Chapter One: The Last Normal Day

The Last Normal Day

The sun is already climbing when I pull into the job site. It's the kind of spring morning that makes you forget winter ever existed. The air feels scrubbed clean. The sky is that impossible blue that looks like it was painted on fresh overnight. For a moment I just sit there in my truck, hands resting on the steering wheel, letting the warmth settle through the windshield and into my chest. It feels like a good day. A normal day. The kind you never think to thank God for because nothing dramatic is happening. No headlines. No shaking. Just breath going in and out like it always has.

I grab my hard hat, sling my tool belt over my shoulder, and step into the noise. The house we're framing stands half-born against the sky; beams like ribs, plywood like exposed muscle. Nail guns thud in sharp bursts. Saws scream through lumber. Radios crackle. Men shout measurements across open air. It's chaotic. It's beautiful.

There's something about construction that settles me. You take crooked trees and make them straight. You measure twice so things line up. You lay foundations that can carry weight. Wood doesn't argue with you. It responds to force and precision. There's comfort in that.

"Morning, preacher man!"

I look up and grin. "Morning, sinner!"

Laughter rolls across the second floor.

Jake's already up there, leaning against a joist like he owns it. He's built thick through the shoulders, forearms roped with muscle and old ink faded from years in the sun. He's holding two coffees.

"You're late," he says, handing one over.

"I'm early."

"You're late relative to me."

"That's not how time works."

"That's how I work."

I shake my head and take a sip. It's exactly how I like it. I've never told him how I take it.

We fall into rhythm. Measure. Mark. Cut. Align. Nail. There's something sacred about rhythm. My hands move automatically, but my mind drifts beneath the surface, like it always does.

Jake bumps my elbow. "You're quiet," he says. "That's suspicious."

"I'm working."

"You can talk and work. You always do. Especially when it's about the end of the world."

I snort. "I don't talk about it that much."

He just stares at me.

"Okay," I admit. "Maybe I do."

"Uh-huh. So what's today's prophecy?"

I brace a stud and drive two nails home before I answer. "Jesus is coming soon."

The crew doesn't laugh this time. Not really. A couple of guys glance over. Not mocking. Curious.

Jake leans back, crossing his arms. "You say that like you're expecting it on a calendar invite."

"It says He's coming like a thief in the night," I reply. "No invite. No countdown."

"People have been saying 'soon' for two thousand years."

"Yeah," I say, setting my level against the board. "And every one of them was closer than the last."

He smirks, but he doesn't walk away. "Okay," he says. "Convince me."

I hesitate. Not because I don't believe it. Because I feel it. There's been a weight in my chest lately. Not fear. Urgency. Like when you're framing a house and you can feel a storm coming long before the clouds roll in.

"Daniel talks about ten toes," I say finally. "Ten rulers in the final earthly empire. Iron and clay mixed together. Strong and brittle at the same time."

Tyler groans from across the floor. "Here we go."

I ignore him. "I believe those toes represent ten U.S. presidents in a final sequence. Iron and clay — masculine and feminine leadership styles, power mixed with fragility. We've seen that pattern since Jimmy Carter."

Jake raises an eyebrow. "You've thought this through."

"I have."

I start counting on my fingers. "Carter. Reagan. Bush. Clinton. Bush again. Obama. Trump. Biden. And Trump again. Depending how you count the administrations, we're deep into that sequence."

"And that means?" Jake presses.

"That means we're close. And the Bible says the last one — out of that structure — becomes something different. Something worse."

He studies me longer this time. "You really think the antichrist comes out of America?"

"I think Babylon the Great fits us too well to ignore," I say quietly. "Global power. Cultural dominance. Diversity of peoples. Military strength. And a nation divided down the middle."

"America the Beautiful," he mutters.

"Babylon the Great," I counter.

A nail gun pops somewhere behind us. Wind moves through the open framing. For a second everything feels too clear.

Jake rubs his jaw. "You ever think maybe you just want it to be soon?"

The question lands heavier than he intends.

I drive another nail. "I don't want judgment," I say. "I want Him."

Jake doesn't answer.

We work for a while after that in near silence. Sweat soaks through my shirt. The sun climbs higher. The smell of cut pine hangs in the air. But the weight doesn't leave me. It presses harder.

By the time the foreman calls it for the day, my mind is already running ahead of me. Jake walks with me toward the trucks.

"You heading straight home?" he asks.

"Yeah. My son gets off the bus soon."

"Tell him Uncle Jake says hi."

"You're not his uncle."

"I'm spiritually confusing," he says with a grin.

I laugh and climb into my truck.

The drive home is peaceful. Lawns trimmed. Kids riding bikes. Flags stirring lazily in the breeze. Everything looks stable. But inside me, something keeps aligning like studs snapping into place. Ten toes. Divided nation. Iron and clay.

What if the Rapture happens before the next election?

The thought hits me so sharply I almost miss my turn.

If the sitting president vanished — if the vice president vanished — if succession skipped down the line in chaos —

The entire political structure would fracture overnight.

And if Congress scrambled to hold emergency elections after millions disappeared —

The next leader could rise fast. Faster than anyone expects. Not years from now. Months.

I grip the steering wheel tighter. "Lord," I whisper, "is it really that close?"

No voice answers me. But the weight sharpens.

I turn into my neighborhood. Mailboxes. Sidewalk chalk. A basketball hoop tipped slightly to one side. Life in miniature.

My phone buzzes in the cup holder.

He's off the bus. Walking home now.

I smile. And then I see him.

My son.

Backpack bouncing against his shoulders, kicking a rock along the pavement like it's the most important job in the world. The afternoon light wraps around him, catching in his hair. He's just a boy. Just mine.

I slow the truck, drinking in the sight of him.

And then —

Everything changes.

It's not an explosion. Not a sound. It's stillness. The air doesn't move. The birds don't flap. Even the sunlight feels suspended. The world holds its breath.

Before I can think — before I can pray —

A voice speaks.

Not from outside me. Not from inside me. From everywhere.

"Come up here."

It is the voice my soul has always known. The voice behind every sunrise. The voice behind every warning I ever gave on a jobsite half in jest.

My heart slams once in my chest.

And the world dissolves.

I am rising. Not falling. Not flying. Rising — pulled upward by a force that feels like gravity turned inside out. The neighborhood blurs beneath me; greens and grays and roofs smeared together.

All around me, others ascend. Light streaks upward from highways, from houses, from fields and cities. Millions of points lifting at once.

And then I see him.

My son.

Not as a child. As a young man — whole, radiant, strong in a way I never saw on earth but always hoped for. He looks toward me, recognition lighting his face. He smiles.

And every fear I ever carried about his future vanishes in one blazing instant.

We rise together into light that is not sunlight. Into music that is not sound. Into presence.

And then I see Him.

Jesus.

Not a painting. Not a memory. Not a theology. A Person.

Radiant beyond description. Terrible in holiness. Gentle beyond words.

His eyes meet mine.

He says my name.

"Christopher."

The sound of it breaks me.

I fall to my knees in midair, if kneeling is even what this is now.

"Yes, Lord," I breathe. I waited for this my whole life.

He smiles — not indulgent, not distant. Home.

"Welcome, my beloved," He says.

And in that moment I understand something with terrifying clarity:

The world below has just changed forever.

And I will see what comes next.

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End of Chapter One