I burst from the classroom. The news had been delivered. As I wobbled down the sidewalk, my thoughts tumbled in directions that bumped into each other; crisscrossing, tangling and tying up. The clear and luminous sky of that Indian summer day was spent on someone else... its beauty went unsung, unnoticed by me. I made scrambling efforts to think clearly and to wrap my mind around this thing... this violation... this rape... of the American spirit.
In ninth grade civics class less than a decade before, I watched in numb bewilderment as John F. Kennedy slumped into his wife’s arms, his life spilling from his body. The people... cried.
Four years later when I graduated, I was filled with hope and promise anew... only to come face to face with the turmoil of Viet Nam. This was a slinking and slithering war, slimy in all it came to be. It was war without “honor”. It dragged on and on. The people... cried out.
A recklessness like that of a child gone wild in learning that her father is a liar soon exploded in the rebellion that was Woodstock. The people... cried no more; they blew their minds in clouds of smoke and swallowed their fears on sugar cubes. The Pentagon Papers fluttered to the ground.
The atrocities of corruption were indeed on the rise but it seemed that always it had been the people against the authority. Be it right or wrong, informed or ignorant, godly or demonic... it had been America standing up... rising up! Appalled by assassination, weary of war and disheartened by dishonesty, we could still look to our leadership to understand our nightmares and try to recapture our dreams.
But now, on this campus on this day, the flood came crashing down. Watergate had been opened and it drowned the American dream. My President had suddenly become a doer of dirty deeds... deep in the darkness. Kicking and screaming at the assault, the molesting of a people, I wished on him his ‘just desserts’.
Ah, the innocence of youth; the hope that gushed forth in the absence of knowledge, in the bliss of ignorance, so many years ago. All runs counter to the specter of today's pending doom.
And in this day when a leader turns away from his people, when the government denies its country's worth instead of defends it, controls instead of corrects, infects instead of instills; that day surely is... the rape of a nation.
Just desserts, indeed, and desserts that betray us. For here, in the wake of dragging our battered spirits through today’s thickening mire, the violation that was Watergate has all the gentleness of ... a first kiss.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Colors of the Orient
Colors of the Orient
Parchment moon o'er streets of gold, the sleight of dragons' wings,
cherry blossoms, lantern's glow
what fare of noble kings.
Stoic, cliff-faced majesty, spring forth in quaking birth;
Sleek and stony sentinels hold fast the fragile earth.
Mirror lakes enshrouded in a misty China blue
'neath reaching arms of evergreens
all strung with pearls of dew.
Silken lady, silver land of mystery and veil...
however did your peaceful heart
become so drawn and pale?
With books of red a violent haze came marching
in the street,
with anger, black, your vision died;
a nation learned defeat.
With Xeroxed fear, row after row, your pain
reached every soul...
O, China, mighty conqueror, the prey of
mind control.
Somewhere from deep within your ache
a "David's heart" was born,
and filled the crying, writhing Square
the grinding tank had torn.
O, hulking beast stand silent in the triumph of
the youth!
How powerful the victory of meekness
speaking truth.
Sweet ancient land of longings, stony gods with vacant stares,
your winding paths of western dreams
are those the whole world shares...
...of hope and love triumphant, free of fear and filled
with peace...
triumphant human spirit, may your rainbow never cease.
Parchment moon o'er streets of gold, the sleight of dragons' wings,
cherry blossoms, lantern's glow
what fare of noble kings.
Stoic, cliff-faced majesty, spring forth in quaking birth;
Sleek and stony sentinels hold fast the fragile earth.
Mirror lakes enshrouded in a misty China blue
'neath reaching arms of evergreens
all strung with pearls of dew.
Silken lady, silver land of mystery and veil...
however did your peaceful heart
become so drawn and pale?
With books of red a violent haze came marching
in the street,
with anger, black, your vision died;
a nation learned defeat.
With Xeroxed fear, row after row, your pain
reached every soul...
O, China, mighty conqueror, the prey of
mind control.
Somewhere from deep within your ache
a "David's heart" was born,
and filled the crying, writhing Square
the grinding tank had torn.
O, hulking beast stand silent in the triumph of
the youth!
How powerful the victory of meekness
speaking truth.
Sweet ancient land of longings, stony gods with vacant stares,
your winding paths of western dreams
are those the whole world shares...
...of hope and love triumphant, free of fear and filled
with peace...
triumphant human spirit, may your rainbow never cease.
Write about... An Apple
Golden, delicious, dancing on the breeze.
Calling, humming, there among the trees.
Magic, lustrous, tempter of the weak,
Instrument, weaponry, attacker of the Meek.
Forbidden fruit, an evil seed planted in her mind...
Golden, delicious... betrayer of mankind.
Calling, humming, there among the trees.
Magic, lustrous, tempter of the weak,
Instrument, weaponry, attacker of the Meek.
Forbidden fruit, an evil seed planted in her mind...
Golden, delicious... betrayer of mankind.
Write about... Something Under Lock and Key
The lantern spread its warm fingers of light across the futon and wrapped them around the papers that Mi Chai held her in her hand. The photograph was dim and pale; the shades of black and white were all but fused into a hazy apparition. The faces were barely discernable, yet she studied them. She leaned closer to the paper shell that held the candle and her eyes traced every ghostly line of the man and woman that lay in the palm of her hand. Though a distant memory, the couple was held captive and confined within the narrow frayed border. The pair was never straying, ever steadfast within the creased and wavy edges of their boundary.
The woman there was small, elegant; she wore the traditional shiro-maku, a wedding kimono. Its straight, angular lines betrayed the gentle curves and soft skin that trembled beneath the silk. She stood with her back nestled against her man; he tall, strong and bearing a courageous kind of good looks. An American flyer standing proud in his dress uniform, he had enveloped his bride, lifted her to a tallness of which she had only dreamed. Mi Chai thought about the meanings of the words shiro-maku... white and pure. Those were the words that defined the love that poured out of the faces and spilled from the tattered print. Mi Chai moved her gaze around the ragged snapshot and was lost in the hugeness of all that it held.
A small fan was tucked inside the wide obi sash that was wrapped around the woman’s tiny waist. Mi Chai’s mother had told her time and again of its significance; the gradual widening of the open fan implies happiness and thus brings a happy future. A small sack-like purse dangled from the belt and promised prosperity. An undersized sword encased in satin was hidden in the folds of the obi and offered up its oath of protection. Mi Chai sank into a watery stare that echoed,” Why?” The man and woman smiled on. Even though it had gone so wrong... they smiled on.
What horror had destroyed the powers of the tokens... good luck charms gone grievously awry? Mi Chai was only six when Yumiko had wailed and fallen to her knees under the weight of despair. What smallness of minds and hearts had ruled that the magnitude of love could be whittled and chiseled down to the confines of a law? Marriages not recognized by the American military; Japanese spouses... outlawed, banned... destroyed. They had carried her man away; the love of her life, the father of her child. An earthly redeemer and now, he was gone.
Many years had passed since Yumiko had given up hope of ever again being with the one she loved. She had sunk into a grief so profound it had swallowed her and dragged little Mi Chai’s joy behind. Finally, in total emptiness, she died.
Yumiko left a gift; a gift for Mi Chai. Abiding by ancient custom, she had carefully fashioned her wedding kimono into a futon cover for her daughter. For almost fifteen years now the white embroidered silk that graced her bed was the tie that bound her to the mother she had lost and the father she had barely known.
But the greatest gift was the folded parchment she had found situated inside the lining of the bed covering. It was neatly folded around the wedding picture and a paper listing the name of her father; where he was born, when he was born, his favorite things and best of all, his vow that someday, he would return.
For the millionth time, Mi Chai blinked back the tears and placed the papers inside the small wooden box and turned the key.
The woman there was small, elegant; she wore the traditional shiro-maku, a wedding kimono. Its straight, angular lines betrayed the gentle curves and soft skin that trembled beneath the silk. She stood with her back nestled against her man; he tall, strong and bearing a courageous kind of good looks. An American flyer standing proud in his dress uniform, he had enveloped his bride, lifted her to a tallness of which she had only dreamed. Mi Chai thought about the meanings of the words shiro-maku... white and pure. Those were the words that defined the love that poured out of the faces and spilled from the tattered print. Mi Chai moved her gaze around the ragged snapshot and was lost in the hugeness of all that it held.
A small fan was tucked inside the wide obi sash that was wrapped around the woman’s tiny waist. Mi Chai’s mother had told her time and again of its significance; the gradual widening of the open fan implies happiness and thus brings a happy future. A small sack-like purse dangled from the belt and promised prosperity. An undersized sword encased in satin was hidden in the folds of the obi and offered up its oath of protection. Mi Chai sank into a watery stare that echoed,” Why?” The man and woman smiled on. Even though it had gone so wrong... they smiled on.
What horror had destroyed the powers of the tokens... good luck charms gone grievously awry? Mi Chai was only six when Yumiko had wailed and fallen to her knees under the weight of despair. What smallness of minds and hearts had ruled that the magnitude of love could be whittled and chiseled down to the confines of a law? Marriages not recognized by the American military; Japanese spouses... outlawed, banned... destroyed. They had carried her man away; the love of her life, the father of her child. An earthly redeemer and now, he was gone.
Many years had passed since Yumiko had given up hope of ever again being with the one she loved. She had sunk into a grief so profound it had swallowed her and dragged little Mi Chai’s joy behind. Finally, in total emptiness, she died.
Yumiko left a gift; a gift for Mi Chai. Abiding by ancient custom, she had carefully fashioned her wedding kimono into a futon cover for her daughter. For almost fifteen years now the white embroidered silk that graced her bed was the tie that bound her to the mother she had lost and the father she had barely known.
But the greatest gift was the folded parchment she had found situated inside the lining of the bed covering. It was neatly folded around the wedding picture and a paper listing the name of her father; where he was born, when he was born, his favorite things and best of all, his vow that someday, he would return.
For the millionth time, Mi Chai blinked back the tears and placed the papers inside the small wooden box and turned the key.
Write about... A Never-Ending Struggle
They sat perched. Lofty and waiting. Waiting for the perfect time, the precise moment at which to strike. The hours had dragged on and their muscles were almost frozen. They had all but utterly stiffened during the night. They were unqualified to move, hanging on and not knowing which way to go. They waited for instructions. They waited for direction. Nothing came.
They had been at this very spot many times before. Suspended, hovering... on the brink. There were eight of them. They each knew their jobs, should they ever be called to perform them. They each knew their boundaries, should they ever be called to cover them. They were reasonably trained, fairly skilled; and in the small hours of the night when all was quiet, when nothing stirred... achievement was their only vision. The distractions of the day were over and they crouched, poised. Focused and ready to hit. Yet more often than not, they waited... longing to be called upon; longing to serve; yearning to fulfill their purpose. It seemed a never-ending struggle. All the preparation, the working to be fit and ready - only to face the let-down of no command... They sat perched. Waiting for the perfect time.
Finally the order came! All eight fingers jumped to attention and flew across the keyboard! Reasonably trained, fairly skilled! Writing! Filling the paper! Achieving... performing! Always under pressure, but always loyal.
And all too frequently, forgotten.
They had been at this very spot many times before. Suspended, hovering... on the brink. There were eight of them. They each knew their jobs, should they ever be called to perform them. They each knew their boundaries, should they ever be called to cover them. They were reasonably trained, fairly skilled; and in the small hours of the night when all was quiet, when nothing stirred... achievement was their only vision. The distractions of the day were over and they crouched, poised. Focused and ready to hit. Yet more often than not, they waited... longing to be called upon; longing to serve; yearning to fulfill their purpose. It seemed a never-ending struggle. All the preparation, the working to be fit and ready - only to face the let-down of no command... They sat perched. Waiting for the perfect time.
Finally the order came! All eight fingers jumped to attention and flew across the keyboard! Reasonably trained, fairly skilled! Writing! Filling the paper! Achieving... performing! Always under pressure, but always loyal.
And all too frequently, forgotten.
Write about... It Made Good Kindling
She leaned close to the window and breathed a wispy stream of air across the frozen glass. As it floated over the frosted pane it drew in its wake a million lacy etchings; whimsical and snowflake-like. Wrapped in the moisture of her breath the patterns became crystalline and sparkled in the low light of the bedside lamp. For some time she continued to breathe onto the glass and watch the tiny drawings come into clarity and then fade back into frost, fuzzy and nondescript.
She eventually came to terms with the chill that surrounded her and, still bundled in coat and gloves, climbed beneath the blankets on her bed and lay her head on the pillow. As she closed her eyes, her thoughts formed pictures of her life and floated them in a mindless, hazy display before her. The images were desolate. They were gray. They were of an empty landscape save the punctuation of loneliness, longing and fear; fear of aloneness, fear of being unfulfilled and fear of cold... always cold.
Yet, maybe it wasn’t so much the presence of cold that cut into her but rather the absence of warmth. There was a nagging lack of balance, a teetering at the edge of wholeness and yearning to come to that dichotomy that is the fullness of life... bitter toned down by sweet, darkness gobbled up by light, empty displaced by full, and cold... melted away in warmth. For what seemed to be just another night in a string of thousands she drifted off into solitary sleep weary of the sameness of it all.
In recent times the world had taken a drastic turn into that journey which is self. It had long passed ‘self in the sense of improvement’; it had left behind ‘self in the sense of accountability’. The world had regressed into that ugly, all-consuming shell of ‘self-centeredness’. Folks had cocooned themselves in a sticky winter of the soul.
The next morning found her in her usual corner of the coffee shop, hands embracing the heat of the heavy clay mug. The people in the shop were stoic and vacant. She turned to the window and looked into the street. It was filled with the same faded, robotic sorts that she had run across day after day. She ached for color in a drab scene; pined for a spark of anything that could be fanned into flames. She had a longing for eye contact that smoldered with even an ember of passion. An ember that could be nurtured and tended and brought to a full blaze. She yearned for the fire of life.
She stared down at her cup with the dread of knowing that nothing would change... ever. As she looked up, a new face appeared in the doorway and as he glanced around the tiny eatery he saw her. With a slight yank of his head he acknowledged her and tossed her a smile. Joyfully she reached out and received it, clutched it, held onto its warmth... it made good kindling.
She eventually came to terms with the chill that surrounded her and, still bundled in coat and gloves, climbed beneath the blankets on her bed and lay her head on the pillow. As she closed her eyes, her thoughts formed pictures of her life and floated them in a mindless, hazy display before her. The images were desolate. They were gray. They were of an empty landscape save the punctuation of loneliness, longing and fear; fear of aloneness, fear of being unfulfilled and fear of cold... always cold.
Yet, maybe it wasn’t so much the presence of cold that cut into her but rather the absence of warmth. There was a nagging lack of balance, a teetering at the edge of wholeness and yearning to come to that dichotomy that is the fullness of life... bitter toned down by sweet, darkness gobbled up by light, empty displaced by full, and cold... melted away in warmth. For what seemed to be just another night in a string of thousands she drifted off into solitary sleep weary of the sameness of it all.
In recent times the world had taken a drastic turn into that journey which is self. It had long passed ‘self in the sense of improvement’; it had left behind ‘self in the sense of accountability’. The world had regressed into that ugly, all-consuming shell of ‘self-centeredness’. Folks had cocooned themselves in a sticky winter of the soul.
The next morning found her in her usual corner of the coffee shop, hands embracing the heat of the heavy clay mug. The people in the shop were stoic and vacant. She turned to the window and looked into the street. It was filled with the same faded, robotic sorts that she had run across day after day. She ached for color in a drab scene; pined for a spark of anything that could be fanned into flames. She had a longing for eye contact that smoldered with even an ember of passion. An ember that could be nurtured and tended and brought to a full blaze. She yearned for the fire of life.
She stared down at her cup with the dread of knowing that nothing would change... ever. As she looked up, a new face appeared in the doorway and as he glanced around the tiny eatery he saw her. With a slight yank of his head he acknowledged her and tossed her a smile. Joyfully she reached out and received it, clutched it, held onto its warmth... it made good kindling.
Granna's World
Buckled snugly in the car, Kassie and Ryan travel far…
Autumn morning gently trundles… stalks of corn in standing bundles;
pumpkins at their feet.
Past the patch of ripened cotton, snow-white puffs the field are dottin',
Turn the wheel, go 'round the bend, turn it back, go straight again...
right to Granna's door.
Ryan loves to go to Granna's, though she makes him mind his manners,
drink his milk and take a bath, clear his toys out of the path...
she gives to him her world.
Bright blue skies and swaying trees, branches touch October's breeze
then they toss their fragile tresses, clothe the earth in crisp new dresses;
crinolines of gold.
Feeding chickens at the barn, Kizzie's kittens wrapped in yarn.
Ryan's favorite thing, of course is, helping Granna with the horses...
Pawpaw works nearby.
Little cowboy boots of gray go tromping through the tufts of hay.
Chubby hands are oh, so busy... patting Doc and loving Missy...
free and unafraid.
Dipped the feed and spread the blanket, fetched the water, horses drank it.
Working close by Granna's side; cradled by her when they ride...
safe and close and warm.
Then lifted up by Pawpaw Jack, Ryan climbs on Missy's back.
Granna gets him settled in, heaven shines right through his grin...
and fills him to his toes.
Missy’s standing calm and idle, Granna checks the reins and bridle.
Then she tugs out soft commands through leather strips held in her hands...
her heart is held in Ryan's.
What a wide and wondrous world, sunbeams dance and brown leaves twirl;
Steady on the wooded trail, padded hoof beats never fail...
they're strong and sure and true.
Leather saddle squeaks and breathes in perfect time 'neath tiny knees.
All the peace and all the joy that could exist in one small boy...
are shining in his eyes.
Pawpaw's waiting at the stable; ready, willing, strong and able.
Spinning Ryan through the air, laughter spilling everywhere...
it babbles through the trees.
God's greatest gift to us is love; He pours it on us from above
and heaven's heart is heard rejoicing, gleeful angels, praise are voicing...
o'er this precious time.
Does God really come to earth with every baby through its birth?
Reaching out with small, wee hands inviting us to work His plans
within this fresh, new soul?
All the wisdom Gran’s collected, youth thought gone, now resurrected...
gifts to Ryan, little child, heart and mind yet undefiled...
so eager to receive.
Gifts of love through God's salvation, demonstrating adoration;
Love that's strong and sage and mild; Granna's gifts unto this child...
to cling to when he's old.
In God's image we're created. By His grace we're inundated.
Through love He gives, we're sanctified; through love we give, He's glorified...
throughout eternity.
Of all God's gifts and His creations, love passed down through generations
(as the Father's to the Son) I think might be His favorite one.
Gift of love; precious manna! Ryan's gift from God is Granna...
he in turn is hers.
Autumn morning gently trundles… stalks of corn in standing bundles;
pumpkins at their feet.
Past the patch of ripened cotton, snow-white puffs the field are dottin',
Turn the wheel, go 'round the bend, turn it back, go straight again...
right to Granna's door.
Ryan loves to go to Granna's, though she makes him mind his manners,
drink his milk and take a bath, clear his toys out of the path...
she gives to him her world.
Bright blue skies and swaying trees, branches touch October's breeze
then they toss their fragile tresses, clothe the earth in crisp new dresses;
crinolines of gold.
Feeding chickens at the barn, Kizzie's kittens wrapped in yarn.
Ryan's favorite thing, of course is, helping Granna with the horses...
Pawpaw works nearby.
Little cowboy boots of gray go tromping through the tufts of hay.
Chubby hands are oh, so busy... patting Doc and loving Missy...
free and unafraid.
Dipped the feed and spread the blanket, fetched the water, horses drank it.
Working close by Granna's side; cradled by her when they ride...
safe and close and warm.
Then lifted up by Pawpaw Jack, Ryan climbs on Missy's back.
Granna gets him settled in, heaven shines right through his grin...
and fills him to his toes.
Missy’s standing calm and idle, Granna checks the reins and bridle.
Then she tugs out soft commands through leather strips held in her hands...
her heart is held in Ryan's.
What a wide and wondrous world, sunbeams dance and brown leaves twirl;
Steady on the wooded trail, padded hoof beats never fail...
they're strong and sure and true.
Leather saddle squeaks and breathes in perfect time 'neath tiny knees.
All the peace and all the joy that could exist in one small boy...
are shining in his eyes.
Pawpaw's waiting at the stable; ready, willing, strong and able.
Spinning Ryan through the air, laughter spilling everywhere...
it babbles through the trees.
God's greatest gift to us is love; He pours it on us from above
and heaven's heart is heard rejoicing, gleeful angels, praise are voicing...
o'er this precious time.
Does God really come to earth with every baby through its birth?
Reaching out with small, wee hands inviting us to work His plans
within this fresh, new soul?
All the wisdom Gran’s collected, youth thought gone, now resurrected...
gifts to Ryan, little child, heart and mind yet undefiled...
so eager to receive.
Gifts of love through God's salvation, demonstrating adoration;
Love that's strong and sage and mild; Granna's gifts unto this child...
to cling to when he's old.
In God's image we're created. By His grace we're inundated.
Through love He gives, we're sanctified; through love we give, He's glorified...
throughout eternity.
Of all God's gifts and His creations, love passed down through generations
(as the Father's to the Son) I think might be His favorite one.
Gift of love; precious manna! Ryan's gift from God is Granna...
he in turn is hers.
Write about... Something I Broke
The package landed on the porch with a muffled thud and loomed on the far side of the ringing doorbell. Through the rippled glass of the windows, sunlight streamed low and close to the floor. I stood frozen, hidden in the stretching shadows of the early morning. I knew about the boxes. I knew about the cold and callous way they were tossed into one’s life or, what was left of it. I leaned my head back, resting it against the wall. I could hear the fading footsteps of the courier crunching the gravel drive. He left as abruptly as he had come.
Our old farmhouse looked the same. The same as it had for the twenty-three years we had lived here. It was secluded, a gleaming white tower in a rolling sea of grasses that changed with the time of year from green to gold and brown and then lay snuggled beneath a mantle of white. The house did not, however, feel the same. The timbers of the rooms that once caressed us, collecting little pocketfuls of our laughter and bouncing it back to us, stood stoic and detached. They offered no warmth, no comfort. It was as though the big old house had known many months ago that if it acknowledged my pain it would be drawn into it. The walls and doorways had seen what happened here and remained aloof and void. I was very much on my own; alone in a frigid world that had become hard, angular.
It had been almost three and a half years since they had taken him; storming into the house in the middle of the night, yanking him; his most dreaded fears springing to life as they dragged him from our bed. I crawled behind him wailing into the darkness, pleading desperately for him until the butt of the rifle ripped my head to one side and smashed me into a days-long sleep. When I came to, I knew it was no dream.
The days that followed were slow; hope giving way to fear and fear easing its way into foreboding. On trips to town I stayed to myself, hesitant, concerned that I may learn something of the work camps that was far worse than what I already knew. I had overheard enough from those who had taken delivery of the boxes to know that I couldn’t bear to think of him there; drowned by the breathing of the Beast who would draw from his lips every secret our government had stuffed into him. They would use him up; spit him out, empty and lifeless. His mind would be as barren as the nuclear winter that hung over so much of the world. He would be a zombie of the new regime… imprisoned by the horrors he had seen, controlled by the threats that would have no end… not here, not now.
I knew what I would find inside the box. Cradled in its brown paper blanket neatly tied with red string would be the parts of him that were left behind; dog tags, a microchip carrying all his history and pertinent information… his very ability to buy and sell and it being a duplicate of the one they had buried beneath his skin. From his wallet, a photo or two of us, a small picture of a white horse, his symbol of the King who is coming. And, two pieces of yellowed vellum, each bearing an isosceles triangle in faded indigo. I pictured him holding the two shapes to the light one staggered over the other, one pointed up and the other pointed down, longing once again for the crisp white flag bearing the blue Star of David… flying… high over Jerusalem. Reminders to him, but unrecognized by his captors, these were signs, struggles for breath… respirators to his faith. Tears poured down and washed over a smile as I thought of him… him… flying… high over Jerusalem!
I walked onto the porch and leaned down to lift the box. I held it to my chest and felt a slight and winsome breeze waltz by. I sat down in a squeaky old rocker and… I broke the string. I unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. I expected to look at the pieces of him that lay inside. Instead, I saw the wholeness of him… complete and eternal. I closed my eyes and breathed in the joy of his freedom in a world gone wild.
Our old farmhouse looked the same. The same as it had for the twenty-three years we had lived here. It was secluded, a gleaming white tower in a rolling sea of grasses that changed with the time of year from green to gold and brown and then lay snuggled beneath a mantle of white. The house did not, however, feel the same. The timbers of the rooms that once caressed us, collecting little pocketfuls of our laughter and bouncing it back to us, stood stoic and detached. They offered no warmth, no comfort. It was as though the big old house had known many months ago that if it acknowledged my pain it would be drawn into it. The walls and doorways had seen what happened here and remained aloof and void. I was very much on my own; alone in a frigid world that had become hard, angular.
It had been almost three and a half years since they had taken him; storming into the house in the middle of the night, yanking him; his most dreaded fears springing to life as they dragged him from our bed. I crawled behind him wailing into the darkness, pleading desperately for him until the butt of the rifle ripped my head to one side and smashed me into a days-long sleep. When I came to, I knew it was no dream.
The days that followed were slow; hope giving way to fear and fear easing its way into foreboding. On trips to town I stayed to myself, hesitant, concerned that I may learn something of the work camps that was far worse than what I already knew. I had overheard enough from those who had taken delivery of the boxes to know that I couldn’t bear to think of him there; drowned by the breathing of the Beast who would draw from his lips every secret our government had stuffed into him. They would use him up; spit him out, empty and lifeless. His mind would be as barren as the nuclear winter that hung over so much of the world. He would be a zombie of the new regime… imprisoned by the horrors he had seen, controlled by the threats that would have no end… not here, not now.
I knew what I would find inside the box. Cradled in its brown paper blanket neatly tied with red string would be the parts of him that were left behind; dog tags, a microchip carrying all his history and pertinent information… his very ability to buy and sell and it being a duplicate of the one they had buried beneath his skin. From his wallet, a photo or two of us, a small picture of a white horse, his symbol of the King who is coming. And, two pieces of yellowed vellum, each bearing an isosceles triangle in faded indigo. I pictured him holding the two shapes to the light one staggered over the other, one pointed up and the other pointed down, longing once again for the crisp white flag bearing the blue Star of David… flying… high over Jerusalem. Reminders to him, but unrecognized by his captors, these were signs, struggles for breath… respirators to his faith. Tears poured down and washed over a smile as I thought of him… him… flying… high over Jerusalem!
I walked onto the porch and leaned down to lift the box. I held it to my chest and felt a slight and winsome breeze waltz by. I sat down in a squeaky old rocker and… I broke the string. I unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. I expected to look at the pieces of him that lay inside. Instead, I saw the wholeness of him… complete and eternal. I closed my eyes and breathed in the joy of his freedom in a world gone wild.
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