I helped free people from the United States of the East. Then they come, like a marching troop-memories parading across my mind: The last time I lay in His peace, beneath the umbrella of His voice, I was dying. The calm that floods my heart brings with it a distant recollection. My own voice startles me, rebounding around my ears in this death box. My elbows and knees knock wood and bruise. The cold seeps through the thin walls, through my clothing, and the creak of wood tells me I’m underground. It groans like a slave beneath the weight of a hundred shackles. I flail and push against the coffin lid with my hand and stump.

There’s not much oxygen left in the casket. The beat of my heart is frantic, like a trapped bird. Why can’t I remember details?Īnother burst of breath. God, where are you? I open my eyes wide, meeting only darkness. My emotions are drained, but I can’t pinpoint why I’m here. Something happened to me-something traumatic. My hot breath rebounds off the underside of the coffin lid, hitting my face. What’s going on? Where am I? Why am I . . . The beep of my own flatline is fresh in my memory. I make you cry, then you make me cry . . . Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.Ĭover designed by Kirk DouPonce of DogEared Design Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher. Published by Enclave, an imprint of Gilead Publishing, Wheaton, IL 60187Īll rights reserved.

A Time to Rise by Nadine Brandes