The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small

      Brady glared at the young accountant. The problem with these mainline Protestants, he thought, is that they don’t have true faith anymore. Carla put her faith in numbers and computer models, but computers couldn’t decipher the will of God. God spoke through prophets, like his one and only son Jesus Christ, and at times through his faithful servants, like Brady himself. Brady never had trouble falling asleep at night. He guessed Carla did, judging from the dark circles under her eyes. He didn’t feel the stress of the unknown or the impossible because he had faith that God would provide the answer.

      “I don’t mean to be pushy, sir. I just don’t want New Hope to turn into another PTL fiasco,” she said.

      “PTL?” Brady sputtered. “How could you even begin to compare what we’re doing to that buffoon Jim Bakker?”

      Jennings quickly chimed in, “Carla, I know you didn’t mean any offense by that comment. But you’re new here. We’ve been in difficult situations before. No one believed we would raise the money to build the current church either. It’s only a matter of timing. We just need to make sure that the book continues on its course. Rick Warren made tens of millions off of A Purpose Driven Life. I believe the reverend’s book can do the same.”

      Carla sighed. Brady placed his hands on her petite arm. She obviously didn’t see the light he saw. “Carla, are you familiar with chapter twenty-five of Matthew?” he asked.

      “Not off the top of my head.”

      “A man leaves on a journey, putting his servants in charge of his property. He gives the more capable servant five silver coins, and to another less capable servant he leaves one coin. The servant with the five coins invests the money, earning five more coins. The other servant digs a hole and buries his coin in the ground. When the master returns, the first servant brings him the ten coins and receives praise. The other servant then gives his master the original single coin back, explaining that he was afraid to lose the money so he buried it. Chastising the second servant for being lazy, the master then takes the servant’s single silver piece and gives it to the first servant, who had ten pieces, saying, ‘For everyone who has, he will be given more, and he will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him.’”

      Brady removed his hands from Carla’s now sweaty arm, leaned back in his chair, and placed his fingertips under his chin. “So you see, our greatest danger is not in going forward with the project, but in taking the path you recommended.”

      Carla stared at the table while Jennings gathered the spreadsheets and handed them to her. “Thank you, Carla. We can talk further when I return to the office.”

      Carla avoided the eyes of both men when she left the room. Brady shook his head. “I told you when you wanted to hire her, William, that a fancy education is no match for faith in the Lord.”

      Jennings winced at Brady’s reprimand. Brady knew that his number two didn’t like to be questioned on operational issues, but sometimes he needed to be reminded of who the boss was.

      Jennings considered his nail-bitten fingernails for a moment and then nodded. “One negative attitude can foster dissention among many others. Negative energy is a virus we cannot have spread through our organization at this critical time. I’ll take care of it.”

      “What will you do?”

      Brady knew that Jennings would bring Carla around. He’d heard the stories of Jennings’s reprimands of employees who didn’t perform up to his expectations. Brady was happy that Jennings relished that role. Every organization needed a disciplinarian, but Brady was too beloved to fulfill that role himself.

      “Simple.” Jennings tucked his reading glasses into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’m going to fire her.”

       CHAPTER 11

       PUNAKHA, BHUTAN

       HOW OFTEN DOES A PERSON face a moment when he knows his life is going to change forever?

      This question played in Grant’s mind as he gazed up at the decorative windows of the six-story, whitewashed-stone utse tower. The low morning sun cast a long shadow of the tower across the flagstones, like a giant sundial representing to Grant the time to grasp his destiny. He thought about the answer to the two-thousand-year-old mystery that might be revealed in the tower above him. He thought about the draft of his dissertation stored in his laptop, which was in the small backpack slung across his shoulders. He thought about the redemption this discovery would bring to him. He mentally reviewed the checklist he’d been writing the past week—documenting the find, emailing the photos and text to Professor Billingsly, arranging for the professional translations ...

      Then he caught up with the mental movie he’d been replaying in his head all morning. Kinley had taught him to monitor what the monk called the cycles of unproductive thinking he claimed Grant was prone to, the repetitive rehashing of future events in his mind. Grant released the breath he held tightly in his chest. The brisk breeze tossed his hair just as it swayed the naked branches of the tree in the center of the courtyard beside him. He continued to breathe, and he relaxed. But then other thoughts intruded: What if all this buildup was for nothing? What if the Issa texts were not as old as Kinley said? What if Notovich’s critics were right? What if the story of Issa was nothing more than a legend spun by the creative mind of some Indian writer centuries earlier?

      The footsteps behind him saved Grant from continuing that line of thought. His breath quickened when he saw Kinley and Kristin hurrying toward him. Dressed for the cool autumn day, she wore a red fleece over jeans with various multicolored patches that she’d obviously sewn on herself. Her camera was slung over her shoulder. Kinley strode with his hands clasped behind his back, while Jigme followed a step behind.

      “So we’re really doing this?” Grant whispered to Kinley.

      “We cannot allow religious isolationism to govern our actions. But you do understand that what we are doing carries certain risks?”

      Grant tried not to imagine what a Bhutanese jail cell looked like. But then they weren’t planning on taking anything other than pictures. Surely they couldn’t go to jail for that? He nodded. “This is too important not to try.”

      Kinley smiled. “Exactly what I would have said at your age.”

      “How are you going to get us up there?”

      “Lama Dorji left for a neighboring monastery early this morning. We must hurry before he returns.” He turned to Jigme. “Dawa will be sitting inside by the door to the stairs. Please occupy his attention.”

      A few minutes later, Jigme exited the utse with another monk who appeared to be in his late sixties. After they disappeared around the side of the building, Kinley hustled Grant and Kristin to the stone steps at the foot of the tower’s entrance.

      “What do you guys have against putting your doors on the ground floor?” Grant asked under his breath.

      Kristin took his free left arm, wrapped it around her shoulder, and assisted him up the steps. Grant was proud of the milestone he’d reached that morning—graduating to a single crutch—but he didn’t protest the help. He felt the same thrill he’d experienced the day before just by putting his arm around her.

      They entered the building through a set of bronze-coated doors. Kinley surveyed the courtyard behind them and then closed the heavy doors with a thud. Inside, Grant noted that as in the other temples in the dzong, a worn wooden floor stretched from one mural-covered stone wall to the other. A single chair stood by a closed door.

      Grant nodded to the door. “Top floor?”

      Kinley nodded. “The sixth.”

      Grant started for the stairs while Kristin rushed to keep up with him. When he reached the sixth-floor landing, sweat dripped from his hairline. Kinley brushed by Grant, materialized a ring of keys from under his robe, and unlocked a set of carved doors at the