The Warning by Davis Bunn

mistake, every sin. All that he had not done, all that he had done for any motive but the purest. His whole life, his entire being, was revealed with perfect clarity. He was shamed to weeping submission.
    At the same time, the power of Christ’s sacrifice was incandescent. So far had his sins been separated from his eternal forgiveness that the Spirit saw them not. As far as the east is from the west, that was the distance separating his imperfections from the perfect One.
    It is coming .
    The sobs wrenched him still. He could not help it. The communication was planted within his mind and soul along with an absolute sadness. An immutable determination. Buddy had no doubt that the horror he had seen in his dream was indeed coming. He was totally convinced. It was indeed coming.
    He raised his tear-streaked face to the unseen ceiling, and whispered, “When?”
    Thirty-eight days .
    He moaned aloud. The pronouncement was as powerful as the pounding of a funeral bell. Hardly more than a month. It was no time at all. “How long will it last?”
    Seven years .
    He clutched his chest, not in pain, but terror. Seven years of famine. Seven years of devastation. Seven years of need.
    You must warn them .
    â€œWho?” He could only manage a croaking sound, but he had no doubt that he was heard. He was not speaking aloud for the Spirit, but rather because the pressure required release. “Whom do I tell?”
    All who will listen .
    He almost cried the words, “What do I say?”
    But there was no reply. Not this time. Instead the Presence began to recede, and with it the sense of overburdening sorrow. Buddy was instantly on his feet, aching with the absence of what was now disappearing. He raised his voice and shouted out the back window, “But why me ?”
    The response was a whisper, certain and steady and commanding.
    All who will listen .

–| | EIGHT | |–
    Thirty-Seven Days . . .
    As usual, Buddy arrived at church a half hour before the first Sunday service. He was both deacon and usher, and the group liked to gather for a little prayer time before the day began. Afterward he accepted his sheaf of bulletins and stationed himself by the side doors. This was as public a profession of faith as Buddy had ever cared to make—smiling and greeting the people, trying to make them feel welcome, having a friendly word for every newcomer.
    Only today his smile was a little strained, his greeting not as heartfelt as usual. Each passing face seemed a silent accusation. Should he tell this one? And if so, how? Surely God hadn’t chosen a man as shy and reserved as he was to stand up in front of the entire congregation.
    â€œBuddy, how are you this morning?”
    â€œHello, Clarke. Fine, fine.” Clarke Owen was the church’s assistant pastor and a friend. When the old preacher had retired, they had passed over Clarke and offered the pastorship to a dynamic young man. Attendance and membership had rocketed as a result, but Buddy still preferred the quieter ways of the older man.
    â€œNo, you’re not and don’t fib on a Sunday.” Molly stepped lightly up the stairs, halting next to Clarke. “Good morning, Pastor Owen.”
    â€œYou look pretty as a picture this morning, Molly.”
    Molly blushed crimson. One hand reached up to hide the scar rising from her high starched-crinoline collar. But she forced her hand back down and clenched her purse. She turned to Buddy. “You need to talk with him.”
    Clarke stepped aside to allow people through the doors, then returned to say, “Why don’t you come by my office after the service, Buddy? We’ll have us a little chat.”
    Even before Buddy had settled in his seat, Clarke Owen asked, “Now what’s this I hear from Molly about nightmares?”
    â€œI’ve sure been having them.” The church office on a Sunday after services was a good place for sharing confidences. Outside