Dominion by Randy Alcorn

thinkin’ about Dani—about how leaving this world was like signin’ and framin’ her own self-painted portrait. What she said and did before she died, it was the finishing touch, the final signature.”
He took out a white handkerchief, slowly wiping it across his black face, the color contrast dramatic.
“Death’s the signature, now isn’t it? Till then our lives aren’t open to final appraisal, because it isn’t over till it’s over. As long as we’re alive, the painting’s still in process and we don’t know for sure how it’s going to turn out. Well, I can tell you that Dani’s life portrait was a masterpiece. It turned out well. She loved her family. She loved the church. Above all, she loved God.”
Sobs and “Amens” filled the sanctuary.
Clarence felt a sudden compulsion to leave. He couldn’t stand to stay in the auditorium another moment. He whispered to his father, “Got to go take an insulin shot.” He whispered the same to Geneva. He could tell she didn’t buy it.
He went out to the side aisle and walked to the back of the church, uncomfortable having everyone watch him. But it hurt less to leave than to stay. He didn’t want to hear any more. There were Jake and Janet, near the back of the full auditorium, a little out of place sitting there in their white skin. Jake turned and looked at him, his eyes asking if he was all right.
Clarence nodded as if to say yes. He went into the bathroom and took out of his suit pocket the three-by-five inch blood test monitor and his little vial of tracer strips. He grasped the beige pen-like pointer that housed the blood test needle and pushed it down on the little finger of his left hand. The spring popped, the needle pierced, and the dark red blood surfaced. Clarence gathered it into a bead, letting it drop neatly on the quarter inch of exposed litmus paper. He pushed the button on the monitor to begin its count to sixty. While it counted he wiped his finger with a cotton ball and stuck the vial back in his suit pocket.
When it reached 57 the monitor started beeping at him. He neatly wiped off the tracer strip on the third beep. He then slipped it down into the slot to be read in another minute. It said 178. Could have been worse, but higher than he suspected, too high. He reached to his other coat pocket and pulled out the small, clear-colored vial of insulin with the white label. He untucked his shirt, took off the orange syringe cover, drew four units of R insulin, and injected himself in the stomach.
His need to take insulin or to consume sugar to combat too much insulin sometimes embarrassed him, but in cases like this it came in handy as an excuse to leave somewhere he didn’t want to be. He knew he had to return now. Why had he consented to say something at the funeral? Reluctantly, he came back up the aisle and took his seat.
“God says it’s appointed to men once to die, and after that comes judgment,” Clancy said. “One day we’ll each stand before God. And it’ll take more than gold chains or lizard skin boots or fancy Easter hats to impress him.”
“Amens” sounded everywhere. A woman behind Clarence said, “Yessuh.” He heard the sounds of purses opening and closing and handkerchiefs unraveling and people crying. Though part of him resisted it, this black church brought up something in Clarence, something precious and long forgotten.
“Dani was a Christian,” Pastor Clancy said. “Her name was written in the Lamb’s book of life. God says because of what he did for her on the cross, she’ll spend eternity with him in heaven. Well, she’s there with him now. I’ll miss her. But if I had the power, would I call her back here?”
Yes. In a second.
“I don’t think so. It would be selfish. Once you meet Jesus on the other side, I have a feeling the last thing you’d want to do is come back here.”
“That’s true, pastor,” someone said.
Clancy went on for another few minutes, then looked at Clarence. “Now, I want to