Ancient Shores

He sincerely believed in his own uprightness, because he gave hope to the despairing, meaning to those who had lost direction, and a sense of belonging to the unloved. To all who came to him, who wandered the various Sinais of their lives in keeping with the spirit of the Volunteers, he offered redemption, an easing of pain, and a celestial compass.

Oh, yes, Bill was a believer. God stood by Bill’s side when the choir was singing and the pipes were playing and people sobbed out their sins and promised to amend their lives.

And he most certainly did not do it for money.

The money was nice; he never denied that. But he thought of it as a corollary benefit for doing what was right, for walking the path of the Lord, for living by the Book. His real motivation would have been found in the exhilaration of standing before audiences in English-speaking countries around the world and feeling their response to God’s truth. He loved to draw them into the power of the Word, to hold their emotions in his hands, and, with his soaring rhetoric, to loosen the chains that bound them, not to an earthly existence, but to prosaic lives.

Bill understood the romance implicit in the tales of a desert God who had loved his people and who had eventually faced the Roman cross for all who had ever drawn breath. Yes! That was what people understood and what they loved. And they loved him because he had made himself part of the message.

His second Fort Moxie broadcast took place during the last snow storm of the season. Ordinarily, Bill didn’t get to see much snow, and it inspired him. While the flakes drifted against the windows, he understood God’s love for Adam in spite of his disobedience. And he felt his people’s hearts beat with his.

“But Adam has gone back into the Garden.”

“Amen,” cried the Volunteers.

“O Lord, we need your strong arm.”

“Alleluia!”

“Give us a sign. Show the faithless You stand by our side!”

He urged his listeners to write to their representatives. “Demand that we withdraw. For we are deaf to His word.” Tears appeared in his eyes. The wind began to build. Bill felt the Presence. “Show them your strength, God of Abraham,” he said. “I ask it in your Son’s name.”

The chorus, on cue, burst into “Rock of Ages.” The room shook and people sobbed and the wind wrapped itself around the building. Amanda Dexter, who could always be counted on to go to pieces at the climax of a good service, shrieked her undying gratitude to her Creator and collapsed in a quivering heap.

They rolled through several choruses while the wind played with the windows. Bill felt something open in his soul, and the power of the Angel of the Almighty entered into him. He knew once again the sheer exuberance of bringing people to the Lord. He flowed into the Angel and became one with it, directing the storm, watching the snow submerge the harsh angles of roof and shutter and drainpipe, enshrouding the building, burying it, removing its harsh lines.

Abruptly, he was back inside and the organ had stopped, and the Volunteers were in the aisles, exhausted, helping one another to their feet, delivering alleluias, collapsing into chairs.

“Praise the Lord,” said Mark Meyer, whose face was ashen. “Did you feel it?” He was looking directly at Bill.

“Yes,” said Bill, shakily. “I felt it.” Tonight, more than at any other time in his career, he knew he walked with the Blessed. “I think we got the sign,” he added. “I think we actually got the sign.”

He remembered the TV cameras. And at that moment, while he wondered if the network had picked up his remark, the lights went out.

“Check the circuit breakers,” someone shouted.

His people didn’t mind a little power failure, and they laughed their way through “Victory in Jesus.”

Bill put on his headset so he could talk to Harry Staples, his maintenance chief. “I’ll have the lights back in a second,” Harry said.

The room was absolutely dark. Bill could not even see any illumination coming in through the windows. That suggested the streetlights had also gone out.

“Everybody stay put until we get the power working again,” Bill said.

His producer reported that they were off the air. “But we went with a bang,” he added. The Whitburg studio had picked up and was covering with gospel music.

The Volunteers finished with “Joshua.” They cheered, conquering failed lights the same way they conquered everything else.

Harry’s voice again: “Power failure’s outside, Reverend. We’ve lost the heater, too.” Flashlights had appeared on the stairs.

“Okay,” said Bill. “Let’s close up and clear out.” They were staying in motels in Morris, Manitoba, about a half-hour north of the border. He turned to his audience. “You folks have done great,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

They were already filing toward the door, struggling into coats and boots. Bill waited, talking with his people. He heard the front door open.

And a rough masculine voice, breaking tone with the evening, said, “Hey, what the hell is this?”

Bill heard a whimper.

The door had opened on a wall of snow.

Frank Moll was at home listening to a Mozart concerto when the lights went out and the music died. Through his picture window, he could see that the streetlight located immediately in front of the house had also gone dark.

Peg came out of the den with a flashlight, headed for the circuit breakers.

“They’re off all over,” Frank said, reaching for the phone book.

“We are sorry,” came the recorded response at the electric company, “but all our service representatives are busy. Please stay on the line.”

He hung up, sat down, and propped his feet on the hassock. “Must be lines down somewhere,” he said. It was cold outside, but the house was well insulated.

They talked in the dark, enjoying the interruption in their routine. Across the street, Hodge Eliot’s front door opened. Hodge carried a lamp out onto his porch and peered down the street.

The phone rang.

“Frank?” He recognized Edie Thoraldson’s voice. “Something’s happened at Kor’s place. We’re sending the unit.”

That was the Quick Response Team, which Frank had once directed. “What?” he asked. “What happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “Apparently somebody got buried. I’ve got the police coming in from Cavalier. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you took a look.”

“Okay,” he said, puzzled.

Peg looked at him, worried. “What is it?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Edie says somebody got buried. What the hell does that mean?” He had his coat on already. “Keep the door locked,” he said.

Kor’s house was only six blocks away. He paused in his driveway for a stream of cars carrying volunteer firemen. Then he backed out into the street and turned left. Two minutes later he parked behind a gathering crowd a half-block away from Kor’s house. He was just behind the Quick Response Team. The neighborhood was thick with box elders, and it was hard to see what was happening. But he could hear a lot of crowd noise.

The fire engine rolled in. The crowd split and flowed away from the emergency vehicles. And Frank finally got clear of the trees.

Where Kor’s house, lately the Backcountry Church, had been, there was now a two-story-high snow cylinder. The snow was swirled at the top like soft ice cream.

27

He asked for a sign.

—Mike Tower, Chicago Tribune (commenting on Old-Time Bill and the freak storm at the Backcountry Church)

Harry Mills liked to say he was pure corn country, bred true. He had spent thirty years in the Congress of the United States, eight as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, before becoming Matt Taylor’s vice president. Harry told people he had no political ambitions other than to serve his nation well. He would be seventy-seven before he could hope for a run at the top job.