Keith G. Alderman

Sticky Situations

Sticky Situations
Chapter 6

The next day, the children felt awful at school. Staying up all night usually does that to a person. But not telling your parents or teachers the reason for your sluggish and sickly behavior makes everything even worse. No one understands or takes it easy on you. And every subject seemed inferior to the impending duty of finding and photographing mythical creatures around town. The Dolor children drudged through school in misery. But by the time they exited the bus with Aaron, a second wind of excitement hit them.

“I say we need a new plan,” Aaron said. “We split up and take photos of each.”

“Well, actually, I suggested that yesterday,” Esther informed.

“I don’t care,” Aaron said flatly. “Did you girls figure out what unicorns like?”

“Well, yes, but—” Marian began.

“Great,” Aaron replied. “The girls will go after the unicorn, and the men’ll go after the ape again. And I know where to get it.”

Marian and Esther didn’t like being bossed around, but they were too tired to argue. Herbert’s face turned pale. The thought of traveling alone with Aaron terrified him.

“Don’t worry, Herbie,” Aaron assured him with a smile and smack on the back. “I’ll look after ya.”

Reluctantly, Herbert followed Aaron on his bicycle around the neighborhood, the two boys veering and gliding while Aaron told Herbert about each house. “That place gives good candy on Halloween,” he said. And “there’s a mean dog in that yard”, and “that guy took a little kid once. Stay away from there.”

The boys came to the bottom of a large hill that neighborhood children used for racing. Herbert described it later as a mountainside. At the top, forgotten tractors rusted alongside gigantic mounds of dirt and rock at an abandoned construction site. The city deserted the project months ago, and the contractor left the equipment until the funding returned. Aaron scaled the hill without a problem, but it exhausted Herbert. He stopped his bike, defeated, a third of the way up to push it the rest.

“Some kids can’t make the climb!” Aaron hollered. “But you better get moving, or Barb’ll get ya!”

Herbert squinted his eyes at Aaron, about to ask who Barb was, when he heard a terrible honking and screeching noise. He turned from Aaron to see a large white mass of feathers and orange beak charging at him from the yard closest to him. It was a big angry goose, and it apparently did not appreciate Herbert near its house.

He screamed as it flung itself at him, the violent beak just missing his face. His little legs moved like lightning while the bird turned on its orange stick legs and ran at him again.

Honk! Honk!

The goose nipped at his shoes and pants.

“Run, Herbie, Run!” Aaron screamed from the top of the hill.

Sweat swept down Herbert’s face, slipping his glasses with them. He shoved them up his nose with his forearm, and the bike handle jerked sideways in his loose grip. The bicycle fell down, tangling up Herbert’s legs, dropping him to his knees and scraping the skin off.

Honk!

Herbert cowered under the bike frame. He peered through the cracks of his fingers and saw the giant white bird veering down on him. Its wings widespread. Its horrible red eyes glaring.Herbert shrieked. The bird wrenched its neck away and honked at something behind him. Herbert felt the sun disappear. The shadow of someone stood over him. The bird hissed. Herbert screamed again.

Aaron jumped over Herbert’s bicycle and slammed his foot into the bird’s abdomen. The goose flailed into the air, sideways, honking and screeching until hitting the ground several feet away. It picked itself up and ran back into its keeper’s yard, spluttering and cursing at the boys in defeat.

Herbert’s heart pounded. He looked up to see Aaron picking up his bicycle.

“Stupid bird,” Aaron said under his breath. He kicked the stand down on Herbert’s bike and set it upright.

“Thank you,” Herbert said.

“C’mon,” Aaron replied.

The two boys made the rest of the climb together. At the top, Herbert saw that the hill banked left and dropped into a large reservoir, a quarter of a mile wide. Miniature mountains of granite and coal scattered for hundreds of yards in each direction. In the distance was a green reservoir, full of flotsam and jetsam floating on oily water next to a rusty old school bus.

“What is this place?”

“Where we’re gonna prove that skunk apes exist,” Aaron replied. He dropped his bike on the ground after taking his backpack off the front of the handlebars. He strapped it to his shoulders and dropped down the side of a steep dirt hill.

Herbert laid his bike down and sat on the edge. The height frightened him, but knew he must keep up with Aaron, who was already racing off without him. His feet felt the side of the loose dirt and he scooted his butt down the soil.

By the time he landed on the bottom, Aaron was climbing another large embankment with a crane at the top. Herbert floundered across the loose dirt and rocky terrain until he reached the base of the colossal peak. He hated the idea of climbing such a steep hill of loose dirt, but knew Aaron was waiting for him at the top. He wandered the eastern edge, hoping to find a less frightening way up. The far end sloped downward, meeting the earth like a ramp. Unfortunately, an abandoned tar pit separated his way from it. He searched for a path through the pit, huffing and puffing across whatever dry boulders he could find. But the tar pit grew wider and the boulders smaller. And soon, he understood why Aaron had climbed the hill on the steep side.

“Herbie!” Aaron’s voice echoed through the construction site. He had forgotten about his friend and was now worried when he couldn’t find him.

“I’m here!” Herbert replied from below.

“What are you doing down there?” Aaron asked.

Herbert looked up the side of the embankment and saw a goofy Aaron smirking at him. Herbert put enough distance between himself and the tar pit to attempt climbing the embankment. It was loose dirt on the surface, but steadier rock lay underneath, making the climb less arduous than he expected.

After a few grueling minutes, he reached the top to see Aaron sitting in the crane operator’s seat. He shot up as Herbert came over the edge.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. He threw his backpack onto the ground and took out a large black hood and a gorilla mask from last Halloween.

Herbert looked at him, confused.

“I’m gonna put this on and take a stroll across that pond.” Aaron pointed at a large clear reservoir in front of the crane’s hill. A path of stones and plywood made a bridge across it. “And you are gonna stay up here and take photos with this camera.” He handed Herbert a disposable camera.

“We are gonna cheat?” Herbert asked.

“Shut up, Herbie.” He shoved the camera into Herbert’s hands and slid down the cliff with the mask and hood. Herbert sat down in the dirt while watching Aaron race across the pathway over the pond. He put the hood and mask on and waved his hands over his head, indicating to Herbert that he was ready. Herbert put the camera to his eye and watched through the tiny viewfinder. Aaron walked across the boards, draping his arms low and wide, and giving his best Bigfoot impression.

Click.

Herbert wound the film and put the camera to his eye again. Better to take two photos.

“Herbert Dolor,” a slithering voice whispered in Herbert’s ear. He dropped the camera, and it hit the ground beside a pair of crocodile-and-snakeskin shoes.

Click.

Herbert spun round to see Mr. Dauer.

“Where did you come from?” Herbert asked.

“You know, Herbert,” Mr. Dauer said. “I never thought I’d see you stoop so low as to cheating and lying.”

Herbert looked at the camera on the ground.

“Then again,” Mr. Dauer said, “it’s not the first time you withheld the truth to get out of doing something the hard way. Seems you are making some bad habits, Herbert.”

“I think you should leave,” Herbert whispered.

“That’s cute—trying to sound like your big sister.” Mr. Dauer laughed, and his neck twitched. “I bet it’s not a habit at all, is it, Herbert? I bet it’s just the kind of boy that you are. A boy that makes friends with bad kids like Aaron and lies to get away with things.”

“Who the—heck—are you!?” Aaron hollered. His head was popped up over the edge of the embankment and his hands clambering to pull his body the rest of the way. He was out of breath from running to the hill as soon as he saw Herbert was not alone.

“Aaron White,” Mr. Dauer greeted him with a smile that disappeared into a scowl as the filthy boy stood to his feet. “What a pitiful sight you are.”

“Beat it, grandpa,” Aaron fired back. “Who invited your cripply old bag o’ bones up here with us?”

“Herbert, of course,” Mr. Dauer said. “We were only discussing his recent descent into sin and loathsome behavior.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I descend onto you with my fist and foot, you ugly butt-munch. Get away from Herbie and get away from us.”

“Oh, you’re such a creative young boy, Aaron.” Mr. Dauer brushed his hands together and a white cloud of dust sprung up into the air. “Did you learn that vocabulary from your pitiful upbringing of a father? Or do you not even remember him before his imprisonment?” He took a step toward the boys. Herbert took a step back, extremely aware that the three of them were completely alone.

“Oh! I know—” Mr. Dauer continued. “It’s because of that teacher who always gives you F’s instead of listening.”

“Jokes on you, jagweed—I don’t even care about my grades!”

“Clearly.” Mr. Dauer straightened his back and looked disinterested. He took another step toward the boys. Aaron remained motionless, but Herbert stepped back.

“Herbert, if I can give any advice,” he opened his hands like a mentor. “Better be careful, walking so close to the edge. You never know when you might fall.”

Aaron looked at Herbert just as the soil came from underneath him. Herbert felt his stomach leap into his chest as he slid down the side of the hill. His head smacked into the rock face under the loose soil, and his body tumbled the rest of the way. Aaron slid after him. He watched Herbert’s body disappear behind a plume of dust and sand.

Herbert had landed in the tar pit. The black asphalt crept up his legs and chest. He screamed for help and flailed his arms and legs under the thick, viscous sludge.

“Herbert!” Aaron yelled as he came through the cloud of dust. “Don’t move, Herbert! I’ll get something to help!” Herbert was only a few feet away, but out of Aaron’s reach.

He found a two-by-four sticking out of the dirt and dust at the bottom of the hill. Yanking it free, he lunged one end at Herbert, who was bawling, face up in the pit with eyes closed.

“Herbert, grab the pole!” Aaron instructed.

Herbert opened his eyes and took hold of the splintered wood beam. Aaron pulled with all his might, and Herbert slid through the muck toward him. Before he moved a foot, the wood slipped through Herbert’s palms and slit them open. He sunk back to his initial spot in the tar.

“Oh, God!” Aaron screamed. “For Pete’s sake!”

He threw the two-by-four out again, and Herbert took hold anxiously. With two great heaves, Aaron pulled Herbert to the edge of a boulder. The boys locked arms and Aaron pulled him out. They rolled on their backs, Aaron laughing hysterically and Herbert weeping. Aaron felt bad and wrapped his arms around the small, sticky boy.

“I’m sorry, Herbert,” Aaron said. He looked up and Mr. Dauer was gone. “Figures,” he muttered. He looked beside him and saw the camera. It had fallen down after them.
Chapter Thirteen

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 13

The sky was overcast; the bahia turned green to blue. He walked a well-worn path of pebbles up a piedmont. The valley stretched for miles with nothing but grass in every direction. The wind swept along the surface, bending the tips in glorious waves while their seeds caught the edge of the swell and took to the sky. In the center of it all, at the crest of a large hill, stood the stone manor.

It took him an hour to reach it. His feet ached on the path; they were not used to hard and loose surfaces. With every step, he doubted Arvor’s survival and thought of the folly of his venture. The alluring Manor’s romance drove him forward.

When he came to the top of the hill, an arcade wall ran along the path. Hiding beneath the arches, he stole from pillar to pillar. He hadn’t yet thought of how to sneak up to the place.

He was close enough to see the manor well now. The masonry chipped and crumbled; the stones stained black and silver from years of burning in the sun. Vast and numerous gardens surrounded the mansion, choking once beautiful sculptures in their overgrown weeds and vines. A calm breeze swept through the arches and whispered in his ear.

At the top of the Manor was a belvedere, between ornate chimneys and arches. Fox watched a man ambling between the crenellations.

He pressed himself under the arcade’s shadow. He waited a moment before stepping back into the sunlight. What he was always certain of happened. He felt the blade of a knife press against his back. The calm hushed voice of a sack-cloth clad man spoke behind him. Then the world became black, and he felt like he was floating in the air.

Fox came to. Painful flashes of red and orange, yellow and white burst in front of his eyes. He was in a stupor; his head pounded and his back ached. The colors left and nothing made sense. Darkness enveloped him; he didn’t know if his eyes were even open anymore.

He sensed a cramped room. The cold echo revealed they made it of stone, and the stale air put him underground. His eyes acclimated to the darkness; a thin sheen of blue light crept from some window far away behind many corridors and walls, like a heavy fog crawling over a wetland. The room was only a few feet wide with nothing but himself in it. A dark passageway on the far side led to an unknown corridor.

The stone was under him; he realized his face was against the floor of a dungeon and his wrists secured behind him. Someone removed his shirt and loafers while he lay senseless. A familiar pitter-patter was tapping the rock beneath him. His weight shifted and his fingertips felt the chilly dampness of blood. His back was bleeding; he recalled being whipped and beaten before he lost consciousness.

A whisper came from the shadows, out there beyond the passageway.

Then a deeply set voice responded.

Then a faraway door creaking open and slamming shut.

“Hullo?” Fox called out in English.

A considerable amount of time passed, though Fox was uncertain of any sort of length. A sackcloth-clad man came into the room at one point and placed a wooden chair. He said nothing, refused to look at Fox, and exited.

The sound of the door creaked open and again slammed shut.

Fox heard footsteps in the corridor. Every step echoed with confidence. The stone walls shuddered with demonic power.

Fox was breathless. His mind reeled with anticipation and nightmarish pictures. What was he to see on the other side of the sound?

The sound itself was more terrible than the instrument. It was a thing that echoed on and on, without clarity or physical attribute. A thing that creates imaginations in the mind; ones of terror and monster. The brush of a wall can be the breath of a devil; the snap of a twig can be the footstep of a beast. It was almost worse to wait on the outside breath of defeat than to face it with clarity and suffering. It was better to see what monster is under the bed than to lay all night wondering when it will come out to eat you.

It was deafening, a torment that collapsed into his soul. He closed his eyes and gave his heart away to defeat and tragedy. Nothing was in him now but to discover the face of the demon behind the name, the one that no man dared to mention on the damned island.

The steps grew louder and louder still—until he knew they were just behind the passageway. They shuffled back and forth in the dust, and he heard the deep-set voice again. Finally, in came his accuser.

Fox was frightened, albeit disappointed, when greeted by an elderly man. His face was crooked and his eyes lazy, the look of a smug and disingenuous adolescent. A silvery robe crowned his shoulders and fell to the stone floor. He looked at Fox with disdain and pursed his lips.

Fox lay motionless and quiet.

“Do you know who I am?” The man spoke first.

“You are Watano.”

The man smiled, curtly. He sat in the seat across the room.

“Voice of the Sky-god.” Fox pushed himself up from the floor. “I am Vulpunei—”

“No. That is the name the people gave you. You aren’t worthy of that name. No—I shall call you Criança instead.”

“What is this place?”

“Uada, Criança.” Watano smiled. “Home of the gods.”

“Where did it come from?”

“It was made long ago by those who perished. They lived in deceit like the fox, and because of it, Jikanei came and took them. They are unworthy.”

Watano’s attention wandered around the room, and for a moment the two men sat in silence.

“The Liberi don’t work in stone and mortar,” Fox mused.

“Many ships came. And with them, men like you. At first they came with gestures of kindness. But the future revealed their hearts.”

The pocket-knife!

“It is now a place of worship. A place for the gods to lie down. A place for the Voice to rest his throat. It is now worthy. Only seen by those worthy and unworthy—those like me, and those like you.”

“Where is Arvor?” Fox said, unimpressed.

“Who?”

“The man that you brought here two weeks ago. My friend.”

“You have something confused. I don’t bring and brought. I only say and see.”

He could feel it in his pocket just at the tips of his fingers.

“Did Arvor become unworthy?” Fox was indignant, dripping in hatred.

“I find it exuberantly remarkable—if not flamboyantly amusing—that an Englassman could ever look at me with such disdain. The product and legacy of such a race that raped and destroyed my island. All of it chunnelled into a pitiful specimen sitting before me. And it has the gall to look at me in this manner. You—Criança—are the very definition of unworthy.” Watano stood and looked down on Fox. “Who is unworthy is he that Watanei no longer looks upon.”

“And you decide who Watanei sees?”

“I am the Voice of Watanei.”

He sat back down.

“How long have you been here?” Fox asked.

“Long enough to know what is at the end. Through me, the people know what tomorrow brings and despise it. Through me, we can laugh today.”

He was sawing the thick rope along his wrist.

“So you aren’t one of them?”

“How can a god be a man?”

“They are afraid of this place,” Fox retorted. “They live afraid to speak and think. They—”

“—They are trees without leaves,” Watano interrupted. “An ocean without waves.” He stood and walked about in circles like a stage actor. “Aquilei the Eagle was the symbol of hope and love.” The Voice stared up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, nobly. He drooped his head and shook it. “But those symbols grew to be too burdensome when things needed doing. So I broke the wings off the idea—and made it unworthy. The eagle is a predator. It is a reminder that all are lower.”

A rope was untethered.

“I know your thoughts, you know.” Watano smiled. “I can see it on your skin. You think what I do is hurting them. But it’s what they deserve. It’s what they need.” Something agitated Watano; he squirmed in his chair. “Aren’t you going to ask why you are here?”

Fox remained silent.

“You don’t even care about what you came for.”

He threw the Traveler’s watch at him.

“Don’t you care about what you desire!” He screamed.

He calmed himself and sat down elegantly. “I like to have conversation with those that are unworthy. There’s nothing satisfying about having cattle that don’t cry. You want to see that they care about their loss. The doe lays down when she is hit with an arrow, because she has nothing left to do but rest and sleep. But they—they should be better than that!

“It’s in the eyes,” he stood, with a vision in his heart, “you see that they lost a thing of hope—the deer, of course, they no longer care to survive. They sleep in their death having not a hope. But these ones—the Liberi—they have to be taught all over again it were ever possible to have hope. You have to bring them out of being the doe and into a god again.

“If not I—than who—who can ascend into the clouds and bring it to them, that they may hear it and do it? Who will go over the sea for them and bring it to them, that they may hear it and do it? But the Voice is very near you now, before your mouth and in your eyes, that you may do it.

“I bring them the truth of their unworthiness. They once were gods, but now are not. And when they see that—when they look upon me—who ascends and crosses over—that is when I see the satisfaction of their unworthiness.”

The second rope was free. His hands could move. The little pocket knife would never do in a fight, but it could pry a stone free.

“If you liken them to gods,” Fox asked, “why do you prevent them from thinking?”

“No, see—they already are gods. They just forgot when the Englassmen came to teach them otherwise. And in that, they became animals again.”

“So tell them. Let them think. Let them choose.”

“Faith is necessary. If questions are asked, the thinker becomes unworthy.”

“So you hold them afraid and ignorant all the while punishing them for not maturing?”

Watano clenched his jaw. “An animal cannot find its way to being a god. He must be brought there. And when he is there, he is free to ponder. One cannot stand on the shore and be swimming in the ocean at the same time.”

“What about the little ones you take—Why take them?”

“Economics. The wet season is inevitable. The storms will grow stronger, more frequent. And when that happens, our crops will drown. We will be in famine.” He stared at the ceiling. “The little ones serve no purpose. When the harvest runs out, we will need to feed on something. Why not on the ones that are only taking and never giving? The Voice decides who is to be sufficient.”

The room felt smaller, darker, and hopeless.

Fox felt the rain outside from the sweetness in the air.

“Surely, you aren’t implying you eat the children to survive?”

“The future is against us, Criança. And I am the one to see us defeat it—”

“Your children are your future?! How will you survive if you are destroying it?”

Watano was reverent.

The blade was digging deep around the edges of a stone, pulling the dirt and mortar.

“The crops are healthy now,” Fox said, hurriedly. “Why take the little girls?”

“Fruits and vegetables are not the only crops that matter. They feed the stomach. What will feed my carnal desire if not those who serve no other purpose? I feast on whomever I wish.”

“How in all of God’s creation did you convince your people—”

“—Convince?! I am a living god. Mine is not to convince or teach! I speak and see, they live and obey.” He relaxed his shoulders and leaned back.

“I see—” Watano smiled liked a curt teacher. “you are asking me of the politics of the matter. Are you taking lessons in your own deity? Well,” he sighed, “as long as we forbid writing—and punish the cattle for speaking of the gods—it’s simple. After all, an animal must be kept an animal until the day they become a god like us. When that happens, they will think and write—until that day—lead however you like.”

The blade broke. Fox’s heart sank; he thought Watano might hear. He scratched and dug his nails into the mortar. A stone budged to the left.

“So you took Arvor because he told me about you.” Fox mused.

“The ideas of rebellion are rooted in the unworthy. His purpose was rebellion. Don’t make me speak of him again.”

Fox was silent.

Watano leaned forward in his seat. “We must all die for the past. The future is against us. In our death, we honor our ancestors and in our fear we respect our outcome.”

“You think fearing the future—never changing, never evolving—is good?”

The stone was a loose tooth at the edge of freedom. Blood was sliding down his fingers from what was left of his mangled nails.

“The future is unworthy. It’s diseased. It is death. On the other side of the Marshlands, where only Jikanei lives. I have seen that death. I look upon it every morning.”

“Who is he?”

“Jikanei? He is the god of death. The one at the end.”

“Why doesn’t he live here then?”

Watano chuckled. “You almost made me think you were intelligent.”

“I’m starting to think you actually believe the lies you vomit on your people.”

“I am the Voice. I can only speak the truth. Whatever I say and do is god.”

“But you break your own laws.” The stone budged to the right. “You eat the animals. You speak idly of the gods. You abuse the children. You murder men and women. You—”

“My hand cannot be bent. Therefore, whatever I do is done by Watanei.”

He stood and walked forward.

Fox straightened and looked up at him.

Watano pulled a long blade from under his gown and struck Fox in the side. “And now this is done,” he whispered in his ear.

Fox’s hip poured out as Watano pulled the knife. He screamed in agony, bending over double.

Watano cleaned his blade, pulled his gown forward and sheathed it. “I thought you would be more interesting to converse. But you are just like the cattle. You aren’t anything but a child.”

He turned to leave but stopped at the entryway. “The men would have killed you for being at the feet of the monolith Cultus,” he said. “When they found you on the other side of the marshes, they feared you were Jikanei. When they found you dining at the feet of Cultus, it made them angry. But had it not been for their fear of the fox—” he trailed off. “I see now that their error almost convinced me otherwise of what I always knew to be. You’re not a god, you’re just like the rest.”

“And how do you know I’m not the Fox-god?” He replied weakly.

“Don’t amuse me now, you’re already beyond the Marshlands.”

Fox gasped for breath. “I wasn’t meant to die here—” Watano left the room. “I wasn’t even meant to live here.” He fell onto his back and cried out, holding his side.

The man with the deep-set voice came into the dungeon, clad in sackcloth. Fox turned on his stomach. In the darkness he ran his bloody hands along the ground searching for the loose brick. The man was at him and kicked him in the side. Fox screamed. His hands were shaking while they searched. They felt the loose tooth.

He gripped and pulled with every ounce left in him. It ripped from its stone gum. He leapt to his feet and came at the man with all his might.

The rock crashed against the skull and cracked in two. The man fell into the black and all was silent. Fox was gasping for breath, his head was dizzy, his eyes were red. He fell to one knee. A whisper of the steady gush of blood came from somewhere in the darkness.

He caught his breath and rose to his feet. He raced out of the passageway and ran into another jailor. He pushed him against the wall and the man fell easily at his feet. He didn’t slow down to look, but raced down the corridor for the door at the end. With every pace the darkness dissipated and more of the thin hallway came into view.

He threw his body into the door and it flung open. Another long corridor lay ahead, lit by lanterns along the ceiling. A number of doors led to unseen rooms. Banners, busts, and stone statues of long ago royalty covered in moss and vegetation lined the halls. He kept forward and could feel the air growing sweeter and lighter. The floor was damp and he felt the sense he was running upwards at an angle.

He turned another corner and continued toward the sound of rain outside. At the end of this hall, he met a flight of stairs leading to a wooden bulwark. He threw his body into it and almost fell back down the stairs from the impact. Again, he charged the bulwark until it gave. He could hear the rain pounding against the outside of the door. He backed down the steps and again he charged into the wall until it tore from its hinges.

The rain thundered and crashed through the broken wood. He grabbed hold and squeezed his body through the broken pieces. In seconds, he was on the soggy ground, gasping for air, the rain falling on him. He was free.
On Forgiveness: The Thing from the Stars

Doing the Right Thing at the Wrong Time. Or doing the Wrong Thing at the Right Time.

Oh, what a cosmic joke it is to hope and believe for all to align and stand amidst the Right Thing in the Right Time! God looked at us—an animal needing to eat, sleep, defecate, and procreate—and said, “Good, now become a god”.

He sent His Son to show us this horrible feat and left it up to us, listening to His Spirit, reading his Word, and arguing with one another, to find out what it could mean. To live, not only for Him, but like Him.

I have wrestled and wandered, and in the driven pursuit of health and freedom, I have frantically begged God to heal me, that I may move on quickly, with nothing in me, but Joy and Peace, and from those things: Purpose. Alas, it is not God holding me back from eternal health in my soul. It is myself. It is the thing that I would hold on to instead of releasing.

Forgiveness is foreign—meaning quite literally, that it is from God’s country and not our own.

Nothing in the animal kingdom forgives; betrayal is met with violence and abandonment. Only until after the wolf has been beaten into submission will it be allowed to fall in with the pack; only until the challenging bull elephant has left the parade will the rest of the family rest. And frankly, the submission of the wolf has little to do with honor, and more with waiting for the next opportunity. Forgiveness is not in us. It’s from the stars.

Haven’t we learned by now that we are trying to accomplish the impossible? Acquitting someone of all judgment for the felony they have created in our lives is damnable; every sin is worthy of death, no matter how great or small.

Our individual lives are strung together by offense after unfair wrongdoing, and yet we somehow learn to cope and coexist in this process of “that’s just how life is”.

And a misguided ideal, handed down by better men and women before us, has led us to some strange country of believing forgiveness is necessary for some, and unattainable in others. That it is required of little children—“forgive your brother”, “say sorry”, “hug it out”—and with others, it’s best to hold that bitterness and never forget, never forgive, never trust again.

Unfortunately, most of us are not treated to the revelation that this act—Forgiveness—is something no one was ever naturally supposed to do, much less able to do. Forgiveness is God’s identity, therefore it lies in the spiritual realm, outside of our day-to-day, brushing-our-teeth routine, on the other side of Time and Space, where Joy and Beauty have faces.

And so, with this deep-rooted ideal that we are “supposed” to forgive, coupled with the lack of understanding that we can’t do this without God’s presence, we try our best in life to “forgive and forget”, until the moment comes that we are truly betrayed, hurt or abused. And in that moment, we throw up our hands, committing ourselves to extreme bitterness and un-forgiveness—it’s not that we can’t forgive them, now it is that we wish we never met, or worse, that they didn’t exist, or that we ourselves had never been born.

Our childlike belief that forgiveness is something “we just do” catalyzes our bitterness and frustration when we realize we can’t do it. And we ignore our bitterness and hatred, trying not to look at it, until something or someone reminds of us it—pokes the wound with one simple word But to us, it feels like a screwdriver driven up our kidneys and twisted out the intestine.

Do they deserve forgiveness? Of course not! No one deserves forgiveness. What they deserve is death. Just like you and me.

Should we forgive? Of course! If for no other reason, then Christ forgave us.

When we understand that God’s perfect will for our lives involves us learning to forgive, even at its hardest, most unruly, damnable moments, we see that we, in fact, aren’t stuckin our lives because we can’t forgive; we are stuck because we won’t forgive.

Now, for the sake of the argument (and saying that which every good(?) teacher says, to cover every one of his or her political bases), it’s important to understand that most of us misconstrue the idea of what forgiveness is. We hear phrases like “forgive and forget”, and immediately think, “there is no way I could forgive that person, because I will never forget what they did to me.” But forgiveness is not bridging a relationship after blindly forgetting your hurt, and thus, making you susceptible to more torment or abuse—it is simply the act of letting go of someone’s throat. (That being said, many times, you and I are nothing more than bitter ants arguing over vomit in the lineup and who gets to swallow it first. Our “abuse” is small. Show me 100 men who have been abused, and I’ll show you 1 that has surrounded by 99 insecure-sycophants.)

It’s also important to note, and this I do fully believe in, that while the initial forgiveness of someone may be a simple statement and belief, the walking out of sin (and yes, refusing to forgive is sin) and into faith (just like any other) may take time, even years to accomplish fully. But if we continue to release our grip from around the neck, reminding ourselves, openly speaking, and thus hearing our forgiveness, we will see our bitterness disappear and our offense dissolve. The hurt may never go away, but we will be free of its bondage.

We cannot write people off in our lives, even due to betrayal. Jesus is our example here, in that those closest to him betrayed again him and again, and yet he embodied forgiveness, allowed them back into His life, and gave them great purpose. On the night of His death, Jesus was betrayed once by Judas and thrice by Peter. Judas was led by a demonic possession and greed that twisted his mind out of control and reason. Peter was led by a fear that caused him to doubt his faith and love in Jesus.

Oftentimes, we assume people’s wrongdoing toward us is because of some inveterate evil inside of them. Frankly, the chief proponent of someone’s selfish or sinful act is fear, rather than innate evil.

(Insecurity. What a god-forsaken thing! Fermenting in our dead souls from the fertilization of Pride and Arrogance.)

When people lie, it’s because they are afraid the truth will bring them punishment or lose them someone’s trust; when they steal, they are afraid they will never have enough; when they cheat, they are afraid they aren’t capable or talented enough to make it the honest way; when they are unfaithful to a spouse, it’s because they are afraid that spouse won’t love or satisfy them the way they need; when they intoxicate themselves, it’s from a fear they won’t find joy or satisfaction any other way; when they are proud, it’s because they fear they won’t matter without their own boasting. Sin is the product of fear. Fear comes from not knowing who God is and who we are in His sight.

Upon realizing that a person’s treachery has little in common with a sadistic and malevolent spirit, and more in common with an abandoned child, we find it easier to forgive. Stop holding someone’s offense toward you as a judge would and start viewing it as a cry for help.

Now, again, I’m not advocating we openly allow ourselves to be walked over, used and abused by any individual that so tries. What did Jesus do with Peter after his betrayal? He had breakfast with him. He restored his soul. He asked him again and again where his allegiance lied, and if he loved Him. And it wasn’t until many months after Peter’s conviction and repentance that Jesus began using him to do great and powerful things for the Church again.

So should we follow the example: Release the neck. Restore the relationship. Empower the individual. If they are unwelcoming to restore the relationship, then it waits in limbo until the day of growth and maturation. And when maturation comes, Security and Faith come with it, and with those things, Power.

Your season doesn’t determine your story! Regardless of where you find yourself today in your ability, sin, or un-forgiveness toward others, everything can change in an instant by you choosing to live free. Nothing holds you back from becoming that, except yourself.

We all are to blame; all of us have dirt on our faces and blood on our hands.

We all took part in nailing Jesus to the cross with our sins. And it’s not the accumulation of mankind’s sin that put Him on the cross; it was one sin, just as much as it was all of our sins.

Quite remarkably, God the Father looks at us differently. He looks past the imperfections and sees someone He can use to do great and mighty things with and change history. He looks at us like He looked at Peter, and sees a worthy and powerful apostle, while all the rest of his comrades only saw a fisherman with his foot in his mouth.

And so He forgives us, choosing to forget our offense, while using our past (both good and bad), to propel us toward His perfect plan for our lives.
Vinnie the Rat

Vinnie the Rat
Chapter 5

The kids rode in mob formation down a beaten-up road. Herbert, Esther and Marian felt out of their element, unaware this part of their neighborhood even existed. But enough kids knew about it. Children, younger and older, rode bicycles up and down the street, racing one another, cruising with no hands, and popping wheelies. Broken pieces of rock, dirt, and gravel scattered across the worn out road, crunching under their wheels. An older kid sailed off the back of a piece of plywood propped up on a pair of paint cans before his back wheel came from underneath and threw him into the asphalt. His body rolled along the rocky ground and slid into the drain gutter. Marian’s mouth dropped. Esther cringed. Herbert closed his eyes.

“Nice landing, jerk!” Aaron yelled as they passed by.

A couple of kids laughed as they helped the boy up. He winced in pain when he saw his bloody elbow. The Dolor children refused to dally and stayed with Aaron.

“Why do they call him Vinnie the Rat?” Marian asked.

“Is he an actual rat?” Herbert asked.

“Is his dad an exterminator?” Esther asked.

Aaron shook his head. “I don’t know what his parents do. They don’t live here. This is his grandma’s house. He’s here every day, running his store on her front porch.” The kids stopped their bicycles at the end of a cul-de-sac and approached a cute, white cottage. “A while back, Vinnie started selling his toys off, and no one knows why. Then he started buying and trading. Next thing—he’s got a ton of items everybody wants. He sells most for cheap—unless he knows you really want it.”

Aaron opened a screened porch door and held it behind him a second longer than normal for the Dolors to enter. “Vinnie!” He cheerfully hollered.

A frail boy wearing round-wired silver glasses and a bowtie sat in a rocking chair with a concise dictionary on his lap. His hair was greased and parted down the middle like mothers make their boys for picture day. He looked up from the dictionary and his eyes narrowed when he saw Aaron. Marian recognized him at once from her class. He sat near the front and didn’t talk much.

“Open for business,” he recited. Esther giggled at his nasally voice. She wondered if it was the cause behind his nickname.

“We’re looking for a book, Vinnie,” Aaron began.

“A logbook!” Esther interjected. “The logbook of Ponce de León!”

Aaron made a funny face at her like he didn’t expect her to speak.

“A logbook?” Vinnie responded, staring at the metal porch roof.

“We think—well, it should tell us about his journey through Florida,” Marian added.

Vinnie the Rat jumped from his seat. He was about the size of Esther, but walked around like he was a grown-up. “I suppose I know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Can it, Rat,” Aaron said. “We know you got it from my Paw-Paw.”

Vinnie smiled.

“I will give it back,” Vinnie said. “But—it’s going to cost you.”

“What do you want, Rat?” Aaron asked flatly.

“How much you got?”

The kids each thought of what they considered valuable. Marian’s fish Sparkles. Esther’s lizard Lemon. Herbert’s Allosaurus claw replica. But none of them could imagine parting with them, and they were sure Vinnie wouldn’t regard them as precious, anyway. Marian assumed Vinnie was quiet and sweet in class. But now thought otherwise. She feared they would never get what they needed, especially in time to help her father.

“Hi, Vinnie,” Marian said. “I’m Marian. We are in the same class.”

Vinnie looked her up and down, well aware of who she was.

“It’s very important that we find this logbook. We are trying to help my parents and our town. I know you don’t really know us—but whatever you can do to help—please, we need your help finding this book.”

Vinnie pushed the glasses up his nose and sniffed.

“C’mon, Vinnie,” Aaron said. “Help us out!”

“All the grown-ups and news keep talking about some strange creatures in our neighborhood,” he said.

The children looked at each other like someone had caught them shop-lifting.

“I bet a lot of people would pay a lot of money to prove something like that,” Vinnie continued. “Enough money someone could retire on. You get me a photo of one of those creatures they keep showing on the news—and I’ll get you your logbook.”

“How in the world do you think we are supposed to do that, Vinnie?” Aaron asked.

“The same way you expect me to hand over a five-hundred-year-old logbook.” Vinnie replied. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his rocking chair, picked the dictionary up, and continued reading.

The four kids met under the live oak at the Dolor house. The sunset rested on their faces and turned them pink and orange. Marian held her mother’s camera while the others leaned on their bicycles in the grass.

“Mom showed me how to use her camera,” Marian said. She turned the camera over in her hands, examining the buttons and switches. “One of these is the shutter speed.” Marian clicked a button and heard a mechanism slide inside. “There—that should help with the lighting.”

“Are you sure she won’t get mad?” Esther asked.

Marian thought about it for a moment. “No, this is serious business. It’s not like we are playing with it.”

Esther conceded with that logic and nodded.

“I bet the Fountain of Youth is real,” Aaron mused, with his arms draped across his bicycle’s handlebars. “I bet that’s what Ponce meant when he said the forest hides the world’s greatest secret.”

“Marian and I saw a scroll on the gate that looked like a fountain,” Esther replied with a smile.

“Think about finding the Fountain of Youth,” Aaron continued. “We would be famous. And rich. And live forever.”

“Think about our father, who has a vampire for a boss,” Marian snapped. “Who cares about fame right now?”

“I do,” Aaron replied flatly.

“We saw the ape Thursday night when it came out of the woods,” Esther said.

“And it had no problem jumping on the roof,” Herbert added.

“That’s right!” Marian agreed. “My guess is it likes to hang out in the trees.”

“Ape’s don’t do that!” Aaron said. “Every picture out there of it is some blurry dark image walking through a field at a distance.”

“You’re thinking of Bigfoot,” Esther said.

“Same difference. I say we find a big open field and wait for him to walk through it.”

“Why would it do that?” Marian said. “It could be any field, any time, any day.”

“If we don’t know how to attract the skunk ape, should we go after the unicorn?” Esther asked. “Or we can split up and go for both.”

“That’s a good idea, Ess,” Marian said.

“We can worry about the unicorn later,” Aaron said. “We stick together and put all our efforts into the big, nasty ape. Paw-Paw took me to meet some guy who studies skunk apes in Ochopee last summer. I know what’ll attract it.”

“So we set up a trap at the house,” Marian said. “And try to capture a photo tonight.”

The kids’ imaginations raced while they pictured the ape in their yard again.

“Hogs and berries,” Aaron said.

“What?” Herbert asked.

“That’s what we need to feed it. Hogs and berries.”

“What about the unicorn?” Esther asked.

Aaron kicked his stand up. “I know what to get,” he said. “You figure out what to feed unicorns. I’ll head home and meet you back here tonight.” Before they responded, he sped off toward his house.

That night, the girls waited an hour after bedtime before sneaking upstairs to Herbert’s room. They found him snoring in bed. Herbert sleeps deeply, and the girls shoved him onto the ground before he woke up.

Thud!

It didn’t make him angry though, because he remembered why they came. The three Dolor children crept downstairs. They went out the sliding-glass doors at the back of the living-room, because the patio door attached to the kitchen would be too loud and the front door was too conspicuous. Outside, they rounded the back of the house and sat in front of the patio, under the dark cover of the live oak and Esther’s favorite blanket.

“What time did he say he would show up?” Esther asked.

Before Marian answered, the kids heard the rattle of bicycle spokes and an unfamiliar ring. Then, a spring slapping metal, and they imagined Aaron leaning his bike against the front of the house.

“Ow!” Aaron cried. “Stupid animal!” There was a scuffle and the yelp of a small mammal.

The kids’ eyes finished adjusting to the darkness, and Aaron came into the backyard.

“Did you bring a hog?” Herbert asked him excitedly.

“I ain’t catching no hog!” Aaron hollered. His harsh voice frightened the Dolors, afraid their parents might hear.

“But it’s not a big deal,” Aaron continued. “I brought my older sister’s chihuahua.”

They looked down at the leashed brown dog next to Aaron’s feet. He tied it around the base of the oak and emptied a pocketful of blueberries next to it before finding his place next to the Dolor children on the back porch.

It wasn’t long before the children felt sleepy. Hunting for animals, whether to shoot with a gun or camera, can take a very long time. The conditions must be just right, and even then, it seems always to be up to chance. The chihuahua slept under the tree, ants busily ate the blueberries, and the children became apprehensive.

Marian looked at her brother and sister, asleep on top of one another. She turned to Aaron, who seemed to be wide awake and staring at the dog.

“Do you think it will come?” She asked.

“Shh,” Aaron whispered. “I told you hunting is all about being quiet and still.”

Marian pursed her lips and half-rolled her eyes.

“If it doesn’t, we may have to take matters into our own hands,” Aaron whispered. “And if does, we need to be ready to run. Skunk Ape’s don’t like their pictures taken. It could become violent.”

Marian didn’t know what to think of that. Her imagination trailed off, and she thought about the first time she saw an alligator. Mr. Dolor and she had hiked in the Wildlife Management Area Tosohatchee when she was little. They had come upon a small lake, and Marian went too close to the water. Mr. Dolor scooped her up in his arms before a big splash erupted right next to her. She never saw the ten-foot alligator. But Dad did. He always saw those things. He put her on his knee and called the gator back with a special noise, mimicking baby alligators. It scared her, but she knew she was safe with her father watching it.

Nothing made sense at this new house. His new job and trying to “make it big” consumed Dad. Marian always thought they had lots of money. But apparently not enough to satisfy Dad. The two of them hadn’t hiked in a couple years.

She remembered taking the picture again and got excited. It hadn’t crossed her mind yet, but if they captured a good photo, their parents would have to believe them. The children wouldn’t even need Vinnie or the logbook. Their parents could call the right people, get it in the News, and tell the police. Someone older and more experienced could take care of it. Maybe Dad and she would even go for a hike in the forest before sealing it up. She wouldn’t be alone. Things would be like they used to be again. And maybe she would get on the News like that weird guy and old lady talking about snakes and toxic waste. That would be neat.

Marian snapped out of it when she heard a loud snore. Next to her, Aaron leaned against the house, fast asleep. She sighed and dropped her head between her shoulders. She leaned over and pushed him. He jolted awake and became very cranky.

Without more discussion than grunts and groans, the two understood they needed to give up. Aaron stood and stumbled toward the tree. His sister’s chihuahua sat up happily, ready for a walk. Aaron tied the leash around his bicycle handlebar and rode away, wobbling down the dark road, glistening from the dew under the moonlight.

“Esther, Herbert,” Marian whispered, and tapped their shoulders.

The two opened their eyes and stretched their arms into the air.

“Where’s Aaron?” Esther asked.

“Did we get the photo?” Herbert yawned, but he didn’t really care.

“It’s really late,” Marian said. She led her brother and sister inside to their beds before crawling into her own. A thought flashed across her mind that her parents might believe her if she had that photo. She frowned, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 12

Fox became a pariah among the Liberi and it drove him mad. Though, they shunned him indirectly. They merely stopped seeing him, as if his presence irritated them. He was a gnat stinging their shins and elbows by the fire; one that they believed would go away if they simply ignored long enough.

He slept outside of the village and was unwelcome at the evening fire. He fancied abandoning them altogether if not for his loyalty to Arvor and his hatred of the faceless Watano. The investigation was grueling. No one would speak to him, and those that did, did so hushed and afraid.

It lasted a fortnight of this—hearing whispers and discomfort in the darkness. He had all but given up hope, ready to return to the beach, when he came upon fortune at the outskirts, along a crop of wheat and barley. A group of sack-cloth clad men harassed a mother and daughter. They pushed the woman down into the dirt and ripped her daughter from her arms.

The woman fought, scrambling, scratching, biting and bruising. But her voice sounded like a pitiful whimper. One man held her down with his foot and another dragged the child away. The child lay frozen in the arms of her captor, like a fledgling fallen from the nest.

Fox made out, “Jikarai is coming.”

The men withdrew. The woman left despondent in pain, alone and broken; it was his opportunity. She mimicked Ina, curled against the tree and crying for her daughter.

“They took your daughter,” Fox said.

The woman was lifeless. “She is on the other side of the Marshlands.” She replied, catatonic.

“Look at me, child!” Fox ordered.

The woman stared like a rabbit to a predator.

“Tell me where Watano is.”

She shook her head. “He is everywhere. And he is watching. He is the wind.”

“Where is the place Uada?”

The woman shivered. “Leave me alone! Go from me now!”

Fox feared attention from the rest of the villagers. He held up his palms. “What is your name?”

She appeared confused. “Kònya,” she replied.

“Who gave you that name?” Fox asked.

“The Voice of Watanei,” she replied.

Fox licked his lips. “The birds in the air are the tori.” He smiled and pointed into the sky. She followed his gesture. “And the greatest of these is the Eagle-god, Aquilei. You know this don’t you, Kònya?”

She nodded.

“Watanei made the Eagle-god, didn’t he?”

Her lips parted.

“The monkeys dance in the trees and play with our things. We love the silly monkeys, don’t we, child? Yes, we do. And the greatest of the monkeys is the Monkey-god, Simei. He leads all the monkeys, doesn’t he? And he was created by who?”

“Watanei.”

“Very good, child.” Fox was a pleased teacher.

“Watanei the Sky-god named the gods,” he continued. “Watano the Voice named you.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Who is the Fox-god, Kònya?”

Kònya’s hand shook. Fox smiled and took it in his own.

“Who is the Fox-god?”

“Vulpunei,” she whispered.

“Who am I?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know—”

“—My name is Vulpunei!”

“No!”

“Is not my name Vulpunei?”

Her eyes raced along the dirt, searching for an escape.

“Do you know who gave me that name, Kònya?”

Her head shook.

“Watanei,” he smiled. “The same Sky-god that made the Eagle-god, the Monkey-god, beginning and end—he made the Fox-god—he made me.”

Her pupils dilated.

“Tell me where Uada is.”

“Uada is Death,” she replied. “It is home of the dead. Only the Voice can go there.”

“Why?”

“These are things that only Watano knows. Not Kònya.”

“Am I not the Fox-god?” He replied. “Now.”

She pointed to the southwest, far over the tree-line. Fox stood and left her in the field of barley.

She cried out after him, “You are not Vulpunei are you?”

He smiled.

Her disposition changed. Her body bent provocative and her eyes filled with the devil. “You are nothing more than the ones from beyond the ocean—the Englassmen.”

He furrowed his brow.

“You’re the ones that built it—Uada,” she hollered. “You brought death.” She reached into her sack and drew a stone blade. “I think you are as cunning as the Fox-god, anyway, Traveler.”

She put the blade to her skin and ran it deep, from inside the wrist to elbow. The blood poured like milk and spilt onto the grass. Her knees became weak and fell to the dirt.

He met the tree-line as quickly as possible without drawing attention. He was unsure if anyone witnessed his encounter with the woman. Despite her death, they would care little for her remains. She was beyond the Marshlands now, and they would do with her whatever they did with that little girl.

Looking back, he adjusted his heading, moved a little to the south, and kept on west. He prayed it would not take more than a day’s journey for he did not have any supply or rations save a few fruits and his pocket-knife.

A familiar flash and broad stroke of reddish-orange caught the corner of his eye. Under the cover of the forest, the familiar flickers of the animal danced along the ground. He searched in the underbrush until his eyes came upon the island fox, still and staring.

Prior to seeing it, his heart rate raced from his encounter with the woman, but the fox calmed him. He sat down in the grass and waited. The fox’s hind legs rose and its back arched; Fox imagined it would run. Instead, it came close to him, within arm’s reach. Fox refused to move, fearing he would startle it. The fox turned and pranced ten paces away. It paused and looked back at Fox. The beast was not a beast at all.

Fox stood; the animal remained still, watching. He took a step and satisfied the island fox. It leapt away, but never too far to leave Fox’s sight. Every few paces it would pause and wait until Fox came close again. As soon as he was only a few meters away, it would run ahead again; never too far, and never too close. The two ventured into the jungle together like this. Fox gave up understanding to belief; nothing was left in him now. He would follow the fox to whatever it led him. He thought he must be either brave or mad before its end.

It didn’t take long until the two discovered the trail of the men with the little girl. It filled Fox with awe as his feet met the worn path. He no longer worried of getting lost, but realized he never could have with the fox by his side. The animal led him to it.

It trotted ahead. Fox met its pace, and the two were moving briskly on the black path. The longer they walked, the more he noticed a change on the island. The trees were no longer palm, banana, papaya and ficus. They grew thin, tall and ominous; oak and pine, knit together and domineering. Needles covered the ground, choking out any vegetation; the low palms, pepper trees and brambles were long gone. It was a strange country; one lifeless and dark, but powerful and destructive. Nothing survived except at the top nearest the canopy.

The island fox hesitated in the center of the path; something had startled it. Its hair stood on end and it lowered its head. Nearly crawling on its belly, the animal crept to the edge of the path. Here it looked back to Fox and sat on its haunches.

Fox proceeded closer and saw they came upon the carcass of a doe with a broken arrow standing erect out of its neck. He never saw a dead body on the island except the adventurer long ago who he stole the rucksack from; now, he saw two in one afternoon. There she lay, once a beautiful doe, but now the remains of a meal; strewn open and cleaned of all her meat. Her face was eaten by wildlife and the bones remained. The kill was months old.

The act of eating meat never bothered him. But living with the Liberi established an admiration of animals in him; it disturbed him seeing this animal murdered and used for food. He looked at the fox and felt inclined to apologize to it. The animal cocked its head as if confused.

The friends sat together in the jungle, and Fox believed it was a moment of silence for the fallen doe, until the animal looked dumb and witless and stole off into the grim shadows. It was a wild animal again. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared. Fox waited a few minutes, in hope it would reappear. It would not return though.

He proceeded on the footpath to what he believed ended at Uada. The jungle became silent around him. It was gradual; he realized that while the tree-line grew higher, and the fruit grew less, there was a great absence of any bird song. He stopped walking when all he heard was the soft crunching of needles under his loafers. He was alone; the loneliest he ever felt on the island.

A breeze caught the tree-line and whistled in the distance. Far away, a loon wailed. The shadows fooled his eyes, and he saw men standing in the distance, but the longer he watched he saw them as the trees they were, growing tall, reserved and unreachable. He hated this part of the island as much as he hated the bog. Worse even, the bog was dead already; this forest was hunting him.

He walked a few hours more until stumbling upon a strange sound he hadn’t experienced while on the island. It was a creaking and old sound from a lost memory; like two smooth stones sliding against one another, while some animal screeched in high-pitched agony between them.

It was the noise of a metal gate being opened. It slammed shut, and he heard voices. He jumped off the path and hid on the ground behind a large pine.

The voices were Liberi; two men in sackcloth, making the journey back to the village. Once the voices disappeared, he realized he wasn’t breathing. His hand clenched around his pocket-knife. He was on forbidden land; one that only the eyes of the sacred and expendable saw.

He came out of his hiding place and entered the gate. It creaked and slammed shut. He looked before him to find a wide open bahia field, a plantation long ago, and in the distance a colossal manor made of stone. He was at Uada.
On Faithfulness: The Thing We All Lack

Some would find my speaking about this ironic or comical. At which I would find most ironic and comical. But that’s the cynic in me speaking. Best to leave his vapid self, dying and forgotten.

When I ruminate on what our culture lacks, and I am a part of that culture, I find this ideal pushed to the forefront of my mind for these many recent years. And though I hope to persevere and accomplish that characteristic which I so long for, I know I am only human. Regardless of my inadequacy, I recognize the absence of such a moral value. There are among us, more and more giving up, and thus, manifesting the very essence of who they are regarding this necessity. This thing we admire and wish others carried more of, yet we ourselves know is at the bottom of our character. In a world full of charlatans, insecure sycophants, and self-indulged whiners, we have given up on Faithfulness.

Humor me for a moment, as I reference something seemingly off topic. In the Gospel according to Matthew, he describes in the nineteenth chapter, a young, rich ruler who comes to Jesus and enquires of Him what are the most important attributes to gaining the Kingdom of Heaven. Jesus replies and the young man admits he has already accomplished these things (some would say he must be exaggerating or lying—but he is young, so let’s give him the benefit of the doubt this once). Jesus then pushes the young man further—“sell all of your possessions and follow Me.”

There’s something about living in the free and prosperous West, and no matter what your political leaning, ideal, belief, or paycheck, you have a plethora of reasonable options to live and make do, far better than anyone in Jesus’ time—You and I are young, rich rulers! And with those options comes knowledge. And with that knowledge comes self-sufficiency. And with that self-sufficiency comes an absolute and terribly insecure lack of necessity for Jesus or God. What in the world do you even need Him for, if not for joy, peace, love, and purpose?

And I believe that many of us can check the boxes and say to the god made in our image that we have accomplished all that is required of us to gain the Kingdom.

And the God who made us in His image would reply, “Sell all you have and follow Me.”

Need breeds Desperation.
Desperation breeds Surrender.

I remember, both fondly and forlornly, watching my seven-week-old son get medicinally placed into a coma. Fondly because of the wonderful miracles that ensued. Forlornly because of the heartache and hellish 26 days following the procedure. One Friday, I sat on a bench against the window, looking at the sun drift into the evening, listening to the beeps and rhythms of all twelve machines fastened to my son. I spoke aloud to God. I begged Him, again, to get my son through this, but I promised Him that no matter what, I would trust Him and follow Him all the days of my life, even if that meant my worst nightmare came true. He came through for me. Harvey is healed. But I haven’t forgotten my promise to Him either.

That sort of desperation is necessary in us, if we are to find true Faithfulness.

Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, His most grueling and painful prayer that we know of. Meanwhile, His friends dozed off as the night turned to early morning. Three times, He had to wake and beg them to stay up and pray for Him. He was desperate to find faithfulness in the people He loved.

So let your ‘yes’ be ‘yes’, and your ‘no’, ‘no’.
Every yes is a no. And every no is a yes.

When I want Josh, Kyle, Antonio, and Michael over for poker on Friday night, it is a “no” to something else. Here, spending the evening with my family. Now if I’ve spent the week filling my figurative tank up with lots of family-time, it may be a good thing for me to say “no” to them, and “yes” to my friends. But if I spent my week at work, in ministry, a business trip, or school, then I must ask, “what is my priority?” Understanding that all of those other things, which may be good, have been saying “no” to my family again and again, even if I don’t recognize it at the moment. Or if the time I spent today “relaxing”–maybe I gave four hours of it to wandering through YouTube, instead of anything meaningful. (There is no such thing as “free time”. Even your ‘no’ to duty is a ‘yes’ to procrastination and indolence.) It is all costing us something. And with that “yes” to “relaxing” comes a “no” to something else—let’s say, learning a skill or achieving a piece of the puzzle that is your dream. (Though don’t be disillusioned, I am not saying that “relaxing” is a negative thing. Only that often, we cater to it, rather than asking what are we benefitting from it.)

So with that ‘yes’, that is also a ‘no’, that you gave to God, give it as ‘yes’ and never replace it with a ‘no’.

If God tells you to do something, do it. And do it until you can’t any longer. Or until He tells you to stop. If God gave you a dream and put a purpose in your heart, chase after it with everything in you. What do you need to start saying ‘no’ to, in order to start saying ‘yes’ again? And don’t be deceived, people will try to coax you away from your dreams all the days of your life. And the sole reason they do it is because they sold their own for a cappuccino.

What is better—to live a life on the edge of disaster, or a life of comfort, coffee, and slowly dying in a bed wondering if you could go back and take a chance on adventure?

When someone tells you to quit, they quit on you. When someone can’t see the joy in you pushing further than your knowledge or understanding can give—into the place of “selling all you have and following”—then they are not your people. And one thing I have learned greatly in this season. People can front for a long time, appearing to be with you and for you. But if you start chasing your dreams and abandon all reason, following the Spirit of God and nothing else, the knives, pitchforks, and comment sections will come out in the full force of gossip, vitriol, and manipulation.

Of course, there will be fear! Who said this life would not be scary? I think that’s a prerequisite for stepping out of the boat. But where is the Peace? Peter’s Peace was walking on the water amid crashing waves.

Fear will be on every side. Should I stay or should I go? (Thank God for The Clash).

Stop asking what is more or less scary. And start asking yourself where you find Peace. For God shods the feet of the righteous in Peace. And with it, you walk into battle and war with the Spirit of Fear against you. You can walk through that Fear, too, you know. You can get to the other side of it, where there is the Spirit of God. And where the Spirit of God is, there is Freedom.

Follow peace, not Fear.

So now, we look at the long (or short?) list of things we’ve said “yes” to—our marriage, career, child-rearing, mortgage, religion, dream, aspiration. And what do we find—in the slow, methodical routine of boredom and loss of appetite? Have we lost our hope, enthusiasm, or exhilaration in the things we said ‘yes’ to? At one point in time, these were the adventures of our former selves. And though our reality may not have met the expectation, we must commit to the ‘yes’, until we have no other option, or until God says otherwise (however, for the self-entitled layman looking for an easy out, He never says “yes” to your divorce).

Our excitement, or lack thereof, is not the problem with our faithfulness. It is merely our perspective. Shift it again, and look at what you have. Hold tight to the dreams of God. Chase after that which seems impossible. Write down the blessings that He has given you—the bird’s song, the insect’s chirp, the wind’s blow, the sun’s shine, the kiss of your spouse, the laughter of your children, the breath in your lungs, and the hope of tomorrow.

Remain true to Him, for He remains true to you. And start questioning what are you saying “yes” to that is giving up all sorts of “no’s” to the things that really matter, so that you and I can become more faithful to the things that matter, and with that Faithfulness, we can change the world.
Joyous Night

From glory to glory I run
Not my will but Yours
With Hope and dreams anew
Now beauty doth new bring
The love bring the life
My love as wide as blue
And everything summer will sing
The song in darkness night

Hope giving up to unseen
And laughter rising as the sea
All will run
All will run
in forgiveness’ chariot, if they give
But no matter my worry, at last I live
All will come
in new days’ new done
The Logbook of Ponce de León

The Logbook of Ponce de León
Chapter 4

The threat of their father in harm’s way became unbearable. Each Dolor child stayed up all night imagining horrible things done to him by a vampire. What sort of monstrosities was it capable of during all those long hours alone at work? They didn’t know where to begin in their quest to close the gate, but the Ghost had implied it needed to be done to contain the monsters.

The three of them spent their Saturday morning trying with everything in them to close the gate, using arms, legs, branches, and backs, but did nothing to budge the massive doors. They did, however, ruin one of Mr. Dolor’s mallets from the garage. It seemed the doors weren’t going to close on their own. So the best idea the children mustered was researching Juan Ponce de León and the forest. Mr. and Mrs. Dolor kept many books in the house, but nothing on Spanish or Floridian history. This meant the only sensible outcome was for the children to go to the local library.

Esther loved reading, so libraries always fascinated her. Sometimes it felt overwhelming because she wished she could read them all, but knew she never would. She liked really old books, especially Poe, Wells and Lewis. They talked whimsically and told fantastical stories. She loved the smell of their pages. It was like stuffy wood, burnt parchment, and wine. “History,” is how she described it.

Marian loved writing, but wasn’t too fond of reading much outside of Shakespeare. She liked him because he spoke poetically and often about love. She wanted to write plays like him.

Herbert loved picture books. His favorites were those with dinosaurs. He could name thirty-two dinosaurs, which was a great deal more than older kids and even adults. His favorites were the Allosaurus, Parasaurolophus, and Baryonyx. He liked the name of Ankylosaurus too, but thought they looked silly.

While Marian asked the librarian for help in their search, Esther and Herbert walked up and down the aisles for fun. Esther found herself a book by Richard Adams that looked nice. It had bunnies on the front. Herbert found a book on the Cretaceous Period.

“Hello, young sir,” a voice from behind the rack of books called to Herbert. He looked up at a man rounding the aisle. He was tall and skinny, with long, crooked, brittle fingers holding a strong, ornate cane. His shoes were made from crocodile-and-snakeskin, and a black top hat rested on his thin, pale head. From underneath his hat, a piece of cork stuck out of his right ear. “My name is Mr. Dauer,” the man introduced himself.

“Hello.” Herbert did not like the sight of him.

“I gather you are here with your siblings looking for a book about Ponce de León.”

“That’s right,” Herbert replied.

“Why would a little boy who liked dinosaurs be interested in Ponce de León?” Mr. Dauer’s neck twitched slightly.

Herbert didn’t know what to say.

“Perhaps it’s because you broke open that gate, Herbert?”

Herbert’s eyes widened. “Esther!” He called.

“Why do you need Esther?” Mr. Dauer asked. “Oh, it must be true, then. You did break open the gate, didn’t you, Herbert?”

Esther approached them, and a chill tickled down her spine. “Are you okay, Herb?” She asked. Herbert was speechless.

“You know, Esther,” Mr. Dauer said to her, “I bet you figure out the way before anyone else. Especially Marian, yes. She always seems distracted by her emotions to stay on task, doesn’t she? Always getting into arguments with people that could help.”

“Excuse me, but I think my brother and I should leave.”

“Why’s that, dear?” Mr. Dauer’s cane hit the ground next to Herbert’s foot. “Something wrong?”

“Yes,” she fired back. “You are creepy!”

Mr. Dauer laughed, tapping his cane a second time. “Well, people have said worse. I suppose you will all do so well together. Make sure to listen to whatever your sister says, Esther! And don’t worry, Herbert, it’ll be our little secret.” He reached out his hand like he was going to pat Herbert on the head, but thought better of it.

“Marian!” Esther cried, scanning up the crossing aisle for any sign of her sister. She turned back to see the strange Top-Hat Man was no longer there. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Herbert replied, taking off his glasses and wiping them.

“What was he talking about, Herb?” Esther asked. “—your secret?”

“I don’t know,” Herbert sheepishly answered.

“Let’s get back to Marian.”

The two whispered her name as loud as they could, scampering from towering aisle to towering aisle, traipsing and bumbling down the corners and cross sections. Searching for someone in an unfamiliar location can be quite exhilarating. Whenever you are frightened, it can make the experience awful.

Herbert didn’t know that with every step he was actually scurrying faster, all the while thinking about how Esther was always two steps ahead of him. Esther didn’t know it, but she too was bounding faster and faster with every scuttle, thinking to herself how Herbert was sprinting down the center aisle. Before both realized it, they were racing through the library, yelling out Marian’s name, hoping not to infuriate the ever-observing librarian.

They found her in the local history section, holding two books. One she pulled from the shelf titled The Wonders of Spanish Influence and Culture, and another she returned to the shelf titled Urban Myths of Florida.

Esther and Herbert hurled into her.

“What is the matter?” Marian asked.

“Did you find a book?” Esther asked, out of breath.

“Nothing very promising,” Marian replied. “How bout you?”

Esther shrugged, out of breath, and looked on the shelf next to her. “Maybe the library isn’t the best idea,” she said.

“What other option do we have?” Marian asked.

“I don’t know,” Herbert said. “But I want to get out of here. There’s a creepy guy walking around.”

“But we don’t have—”

“He’s right, Marian,” Esther pleaded. “We need to get out of here. There’s some guy with a cork in his head and creepy hands like a witch. Maybe there’s someone else that can help us if we ask—but not here.”

“Fine,” Marian said. “Just let me get these books first so it’s not all a wash.” Marian pulled the former book out of the shelf and carried both to the front desk, where the librarian checked her out.

The next morning, the Dolor children wore their best dresses and slacks on their way to Sunday School. Mrs. Dolor even put a little bowtie on Herbert for his first time at their new church. Sunday school is a great place to meet nice kids and learn about love. But one person there, that didn’t seem to understand either, was Aaron. Regardless, the Dolor children were excited to see him. After all, he was the only other person, besides a ghost, that knew what they did and the library turned out to be a waste of time. Aaron might actually have more information on the matter.

“Oh, so now you want to listen?” Aaron said with the sort of ugly expression that is only on the bad guys in cartoons.

“You said you wanted to help,” Marian replied. “And you said your great-grandfather might know something.”

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied flatly. “And I never said I wanted to help. I said you needed to fix it.” Aaron’s teeth shown through his crooked smile at Marian. “Prolly ol’ Herbie’s fault—Right, Herbie?”

Herbert blushed.

“Leave him alone!” Marian shouted.

“Or what? You’ll forget where the Atlantic is again?”

“Is there anyone—an adult who can help us?” Esther asked. “Our parents don’t want to listen.”

Aaron scrunched up his face and closed one of his eyes while the other looked at the ceiling. “I might know someone.”

The Someone Aaron was thinking about what his grandpa, Mr. Mewbourn. He was an old widower that enjoyed sitting in his blue velvet reclining chair or laying on his bed. Baseball and Golf were always on his television unless one of his grandkids was over. He loved telling stories to his grandchildren, especially Aaron, whom he told all about Ponce de León. Aaron’s mother didn’t seem to like Aaron visiting his grandpa that much, but Aaron snuck there often on his bike.

Aaron led the Dolor children to Mr. Mewbourn’s mobile home that Sunday afternoon. When they entered the house, Marian sneezed at the smell of stuffy clothes and mildew. It made Esther think of the old shopping mall in Cocoa. Herbert’s eyes fixated on a glass terrarium in the corner, with a long bearded dragon in it.

“Aaron, my sweet grandson!” Mr. Mewbourn said as he stood from his chair to hug him.

“Hello, Paw-Paw,” he replied.

“I see you brought friends.” Mr. Mewbourn said, while Marian smirked at Esther and Herbert. “Hello kids, I am Clive Mewbourn.”

They each greeted him.

“Would you like some candy?” The old man held out a jar of orange slice candies. Most kids today haven’t eaten orange slice candies, and if you ever get a chance to, you probably won’t like them. But old grandpa’s like Mr. Mewbourn love them. Marian and Herbert said, “no, thank you,” but Esther tried one. He handed her the jar, and she noticed the one wrinkled tattoo of a blue anchor with the letters USN smeared across his right forearm. He seemed nice, but she believed he was secretly really tough.

“So if you two don’t like orange slices, maybe you’ll like some vanilla bean ice-cream.” Mr. Mewbourn smiled, and all four kids eagerly accepted.

They each scooped ice-cream from five small bowls while sitting on the chair, couch, and floor rug. Mr. Mewbourn sat in his reclining chair.

“What brings you over, Aaron?” Mr. Mewbourn asked.

“We were hoping you could tell us about Juan Ponce de León and his Enchanted Forest,” Aaron replied.

Mr. Mewbourn’s eyes beamed, and he leaned back in his seat. “Oh, Ponce de León,” he whispered to himself, and closed his eyes. “My father told such remarkable stories.”

“Could you tell us about him, Mr. Mewbourn?” Marian asked.

“Eh, what’s that?” Mr. Mewbourn asked.

The kids looked at each other.

“Paw-Paw,” Aaron said. “Do you still have the books you used to read me about Ponce de León?”

“Books? Oh, the books! No, no, they were all donated to the library when I moved into this old shack. After Lucille died.” Mr. Mewbourn closed his eyes again.

“What do we do now?” Esther whispered to Marian.

Mr. Mewbourn opened his eyes and shot his head forward. “I tell you what we must do!” He exclaimed. “We need the logbook. Oh, my father knew everything because of that book.”

“What is the logbook?” Marian asked.

“The captain’s logbook!” Mr. Mewbourn threw his hands up in the air in excitement. His chair rocked back and forth. “Ponce de León wrote every bit of his adventures in it.”

The Dolor children smiled. They’d almost lost hope.

“That’s wonderful!” Marian shouted.

“Stupendous!” Esther cheered.

“Great!” Herbert exclaimed.

“Where is the logbook, Paw-Paw?” Aaron asked.

He clapped his hands and sighed. “I sold it too, when I moved into this pitiful shack.”

“What?”

“Oh no!”

“That stinks.”

“Paw-Paw, how could you get rid of something like that?”

“Eh? What’s that?” Mr. Mewbourn asked. “Oh, oh, yes, well, when you can’t get out enough for orange slice candies as often as I do, you sometimes need to barter such things. Pitiful habit that bartering and gambling is.”

“Who did you gamble the book away to?” Marian asked.

“Some little runt. One of the neighborhood kids who comes by for ice-cream and trading from time to time. Said he would make it worth my while.” Mr. Mewbourn drummed his fingers on the armchair. “I’m still waiting, though.”

“Oh no,” Aaron said.

“What’s the matter?” Esther asked.

“I know who he’s talking about.”

“Mr. Mewbourn,” Marian interrupted. “Can you help us get that logbook back?”

The next instant, Mr. Mewbourn’s eyes were closed again. The children thought he might jump up to help as before, but the sound of snoring slowly crept from his nose and mouth.

“Paw-Paw likes to sleep,” Aaron informed. “But he is a really good story-teller.”

“What do we do now?” Herbert asked.

“It’s not going to be fun,” Aaron replied, “But I know where it is.”

“Of course you do,” Marian said.

“Do you want my help or not?” Aaron fired back.

Marian went silent.

“They call him Vinnie the Rat,” Aaron said.
Chapter Eleven

Fox Island

Fox Island
Chapter 11

With the morrow came the slow and awful truth that Fox wouldn’t see Arvor ever again. He stood outside the village where the two men often met, pacing back and forth for hours. Every day and every moment, the comrades spent their lives together. And now Fox was abhorrently alone.

He struggled to understand what it was. The thought tasted like a bruised apple, bland and tasteless, disgustingly worthless. It was asinine, immature, irreverent—imagine a conversation leading to such irreparable damage to a relationship.

Whatever terrible thing he made Arvor reveal about his village’s beliefs—and what caused a belief to be hidden? A belief should be shouted from the rooftops! It is the soul, the spirit of a man—the thing that he wakes and dies for!

What belief is in a man that should be hidden or concealed? If it were concealed, is it a belief at all—or the thing another forces one to accept? If he have love for a woman, does not his love come showering out at every opportunity? Only shame, jealousy, hatred, bitterness—these things are the damnable disgraces that a man hides and wishes he hadn’t. A belief is the foundation to the soul, and the soul is the voice of one’s thoughts. Nothing else can escape him but what he believes. Nothing can be concealed but what he is afraid of.

It weren’t true! Arvor was his brother. The only one that loved him on the island. No conversation could destroy that thing.

He sought Arvor to apologize and make right his blunder, but an unfamiliar man and woman whom he did not recognize inhabited his hut. When he asked, they did not know of him.

Fox walked away dumbfounded. His anger gave way to fear. He ran up and down the village streets asking about his friend.

For a week he searched the village to find him. And for a week they denied him. The response was always the same: They never met Arvor. With every hour, day, and night, Fox’s fear became imminent. The island had forgotten Arvor.

One night, sitting by the fire, he recognized the young nephew of Arvor. The boy was impish and stupid; he never carried the regal and clever qualities of his uncle. Fox came near him, hoping that he could discover Arvor’s absence through the adolescence of the buffoon. The boy listened to his whisper and turned to his mother asking about uncle.

The mother hushed him and whispered, “He is on the other side of the marshlands.”

Fox was correct in his assumption. Some reason drove Arvor to regret his conversation, and the remorse led him to penitence, and the confession led to his discipline. He wasn’t sure of the penalty or its execution, but he knew that Watano was behind it.

The thought of it drove Fox mad. He grew tired of the Liberi, with their incessant ignorance of imagination and creativity, weak manner in conflict and controversy, and their diffidence to speak out about any sort of philosophy and belief without becoming like mindless cattle.

He had a friend in Arvor, and figuring they punished him for doing anything other than the mindless propensities of the others drove hatred into him.

Rain began falling on the fire, and soon a large storm erupted. Fox ran under the cover of a pavilion with a group of the villagers. The storm cracked and howled and it reminded him of his ceiba. It had been two months since he was home. Somewhere out there beyond the monolith, bahia fields, marshlands and cenote, lay his kitchen of fruits, vegetables and nuts and a make-shift canoe ready for him to leave this damned place.

On cue, conjured by every torrential storm before, the booming howl came out of the darkness, screaming and shrill, yet long and dull.

“What is that sound?” Fox asked a woman next to him.

“Storm.” She responded.

“No, the howl, you imbecile?” Fox responded in his English tongue.

The woman stared.

Again, the booming cry shook through the village.

“That!” Fox shouted, back in the Liberi language. “What is that sound?”

“I do not hear that sound.” The woman responded.
Abraham and Jonah

About thirteen years ago, Ray Goolsby preached a sermon on Abraham and Isaac. I watched and listened from under the dim lighting of an empty room upstairs, his image coming through a television broadcast. I absorbed the story and the message and had never felt so in sync with a person from the Scriptures before. God was telling me to let go of my desires and dreams and trust Him.

Fast forward to the present, and I feel much like Abraham again. Walking up the mountain without understanding.

Or like Jonah. Thrown out of the boat, in order to save his comrades, waiting to be swallowed up by the monster in the sea.

That’s what faith is, you know. Because hope that is seen is not hope. And for the Peace to come, we must relinquish our necessity for Understanding.

People love to beg for miracles. In good season or bad, we want to see something miraculous. But we forget miracles lie at the bottom of Hell, right there before death—and sometimes after. There the miracle is waiting, deep in the belly of the monster.

Life will have its ups and downs. But listening and following God wholeheartedly? Pfft. What highs! What lows!

Abraham moved his entire family across the desert to the unknown because…

Abraham took his only begotten son to be sacrificed on the mountain because…

I have lately wondered what Abraham thought about as he walked to Moriah. Three days it took to make the journey. What ran through his mind as he watched his son running and playing ahead of him? What did he answer with when the servants and Isaac asked him where the sacrifice was? Did he tell the truth? Did he remain silent? Was it as much of Isaac’s sacrifice as it was Abraham’s? Did his family and servants know? Was he lonely and despondent, pushing himself through the tears and fear with faith and loyalty to his YHWH?

I have walked some miserable steps these last few weeks. Ones that have felt heavy, lonely, and long. And I think of Abraham clinging to the rocks on the mountain, brutal, exhausting step after step, to sacrifice his dream to God. And God’s faithfulness.

You know just because you have a call on your life from God—a promise from the Heavenly Father—does not mean those dreams will all fall into place and people will want to listen to you. Consider Jesus in his early life. As a boy, the shepherds worshipped, the wise men brought gifts, Simeon confirmed, Anna of Asher prophesied, and the scribes were amazed. The signs were there. He was the Son of God. And yet it wasn’t until after, in that he grew up, serving and obeying his parents and speaking and learning at the temple, that he received favor among men. And it was that favor that led to his death.

What is fame?

What is glory?

What is walking around hoping to expand and become something great? Are not these things simply fool’s errands for a dream born of greed and status?

How far does my heart have to chase after growth before it becomes barren?

How long do I assume and second-guess motives before I am a tyrant?

There is a line between sin and dreams, where ambition lives. After all, whose ambition do I seek?

Keep my heart pure, Lord. In that, I see nothing but you. And let me marvel at the smallish conversation. The dew on the grass. The butterflies in the air. The love of my bride. The pride of my children. Let my heart rest on those things all the days of my life.

Leaders: if one only gives public praise, and in private always correction, the people following you will fear privacy with you, and thus, won’t trust your public praise. You must praise in public, and even more in private. Let the private man always be the more intimate one. Relationship and followers thrive on that intimacy.

About six years ago, when I got off the stage after preaching, I was on cloud nine, thinking, “Look at how special I am! I said this and that, and 10 people were saved!”

My friend turned to me and said, “If you take credit for the good ones, you have to take credit for the bad ones.”

Insecurity comes in a leader when they take credit for the high moments, because now they must take credit for the low ones.

And so now here is where I am. Somewhere halfway up the mountain, listening to God, and struggling to know what’s up the hill. Will my dreams have to really die this time, or will God come through and save them? How much further until the top? And what if everything back there isn’t as bad as I had believed—what made me wander up this god-forsaken hill, anyway?

Had Abraham ever wondered if the land he left behind was all that horrible as God had made it seem?

And the worst thing of all would be that I get to the top of the hill and look back over my shoulder and see that all is healthy and righteous—God came through and healed and redeemed, as He always does, because He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness. One who relents from doing harm. Then God would raise up a plant to hang over my head and give me shade, and I would look back and wish death upon myself.

God forbid, I become Jonah more than Abraham.

Jonah, a poor helpless shrivel of a man, hearing from God, alone and bitter on the mountain. His story ended because He lost sight of the heart of God and only cared about hearing Him. He did his one job and sat on the mountain, looking back in despair.

Abraham never looked back. His vision was ahead, regardless of setback, failure, or lack of understanding.

His friend’s wife was turned to salt for looking back. I think of that salt. Perhaps looking back turns you into nothing more than the preservative that you were for the place that God is removing you from. Perhaps looking back makes your life frail, bitter, and overwhelming. Like too much salt on a piece of meat, turned harsh and oppressive, giving way to coughing spells and watery eyes.

Don’t sulk on the hillside, you fool. There is an entire mountain of glory waiting at the top.

Fox Island

Fox Island

From glory to glory I runNot my will but Yours With Hope and dreams anewNow beauty doth new bringThe love bring the life My love as wide as blueAnd everything summer will singThe song in darkness night

Hope giving up to unseen And laughter rising as the sea All will runAll will run in forgiveness’ chariot, if they giveBut no matter my worry, at last I live All will come in new days’ new done

Fox Island

From glory to glory I run
Not my will but Yours
With Hope and dreams anew
Now beauty doth new bring
The love bring the life
My love as wide as blue
And everything summer will sing
The song in darkness night

Hope giving up to unseen
And laughter rising as the sea
All will run
All will run
in forgiveness’ chariot, if they give
But no matter my worry, at last I live
All will come
in new days’ new done