The Messenger by T. Davis Bunn Page A

searched and tossed. They had been mauled like the door. Chewed up and spit out and left in a heap of sodden carnage.
    Manny looked around and started seeing things from a different perspective, the perspective of this new voice. They had not been searching for something. Not really. They wanted him . They had done this to his apartment because they had not been able to do it to him.
    Then there was another new sensation, the feeling that something had been suddenly given to him. An insight so bizarre that he knew he could never have come up with it himself.
    The sudden insight told him that what he saw there in front of him was not just his things. It was his life . He had walked this independent path of anger and conceit with a self-absorbed swagger, so sure of his own power and abilities that he had never had time for anybody. Never needed anything but himself. And look where it had led him. To this. To danger and darkness and ruin.
    And with the realization came a choice. He could ignore what he faced and move on, replace his belongings and continue as he had up to now. But next time it would be him who was mauled and trashed and left heaped like garbage. Manny did not know how he could be so sure of this, but he was sure. This was what would happen unless he took the second choice, and followed a new path to the end. Come what may. No matter how the path drew him away from what was normal and comfortable. No matter how much control and independence he had to give up. Either he chose to bend and learn and grow, or he chose to die.
    The growl sounded then. Hungry. Hunting. So close it seemed to come from inside his own head. Manny turned and fled, his feet not hitting more than one step in five. He barreled through the door, searched the night, shouted at a passing taxi.
    Maybe, just maybe, he could still catch the last flight to Washington.
    ****
    â€œThis is beautiful!”
    â€œNow, dear,” Clarice chided. “Don’t let your head be turned by these trappings. Remember, the greatest beauty resides in the hearts of believers.”
    But before Ariel could respond, Hale was up alongside her and saying, “Almost time, Ariel. Would you come up front with me, please?”
    â€œYes,” she said, allowing herself to be led through the packed foyer and into the soaring sanctuary. She had wanted to tell Clarice that she had not been exclaiming over the building. What had touched her so deeply was the feeling inside the church, inside the people. Beneath the smiles and the eager chatter and the handshakes and the hugs she could feel a familiar Presence. “This is wonderful.”
    â€œSure is,” Hale agreed. “Never thought I would wind up working in a church this grand. But Leslie has a way about him. You’ll see. He looks like a movie actor and talks like a diplomat. But his heart is straight for God.”
    The church was indeed grand, a great stone edifice built in the last century, with a ceiling of huge interlocking beams. Along both side walls rose a proud array of stained-glass windows. Yet Ariel found the place wondrous not for what it was, but rather for what it contained. Eyes turned their way, smiles greeting Hale and then showing Ariel a calm welcome. People were gathered for worship—old and young, of different races and colors, men and women and teens and children, some in suits and others in jeans, all joined by that which none could see yet all acknowledged. She said simply, “I love it here.”
    Hale gave a surprised laugh. “Why, thank you. I’ve only been here three months, but already I feel like this church and these people are my own.”
    He led her up and around to the side stairs leading past the pulpit and chairs. The empty choir rows faced down upon a curved dais, where a single spotlight shone on a gleaming golden harp. “Leslie and the deacons brought me in because they wanted to reach out to the local black community. Turn this place