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Authors: James Scott Bell
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scholars.
Certainty, certainty, heartfelt, joy, peace.
God of Jesus Christ.
God of Jesus Christ.
“My God and your God.”
“Thy God shall be my God.”
The world forgotten, and everything except God.
It went on, but I know how he felt. I know because it happened to me. I was seventeen, alone in the house, watching Billy Graham on TV. I’d listened to Billy Graham before. Mom and Dad, even though
they weren’t Christians, said he was one of the best speakers around. I was interested in acting, so I liked listening to good orators.
Billy Graham was one of the best, I agreed. But I had never responded to his message.
Until this night.
I can’t remember what his subject was, but when he started speaking about death, I got attentive. Even at seventeen, I realized I would die someday. Maybe this was something I needed to hear.
Then Billy Graham said that, for Christians, there is no fear of death. He pointed to the sky. “We’re going to heaven!” he said.
At that moment, instantly, my body got hot from head to foot. I knew nothing about the Holy Spirit or the call of God. All I knew was I was brimming with an inexpressible joy and longing, the fire of it, the blaze of it, and I wanted that heaven Billy Graham was talking about.
When Billy offered the invitation, I dropped to my knees and prayed to the TV.
That was the fire of my own conversion, and it burned away everything else I thought was important to me. Basketball, hot cars, cheerleaders.
I gave my life over to him that high school year, and I knew I was going to be a minister.
Mom and Dad were shocked.
So were my friends and teachers.
But there was no going back. The fire had burned it all up — my sins, my plans, my life.
I never doubted my conversion or my choice. But over time, the memory of the fire faded.
Now I want it back.
FIVE
1.
The first Monday in April was hot in L.A. The usual snarl of morning traffic choked Temple Street as Dallas, clinging to Cara and following Jefferson Waite, approached the criminal courthouse.
Immediately, the pack of waiting reporters descended on her, barking questions at the new hot story — Dallas Hamilton.
In the last several days she had become the focus, the media star, the Garbo of wronged wives. Wanting nothing more than to be left alone, her resistance excited brute passions. She knew nothing worked the media beast into a frenzy like the pursuit of one who wished to avoid them.
Especially where sex and murder were the two angles, the salacious twins of tabloid headlines.
“No comment. No comment,” Jeff repeated. He did not wear dark glasses. He smiled for the cameras. Dallas was not so naïve as to believe Jefferson Waite should want to shun media scrutiny. He was a lawyer, after all, and in Southern California, one case with publicity like this could make an entire career. But she also trusted him implicitly, knew he was good, knew he would fight to the last to prove Ron’s innocence.
They followed closely, this organism of publicity, like a cloud of gnats swarming on a hot morning. Dallas kept her head down all the way to the front doors, holding Cara’s arm, and was thankful when she finally passed through the metal detectors. Safe at last in the place that was the most forbidding. At least the deputy sheriffs would keep order, keep nosy reporters from getting in her face.
Ron’s preliminary hearing was to begin this morning in Department 27. Judge Clifford Bartells was fair but tough, Jeff had explained. And a prelim was not generally where a case was won. The prosecution had only to provide minimal evidence, just enough to convince a judge to bind a defendant over for trial. With Bartells, that would be a low threshold indeed.
67
“But I’ll be looking for the haymaker,” Jeff told her. “Every now and then the prosecution messes up. If it does, I’ll be ready.”
The prosecutor, one Mike Freton, was a tall, silver-haired man with narrow eyes. The sort of man, Dallas thought, who has seen his share
Certainty, certainty, heartfelt, joy, peace.
God of Jesus Christ.
God of Jesus Christ.
“My God and your God.”
“Thy God shall be my God.”
The world forgotten, and everything except God.
It went on, but I know how he felt. I know because it happened to me. I was seventeen, alone in the house, watching Billy Graham on TV. I’d listened to Billy Graham before. Mom and Dad, even though
they weren’t Christians, said he was one of the best speakers around. I was interested in acting, so I liked listening to good orators.
Billy Graham was one of the best, I agreed. But I had never responded to his message.
Until this night.
I can’t remember what his subject was, but when he started speaking about death, I got attentive. Even at seventeen, I realized I would die someday. Maybe this was something I needed to hear.
Then Billy Graham said that, for Christians, there is no fear of death. He pointed to the sky. “We’re going to heaven!” he said.
At that moment, instantly, my body got hot from head to foot. I knew nothing about the Holy Spirit or the call of God. All I knew was I was brimming with an inexpressible joy and longing, the fire of it, the blaze of it, and I wanted that heaven Billy Graham was talking about.
When Billy offered the invitation, I dropped to my knees and prayed to the TV.
That was the fire of my own conversion, and it burned away everything else I thought was important to me. Basketball, hot cars, cheerleaders.
I gave my life over to him that high school year, and I knew I was going to be a minister.
Mom and Dad were shocked.
So were my friends and teachers.
But there was no going back. The fire had burned it all up — my sins, my plans, my life.
I never doubted my conversion or my choice. But over time, the memory of the fire faded.
Now I want it back.
FIVE
1.
The first Monday in April was hot in L.A. The usual snarl of morning traffic choked Temple Street as Dallas, clinging to Cara and following Jefferson Waite, approached the criminal courthouse.
Immediately, the pack of waiting reporters descended on her, barking questions at the new hot story — Dallas Hamilton.
In the last several days she had become the focus, the media star, the Garbo of wronged wives. Wanting nothing more than to be left alone, her resistance excited brute passions. She knew nothing worked the media beast into a frenzy like the pursuit of one who wished to avoid them.
Especially where sex and murder were the two angles, the salacious twins of tabloid headlines.
“No comment. No comment,” Jeff repeated. He did not wear dark glasses. He smiled for the cameras. Dallas was not so naïve as to believe Jefferson Waite should want to shun media scrutiny. He was a lawyer, after all, and in Southern California, one case with publicity like this could make an entire career. But she also trusted him implicitly, knew he was good, knew he would fight to the last to prove Ron’s innocence.
They followed closely, this organism of publicity, like a cloud of gnats swarming on a hot morning. Dallas kept her head down all the way to the front doors, holding Cara’s arm, and was thankful when she finally passed through the metal detectors. Safe at last in the place that was the most forbidding. At least the deputy sheriffs would keep order, keep nosy reporters from getting in her face.
Ron’s preliminary hearing was to begin this morning in Department 27. Judge Clifford Bartells was fair but tough, Jeff had explained. And a prelim was not generally where a case was won. The prosecution had only to provide minimal evidence, just enough to convince a judge to bind a defendant over for trial. With Bartells, that would be a low threshold indeed.
67
“But I’ll be looking for the haymaker,” Jeff told her. “Every now and then the prosecution messes up. If it does, I’ll be ready.”
The prosecutor, one Mike Freton, was a tall, silver-haired man with narrow eyes. The sort of man, Dallas thought, who has seen his share
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