Gloom and Doom

Many a good sailor had perished on these waters. Those who weathered far off seas and survived to tell the tale. But there was something different about this sea that made men quiver with fear. The unknown. Without warning, a perfect day could become a seaman's last. This sea, the only predictable thing about her is that she will always be unpredictable. Peter smiled at the thought, not a bad bit of irony for a fisherman. Yet an undercurrent of dread remained as he watched the small pocket of clouds build on the horizon.

Studying the distant clouds, he decided they were all better safe than sorry. Following the wooden rail that overlooked a calm, peaceful sea, he made his way to the hull of the ship and crossed starboard to descend into the belly. As he expected, everyone was asleep.

"James, John, rise, I need you." James was up in an instant and quickly threw on his tunic. John, on the other hand, was known to have a bit of a temper when roused from sleep. He was awake, but lay there staring angrily at Peter, groggy from his interrupted sleep. There was no need for Peter to explain himself. He simply moved to the stairs and returned to deck. They would follow, both were good sailors.

The darkness of the cabin seemed to follow him. Studying the night sky, everything had disappeared. The big cup. The little cup. The bear and even what the Greeks had called Orion. A flash illuminated the doorway and his two companions. It had begun. What he had most feared.

Running to and fro, the three worked to continually adjust the sails and rudder to compensate for the ship's vacillating bearing. Through the roaring wind, communication from one side to the other was impossible. Never had Peter heard anything equal. The flashes had become constant and the ensuing clasps shook him with nearly the same force as the thirty- to forty-foot swells that threatened to tear every plank from the small boat. Hope was nearly lost now just twenty minutes after the first cloud had been discovered.

In complete and utter panic, Peter stumbled back to the hull and down into the cabin. By this time, Jesus was the last sleeping body on the boat. He ran to the bed, seized the man's shoulders, and violently pulled him awake to a sitting position, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing!"

At that moment, the storm prevailed and the ship was flung down on the raging sea.

Swimming to the surface, Jesus emerged from the water with a shout, "Hush, be still!" The wind and waves stopped immediately. Stars appeared and the moon re-lit the night. Lifting Himself up to stand on the calm water, He found Himself surrounded by the rubble and debris of what had once been His transportation to the other shore. His time had not yet come. "Why were they afraid," He said to Himself, "how is it that they had no faith?"

It happens when everything is right in the world. The hero, a mere security guard, saves the day from the imminent danger that has descended upon the stadium. An entire family finds themselves safely locked in the basement far from all extraterrestrial threat. A love story begins when our two protagonists discover their desire for one another as the scene fades out on an empty rocking chair. Back and forth, the chair rocks, foreshadowing the end of this new found joy. Now comes the twist. The surprise plot. The unexpected. This is the calling card of M. Night Shyamalan. Just when everything is right in the world, it happens.

This year I have taken risks. Risks like leaving North Carolina and reconnecting with my parents. All the while I ponder the outcomes of such risks, I am plagued by this gloom and doom mentality. I envision all the worst case scenarios and expect the unexpected plot twist.

I all too often think gloom and doom, but God is the one who determines the outcome. In this story, the unexpected plot twist occurs when Jesus wakes and calms the storm. He then rebukes the disciples for their lack of faith. But my question remains. Had gloom and doom prevailed, would God still be faithful? Had the boat capsized, killing His disciples, would Jesus not still have cause to rebuke them for their lack of faith?

When gloom and doom seems to prevail in my life, why can I not accept my failed expectations to simply be His fulfilled expectations? As He leads me, not every step I take will seem a successful one. Not every piece to this puzzle will fit together at my appointed time. The truth is that what I may often consider gloom and doom is His sanctifying hand. I am often not ready for the gifts He has waiting.

Jesus showed these men who He was. For three years they observed His love, mercy, and justice. They saw that He is God. Jesus calmed the storm in this story, but does not promise He will calm every successive storm. We are not promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He has conquered the greatest storm, sin and death, but many of these smaller storms we must weather because He is making us more like Himself.

This all fits succinctly into His plan. He loves to give me good and perfect gifts, but often the exponential increase in His pleasure and mine are contingent upon the time involved. Time is what I need. Time to weather the storm.

His answer is rarely no, simply not yet.

To Be a Tree

Beneath a thin carpet, the concrete floor had no give as my face crashed against it once again. Rolling over quickly to meet his attack, I managed to bring my knee into the space between us as his massive body covered mine. This maneuver bought me all of two seconds as he simply readjusted, wrapped up my flailing arms, and violently shoved my face back into the carpet. Now, fully at his mercy, my arms and legs were contorted into a position I never predicted possible as a sharp wave of pain shocked my entire body.

Uncle.

Not once. Not twice. Not even after three or four times had I enough sense to submit. Five times I went back for more. And five times my small, untrained body served as but a rag doll for this 300-pound marine. My pride throbbed with the swelling pain of defeat. Pain stronger than any rug burn or bruise my body had endured. Pride had driven me to do what no one else in the room had dared. Pride not only had driven me to do the impossible, but the plain stupid. Pride made me go back for more.

There are days when I long for North Carolina. I long to walk campus again under low, arching branches of trees far more experienced in this world than I. Trees that have weathered the strongest of storms and the most perfect spring day. Trees, strong and firm, that have provided for generations of inhabitants. They give shelter, nourishment, and cover from the hot, summer sun. Yet, without the provision of another source, these trees would not be the strong, dependable giants they are today.

For tonight, I love Africa. Walking home from a birthday party with dear friends, we discovered a small shop just outside the medina. While they scoured the store for tablecloths, I was quickly drawn into conversation with the shopkeeper. A rare moment of putting myself aside, I took interest in who he was. Within five minutes, I sat on my friend’s chair, behind his cash register, drinking the tea he had prepared for himself. We talked about his life and family as I enjoyed a moment of victory.

Not every day here is good. But not every day is bad. I just have to keep going back for more. But it’s different now. The prideful ambition that embarrassed me years ago is becoming less of the driving force. Perhaps, God is leading me to discover a new kind of ambition. An ambition fueled by love for others. A holy ambition.

Through the storms and spring days alike, I am learning every day that I must put myself aside. I long to soak up all the living water I can to stand through the ages. I long to be strong and firmly rooted. I long to provide for those in need. I suppose I long to be a tree.

I Walk the City Streets Alone

Some days I walk the city streets alone. Step by step I learn to release my insecurity and need for companionship. Enjoying the fresh air, I take my solitude in stride. And on days like this, it is a shorter stride. For once, I can relax. There is no one to see and nothing pressing that requires my attention.

I think about where I am. The very place I never thought I would reach. Vibrant and new, the sights, people, and customs. A world that I understand about as well as I understood the television that at one time provided all these sights straight to my home. With my shallow understanding, I could press the power button, turn up the volume, and enjoy. A simple scratch on the surface, these pictures and sounds gave insight into a whole other world. Never before was there a need to understand the inner workings of how the flashes of light and soundbites all worked together to bring me entertainment. From the safety of my armchair, there was never a need to understand how or why the people here do things the way they do, it was enough to know that they were different.

In college, my car broke down one February. I read and read about what to do and how to do it. Within a week I had gathered all the necessary tools and new parts. I spent an entire day taking apart the section of my engine that housed the alternator. After carefully setting the new alternator and returning all the belts to their proper places, I happily drove my car around town. If I had been given a brand new mustang like the rich kid in the next dorm over, my satisfaction could not have compared. I didn't want a new car. I only wanted to drive my little white '97 hundai elantra with the large dent above the rear passenger side tire and damaged front bumper with the remaining paint smear from a blue pickup truck. Despite the limited miles that remained, it ran now because I had used my own hands to fix it.

I used to think that if I read a book, or a couple books, I could figure anything out. If I could just google something, I would be the expert. As I walk the city streets alone, I realize that not everything is that simple. If I had, for one moment, opened my eyes, I could have deduced that I really didn't understand how the electrical current flowed into the television to create light that was ordered in such a way as to carry information to the neurons in my brain.

It is easy to make rash judgments about surface level understanding, but real, objective knowledge is elusive. Knowledge requires time. The feeling of accomplishment I enjoyed driving around town lasted all but a week before I discovered my error by means of another broken alternator. They tell me there is a breaking point coming. This is the rock bottom of culture shock. Yet what if brokenness comes, but knowledge and understanding don't?

And why am I continually handed the excuse of culture shock? There is other knowledge in this world that seems equally elusive to me. Similar to cultural understanding, love has evaded me as well. Sometimes I can't help but wonder what I'm doing with my life. Did I miss a step somewhere along the way? Did I miss the memo senior year when my friends moved off campus to acclimate to real life while I dove deeper into the freshman bubble of Dorm 26? When my friends started getting married, was it wisdom or stubborness that caused me to ignore the fact that there was an alternate gender out there somewhere?

I am here now, so there must be some purpose. Perhaps, I am on the verge. Walking the main boulevard, I envision the next street corner being that proverbial breakthrough. To my right stands a cafe. At the height of the afternoon ciesta, every table is empty. That is, except one. Facing the street sits a tall, olive-skinned man. His arms rest on the table as he leans forward. Eyes waiting expectantly, in like fashion to the beggar I just passed. Eyes that eagerly pine for even a small portion of what could potentially be offered. He gazes into the face hidden to me by a veil.

I don't understand. I have no reference point for the love of which I have only heard. No feelings that tug at me when I see this man's joy. No true concept of what he experiences when he gazes deeply into eyes reserved only for him. For me, to love a woman is equal to culture shock. Perhaps, in time, I will understand love. Perhaps, in time, I will understand this city and these people. Perhaps, this understanding is just around the proverbial corner.

Passing the cafe, I arrive at the street corner for which I had hoped. Standing there, observing what had before been hidden by the cafe, I realize this next street looks no different than the last. I suppose life is the same. From each corner, every street looks the same. Unless I walk the street, I will never know what surprises await. New cafes. New alleys. New friends. Perhaps, something on this street will lead to my breakthrough. Until then, I walk the city streets alone.

Aslan's Pleasure (Revised)

Stripped. Naked. Exposed, all of me, to a staring world. As though born for the purpose of humiliation, I sit in my glass house, shamed. A spectacle disrobed before a race of those heavily clad. These clothe themselves in many layers, concealing parts given to greater honor, effectively hiding shame that befalls all without exception. It is with a perception of freedom that they build, brick upon brick, the wall that ensures independence and solitude.

As war ravages an entire land, so it comes to me. Once free, peaceful, and full, now bearing the quality of emptiness. Void of people, crops, homes and laughter. Void of laughter. Laughter that may never return. All stolen. Hauled off under cover of the night shadows. A land that lies in darkness, empty as the starless night that now consumes it. A land that longs for the peaceful ignorance it once knew.

Denuded and ravaged. This work done by the hand a man cannot know by means of his own devices. A deeper work. More exacting. Aimed at completion. With inhuman precision, the claws dig deep. My chest opens wide, seared not by intense heat, but with an icy cold. The cold spreads through my body like leaven as the last warmth flows from the wound into a puddle around my feet.

With one last breath, a glimmering hope causes me to stare into wild eyes before me. Endless eyes. Eyes that reveal a torrential sea, vast and violent. Lightning flashes. Thrown to and fro, the dreadful power of the storm pushes and pulls at my body threatening to devour me. A brief window of composure permits the sight of approaching land. Land grows larger, more defined, until, at last, I enter a river.

Moving upstream, my body is hurled from rock to rock. The water’s force beats down, pounding me into submission. Onward and upward, a strange force draws me into the unknown. Curiously, I discover my complete lack of pain. I feel nothing despite the brute indifference of the storm. By way of the river, I am taken into what appears to be a garden.

It is here that I first see the sun in this new world. The storm, the rain, the thunder and lightning, and howling wind are gone. Not that they ceased, for something must exist in order to cease. They are no more, as though they never were. As though I simply awoke from a childhood nightmare full of those things I could not consciously conjure in my imagination nor recall upon waking.

Confusion, fear, and panic all subside as a peace unlike any other consumes my body. I bask in the sunshine that illuminates a cloudless sky. The river flows on and on surrounded by rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see. Fruit trees of some kind I have not yet known. Trees scattered in a way wholly unlike the order a man would set an orchard, but ordered still. An order imposed by nature itself or, perhaps, a force greater than nature.

From the water I rise, carried by unseen hands into the center of a small grove of trees. I stand now before a man. Naked and unashamed, his eyes tell me that he has nothing to hide. He seems not to notice the invasion of the garden he tends. Through observation, I find that he is much like me, yet bears a strange, otherworldly quality. I wonder if I am still on earth or, perhaps, in a distant world yet to be tamed.

He is perfect. And complete. There is a glow that exudes from him, not unlike the glory one might envision of Moses coming down from the mountain. Joy. Peace. His eyes turns to a woman entering the small grove. Both naked, their gazes meet in perfect compassion, love, grace, and desire even, if necessary, to fully sacrifice for the other. Their gazes lack the gloss that comes over the eyes of people in my world as they suppress or, worse, conceal lust, greed, and selfishness.

Consciousness streams back. The lion remains, standing before me. New life flows through my veins. Yet the pain continues without mitigation. Slashing. Cutting. I turn and flee in miserable anguish only to find a trail of bloody scales marking the path from which I came. He cuts again. This deeper than the last, revealing, through the layers, a first sight of human flesh.

With the realization that the only true humanness in me has been deeply concealed comes the equally important understanding that I have not yet fully understood humanness. Standing in stark contrast to the man in the garden, my eyes are opened to the horror of what I really am. The dragon that always was. The lion pounces, tearing away more scales with his teeth to reveal a white stomach hidden since the garden. A rehabilitated criminal released from life in an 8x10 cell, I am freed into a new world that I cannot yet comprehend.

Taking my first steps from the cave, I am blinded by the great light hanging in the sky. I stare in wonder at its glory, while vainly grasping for more and more. Enraptured by this beautiful orb, fear invades. Fear that it may not be there tomorrow. I gasp deep breaths of air knowing that just as it is given so it can be taken away. Contrasting the stale, dead air of the cave, this is the air of freedom. Freedom from the shadows they think are reality in the depths of the cave I once called home. The cave I once called truth and beauty and reality. This new experience of true reality informs my soul. Never again will I trust the shadows of the cave.

I stand now before the lion, ready. Ready to learn to endure the pain. Yet, strangely, his eyes betray a smile. Another layer of truth penetrates my understanding as I recognize the deep warmth and love that greet me from the lion's eyes. Perhaps, on this side of eternity, I will never understand, or even experience, the full depths of the way he looks at me. But it is here, in his loving gaze, that I may share his joy. Not the smirk of an enemy pleasuring in my pain. But the smile of a wise father as his teary-eyed son, knees bloodied, falls into his arms. A knowing smile, he is well aware that the pain will make me a man.

He has more work to do. Tomorrow may yet be more painful than today. There are many scales that still remain. Lust of the eyes. Lust of the flesh. Pride of life. Weak and unworthy pleasures that bear empty promises of escape from the pain. Pleasures I formerly loved. Their power utterly confounded at the lion's bidding.

His pleasure is devastating. He is not safe, but he is good.