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Most of them were waiting for the train to the capital after a hard workday.
John Netsby, however, had other reasons. Even if his unremarkable presence was sensed by the others, they probably thought his nervousness looking at his watch constantly, while observing the horizon was due a long working day, or maybe a conversation and a few beers taking more time than prudence recommends. But, actually, Netsby was waiting for someone.
A person capable of finish his nightmare. What if he had not been able to take it? That means another night awake, more chills and more threats.
He breathed again when saw a tall, thin figure wearing a long coat that seemed threadbare under the dim light of the station, and with a small bag as only luggage. I can assure you that only a tenth of the cases I have dealt with, enclosed any danger. The mind, my dear friend, is one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.
A silence sprinkled with a couple trivialities were their only accompaniment until they arrived at the family house.
Julia Netsby maiden name, Smith was waiting for them at the door, maybe opened more than an hour ago, or perhaps it had been just opened after the two men were spotted through the hazy night. One way or another, this was the last thing they were concerned about. Leaving the greetings for later, the two men climbed the narrow stairs, leading Netsby, which sometimes was going up the steps two at a time and others three by three, using an impossible to discern rule. Abbot, meanwhile, was advancing step by step, without ever being far behind of the other.
Once upstairs, while one of them was panting with the effort, the other slightly opened his briefcase looking away from the person stood before them. That person, of course, was the daughter of John and Julia. Westley and I were surrounded by sisters and deacons praying. It was very hot in the church, and getting late now. Finally Westley said to me in a whisper: I'm tired o' sitting here. Let's get up and be saved.
Then I was left all alone on the mourners' bench. My aunt came and knelt at my knees and cried, while prayers and song swirled all around me in the little church. The whole congregation prayed for me alone, in a mighty wail of moans and voices.
And I kept waiting serenely for Jesus, waiting, waiting - but he didn't come. I wanted to see him, but nothing happened to me. I wanted something to happen to me, but nothing happened. I heard the songs and the minister saying: My dear child, why don't you come to Jesus?
Jesus is waiting for you. Why don't you come? Sister Reed, what is this child's name?
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Why don't you come and be saved? Oh, Lamb of God! Now it was really getting late. I began to be ashamed of myself, holding everything up so long. I began to wonder what God thought about Westley, who certainly hadn't seen Jesus either, but who was now sitting proudly on the platform, swinging his knickerbockered legs and grinning down at me, surrounded by deacons and old women on their knees praying. God had not struck Westley dead for taking his name in vain or for lying in the temple. So I decided that maybe to save further trouble, I'd better lie, too, and say that Jesus had come, and get up and be saved.
So I got up. Suddenly the whole room broke into a sea of shouting, as they saw me rise. Women leaped in the air. My aunt threw her arms around me. The minister took me by the hand and led me to the platform. When things quieted down, in a hushed silence, punctuated by a few ecstatic "Amens," all the new young lambs were blessed in the name of God.
Then joyous singing filled the room. That night, for the first time in my life but one for I was a big boy twelve years old - I cried.
I cried, in bed alone, and couldn't stop. I buried my head under the quilts, but my aunt heard me. She woke up and told my uncle I was crying because the Holy Ghost had come into my life, and because I had seen Jesus.