He loves you. His love is red like the rose.
My prayers go up to the Father many times each day for you…while I work, while I drive, and while I do chores around the house. It’s up to His Spirit to draw you, and I am confident He is doing that as you read this note.
May He bless you and keep you, until next time.
Sincerely,
Karen Bayliss
P.S. The small Bible in this box is for you. Check it out!
I just closed my eyes, shook my head, and smirked.
Unbelievable .
Carelessly, I picked through the tissue in the box till I found the palm-sized brown Bible, examining it for a good long while before opening it to see if she had written a note. Leafing through the first few pages, I found my name written in it, in Karen’s handwriting, along with this: John 10:27–28.
After a rather extensive, yet unsuccessful, search through the pages of the small book, I resorted to the table of contents, where I found a list of Old and New Testament books. Finding the page number for the book of John, I thumbed my way to the verses to which Karen had referred me.
“My sheep recognize my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them away from me.”
With my finger in the book I slumped into my favorite chair and stared off into nowhere for a long time. Then I read it again.
His sheep follow Him, I thought. They are well protected. And He gives them eternal life.
This was not the “Other Side” Endora was selling. I knew it in my bones.
This eternal life was something different. It was forever, with God. And it was for sheep, for those who would quietly follow Him. It was for people like Karen, the polar opposite of the Endoras and Everetts of the world. For Karen, who seemed bright and pure and innocent; who seemed to live so boldly, so cleanly, and with so much refreshing wind in her sails.
Although I wished it could be, this paradise was not for me. No, I would have to put my money on the Other Side. It was for all people, including reprobates like me.
The ice in the Scotch had melted. The tall glass was wet. And I sat in my chair until every last drop was gone.
6
GRAY HARRIS FUMED. So did the band. Dozens of business partners and thousands of DeathStroke fans were aggravated as well. My drug binge after Liza’s death had set us way behind on the recording of our latest album in California. And Endora’s unexpected collapse had forced me to cancel two shows on the Rowdy tour.
By the time I caught up with the band in Detroit, I was getting the cold
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