Category Archives: Inspirational

by | January 17, 2025 · 8:41 am

Glorified in Glory

“’ God,’ said Pascal, ‘instituted prayer in order to give his creatures the dignity of causality.”[1]

– C.S Lewis quoting Pascal

The thoughts of mortality and the subsequent departure of our soul from this earth came to mind. It wasn’t so much the morbidity of the subject that enticed my thinking to continue in this line of thought, but rather, what wonderous adventures await us in the eternal ethereal of existence. We are offered the image of the risen Christ as an example of the preeminent figure of the glorified body. The transition from this life to the next seems to be the greatest obstacle or fear of that imposed tragedy of situations.

The limitations of the finite mind relegate us to trepidation when considering the passing from one realm of existence into another. How much greater it will be when we are one step closer to our Creator, not as infinite, yet more so once we have shed this shell of decaying flesh and taken on our new body. In that moment of stepping onto the far distant shore, we will not only be changed in the twinkling of an eye, but in the exact moment, a new sense of being will overwhelm what we once saw through the limited perceptions of our finite soul’s blinders into one of trying to look into a blinding light of the realization of the expanse of eternity – the finite finally stepping from the terrestrial into the extraterrestrial.

With squinting vision, whatever that may be, we will peer into the vast illuminated abyss of the heavens, trying to make sense of what appears before us. As one trying to connect the imagery with known context, we’ll struggle to grasp what we find, yet we must also consider that we will not be the same as now. Even as I write this, one must keep reminding oneself that we will not have the same ocular abilities, and the same would hold true for all of the natural senses on which we came to rely on when living upon earth. No, in that heavenly realm, in the glorified body, not only will our ability to sense be changed, but the ability to comprehend will also take on an all-new quality never before imagined. It is here the joy of that which is to come should overtake us in the moment, perhaps making the tingling you feel when something spiritually grabs you and awakens something inherently built within us that allows for a moment, that split second when hit by an epiphany, you finally see the veil lifted and God’s treasure not built by hands, where no moth nor rust can reach, becomes a reality – existing in His presence the greatest gift of all.

[1] C.S. Lewis – The World’s Last Night, pg. 8

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by | January 15, 2025 · 8:12 am

There Will Be Joy in the Morning

The church service was concluding as everyone stood to sing the closing hymn, as the older woman leaned into my earshot and told me of an interesting place to eat that she owned high up in the mountain. “It’s a nice place. It’s really well managed, but those dryers have been such a torment. You’ll have to try it out sometime.”

Why not today? Before I knew it, we, for supposedly the lady that had mentioned the novel eating establishment and hotel was the proprietor, insisted on taking us there and accompanied us on the bus that was now driving us up the mountain. There was an amicable conversation fluttering through the transport as the driver, who didn’t seem to be present, maneuvered the craft on the long gravel road that maintained a continual ascent. As I half listened, my eyes kept ahead through the front glass of the large church van and noticed that the road was becoming ever more steep. In fact, high upon the horizon where the roadway vanished, the top of the mountain appeared as a massive wave, a land tsunami, the crest curling over so that the road itself, should we manage to maintain our current course direction, would take us on an almost inverted path of travel. Meaning, that as we approached, what I feared most began to transpire. Those who weren’t buckled into their seats were now hanging from whatever they could grab onto to keep from being tossed into the roof of the bus, which had suddenly become the floor. We were heading into the tube of the wave, the inversion of reality, myself finding my grip slowly weakening until I knew that if this lasted much longer, I would find myself thrashed about the insides of this vessel, as a stone being tossed about in the tumbler of a stone polishing machine. Trying to see where the non-existent driver was, for now, it became apparent that there was only some spirit in control; I tried to careen my head so that the wave of earth, road, and gravel seemed to be about to thrash our transport into the depths of the valleys below, we remarkably exploded through the crest. We flew through the air, landing with a tremendous bump on the opposite side of the peak, rumbling down the heavily wooded backroad. An instant of thought revealed the map of our destination, or perhaps a screen within the machine that carried us displayed it, one cannot discern. For there before us, was the image of the winding mountain road, through hairpin after hairpin curves threaded tortuously between massive boulders and outcroppings, till it reached an almost magical structure built on the cusp of the mountainside, overlooking the expanse before, as if on the very top of the world.

We pulled up to the wrap-around front porch of the darkly wood-siding structure our hostess called the utopia of mountains. Like bewildered cats trying to stand after having been tossed about in some pet carrier, we exited the bus, wobbly, hair and clothing disheveled, each being wondering where we had landed. The wide front steps reached a welcoming, extensive porch lined with rocking chairs and an abundant amount of comfortable seating. Staff, both from the institution, who wore golf shirts with the emblem of the hotel embroidered on the left chest of their shirts, that managed the obscure resort, but folks from Cracker Barrel scurried about, each intent upon serving their guests, many of whom were seated at random tables or chairs accompanied with smaller end tables on the porch and inside the massive, log complex.

“Make yourselves at home,” our hostess shouted as she quickly disappeared into the depths of the establishment, barking orders to staff as she passed.

Following her orders, I found myself wandering from room to room. I happened upon some remote alcove in which a Middle Eastern man, well dressed, with clothing as manicured as his hair, was fretting over the condition of the dryer in which he had placed his clothes. “It’s just now drying,” he retorted, confounded by the diabolical machine. I walked up and immediately noticed lent stuck around some stem, like a lever that was to be opened if need be. I haphazardly reached up and pulled the knob outward, and immediately there was a rush of hot air spewing dryer lent out as if gasping for breath; whereupon, the sound of the tumbler tossing his clothes inside seemed to take on a normal hum of proper operation. Perhaps a green led lit that had previously been red. His face glowed with relief. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

“My pleasure. Where are you from,” I asked, noticing a lot of international guests rambling about.

“I’m from Iran,” he said, smiling with a broad white toothy grin. “We come here because this place is known far and wide for its hospitality and tranquility – closer to God if you will.”

Then I awoke, realizing another dream, maybe not flying this time, nonetheless, the disheveled feeling of having been tossed about. Sitting my feet on the floor, my thoughts turned to prayers as the comforting feeling of being loved unconditionally by a Father who would share with me the excitement of adventure, if only in sleep, and was there for me to lead me through the day. His covenant is to love us even if we fail to love Him.

Sometimes, it takes an inverted bus ride up a tsunami of a mountain to get our attention, making us aware that the life we lead can easily be turned inside out, leaving us in despair and confusion. Trusting in our heavenly Father to lead us, we can rest in the assurance that everything will be set right in the end, even if we must pass through what seem insurmountable odds, through the darkest canyons of cancer and suffering. There will be joy in the morning.

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by | January 7, 2025 · 8:58 am

Repose in a Snow Globe

The slow advance of the day’s light finds me sitting inside the warmth of the coffee shop while outside, the snow blows sideways, adding to the night’s accumulation of winter. The coming semester looms over one’s thoughts as preparations for the horde of students returning to campus are just around the corner. The inclement weather had forced me to remain home, hunkering down by the fireplace, trying to stay warm. In the solitude, there was the sense of finding a footing on the being God created within me. Too often, we get caught up in the hustle of the world, chasing after those elusive goals and dreams, only to find we become lost in their deceptive approval of our existence. It’s not until we, either of our own will or it is forced upon us by some natural phenomena, step aside for a moment and let the snowflakes fall in the snow globe of life, settling where they may and then peering upon the landscape so beautifully adorned by her mantle of white.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”

May you find time to ponder life’s journey somewhere in God’s word and be patient as he restores your soul. If possible, find a nice warm fire to repose by as you read a good book in the leisure of your own blessings and succumb to knowing that you are wonderfully made – may you ponder those things in your heart for the remainder of this snowy day.

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by | January 3, 2025 · 8:33 am

Serenity in the Storm

It is said in Genesis nine that man is given dominion over the earth, plant, animal, and all of nature. It also says that all of creation glorifies God, and it is only by our sin that it is held back. In essence, we are a mere shadow of faithfulness when compared to our inanimate brethren of the terrestrial realm. Psalm 19 mentions this in that there is more to plants and animals’ devotion to their creator that we seem to miss. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handiwork.  Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard.” [1]

In our arrogance, our science claims to understand and wants to decree to humanity our intellect and ability to control what God has created. While mankind can subdue nature to a degree, there is always the reminder that when chaos erupts from natural disasters, we are only kidding ourselves when we believe we can control said natural realm.

In the Gospel of Luke, we see that God has power over his creation when Jesus calms the storm, “And they came to him, and awoke him, saying, Master, master, we perish. Then he arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water: and they ceased, and there was a calm. And he said unto them, Where is your faith?”

So, when the weather forecast is for storms, whether they be rain, sleet, or snow, be comforted in knowing that God is in control, not man. There is nothing you can do other than prepare and accept the outcome, knowing that to accept his will into your life will be your manner of giving Him the glory. Submitting to God’s magnificent sovereignty is a form of reverence and, in the end, placing yourself in a position to weather the storms of life.

Today, regardless of the forecast, may your heart be calmed. May you prepare for eternity in the presence of God by purchasing the milk and bread of life for your eternal journey.

[1] Psalm 19:1-3 KJV

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by | December 31, 2024 · 2:46 pm

Live as it is to Dream

Arising in the morning, as if being cast out into life from beneath the warm covers of shielded dreams, one may find oneself struggling to clear one’s mind through the fog of slumber in a cold, foreign landscape. Yet, to consider one’s salvation and the journey to such a promised land, we can draw a direct correlation between the gentle demeanor of being conspicuously conscious or morbidly asleep; the distinction between the two is a determinate as to how aware we are of our soul’s mortality, whether to live is to die, or to die to oneself is to live. The discernment comes from realizing the truth and awakening to its sunrise of hope for one’s life therein.

“All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.” – Job 14:14

Struggling through the day-to-day hardships of one’s daily toil, it can seem as if we are on a never-ending merry-go-round, the escape only seen as a demise of career or character. The screenshots flicker as if watching some ancient film projected in black-and-white upon a roughly plastered wall, the cracks and crevices adding to the tumultuous torment. Seen from the future in which we inhabit later in life, we realize that the scope of our focus had been all for naught, had we only strove for those secular things of the world, trying to achieve but never reaching the highest pinnacle of success, waging a war against something we could alone, never defeat. Time, the master of all, eventually sees its victims succumb to the gravity of mortal existence. Meanwhile, each night, we seek to escape through those sparsely recalled dreams in which we fly into other worlds, void of the bondage upon which we have inflicted of our own desires.

How ironic then it is that when we reach the threshold of life’s journey, the sunset begins to shed light upon our pathway, and in reflection, we seek those dreams, to recall them forward in an effort to relieve the peace with which they brought; yet, never granted. In waking, we find that the eternal life we neglected now faces us head-on, a glaring prospect for which we have little preparation. Suddenly, we are not only confounded by our previous stupidity but rather sickened by our neglect of the consideration that was before us all along. We begin to awaken only to see that the eternity we face is the dream in which we shall forever embody, to the point it becomes reality. To seek that which we cannot see, but that which we accept on faith, is in a sense, dreaming while conscious, having hope in something that transcends what we can logically conceive. Herein is the meaning behind what George MacDonald wrote, “It may be notwithstanding, that when most awake, I am only dreaming the more!”[1]

To bring it back to something more perceptible, consider the phrase and what it means, “To live the American Dream.” Herein, we find the earthly essence of finding that perfect career, the perfect home, wife, and children, all in a sweet little package that we can envelop within the comprehension of our minds. To have a life free of persecution, torment, or strife, to not know suffering or pain, these are the idyllic visions we often are taught to impose upon ourselves in this life. Yet, there was never a promise as such granted by anyone or anything. Becoming a Christian does not take away the suffering or pain, nor does it guarantee a life void of persecution. If nothing else, it only promises that those torments will only be assured. If one were to consider the vision aspect, this perception would be more likely to be considered a nightmare than a dream.

Yet, we have drifted away from what it is to dream, meaning that the realities of living the “Dream” aren’t necessarily what we would accept as dreaming any more than one might consider holding one’s breath underwater and consider it breathing as a fish. To awaken from one’s sleep is to come to consciousness – knowing that the world you inhabit is one of concrete realities. But to awaken from the perception of something beyond this world is to awaken into something without form, void of the physical, and herein, we find ourselves awake while dreaming. As Novalis wrote, “Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one.”[2]

Herein lies the ultimate truth.

To consciously seek that which cannot be seen nor terrestrially found is to live in a state beyond the reality of now and to find hope in something beyond the natural, the eternal. By seeking context in the meaning, we can better understand the purpose of this discussion in the simple word “Salvation.” To know that God became flesh so that he might live as we live, to know the pain and sufferings of this conscious life, then to die an earthly death, to know the torment and anguish, taking upon himself the sins of the world, the one that knew no sin, so that we might be freed of our sin, our secular fleshly desires, if we confess our sins and accept Him into our hearts – that is what it is to awaken from the slumber of discontented pleasures, to understand who He was, and still is. God came to make it known to us that in the state of what may be considered to be dreaming, we, too, can find something beyond what our earthly existence would have us know.

Once finding salvation in the hope of life eternal, we can finally realize what it is to realize we are most awake when we are dreaming all the more.

Thanks be to God.

[1] George MacDonald, Lilith (London: Walter Scott Publishing, 1895)

[2] Novalis, Philosophical Writings, trans. Maurice B. Cramer (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997)

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by | December 17, 2024 · 10:44 am

When Thyme is Not Enough (Part II)

By Timothy W. Tron, December, 2024

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

[We continue our story from Part I, where we met Griffin, a young twenty-something vibrant young man, and his family, the MacRae clan, living in the Scottish Highlands in the late twelfth century. News of the call for a Third Crusade rallies his clan, among many others, to join the fight. Griffin heeds the call, but not before preemptively marrying his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn Wallace. The tearful scene that follows concluded the previous edition, where we will now begin so that the reader may fully appreciate the costs to which many gave their lives. May your heart be blessed by the story that follows, and may you consider how time, a most precious gift, is spent in your own life.]

As Griffin sat astride his mount, waiting for the orders to move out, he watched as the entire entourage of the MacRae clan came out to bid them farewell – wives, children, and their beloved mother. It was a bitterly cold day, and the first snow of winter had begun to fall. Katelyn rushed to his side, one last kiss, one last tearful goodbye. As she looked up, snowflakes fell on her eyelashes, endearing the angelic face that looked up to him from below. Buoyed by the thought of serving God in striking down the enemy of darkness, Griffin was more composed, but not by much. Trembling with trepidation, Katelyn handed him a small cloth-bound sachet with a leather string attached.

“For you, my love. Wear it and think of me as often as you will.”

“What is it,” he said, bending down to receive the hand-made treasure.

“It’s a locket of love, containing Thyme to make you courageous, no matter where the journey leads, and a strand of my locks to remind you that I will wait for you, as long as it takes.”

He moved the reigns to his other hand and gently, with as much care, received the lasting gift of love from his dearest. Holding the reigns in his teeth, he tied the keepsake securely around his neck with both hands, tucking it into his tunic for safekeeping. He then bent down and kissed her one last time, a long, deep embrace, one that would have to last thousands of miles and what would seem an eternity.  When he pulled away, tears welled in both their eyes – it was almost too much to bear.

As the contingent moved out, Griffin looked back as long as it was feasible before his mother, his beloved, and the rest of the MacRae clan finally disappeared from view – the last embrace, the locket, and her final farewell; images that would have to last him what would seem and might be forever. His heart ached as he had never known, torn between duty and love. The latter gave strength to the former, knowing that this was a voyage for the sake of existence, both physically and spiritually. In the recesses of his heart, he wanted time to stop at that moment, never to advance another measure, but the hoof beats continued, one step in front of the other; as the heart beats for one’s love, there could never be another.

 

The MacRae clan and many other highland clans eventually joined King Richard the Lion-Hearted in the Third Crusades, battling their way back into Jerusalem. In some of the heaviest fighting, Griffin found himself side-by-side with his father and brothers. Each time they encountered the enemy swarms, they would hold their own. It wasn’t until one of the war’s final engagements, where they were battling against overwhelming odds, that the eventual tragedy occurred.

It was under heavy duress, as swords continued to cut through armor, flesh, and bone that they were inundated with a massive barrage of arrows. Angus was struck through the neck as he continued the arc of his blade as it swung, cutting the demon before him in half. Griffin heard the gurgle of the familiar voice as Angus fell, knowing that his heart sank with the man by his side. Yet, he couldn’t afford to turn to look, for at that moment, two assailants were coming at him with battle axes. He adeptly took them down with one swing of this mighty broadsword, only to receive one of the falling blades of death from the sky through the slightest opening in his heavy leather armor, striking a blow from his collarbone to deep inside his chest. As it sliced through flesh and bone, it pierced the string of his beloved locket, severing its tie to his neck. As blood began to flow from the ghastly wound, the precious keepsake fell to the earth with the stains of crimson.

Griffin felt the world fading away as the pain tried to pull him into eternal blackness, but his brother nearby reached for him, lifting him. He continued to fight through the horrific pain until the Islamic forces, even with their superior numbers, were reduced to only a few living beings. Knowing they were defeated, they fled, along with their leaders, across the sea of dunes from whence they came, as a dragon retreating to his lair to recuperate before the next onslaught.

When they finally had time to search for the living among the fallen, all that was left alive of the MacRae clan was Griffin and two of his eldest brothers. Their father and four others had perished in the battle. Griffin was suffering greatly, for the arrow that struck had found its way deep into his chest, settling next to his heart so that there was no way to remove it lest he bleed out. Knowing that time was against them, the remaining brothers buried all but their father, whose last request through his dying breath was to be taken back to the land from whence he came to rest there in eternal repose. So, with heavy hearts and a brother hanging on for dear life, the remnants of the MacRae clan began the long, grim journey back to their beloved Scotland.

Many weeks and miles later, the three men, pulling the litter containing their deceased father, finally reached the lower reaches of their beloved Highlands. Griffin was a shadow of himself; the wound deep inside had only worsened, and the fever that ensued only ensured that the infection was taking a fatal hold. Against the battlefield doctor’s orders, he insisted upon returning. It had been three years since they had left their homeland, and now, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle as they ascended those rocky crags that separated the sparse grasslands known as home.

Before they had sighted the family compound, a shrill blast from the ancient ram’s horn was heard – the signal that riders approaching were friendly. Within a minute or two, heads could be seen bouncing above the distant horizon, running in their direction. Most of the entire MacRae clan descended upon them in a mass of welcoming tears of joy and shouts of glee. They were quickly surrounded and nearly pulled from their mounts as their beloved sought them out, yet there was an immediate change in the demeanor of the group’s celebration when the sled behind the riders became visible. It was then they realized that only three horsemen were returning, and a body lay upon the sled behind. Jubilation turned into mourning as they all learned the cost of the war had been horrific. Their mother’s face told the tale as she eventually caught up with the entourage and stood beside the litter carrying her dear Angus. The weathered lines on her face spoke of worry and strain for all these long years they had been gone – now this.

Throughout the solemn reception, Griffin had kept a vigilant eye out for his dearest Katelyn, but there was no sign. His already wounded heart began to pang for her when someone said she was busy back at the lodge finishing the afternoon meal with a few others. As painful as it was, Griffin spurred his horse ahead of the throng and soon found himself pulling alongside the grand old MacRae lodge. Once more, the exertion took its toll as he nearly passed out, the tunnel of blackness closing in. Leaning forward to push back against losing consciousness, he didn’t see the young woman exit the side door and come up behind him.

With his sunken, gaunt face and beard that had grown long, along with his unkept hair, Katelyn was unsure of whom she looked upon as she hesitantly approached the injured rider. It wasn’t until she heard him hoarsely whispering her name that she finally realized it was her beloved Griffin. She dropped the axe she had brought for protection and quickly began calling his name, “Griffin, my dearest, Griffin, is that you?”

It seemed as if he had descended into a dream as her voice sounded more real than any of the recent fitful, fever-laden dreams he had succumbed to upon their return journey. Fading in strength, he slid from the saddle and fell to the ground, landing on his back. The shock sent a tremor through his body as the pain was renewed, the arrow driving itself closer to its mark. With tearful eyes, he looked up into the angelic face and whispered, “I’m home, I’m home.” Before day faded to night, the last thing he remembered was the tiny face that came into view, joining Katelyn’s. What seemed to be a spirit stood there, her beautiful little blonde curls hanging down upon her tiny shoulders, the face of an angel—a miniature Katelyn.

“She’s your baby, sweetheart. She’s our baby.”

It was then the pain overwhelmed him, and he slid into that deep abyss, but as he fell, there was a warmth that overtook the depths of despair, one of hope for a future beyond what this time would allow. It was then Griffin realized he was home at last.

Through all the battles and death, even though the tiny locket of love and Thyme was there to protect him, Griffin found that the only thing that truly brought him peace was knowing that God was at his side.

It was never so true when he finally awoke to the smell of bread baking in the lodge oven that he realized he was still on this earth. In the few days that followed, they provided Griffin with as much comfort as his mortal wound would allow. He came to know his precious baby girl, Lillith, whom he never knew, and as much as his debilitated state would allow, played with her sparingly. The more he encompassed in his return, the greater the dread of his inevitable departure fell upon his demeanor. He shared as much of the stories of their journey as his breath would allow until he succumbed to the grave injury, forcing him to remain in bed as the wound slowly took its toll.

The amber afternoon sun gently shone through a nearby window, offering a tribute to the fallen warrior and father as Katelyn, his mother, and others had gathered around Griffin’s bed. Partly through the delirium of the fever and partly through the pain, Griffin began to speak,  “How precious is the little bit of time we have here on earth? As Father once read from the treasured Bible he brought from his own first crusade, he told us, “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happened to them all. For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.”

We didn’t know it then, but he was prophetically telling us what had happened to him and what would happen to us in that quest to rid the Holy Lands of the scourge that had been placed upon her.” Here, he paused, asking for a cool drink of water before continuing, his strength fading.

“One of the most precious gifts we are given,” closing his eyes now, as if speaking from a dream, Katelyn laid her head upon his shoulder as he continued, “We often treat it as if we can, by some miraculous power, create it of our own accord. When we are caught up in the moment, it flies past. When we reflect upon all that we’ve been through, we can see a correlation to when the past begins to fade, the feeling that time is slipping away, like the grains of sand between our outstretched fingertips.

As if reacting to this feeling, we clench our fists to abate the flow. Still, the time cataract continues to run until there are but a few specks of the multitude remaining. Tiny crystals sparkle back at us as we look at our opened palm – the remnants of what was once an abundance. We are left with mere fragments. In the sudden realization of the truth, it is then that we, with utter, catastrophic horror, find there is no way to recover all that has transpired. Only those few precious memories, the singular grains, are all that linger. With fervent passion, we cling to that which remains, finally succumbing to the understanding of what was taken for granted all along.

Now, I realize that those tiny grains become crystals of great value—my precious Lillith, my dearest Katelyn, they are all the world to me. But even more remarkable than these is that God is with us to comfort us even in our darkest hour, deepest despair, and most sorrowful woes. For when He is with us, we are never alone. We can be together with him in eternity.

While my locket of Thyme, which I so greatly cherished, was lost on the battlefield, it wasn’t the time I truly desired. I will cherish this final memory of all of you.” Pausing this last, he said through squinted eyelids, the moisture gathering in tiny beads as it ran down his cheeks, and with a weakened breath, “As long as my soul will hold its vision, for on this earth, there is never enough time. To the land of the living in eternity is now where I go. Meet me there if you will…”

His mother and many of the wives of the fallen brothers assisted Katelyn, trying to make Griffin’s final days as comfortable as possible. He never spoke again after those final words. Eventually, the wound that pierced his armor that fateful day would finally take his life.

They laid him to rest on the grassy knoll that overlooked their compound next to his father. Their eternal rest was assured, for as the Father knew Christ, so did the son. Together, they found their new home on the other side of Glory.

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by | · 10:24 am

When Thyme is Not Enough (Part I)

By Timothy W. Tron, Dec. 2024

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

The young man, his vibrant young twenty-something body, bent over his work, methodically applying the mortar to the stone, an act that was as much second nature as it was from the knowledge of masonry. His family had been masons for as long as memory could recall. The few years of his labor in the field of stonemasonry had brought with it not only the wisdom of the traditioned craft but also the appealing nature of broad shoulders, with a predominant abundance of muscle throughout his body. His long auburn hair was kept in check with a strand of leather pulled behind, not for aesthetics but purely for functional reasons. The crisp autumn air couldn’t keep the sweat from his bare arms glistening in the late afternoon sun.

With each application of mortar, the bond between the rocks, came a gradual satisfaction, knowing that once this was finished and dried, one would never have to do it again. From there, it would last at least his lifetime, if not far beyond those who might come after. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost upon his thoughts as he considered the fleeting, temporary nature of the one applying the mud as to that upon which he acted, being all the more permanent. Although the act of laying the stone was momentary, the remnants of its condition would last well beyond the mere minutes of what it took to build whatever structure was under construction. In a sense, it was as if masonry provided for, at least from the mason’s perspective, a bank whereby time could be collected, however painful its labor might be. The verse from the ninetieth psalm came to mind, “And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”[1]

While he worked, he thought of the years of his not-so-distant youth; the time flew like the water that rushed over the nearby cataracts, plummeting with a roar into the basins of boulders below, forever gone, eventually flowing unto the vast expanse of the sea. How he wished he could retrieve one of those many carefree days when he and his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn Wallace, raced about the many dales and enchanted forests of their mountain refuge. There was wont for nothing, and the highlands of their Scottish homeland was their never-ending playground. Now, in his father’s apprenticeship, Angus MacRae, he was fully restrained to the daily grind. The few hours afforded to freedom were usually severely hampered by the physical exhaustion from the day’s work, although the MacRae clan was known to revel in merriment as hard as they labored in the field. Yet, every evening, no matter how long the day’s work had been, there was always time for practicing swordsmanship with his brothers, something their father held esteemed as high as the calling to be a mason – of course, all being one step below serving God. The senior Angus’ skill with the broadsword, a gift from God, he would exclaim, was another part of the reason he was still alive, and his teaching was sought after from all parts of the region.

Rapt in his work, Griffin didn’t hear the riders emerge below the knoll where he and his brother’s toiled. It was the late twelfth century, 1187, and turmoil plagued the Middle East. Men from the nearby village had brought troubling news from afar. Yosuf Ibn Ayyub, known to the West as Saladin, had captured Jerusalem and, with it, the relic of the True Cross. In so doing, he converted all Christian Churches into Mosques except for the Holy Sepulcher. There was a call from the church leaders, such as Pope Gregory the Eighth and Pope Clement the Third, for men of fighting age to join in yet another Crusade – this would be the third such ordeal. Angus had survived the Second such, but many of his fellow countrymen weren’t so fortunate. Their lives ended before they had begun.

Later that evening, after the men had washed up after their swordplay, Angus, seated at the head of the long lodge table, looked at his wife Fiona at the opposite end. There was an air of satisfaction in his broad bearded grin that reflected the gentle spirit of his beloved. Around him, his family were seated, seven boys and five girls, now all grown, most with their own families. The men mostly favored their father in his wildly reddish hair, although his beard had slowly been infiltrated with swaths of age, adding to the wizened words he often spoke. The ladies were as virtuous as their fair-skinned mother, who, like their father, had hints of auburn amongst the golden hair most kept in long, intricate braids.

Many things troubled Angus before the family members began to congregate around the dinner table that evening. By God’s divine providence, he had survived the Second Crusade, for he was the only member of his clan who had fought to return alive. This was not the first time God had smiled upon his life’s journey. For, while abroad, traveling through foreign lands toward Jerusalem, he felt God telling him to slow down, to take time to find more to this journey than the brutal fighting and killing he would find on the battlefield. While he stopped to reflect on what God meant by this, he met and befriended a holy man known only as the Prophet of Tarsus. The elderly sage took the young Angus under his wing, teaching him for over a year to read and write the ancient Greek and Hebrew texts, as well as sharing passages from his most precious and cherished book, the Bible. The elder prayed over Angus, that he would survive the battles, and that he would return to visit him upon his return. Angus, knowing that it was God’s hand that had kept him alive, made sure he passed by the home of the Prophet, only to find that he had passed. However, before his death, he had bequeathed his most treasured belonging to the young Celt, whom God had assured him would someday return, his Bible.

That particular evening, Angus MacRae felt obliged, considering the recent news, to read from that beloved, ancient text once more. With great care, he opened the parchment with the hand-scribed letters across its weathered pages and began to read from the book of Ecclesiastes, “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

For man also knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.”[2]

“Let us pray,” the elder concluded as he gently closed the book, bowing his head as others followed.

While his father prayed, Griffin’s mind was racing through a torrent of thoughts within. What was his father trying to say with this scripture? Was the next Crusade the next chance that was going to happen to them all? What evil net was about to be cast upon them? While pondering all these words, he couldn’t help thinking of his bride-to-be, his childhood sweetheart, Katelyn. Had she heard of the news of war? Their family lived a couple of ridges over from theirs and seemed to always be the last to hear of any outside reports. Griffin, the youngest of the seven brothers, was the last single sibling. The others lived in the compound with their families, as in most ancient patriarchal Celtic societies.

Angus closed the prayer with, “And all God’s people say it,” everyone responded with, “Amen!”

As the plates of meat and bread were passed around, Griffin knew that he had to get to Katelyn as soon as possible. He had so many questions, and time was of the essence. There was talk of leaving on the fortnight should the men resolve to go and fight. Being pressed for time, Griffin hurriedly shoved as much food into his mouth, swallowing nearly whole bites without chewing and washing it down with gulps of water. Finishing well before the others, he asked to be excused. His father, knowing the pressing engagement and his son’s youth, acknowledged his quick departure but reminded him before approving, “Be ever mindful of thy betrothment, and know that if you decide to move its date to sooner than later, I can stand in for the priest until such time as one can be obtained when we return, that is, if it is God’s will, we shall return.”

Griffin nodded and was gone before the lamplight had time to catch up with his disappearance.

Picking the fastest horse from the corral, he lit upon the beast and rode it as hard as the wind would allow, mud and rock flying from beneath the steed’s hooves in a flurry of youthful exuberance and tormented heart. The full moon overhead lit the trace of a road as one might have seen a specter flying down its course that night. He pulled upon the main lodge of the Wallace clan just as they were winding down their evening meal. Katelyn was helping the other womenfolk clean up the table when Griffin slid in the side room door, hoping to catch her eye without others noticing. He remained in the shadows until she came close enough to grab her harm. At first, startled by the hand reaching from the darkness, she started to scream, but Griffin quickly showed his face and pulled her to him. She sat down the bucket she had been carrying as he pulled her to him, both embracing with a deep, passionate kiss. It had only been two days since they had last seen one another, but it seemed an eternity in a young love’s timeframe.

They continued their visit outside the lodge, where there would be more privacy and fewer questions. Like true lovers, they walked hand in hand as Griffin shared with her the news of the unrest in the Holy Land and how his family was making plans to go, or at least some of them. How it was to all play out, he didn’t know. She was concerned, as was to be expected, but how would they continue with their planned wedding in the spring?

“When are they planning on leaving?” she asked with a furrowed brow, which made her beauty all the more lovable.

“On the fortnight, if not sooner,” he responded with a tightness in his throat that threatened to overcome.

“Then, we shan’t be wed?” Moisture began to form around the bottoms of her eyes as tiny rivulets began to run. “What shall we do?”

“Oh yes, yes, we shall, if your father approves. My own having said that he would be willing to preside over the ceremony, standing in for the priest until we should return.” Here he purposely left out the part his father spoke, upon their return being if the Lord allowed. Her countenance immediately brightened as she drew him to her bosom and enveloped his lips in hers, knowing that time was not on their side.

In the days that followed, a whirlwind of activity, both in preparation for the wedding and the departure of the warriors, was all too much for one to conceive in and of itself. No sooner had they said, “I do,” it seemed as if they were mounting their horses for the long journey to the Holy Lands. Griffin and Katelyn had several days to be one, knowing as they did that they may never see one another again; it made their short time as husband and wife all the more remarkably precious.

It was a bitterly cold day, and the first snow of winter had begun to fall.  As Griffin sat astride his mount, waiting for the orders to move out, he watched as the entire entourage of the MacRae clan came out to bid them farewell – wives, children, and their beloved mother. Fiona made it a point to speak with each of the brothers, one by one, as each would dismount and give her a long, heartfelt hug goodbye. She worked her way down the line, saving Griffin for the last. He dismounted to receive his mother’s comforting words and to ease her fears as if the others had not already tried. But to his surprise, she was more at ease than anticipated. “God will surely watch over you, my son,” she said with a voice of assurance. “Take care of your father, and I will be waiting for you when you return, Lord Willing. And remember, I love you.” At the last, she smiled and hugged him warmly. From there, she moved on to Angus, who patiently waited, knowing the importance of being the last.

Griffin climbed back into the saddle as he watched his parents speak in hushed tones from a distance. He had seen them sitting off alone together many times, but at the moment, their actions seemed ever more solemn and deliberate – an endearing picture of true love. Something about it warmed his heart to know that the bond they shared was priceless. In his heart, he hoped that he and Katelyn would someday share the same. Before he could begin to imagine such things, Katelyn rushed to his side, one last kiss, one last tearful goodbye. As she looked up, snowflakes fell on her eyelashes, endearing the angelic face that looked up to him from below. Buoyed by the thought of serving God in striking down the enemy of darkness, Griffin was more composed, but not by much. Trembling with trepidation, Katelyn handed him a small cloth-bound sachet with a leather string attached.

“For you, my love. Wear it and think of me as often as you will.”

“What is it,” he said, bending down to receive the hand-made treasure.

“It’s a locket of love, containing Thyme to make you courageous, no matter where the journey leads, and a strand of my locks to remind you that I will wait for you, as long as it takes.”

He moved the reigns to his other hand and gently, with as much care, received the lasting gift of love from his dearest. Holding the reigns in his teeth, he tied the keepsake securely around his neck with both hands, tucking it into his tunic for safekeeping. He then bent down and kissed her one last time, a long, deep embrace, one that would have to last thousands of miles and what would seem an eternity.  When he pulled away, tears welled in both their eyes – it was almost too much to bear.

As the contingent moved out, Griffin looked back as long as it was feasible before his mother, his beloved, and the rest of the MacRae clan finally disappeared from view – the last embrace, the locket, and her final farewell; images that would have to last him what would seem and might be forever. His heart ached as he had never known, torn between duty and love. The latter gave strength to the former, knowing that this was a voyage for the sake of existence, both physically and spiritually. In the recesses of his heart, he wanted time to stop at that moment, never to advance another measure, but the hoof beats continued, one step in front of the other; as the heart beats for one’s love, there could never be another.

 

(To Be Continued…)

[1] Psalm 90:17 KJV

[2] Ecclesiastes 9:11-12 KJV

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by | · 10:09 am

Dark Bondage (Part III)

Continued from last month’s story…

We find Stephen, a young man who has suffered his whole life with a chronic illness, seemingly lost in the wilderness. Yet, from the moment the vessel where he found comfort was released from the shore, it was as if Stephen was being released from the bondage that had held him captive. The battle with addictions has all but consumed his life, yet now he faces the greatest challenge of his existence: the battle for his mortal soul. In his journey, he is not alone. A force is leading him, guiding him, even though he doesn’t believe in such things.

Stephen has stumbled upon a remote stone cottage shrouded in early morning darkness. Before he arrives, we meet Sozu and his pet wolf, Aphiemi. Together, they form a curious bond. Yet, when Stephen eventually reaches the doorstep of the mysterious dwelling, he’s greeted not by the mountain man within but rather by someone he never expected – his late grandmother Mildred. Stunned beyond reason, Stephen is rocked to his core – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In the process, he experiences an epiphany, a dramatic conversion to Christianity. Yet, when he awakens the next day, something is amiss. Has it all been a dream? Was the change real? He has so many questions, but the one he seeks is not who he thinks – there are just so many questions. Will this be the end of his journey or the beginning of something new?

That is for you to discover, seek, and ye shall find…

* * * *

“ The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:  The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.”

– Isaiah 40: 3-8

The next morning, Stephen awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He smiled as he stretched beneath the covers. The usual pain that accompanied most mornings was gone. He felt fresh, renewed. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was inside someone else’s body, definitely not the one he had come to know in recent years. Then, he remembered the events of the previous day. “Could it be true?” he asked himself.

He eagerly arose, dressed, and started climbing down below to continue the wonderful dream come true. But as he grasped the top of the ladder to begin his descent, his heart froze. Something was wrong. Once more, he was about to find his preconceived notions of the world before him were about to be challenged in ways he could not know.

Seated at the hearth, before a suspended flat cast-iron griddle full of sizzling bacon over the fire, was what looked like a mountain man, attentively attending to the meal cooking before him.  Stephen turned, surveying the area below. The room had changed, and it was no longer the kitchen from his childhood; instead, it was an ancient hunting lodge. Near the fire, a wolf lay on a pallet, raising its head. Stephen, confused, began to withdraw in fear, his presence still undetected by the fierce warrior by the fire. But the wolf began to growl, a hushed warning to the man, who then turned, looking in the direction of the wolf’s gaze. Frightened for his safety, Stephen started withdrawing back to the bed for fear of the beast when the man spoke, “No need to fear Aphiemi, she’s as harmless as a dove,” he said, turning to face Stephen.

The stranger had a weathered face, covered by a long grayish-white beard that matched his full head of hair, which was pulled behind and kept with a leather tie. He wore pants and a shirt of matching buckskins embroidered with curious symbols Stephen didn’t understand.

“Who are you, and where’s my grandma?”

“She had to leave but told me to tell you that she loved being able to see you again and that she’ll see you again someday soon.”

“Where did she go? Did you do something to her?”

“No, of course not; I would never harm her. But where she went, that is a conversation for another time, my friend, but first, let me introduce myself; I am Suzo, your faithful servant of God.”

“Then, I’m assuming you are a friend of my grandmother?”

“Oh, yes, most definitely,” he said with a chuckle, turning back to the griddle and turning over a spatula full of bacon.

“Why should I believe you? You could have killed her and drug her body into the forest. What can you tell me that would make me believe you are her friend?”

Suzo turned, his face now seriously grave, “First of all, I’m a servant of God, and secondly, your grandmother knew you would have questions, so she gave me this.” From amongst the necklace of bearclaws around his neck, he fished out a tiny wooden cross and held it up in his direction. “Here, does this look familiar? You carved this for her when you were just a teenager living with her. It was probably the most loving thing you did for anyone besides yourself in your entire life.”

The stranger’s words cut to the core of his heart, and he knew what he said was true – that it was the only loving thing he had ever done for anyone else. His defensive posture was melted away as Sozu turned back to attend to the meal cooking before him.

“Okay, only she would have known that, and for her to tell you and for her to give you that cross would mean that she knew I would question who you were. So, yes, I’ll believe you for now. But why did she have to leave? And why are you here in her house?”

“Oh, my, you have so many questions,” he said, chuckling, still looking at the pan of frying meat before him. “I tell you what, you come down here so we can get better acquainted, and I’ll fill you in on everything?” At this last, he turned, smiling at Stephen, giving him a wink.

Stephen felt obliged and tentatively made his way down the ladder to the rough-hewn log table. His grandma’s kitchen chairs were replaced with hand-hewn wood chairs made from branches from the nearby forest. The wolf lay her head back down, momentarily suspending Stephen’s fear of his proximity to such a large, threatening wild animal.

After Stephen found a place at the table, he sat, turned to face the man and his wolf companion, and continued, “So, again, why are…”

Before he could finish, Sozu interrupted, “I’m here to serve God by searching for lost sheep, and in so doing, was summonsed to be here for one, such as yourself. Then you, unaware of what was leading you, found your way to this doorstep. Does that ring a bell?”

“Sheep, lost? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Have you not heard of when Jesus told his disciples that it was more important to leave the ninety-nine and to go save the one lost sheep than to remain with the ninety-nine?”

“Uh, maybe,” Stephen said, shrugging his shoulders, knowing full well that he had no idea what the man was saying, “But what does that have to do with me? Did my grandma tell you stuff about me before she left?

“Maybe, and maybe not,” Suzo turned back to the bacon, turning another group of slices over. The pan hissed angrily as the smoke from the griddle was drawn into the flu, along with the smoke from the fire below. The smell was driving Stephen’s stomach mad with hunger.

“So, did she tell you what happened to me yesterday, how I fell apart when I saw her?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that you fell apart; rather, I’d like to look at it as if you were falling together.”

Suzo turned from the fire and stood facing Stephen. He looked larger now that he stood up, indeed a mountain of a man. “My friend, and I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but what you experienced yesterday was comparable to what the Apostle Paul experienced on the road to Damascus—a radical conversion, if you will.”

“So, she DID tell you about what happened!”

“Perhaps, but just because it happened yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t still true today.”

“What?”

“Do you feel like you were in a dream yesterday?”

“Sort of…”

“Well, I can guarantee you that the Holy Spirit’s conviction that you experienced was the real thing.”

“How do you know that, and how will I know that? How will I know that it’s still true today as much as it felt yesterday? How will I know that I didn’t just dream it all,” Stephen began pulling his dirty blonde hair back from his face, trying to make sense of it all. His head began to swim,  “This is insane.”

“Salvation isn’t a feeling, Stephen; it’s a change of one’s heart and soul. The former things are passed away, and you become a new person. The things of old, those sinful things in your life that ruled your spirit, will become loathsome, turning your stomach. When you forget and mess up, and yes, that’s going to happen, you will become convicted by the Holy Spirit. Although those things wouldn’t have bothered you in the past, now they will, to the point you will become nauseated having done them, and in the future, you will learn to turn from them. Pleasing God will become the focal point of your life. Slowly, with time, you will become more sanctified, which is a fancy word for becoming more Christ-like.

Yes, sometimes, along with that salvation comes the healing of the body and the spirit. Case in point: When you awoke this morning, wasn’t there something different, …like how you physically felt?”

“Uhhh,…yes, but how did you know that?”

“How I know doesn’t matter. What matters is that because of the inward change, it has already affected your body. Like a light shining within, it has outwardly permeated that darkness from inside you. Most people don’t experience that aspect of their salvation until years later in their walk of faith, if ever. You were blessed in a remarkable way. The cleansing of your spirit has allowed your body to heal immediately. Like the man at the pool of Bethesda, Jesus said to him, ‘Take up your bed and walk,’ and immediately, the man was made whole. At that point, he believed the man before him was the Christ, the Son of God, and that He alone could make him whole. Being whole meant that he wasn’t only physically restored but spiritually as well. In that instance, the man who had been afflicted for thirty-eight years was immediately, inwardly, and outwardly made new.”

Stephen knew in his heart that everything Suzo was saying was true. It all seemed so simple, yet so complicated.

Suzo could see the struggle in Stephen’s eyebrows as he worked through the understanding of all that had transpired in the last few hours. “I tell you what,” Suzo spoke as he carefully removed the bacon from the fire placing it on a plate nearby, “Lets finish breakfast and then go for a walk. We can continue to talk about all this, you can ask any question you want, and maybe by the time were done, you will have less doubts and more confidence.”

Stephen nodded in agreement.

Later that morning, as Suzo and Stephen were walking along a stream that flowed just a few hundred yards from the cabin, Suzo paused. Beside them, the rocks created an eddy, making a pool of still water. “You’ve heard me speak all about the change in you, how you will now have a conviction, how God will not only be your focus but your guiding light, right,” Suzo said as he sat down leaning his walking stick against the rock upon which he sat. Stephen sat next to him, finding the coolness of the rock comforting. The wolf came near, quietly sitting by his side.

“Yes.”

“And you asked about how you know it’s true, and what does it mean, yes?”

“Correct, again.”

“But what if someone could show you what true love, agape love, the love of God was, would it help?”

“Yeah, sure. But what does that have to do with it?”

“Let’s see,” Suzo said, pointing to the water. There, amongst the reflection of white clouds nestled against the backdrop of a cornflower blue sky, a light beneath the surface began to show. Underneath, like thoughts dwelling within the distant portals of his mind, swam a cloud of swirling minnows, a scene began to unfold. Stephen could see his grandmother’s kitchen once again, where he had spent so many memorable moments of his childhood. There, at the bench at the end of the table, his spot, was the little boy. It was the same child he had seen the day before in the cottage. As Stephen watched the story, he watched as, time after time, people came and went in the child’s life, always leaving him behind. He had been essentially abandoned by his parents, leaving his grandparents to raise him. In the vision, Mildred cared for the child as her own, but with an even greater affection knowing that this poor little one had been unwanted, left to fend for himself in a scary, big world. She always tended to his needs, but as he came and went, it became apparent that she was there for more than to address his physical needs; she was there as a beacon of hope, of an unconditional love unlike any he had ever known. As Stephen watched the story play before him, he felt a knot in his stomach grow as he became painfully aware, the little boy was him. It was then that he not only remembered the love of his grandma, but he felt the love wash over him like the combination of a loving quilt, a fresh loaf of bread, or an endearing sunrise – all at once, and yet, even more. It was at that moment that Stephen realized, if only for a moment that he did know the love of God, that it had been there all along, emanating through his grandmother’s love. He had just never realized it.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sat watching the mirage, knowing in his heart that he was not alone. There was a father in his life, not the one that had left him abandoned, but one that had been with him all along. It was through the love of his grandmother that God spoke to him.

“Now, do you see, my friend?”

Stephen nodded, unable to speak. As he watched the story of his life play out in the depths of the water before him, he felt a nudge against his leg as Aphiemi leaned against his leg. Instinctively, he patted the top of the great animal’s head.

“You see Stephen, God commended his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from the wrath through him. For if, when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his Son, much more, being reconciled, we shall be saved by his life. This is the true love of God. That he loved us so much, that he would send his only Son to die for our us, so that we may have eternal life.”

“Yes, I get it, I really get it now,” Stephen said now, looking up from the vision in the pool. “But where do I go from here?”

“Ahh, yes, that’s the beauty of it all,” Suzo said, smiling broadly. “From here, seek Him daily in prayer, in study, and in the discernment of where you should go in everything that you do.”

“Can you show me how that all works?”

“Yes, my friend, I was only hoping you would ask.”

From that day forward, Stephen studied under Sozu, becoming more knowledgeable in the Lord, and growing in his faith. Eventually, Stephen would go into the nearby villages with Sozu, seeking the lost, afflicted, and troubled souls of the world. He never again doubted his faith, nor looked back to the desires of the world. He found his new life in Christ and wanted nothing less, forever more.

Thanks be to God.

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by | · 9:48 am

Dark Bondage (Part II)

Continued from last month’s story…

We find Stephen, a young man who has suffered his whole life with a chronic illness, seemingly lost in the wilderness. Yet, from the moment the vessel where he found comfort was released from the shore, it was as if Stephen was being released from the bondage that had held him captive. The battle with addictions had all but consumed his life, yet now he faces the greatest challenge of his existence: the battle for his mortal soul. In his journey, he is not alone. A force is leading him, guiding him, even though he claims not to believe in such things.

Our story resumes as Stephen happens upon a stone cottage still shrouded in early morning darkness. Inside, an old soul and his pet wolf have long prepared for such a day. They are there for a purpose, but for what?

That is for you to discover…

* * * *

Standing at the outer edge of the realm of darkness, just beyond the emanating lamplight from within, Stephen considered his next move. The dwelling looked as if it had been built in an ancient time; the slate roof reflected the coming dawn as the glow from the windows painted the stone walls a buttery hue, a delicious glow that beckoned him all the more. Still, not knowing the demeanor of the inhabitants within, Stephen groveled deep within his soul – should he dare knock, or should he go on? Like a man wrestling with a power greater than his own, he eventually succumbed to the pressure and moved forward. He stepped upon the stone porch and raised the heavy iron handle of the door knocker, pausing, questioning why he was even here and what he was about to do.

Then he dropped the metal handle, which fell with a loud thud on the massive wooden door.

From within, the sounds of footsteps shuffling toward him could be heard – then a pause. Stephen momentarily swallowed a hard gulp of air, asking for protection in a silent thought – to whom he didn’t know.

Then, the creak of the lock.

When the door opened, a swoosh of warmth and a welcoming light from within flooded the porch, embracing Stephen. What he saw before him caused his heart to pause. For a moment, his senses could not contain the overwhelming tumult of thoughts that ran through his mind. He was speechless, yet he felt something he had not known in many years or possibly ever. He stepped backward, catching the edge of the step with the toe of his boot, nearly tumbling to the ground before he caught himself.

The light emanating from behind the figure made it difficult to see clearly, but it was enough of the image for Stephen to recognize the familiar shape and dress of his dear grandma, Mildred. With one hand, she held the door open while the other was gently sitting on top of a small child’s head, a little boy, perhaps four or five years of age.

“Stephen, is that you?”

He tried to speak, but the words could not get past the lump of emotion in his throat.

She opened the door a little wider, allowing more of the lamplight to shine upon her countenance, absolving all doubt. To further remove any uncertainty, around her neck hung his gift from so long ago: the tiny wooden cross—”first the tree in the meadow, now this?”

Breaking the trance, Mildred welcoming called out to him, “Come on in here before you catch a chill.”

Still unsure if he was dreaming or if this was real, he couldn’t resist the call to join his beloved grandmother once again. He stepped back up on the porch and walked past the threshold of the stone walls. Immediately, once inside, he felt a powerful emotion come over him. The familiar smells of his childhood enveloped his senses, wrapping around his heart like a comforting blanket. As she closed the door behind him, she continued, “We’re so glad you have finally come home. We’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

Those words, “You have finally come home,” resounded like thunderclaps in his heart. It had been many years since he last saw his grandmother and the thought that he was always welcome in her home touched the essence of his soul. Yet, this feeling was more than that—something unearthly in the welcoming—something far more eternal.

As he stepped past her, she reached for his coat of fur, “Let me help you with that,” she said, gently removing his outer garment and hanging it behind the door on a hook. “Now, come here, and let me give you a hug.” She then wrapped her loving arms around him, embracing him as only his grandma could. Then, as if wanting to size him up, she held him at arm’s length, looking him over. Her long silver hair was braided and pulled back behind her head in the customary bun Stephen had always known. She proudly exclaimed, “We had almost given up on you, child.” The words pierced his heart of stone, resonating deep within.

Suddenly, Stephen was overcome with a sense of guilt for the sin in his life that percolated to the surface – there was no hiding. It was as if she could see through him and into his very soul. Unclean, he wanted to be free of it all, shed the past, erase the memory of addiction, the hate, and the vile mouth that had hurt so many. He saw himself as he was and was disgusted beyond reproach.  A spirit of repentance came over Stephen, unlike anything he had ever known nor sought to know. It was like the power of a mighty waterfall, crashing into the depths of his blackened soul, began to engulf his being. The years of suffering, pain, and anguish all seemed to be suddenly washed away. Falling to his knees, he couldn’t stop the tsunami of regret; Stephen began weeping uncontrollably, gasping for air through the torrent of recompense. The little child sat at his side as Mildred came near him, kneeling and lovingly placing her arm across his shoulders, not speaking, just comforting as only a grandmother could.

Streams of tears and mucus ran from his nose in embarrassing pools upon the floor beneath where he knelt. He tried to speak, but the only words that would escape his convulsing lungs were, “Please forgive me.” All the while, the love of the one who knew him best poured into his emptying soul. Faster than the evil could leave, the agape poured within.

Time stood still as the young man, in the presence of something greater than himself, began to slowly regain control of his bodily emotions. Each time he looked up at the one knelt beside him, the tears would well up into his eyes. Each time, that loving face would embrace him again and whisper in his ear, “You were never alone, my son; you were never alone.” Stephen looked in the other direction, and there, the little child sat cross-legged on the floor, smiling ear-to-ear, acknowledging the triumph of the Spirit before him. The child never said a word, but his face, one that seemed oddly familiar, spoke volumes.

When he had finally collected himself, Mildred helped him over to the kitchen table, where a freshly cooked apple pie, his favorite, awaited. Stephen felt different; something was missing. He couldn’t put his finger on it but was distracted when the little boy joined them, sitting at the end of the table on one end of a well-worn bench. Suddenly, Stephen realized something that shook him to his core. That bench, that spot where the child now sat, had once been his favorite in his grandma’s kitchen. His head began to spin again, yet the well was dry; there was no more emotion from which to claim.

Finally, sometime later, when he was once more able to regain his composure, he timidly said, “Can I ask a question, Grandma? And please, please, don’t think me rude, for I would not trade this experience for anything in the world. But why am I here? Where are we? Is this a dream?”

“That sounds like more than one question, my dear,” she said with that old familiar mischievous twinkle in her eye. She went to the cupboard, pulled out three small plates and forks, and reached beneath the sink to grab three tin cups, setting them all on the table.

Stephen laughed, “Okay, okay, yes, I did ask too many questions, but you have to understand this,” he pointed to the room and then to his grandma, “This is just all so much for me to take in. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, my son, yes, I get it.” She was now carefully, while continuing to listen, began setting the table with the meager tableware.

“But I heard your voice in the dream when I was still in the canoe and thought that that would have been wonderful enough. But now this, here with you,” he had to pause for the knot in his throat was growing again. “And to feel love like I had never remembered, or possibly ever known. It’s as if something has removed all the darkness from inside me, as if…” Again, he had to pause, waiting for the chorus of heartbeats to abate in his ears, “How is any of this possible?”

While he spoke, Mildred cut the pie and placed a slice on each plate, then put them before each of them, Stephen and the little boy, and the last for herself.

“You are asking a lot of outstanding questions.” She took her place at the head of the table nearest the wood stove, slowly sitting into the well-worn kitchen chair. “But to answer your questions, we first must ask, what is it you seek?” She paused as she was about to take a bite of the pie, “What have you sought but never found the answer?”

Stephen thought back to the last few years and the hopelessness of his life – the chronic pain, the prescription drugs, the alcohol, and then the emptiness it all left within his soul. He knew there was something else, but he had forgotten the things she had taught him as a child. As he pondered over these bewildering memories, one returned, like the welcoming dawn of a new day after the darkest storm – it was Jesus.

The color washed from Stephen’s face as he sat in stunned silence. “How could he have forgotten,” he thought silently. His mind raced back to the convulsions of rebirth just moments before, and the image of Christ on the cross came to mind, dying for his sins, the anguish, pain, and suffering – the bleeding drops of red falling from his Savior’s body onto the earth below, the ground crying out to the heavens above. Unlike Cain slaying Able, the scene at Calvary was to become a victory over death so that by Jesus’ sacrifice, we might have eternal life. Again, a flood of emotion, of thankfulness, enveloped his mind as he fought back the tears.

Then, out of the blue, another revelation came, “There’s no more pain,” he said under his breath.

“I see from the look on your face that you do remember something?”

Stephen nodded his head, yes, still unable to speak as the mixed emotions spun around in his head, the snow globe of memory, redemption, and turmoil all spinning out of control.

“My son, when you seek Him, Jesus, to come into your heart, you will become a new man. The old will die away, and you will be made new. The old man is gone. Your sins have been forgiven. As you have just experienced, the sins of this world, those lusts of your flesh, have been washed away. You have been healed by the power of the Holy Spirit, and by Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, you are now given a new spirit, an eternal life with Him.”

Stephen sat dumbfounded. It was true. He had just realized the significance of the moment, yet he could not understand how he got here or where “here” actually was. His head spun with the relevance of all that was happening.

“Now eat up, Stephen, your pie is getting cold.”

He smiled and obliged, tasting the succulence of his favorite dessert melt in his mouth. They continued talking for a long time, sharing memories – of faith and hope. The child eventually got up and went to lie on a pallet by the fireplace, falling asleep. As the day turned to night, Stephen’s eyelids grew heavy.

“My son, you are tired, and the day has been long. You need to rest.”

Stephen nodded, barely able to hold up his head.

“I’ve prepared a place for you in the loft,” she said, pointing to the room above the kitchen. Climb up the ladder there, and you’ll find everything you need. We’ll continue our conversation in the morning.”

Happy to rest, Stephen found his way up to the loft, where he fell asleep before his head touched the downy softness of the pillow on his grandma’s feather bed.

The next morning, Stephen awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He smiled as he stretched beneath the covers. The usual pain that accompanied most mornings was gone. He felt fresh and renewed. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was inside a new body, definitely not the one he had come to know in recent years. Then, he remembered the events of the previous day. “Could it be true?” he asked himself.

He arose, got dressed, and started to climb down below to continue to the beautiful dream. But as he grasped the top of the ladder to begin his descent, his heart froze. Once more, he was about to find his preconceived notions of the world before him were about to be challenged in ways he could not know.

To be continued…

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by | April 27, 2024 · 8:19 am

Dark Bondage – part I

There are days in our lives when the weather can match the mood so resplendently that one cannot discern one from the other. The gray, overcast somberness seems to creep into our very core, a darkening of the spirit, dissuading all that seeks to find joy in the sunbeams, happiness in the daylilies, or the enrichment of the sound of the songbird in the distance. Some feel continual pain for long periods of time or some for the entirety of their lives. Could it be more or less akin to dragging an anchor behind you, struggling to move, finding stairs, or ascending heights, a bewildering prospect? One must ask, is this it for the rest of my life? Is this my new norm?

Stephen sought every medical profession that would help him resolve this chronic debilitating disease. Each day, when he tried to rise, it was as if the core of his being was chained to the bed; bondage to an earthly prison had encompassed most of his adult life. If only he could break free. The doctors found one excuse after another to describe his condition, yet nobody had an answer. Early on, prescription opioids masked the unceasing pain. Still, he found it took more and more until there came a breaking point, a day of blind fury from the disconnect he forced upon himself, knowing that if he continued, he would die from the treatment rather than the crux of his demise. From there, the bottle became the agent of choice to which he sought relief if any could be found. Yet, that too, the well of utter hopelessness, kept him forever seeking another path, another way out of the day-to-day hell. One cancer led to another.

The rage that accompanied the agony spoke words he could not control; his mouth was as much a vile lesion upon his soul as the disease within.  Too often, he would see himself, a stranger within his own body, inflicting pain upon his loved ones and, one by one, watching them leave, never to return. The dark abyss to which his life spun, the whirlwind of depression upon whose waves his body was interred, carried him to depths of rejection and suffering no mortal man could stand, at least for any length of time. Yet, as much as one might believe a human capable of withstanding, Stephen could have easily given up and accepted death, but there awaited an eternity of anguish and pain. Instinctively, he knew that was not the answer. If only he could find peace in an eternal sleep. So, instead of giving in, he pressed on – something drove him onward. The costs were immeasurable, and the endurance with which he strived to stay alive when everything else said to lie down and end it all was incomprehensible. It was as if there was a being watching over him, even if he didn’t desire that protection or grace being bestowed upon him.

One day, distraught and hungry, Stephen sought refuge in the wilderness, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. Isolation from the world, from the pain itself, is an alluring deception to escape reality. He found himself walking along a riverbank, pondering everything and anything, not hoping, not denying, but merely existing, when he happened upon a dugout canoe tied to a small tree. Not seeing anyone around, he, more out of curiosity than of a criminal nature, slipped from the bank into the vessel, where he found a few loose animal pelts lying about. Not seeing any harm, he took the soft hides and wrapped himself in the bosom of a fur cocoon, falling fast asleep. With the added weight, the breeze gently rocked the boat and soon slipped the knot around the limb to which it was moored. Quietly and gently, the little boat began to follow the river’s current, winding beneath the patchwork of clouds and sky above while the occupant slept as deep a sleep as he had been able in many months. The day faded into twilight as the full moon soon began to crest the horizon. Long shadows crossed the river, yet the little craft continued unabated in its journey, its passenger unaware of the course to which he had befallen. Deep within the recesses of his mind, the pain had eased a touch, allowing the soothing sounds and comforting ripples of the water to lull him into a state of mind that had alluded him for many years. There, upon the gentle tides of the dream world, from a place of bliss, he saw himself sitting on the top of a knoll in a meadow in the shade of a large oak tree. It was an enchanted island in a sea of tall stalks with abundant heads of grain bending under the weight of their bounty. The breeze blew the weighty summer grasses all around him, turning color as the underside revealed a lighter shade, making mesmerizing undulating waves of grain that appeared to chase the shadows of the clouds above – a dance of splendor upon the landscape beneath an azure blue sky. The fields were ripe for harvest.

A redtail hawk cried in the distance as Stephen watched her glide upon the currents of the sky, floating with a sense of purpose, steady but graceful. It was then he sensed the feeling of a warm, loving blanket of comfort wash over his soul. Something dangling from a nearby low branch caught his eye, drawing his attention to a trinket hanging from a thin leather strand. Its image, suspended in the air, hung before the sun, blinding his vision and forcing him to shield his eyes with one hand while leaning against the tree trunk. “Could it be,” he thought to himself. Before him, the summer breeze gently buffeted a tiny hand-carved cross. It had been a gift to his grandmother when he was still in his teens.

The embodiment of hope welled up within his being, so much so that the impression became apparent as tears welled up in his eyes, temporarily obscuring the scene before him, washing together the colors until he couldn’t see the beauty before him. At that moment, he heard a voice, but no one was there. It was as if it came from nowhere and everywhere. “Son, don’t give up on this life, for you are loved more than you know.” There it was again, the voice of reason, of hope, someone he had not thought of in a long time, his grandmother Mildred. Her passing left a hole in his teenage heart that he never seemed to be able to fill. Her soothing tones would comfort his childhood mishaps with such loving care that nothing else mattered whenever she finished consoling his wounded pride. The voice continued, “Too soon many have turned from God’s loving arms, and too soon they have found themselves awash in hopelessness and despair. Take comfort in knowing that you are not alone, that He is with you, always. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbors, saying unto them, rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. Your life has a purpose, one that you may not see or understand, but someday soon, you will see what glory awaits. For now, press on towards the mark. Someday soon, you will be delivered.”

With that, a sudden bump awakened Stephen from his slumber as the bow of the tiny craft nudged the shoreline of the river, now many miles from whence it had departed. Unsure of himself, he looked about, still wrapped in the warmth of the hides he had stumbled upon. The voice from the dream still lingered upon his mind like the smoke from the chimney on a cold, windless night. Its vapor encircled the essence of his being, as the smoothing aroma of woodsmoke. He accepted his plight as one might look to the horizon of a distant shore, waiting for the moment their vessel would eventually make landfall.  Stephen looked about his tiny craft for a paddle to continue his nautical journey, but there was none. The old saying popped into his mind, “One can paddle every canoe except one’s own.”

The moonlight, still bright, lit the shoreline with a somber, blueish-white tint – dreamlike in nature. Stepping out of the canoe, keeping one of the furs wrapped about his shoulders to ward off the chill of the night, he found an animal trail from the water’s edge. He began to follow it, not knowing where he was nor where he was going, only that to continue forward felt important, as if something or someone was calling him – a beckoning from afar. It was a mountainous terrain upon which he had happened as his trek paralleled the water’s edge; the sound of rapids below consummated his footsteps as they found their way up a steep incline. His lungs began to labor at the toil unto which his legs carried him, continually climbing over and passing boulders that lay like sleeping giants along the trail’s ever-winding boundary. He continued in this manner for many hours, the moon eventually setting as the hint of a distant sunrise began to lighten the Eastern sky. His path eventually topped out at the crest of the mountain. The sky was a somber pink and blue, painting the mountain tops with a golden hue that spoke of an assurance he felt he should know, but something inside him purposely kept it at a distance – a chasm of doubt between the two. A single thread of smoke caught his eye, evidence of another human in this dreamlike realm. His eye followed it down until it came to its source: a stone cottage nestled in the cusp of the darkness, its windows glowing from lamplight within. To this end, there was a draw from which he could not discern, other than it felt as if there was a welcoming gesture in that humble abode to which he must go. So, without delay, he pulled the pelt closer to his chin and continued down, ascending into the depths of the night once more, as the morning sun had yet to penetrate the recesses of the valley below.

* * * *

The Sozo rose early that Sabbath morning, immediately slipping to the floor beside his bed, kneeling in prayer, something he did every day for as long as he could remember. His life was one with God, and each day, he was afforded the multitude of His blessings. As he lifted his voice to the Father, he received a brief but clear vision. In the scene, it was still dark, but just within the outer confines of the light from his lodge stood a small lamb calling for help. Its white coat was muddied from traveling many miles. While it continued to call, its breath was visible, as the chill of the night was still lingering. The little animal’s cries spoke of pain, something a farmer comes to know when working with animals, a sense of discomfort for which the beast can only comforted by its caregiver. The vision ended when he opened the door, and something else, something he understood from before, began to unfold. The Sozo arose from the floor, knowing God was at work, and before the day was out, He would reveal its mystery.

After stoking the fire in the hearth a few minutes later, he eased into his ancient, well-worn rocking chair while sipping the day’s first cup of coffee. As he poured over God’s word, he gently stroked the soft hair of Aphiemi, his pet wolf, the wild animal he had taken in as a pup so many years before. The elder had been returning from a day of searching for lost souls in the nearby village when he found the brutal scene of death. Hunters had killed Aphiemi’s mother and the rest of the litter. She had survived by hiding in a hollow log next to the den, where she was slowly dying of hunger. Wolves were a threat to the villagers in the area, often killing many of their young and threatening the safety of their livestock. From the villager’s perspective, it was the elimination of a pestilence. To Sozo, it was a heartless killing. Aware of the implications of taking in a wild animal, the old man felt in his heart that he could not allow the little puppy to die of starvation – thus, he and the baby wolf’s companionship began. With her by his side, he always felt even more protected from the worldly dangers that hearkened to the door of his obscure dwelling. In a way, it was as if God had provided him a protector, but instead of a weapon, it came in the form of a wolf.

In deep contemplation, he read over the ancient manuscript encased within the weathered, leather hand-bound volume; his eye followed the letters on the page from the Gospel of Luke, “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?  And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders  and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’7 I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.” He leaned back, taking another sip from the warm mug, thinking over these words and the vision he had received. “Coincidence or not,” he thought to himself, but before he could ponder further, Aphiemi raised her head and gave a low guttural growl.

There came the dull thud of the iron knocker wrapping at the chamber door. Aphiemi stood, hair bristling along her spine.

“Easy, girl.” Slowly rising from his rocker, Sozo headed toward the door.

“Let’s see what the Lord hath brought us today.”

* * * *

Standing at the outer edge of the realm of darkness, just beyond the emanating lamplight from within, Stephen considered his next move. The dwelling looked as if it had been built in an ancient time; the slate roof reflected the coming dawn as the glow from the windows painted the stone walls a buttery hue, a delicious glow that beckoned him all the more. Still, not knowing the demeanor of the inhabitants within, Stephen groveled deep within his soul – should he dare knock, or should he just go on? Like a man wrestling with a power greater than his own, he eventually succumbed to the pressure and moved forward. He stepped upon the stone porch and raised the heavy iron handle of the door knocker, pausing, questioning why he was even here and what he was about to do.

Then he dropped the metal handle, which fell with a loud thud on the massive wooden door.

The sounds of footsteps shuffling toward him could be heard from within – then a pause. Stephen swallowed a hard gulp of air momentarily, asking for protection in a silent thought – to whom he didn’t know.

Then, the creak of the lock.

When the door opened, a swoosh of warmth and a welcoming light from within flooded the porch, embracing Stephen. What he saw before him caused his heart to pause. For a moment, his senses could not contain the overwhelming tumult of thoughts that ran through his mind. He was speechless, yet he felt something he had not known in many years or possibly ever.

To be continued…

 

 

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