Chosen (11 page)

“You caught it all on film?” Ridge asked incredulously.

“Well, not
all
of it. Even seeing our legs with the audio gives me the willies, and I was
there.”

“That’s it? You couldn’t get me carrying you to safety
and
taking a bullet for you in the process?”

Steve raised his hands and shrugged. “Hey. I’m good. But not that good.”

“Well, I suppose it’ll have to do. What’d headquarters say?” Just speaking sapped his energy. He struggled to stay awake.

“They’re thrilled. Our footage, such as it is, has been played on every network and on countless feeder stations. The world is waiting for Ridge McIntyre to regain consciousness. Our story made the front pages of the L.A.
Times
and the
Washington Post.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. You’re a hero.” The man stood with some effort, painfully bending down to jokingly give him a smacking kiss on the cheek. Ridge grimaced and pulled away. “You’re my hero, man. Thanks for saving my life.” Steve sat back down and wheeled away toward the door. “I’m glad you made it too. The bullet somehow missed any vital organs when it passed through. You lost a lot of blood, man, but you’re gonna make it. Oh, and by the way, headquarters will
be sending a full camera crew to do a bedside interview with the News Junkie Stud this afternoon, once they find out you’re conscious.”

“Great. Just great. And quit calling me that,” Ridge muttered wearily. But Steve was already gone. Ridge traced the bullet’s path, where it had passed along his head. The second had apparently passed cleanly through his body. He remembered his prayer.
Hey, God, guess you have some business with me yet, huh?

His thoughts turned to Alexana and the words she had spoken on Ash Wednesday a week before. Too ashamed to show up at church, he had not gone to services that evening. Consequently, he had not seen Alexana since. He had plunged into his work, wanting to forget the whole thing, but that single bullet had brought it all back.

Alexana could feel the excitement and tension in the city as Christian pilgrims entered Jerusalem by the hundreds in preparation for Palm Sunday and Easter. It had been a long while since she had seen Ridge—nine days since the shooting—and she frowned at the way she had last spoken to him.
I’m not a perfect witness,
she thought, remembering her disclaimer.
That doesn’t even begin to describe your lame attempt, Alexana Roarke. There the man was, ready to hear the gospel for the first time, and you bombard him with so much information, you scare him off forever.

Alexana tried to tell herself that she only cared because she wanted to show others the importance of faith. But she could not deny the truth: She missed seeing the handsome man.
Protect my heart, Lord,
she whispered the now-familiar petition.
I don’t want a man who doesn’t want you.

Alexana had heard about his escapades in Lebanon over the BBC. The audiotape of his encounter with the sniper in Beirut made for sensational audio footage. Even without a television, Alexana knew that Ridge had nearly lost his life.

She had fought the desire to travel north to see him in the hospital, telling herself that she had no right to be there … to say nothing of the fact that he had not called in weeks.

He obviously did not want to see her.

Shopping in the suk, Alexana had just negotiated a price for a luscious assortment of red, orange, and green peppers for a marinated salad when she recognized a voice in her ear.

“Hi there, Doc.”

She turned, feeling a blush creep up her neck and hoping that it did not show. “Ridge! Are you okay? How long have you been back?” Her words sounded forced, trite, and she fought off feelings of guilt for not having looked in on him.

“I’ve been back about a week,” he said, obviously uncomfortable as well. Alexana could not help but wonder as he turned to the fruit and vegetables before them, picking out some apples and pears.

“I—”

“How have—”

They both started talking at once, stopped and laughed, then began speaking simultaneously once again. Both dissolved into laughter, which broke the tension like a welcome rain.

“Ridge, I want to apologize,” Alexana tried again. “I think I came on too strong about the faith and all.”

“No, Alexana, don’t apologize,” he assured her gently. “The truth
is, it’s all I’ve been thinking about—and running away from—these past weeks. It wasn’t you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to say that. I know myself. I can be so tuned into something, I don’t even stop for breath. I’m just so in love with my faith and want others to know it that when I get the chance, I’m rather like a freight train.”

Ridge looked down at the woman in front of him. “I could never see you as a ‘freight train,’ even when you’re giving one of your impassioned speeches.” His look was tender and intimate.

Alexana’s blush deepened.

“I’ll say it again. Don’t apologize. Your words were well-intentioned, and they reached me in a way I can’t describe. I know that you are nothing but honest. And I apologize for not calling you after that day. You probably thought you drove me away, but I just really needed time to think about what we had talked about.”

Alexana pushed aside the desire to ask where that process had left him. She nodded in understanding, then turned and discussed with the merchant fair prices for more vegetables and paid him.

Ridge went back to examining the fruit, particularly the green bananas, while she fumbled with her change. As she turned to go, he glanced at her with a smile.

“Well, Ridge,” she faltered. “I’m glad you’re up and well. Really.”

He nodded at her. “And I’m glad I had the chance to apologize to you for not calling.”

“Well, um … I’ll see you.”

“I hope so,” he said with feeling.

As she turned and left, Ridge again found himself watching her as she disappeared into the crowded suk.

Ridge stood at the top of the Mount of Olives, between Bethany and Jerusalem, where he and Steve were covering the Christian processional that celebrated Palm Sunday. Group after group passed behind him, singing in French, Greek, Italian, and countless other languages as he made his report.

“From Jerusalem, this is Ridge McIntyre, CNN,” he finished.

Steve shut off the camera and swung it away from his eye, flinching at the pain in his side. “Great story, man,” he managed. “Especially poignant with the pilgrims behind you.”

“Yeah,” Ridge said absently, searching the crowds behind Steve. “I see that you’re still hurting. Better get some rest before they call us out on another assignment.”

“Yeah? What about you?” Steve returned.

“Stitches came out yesterday. I’m fine,” Ridge said with forced bravado.

His eyes quickly left his friend’s as he spotted Sam and Alexana coming toward him. They were a part of an English-speaking group, singing hymns as they passed. When Alexana’s eyes met his, they smiled into his soul. Ridge’s heart skipped a beat.

“May I join you?” he asked, as they walked by without stopping.

“Certainly,” Alexana said, throwing a smile over her shoulder.

Ridge turned to Steve.

“Should I follow you and get some more footage?” his friend asked.

“Nah. I think I want to do this on my own, not for the world to see. Want to come?”

“No, thanks. Think I’ll go grab a sandwich and some R and R as my colleague suggested.”

“Okay,” Ridge said hurriedly. He watched as Alexana walked farther away down the winding road that led to the Garden of Gethsemane. “Catch you later!” he called over his shoulder, hurrying to catch up with her.

As they walked, Sam and Alexana taught Ridge the tunes to some Easter hymns, smiling encouragement as he joined in. Several were vaguely familiar to him; most were completely new. Between songs, the pilgrims chatted quietly or said nothing, and Ridge was caught up in their contemplative mood. Gradually, among the untrained but fervent voices, he grew more at ease and concentrated on the photocopied words before him.

Most of the songs were somber, a few celebratory. As he reflected on Alexana’s explanation about Palm Sunday, he decided the mixture of tunes was fitting. Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem on a donkey, down a path much like this, with hundreds of people laying palm branches and their cloaks before him as if he were king. Yet he had ridden knowing he was to give the supreme sacrifice: his life.

Long after the group had gone on to another song, a verse from an African-American spiritual echoed through Ridge’s head.
“Were you there when they nailed him to the tree? Were you there when they nailed him to the tree? Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?”

His mind whirled with the thought of it. Feelings of anger rose in his heart at the injustice of it; feelings of unworthiness swept through him as he contemplated Alexana’s explanation: that it was for him, as much as any other, that God had sent Jesus to die.

Alexana’s sweet, earnest voice brought him back to the hymn that the group was now singing. When it ended, she looked up at him curiously. “Ridge,” she said quietly, “remember when you were
about six years old and you wanted a bike with a banana seat or a racecar model or whatever?” Ridge nodded, feeling a little guarded in the face of her odd question.

She stopped and held him by the forearm, an urgency present in her expression and actions. People filed around them like a stream around a rock. “Remember when Santa Claus came and you got that bike and you said, ‘I believe in him. I believe in him!’?”

Ridge gave her a funny little smile. “I think I knew the truth about Santa by the time I was six.”

Alexana sighed. “Okay then. How about when you read
Peter Pan
—I mean
really
read it—so that you were so deep into the story, you could see yourself flying with Wendy. Or maybe you were even Peter himself. All you needed was a little magic fairy dust, and you’d be flying. Flying!”

Ridge nodded warily.

“You believed. You
believed.”
The words left her lips in hushed awe. She stared into his eyes, and Ridge knew it was a moment he would never forget. He saw what she was after. There, on the hillside of Bethany, across from the City of David, Ridge understood.

“You’re speaking of a leap of faith,” he said in a hushed, sure voice. “Believe it, and you’ll fly.”

“I know it’s just a children’s story. But it’s a perfect illustration of what it means to choose faith.” She took his hand. “Come.”

Ridge walked with her, lost in thought. They joined Sam, who waited for them at the bottom of the hill, and together the three made their way to the Church of All Nations, where people had begun to gather.

“All glory, laud and honor to Thee, Redeemer, King, to whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas ring: Thou art the King of
Israel, Thou David’s royal Son, Who in the Lord’s name comest, The King and Blessed One!” Alexana’s face shone as she lost herself in the words of the hymn. To Ridge, she seemed more beautiful than anyone he’d ever known—both inside and out.

He joined her on the last verse, his deep voice blending sweetly with her own soprano. “To Thee, before Thy Passion, they sang their hymns of praise; to Thee, now high exalted, our melody we raise.”

They fell silent as they entered the gorgeous cathedral, officially named the Basilica of the Agony, but built with funds from sixteen countries and therefore dubbed the Church of All Nations. Above them towered a magnificent ceiling made of twelve domes and arches on top of marble columns. Each dome displayed a royal blue background adorned with delicate paintings of olive trees and marked with Latin phrases. Far beneath the arches, the pilgrims gathered, silent, praying.

Alexana pulled at Ridge’s sleeve, and he bent over to hear her whisper. “Jesus told his disciples to sit here while he went away to pray. We stand here to remember that moment and what is to come.” Ridge watched as many knelt or found a wall to lean against, their hands over their faces. Some wept. Some smiled, raising their hands in silent worship.

He closed his eyes, feeling awkward at first. But in the midst of all those people, somehow silent in a building that would resound with the echo of a falling pin, Ridge felt peace. He prayed, imagining himself at the feet of an enthroned Christ in heaven. That was one of the few emotions he could identify.
Peace.
Then:
Understanding. Security.
His heart leaped with excitement and appreciation.

“I am unworthy, Father,” he prayed silently. Suddenly he could
visualize Jesus’ face looking down at him with nothing but love. “I am unworthy,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“I have made you worthy,”
came the words, spoken, not verbally, but straight to his heart. Tears sprang to his eyes as Ridge thought of all his past sins, the way he had lived his life, how he had virtually ignored God until this point.

“I am sorry, God … my Lord. I am so sorry.” Slowly, he sank to his knees as a flood of emotions ran through him like an ocean tide. His mind called him to stop and rise, but his heart told him to stay.

“Is this how you speak to me, Father? Through my heart?” No answer came as clearly as those first words deep within him, but Ridge understood. Silently he concentrated on feeling God’s presence, praying for the first time with pure pleasure.

A woman’s voice rang out through the grand cathedral, beginning quietly in Italian and building to a crescendo at the end of the verse. The group she had come with joined in the second verse. Most people in the room recognized the famous hymn “Beautiful Savior,” and as the Italians finished, the Greek group beside them continued the song in their own native tongue. The French, German, and English groups followed suit as the crowd listened, contemplating their faith that was shared around the world. Ridge rose to stand beside Alexana and Sam, and tears streamed down all three faces.

“Beautiful Savior, King of Creation, Son of God, and Son of Man! Truly I’d love thee, truly I’d serve thee, Light of my soul, my Joy, my Crown. Beautiful Savior, Lord of the nations, Son of God and Son of Man! Glory and honor, praise, adoration, now and forevermore be thine!”