Behold the Dawn

By Jo Williams

How will the world end? Or will it? The Reverend Eve Webster is about to find out. Behold the Dawn offers a radical counter, a metaphysical alternative to the evangelical take of the Left Behind series.
As a series of catastrophes paralyzes the world, Eve Webster follows compelling intuition that she is to be instrumental in a pivotal transition for humankind. But first she must make an agonizing choice. Her fiance, Owen Brodie, refuses to leave his successful law practice in Charlotte to follow her to her assignment on the tiny barrier island of Hilton Head.
Sacrificing her relationship with Owen, Eve surrenders herself as an agent of God and takes the first step on a quest to transform the beleaguered planet. African American minister John McMillan, a lifelong friend who shares her shameful secret, mentors her as she prepares for the sacred journey. Her mission begins in earnest as a boat explosion leaves her severely burned and comatose. Hovering between life and death, she meets Jeshua in the unlimited realm of her unconscious mind. There, Jeshua instructs her in the application of Divine Law, a law so potent it has the power to usher the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.
Jo Williams has a PhD in metaphysics. She has facilitated classes in A Course in Miracles for more than a decade. Her passion is sharing the principles of metaphysics in a variety of creative ways. Though each story stands alone, Behold the Dawn is the sequel to Williams' first novel, The Song My Soul Remembers. Her third book, One Thought from Heaven, completes the series.

"No one who reads this book will ever view life in quite the same way." Kathryn Wall, author of the Bay Tanner mystery series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Williams
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465706782

Jo Williams

A native North Carolinian, Jo Williams' first career was as a teacher and counselor in the North Carolina public schools, where she received state-level recognition for her pioneering work in peer counseling. In 1999, Jo and her husband, Harry, retired to Hilton Head, SC. As Divine Order would have it, that is when her lifelong dreams began to unfold. Along with author/friend Kathryn Wall (the Bay Tannner mystery series), Jo founded the Island Writers Network and wrote her first novel, The Song My Soul Remembers (Coastal Villages Press, 2003). Endorsed by meta-novelist James Redfield, The Song received recognition from The Midwest Book Review as a "poignant tale of self-discovery." As is all her writing, the novel was inspired by A Course in Miracles, her chosen path of spirituality. Jo's passion in life is sharing the life-transforming principles of the Course through speaking, writing, and teaching. To deepen her understanding of those principles, she pursued a doctorate in Divine Metaphysics, which she completed in 2003. Also an award winning, self-taught artist, Jo's paintings have been sold in galleries in both North and South Carolina. Currently, Jo lives in Tampa, Florida, with her husband and their Havanese pup, Magic. She serves as a chaplain at New Life Unity Church and continues more than a decade of devotion to facilitating classes in A Course in Miracles.

Book preview

Prologue

The powerful diesel engines rumble to life, and the forty-eight foot yacht erupts into flames. The blast lifts her and slams her against the cabin wall. The odor of her own burning flesh fills her nostrils a second before blistering anguish stops her heart.

Her right arm paralyzed, she crawls toward the exit. Father, if it be Thy will, take this cup from me.

Strong arms lift her through the door. We’ve got to get off the boat! The boy shouts.

The vessel lists, catapulting them both to the other side of the deck.

"Can you swim?" he asks.

"No, she whispers. My arm."

"Yes, you can!!" He shoves a life ring at her.

"We’re only a mile from shore. I’ll swim you in." Two dark figures float into sight.

"Mother of God! one of them says, the revulsion clear in his voice. She’s not going to make it! Let her go!"

The boy’s labored breathing falls silent. He searches her eyes, and her heart constricts. She cannot save herself, but she can spare the boy.

"Do it, damn it! the man orders. Or you’ll both go under!"

Nodding her absolution, she pushes the life ring away from her. She floats then, buoyed by the water and her own acceptance.

Seconds later, a hand grasps her useless right arm. She meets the flinty gaze of her adversary and hears the words as clearly as if they have been spoken aloud: Here we are again, sister. Just you and me. And payback time.

The iron grip on her forearm releases.

Drifting down . . .down . . . awareness dawns.

It has begun.

~ ~ ~

Chapter One

A flash of lightening lit the stainless steel and granite kitchen with an otherworldly glow. Eve Webster locked eyes with her own image, reflected in the icy windowpane.

The floor beneath them shook. A rare winter thunderstorm rumbled its complaint.

The whole world’s shaken up right now, hon. Owen Brodie slipped on his oven mitts and slid a heavy pot of boiling water off to cool. It’s no time to be making a major change.

Eve met Owen’s gaze and lost herself for a long heartbeat in the easy compatibility they’d shared the past year. Was she willing to jeopardize their relationship for what, technically, was no more than a hunch?

She capped another plastic jug full of sterilized water. You’re not hearing me, Owen. These are wake- up calls. Sooner or later, we have to deal with the cause.

Owen wiped his hands on a dishtowel. And what, may I ask, might that be?

Come on. Eve pushed the jug away. You know where I stand on this. We generate the world we experience with our thoughts. Everything begins with an idea - a dress, a building - war, peace. Quantum physics has proven it. Till we all grasp the concept, we’ll continue to escalate the chaos.

The Internet crashed. He lifted a hand and shrugged. The world . . . crashed . . . for eighteen hours. It was scary as hell, but it’s been restored, and it’s business as usual again.

And what about this? Eve thrust a jug of water into his hands.

Homeland Security already has the bastards in custody. They’re talking about lifting the ban on tap water early next week.

Eve scanned the countertop, lined with plastic containers of treated water they’d been drinking since the random sabotage of treatment plants along the Atlantic seaboard began three weeks before. How could they be so close, she thought, and yet so far apart?

Look at me. Owen tilted up her chin with a finger. What do you suggest? Global lobotomies? You can’t control what people think.

He laid down his towel and steered her from the kitchen to the great room. She could almost hear her taut muscles sigh as they sank into the buttery soft leather couch in front of the crackling fireplace.

Searching his troubled eyes, she thought of Jack and wondered how he would have reacted to her announcement. He’d been gone nearly four years now, and yet there were mornings she still woke and reached out to touch his sleep-warm body.

She looked away, and the silent television on the counter between the great room and the kitchen caught her attention. Three women argued with a reporter. One held a sign: THE END IS NEAR.

Listen, hon, Owen took her hands. I know you believe with all your heart you’ve been called for some kind of . . . mission. And maybe you have. Who am I to say? All I know is your zeal gets a little . . . He closed his eyes, searching for words. . . . impractical at times.

But the very nature of faith, Eve said, is to see beyond limiting mind sets.

"Maybe . . . maybe so, but I still don’t see why you’re so hung up on starting a church from scratch - on an island. Hell, we’d fare better in Atlanta or New York. At least I could get a job there."

Eve’s fingers raked through her hair and caught in the mass of auburn curls. She’d driven straight to Owen’s condo from a three-hour church board meeting and felt bled white. I go where I’m sent, Owen. Like the military. I’d hoped you’d understand that. The group in Hilton Head is committed to the principles. Somewhere, somehow, someone has got to step up and spell out the very literal meaning of ‘The kingdom of heaven is within.’ Before we destroy the planet.

Owen strode to the wet bar and brought back an open bottle of cabernet. A pretty grandiose ambition, Eve. And even if you could accomplish it, I don’t understand why you can’t do it right here in Charlotte. I don’t get when you say you go where you’re sent. Sounds like you don’t have a choice, and you do. You’ve got a great job as associate pastor here. You and John McMillan are like the damn Dynamic Duo. An African-American minister who can hold his own with heads of state and a little red-headed white woman who’s not afraid to roll up her sleeves and get her hands dirty. Hillside Unity loves you. Yet you’re ready to chuck it all and go head up a church that doesn’t even exist yet.

He threw back a swallow of wine and paced.

My job’s to get it organized. But that’s not the point.

He stopped and faced her. Then what is the point?

To trust the calling. How could she help him understand? Her mind groped for an image. "It’s like making your way on a dark path with a flashlight. Though you can only see a few feet ahead, you know the next steps will come into view if you keep moving forward.

All I know for sure, she continued, "is I made of my sorry life a solid success. Yet I felt so empty, so hopeless I committed suicide. I was dead, Owen, and brought back to life. Her eyes burned into his. I came back with a single purpose. To surrender myself as an agent of God."

Owen set down his wine. It was a dream, Eve. People don’t die, really die, and come back. The last time I checked, Jesus had an exclusive on that one.

They’d had this discussion. She’d let it go, pick her battles.

He rubbed his thumb over the scar on her hand. She’d gotten it opening oysters on the beach with Owen the summer before. A particularly magical evening. The memory lifted the corners of her lips.

Hilton Head’s less than four hours away. A straight shot down the interstates.

I don’t do long distance, remember? That’s what happened to my first marriage.

Couldn’t we just give it a try? A couple of months?

Owen’s left eye squinted, the reflection of an internal wince.

And how do you know the next phase of this . . . unknown crusade won’t be in Timbuktu?

I don’t.

Owen stood. He tossed a log into the fireplace and gazed at the swirling embers. I’m sorry, hon, but I just can’t do it. I’m too old to build a life on a flashlight beam.

When he turned around, the animation in his face had flat-lined. Owen loved his work, flourished in it. Demand for immigration attorneys on the tiny barrier island off the coast of South Carolina would be nil. If she went to Hilton Head Island to start up a new church, she’d go without Owen.

Eve stood and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He took her forearms and gently pushed her away. Let’s don’t, okay? It won’t make this any easier.

Outside, she allowed her tears to flow, the warm rivulets mingling with the icy rain streaking her cheeks.

She closed the car door behind her, and a sudden burst of hail pelted the roof. Her fingertips crept up to touch her left breast. Reconstructed following mastectomy - a fortieth birthday gift - the unnatural-feeling mound never failed to rally her faith in her will to overcome.

In the years since Jack’s death, she’d learned another way to be in the world. She would not abandon it now.

The picture Eve saw as she approached her living room might have been in a Norman Rockwell gallery. A middle-aged woman dressed in gray police sweats and sneakers hovered over a little girl as she stood on tiptoe to place an ornament on the Christmas tree. A golden retriever sat at attention beside the girl.

Eve hung her raincoat by the door and forced a smile. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Mom! Her daughter raced across the room to hug her.

Crossing her arms over her breasts, Sunny St. Claire read the subtle clues in her best friend’s face. I take it your pow-wow with Owen didn’t go so well.

Eve opened her eyes wider to contain the brimming tears. We’ve done better. Where’s Iris?

Joi released her fierce hold. Nana’s watching her TV shows. Mommy, look!

The tree, a six-foot testimonial to a child’s imagination, flooded her with emotion. Around the chipped and faded nativity collection Eve had hung since her first Christmas with her late husband Jack, Joi had added her own special touches - family photos, candy canes, and Beanie Babies. For Gabe, she’d tied on an assortment of dog biscuits and chews.

Way cool! Eve exclaimed, using Joi’s latest favorite expression. She touched a photograph in a silver frame, a picture she’d taken of her husband and Joi’s Montagnard birth parents. Eve and Jack had helped in the resettlement of the first wave of Montagnard immigrants to Charlotte, and the connection had fostered a friendship with Joi’s parents. The relationship resulted in the bittersweet adoption of their infant daughter after their deaths - the mother in childbirth, her husband from cancer. The cherished faces smiled at Eve across the chasm of time, and she felt the sting of tears again.

Isn’t it beautiful? Joi’s dark eyes shone with excitement.

She reached down with her thumb to remove a swath of blue icing from her daughter’s cheek and kissed the sugary spot. It’s the best Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.

Don’t get out much, do you? Sunny muttered. She scooped up her pea coat from the couch. Sorry to break up the shindig, but I got to run. Dylan needs the car.

Which reminds me, Eve said, helping her friend into her jacket, I love what he’s done with the bookstore at the women’s center.

Yeah, blows my mind what that kid can do when his brain ain’t pickled. Sunny rummaged through the tattered canvas bag she used as a carryall and pulled out her car keys. I really think he’s got it licked this time. He came back from that drug-free boot camp a whole new kid. Course you know he’ll be gone the minute he lands a job with an outdoor center. It’s all he’s talked about since he finished his training.

Hey . . . Eve laid her hand over Sunny’s. Can you let that be all right? I can. The center’s strong enough now to get by without Dylan or me. As long as he’s happy -

The brilliant flash of light startled her. Eve spun, expecting to see Iris or Joi with a camera pointed at her. Her fingertips bore into the bridge of her nose, and she blinked, hard.

What’s wrong? Sunny asked.

Just drained, I think.

Sunny dug her fists in at her hips. You sure? This water contamination thing has me-

A tinkling crash spun their heads.

Gabriel! Joi raced to the rescue and pried a rawhide chew, still attached to the fallen tree, from the dog’s mouth. You have to wait for Christmas, boy.

I think I hear my mother calling, Sunny said.

Turncoat. Eve pushed her friend along to the door.

Least the rain’s stopped, Sunny stepped out onto the covered stoop. Wish it’d turn to snow. I ain’t seen a white Christmas since I left Tennessee. She turned on the top step, her face serious. You sure you’re all right, girlfriend?

Eve nodded, and Sunny giggled. I done drunk so much Clorox water, I ain’t had a dirty thought in two days. How about you?

Eve stretched and yawned. I wouldn’t have the energy to follow through on one if I did.

That’s the trouble with you, you know it? Sunny drew up a corner of her mouth. You’re too dang serious. In case you didn’t get the word, the Lord don’t expect you to save the world single-handedly. She zipped up her jacket. Give me a shout tomorrow, okay? I want to know what Owen said to get you so upset.

Sunny pecked her on the cheek, then her hands flew up. Oh! Hold on. I almost forgot. She half lumbered, half trotted out to her car, opened the trunk, and lifted out two cases of bottled water.

Where’d you get those? Eve asked, standing aside as Sunny deposited the treasure in the foyer. The stores have been sold out for days.

Sunny straightened, her fists pushed into her lower back. Ex-boyfriend at Sam’s Club. She winked and opened the door to let herself out. Pays not to burn bridges.

Eve pulled the brush through her hair and gathered it into a barrette. She studied her reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror - the red-rimmed, determined green eyes, so like Mama’s now, errant strands of gray springing from the auburn in an unholy halo. Could it be the Reverend Eve Webster was destined to spend the rest of her life with only her minister’s stole to keep her warm? The bride of Christ indeed.

No offense, Big Guy, she said, but you got to admit that’s hard to hang onto between cold sheets.

Eve sighed. What if she were mistaken about her divine appointment? What were the odds an un- extraordinary woman from Ayden, North Carolina, had been tapped to play a role in such a transformation? The idea was so wack-o she didn’t dare discuss it with anyone but John McMillan for fear of being put in a straight jacket.

Not for the first time, the black hole of doubt opened beneath her as she scuffed to her empty bed. She counted the silver and blue foils on her nightstand. Six! She’d eaten six Ice Cubes, her favorite chocolate candy, as she’d gone through her evening rituals to turn in. She scooped up the wrappers and flung them into the wastebasket.

Pulling the covers up around her aching shoulders, she thought of Owen, how different her relationship with him had been from the one with Jack. She’d known Jack only two months when she’d married him. They’d been barely more than children, but their love had survived even the ravage of Jack’s subsequent affair - and the shock of first meeting the son it had produced. She’d been seeing Owen for more than a year, and the bond with him had been so much more sedate and rational - the kind one would expect to last forever.

So much for rational. Eve wondered how she could forget the most basic lessons. She knew full well the only certainty in life was uncertainty. Yet when change occurred, it never failed to knock her off balance.

She wished she could be more like Sunny. A cop to the core, nothing seemed to surprise her. To Eve, life unfolded as one big surprise after another. Her relationship with her mother-in-law, whom she’d once considered her personal crown of thorns, was a case in point. Eve never regretted her decision to ask Iris to live with her after Jack died. With a familiar pang, she wished once again Jack could have lived to see them become friends. And she wished, as she did every day of her life, Jack could see what an amazing child their adopted daughter had become. Joy’s cheerful disposition, nearly as unflappable as her biological mother’s had been, was a constant inspiration.

And a little child shall lead them. As she reached to turn off the light, her hand dipped and hovered over the phone. Her mind took a what-if? detour. Eve hadn’t been extended an official invitation to take the position in Hilton Head yet. What if she’d been premature in her discussion with Owen? What if the whole deal fell through, and she’d alienated Owen for no good reason?

She stared at the dial pad. Maybe she should - The unexpected shrill of the phone made her heart leap. Hello.

Hi. Eve?

Her spirits plummeted as the unfamiliar, gravely voice came across the line. Yes.

Eve! This is Ed Castille.

Her mind raced to connect the dots. A parishioner?

Ayden High School. I used to go frog-gigging with your brother. Remember?

Oh, God. Ed Castille. He’d thought he was God’s gift to womankind back in those days, and every time he asked her out, which was about once a week, Eve’s quick answer never varied: Get real, Castille. She stifled a groan. Oh, yes. I remember, Ed. How are you?

Well, in view of the latest national panic, I felt pretty good till I found out you’re trying to beat me out of my job on Hilton Head Island.

Your job?

That’s right. At least it’s going to be.

Hold on a minute, Eve said. I thought you left the ministry.

I did, but I’m coming back.

Really? Eve drew in a steadying breath. You care to tell me if you’re going somewhere in particular with this conversation?

She heard him exhale. I’d like you withdraw your application.

She sat up straight. "Do what?"

Hey, throw a dog a bone, will ya? You’re up for one of the plum jobs in the association there in Charlotte.

Excuse me, but if you kept up with association news, you’d know John McMillan is just hitting his zenith -

He’s an old man. What is he, pushing seventy? Eve reached for an Ice Cube, ripped it from its foil wrapping, and popped it into her mouth. Funny, she mumbled around the melting chocolate, but I don’t seem to remember engaging your services as my career planner, Castille.

Sorry, Ed said. It’s late, and I’m sure you’ve had a busy day. Why don’t you just sleep on it?

With the dial tone humming in her ear, it took her a moment to register the shriek.

Joi! Eve flung back the covers and raced across the hall. She hit the open door with the heel of her hand and flipped on the overhead light.

What she saw electrified her. A crawling blanket of red enveloped Joi’s upper body.

Eve dove to the bed and wrenched her daughter from the tangled covers. Fire ants!

Swatting at the swarming insects, she kicked open the bathroom door, turned on the water in the tub full blast, and swung Joi beneath it. Her own arms tortured with the needle-hot stings, she yanked off Joi’s gown and lathered and rinsed her bite-pocked chest and limbs first, then sat her on the toilet seat and washed the insects from her own body. Leaving the water running, an army of ants still struggling to escape their death, she wrapped Joi in a towel and bolted back across the hall.

What the devil were fire ants doing in the house?

Eve dialed 911, and a woman answered on the second ring. 911. How may I help you?

My daughter’s . . . been attacked by fire ants!

How old is she? Four. Allergies?

No. None I know of. I’ve washed off the ants, but -

You have bleach? Liquid detergent? Topical antihistamine?

Yes. Yes.

Eve tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and, struggling to hold onto Joi’s writhing body and hear the instructions over her screams, hobbled toward the stairs.

What on earth? Iris called up from the great room.

Mom, thank God! Hold on, she said to the woman, it’s my mother-in-law. She can help. Then leaning over the banister she called to Iris. Joi’s hurt. Bring bleach and dish soap!

Soak her, the woman said, in a tub of very warm water and bleach. About one part to twenty. A quarter cup should do. Lather her up again, with liquid detergent, then rinse her off really well, and apply the antihistamine.

Shouldn’t I take her to the emergency room? Eve braced herself against the torment of her daughter’s howls and turned the water back on in the tub.

An ambulance is on the way. I have you located. Please verify your address.

Eve fired off her address. How long? Ten minutes. Maybe less. I’ll stay on the line.

Please. . . Please do.

Iris appeared, wide-eyed, in the doorway. She held out the bleach and a bottle of Palmolive. What happened, dear?

Fire ants. Eve handed Iris the phone. This is 911. Keep them on the line.

Eve swirled in the bleach and lowered Joi into the bath. A second after her small body hit the water, it went rigid. Joi gulped at the air, her eyes round and staring.

Help! Iris yelled into phone. We need help!

~ ~ ~

Chapter Two

Maggie Bolin whimpered, deep in sleep . . .

Her eyes popped open, her heart as full as a red balloon. It was her birthday!

Maggie moved to jump out of bed. Uh-oh. Danger. She felt beneath her. The red balloon popped. Even the ends of her waist-length hair were soaked. She’d wet the bed again! She’d be in big trouble - unless she could figure out how to wash the sheets. Or hide them.

Before she could think, footsteps shook the lamp by her bedside. The covers flew back. The warmth of Maggie’s wet body chilled. The sudden, burning pain in her scalp brought tears to her eyes.

"Well happy birthday, you little guttersnipe! the mom yelled as she jerked Maggie up by her hair. Five years old and still peeing in your bed."

She punched Maggie in the shoulder, the yellow stone of her ring biting deep. Maggie kicked at her, careful not to scream and bring her daddy into the room, which would only get her a worse beating later. She twisted her head to bite at the punishing fist and felt a chunk of her hair rip loose. She stood stock-still against the pain, her eyes locked on the huge, dark moons shining from the mom’s menacing face. There was a nasty quiet before the foot whacked into her rear and toppled her to the floor.

"Now get these sheets washed!" The mom bunched up her face like she often did when she looked at Maggie.

It was the look that told Maggie what she was. Though she could never quite figure out what she was guilty of, she knew the sin was way blacker than peeing in her bed.

One smear of blood Maggie hadn’t seen on her tee shirt had cost her the punishment that scared her most. The barn. As the door closed off all light except the one silver thread beneath it, Maggie felt the warmth spread between her legs and soak her underwear. The skittering sounds would come soon. Maggie reached inside her shorts pocket and took out the matches she kept squirreled away for dark places. She dragged the wooden stick across the small box and drew the sulphur smell deep into her lungs. How beautiful the blue- orange flame, too brief its pretty dance . . .

Maggie Bolin’s eyes flew open, and the musty odor of sex assaulted her. She turned her head to meet a dark-fringed gaze. One eye turned slightly to focus on her. The other stared straight ahead. A glass eye? Good Lord!

You were having a bad dream. I woke you.

Hmmm.

More revelations? Maggie narrowed her eyes.

You were babbling about visions when you passed out. He spoke with a slight accent she couldn’t place. American, but with an unusual cadence. She’d picked him up because his dark good looks reminded her of her high school sweetheart. The bastard. That she’d failed to notice the gimpy eye verified she’d amply exceeded her limit on alcohol.

Maggie propped herself up on an elbow. Her head felt like an overripe melon. From the radio her companion had brought in with him to the pay-by-the- hour motel, Elvis serenaded Sao Paulo with Blue Christmas. Thank God for the Brazilians’ passion for American soap operas and rock and roll. Sometimes it felt as if they were her only link to the real world.

Whatever that was. She thought of the Internet crash earlier that week, how the entire planet had fallen apart when stripped of its almighty Web. Without it, it seemed, they’d all been like Dorothy and Toto, flapping in the breeze over Kansas.

Her bedmate swung his powerful legs off the edge of the bed and pulled on his jeans. The muscles rippled along his back as he reached over to the nightstand and switched off the radio.

Hey - ! Her warning hung in the air between them, unfinished, as she realized she couldn’t remember his name.

She’d done it again, what she’d vowed three days ago never to repeat. Beneath the covers, she touched the still tender bruises on her inner thigh. For her, picking up strangers was like drinking. Her mind shifted out of gear when she reached for the next one.

We skipped introductions. He spoke without turning.

Jerk. She watched him shrug down his tee-shirt.

Cut back on the tequila, your holy encounters might -

She fought her way out of the tangled bed, plucked her dress off the floor, and jerked it down over her nakedness. Her espadrilles were nowhere in sight. She yanked up the covers to look under the bed.

He thought she was a nut case. So what? She’d never see the big oaf again. He’d met her basic criterion for pick-ups. He was just passing through.

He headed for the door, then turned, reached into his pocket, drew out a card, and flipped it at her. So you’ll know who you serviced.

She stooped to pick it up. Moudi Jancy. Beneath his name were printed the words: Have Gun Will Travel and a phone number.

You ever need anything to disappear - besides your . . . revelations, he said, give me a call.