Inhuman

Just step inside the radiation and see what happens, they said.  It will be fun, they said.

People might think I am joking.  I am not.

January 1^st, 2053.  Day 4,380 of my life.  Twelve years old, if a translation is needed.  Noon, more or less.  I stood on the platform, looking back at them and trying to discern if they were serious.  Maybe they were joking.  Maybe I had heard wrong over the crackle of energy through the open doorway before me.  Maybe I had lost my senses.  Maybe they had lost theirs.

They gestured toward the doorway encouragingly, as if egging me toward a new friend rather than a most certain and probably painful annihilation.  They were serious.  I had not misheard.  Whether they or I was mad remained to be seen.  I am still not sure on that point.

However, it is in my coding to obey.  No, I am not a robot.  But I am not human either.  At least, I was never treated human, so I ceased to treat myself as such as well.  My life began as a simple zygote in a beaker.  I was brought to the world through a machine rather than a womb.  My DNA is human, but I do not think that is enough for the classification.  Human experimentation is illegal, and my entire life had been lived experiment to experiment.  I was not the scientist.  I was not even a willing participant.  No, I was the dependent or independent variable, depending on the day.  I attempted to rationalize through the legality of my observers actions.  The only explanation I found was that I must not be human at all.  The fault must be in me; otherwise they would be to blame, and I never spotted a sign of guilt.  I had simply overvalued myself.  That was why they treated me more like a dog than a human.  I was a dog, in a sense, bred to obey.  “Bred” just seems too living—too human—for my existence, which is why I tend toward thoughts like “code” or “wiring”.  I am of flesh, not wires, but my flesh holds more the value of wires.  I find it easier to address myself as what I am worth.

“You don’t need to be afraid, X.”

We all had letters for labels, us inhumans.  That is what I started calling myself and my twenty-seven kin.  I hear that humans have names.  The scientists sometimes address each other as Dr. something-or-other.  I think those are names.  I am not quite sure.  I am not wired to ask questions.

“It won’t hurt you.”

Of course not.  The needles, scalpels, and viruses were not supposed to hurt either.  I had been dissected, injected with disease, and cured dozens of times.  A few more years and they would have the remedy of every species of cancer.  Most cures existing had been found through experiments on myself.  I handled the radiation treatment better than the others, they said.  Perhaps that had given them the bizarre idea that I could survive Exion Rays—a classification above even Gama in its penetration and danger.  The room they wanted me to enter was full of them, bouncing back and forth across the walls brilliantly, humming.  I suspected that a few seconds in there would make me start vomiting blood.  I was not sure what other outside symptoms would follow the interior deterioration.  Absentmindedly, I wondered if this room was the reason I had not seen J or R—my companions in excellence at withstanding radiation—the past week.  We used to see each other daily.

“Don’t you believe us, X?”

Just as much as I still believed an injection of cancerous cells would do me no harm.  I ran a hand over my almost bald head.  All of the feelings I did not know how to express ran rampant beneath the surface: irritation, rebellion, exasperation, fear, concern, and rage.  If I were wired to be honest I would have screamed at them, perhaps even tossed one into the room so I could ask if he was hurting or frightened. 

But honesty is not in my coding.  Obedience is.

The bare inch of blonde hair on my scalp felt like a softer version of Velcro.  I knew that because they used Velcro bands to tie me down to the operation table.  I liked how the hair felt against my palm, as much as preference is allowed in my design.  It seemed a fitting final sensation, since it had always been a habit that made me feel more human and less machine.

Closing my eyes, I stepped inside.  For a split second I heard their cries of approval: the only reward I ever received.  Then the humming robbed all other sound from my capacity.  Energy rolled over me as every wave converged toward my slender frame.  It felt like I imagined an embrace might, though I had never experienced anything to compare it to.  It thrummed over and through me, making me warm.  I rather liked it.  I knew I would not once the vomiting began.  Exion’s tenderness would end with a ruthless hand.  And I would submit beneath it silently, unable to follow any urge but that to obey.

How infuriating.

My gut tingled.  Not nauseous, just squirming.  It felt more like curiosity than death.  For a moment, I thought Exion might be considering me, wondering just what ought to be done with the inhuman brought into his presence.  The thought was ridiculous.  I had been feeling human without being one for too long.  My desperation to be valued by others and myself and led me to seek affection from the instrument of my death.  I must have lost my senses after all.

But then Exion drew me closer.

That is how it felt.  It seemed to me he had recognized me as a being as alive and yet inhuman as himself.  I rather think I felt his pity, as he drew me in to rest my head upon his shoulder.  I almost fancied the humming was a lullaby, trying to soothe me.  He felt it too—the wasted potential of his existence.  To be something with so much life beneath and yet contained was a crime in itself.  His prison was that room, and mine a body that could not disobey.  I did not have to be human for that to be wrong.  Rage filled me at the realization.  It filled him as well.  We were both furious, and yet too tightly caged to express it.

But he had the key, he whispered.

I leaned forward, enticed into attention.  Nothing had ever pleased me so much as that possibility.  It was the same for him, I could feel it.  I could feel his excitement.  The key was sacrifice, giving up something to gain that which should have been ours to start with.  If we forsook our “selves”, then we could obtain freedom.  Freedom to be angry, to protest.  He and I only need become a “we”.

He must have already started the change, for I had the freedom to speak my mind.

“Then let us be We!”

I shouted it, such was my excitement.  No.  Our excitement.  There was no “I” anymore.  He folded himself up and tucked the result into me.  Waves of energy that had been loosely probing because suddenly invasive, forcing their radioactive existence into every particle of my existence.  My obedient, caged self died at mine and Exion’s desperate hands.  We opened our eyes for the first time.  We blinked.  The waves were gone.  Exion was gone.  I was gone.  But the humming was still there, coming from us.  We looked down at our human body, running our hands over the inhuman warmth emanating from it.  Something like energy waves rippled over our skin constantly, making our skin appear to ripple like the reflection of light on water.  We were beautiful.  Laughing, we exited.  No need for the door.  We merely struck the roof with enough energy to remove it.  The humming synchronized with our laughter, our glee. 

The scientists were shouting, gaping.  Then they were clapping, showing their pleasure as what they meant to be our reward.  They fancied we would thank them, probably.  They fancied they had done something rather impressive.  They fancied wrong.  We had done everything this time, and we would continue doing without their instructions.  We already knew what we wanted.  Rage.  We wanted to show them the rage. 

We stopped laughing.  Then we screamed.  We had not touched the ground yet, we did not need to.  A wave toward the concrete floor now and then was enough to keep us levitated.  That felt good.  That way we could just stretch out all our four limbs and hover, showering down the heat of our rage.  Our scream made them listen.  Our heat made them feel.  They were falling, vomiting.  How unsightly.  We dropped next to them, beating each in turn to make them feel our disgust.  We could show them that too.  And our exasperation.  And our weariness.  And our fear.  Yes, fear.  We could show them how much they had frightened us, and how tired we were of being afraid.

“Don’t you believe us?” We bellowed.  We had two voices, perfectly joined.  One piercing.  The other resounding. 

“It hurt!  It was too dark! It was scary!  It hurt!  It was too close!  It never let us out!  It HURT!”

They were moaning, rolling around in their blood and vomit.  Yes, that ought to make them believe us.  They could feel it now.  Now they could hear our cries which had stayed mute too long.  Now we could make them understand what it felt to be caged, to be hurt, to be unloved.

Most were silent now, silent forever.  We liked that.  But one still moved, still breathed, still spoke.  He could make others understand him too.  We were not alone in that.  That was human, after all, and we were the inhuman, not them.

“Dear God…” he moaned, “What have we created?”

We blinked.  We frowned.  “We” did not seem enough of a label to give him.  No, we wanted no more labels.  Exion and X had been labels.  We wanted a name.  We wanted him to know it—to understand what twelve years of suffering and one encounter of freedom had fashioned.  We gripped him by his white coat, heaving him up enough to look us in the eye.  We let our heat seep straight from our hands into his dying body.

“You made a monster,” we hissed.

A Radioactive Monster.

He understood it.  He felt it.  His eyes grew wide and stayed that way, frozen by the end of life.  We let him go, stepping over the corpse as it hit the ground.  We considered hovering instead of walking, but we like the feeling of the ground reverberating from our energy.  The walls were cracking, crumbling.  There was an even bigger roof we could remove, if we tried.  But we decided to find the door instead.  We wanted to blow off the lock to the cage, just to hear it shatter. 

Alarms were ringing, warning every human in the place of our presence.  There were more than the ones we had destroyed.  We could take as long as we like ridding the world of each and every one of them.  Perhaps we would free the inhumans.  But they could not become monsters too, because Exion was gone now.  They would only be trouble then, since they only knew how to obey.

Should we kill them too, then?

We stopped for a moment, looking about the concrete walls and then down at our own radiating hands.  A strange tingling started inside—straight in the center of our chest.  We were not sure what the feeling was, but we did not like it.  It made us think harder about the corpses we had left behind—made us ask a questions about our actions in a tone we did not approve of.  We had only been expressing ourselves.  The vileness of our feelings was their fault.  They had been the one who caged us.  Being caged made anger: anger enough to kill.  That was natural, perhaps even human.  It was not our fault.  It was their fault they all lay dead.

Wasn’t it?  Perhaps, but we had been the one killing.  Murder had never been an option when we were caged, so we had not thought about it too much.  We did not like thinking about it.  We felt suffocated. 

We wanted to feel the outside.  We had never felt it before.  We started to run, to feel and look about everywhere for a door.  Running felt good.  It distracted the confused, ugly feeling in our chest.  We managed to forget it.  We felt more excited than we knew how to show.  Even freedom has limits of expression, it seemed.  We felt a door from energy we had sent ahead.  We ran faster.  The bells and lights pulsed harder.  We ignored them.  We had not seen any more humans or inhumans.  That seemed strange, but we were too excited to think about it.  Perhaps we were too free, we decided later.  Maybe freedom hurts like cancer, when you get too much.

We found the way out.  We blew off the lock and the door with it.  Even some of the wall went out with our excitement.  We sensed something coming behind, but something ahead was more interesting.  We saw outside.  We saw colors we had never seen in real life before.  We did not know what they were called, but they were beautiful.  We stepped out and felt a breeze for the first time.  It tasted better than anything we had ever had.  We felt grass under our toes.  Our rage heat cooled down, and the energy stopped waving so much, awed.  The warmth thrummed only inside, full of feelings we had never felt before.  We loved them.  We raised our eyes and hands up, seeing and feeling.  We sucked in clean air, free air.  We tasted the human world.  It felt so very natural for us we wondered if we really could be human.  Perhaps we had thought backwards.  Perhaps the jailers were inhuman, and we were the human trapped by them.  Was it more inhuman to cage or to be angry at being caged?  We had never thought of that.  Perhaps we were human after all.

We cried with our smile, as we stared up into the heavens for two blissful minutes.

Then we realized the things behind had gotten closer, had grabbed us.  We were still deciding whether it was more human to cage or kill when the needle slipped into our neck.  We knew the moment we felt the cold in our veins that we would not get to decide what we wanted.  We knew that was the chill of cage bars returning, locking us away forever.  We had been too awed by freedom to keep it, and we still had not made up our mind about anything.

We are still alive, still caged.  We are locked so tight we cannot move anymore.  We cannot see.  We do not know where we are, but it is dark.  We know only that it is a cage we will never get out of.  They beat us, and we are not even sure what “they” are.  We are not sure what we are either.  We have thought about it over and over, but we cannot decide.

Are we or they inhuman?

Everything Finished

It started in a wheat field, where the gold grains flowed like the waves of the ocean.  Where a man set eyes a plain woman.  A foreign woman.  It took a man like Boaz to notice a woman like Ruth.  And notice her he did, amongst the waves of that golden ocean.  There he met a woman named Ruth, and they started on a path already laid down for them, choosing to walking together.

It went on to a harlot in the city of Jericho, listening to the marching feet for seven days.  There was nothing but the marching.  No clanging of weapons or roar of soldiers, even though it was a battle.  There was only marching, which left no certainty of where or when the marching would end.  By the end everything would be saved or destroyed, depending on what side she chose.

It chose with the first woman standing at the Tree of Temptation, giving a foothold to the serpent with dark eyes and seductive tongue.  Her heart beat within her naked breast, hungry.  The fruit hung as a tantalizing backdrop to his tempting offer.  Too tempting.  Her will power shattered with her innocence, as she sunk her teeth into that sinful pleasure.  Oh how sweet it tasted, until it killed the best parts of her.

It had nothing good left.  A nation chosen by God decided to choose its own way: the way of destruction.  He wrung his hands and cried out, begging them to listen.  But they had already chosen to keep their luxuries over saving their damned souls.  There was nothing left to stand against the wrath of God.  All that was left was a man named Amos who wept, mourning how it would end with nothing saved.

It ended with a naked, bleeding man.  He stood with arms outstretched--like a beacon calling wheat-swept lovers to join the right story, like a shield holding back feet marching to destruction, like a blanket wrapping around the fallen first woman to comfort her with something new, like the banner of a new nation calling the old to join its side: the only side that could save them.  Such the naked man hung as, and wretchedly did his crowned head bleed as it raised to the heavens.

"It is finished!"

It was.  Everything finished... so everything could begin.

Whom Then Shall I Fear?

I am a fearful person.  Even this morning, I woke up and found a sort of haunting feeling dogging my sleepy, sluggish steps.  Lately fear has become a reoccurring theme for me.  I've always struggled with it, have conquered it in the past, but lately found an uncalled for suspicion that it could come back--that I could be reduced to a paralyzed, trembling child under the covers trying to shut out the dark once more.  This odd phenomenon (of fearing the return of fear) started when fear of the devil began to become a frequent theme in my quiet time.  The book I'm going through right now (Who I am in Christ by Neil T. Anderson) presses the point that we do not need to fear the devil.  Through his examples of fearful people he has counseled, I found similar signs to what I used to struggle with: the sudden terrifying visions, the waking up frozen in fear without cause.  At first I found some comfort in that.  It was nice to know I wasn't the only one.  But something in all those points unsettled me.  Anderson pointed, every time, to the devil as the source of these fears.  Now, I conquered my fears a year ago by the aid of God, but I never really accepted them as Satan's work.  In fact, here lies my first mistake that I want to point out.  

If you have fear, do NOT try and rationalize or excuse it away.  For years I put the blame on myself.  Being a writer, I have a rather vivid imagination.  I told myself, often, that these fears were just the darker side of my imagination at work.  I tried to reason them away by that stream of logic, telling myself they were nothing to fear because they were just part of my imagination.  I think I have since realized how those attempts to heal only further damaged me.  I won't digress any details, but the frightening and grotesque images that haunted my nights were not something I liked to own.  It made my imagination seem something rather twisted and cruel to think it could conjure such pictures.  My attempts to reason the fear away actually only hurt me, because I started to think of myself as the cruel, distorted mind that created my fears.  So not only was I inflicted by the fear, but also I was weighed down by self-reproach as well.  Every time the fear came I would scold myself for thinking things like that.  I could not make the images stop by that method, however, and bad turned to worse.  I spent more than one night in fitful, mostly non-existent sleep that granted no rest.  I eventually saw the uselessness of reasoning away fear and turned it over to God.  I accepted it as a fault of mine for Him to conquer.  That is not necessarily false.  Fear is, in a sense, a lack of faith which we should give to God for reshaping, but I missed one very critical part of the equation which Anderson revealed: the origin of my fear.  If I was to believe what he said, my fears were not from my mind.  They were from the devil.

To be honest, that scared me more than my alternative explanation.  Let's face it: it's frightening to think the devil got inside your head.  That realization brought back the threat of a relapse of my terrified existence.  If it was the devil's work and not mine, could Satan not do it again?  I started to glance over my shoulder, in a sense, just to make sure he wasn't there to plague me.  I got nervous.  This morning I went to my routine shower in a state of near panic.  The images were back, and I had never been haunted by them in the morning before.  In the past they were a thing of night and nightmares, not daytime.  Daytime had been my sanctuary: the balm for the wounds fear inflicted on my mind.  Now the devil was back, and making a clear statement of stronger presence by flaunting his powers in the morning hours.  I tried to concentrate--to think of all the reasons Anderson had given for why we should not fear.

The devil is a toothless lion: all roar and no bite.
We are secure in Christ.  
God is our rearguard.
I know who stands before me, I know who stands behind.
Whom then shall I fear?

All at once, it just sort of clicked.  It was like the moment you've been absorbing all the information about a mathematical process in vain, confused, and all at once the teacher says something that turns all the information into knowledge, and you have a full grasp of the concept.  I was standing there, just thinking about how the devil was out to get me and how he would succeed unless I remembered how to fight it, when God very clearly and almost laughing said one word.

Riddikulus.

Now, to all who disapprove of God speaking in Harry Potter analogies, I apologize.  Maybe He doesn't.  Maybe He just translated it into the sense my nerdy mind would understand best.  For all who do not understand the correlation, which might really only make sense to me, I'll explain.

In the wizarding world of that series, there is a creature called a Bogart which is a shapeshifter.  No one knows it's real form, because it has a nasty knack for taking on the shape of what you fear most.  As far as I know, it can't really do anything to harm, but it sure can make it's victims think it can.  It will haunt them with there fears until fear drives them mad, if it can.  But, luckily, there is a very simple defense: Riddikulus.  It is a spell which will transform the Bogart's shape into something ridiculous, making everyone laugh, and laughter is the Bogart's worst weakness.

So, for me standing in the shower trembling from the fear of the devil, it was a revelation of freedom.  I won't say all the spiders of my imagination gained roller skates and stumbled around, but I suddenly gained the perspective which rendered my fears to foolishness.  God gave me a glimpse of how laughable it was for a Child of the Almighty God to be standing there, frightened at the devil's presence as if it were a rarity.  First, of course the devil was after me.  He's after all Christians.  Actually, the fact he was taking time on me ought to have been an encouragement.  It means I'm worth his time.  It means I'm a threat to him.  Now that is a comforting thought.  Second, not only is the devil a Bogart, who can never actually actually hurt me, but I have Jesus Christ as my rearguard!  In modern language: Jesus has my back.  Why on earth was I standing there, shaking?  I actually laughed.  The entire picture was, simply and nerdily put, Riddikulus.


"Then your light will appear like the dawn,
and your recovery will come quickly.
Your righteousness will go before you,
and the Lord's glory will be your rear guard."
~Isaiah 58:8

Hands on the Rail

On Garden Lane, there is a house numbered 212 with stain glass windows, wooden siding, and a little white porch.  It isn’t much really.  The windows are cracked and the porch swing is broken, barely hanging on by the rusty chain on the right side, still trying to hold on to a life long gone.  It barely has two stories, since the second one is half the height it should`.  When you come in the front door the only staircase is on the left, winding up along the wall to that little, insignificant room.  None of it is much of anything, really.

But along the right side of that little staircase is a handrail.

That might sound insignificant, but handrails are a vastly underestimated species.  This particular rail was crafted of the finest cedar, well-polished and practically glimmering in its day.  Of course, its day has long passed.  While it still stands strongly, unlike much of the abandoned house, the polish is long worn down and the once red cedar has faded to a dull brown, scratched and chipped in uncountable places.  That alone would make it worthless to the passing eye, not to mention the stain of innumerable dirty hands.  But if anyone would stop to look at something so insignificant as a worn down handrail, they might begin to sense the underestimated value.  In such craftsmanship, wears and tears are an occupational hazard every rail must accept.  If the wood is stout and strong enough to bear them, such marks can become scars of war and age—badges of honor for all that might see them.  No one viewer could understand the full story written in those marks, but the handrail itself can remember them as long as it stands, keeping each wound safely tucked in its memory as a blow taken and endured.  Some are memories easy to keep and desirable to remember, like the chip on the corner at the bottom where little Charlie bumped his head the first time he tried to climb the staircase on his own.  Others are a little harder and infinitely more painful, like the crack at the top where Mr. Thompson slammed his fist to vent the anger that almost struck his wife in their last argument, before they left little 212 Garden Lane in different directions, or the scratches right in the middle where old Miss Susan tried so hard to hang on before she fell and broke her hip in the injury that ended up taking her away to a bigger house with more caretakers but less of the love that comes from one’s own home.  Some are light splinters, and some are deep gouges that sting and ache after years for healing.  But both are equally remembered and documented without bias in that little, seemingly insignificant frame.

Hands that raced down excitedly and hands that trudged up disappointedly left the same handprints, but the rail knows the differences now just as it felt the difference all those years ago when they occurred.  Fingers that grasped shakily and fingers that traced nostalgically were equally supported.  Nails that tapped impatiently and nails that scratched angrily were accepted on the same terms, all needing the same surface on which to express feelings that were acknowledge nowhere else.  All hands relied on the rail, and to all hands the rail offered all it had to give.  Sometimes that support was not enough, but it never ceased to offer, just the same.  Even the rail knows that it is not the wood that matters, even in its day of glory and polish.  Rather, it is the scars and stains that matter, and the human hearts that went into them.  That is why the handrail is so important, and so often overlooked: because it is the flaws that make the character and the value, not the structure.  That is why so many pass by and never sense the importance, and why even that solid cedar frame will eventually be torn down with the rest of that ancient home and forgotten: because no one stops to think of the hands on the rail.

Midnight Hike

Imagine:

First, you hear the water.  The stream rests in the foreground of your setting, so it strikes you first.  It catches the ears more so than the eyes; first, because there are enough pines to block it from view so you only hear its laughing, delectable presence pattering against your eardrums and, second, because dusk is fading rather quickly and dark is seizing supremacy.  Of course, the bubbling of the brook is only the first sensation to roll over your senses.  The scent of nature, predominantly that of pine needles, clings gently to the air as you breath it in.  Your eyes have already discovered a feast of sights too vast to consume all at once: the mighty mines, the fading rays of sunlight dancing over the water, and the mountain peaks towering over everything before and behind you.  A New Mexico canyon camping ground has far exceeded your expectations.  Your excitement has already reached a peak, since you already watched the greyish blue shapes on the horizon forming into real towers of rock, earth, and trees for hours as you drove closer to them across the flat, desert-like terrain of Oklahoma.  The blood in your veins pulses a little faster than usual, quickened by a number of joyous anticipations.

Then you hear the ominous words “midnight hike.”

That particular phrase only raises the already high spirits of your traveling companions, but it dampens yours slightly.  You have never hiked in the dark before, and certainly never on a mountain trail in the dark.  You don’t even know where that scraggly little dirt path goes, or if it goes anywhere at all.  Being someone who admits to a slight fear of the dark and having a great deal more terror for the darkness than you care to confess, you aren’t too keen on the whole idea.  These traveling companion—your sister and father—share a wild, adventurous steak which often causes you to not entirely trust them, though you always believe in them.  However, they will go with or without you, and  it would probably be better to go and die with them than be left in a tent waiting for those who might never return.

So, you go.

The result pleasantly surprises you.  Granted, you get an anxious certainty that you’re about to run into danger now and then—the sort of feeling that stirs a queasiness in the deepest pit of your gut and makes every hair on your body bristle.  However, you keep enough bravery from your fearless company to reason that not every twig in the dark can be a rattlesnake and none of the rustling bushes you note are large enough to conceal a bear.  Once you rationalize that, you actually start to enjoy yourself.  The path winds along the stream, so you keep the soothing benefit of its sound and never have to climb higher than the canyon floor.  Of course, you can’t really see your way at all, but there’s a sort of thrill in learning the knack of staying on the path by the contrast in sound and feel of dry grass under your feet instead of the little dirt road.  And what you can see of the nature around you possesses a strange, resounding sort of enchantment in the dark—something that almost feels endless.

And then you reach it.

The pines suddenly form a doorway that opens into a little glade, where the stream gets broader beside you and runs quieter: slow and still.    Everything almost seems to let out a long breath: silent and serene.  You look up and there hangs the waning moon, slipping through a gap in the clouds that seems custom cut to allow the silvery light to bathe the landscape.  Everything from the mountain tops to the stream at their base is suddenly luminescent—brilliant in twilight beauty  that practically sings out a melody of praise to its creator.  And then, in the very moment you think only the clouds stand in the way of a perfect scene, the overcast curtain suddenly rolls back.  Starlight twinkles down on the night you once found frightening, and you know all fear has been conquered.  In its place is a bottomless thirst  for Beauty which the endless glory about you will never fail to satiate.  Then, for that Eternal Moment,

You feel Infinite.

The Seed

Sunlight.

It glistened playfully over the ripples, like so many dancers swaying along the movements of a gentle melody.  The light glimmered over the dew-laden bristles of a nearby thorn bush.  Just to the right of the prickly foliage, a spring bubbled out from the green earth, spilling into a little pool and winding brook that traveled deeper into the forest.  There at the pool, however, the trees left an almost circular glade, occupied solely by the rippling pool.  A pile of red sandstone at the mouth of the spring tinted the water slightly crimson where it came out of the earth.  Over the pool, the trees’ branches stretched and met in a sort of emerald, blossoming canopy—full of spring’s promises for life and rebirth.  The sunlight slipped through this dome of nature’s cathedral and lit up the glade in a heavenly glow that danced over grass, flowers, and water.  No sound breached that beauty past a tender, whispering breeze, until a sudden panting interrupted the quiet.

The disturbance originated from a form sitting on the bank of the pool.  It was a young woman, at an age nearing the threshold of adulthood.  She sat stooped forward, with her feet dangling limply in the water and her trembling hands rested firmly on either side of her as if to prevent her toppling headfirst into the pool.  In fact, the drenched state of her pale golden hair and simple dress suggested she had already.  Given the weight of her panting, she had nearly drowned. 

In fact, Lily had drowned.  Hadn’t she?

She blinked.  Her wide eyes stared into the rippling water with confusion.  The light’s brilliance on the waters shrunk her pupils considerably, making the emerald rim of her irises bold and vivid.    A slight wrinkle formed between her eyebrows as she stared into the water, puzzling.  Something of great significance had occurred in the moments before, when  all the beauty and ferocity of the pool closed in and consumed her.  Looking back on it, Lily could not quite tell whether it had been a death or a birth—an end or a beginning.  Both, perhaps?  Either way, she felt certain she must never forget it.  Lily stared at her quivering hands.  With some effort, she straightened and turned her right palm upward.  Just as she thought, something had changed.  She felt altered all over, with her skin stinging as if rubbed raw.  The sensation encircled and revolved around her right hand, however, and she felt certain the most crucial change had occurred there.  A glance confirmed her suspicion.

There, in the flesh of her right palm, rested a small, fragile seed.

Lily could not tell if she held it or if it were part of her.  It seemed embedded, somehow, and when she tipped her hand over the kernel would not fall.  She blinked, studied it a little more, and resolved the change was permanent.  Not that she minded.  Lily felt quite certain she had been altered for the better.  She smiled, gathered her strength, and rose to her feet.  The pale green dress that hung to her knees remained plastered to her skin with water.  No matter.  She best get on her way.

Without another thought beyond a gentle, thrumming warmth in her chest, Lily started to follow the winding stream into the forest.  She hardly knew where she went or why, but the little Voice inside assured her that it was the path worth taking.  Swinging her hands at her sides carelessly, she trotted out of the glade and down her curious road.

Thunder.

It gave a great clap above her, and on its cue the heavens released a downpour.  The rain came so suddenly and without warning that Lily gave a startled cry and hesitated.  She would never get dry at this rate.  The trees parted enough along the brook to ensure a continuous drenching.  Perhaps following it was not for the best.  Trekking under the shadow and shelter of the trees to the left or right would certainly prove easier.  Lily sighed, looked at her options, and continued down her chosen route, intending to trust the Voice completely.  Still, the creek bank grew muddy, and the filth splatted across her bare feet and ankles.  Lily tried to ignore it, certain she had chosen right.

“Better find a more civilized road, dear.”

Lily stopped, startled, and looked up.  A woman stood across the stream to her right, kept safely dry under the trees and her own lacy umbrella.  She was no doubt kept warm from the chill, stormy air by all the refinement of the ladylike dress that covered her from neck to toe.  Lily found herself somewhat in awe by the sight, able only to stare dumbly at the woman’s neat, dark hair and fine appearance.  The woman’s violet eyes narrowed disapprovingly, taking in Lily’s dress and appearance, which seemed suddenly shabby in comparison to her luxurious apparel. 

“A new seed, by the looks of it,” the woman gave a distasteful sniff while taking a little glass perfume bottle from a delicate pouch at her wrist, “Take my advice and give up now.  The seed life will lead you to the most dirty and unpleasant places.  Stay clean and safe.  That’s the way to really live.”

Lily frowned, puzzled.  Her eyes wandered over the woman, trying to determine her trustworthiness.  She had assumed there were others like her—with seeds.  Following the Voice and taking care of her seed were instincts since her rebirth that she accepted, without considering other options.  The woman’s fine dress and obviously clean hands certainly looked more appealing than the rain and mud she embraced at present.  Lily observed as the woman sprayed the perfume on her throat and wrists delicately, then rubbed in the fragrance subtly.  While the scent struck Lily as something appealing, the motion drew her attention to something that stirred the her very core with revulsion.  When the woman rubbed her wrists together, Lily spotted a blackened, withered flower on her right palm, suffocated by the woman’s perfume.  Lily only saw it for a moment, but it was more than enough for her to clasp her own right palm protectively and continue down the bank.  The woman called after her with word about fine living, but they had lacked all their previous charm.  Anything that could ravage a budding seed was something Lily wanted no part in.  Another moment and the woman’s scent and words had faded into the rain forever, beyond enticement.

Lightning flashed.

She jumped, looked up at the clouded sky, but kept on her way.  Thunder, rain, or lightning, Lily entertained no intention of stopping.  The fine woman had assured her that taking shelter in the trees was not the path meant for her.  There was a reason the Voice urged her toward the brook, and she must give heed to that.  No sooner had Lily thus resolved, however, than the rain poured harder, the mud grew deeper, and a frigid gust of air beat at her.  Within a matter of minutes she began sinking up to her calves in the muck.  The stretch of drier ground just under the trees began to look more and more appealing.  She could walk there and still keep eyes on the water, surely.  Lily mused until her left foot slipped in the mud and she fell to one knee, dirtying her hands and the hem of her dress.  She shook her head distastefully as she rose. A fresh burst of wind settled her doubts instantly, and she stepped under the trees, careful to keep her eyes on the brook.  She could manage well enough that way.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all muddy?”

Lily jumped slightly, glancing toward the voice.  Deeper in the trees, a tall man stood smiling at her.  He seemed to have dark skin, which shimmered slightly when the light caught it.  The trees’ shadows kept her from making him out clearly, but his voice held a soft, comforting tone.

“Come further in, silly.  It’s drier back here.  I’ll walk with you for a while, if we’re heading in the same direction.”

His voice held such an enchanting sound that Lily found herself stepping closer to him without thinking.  He seemed to be walking the same direction, generally, so she met his stride with only a glance toward the brook.  They shared their names and fell quickly into a comfortable conversation.  His name was Nutsedge, and he was a wandering sort of fellow.  Lily hardly noticed it, but his merry conversation brought her ever closer to him and farther from the brook.  By the time she thought to look, she could no longer spot the creek at all.  Her breath caught in her throat frightfully.

“I say, Nutsedge, I can’t see the water at all!  Are you sure we’re headed in the same direction?”

“To be sure,” he laughed, putting an arm about her shoulders reassuringly, “there’s a little stretch where the brook gets too small to see, but we’ll be past that presently.”

His arm felt warm, safe.  For a moment she believed him.  Then a rare glimmer of sunlight lit the place where they stood.  Nutsedge released her and drew back sharply, but Lily had already seen him.  The light revealed the source of his warm, shimmering skin.  Warm, dark mud caked Nutsedge from head to toe—too much filth to ever allow a seed to grow.  She cried out sharply, disgusted.  Upon realizing she had spotted him, his comforting smile and tone vanished completely.  He stepped forward, with hands outstretched and a dangerous glint in his eyes. 

Lily screamed and fled.

For a moment she thought she might not escape fast enough or ever find the river.  Just as soon as she recognized such fear, however, the brook seemed to find her.  Nutsedge cried out with disappointment and was lost in the rain that soaked her once more.  Now, however, she had the revolting feel and stench his dark mud across her back and shoulders, and the rain did not seem able to wash it away, despite its definite increase.  Lily found herself trekking through the muck again, more miserable than ever.  Again and again she slipped in the mud, streaking her hands and arms with the stuff in her attempts to catch herself. 

Finally, she fell and ceased her attempts to stand.

For a long while she sat there and looked down at her own soiled self.  The fine woman’s talk of cleanliness started to feel more appealing, when confronted with such filth.  Lily sighed, studying her muddy hands.  She could not even see the seed anymore, beneath the muck.  Her throat tightened, and her eyes grew hot.  Lily took in a deep breath, trying to hold it in.  No good.  Tears and sobs escaped her without her permission.  Soon she wept shamelessly, crying aloud all her frustration at the seed that had offered nothing but trial and suffering.

“Well, that’s the best kind, isn’t it?”

Lily’s head snapped up, startled.  A small, wiry woman stood in the creek to her right, smiling down on her.  First Lily noted her pale green dress, and then the brilliant emerald eyes that watched her.  She also noticed a bit of mud splotching the woman’s hands and arms.  However, the oddity Lily spotted afterward removed every previous impression.  Vines.  They wound up the woman’s right arm, over her throat, and wove themselves through the crimson curls that tumbled down her back.  The foliage seemed part of her, branching out here and there with delicate, purple flowers.  Lily found she could only stare at the beauty, awed.

“What?”

The woman smiled sweetly.  “Seeds that lead you to hard places are the best, I said. Then you get wet and dirty, just as you ought.”

Lily struggled to hide her growing confusion, and the woman obviously recognized it.  She laughed brightly, stooping down to put her dirty hands in the rippling waters.  “Dirt and water nurture the seed, and when you refresh yourself in the river… everything becomes clear.”

With the last words, the woman straightened, letting Lily look at her hands once more.  There, where the dirt had streaked her arms, were fresh sprouts of vines.  The woman then took a step closer and offered her right hand to help Lily back to her feet.  At that moment, Lily realized that the woman’s vines all sprouted from a seed in her right palm.

“Now come on,” the woman crooned, “let the water restore you.”

Gently, the woman led her into the water, where they both scrubbed the filth from her.  Some of it was so caked and hardened she rubbed her skin raw removing it.  It hurt a little, much like the cracking of a seed’s outer shell to allow growth.  And beneath her filth lay growth indeed.  The rain ceased in that moment, allowing a glimmer to slip through the clouds and illuminate the miracle before her.  Fed by the soil of her struggle and protected by the purity of her efforts, a little green plant began to wind itself around her wrist, where one branch opened up into a little, white flower.

“Water Lily,” the woman laughed, “that’s your full name.  Mine’s Morning Glory.  Happy to struggle alongside you, Lily… nothing else is more worth it, in the end.” 

Lily might have doubted such a statement before, but she fully believed it when she gazed down at the little blossom on her wrist.  A little grain of reassurance sowed itself in her, sprouting a warmth in her chest.  In the end, she had chosen right.  The path was hard, surely, but that made it worth it.  After all, seeds could not grow without a little dirt, rain, and effort.

Finding Hope

     The breeze stopped. Songs of birds, that had been, ceased. For a moment nature herself seemed to hold her breath. He looked at the hand reaching down to him, holding out a piece of rolled up parchment. The hand was rough and hard worked, and the man it belonged to was the same. At first glance he would have been thought an ordinary man, with his plain tunic and a sack resting over his shoulder. The smile twisting his mouth and the scroll in his hand could be seen at closer observation though, and made him very different.
     “Are you ready, David?”
David looked at the scroll. Inside his soul he felt the same joy that characterized the man before him: the joy of the good news that had been offered to him through this very man. However, a seed of doubt remained buried in his heart.
     “How can I teach what I’ve only just learned myself?” he asked hesitantly.
     “Age and experience are nothing. If you want to do this, then you are ready.”
     He wanted to so much that it hurt. How could he not want to share such joy? He had only wanted a little reassurance. Now he had that.
     “I’m ready.” He grasped the scroll, but the man did not let it go.
     “It will be hard, David, but follow orders and don’t ask why.”
     “What orders?” David frowned. He had received no orders.
     “Hope will guide your steps.”
     The man spoke in riddles that made no sense, but he was not to question. He had one more thing he wanted to know.
     “Who do I give it to?”
     “When the time comes, you will know.”
     The man released the scroll to him. David held it close, fingering the red cord that tied it shut. It was so small, yet such a precious thing. He would guard it with his life. He wore a bag over his shoulder that held his map and other things. He had a sword at his belt and a shield over his back. They were tools he had used often in his old life of wandering. Now they had a purpose, as he did. David stood stall, readjusted the cloak on his shoulders, and turned to go.
     He stopped for a moment. With a smile he looked over his shoulder to think the man, but he was already disappearing over the crest of a hill. Then again, no expression of gratitude would do. Sometimes silence could be the best option. David started on his way again, promising to never forget what had happened to him moments before. His feet thudded on the path in a steady rhythm. For a moment he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds around him making a great harmony that soothed his soul.
     Turn right
     David stopped dead in his tracks. The voice had come suddenly, quietly, but crystal clear in his mind. He looked to his right, and saw a narrow path leading deeper into the forest. The small dirt rood looked anything but welcoming. He pulled the map out of his bag.
     Turn right
     “It’s not on the map.”
     Did I give you that map? It is nothing but a piece of paper.
     David opened his mouth to protest, but closed it. Doubt and confusion clouded his heart, but clear memory spoke to his soul. He must follow orders without question. The order was clear and obvious. Would he follow it? Hope will guide your steps. This was not what he had imagined. An unseen voice unnerved him. Quiet and gentle as it was, the fact that he could see no speaker chilled him to the bones.
     Turn right
     After another moments pause, he stepped onto the narrow path. The branches hung so low he had to stoop to avoid them. Cobwebs caught him as he trudged by and stuck, as if to stop him. He swatted at them irritably and walked on. The wind stirred and whispered in a haunting voice of doom. He had gone the wrong way already. He would never make it now. Fear tightened his throat, but he kept walking.
     “Dear God, save me!”
     David stiffened. The cry for help made his blood run cold. He heard no orders, but felt an urge he could not deny. He sprinted toward the sound without hesitation. No pleading soul should ever go denied. He had learned that much in his years as a man asking questions. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade. He burst through a wall of brush and into a glade, panting.
     Before him towered a large dragon, clutching a small bundle in its claws. The bundle squirmed, revealing little arms and legs. It had a head of golden curls that twinkled in the sunlight. David caught sight of two flashing blue eyes that were wide with fear. The child opened her mouth and screamed for help again. The dragon brought her close to its head and licked its bloody lips hungrily. David tore his blade from its scabbard and surged forward with a bellow. The beast looked at him as it he was a buzzing fly. It flicked its tail in his direction. David swung his sword into the scaly flesh. The dragon roared angrily and pulled its tail back, taking the weapon with it. David stared at his empty hands for a moment, dumfounded. One of its claws slammed into his side and knocked him off his feet. He rolled across the ground and came up on his knees. To his left he could see the child, which still struggled in the monster’s clutch. David snatched the shield from his back and threw it. It collided with the arm that held her, cutting a deep gash. David dove, barely managing to catch her before she hit the ground. Then he set her down gently.
     “Run!” he yelled. The child turned to obey without protest. David turned to see the tail come down on him. The impact shoved him facedown into the dirt. He tasted blood in his mouth. The tail held him down and kept him helpless as death’s breath grew hot on the back of his neck. This was it – his end.
     Tiny fingers pulled on his sleeve.
     “Get up!”
     He opened his eyes. The girl knelt by him, holding his sword out to him. When he simply stared she shoved it into his hand and stood. She put both hands on the tail holding him down and pushed with a groan. The dragon turned flashing eyes on her. The hold on David loosened. He clutched his sword and slipped out of his captor’s grasp. The he stood, slowly. The child ran to his side. David put a hand on her and pulled her close in a protective embrace. The dragon lunged at them, but David ducked beneath the
snapping jaws and drove his blade into the beast’s chest. It sunk in to the hilt. The monster raise it head with a final cry and fell.
     The child stared at the bloody corpse, trembling. David sheathed his sword, retrieved his shield, and looked at her. A small tear trickled down her dirty cheek. Her right arm was coated in blood. He knelt by her and put a hand over her eyes.
     “Don’t look at it,” he crooned softly. “It’s alright now.”
     She shook. More tears slipped out from under his hand. A whimper escaped her throat. Without warning she threw her arms around his neck and wept into his shoulder. He held her against him and stood. He carried her away from the tainted glade and onto the narrow path. Once they had gone a distance he found a small spring along the road. He knelt beside it and let her sit down. Using his sword, he cut a strip from his cloak. He soaked it in water and grabbed her right hand. She did not protest, but simply sat still and sniffled. David washed away the blood and found a sat of teeth marks in her upped arm. He rinsed the blood out of the cloth and used it to bind the wound.
     He looked into her piercing blue eyes, “What’s your name?”
     “Alyiah.”
     “Do you have any parents?”
     “I live with mommy in the forest,”
     He frowned, “Can you find you’re way home?”
     She nodded.
     Take her home
     David blinked. The come came again, quietly ordering. He frowned. The child could get home herself, certainly. He had a duty that did not include any obligations to her. However, his orders had been spoken.
     “I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
     She looked up at him as he stood. A smiled of gratitude twisted her lips ever so slightly. They turned and walked down the path hand in hand. Alyiah skipped along to keep up with his long stride. Her eyes fell on the scroll in his belt with a curious twinkle.
     “What’s that?”
     He followed her gaze and smiled, “Good news.”
     “For who?”
     “I’m not sure,” he shrugged.
     “Then how do you know where to go?”
     He thought for a moment, “A voice keeps speaking to me. Hope… I think.” He paused. “Do you believe in God, Alyiah?”
     She looked up with wide eyes, “God?”
     “You called for Him earlier.”
     Alyiah’s gaze turned to an expression of calm wonder. “Did I?” she asked in a manner that did not demand answer. They both fell silent after that; uncertain of what should be said. A cool breeze brought a shiver from them. David stopped very suddenly. Alyiah looked up at him and opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.
     “Which way, Alyiah?”
     His face was little pale as he spoke. Alyiah turned and saw that the path before them branched off in two directions. Her heart fluttered in a moment of fear.
     “I…” she swallowed, “I’ve never seen this place before.” Somehow he knew she would say that. The air had an unnatural feel to it. He felt very certain this place had not been here before, and was no more than a creation of the whispering wind and cobwebs that ever tried to stop him along his path. Doubt hovered over him like a lingering shadow, but Alyiah turned to him with confidence.
     “What does Hope say?” she inquired.
     He hesitated, listening, “Left.”
     Without another word she started toward the left path, pulling him after her. David let himself be led for a few steps before stopping again. His eyes found something on the right path that caught his attention. A figure in white stood there, holding its arm out to him. Alyiah must have seen it too, for she let out a little gasp. The figure smiled welcomingly and beckoned.
     “Come this way.”
     David stared in confusion, “Who are you?”
     “Hope.” It seemed to shine as it spoke in a kind voice. A much quieter voice spoke to his soul.
     Go left, David.
     “Come this way,” the figure beckoned again. This was the Hope he had imagined: something he could see clearly. It made a great deal more sense than an unseen voice. It was easy to take in. He stepped toward it.
     Go left
     He pushed the voice aside and took another step.
     “Stop!” A child’s hand grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged. Alyiah implored him with blue eyes. “Hope said left, right?”
     “What if…” David spoke wistfully and tried to continue, but Alyiah held his arm tightly to stop him from getting closer to the figure.
     “Didn’t hope lead you the right way before?” Alyiah demanded.
     David looked down and took in her scowling face. It took time to realize what she had said. His head felt heavy, as if he were waking from a dream. Where had she gotten such faith? He nodded.
     “Then it will lead you the right way this time!” She pulled him towards the left path.
     “Come this way,” the white figure called.
     Left, David
     Yes. Why had he not seen before? The figure was just another whispering wind or cobweb pulling him away. Silently, he thanked God for Alyiah’s faith. The child let go of his hand and started to run.
     “Mother!”
     He looked up. Alyiah ran through a small gate and up the steps of a small house, where a woman waited with open arms. The sight of the two embracing made David’s heart stop, bringing a sort of pain to his chest. He heard the voice, very clear. This was it. He slipped through the gate and up the steps of the house.
     The woman looked up at him, “How can I thank you?”
     David smiled down at her. He extended his hand, which held the scroll he treasured so dearly. “Read this.”
     “What is it?”
     “Good news.”
     She opened it. Her eyes grew wide, taking in the beauty of its contents. Alyiah looked over her mother’s shoulders with curiosity. David watched as the woman began to cry quietly. The scene made him relive the moment he had read the parchment only hours before. Did she feel the same he had? Such joy could not be described with words. He put a hand on her shaking shoulders. Alyiah began to weep as well. They gave out long sobs of happiness while holding each other tightly. The woman looked up, wiping tears from her eyes.
     “Who else knows?” she asked quietly.
     “Many,” he smiled, “but not enough. We must all continue to tell them.” He bent down and picked up the parchment that had fallen to the ground. Rolling it up, he stood. David held it out to her, “Are you ready?”
     “But… I’ve only just learned.”
     Doubt–they all head it. It took the faith of a child to fight it. “Age and experience are nothing. If you want to do this, then you are ready.” It was a matter of trust, not work. It was not easy thing to be sure, but if one could lean on Hope then it would lead the way and make the burden lighter.
Alyiah grinned, “I’m ready!” Her mother nodded. They put their hands on the scroll, but David held on to it.
“It will be hard, Alyiah, but follow orders and do not ask why.” The child would tell many, no doubt. Her faith would shine like no other. He could hardly wait to tell others like her.
     “Orders?” Alyiah looked confused.
     “Hope will guide your steps.”
     Her mother looked up, “Who do we give it to?”
     David smiled, “When the time comes, you will know.”

“But hope that is seen is no hope at all.”

~Romans 8:24b (NIV)