Digging out through the muck and mire, distant memories blend together like a fog engulfed shroud of a cold autumn’s eve, cascading black into the hole like water drenched earth falling cruelly in, even flowing, as fast as one attempt’s to dig it, same if not more seem’s to spill back in. A endless stream of murky liquid mud, flowing in as uncontrolled as the man’s own attempt’s to stop it, with merely the effort’s of his bare and now raw hand’s. Pain mixed with blood harbor but don’t begrudge this man, as his finger’s bleed to perceive the hidden casket felt but just beyond sight below.
For times more then a few, has he had tragic failure in the many area’s of his life he would so desperately wish to succeed, scratching his head, he begin’s just lately to wonder, and even pray, what is this barrier holding him back from finding that peace, in this most delicate part of his life? He has asked God for help and wisdom as to the reason, the experience, the attack that may have set such and area in his heart, and maybe light on his own action’s today, that keep it there.
So does he sit and ponder all these many years later, the now distant memories of the attack designed in one diabolical event not to maim or cripple, but to completely destroy him bodily. Such an unfair victim he was, as the roaming beast set’s his dark eye to brutalized a child, a son of The Living God, it’s cold calculated design to strike down, “If it can take all away, even unto his body, but do not take his life, surely the small teen will curse God”, says the creature in taunting challenge, figuring at the very least, to destroy all faith in many areas of his young life.
It is only after deep consideration as to the remnant’s that reside in his own house, those dark dirty corner’s he is not willing, or able to let go of just yet, that the desire to even look into this forgotten closet is even pondered, in the distant memories of the man of God’d mind. Amazingly, he find’s that it is this very direction seemingly shut off from access, as if he himself has placed padlock and chain on the door to that room. He can strangely find no conscience memories of that particular period of his life, thus a renewed need to push in.
A simple question to God, coupled with the humility to ask, open to receive any and all dark revelation that may pour out from the past. “Is there something there, in that hidden past that has caused me to act or react the way I do?”
So does it begin, a child who has been walking, talking to God his whole life, but maybe for the first times in his young life actually beginning to listen. And it’s now The Son of a Living God, who seem’s to prompt to run, maybe even graced to give a race to run, not because he has asked, but because it is as the Father had designed even from before time was time itself.
Yes, he has always walked and talked with Him.
A corner of the mind not unlike a garden of shadowed fern’s, small shrouded olive, sap, and cadmium green’s with grey tint’s among light colored grasses, presented with a few peddle’d painted tone’s resting among the blossom’s that sparsely pepper the scene, gently lying beneath the larger protecting trees of a life granted him through herb scented smell’s, love and protection.
He quietly turn’s his mind’s eye toward’s this area of his past, not as clearly seen and hardly remembered. Somewhere along the intricate design that is the tapestry of his upbringing, our young child find’s himself falling into the sweet hand’s of a relationship, friend’s touching the edges of the quintessential girl and boy friend experience, opening up places in his heart no one had yet touched, and he himself hardly realized existed.
Is it here this dance of so many years had began, our young man, but still a boy, just passing the edge of that age of accountability, when learning right and wrong begin to be concept’s bubbling up from inside, rather then just taught from instruction of those given that responsibility.
He reaches out hand in trust, having it softly taken by another of God’s beauties, given and received in loving gift. How sweet he remember’s, innocence that sparkles in the word’s and smiles of two children seeing if, and glancing at the eye’s of the other. All that is new, laced in good, the brandished touches of sweet child’s discoveries, in just the moment of a hand, or a foot touching hers.
So pure is the light of these memories, why then pressed behind the wall of dark’s closed door? Cautiously he venture’s into the realm of darkened corridors’, foreboding only by the unknown’s that lurk just around hidden corner’s even in but the crack’s resting above the edge of the floor. Veil’s almost press against his face prompting and pushing his now timid heart from taking further step, but the desire to know, and hope to overcome, set’s his now firm jaw to task.
Not long after heart is given, maybe even a year or so, dark shadow’s cascade their cruel talon’s across the path just up ahead. Veil’s part as the scene unfold’s across the canvas of yet another darkened sketch. What has intended as gentle hues of pastel flowering scent’s, a beautiful dance of perennial blended field’s bound in the playful waltz of two intertwining spirits, both set on a journey of discovery looking for the same God’s face in all His majesty, this scene spoken throughout the floral gallery that has found perfect brush stroke so far, is a different hue finding place in his garden, introjected by a new color group blending grey’s from the dull melancholies that come from betrayal.
The child in her own discoveries, suddenly let’s go of the hand of the young boy, taking the hand of his best friend. And while there is no blame, for everyone is young, and among that age of discovery, and yes, much is tried and tested, soft perfect feet often touch the surface of many pool’s until they find the one that is comfortable and feel’s good.
But this particular event was watched from not far distant, by a sinister one who would use it as a springboard for a series of event’s designed to utterly destroy our young believer. A young lad would discover’s first hand the true meaning of the word as action, lay it’s cruel whip lashes across the back of his un-expecting body.
Yes, without doubt our boy was hurt, already questioning within himself the need to put up barriers when contemplating the handing’s of his now empty heart again. Yet even as he does it, a Father above, shed’s a tear for the pain his son has already endured, and is possibly avoiding in the future by bolting iron over the gash himself, instead of asking Jesus to mend what already had been torn.
The filthy beast from dark abyss watches as our young lad, not in the natural, but in the realm of the supernatural, for it here the real blood will be drawn. Before walk’s unknowingly and unsuspectingly the young boy, who is already venturing forth, touching other flower’s with more of a veiled hand, looking now already on with caution, instead of trusting the Father to shower him with any and all gift’s he might receive, how the beast hates with almost palpable waves of dark cold.
The doubt the boy feel’s, a need for caution to trust self, instead of trust in a gift, in Jesus as provider, and accept that which the Father would so generously give. But verily, it is the boy’s own doubt and un-forgiveness, that has pushed a small gap in the window of his own perfect house, giving the beast all it need’s to attack. His own turning away from pain, refusal to forgive, and in essence away from God, grant’s the access for even more hurt.
“Better to tone down the aggression, then to tip the boy off, to the fact that I am watching him. These believer’s just seem to have a way of just knowing when they are being stalked.” The dark shadowed horror say’s to himself with a snarl, as he back’s just a bit more into the dark. The hate for these so called “Son’s of God” is the only thing that exceed’d his lust to just rip the boy apart.
“Let him discover new girl-friend’s, taste the water’s of his own confidence, and the stage will be set perfectly, the road to death.”
“Strike him down at that point where he feel’s like he is at the top of his game, and if it doesn’t destroy his body, it will certainly destroy any confidence and trust he ever has in those moment’s.”
“He will be so scarred, denied view to ever find his mountain calling, he won’t even look for it!”
“He will hate God for what has happened!” The animal almost laughs out loud, as his sinister plan form’s in it’s dark cold cave of a mind. the creature plan’s with cunning confidence but lack’s knowledge to know what will come, speculation is it’s only hope.
The boy find’s himself on a Key Club hay ride, one of many social events that show a young adult, many are the benefit’s of giving to the community. Most likely was it his walking, and talking to God his whole life, that prompt’s a heart to participate in activities that help other’s, but if you ask the boy himself, and received an honest answer, the only reason he would give up the Saturday’s or countless mid-week early evening’s, was to meet girls.
By some grace of God, Who seem’s to love him more then he could ever deserve, he find’s himself sitting next to a girl he has secretly admired for a long, long time, almost a month or two; Debbie. For never has there been a more beautiful cheerleader; popular, cute, smiling all the time, and what a smile, Helen of Troy would have dulled in comparison.
The miracle above possible miracle occur’s, she is actually talking to him, and unless his faculties have completely ventured to the land of insanity, she may even seem to like him. Life can hardly get better!
She quickly report’s that she has liked him, for him!, for a long time, his talent’s, smile, the fact that he give’s to other’s, many thing’s in unusual contraposition to the standard he has thought most girl’s seem to be attracted to, mostly having to do with being extremely big, attractive, drive some fancy car, or be some star on a particular football team, she has gone against this.
Laughter, smiles, tender touches, a casual brushing up against him as she laugh’s, his mind is flying with just a touch of his leg against her’s, or the sweet fragrance of shoulder’s close, as she lean’s against him, more often now then precipitated by other’s close by.
Sound’s, and children, high school play erupting all around him, laughter, a camp fire, good fun with good friend’s, life is good! Even as all of his attention is on the person talking to him right now, he is living a life where hurt seem’s but a sleepy memory, and life is again good. How exquisite are the gift’s God give’s when He give’s. This being good, must surely be in the category of a definitive gift!
The young boy just start’s to notice’s other voices of excitement, elevated laugh’s and cheer’s, as his best friend, the two-time State Champion wrestler Donald, is taking on all contender’s. He notices the laugh on Debbie’s perfect mouth, as she look’s onto the comical sight herself. Many a foolish boy try to take on Don, just to be thrown over onto their backs like some kind of shocked rag doll. And like the young idiot he is, he comes up with an “Einstein” of an idea; show off for Debbie, and take on the wrestler!
Now what in his right mind, would prompt our young Lancelot to leave the side of such a Guinevere, then to do something that is in most likelihood going to lead to at least assured loss, and most likely hay covered humbling? It wasn’t the temptation possible victory, prompted by the fact he outweighed the smaller wrestler by fifty pound’s, unlikely, considering the kid just pinned, another who is at least twenty five-thirty pound’s heavier then our hopeful knight?
Maybe it was just playful child like fun, hearing many laugh’s and a few cute smile’s that prompt’s a boy to not want to miss out on the fun. Fun is alway’s fun, but to take him from the side of this treasure, unlikely.
But then again, maybe it was something a bit sinister, whispering pride and doubt into his ear? A diabolically cleaver creature, harboring a hatred spawned from the primordial ooze that crested the very creation, the true creation of man. I can imagine with only the slightest strain to remember, a one sided conversation that sounded a bit like this; “You know she really doesn’t like you!”
“It’s only moment’s and she will dump you, especially when she see’s what you yourself already see, that you are ordinary, unlovable, and worthless.”
“You know you need to prove your worth, a love like a woman’s love has to be earned, nothing is free in this life!”
“Challenge the wrestler, maybe you can beat him, you are bigger, earn Debbie’s affection!”
The gallant young warrior jump’s to his feet, challenging his friend, and tries his best against the smaller champion. Two friends meeting in friendly sport, two brother’s in good battle of God given strength, how can any of this be bad. They lock in firm grip, Don is laughing, as a friend would, for he has no desire to embarrass his obviously lesser skilled friend, he to has noticed very well, the pleasure his friend was having sitting next to Debbie. “Make a little sport at it and then just barely win.” the champion thought to himself.
In our gallant knight’s mind, he seem’s to be lasting, doing his best, hanging, maybe holding out for a draw, that would surely impress Debbie enough to solidify the chances of his earning her affection’s. He is holding onto Don for dear life, in a sort of double shoulder grab, and while he is desperately cling’s to Don’s one shoulder, Don has his other in a casual sort of lock, waiting for a moment to play further.
Both boys are on their knees on the hay wagon, sort of tugging on each other, when the larger less skilled opponent is “prompted” to slide his right leg to the side for perhaps better footing. A large splinter is waiting protruded out of the aged and rotting floor boards like a seven inch dagger, secretly camouflaged by the hay dusting the surface of the wagon. A splinter materializing out from the dried dead wood reaching up like a talon, to pierce the flesh of it’s victim.
It stab’s mercilessly, quick, painfully, into his knee deep under the knee-cap.
The boy, would be knight, cries out in a way that it is evident to everyone the match is over, as he jump’s up and immediately start’s clawing at his knee, which is in obvious pain. The young boy, now long forgotten the battle of warrior’s, as well as the damsel who look’s on in quiet concern, crouches by the fire to try to remove the wood the only fractionally protrudes from his knee.
After much pressing at the surrounding tissue and painful manipulation, he finally get’s just his fingernails securely in a vice like grip on the end of the impaling tormentor. And with one quick burning tug, pulls the nearly three inch wooden nail from his knee.
Needless to say long forgotten was any thought of pleasure, and companionship, as the boy sit’s alone quietly contemplating the painful throbbing issuing from his now already swollen knee. Long gone from thought was any good, or consideration, of a gift that was only moment’s earlier dancing before his thankful eye’s, now remaining but a darkened feeling of sudden horror, even a possibly of a curse.
Just outside the sense of awareness is a dark one laughing, howling in ecstasy like some blood engorged jackal, for he knew very well the depth of the dagger he used! More then flesh was wounded today, a mind, a heart, maybe even a spirit was stabbed, injected with pure darkness, in the foulest most contemptible attempt, for he brought laced within the edges of that knife; feces, sickness, and maybe even death, and with a just little further abandonment accentuated from further discarding of this young would be warrior, the jailer’s dungeon will surely close forever.
By the time our young boy finds home, the knee has swollen to the size of a large as a cantaloupe. It didn’t take much prompting from his mother, before he was whisked off to the hospital. Xray’s are taken, diagnosis are blundered, and they find themselves being pushed back. For over worked and under-rested young Doctor’s quickly ushered him out the door, with but casual advise; “He will be better in a week or so, if he is not better in seven to ten day’s, then here is a card for a orthopedic surgeon, call him.” Word’s again spoken softly into ear’s, this time a Doctor’s mind, word’s of pride, dis-concern, and rejection, a subtle sort of rejection, one saying “this boy is not worth spending time, or though on, send him away!” “Get rid of him he is not worth your time.”
But a mother who is full of Grace, granted by the Sovereign Lord that resides in her heart, will have nothing of it! It is only a day or two, praying included, before she realizes that waiting on that paltry advise the young Doctor, is not the wisest course, bringing him immediately to the specialist. An older wiser Doctor Morgan, blessed by a hand, and wisdom, that only could be granted through The Father Himself, took one shocked look at the green fluid being drawn out of the now feverish boy’s knee, and immediately sprung into action, admitting the young lad into the hospital in a heartbeat.
Two operation’s, in only a week’s time, having his knee pealed like a banana, because for some strange reason, antibiotic’s that normally worked on this kind of infection were being rejected by the boy. By some kind of strange allergic reaction, a wasting type disease set, baffling all attempt’s to halt it.
Doctor conclude the only hope, resulting in a choice to just wash the inside if the knee continually with saline, salt water, and hope the infection could be arrested. Pure water and a bit of salt brought inside, to drive the disease out. Open it up to the light. Wisdom is granted Dr. Morgan.
Nothing seem’s to be working fast. The Doctor already warned the mother, that it is but a desperation attempt, for if he continues to loose weigh, now already seventy plus pounds lost, the leg might have to come off.