By Truth

About truth, justice, and righteousness

By Truth

She had not expected to die.

Nobody really does. And yet death comes to all and more often than not, without warning.

Vera Whitmore had not been sick. She had not stumbled upon robbers, nor had she been in a car accident. One moment she was alive, the next she gave up the ghost. From one breath to the next, she exchanged the temporal for the eternal.

That morning, she had been busy writing one more chapter of her self-help book, Choosing Strength. It was meant to offer solid advice to struggling women, especially about courage and perseverance. She was just finishing a sentence, the keys still warm beneath her fingers:

I did what I had to do, and I would do it again.

Her heart failed.

She slumped forward, her forehead striking the desk. The sentence remained unfinished. The coffee beside her had gone lukewarm.

Her spirit left her body.

Vera became aware of the room from above, hovering near the ceiling. She saw her desk, her computer screen frozen mid-paragraph, the shallow crack in the handle of the mug she had always meant to replace. Somewhere far away, a low buzzing sound began to rise, unfamiliar, insistent, as though it were calling her.

“Oh dear,” Vera thought. “Did I die?”

The idea irritated her more than it frightened her. “This can’t be happening,” she said, though no one was there to hear it. “I have to turn in my manuscript next Saturday.” Frustration swelled into anger, sharp and immediate. “Let me go back,” she shouted at nothing in particular.

Vera was not religious. God had no place in her life. He had no voice, no authority, no permission to enter. Whatever guilt she carried had long ago been locked away in the farthest corners of her mind, sealed off where it could not interfere with survival, success or peace.

Calling on God was out of the question.

At that instant she was pulled back. A force from beyond began to drag her, first slow but soon the movement became faster. She fought back by swaying wildly with her arms, not wanting to go wherever it was she was being pulled. She needed to stay here in her study, close to her computer and her self-help book. She had no desire to go anywhere away from the comforts of her secure life, where everything was going just as she wanted.

But there was nothing she could do about it. Helpless as a matchbox in a roaring river, she sped backward. She noticed how her surroundings became darker and significantly colder.

A shiver ran through her, though she felt no cold she could name and she screamed again. Her cry remained unheeded.

At last, she came to an abrupt stop. The force released her and left her standing alone in the dark. A dull, echoing pressure pulsed through her as she tried to steady herself.

Was she really dead?

The possibility, that her life had ended slowly sank in.

No. This was not good. It wasn’t her time. She had plans. She had a book to finish, one that would make her famous.

The darkness around her was so thick she could not even see her own hands.

What was she even standing on?

There was no ground beneath her feet, only something that gave way just enough to keep her from falling.

And yet, far ahead, a faint light shimmered.

She moved toward it without thinking. Maybe there was a way out of this mess after all.

The darkness thinned as she approached, and the sight that emerged made her stop short.

A simple wooden desk stood before her. On it lay a large leather-bound ledger and stood a single lamp. Behind the desk sat an old man wrapped in a monk’s cloak and he had a long beard.

She disliked the outfit immediately. Far too religious for her taste.

The man looked up as she approached. His eyes were kind. That was good. Whatever strange place this was, at least she wasn’t surrounded by demons.

Surely, this man would know the way out.

Would he?

He also looked sort of intimidating.

“Hello,” she said, stopping in front of the desk.

“Vera Whitmore,” the man said, his gaze fixed on her. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Expecting me?” Vera snapped. “What’s going on? I want you to show me the way out of here.”

The old man tilted his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You came here, not to the other place. The records are quite convincing.”

“What are you talking about?” Vera said, her voice rising. “What other place?”

“The place of light,” the old man said. “This is the place of darkness.”

Vera blinked, struggling to process it. “I… I should be in the light! Why am I here? Send me back! This is wrong!”

The old man shrugged. “The ledger tells a different story.”

Before Vera could speak, he opened it.

“I’ll skip the minor infractions for now,” he said. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

“What elephant?” Vera moaned. “Can you please speak normal English?”

The old man sighed and read: “Two murders… and the theft of thousands of dollars.”

He looked up and his eyes gleamed with an uncanny decisiveness. A surge of panic hit her. Two murders… a theft. She had tried to forget about it. Push it away, so it was gone, but now it confronted her.

“I—I can explain,” she mumbled, a cold dread creeping through her. She realized, with a sinking weight in her spirit, she was in serious trouble. “They weren’t really murders,” she mumbled.

The old man stared at her, unwavering. “It says here two people died at your hand. In my book, that’s called murder.”

Vera gasped. “Let me clarify. I used to make my money as an escort. You know… keeping men company, helping them feel less lonely. A good thing, really.”

“And?” the old man asked.

“Well—uh,” Vera stammered. “One of the men… he didn’t follow the rules. He got physical. A bad man. Very bad.”

The old man pressed his lips together and nodded. “It’s a dark world down there, Vera. That much I understand.”

“Right,” Vera almost shouted, relieved the old man got the point. “Bad man. Really bad.”

The old man sighed as he studied the ledger. “But it also says here that you killed him with a silver candlestick… and you took all the money in his safe?”

“Self-defense,” Vera stammered, her voice faltering. “I had to protect myself… and the money, well, it was just there. That bad man was dead anyway. It’s not like he still needed it.” Despite the old man’s kind eyes, she began to dislike the fellow by the second.

The old man cleared his throat and went on. “Here I read that another thief came in your home and proceeded to snatch all the money you stole?”

Vera gave a small nod. That much was true. She remembered following the crook and dealing with the situation appropriately. She could still see his dead body. Not a pretty sight. But why did the old man only speak of her mistakes? She had done good things too. Many charitable acts… more than she could count.

The old man seemed to read her thoughts. “It is not a balance, Vera,” he said. “Good deeds do not erase the bad ones. The problem lies in the fact that there are any bad deeds at all.”

Vera cringed. “But those two men… Truly, the world was better off without them.”

“Maybe,” the old man said. “Maybe not. That is not for me to decide. Only the Judge can decide that.”

“T-The Judge?” Vera stammered. “Who is he?”

“God,” the old man said, his voice calm and unyielding.

Vera’s thoughts raced. What did He have to do with any of this? God had never been there when she struggled to make ends meet; or had she simply failed to notice Him?

A hopeful thought rose. Perhaps… if God was involved, there was hope. She cleared her throat. “They say God is love. Surely, He will understand.”

“Will He?” the old man asked.

“Well, He is love, for crying out loud,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “I’m sorry for the few things I’ve done that weren’t in line with the Judge’s rules. Very sorry. I won’t do it again.”

The old man shook his head, sadness in his eyes.

“It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “In the place where God lives, that’s the Kingdom of Light, there is no darkness at all. Nothing that’s even the slightest bit contaminated can enter there. To enter there, you must be completely washed.”

“Okay,” Vera said quickly. “Then sign me up. Where do I get washed?”

The old man looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with sorrow.

“You did not want to be washed while you were alive,” he said. “You did not want to pay the price.”

“What price?” Vera asked, her voice skipping a pitch. “If you let me go back to my house, I can get the money I still have in my safe. There’s plenty left.”

The old man shook his head.

“You don’t understand. The price is death. Either you accept the death already offered for you, or you face your own. Sin demands payment.”

“What death was offered to me?” Vera whispered. “Nobody offered me anything. Who are we talking about?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he spoke softly.

“We are talking about the Son of the King,” he said. “He died on a cross and shed His blood so that others would not have to. His death washes away the sins of those who trust Him.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“Those who refuse His sacrifice must pay the price themselves. The Son of the King died for those who want to be His friends,” he said. “Those who reject Him must stand on their own.”

Vera’s mind spun. “But I… I don’t believe any of that,” she cried.

“I know you don’t,” the old man said. “But that doesn’t make it untrue. He died and rose again, conquering death. You rejected Him and chose to live by your own rules, by your own measure of right and wrong.”

“I… just didn’t know,” Vera stammered.

The old man nodded, and she could sense a deep sadness in him. “The truth is, you could have known, but you refused to,” he said. “I read here that you weren’t exactly on speaking terms with the Son of the King.”

Fear struck, stealing her breath in short, shallow gasps. This conversation was slipping out of her control.

Saying she wasn’t on speaking terms with Jesus was an understatement. She had taken pride in calling herself an atheist. She had mocked those Bible pushers who spoke of surrender and grace, people who dared to suggest she was not in charge of her own life.

How she had hated that idea of bowing to anyone but herself.

“I–I never knew these things were true,” she said in a small, timid voice. “I always believed they were fairy tales, cooked up by weak men who were afraid to face life on their own.”

The old man sighed softly. “I am sorry,” he said. “But if you had been willing to look, if you had listened to the quiet voice of your conscience, you would have seen Him too.”

He gestured faintly, as if toward a world she could no longer reach. “He is everywhere. In the smiles of strangers. In the beauty of a sunset. In the unease that stirs when something is not right. The places where He can be found are endless.”

All life seemed to drain out of Vera’s body. “W-What do I do now?” she asked.

The old man pointed into the darkness. “You go in there. You walk for a while until you find your spot. And there you wait, not to change your fate, but to face it.”

Vera collapsed to her knees as she looked in the direction the old man pointed. The air looked thick there, dark, and unyielding. She knew she had to go. There was no alternative.

As she turned to leave, she glanced back once more at the desk. The ledger lay open. The lamp still burned.

“My book,” she whispered suddenly. “It isn’t finished. What will happen to it?”

The old man did not close the ledger. “It will be finished,” he said.

Vera frowned. “By whom?”

“By truth,” he replied. He looked at her with sorrow. She spotted something else too. Purpose.

“Your words will be read,” he said. “But not as you intended. They will become a warning, not a guide. That sentence you were writing, I did what I had to do, and I would do it again, will stand as a testimony of what happens when strength replaces surrender.”

Vera’s breath caught.

“Then my life still means something?”

“Every life does,” the old man said. “Even now.”

Grief broke through her like tears she could no longer shed. Crushed and forlorn, she stepped into the darkness. Yet the old man’s words remained with her. Every life means something.

It was enough to think about as she went to find her place in the dark.

In the world of the living, the truth would not be silent.

____