Incredible how loud silence is. How contradictory. Silence that should not be heard, screams at you. The irony of it all when you are surrounded by its invisibleness, yet as real as though you could reach out and grasp it. Silence that you want filled with youthful laughter and movement; silence in which you tense your muscles, straining to hear each breath, fighting against anything that would distract you.

The intrusion of steps down a marble hall bring your thoughts to the awareness of the scene before you, breaking into the peace that thoughts can sometimes bring. Robbing you of even that small release. A hesitation outside the door grabs at your attention, the steps move on but they have accomplished their purpose. They have broken the silence and brought your thoughts back to reality.

Jon Hammond lifts his eyes to gaze upon the still, white face that lays on the sterile hospital bed before him. His son. His only son.

Death lingers in the corner like a hungry vulture. Waiting to snatch his boy from him, never to return. Oh where had the time gone? Jon's heart is heavy with remorse for he can only see the physical body of this young lad lying so still on the cold white sheets which soon would match the body. Cold. White. Life was draining from him. Only a body, but what was the person like within that body? Jon's mind screamed within him. He had not taken time to find out. And now it was too late.

More steps hesitate outside the door. Jon continues his wait. They told him death would come quickly and the pain Tommie would suffer would be minimal, so he asked, no, rather commanded that he not be disturbed. For once in his life he was putting his son first. Heartlessly, and in vain, they had argued with him but he had won out. Perhaps with their daily dealings with death they had become anesthetized to the mutable needs of the living. Some wanted to be alone with their grief; others feared silence and death, and needed to be surrounded by people. But not Jon. No, he had had enough of people. People and places had always replaced his son. Now, it was too late. So he demanded this small thing. To be alone with his son at the time of his death.

The head nurse had finally been summoned, and was quick to recognize Jon's ability to give them bad publicity if they denied him this last privacy with his son. They yielded to the pressure. After all, there was nothing more they could do for the child.

Talk was that Jon could very well be the next anchor man for the national news and already carried a lot of leverage and influence. He was credible, and well lrespected. His very credibility as a dispassionate, straight factual reporter won him the job as the youngest reporter on special assignment to the White House, and they didn't want to make him an enemy.

Occasionally a colleague would display emotions or interject their own opinion, or when on a quest for higher ratings used personal aggrandizement to sensationalize the news or ignored dull, but vital stories for fear of driving viewers away. But not Jon. His job was to report truth and leave his personal opions out.

When Jon was the local newscaster he never bowed to these tactics, but covered the news quickly and succinctly. Because of his handsome, impeccable appearance, it was also suggested he capitalize on it to popularize himself. Jon had watched as many good reporters were ruined because they could not handle their ego and used journalism purely to promote themselves as a celebrity. It was not in Jon to stoop to these methods.

Jon's high-ranking military father, though he never lived to see his son's maturity and promising career, would have been proud of him. His father had instilled in him the desire to be the best he could be, and achieve it through hard work, high ethics and unquestionable scruples and principles, so that he neverneed be ashamed or excuse, justify or rationalize his actions.

Because of the social contacts that came naturally to him through his father's position in the government, Jon moved about with ease among dignitaries as a "norm" in his life, never letting the relationships influence him by their very power of existence. Jon's father taught him the importance of earning his place in life, which ultimately resulted in leadership qualities ddeveloping that would be necessary for an anchor man.

Yes, his father would have been proud of him for his achievements. But would he have been equally proud of him for his lack of building a meaningful relationship with his son? This son that now lay dying before his very eyes? Jon treasured the memories he had of his own father. But what kind of memories did his young son have of him? He had been too busy. He hadn't taken the tiem. There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow. Deceptive, elusive, tomorrow. Or was there? No. The truth of that lay painfully before him.

He could no sooner redeem the time he had lost with his son, than he could retract all the damage rash words do, once they were spoken. The loss was there to suffer, to bear down, to kill, the damage done. He felt utterly hopeless. His day of grace had ended and his time with Tommie was to be no more.

And his heart was breaking as he watched the gentle, shallow last breaths his son was taking.

His thoughts returned to his life goals. Goals he had set to build character. Jon wisely knew that a strong passion for accurcy would not always rule out a thirst for sensationalsim, or the trap of using trendy techniques to gain attention. He knew this was his greatest strength and so he guarded it. With the help of his lovely wife, Amanda, he was on the alert for any weakening, and kept any compromise towards the tendencies of other newsmen, under control.

A smile flirted about his lips as he remembered the time Amanda had interrupted him in the bathroom.

"Why, Jon! What is it that's different about you?" she asked, looking him over, turning him about.

"Jon, you didn't!"

"It's just a touch of color . . . hon. . . what do you think? he had asked. Actually, he had hoped it wasn't THAT noticeable. He had wanted the graying to look quite natural, but it obviously didn't escape the scrutiny of his beloved.

"It's quite nice, Jon . . . when it's really a part of you . . . but, Jon, you don't NEED it. The viewers accept what you have to say in spite of your youth. SOME day, perhaps, you'll come by that color naturally . . . at least, I'm looking forward to seeing it happen! So what if the other announcers have gray hair . . . it doesn't make their news any more reliable if they haven't checked it thoroughly."

"I just thought I'd try a bit of gray . . ."

"Now dear, you don't NEED it!"

"You know, Amanda . . . only blonds make it as reporters, if they are female; seldom do we see a successful blond male reporter on television . .."

"Or a mustache or a beard . . . I know, Jon, I know . . . but leave your hair the way it is . . . not all the newsmen need to be aged!"

He had spun her about their small bathroom and kissed her turned-up nose for her honesty and encouragement. How he had loved her . . . but the time to see each other 'gray' had not been permitted.

Amanda helped him to dress impeccably, ordering many of his suits handmade out of London, Italy and France after he was moved from the "blow-dried, pretty boy" status of a local newsman anchor to foreign reporter. He didn't fear the "messy" jobs and often went in disguise to dangerous places to get a story. He wanted to get the news first-hand and accurate. Thus, his reporting was credible and his reputation grew. He became a household name, and those who had something to conceal skirted his presence if at all possible. He could not be bought off.

His integrity and love for his country forced him to leave out anything that would jeopardize national security, though the stakes were high and the temptations to do otherwise were ever present.

"Freedom of the press, freedom of the press" screamed his colleagues, but Jon would turn away and say softly, but firmly, "Honor and trust before rights."

Death struck quidkly while Jon was still in college, stripping him of his parents. Though they had seen the beginnings of a promising career in their son, they did not live to see the fulfillment of their hopes.

Death was to strike close to Jon again. And always unexpectedly.

Tommie moves on the bed bringing Jon's thoughts back to the present. The boy's eyes flutter. "Dad?" he whispers.

"Yes, son, I'm here," Jon says squeezing Tommies fingers. They are so cold. Perhaps if he holds them in both his hands they'll warm up. For a moment.

"Dad . . . I'm glad you're here," Tommie says with a faint smile on his lips.

"Me, too, Son." His hear ached within him. How little it took to please the lad, how little his son reuired. Just a little time, a little time.

What else could he say? They had barely caught him at the airport boarding his plane to New York. They said if he came at one, he might make it before Tommie died. MIGHT! And DIE? There had been an accident . . . he didn't remember the rest. He hailed a cab and fled back to the hospital.

A tear rolled out of the corner of Jon's eye as he saw his son was unconscious again. He'd been moving in and out of consiousness ever since Jon arrived. He was glad that Tommie recognized him and was alert and rational when he was awake. He lay so still; Jon strained to hear him take each breath, they were so shallow. He didn't like the noises from the hall intruding on his thoughts and attempts to hear his son. Yet, when his mind wantered too far in reminiscing, he welcomed having the silence broken and his attention return to the present.

There was no return pressure on Jon's hand; Tommie seemed as though he had no strength in him. Jon searched Tommie's face, his eyes. He would not want to forget what his son looked like . . . in the future . . . when he had him no more. He had his father's eyes, alright. The kind of eyes that seemed to look deep inside a person; not merely a superficial look. And his words were like his father's words. Meaningful. Never wasted. That was one of the abilities Jon had capitalized on in school and afterwards. When he spoke, people listened because he had something to say. So did his son.

But Tommie's mouth. That was like his mother's. Oh, God! Jon rumbles into sobs on the edge of the bed. Tommie's mother. How he suddenly missed her. Hardly a day went by that he didn't miss her, but today, right now, was the strongest the emotion had risen to the surface in a long time. It was looking at Tommie's mouth and remembering the faint smile that even now in his comatose state flirted around his lips. And his turned up nose. That was hers too. Jon had never viewed his son so closely before. He had been too busy, rising at 5AM to catch the early assignments, covering them carefully, then writing and editing them himself so that they would be accurate and dependable. This paid off, winning him the reputation as a hard-driving bona finde newsman, quickly promoting him first into the local anchor then on special assignment, all of which increased his work load, but he never shirked his responsible reporting. Instead, he sacrificed family time, so that he rarely saw his children. Now as he sat here at the bedside of his dying son, he saw how much he had missed. Howmuch his son was like Amanda. That turned up nose . . .

It was the time of year when kings go to war, men trade cars, pastors change churches and young hearts turn to thoughts of love. There was the warm late spring morn when Jon had lifted Amanda off her feet and spun her around and around in his arms in the yard and said with a glint in his warm brown eyes, "come away with me to the countryside today, Mandy, let us spend the night in the villages, let us go early to the orchards . . . there I will give you my love."

She looked up at him with an unspoken question in her eyes, which merely reflected the purity of her hert. He replied by looking intensely into hers and said with a mixture of sincerity as well as a bit of playfulness,

"Trust me!"

What a beautiful day it had been; picnicking in the country; walking through the small, quaint touristy towns holding hands and inviting the townsmen to tip their hats in acknowledgement of the beautiful girl at his side. The towns were not quite ready for the onrush of tourist season but they were quick to recognize a young man courting. Especially some of the retired men of the town who saw with their canes on the city benches provided by the local club, discussing the major issures of the day and the crumbling away of their country thorugh the obviious loss of morality. The young couple they saw that day was refreshing in their purity and joy and unconditional love that was evident as they passed the old gentlemen by. Some would later recollect that youthful face in it's maturity on their television screens, and say, "wasn't that the young man we saw . . .?", and they would spend their days discussing whether indeed it was or not. And they would go to their homes and be a little kinder to their spouses as they remembered the freshness of the young couple that had been sent their way.

Jon's heart was so full of love for Amanda, and he ws so excited about the coming opportunities in his life, that he knew he would burst if he didn't have this one day with her to share his joy with and make his own joy complete. Just one day. One day before everything would crowd in and rob his time. And so he took it, not fully realizing how few and far between these special "alone" days would be in the future, and howmuch it would cost him. And how deeply he would regret it.

They had visited shops with imports from all over the world and they tried on Irish hats and jewelry from Austria and capes from England. They had golfed on a course that was still making preparations for the season, laughting when they hit the sand-traps or lost their ball uner a straying oak leaf fallen during the winter and not yet cleared away. They had found ice cream and coffee shops open throughout the night or walked arm in arm along the beach watching the tide change and the stars twinkle ever so brightly in the great northern sky above them. When they saw the sun coming up they hungered for pancakes and were treated to a quaint restaurant that served old-fashioned buckwheat cakes with lots of whipped butter and topped with a wide assortment of thick berry or maple syrup. As they scraped up the last bit uf butter which had melted into the syrup, the waitress approached, reognizing a couple in love.

"I thought perhaps Imight suggest the oerchards? This time of day is especially beautiful and fragrant, and the owners around here wouldn't mind a couple strolling."

"Thank you, ma'am . . . we might just do that," Jon said, taking Amanda by the hand.

He chased her through the orchards and caught her under a flowering cherry tree. He drew her to him and the sudden seriousness in his eyes caused her laughter to stop as he bent to kiss her waiting lips. The kiss was sweet and promised more than could be given now. So, too, with the sweet fragrance of the cherry blossoms permeating the air, later promising a more tangible fruit. How he loved her purity, her happy spirit. Just what he nedded. His heart was in his throat. Sudenly he was all choked up. The man who had a gifted, way with words was suddenly speechless. What if she did not need him as much as he needed her?!?

He opened his eyes to lopok at her; the warm breeze was gently playing with wisps of her loose, long hair. He stalled for time. He couldn't find his voice. The glib tongue was suddenly, strangely, tied, and the giant had feet of clay. What if she said no?

He took a deep breath and just when he was about to open his mouth, an angel gently blew a cherry petal off a blossom and it danced lazily down through the branches and landed perfectly on the tip of Amanda's turned up nose. She was embarrassed and quickly moved her eyes from the scrutiny of Jon's serious, warm, brown gaze that seemed to look into her soul. He was quick to reach out and take the petal from her with the tip of his slender fingers and say eer so gently, "Amanda, as sure as this blossom, lovely and delicate as it is, could have fallen only once and had the privilege to touch someone as beautiful as you, so is my love for you. Will you do me the honor and become my wife? Will you mary me, Amanda? Sweet, precious Amanda?"

It seemed that once he got started, it was as though he was a fountain of love pouring forth without restraint. Splashing warmth and love into the empty holes in her heart. Filling the void that only love can; and that she had waited patiently for. "Amanda, before you answer, Imust tell you that I've been offered a job with the local news network; It could mean moving about . . . I don't know where it will take me, but Amanda, wherever it is, I want you by my side. In my innermost being, I am certain I won't be half as good at my job without you as I will be if you will be my wife and the moter of my children . . . the one I come home to at night . . ."

She stopped him by touching his lips ever so gently with her fingers and said, "Yes, Jon, I'll marry you. And I'll go wherever you go."

"You, you mean it? You will?"

"Yes, Jon."

He wanted to shout and dance and leap for joy all at once, but settled for crushing her to him and swinging her around in the air while he told her his heart. "Oh Amanda . .. all the time through college I had you perched on the throne of my heart. If God answers prayer, then He did when I asked Him to keep you from saying yes to anyone else all those years."

"Jon, when you left for school I told you I'd wait. Knowing you, I knew there wouldn't be much else to do becaue you'd give your all to your studies. I accepted that . . . Jon . . . it was worth the wait!"

They were married in a little log chapel on a warm summer day, and Amanda became his wife and he her husband until death do they part. Which they oth said with deep sincerity, looking intently into each other's eyes. Until death they do part.

Words. Seriously spoken, and meant. But death parting them was something to face when they have lived a full life and are both gray-headed and wrinkled. Amanda with wrinkles on her fari skin? Unthinkable. Words. Until death they do part. Words they meant, but never thought on.

On their honeymoon, brief as it ws, Jon would lay on the beach and pour drops of soda on her bare skin just to make her jump, run his finger down her turned up nose and then kiss away the icy drops. He loved her liveliness and freshness. He could not picture either of them with wrinkles and gray hair. Life was too precious to think that far ahead. Until death they do part . . . no, they were too young and in love for that to happen.

And so their life together began. And the children came, first Tommie and then Sally. Amanda had no misconception as to what her life would be like with Jon. As a newsman she ecpected him to be under great stress and "on call" so to speak. Her heart told her the little he would be home would be sufficient for them to have a successful marriage, and she promised herself that she would never ruin their relationship by trying to change something she knew before she married. She had accepted it then, all the college years, and she would surely be able to handle it now when they were mature and their relationship had grown even deeper.

And so it had been a continuous honey-moon as she was faithful to greethim warmly when he arrived home. He was so attentive to her needs, and called her daily regardless of where he was, unless the call would jeopardize his safety.

Once Amanda had mentioned to Jon the comment a former "friend" had made, suggesting that she seek a "more fulfilled, enlightened" life, and not just "sit around waiting for Jon to come or call, and taking care of his kids." She kindly but firmly explained that Jon was her dearest and closest friend, and that she found her fulfillment at home. The woman, in surprise and disappointment, remarked, "How dull!"

After the phone call, Amanda couldn't shake what the woman had said. And it bothered Amanda that it bothered her, and so she spoke to Jon about it. She had been so content, and now these words had pierced through her happiness, fighting to cause her discontent. Wisely, she shared the feelings with her husband, and between the two, the re-established their trust and faith in each other.

"Amanda, you know I would never stop you from fulfilling a desire of your heart . . . but I want to reassure you that I love having you answer the phone when I call. Sometimes when I'm so far away, and I can't reach out to hold you, the sound of your voice is all that gets me through. And the wisdom you share with me helps keep me straight. We have something many people lack, and that is why they run after other temporal things to make them feel fulfilled."

She replied with her head nestled deep in his shoulder, "Jon, I have no doubt that you mean what you say. And my heart thrills every time the telephone rings and I hear your deep voice saying 'I love you.' When I see you on the news and know you are all right, and dressed warmly, my heart soars . . . 'he's mine!' You know, Jon, I think you are right . . . others are envious of what we have. I shouldn't have let it bother me."

And it didn't any more. Regardless of what others did with their marriages, she enjoyed getting up to make his breakfast and being there when he came home. He was her husband, and she his wife. And they greatly pleased one another.

Jon's drive to be an anchor man pulled him away time and time again so that out of the ensuing years he rarely spent more than a few months a year at home in scattered days here and there. He was never home when Amanda gave birth, and was in Paris when little Sally was born.

Amanda was always so understanding. Just what he needed; he knew all along what a gem he had chosen, and did not take her for granted. He found frequent opportunities to make her feel special. She was the only one who could meet his needs, and she made him feel he met hers. She was always so supportive of him, and even though he knew she missed him as much as he missed her, they made the most of their time together when he was home, and never wsted it mooning over the lost days. That would not bring them back, and it would spoil the time they had together.

He made every moment count; quality time with little Tommie, but too little of it, as he realized now, looking at the boy before him who was almost a stranger, because Jon did not know what Tommie was like on the inside. And unless you know what someone is like on the inside, do you really know them?

When time is gone, it's gone. He couldn't bring Amanda back either. There was no replacement for her waiting arms, the touch of her fingers gently moving through his hair as she would awaken him during the night and just ask him to hold her close, or the times he would awaken and find the bed empty and hear her out in the kitchen making his coffee, and he would slip out to tell her how much he loved her. And sometimes they would forget about the coffee.

And when he received the news of her death, he was dumbstruck. He hadn't even been with her. She had hemorrhaged during the night following the birth of Sally, they said, and there was nothing they could do. Mortified, he returned to his home from Paris to attend the funeral, but he couldn't, wouldn't, look at the baby. Where was "God" now, he screamed in his heart?

So, he did the only thing he could. He hired a nanny. After all, by now he could afford it. He was fast approaching being the country's top-paid journalist. And he hid his hurt.

No longer could he stand breakfast; the mere thought of hearing bacon sizzling in a pan and the splat of eggs sliding into the hot fat to cook to firmness broke his heart. So he'd grab a quick cup of coffee at a convenience stand and bury his grief.

The nanny probably knows his son better than he does, Jon thought, once again forcing his thoughts back to the present.

Tommie stirred again, "Dad?"

"Yes, Son," Jon replied.

"Daddy . . . am I going to die?"

Jon is stunned. Why hadn't the doctor or nurses told him? He had thought his son knew! What should he do? Should he tell or just pass it by . . . Steady, Jon, THINK, he commands himself. What would he want if it were himself? Yes, he would want to know.

"Son, yes you are." Jon's voice said softly, before it caught in his throat. It was so hard to say the words! DIE! "There is nothing more the doctor's can do for your injuries."

Silence again. Perhaps he shouldn't have told him! Then he sees his son's eyelids flicker. "Daddy . . ."

"Yes, son . . ."

"My bike . . . could you give it to Billy? He's always wanted a bike like mine, and his folks could never afford to give him one except for that broken one that always falls apart . . . I think I'd like him to have it. Is that okay, Daddy?" Tommie asks.

"Of course, son. I'll see to it." Who would have believed a child would have such thoughts! How glad Jon was tht he had told his son the truth, that he would not live.

"And Daddy . . . little Sally . . . would you tell her I'm sorry I wouldn't let her play with my Leggo set? Tell her she can have it when she's old enough . . . and. . . my stamp collection too . . ." his voice trails off, and Jon thinks his son has lapsed into unconsciousness again.

Suddenly Jon's thoughts are interrupted, "Quickly Daddy, tell me . . .what should I do about believing in Jesus . . . like nanny told me?"

Jon is stunned. "I, I don't know, son . . . I haven't had much time for God. I don't know . . ."

"Daddy, nanny said that if I would ask Jesus into my heart, I wouldn't have to be afraid to die. Daddy, I never did that. Daddy," he reaches out and clutches Jon's arm, "you said I am going to die and . . . Daddy, I'm scared . . ." and his voice faded away.

"Tommie . . . Tommie, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Daddy, but you're very far away . . ."

"Tommiie . . . I don't know much about Jesus or God . . . that was the job of the church leaders . . . I didn't think people like us ever knew much . . . but, if nanny said that to you, then do whatever she said . . . Son, DO IT!" Oh, what kind of a father had he been? His son is dying, and he can't even help him in his final moments. He's afraid! His son is afraid! What right had anyone to put fear in a little child! And why hadn't the hospital taken care of these matters, being they knew his son was not going to live! Perhaps the hospital didn't believe there was anything to do . . . perhaps this is groundless fear . . .

"It's alright, son . . . you've been a good little boy, if there's a God, He wouldn't do you any harm, you've lived the best you could . . ." Jon said lamely, trying to chase away the fear.

"That's not what nanny said . . ." Tommie said, looking his father in the eyes clearly. "She. . .she said we must be born ag. . ." and his voice faded away.

Jon had been so busy he never gave much thought about death. At least he hadn't thought about what happened after death. In his travels he witnessed gruesome, brutal deaths. Death, in some form or other was just something everyone had to expect. Usually sometime, when they are old. Except for Amanda . . . When Amanda had died, it was distant and abstract because he was not with her. Was not with her to kiss her lips one last time or hold her in his arms. Was not with her to argue with God about taking her and leaving her likeness in her place. A baby he resented because he believed she caused the love of his life to die. To go away from his grasp. Forever. Was not with her to hold her hand. Was not with her to see her take her last breaths, comfort her, wipe away her tears. Was not with her . . . Was not with her. He should have been with her. Would have wanted to have been with her . . . if he had but known.

Now he was with his son in his last moments. It was not abstract. It was not easy. And he felt so helpless, at a loss for words. This was different. So different. Death was boldly, forcefully before him, and he had no means to stop the clock from moving. Tick, tick, ticking away as life drained from his son.

Again, silence. Silence clamored for attention. He felt so helpless to alleviate his son's fears, and the fact his son now had fear, at his last moments in life, made Jon angry.

Moments later he sees Tommie's lips moving.

"What is it, son?" He presses his ear as near Tommie's lips as he can and faintly hers words. Some of them sounded familiar. Something he once heard himself as a tot in one of the scattered military Sunday Schools. Propbably nonsense. He had never been in one place long enough for anything to fit together. But he knew "religion" was respectable. Everyone shoule have some. It was mostly for kids; once they were passed through confirmation, there wasn't anything more expected of them. The instructions they received were left behind, and they followed in the footsteps of their parents. It was something they could take or leave. It was the way things were done in America. Everyone was a Christian . . . except for the people in the prisons . . . and perhaps a politician or two? And of course, with the influx of foreigners, the worshipers of statues and nature had been more visible. Guess he never paid itmuch attention. After all, he was young, and he had his career still in the making . . .

Take heed, dear reader, lest you also believe likewise. For death does not wait. Our days are all numbered and written down. It is appointed unto man once to die, and then the judgment. We must give an accounting of how we used our time and talents, whether short or long, great or few.

"The Lord is my Shepherd . . ." Tommie whispered faintly.

"What, what was that son?" Jon pressed for knowledge of what his son was saying. Was his son talking to him? He didn't want to miss out on any more communications between he and his son in these last moments . . .

"Jesus . . . be my Shepherd . . . save me from my sins," Tommie continued.

Sins! He's just a little boy, Jon's heart wanted to scream! But he dared not, for he wanted not to miss anything his son might want to say to him . . .

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me . . . surely goodness and mercy shall follow me . . ." and his lips continued moving, but Jon can no longer catch any of the phrases.

He sees Tommie's mouth moving, but even though he bends over close, he cannot distinguish the words. Jon doesn't know what to do. His son must be delirious. Perhaps there is someone in the hospital that could give him answers? No, they would have done so before, if there really was anyone that knew about God. After all, they deal with life and death in hospitals all the time, and surely they would have told him, or his son, knowing that his son was critical. At least, Jon reasoned, if he knew of a truth like that, he surely wouldn't keep it a secrfet! No, perhaps he should reaffirm to Tommie that he should forget that nonsense, there isn't anything to fear, after all, he was just a little boy, and when you die, you die. That's all. Yes, he'll tell him to forget that nonsense.

And later, the first thing he IS going to do is fire that nanny for upsetting his son like she did! That's for sure. The idea . . . sins in a ten year old! Her mouth ought to be stopped for inciting such fear! he will have to take a more personal interest in the hiring of the new nanny for his daughter!

The room is strangely silent. Not a sound could be heard from the hall, from the monitors, from the bed. Jon becomes aware of his intense grip on Tommie's hand. A result of his angry thoughts towards the nanny. He softens his grip and makes an effort to relax the tense muscles in his jaw.

Gently, ever so gently, there is a faint stirring of the air in the room, and something like fine silk rustles behind and around and over the bed-side where Jon is holding his son's frail, white hand. A heavenly choir is singing the song of the Redeemed, but only the redeemed can hear it. Jon is deaf to the Purity and the Call going on round about him, "come up hither, come up hither," as the silver cord is broken.

"Tommie, Tommie can you hear me? About this Jesus stuff, I, I don't think you need bother . . ."

"Oh Daddy, do you hear the music? Can you hear them singing, Daddy? And . . . Daddy . . . I see the flowers, Daddy, it's beautiful! I don't hurt any more . . . and Daddy, there's Someone coming towards me with outstretched arms . . . Daddy, it's . . ." and his son dies his physical death.

END OF CHAPTER ONE -- To find out the rest of the story, PURCHASE PURE GOLD... $9.00, INCLUDES SHIPPING IN USA... send check or money order to: