Weekend Fiction: God as Their Witness
Michael Loomis’s hand, slick from the morning heat, slipped on the thumb-break of his holster. Tags current. Blinkers worked. He knew the outcome was in his Creator’s hands as he slipped his own back ten and two on the wheel. Still, he prayed for a way out.
The officer approached. She was a petite gal, made thicker with the vest and uniform. She lacked the cop waddle but didn’t exactly glissade up to his vehicle either, instead walking tactically in sure, short steps. She paused at the back of the work van, studying his bumper stickers on its blacked out windows. He kept his hands visible on the wheel.
Her last name was Smith. Eyes behind tinted Prizm lenses guarded their movements. She carried a Sig 9 on her left hip, a southpaw.
“Officer, I must inform you, per my Second Amendment right under the Constitution of the United States of America and state law of Arizona, I am in possession of an open-carry firearm fully registered and duly licensed.”
The Constitution was meant to protect citizens from government, not the other way around.
“Appreciated, sir. Now if you would, keep inside your vehicle and hands on the steering wheel when not instructed otherwise. We should have you on your way shortly.” Her left was ready to draw but her voice unhurried. “You know why I stopped you?”
Could this be his Abraham moment, told not to sacrifice his son after all, that his faith had been proven. He wondered if Officer Smith had a husband and kids.
“No, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve got a clue.”
The sun continued its rapid rise. It was promising to be a warm spring day, the dew already melting off the grass. Couldn’t have asked for better. Officer Smith requested he remove the keys from the ignition and exit the vehicle slowly. His quoting this country’s founding document based on the Rights of Man, the tinted windows, his sidearm—it was too tempting for this pawn of the state. She was going to want to illegally search the van.
His running shoes were caked in clippings and mulch and hay. He didn’t realize he wasn’t wearing his boots until he’d already made it most the way out to feed the chickens. He studied Smith and couldn’t tell if she’d ever had to kill for her meal, knew where her meat came from, felt the cold responsibility of dominion over all the creatures of the earth. You can’t sit around and pretend like things don’t happen just because you don’t see them. You don’t see the hand of God either, but if you’re any kind of Christian you know it’s there and guiding your journey with wisdom, power, and love from above.
Officer Smith took in the bumper stickers that continued to the driver’s side of the back of the van. She turned to face him, the sun a blinding halo around her head:
“Do you believe in angels?”
27.8 miles away, one eventual highway entrance and taking the second exit after, stood a building under renovation. Ashamed, it does not advertise its true services. Those of Dr. Rosalinda M. Little, MD.
No one else in the state will but her. She lacks a moral compass, having abandoned her Hippocratic oath and Jesus. You ever hear about this Gosnell fellow, drug dealing and keeping baby body parts like some kind of serial killer? You haven’t, because Hollywood won’t distribute the movie. And you probably hadn’t heard of Dr. Little either. Because her façade is so good. But by the end of today, all of America will know.
“The Good Book says there are seraphim, cherubim, and your messenger angels in human form. And if you’re casually inquiring if I’m a God-fearing Jesus-lover…” The morning light was too great for Michael Loomis’s eyes. He bowed his head. “…consider me guilty as charged. But I suspect you gathered that already.”
Dr. Loomis (Ph.D.) had taught history. Its decline was all too easy to see. On the right and on the left and in the middle, all agree today that something is corrupt at the core of our society. The only question is what, whether A) it’s because we were moving from the pillars of societal cohesion to the sinking sand of relativism and lives free of consequences, or B) if you thought it was because almost 150 years after slavery and a Black president we’re still somehow racist and if we just mandated enough sensitivity training and trigger warnings and punished the most productive members of society somehow we can kumbaya the world into a one-government pantheistic peace accord.
Slithering secularism wasn’t creeping in; it was already here, fully in the hen house and fattened, burping feathers and looking around for its next meal. As a community college professor, he’d seen it daily. A shaper of young minds now Loomis pours concrete because they don’t want their children to become citizens. Acute Libtard sensibilities. Everything is about acceptance, withholding judgment. And lacking judgment, they’re about to accept the collapse of Christian civilization. He’d seen the demons clouding the administrators’ eyes and those possessing his most vocal students crying about his teaching the real truth of history: violence, and the battle for civilization. Very few of those taking out loans for his classes would ever obtain a degree or transfer. They paid for their brainwashing with wealth they did not possess. But at least they each had a chance. At least they weren’t aborted.
Rosalinda Little has three children. She attended a Methodist Church—a cover—until an associate of Loomis’s tailed her and outed her in front of her congregation. She never went back. Their tithes—literal blood money—were no longer wanted. Loomis was told the video of Dr. Little’s excommunication had over two thousand likes. He has seen the raw footage. From their faces, her children (Ronald age 14, Danielle age 9, and Mary age 7—note only one Biblical name) did not know their mother was a baby killer.
“Sir, your license, please. With just your left hand if you could.” He handed it to her. She looked it over. She still hadn’t stated her purpose in pulling him over and getting him out of the car. “Where do you attend church, Mr. Loomis?” she asked.
He was defensive. The preacher of his last church politely asked him to leave, which would be in his dossier if he were a person of interest. But she was likely only a local foot soldier, just told to detain him for as long as possible while media and some alphabet-soup of federal agencies arrived to publicize the arrest. “My wagon isn’t hitched to any one particular congregation or denomination.”
She must have noticed him looking for FEMA troops or feds ready to swarm in, make the collar or decide to shoot and save themselves the trouble, come out as heroes, and eliminate his chance to speak the truth to the nation. See Ruby Ridge.
“Michael, behind me there is a camera recording us from the squad car. It can’t hear what we’re saying, but it can see what we’re doing.”
She paused, her hand moving from her gun belt to join her left hand in front of its buckle. Her reflective shades stared at him, and he saw the attire he decided for today: a blue shirtsleeve with a large white ichthus and the lines from Jeremiah 5:1 inside the fish belly. His arms still strong from a lifetime of real work, though the mottled skin bunched in his neck and elbows like a sock having lost its elastic. His thinning hair he’d buzzed down to a one; his glasses’ wire frames slightly bent and the cheaper metal exposed under the gold sheen. His face freshly shaved.
“Have you been saved?”
“Ma’am’s my mother. My name is Katy Smith. You know, I’ve gotten into trouble asking that question before. Just for witnessing to people I see need the help.”
“That right, officer?”
“Been sued twice, written up more than that. Christ teaches we should be a light unto the world, and I shine for him and can’t put on dimmers just because, you know.”
“I know.” But he couldn’t draw a bead on the situation. She’d mentioned angels, which about 6,000 years ago one-third were cast out of His Kingdom. “You sure it’s Jesus who laid this burden on your heart?”
“I am certain,” she said. “Will you pray with me?”
His mind was racing. He could not refuse the prayer, and while Officer Smith might have known this, it, like her question earlier as to his fellowship, felt sincere and unlike a trap.
On bended knee, head bowed, eyes unfocused but unclosed, he listened to hear her breathe, determine if she might be an angel. He didn’t know if this would be a silent prayer. It took a few seconds before she began asking God aloud in the name of His Son and the Holy Spirit for discernment and protection for the both of them, for blessings of the Spirit, and for the power to accept His divine inheritance. In Jesus Christ’s name, our Lord, Savior, and Redeemer, amen.
The prayer was short, but his knee still gave him problems rising. The officer kept her professional distance as she repeated in a wet, thankful voice, “Thank you, Lord.” Then her hand returned to her hip.
“Michael, what’s in the van?”
He could hear the quotes around the words he recited: “I do not consent to a search.”
“Why is that?”
“Ma’am, officer, I don’t believe you need to involve yourself with what’s in the van here. I’d prefer to leave that a private matter between me and the Almighty.”
“I don’t need to search the van, Michael. I just need you to tell me that there’s nothing in it.”
“I would rather not say one way or the other.” He envisioned the clear black hole in the middle of her forehead like a period ending a sentence stretched too long and complicated. Final. He wished he’d never met Officer Smith. “I maintain my Fourth Amendment rights as a citizen.”
What if he was aborted instead of adopted? What if his friends from church and people he cared about were aborted? How can people live with such killing?
“Michael, I know what’s in there.”
183 abortions an hour. Stacks of bodies. A landfill of fetus infants. Hills and hills of pork-pink parts and crushed skulls—and that’s just in our material world. He’s seen in God’s vision rolling hills of unbaptized baby souls tortured in lakes of fire. How can people be so callous and blind?
“Then you know what I have to do.”
He looked at her again, tried giving the officer a window into his soul. There was really only one resolution. He relaxed his shoulders, loosened his hands as he’d practiced on his property. He’s a pretty good shot at twenty paces. She was less than two.
“I was heading to a baby-killing facility, Katy Smith. This is the only day that will work. The abortionist will be in by herself; they have no planned murders for today because they’re renovating to meet new state codes. I intend to majorly remodel the facility with the doctor in it. She my live. She may not. That part is with God. I will turn myself in peacefully after but not before.”
The sun was still in his eyes. Hers still hid by glasses.
“I appreciate your honesty, Professor Loomis,” she said. She motioned with her head. “There’s a roadblock in six miles. You’re going to want to backtrack and head up Johnson Creek. Now, my hand might be a little slow this morning. Trust that I wear the full armor of the Lord. Ephesians 6:14.”
Loomis knew the verse. He drew and fired.
Officer Smith expended valuable minutes waiting for the air to return to her chest and the pain to subside before army crawling back to the cruiser. The sun had returned to the heavens where Smith saw her mother looking down, watching and protecting her. Like an infant. She felt her innocence, the pain of her sacrifice. There are laws greater than man’s. She’d been tested. There would be other tests to come. She asked God’s protection.
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