I have learned recently the necessity of grace, the fact that no matter what I do, no matter what I think, no matter how many good things I try to do to cover up all the bad things, the evilness within myself far outweighs them. It's a lesson that's been a long time coming. For so long I have leaned on my own sense of grace and my own sense of strength that I didn't realize until now that this crooked crutch I've depended on has had me on a path I was never meant to stumble down. Last night, as I was reading Romans 2 and 3, God's words hit so close to home I began to bawl.
I cried for the fact that I have been running from God, wanting to do the things I wanted to do, the things I thought would fulfill my sick desires. I cried for the fact that I had turned my back on my Father. I cried for the fact that I had felt so little remorse for so long for the sins I had used to nail Christ to the cross. I cried out for forgiveness. I cried out for mercy. I cried out in anger towards myself and for the fact that I knew that justice must be served, and that I deserved every bit of it. I prayed in agony for God to just take away this pain, and even more painful was that I knew I deserved it.
This separation from my Creator, my Redeemer, my Savior was hell, in the fullest sense of the word. I knew my sins and I saw them standing there, laughing at me and scoffing at this small, sickly being that knew nothing and had done even less for my Lord. These sins that I had no way of shedding on my own, of my own accord. I was stained to the very bone marrow with sins as crimson as the thickest blood, and there was nothing I could do about it, and that overtook me.
But in my pain, sorrow, anger, emptiness, depravity, I heard a voice through the darkness that was calling my name. I heard a voice that seemed so familiar and so close, I thought it was there with me. It said, "Get up, David. Get up and take my hand. You are my son, my creation, my love, and I have paid the price for you. You are mine. You are wholly mine and you don't have to be captive to these sins any longer." I saw him in my mind, reaching out for me with a hole in one hand and holding a robe of the whitest white in the other. I stood up, cowering in his glorious presence, but he touched my tear-drenched cheek and looked into my eyes.
This was my Father. This was my Savior. This was the One who had conquered death for me and the rest of the world. He was alive in front of me, holding my new robe that he had cleansed by his own blood. The darkness was gone. The pain was gone. The anger was gone. All I felt was acceptance into his family. I knew I was still not perfect, and I knew I had a long road to travel to grow closer to this man, but in his presence, anything was possible. I had found my life in him.
He put it on the white robe he had been holding for me and I put it on...it was a perfect fit.
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Portrait
I sat again in the Starbucks, which was beginning to feel like my home away from home. I had come there after a day of driving across Dallas and attending hospital orientation, hoping to get a little reprieve from the drizzle outside, but mainly trying to avoid the hustle and bustle that is school traffic. When I sat down with my computer and coffee I had a plan set that I was going to start right off by watching my lecture. But as always, the little voice in the back of my mind knew I would procrastinate, so I decided not to fight it as I put my headphones in and started my music.
I searched the Web for a bit, visiting my favorite sites, not really looking for anything in particular. As I exited one of the windows, my desktop came up and I gasped...my background was hideous! I had changed it many times before, searching for that one special picture that would wow me everytime I opened my laptop. Although I hadn't found it yet, I found a new vigor and passion; I was going to find that picture.
I quickly got back on the internet, knowing exactly where I was going, a database of photographs from around the world, each beautiful in its own way. But I was looking for just one, and I would know it when I found it. I imagined a picture that would transform my desktop into a frame, or a window, looking out into a beautiful portrait of creation. I just didn't know the specifics. It could've been a moonlit night on the shores of a Mediterranean beach, with lavender waves gently crashing onto a golden shore with the majestic moon controlling the continuous ebb and flow. It could've been a winding, gravel road deep within a southern wood, the green leaves creating an earthy glow, where one could just imagine the humidity of the air sticking to one's body. Or could it have been an ancient city, ruins and more modern buildings mixed together into mosaic of lost times, red rooves and chipping plaster creating a wise, regal look?
I had no idea. All the options flooded my mind and saturated my thoughts. But, after a few minutes of searching, it was no use. I just couldn't find that portrait that stuck out so much that I would know I had to have it. And then suddenly, when I was nearly to the end of my rope, I pulled up the next page and my eyes went wide. There it was: my picture.
It was so beautiful I sat there for a moment, staring at, searching the many colors and textures that made up the landscape. It looked like the sun was just beginning to rise, barely over the horizon, not really circular, but more like a spirit shining sporadically through the clouds. It was heralding in a new day over a rolling meadow, the green and gold of grass and grains dotted the ground as far as the eye could see. Two rounded hills, almost moundish, were jutting out of the land on the horizon. The sky was dotted with white, fluffy clouds. The part of the sky that hadn't been hit by the sun's rays was a deep blue, almost purple, still looking sleepily toward the rising ball of fire. And right in the forefront, with the sun creating its silhouette, was a purple flower. Other flowers surrounded the floral stranger, but this one seemed like it was the leader, standing above the rest, straight and beautiful.
This was my dream of beauty; my dream of Heaven. There were no flaws, no blemishes, just a portrait of God's creation reflecting His glory to a fallen earth. I thought about how little we deserved God to paint us a picture like this everyday, and then I realized something. Every sunrise, every sunset; every star, every cloud; every wave, every waterfall; every flower, every tree; every animal, every human has been created by a loving, powerful, majestic, perfect God who has given us a grace so undeserved that it is unfathomable. Everything in nature points back to God and how much He is in control. As I sipped my coffee, holding back tears, I heard God whisper something in my ear...
David, he said, you are my son. And you are a portrait of perfection...
I searched the Web for a bit, visiting my favorite sites, not really looking for anything in particular. As I exited one of the windows, my desktop came up and I gasped...my background was hideous! I had changed it many times before, searching for that one special picture that would wow me everytime I opened my laptop. Although I hadn't found it yet, I found a new vigor and passion; I was going to find that picture.
I quickly got back on the internet, knowing exactly where I was going, a database of photographs from around the world, each beautiful in its own way. But I was looking for just one, and I would know it when I found it. I imagined a picture that would transform my desktop into a frame, or a window, looking out into a beautiful portrait of creation. I just didn't know the specifics. It could've been a moonlit night on the shores of a Mediterranean beach, with lavender waves gently crashing onto a golden shore with the majestic moon controlling the continuous ebb and flow. It could've been a winding, gravel road deep within a southern wood, the green leaves creating an earthy glow, where one could just imagine the humidity of the air sticking to one's body. Or could it have been an ancient city, ruins and more modern buildings mixed together into mosaic of lost times, red rooves and chipping plaster creating a wise, regal look?
I had no idea. All the options flooded my mind and saturated my thoughts. But, after a few minutes of searching, it was no use. I just couldn't find that portrait that stuck out so much that I would know I had to have it. And then suddenly, when I was nearly to the end of my rope, I pulled up the next page and my eyes went wide. There it was: my picture.
It was so beautiful I sat there for a moment, staring at, searching the many colors and textures that made up the landscape. It looked like the sun was just beginning to rise, barely over the horizon, not really circular, but more like a spirit shining sporadically through the clouds. It was heralding in a new day over a rolling meadow, the green and gold of grass and grains dotted the ground as far as the eye could see. Two rounded hills, almost moundish, were jutting out of the land on the horizon. The sky was dotted with white, fluffy clouds. The part of the sky that hadn't been hit by the sun's rays was a deep blue, almost purple, still looking sleepily toward the rising ball of fire. And right in the forefront, with the sun creating its silhouette, was a purple flower. Other flowers surrounded the floral stranger, but this one seemed like it was the leader, standing above the rest, straight and beautiful.
This was my dream of beauty; my dream of Heaven. There were no flaws, no blemishes, just a portrait of God's creation reflecting His glory to a fallen earth. I thought about how little we deserved God to paint us a picture like this everyday, and then I realized something. Every sunrise, every sunset; every star, every cloud; every wave, every waterfall; every flower, every tree; every animal, every human has been created by a loving, powerful, majestic, perfect God who has given us a grace so undeserved that it is unfathomable. Everything in nature points back to God and how much He is in control. As I sipped my coffee, holding back tears, I heard God whisper something in my ear...
David, he said, you are my son. And you are a portrait of perfection...
Of Dead Trees and Tree Swings, 7.28.07
In a dying forest there stood a lonesome tree, aged and scarred. The fallen, lifeless branches of its comrades littered the leafy floor. As far as the eye could see there stood stumps innumerable, tombstones that stood as reminders of a once greater time. No longer did the wind rustle through the leaves of the pines, oaks, or redwoods. No more was a greenish hue cast upon the grassy ground through the budding spring leaves. Now, all that was left was the dying tree.
It stood up out of the wasteland like a cold stone tower, alone and vulnerable to enemies’ attacks. It had no leaves, for they had fallen off during the fall season and winter was quick on its way. Its bare limbs made it look skinny and naked, like a grandfather taking his last breaths. The roots protruded from the ground surrounding the tree, like bony fingers searching for new life. The trunk of the tree was dented with numerous axe marks from children taking their first swings. Giant knots were forming all around it, making it look like a swollen mass of tumors. Some limbs had already fallen to the ground, weathered from many years of being tortured by the wind and rain of merciless Mother Nature.
It seemed like an eternity since the sun had shone down upon the barren valley. The tree had not seen any signs of life for many years…until that day. The sound of feet rustling through the dead leaves echoed throughout the valley. The tree had no idea what was making the sound or from where it came, so it waited. Finally, after what seemed like days of anticipation, a little boy crowned a nearby hill with a rope in hand.
The tree’s remaining limbs perked up as it felt a cool breeze start to slowly blow through the naked valley…the first sign of change in a long while. The boy approached the tree with caution, seeming to inspect the tree for some unknown quality. He circled the tree, eying it up and down. Finally, he stopped, took his rope in hand, and threw it over a branch. The tree finally realized…the boy was building a swing.
He did some creative tying of knots, looped on the wooden seat, and sat. The tree winced from supporting the weight of the boy, but managed to hold him up. It watched as the boy imagined himself flying through the air with the eagles, swinging back and forth just above the Earth. After nearly an hour of quiet swinging, the boy stopped, jumped off, and approached the tree trunk. He felt the scars and stared at the tree for a long time before, all of a sudden, he started to sob. With one shaking hand against the trunk, the tree supported the weakened boy. The tree knew that the boy understood the pain and suffering it had endured. It had seen its friends falling all about, either from not having a strong foundation, or from being chopped into pieces by the men. It had had its share of trials, and the boy knew it.
After he had cried for a little while more, the boy pulled himself up to his own support, wiped his eyes, and walked away back over the hill; but that wasn’t the last of him. The boy came back everyday for a month, occasionally swinging, occasionally climbing, and sometimes just lying near the tree for shelter, strengthening the tree until it felt almost better than before. During the hard, cold winter, the boy came less occasionally, but it was always a treat when the tree spotted him coming over the hill, his thick breath leading the way through the thin winter air. Finally, the snow started to melt and the weather began to warm, but like the years previous, that was the only change.
Then, one day, the tree could hear something, a sound so pleasant that it almost jumped out of its roots in excitement…laughter. It watched as a group of children came over the hill smiling and laughing, with the boy leading the way. They all ran towards the tree and began to climb and play. The warmth and laughter of the children filled the tree with happiness until it reached a bursting point. Finally, it couldn’t hold it in any longer…it let out a deep, bellowing laugh that echoed throughout the valley.
All the children stopped and waited until the echo had subsided. All surprised, and yet expectant, the children themselves started to giggle and allowed it to grow into a tumultuous sound of joy and laughter. By the end of the day, all of the children had left but the one boy. He stood staring up at the tree, smiling. He finally pointed up to one of the branches at something the tree had not noticed before…a single, tiny, green bud.
Years passed and different children began to play with the tree, whose name had become the Laughing Tree, for obvious reasons. More peaceful humans had made their way into the valley, which had become as lush and green as it had been before. The Laughing Tree stood high among the saplings as a guardian or parent among children. It was content with its fruitful life now and swayed back and forth in the wind as it thought of so many trials and troubles it had overcome.
One moonlit night as the forest grew increasingly quieter, the Laughing Tree heard someone approach. Out of the darkness walked a man with his son in his arms. He walked over to the swing which had survived all those years and sat his son down in it. He started swinging his son and singing songs to him, all the while watching the tree. After an hour of gentle swinging, the man grabbed his dozing boy and walked back into the darkness. A few minutes later, the Laughing Tree saw the man and his boy reach the top of the hill and turn around. The man looked at the tree and winked as he dropped down the other side. It was then that the tree recognized the man…he was the boy from long ago who had come to the tree in the darkest of times…the boy who had given hope to the Laughing Tree.
It stood up out of the wasteland like a cold stone tower, alone and vulnerable to enemies’ attacks. It had no leaves, for they had fallen off during the fall season and winter was quick on its way. Its bare limbs made it look skinny and naked, like a grandfather taking his last breaths. The roots protruded from the ground surrounding the tree, like bony fingers searching for new life. The trunk of the tree was dented with numerous axe marks from children taking their first swings. Giant knots were forming all around it, making it look like a swollen mass of tumors. Some limbs had already fallen to the ground, weathered from many years of being tortured by the wind and rain of merciless Mother Nature.
It seemed like an eternity since the sun had shone down upon the barren valley. The tree had not seen any signs of life for many years…until that day. The sound of feet rustling through the dead leaves echoed throughout the valley. The tree had no idea what was making the sound or from where it came, so it waited. Finally, after what seemed like days of anticipation, a little boy crowned a nearby hill with a rope in hand.
The tree’s remaining limbs perked up as it felt a cool breeze start to slowly blow through the naked valley…the first sign of change in a long while. The boy approached the tree with caution, seeming to inspect the tree for some unknown quality. He circled the tree, eying it up and down. Finally, he stopped, took his rope in hand, and threw it over a branch. The tree finally realized…the boy was building a swing.
He did some creative tying of knots, looped on the wooden seat, and sat. The tree winced from supporting the weight of the boy, but managed to hold him up. It watched as the boy imagined himself flying through the air with the eagles, swinging back and forth just above the Earth. After nearly an hour of quiet swinging, the boy stopped, jumped off, and approached the tree trunk. He felt the scars and stared at the tree for a long time before, all of a sudden, he started to sob. With one shaking hand against the trunk, the tree supported the weakened boy. The tree knew that the boy understood the pain and suffering it had endured. It had seen its friends falling all about, either from not having a strong foundation, or from being chopped into pieces by the men. It had had its share of trials, and the boy knew it.
After he had cried for a little while more, the boy pulled himself up to his own support, wiped his eyes, and walked away back over the hill; but that wasn’t the last of him. The boy came back everyday for a month, occasionally swinging, occasionally climbing, and sometimes just lying near the tree for shelter, strengthening the tree until it felt almost better than before. During the hard, cold winter, the boy came less occasionally, but it was always a treat when the tree spotted him coming over the hill, his thick breath leading the way through the thin winter air. Finally, the snow started to melt and the weather began to warm, but like the years previous, that was the only change.
Then, one day, the tree could hear something, a sound so pleasant that it almost jumped out of its roots in excitement…laughter. It watched as a group of children came over the hill smiling and laughing, with the boy leading the way. They all ran towards the tree and began to climb and play. The warmth and laughter of the children filled the tree with happiness until it reached a bursting point. Finally, it couldn’t hold it in any longer…it let out a deep, bellowing laugh that echoed throughout the valley.
All the children stopped and waited until the echo had subsided. All surprised, and yet expectant, the children themselves started to giggle and allowed it to grow into a tumultuous sound of joy and laughter. By the end of the day, all of the children had left but the one boy. He stood staring up at the tree, smiling. He finally pointed up to one of the branches at something the tree had not noticed before…a single, tiny, green bud.
Years passed and different children began to play with the tree, whose name had become the Laughing Tree, for obvious reasons. More peaceful humans had made their way into the valley, which had become as lush and green as it had been before. The Laughing Tree stood high among the saplings as a guardian or parent among children. It was content with its fruitful life now and swayed back and forth in the wind as it thought of so many trials and troubles it had overcome.
One moonlit night as the forest grew increasingly quieter, the Laughing Tree heard someone approach. Out of the darkness walked a man with his son in his arms. He walked over to the swing which had survived all those years and sat his son down in it. He started swinging his son and singing songs to him, all the while watching the tree. After an hour of gentle swinging, the man grabbed his dozing boy and walked back into the darkness. A few minutes later, the Laughing Tree saw the man and his boy reach the top of the hill and turn around. The man looked at the tree and winked as he dropped down the other side. It was then that the tree recognized the man…he was the boy from long ago who had come to the tree in the darkest of times…the boy who had given hope to the Laughing Tree.
Death by Silence, 8.29.07
This idea came to me one night before bed and I had to jot it down before I lost it. I'm thinking about expanding the character and plot in order to submit it to North Lake's literary contest:
There once lived a man who lived through a song. This wasn’t like other songs with an immediate beginning and an end…this was a life-song. A life-song connects all of the happenings of a man’s life through a melody. A man’s first kiss may be marked by a romantic violin solo. A man’s first heartache could be signified by a solemn and ugly trumpet. All aspects of life have their own distinct sounds.
You can’t go in search of a life-song; it is a gift from the gods. Only the very few are lucky enough to hear its beautiful melody and its unforgettable harmony. It is a continual reminder of the beauty and fragility of life, and only those gifted with a life-song can hear it.
The music kept this man alive. Each note moved with the rhythm of his breaths. As all of the instruments mixed together to form one fluid, graceful song, so did his heart and lungs and mind all work in sync with one another. He felt tied to the music, as if his life hung in the balance with the song…little did he know that it did. As the song grew quiet, his life too grew quiet and calm. His surroundings seemed to slow down completely. As the song roared to its peak, his life became chaotic and loud, like the crashing cymbals of the orchestra.
One day flowed into another, like the measures of a composed song fit seamlessly together. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years, and still the song progressed, as constant as the sun rising in the East. But there came a day in the man’s life when the song grew strangely dim and quiet, more so than usual. He ignored it in the beginning, but after a week of continual softness, he started to strain his ears in search of the melody. Like a man in search of answers, this man was in search of his song.
After another week of searching, the song had become so quiet that it was near silence. The man had never experienced the sounds of the outside world because his life-song had drowned them out. Now he could experience the harsh words of an angry friend, the screaming in agony of pain and sorrow, the dry wind blowing through the leaves of the dead trees in winter. All this he had never experienced before, and he became overwhelmed…and then depressed.
He could no longer find the beauty in life because he had no music to reveal to him nature’s mysteries. He became ill, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. He lay in bed beneath the thick blankets, trying to protect his now frail and aged body from the cold world. He stared out the window, in search of inspiration or hope, but could find none. All he could see was a frosty window with leafless branches flailing out in the yard.
One month past and he became worse. He had become so weak that he could no longer turn his head to look out the window, but he had to look out of the corner of his eye. He would fall asleep and have nightmares of death and disease and pain and wished that it could all be over, but he would wake up the next cold morning and once again live through an unbearably silent day.
One morning he woke up and knew that he would die that day; he could feel it within his body. So, with all the strength he could muster, he turned his head to the side in search of one more sight of life before he passed on. The window was no longer frosted over, but was clear enough to see the leafless tree outside. There, on the top branch of the tree, was a single pink flower, and beside it was a mockingbird, singing the welcome-song of spring. Seeing this, the man smiled, closed his eyes, and once more heard his life-song quietly before he died.
There once lived a man who lived through a song. This wasn’t like other songs with an immediate beginning and an end…this was a life-song. A life-song connects all of the happenings of a man’s life through a melody. A man’s first kiss may be marked by a romantic violin solo. A man’s first heartache could be signified by a solemn and ugly trumpet. All aspects of life have their own distinct sounds.
You can’t go in search of a life-song; it is a gift from the gods. Only the very few are lucky enough to hear its beautiful melody and its unforgettable harmony. It is a continual reminder of the beauty and fragility of life, and only those gifted with a life-song can hear it.
The music kept this man alive. Each note moved with the rhythm of his breaths. As all of the instruments mixed together to form one fluid, graceful song, so did his heart and lungs and mind all work in sync with one another. He felt tied to the music, as if his life hung in the balance with the song…little did he know that it did. As the song grew quiet, his life too grew quiet and calm. His surroundings seemed to slow down completely. As the song roared to its peak, his life became chaotic and loud, like the crashing cymbals of the orchestra.
One day flowed into another, like the measures of a composed song fit seamlessly together. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became years, and still the song progressed, as constant as the sun rising in the East. But there came a day in the man’s life when the song grew strangely dim and quiet, more so than usual. He ignored it in the beginning, but after a week of continual softness, he started to strain his ears in search of the melody. Like a man in search of answers, this man was in search of his song.
After another week of searching, the song had become so quiet that it was near silence. The man had never experienced the sounds of the outside world because his life-song had drowned them out. Now he could experience the harsh words of an angry friend, the screaming in agony of pain and sorrow, the dry wind blowing through the leaves of the dead trees in winter. All this he had never experienced before, and he became overwhelmed…and then depressed.
He could no longer find the beauty in life because he had no music to reveal to him nature’s mysteries. He became ill, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. He lay in bed beneath the thick blankets, trying to protect his now frail and aged body from the cold world. He stared out the window, in search of inspiration or hope, but could find none. All he could see was a frosty window with leafless branches flailing out in the yard.
One month past and he became worse. He had become so weak that he could no longer turn his head to look out the window, but he had to look out of the corner of his eye. He would fall asleep and have nightmares of death and disease and pain and wished that it could all be over, but he would wake up the next cold morning and once again live through an unbearably silent day.
One morning he woke up and knew that he would die that day; he could feel it within his body. So, with all the strength he could muster, he turned his head to the side in search of one more sight of life before he passed on. The window was no longer frosted over, but was clear enough to see the leafless tree outside. There, on the top branch of the tree, was a single pink flower, and beside it was a mockingbird, singing the welcome-song of spring. Seeing this, the man smiled, closed his eyes, and once more heard his life-song quietly before he died.
Untitled, Part 1
A work in progress; written during the church service this morning on the back of my and John's sermon notes...I am such a heathen:
Sobs echoed throughout the empty cathedral. Within the empty hall, merely a skeleton of ribbed vaults and stained glass windows, there stood a large stone table, an altar upon which many sacred rites had taken place. The gray stone floor made the hall feel cold and uninviting, and the soft pitter-patter of rain drops created a low hum on the shingled roof, somewhat filling the seemingly endless void of silence. A large, wooden cross loomed over the altar, intimidating and cold.
The man sitting in the empty pew at the front of the hall didn't notice these details. He couldn't, because he was too preoccupied with the thoughts flooding his mind. He stared at the cold floor through his fingers, not really seeing the individual stone blocks due to the many tears welling up in his eyes. His emotions were about to boil over as he thought of all the wrongs done against him, and of the many wrongs he too had done to others. Harsh words, bad looks, evil thoughts all collided in his heart, creating a tumult, a tempest of feelings and regrets all mixed together. Then he finally couldn't keep it all in...
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" he screamed as he jumped up, shaking rebellious fists at the heavens, being brought down as he saw that all he was yelling at was the ceiling. "They all lied...there's no one out there!" His voice echoed throughout the hallowed hall, confined to the empty space within, just like he was confined to the empty body he lived in.
After the echoes had resided, giving way to the silence, he plopped back down into the pew, tired and defeated. Slumped over in the pew, he was too tired to cry anymore. He felt like nothing mattered, like he was in a hole that he himself had dug, in which he could no longer see the light of day or feel the cool breeze on his face. He closed his eyes and dreamed of death, longing for it to take him away from this wretched world. He was so caught up in his deathly dreams that he didn't even notice the man walking in through the doors in the back of the cathedral. It wasn't until the large wooden doors had bolted back that he heard any trace of anything else in that hall. He jumped up with a startled countenance as he turned around and was met face-to-face with a man in tattered, weather-worn clothes.
His face was rugged and wrinkled with age and strife. His unkempt brown hair was wet with rain, dripping down onto his shoulder, soaking his already damp rags. However, in spite of his obvious hardships, there was a peace on this man's face and an air of kindness about him. He only gave the man in the pew a quick glance as he walked past. The man in the pew watched, wondering what this man was doing. The homeless man walked with confidence to the steps of the altar and the intimidating cross and knelt there with his head bowed low. The man in the pew waited a few seconds to compose his thoughts until finally he began to feel anger, not towards the man, but towards what he was doing. He ran to the altar and began a tirade.
"Don't you know that doesn't work?! Who's listening to you? It's hopeless, pure stupidity, to pray! You could speak to the birds and they would listen better to your problems...there is no God!!!" That last word lingered in the air longer than any other. The man was red-faced and out of breath, looking down at the homeless man still kneeling there. "Are you listening to me, old man?" At that, the homeless man stood up with his eyes still closed and a look of reverence on his face. Then he looked up at the cross, seeming to try to communicate with it in some way. Finally, after a few long seconds of silence, he looked over at the angry man standing next to him with a piercing gaze and spoke in a low, raspy voice.
"What is your name, son?" he asked...
(to be cont'd)
Sobs echoed throughout the empty cathedral. Within the empty hall, merely a skeleton of ribbed vaults and stained glass windows, there stood a large stone table, an altar upon which many sacred rites had taken place. The gray stone floor made the hall feel cold and uninviting, and the soft pitter-patter of rain drops created a low hum on the shingled roof, somewhat filling the seemingly endless void of silence. A large, wooden cross loomed over the altar, intimidating and cold.
The man sitting in the empty pew at the front of the hall didn't notice these details. He couldn't, because he was too preoccupied with the thoughts flooding his mind. He stared at the cold floor through his fingers, not really seeing the individual stone blocks due to the many tears welling up in his eyes. His emotions were about to boil over as he thought of all the wrongs done against him, and of the many wrongs he too had done to others. Harsh words, bad looks, evil thoughts all collided in his heart, creating a tumult, a tempest of feelings and regrets all mixed together. Then he finally couldn't keep it all in...
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" he screamed as he jumped up, shaking rebellious fists at the heavens, being brought down as he saw that all he was yelling at was the ceiling. "They all lied...there's no one out there!" His voice echoed throughout the hallowed hall, confined to the empty space within, just like he was confined to the empty body he lived in.
After the echoes had resided, giving way to the silence, he plopped back down into the pew, tired and defeated. Slumped over in the pew, he was too tired to cry anymore. He felt like nothing mattered, like he was in a hole that he himself had dug, in which he could no longer see the light of day or feel the cool breeze on his face. He closed his eyes and dreamed of death, longing for it to take him away from this wretched world. He was so caught up in his deathly dreams that he didn't even notice the man walking in through the doors in the back of the cathedral. It wasn't until the large wooden doors had bolted back that he heard any trace of anything else in that hall. He jumped up with a startled countenance as he turned around and was met face-to-face with a man in tattered, weather-worn clothes.
His face was rugged and wrinkled with age and strife. His unkempt brown hair was wet with rain, dripping down onto his shoulder, soaking his already damp rags. However, in spite of his obvious hardships, there was a peace on this man's face and an air of kindness about him. He only gave the man in the pew a quick glance as he walked past. The man in the pew watched, wondering what this man was doing. The homeless man walked with confidence to the steps of the altar and the intimidating cross and knelt there with his head bowed low. The man in the pew waited a few seconds to compose his thoughts until finally he began to feel anger, not towards the man, but towards what he was doing. He ran to the altar and began a tirade.
"Don't you know that doesn't work?! Who's listening to you? It's hopeless, pure stupidity, to pray! You could speak to the birds and they would listen better to your problems...there is no God!!!" That last word lingered in the air longer than any other. The man was red-faced and out of breath, looking down at the homeless man still kneeling there. "Are you listening to me, old man?" At that, the homeless man stood up with his eyes still closed and a look of reverence on his face. Then he looked up at the cross, seeming to try to communicate with it in some way. Finally, after a few long seconds of silence, he looked over at the angry man standing next to him with a piercing gaze and spoke in a low, raspy voice.
"What is your name, son?" he asked...
(to be cont'd)
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