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.
An enemy is working overtime, pulling all the stop’s, for he is determined to put this child out of game! The young boy was an aspiring athlete, never much good at anything, but aspired to hight’s, he tried them all, a lot of heart. “Take his leg and surely he will curse You, but at least he will be out of the race!” More screeching laughter!
But another was in his corner, a warrior in reserve, one of officer rank, but humble only in the task’s given her, a prayer warrior! One of no less stature then the heralded “Core of Martha’s”, a division of His army not to be trifled with. For among their powerful ranks have some of the greatest fighter’s the Bible ever emerged, including; Rebekah, Ruth, a couple of Mary’s, Elizabeth, and a very powerful Shunammite woman. Women who put aside personal desire’s and took on ask’s of the Kingdom, serving as only Christ Himself could better.
A mother step’s up and with an authority granted her only by the Spirit that dwell’s within, she say to the surgeon; “You will not take his leg!” Leaving no doubt to everyone in the room, supernatural not withstanding, that anything to that nature was not going to happen! And it didn’t.
In the supernatural, there was a sudden blast of a voice, commanding power of tidal Word, backed with the armament of prayer, and just as the Word is spoken, another, a darker figure, hovering near, basking in his near foregone victory, is suddenly hit with a wave of Light resting on the crest of that spoken Word’s power, issuing a torrent of authority the likes that would dwarf a three hundred foot tsunami.
And just as the disease’s, fever, filth, and sickness, is sent running, scattered like roaches when sudden light come’s on, so do all of the small pestering creatures scatter. All but the largest most powerful commander of the the oppressive force stand’s, for so quickly will he not give up his prize. Such a one can only be driven out by much prayer and fasting!
But frightened it is, crouched down, yes, pressed behind it’s own make shift shield, slithering back into the dark bushes from which it sprang.
A week after the fever broke and the infection clearly has been thwarted, a boy spend’s his last day’s in a now very familiar hospital. Therapy initiated with very little in the form of comforting word’s, for even the Doctor said with but a consolatory smile; “A great deal of tissue was damaged, and the two operation’s will probably leave your knee permanently frozen in it’s thirty degree bent position.”
“But your a young man, and while you probably will never run or jump again, you might get to the point where jogging is possible.”
“You are a lucky boy, it could have been much worse.”
“This is going to make it hard to get into one of the Academies.” he say’s to himself, as the a dream he had alway’s hoped for, the subtle thought’s of one day being a warrior, seemed to suddenly slam closed.
To a boy who always felt any future he might have, is somehow, and in someway, connected to his ability to someday run a race, these word’s were not exactly music. And even on the eve of the greatest challenge yet in his young life, but yet resting within, he knew that the chapter lived thus far, is but a preface to a great story, one a Good and Holy Voice had whispered in his ear even from a day before he could hardly remember. He knew he would run again, he had to.
Months pass, and gone are any that seemed to interested in sitting for just a moment with him, touching leg’s, looking into sparkling eye’s, reflecting pool’s of spirit’s dwelling within. Long forby are any laugh’s, any gentle touches, long gone are the smile’s that just a few month’s rained soft touches against a young heart.
Again that dark cruel voice; “Skinny boy, cripple on two crutches, who would want you.”
“Ya, they look at you, notice how they laugh as you walk by.”
Back at school, standing by a locker is a boy, painfully fumbling with two crutches, he drop’s book’s and paper’s, scattering in a tormented cascade of anger, pain and immobility, they tangle his ability to balance even what only month’s earlier were simple task’s. Directly behind him, one of the larger upper class-men, an athlete, one he only a moment earlier might possibly have played with, on the same team, this one now taunted him for a few cheep laugh’s from friend’s.
“Look at the cripple, can’t even lift a book!” The large boy say’s as laughter from a few of his friend’s prompt’s him on to a more cruel place. But driven by who?
“See you are worthless, abandoned, even your old friend’s think so, pain and rejection, those are all you will ever have!” That dark growl return’s after only a short leave of absence.
The larger, older boy goes farther to kick the book out of reach as the younger crippled lad now fumbles to the ground to try to retrieve it.
Suddenly thundering from just outside both student’s sight;
“Pick it up!!” a deep voice resonating in the clear tones of a Godly judgement, the largest athlete on campus command’s as he rounds the corner, to the shock and dismay everyone present, especially the upper class bully now eye’s wide with fear, clear yellow color crossing his face. For he know’s, it is him that is risking being the object of a pummeling at this moment.
The now cow eyed would-be bully scurries to help retrieve all the paper’s and book’s, his mumbled apology is but hardly heard, under the tear’s that already deafen the ear’s, even as much as blind the eye’s of the smaller boy.
There it is again that voice, dark, sinister, and it is clearly heard; “See you even need help, you can’t even take care of yourself! Worthless! Pain and abandonment!” “That’s all you will ever have.”
Dire it was, walking with those crutches, thought’s swimming though a young head, many left unspoken, most hardly dared reflected upon, just taken for granted. Brick’s are laid down, sometimes without even knowing one has picked up trowel and mortar, until a wall has been built, closing off even an entire room in our memory from access. Hidden tenderly behind that wall are all sort’s of un-discoveries, treasure’s, that dark as they may be, can become the very stepping stone’s God uses to breach gap’s we so desperately need to find our fulfilled destiny. The gift, the flower!
But nowhere did our young, would be knight, forget his conversations with Him, fewer, and farther in between, as they have become, never had he blamed God, for this particular road his feet found themselves upon. As a matter of fact, sure he was, he foolishly though they probably stemmed from something he deserved, if just but a few of the action’s he had participated with over the course of his young life.
How wrong was that though, and how unforgiving it is of self?
Never did he give up on his church, his hope, and maybe just a bit, the soft call’s to his Father, even sometime within the tear drenched pillow of a night’s loneliness. Mercy!, was the prayer more often then anything else. And how a merciful Father heard every fraction of sound as the sweet scent’s bathed His heart. Angel’s flew in desperate precision to gather every precious tear His sweet child shed, depositing these priceless gem’s into The Lord’s treasure resting at His feet.
Sunday’s were always more of a social gathering for the High School kid’s, then a time of learning and worship, at least for this guy. Of course, on occasionally, what the pastor actually would say, breached the bombardment of his other senses, often quickly turning chin forward to gently grab his attention, so was such a day.
Mario Murillo was in town, a guest speaker preaching at their church, and while this preacher had the distinction, in kind, of looking like the actor who played “Columbo”, he also did a funny and exact rendition on imitation. Just enough to catch a young boy’s eye, who also happen to be a TV junky’s.
But what was even more interesting was when the preacher voice took on a more commanding, yet familiar nature, and started randomly to call out; “There is a lady, and they said her kidney’s didn’t work anymore, and she is there!”, point’s in an obscure direction just to be followed by a deafening scream!
“And there is a man and they said his heart was no good, and he is there!” point’s in another direction! More scream’s, most likely this time from the man’s wife!
“And there is a boy, and they said you would never run again, they said you would never jump again, and you are there!” Pointing this time to his left, not even looking where he is pointing, but drilling his index finger right between the boy’s eye’s!
“Impossible for him to see me, for I sit way in the back, in the farthest corner, well out of sight of the watchful eye of the pastor, and certainly my parent’s, or any of the other youth leader’s” the young man said to himself.
“Come down here!” He commanded. There was that resonating voice of God again! Shocked the boy just stood there staring.
By this time all of his friend’s are pushing and saying; “That’s you, that’s you, get down there!”
Down he goes, hobbling all the way across the back of the church, so long it took, by the time he got down there, the pastor had already finished with the other’s.
“So they told you, you would never run again, they told you you would never jump again?” The preacher said with more of bold confidence then actually asking me a question.
Now, our boy didn’t have to move any veil’s in his house to remember this part, because it was so etched in his mind, he know’s from branded experience, one would remember it more then any single event in his whole life!
Suddenly an air of thickness surrounded him, as if he stepped into a kind of fog, a sweet blanket of tingling electricity. Time stood still, second’s stretched out to minutes, ten’s of minutes, and the entire area where he was standing seemed to swell into a realm that almost encompassed or engulfed everything, a sort of universe bubble within the universe, drowning out everything and everybody outside, like looking from the inside of fishbowl out and then blurring everything beyond to nothing except pure light. It all sort of expanded and compressed at the same time, until it was just him, the preacher, and all of that light.
Mario spoke word’s, they seemed to soften, losing the commanding tones and taking on a softer more compassionate peace threaded, and fatherly air, they were more like a music, because a rhythm seemed to envelope the word’s, lacing them in soft tones of flowered fragrance, streaming with multicolored glow’s like little rainbow’s. The same lighted rainbow glow that encircled them around the edges of that blazing halo.
It seemed like our boy was standing there forever, the preacher suddenly made a couple of movement’s and stepped up closer. The young knight felt no fear, for on the preacher’s face, clear diamond light sparkling in his eye’s, the boy saw something, Someone he almost thought he knew from almost forever, Someone Good, for he knew this man’s word’s were true, not because he wanted to be, or hoped them to be, but truly because they were!
“that you be healed!”
“But not only Will you run again,”
“not only Will jump again,”
“but you Will one day run faster then anybody you Will meet,”
“and you Will jump higher then anyone you Will meet!”
He touches or maybe tap’s the lad, soft yet firmly on the head, and softly said;
“His Will be done!”
A warm touch, maybe even radiating in a sort of heat from his hand, cascades from the place he touched down over and through his body like a pouring of warm oil onto his head, and as it flowed across his body a small tingling shiver followed inside like the subtle rumbling’s of an almost gentle earthquake. While he saw many people fall over from such touches, the boy stood there straight even though knee’s buckled slightly, strange that it was, but painlessly.
Somewhere, right there, on a dark barren field, a different warrior stepped up to the scene, and glancing from the shadow’s of thick dead underbrush a snarling creature look’s on, fear taking quick grip on every filthy hair clumped against it’s scaled muscular body. The crouching wolf, looks back from it’s eye’s represented black red laced slit’s, for he not only recognizes with a shudder, the rank of the officer that stand’s before him, but almost blindly gape’s at the radiant light bellowing, the shear power, zealously gleaming from Mario’s clear transparent blue white skin.
The wave’s of rainbow blue light burn’s across the skin of the crouching animal, for the Light he know’s well, That of Jesus clearly seen through the transparent preacher. And if it wasn’t for the paralyzing fear, cementing his carcass to the dirt, he’s be running tail tucked, as fast as his four clawed hoof’s would take him. “
“Care not!, I do for the torment the great dark one will inflict me if I run, for this loss!”, the beast moan’s silently to himself. The snarling animal can hardly pry it’s now shivering eye’s off the blazing sword Mario has resting hilt in hand.
In one fluid stroke the sword is unsheathed, exploding calibrated motion with cauterizing vivacity not limited even by speed’s of light, the Preacher-General attack’s in blazing flash, sword arching in a whisking slice, slashing air and dark black blooded flesh in one clean sweeping fluid motion. And without impedance of a slightest deviancy, the sword fluidly and cleanly slip’s back in it’s scabbard with a tap, “His Will be done!” the beast lies but a moment, squirming in it’s now helplessly defeated heap, bound in heavy metal shackle and strap, before vanishing to the pit of hell.
The boy stand’s there but a moment before turning back toward’s his seat, feeling just a little breeze of subtle air, and maybe even a little remnant of the warm touch on his head.
“Run faster and jump higher then anyone I will meet?” the young man say’s to himself, “Ok, I was never a very fast runner even before I was hurt, as a matter of fact, I was probably slower then average.” And with just a little laugh to himself, leg still hurting, still bent in it’s frozen position, he hobble’s back to his seat.
Any chance he would find in realizing his dream of an Military Academy Nomination, rested on him lettering all four years, the prospect’s seemed grim.
That fall, only a few month’s later, now his junior year, crutches tossed aside, he start’s jogging, and walk’s onto the HS Varsity Cross Country team, barely. Late in the season he is taken aside and told by the coach, “If you want a Varsity letter you are going to have to make the team that goes to State, and since you are number eight right now, for me to put you an the squad, you will have to beat number six this friday, in the final meet before the Sate Final’s next week.”
He won that race, beat number six, decisively so, made the team that competed for State, again barely, one might guess he was a fast jogger. Their team won the State Championship. He went on to run Varsity Track, made the Varsity Track Team as a poll vaulter, barely made that team. They won the State Championship for track.
No credit was given to God.
That year, he received two Congressional, and one Senatorial nomination to all three Military Academies; West Point, Annapolis, and Colorado Spring’s, he was accepted into West Point.
No Credit was given to God, not even a thank you!
The next year he decided to go to Oral Robert’s University instead, walked onto the Varsity Cross Country team, barely made it, NCAA Class 1. His fastest five mile time clocked was 26:06, 5 minutes and 13.2 second’s per mile for five straight miles, the fastest time he ever booked in the single mile sprint; 4:35 flat, but it was hard to fit 20-30 miles of daily training into a BioMed-Chem double major, so after the first year he walked away from the racing, the running, at least then.
Not a word of the healing to anyone, even himself! Even at a Christian University! A school built on the back of a man who dedicated his life to a healing ministry!
One day for a bet, he raced a tennis player a mile for ten bucks, gave a lap head start, (one sixth of a mile, inside track), and carried a thirty five pound plate behind his head. Smoked the guy!
No credit, no thought!
Many flying dream’s always coupled with first racing, running, large jump’s that would then turn to into flying. Over and over the dream’s would come, do you think God was trying to tell him something?
Our young adventurer went to Europe, with the US Korfbal team, more like a glorified summer trip, then a team, but it followed a particular period he prayed like he had never prayed before, met and later married the wife, the Love of his Youth.
She played that interesting game called Korfbal, a sort of field basketball, played on a soccer field, with two poll’s near each end. A wicker basket attached at the top of the eleven and half foot high poll, no backboard. Men and women play together on the same team, a novel idea, and one that prompted him to work like crazy to make one of the top team’s in Holland, a land where over a million people play the sport in organized clubs. Not a easy task, with nearly no experience.
He participated with this team, push his body at long cold hour’s, ran toward’s a goal, really for one reason; his future wife played on the team, her’s being a National team, getting to travel all around the country, he wanted to go with her.
Over time he began to have a reputation of being fast and jumping high. Eventually he made the first team, her team, and played along side of his young girlfriend, for one reason and one reason alone, he was very fast and could out jump just about anyone, even men quite a bit taller then himself.
One day our young some-day warrior get’s invited to a special training, a sort of celebration training, by a famous Dutch Korfbal coach. Not knowing exactly why he was invited, later he had heard the coach had watched him play and commented to some of his friend’s; “The boy was the hardest working player he knew, and by far the fastest player he had ever seen.”
At the beginning of this invitational training session, the coach lined all the player’s, men and women, on one end of the soccer field, and had them sprint to the other, about 120 yard’s.
All of a sudden another younger man line’s up next to our, now a bit older, young man, and say’s; “I heard you were really fast.” “Would you mind if I raced you?”
Our would-be warrior just casually says; “Sure”.
“Do you know who I am?” the younger man says, and without waiting for the affirmative acknowledgment, goes on to introduce himself and say’s; “I’m the fastest junior sprinter in Northern Holland.”
Our long not even close to, nearly forgotten, knight of the hay wagon just say’s; “Ok then, let’s go.” and they line up for the whistle.
When the coach blow’s the whistle the younger athlete get’s the clear jump out in front at least a step or two, but our young warrior quickly passes him like he is standing still, a scene right out of “Forest Gump”, and as he effortlessly run’s past the younger opponent, he turn’s around run’s backward’s a step or two and say’s; “I thought you were fast!” turn’s back around, and smokes him to the finish line.
For year’s our young child of God, the young boy they said would never run again, never jump again, ran faster and jumped higher then anyone he would meet. Dream’s realized of tender eye’s, grassy field’s, parks laden with peddle’s of many colored blossom. He had all, no, more then he had ever dreamed, a woman who loved him just for him, nothing to prove. He was living the life of a king.