Unable

All I could do was stand and stare. I heard the wailing of the crowd behind me, intermingled with drunken cheers and shouts of vulgarity. What a horrible place to die.

A woman stood to my right, weeping and crying out, reaching her hands to the heavens in pure desolation. Some others were gathered around, close to the bottom of the tree, prostrated and sobbing. But all I could do was stare straight ahead. Droplets of rainwater slowly moved through the crude grooves of the bark. I stared so hard at the base that I knew it like the back of my hand. The holes plastered with dirt and grime. The rough edges splintering in every direction. The stain of blood. Blood. I felt something warm drop on my cheek. I raised my hand to touch my face, and it came away red. I tried to look up, but I didn't really want to see. I was there, wasn't that enough? Did I have to look too? No. Let me just stare at this expanse of mahogany in front of me. Another drop fell. And I wiped it away, this time without even looking.

The wailing of the crowd grew more distant, and then stopped entirely. I turned around, and no one was there. I looked to my right, to see the woman still kneeling, hands still outstretched, mouth still agape in crying out. I turn back to the wooden post in front of me. Another drop falls on my cheek. I can't move my hand. Another drop falls. Another drop. Another. Just let me be, I think. I'm here. I'm sorry. I can't look, but I'm here. That's enough. It's enough. Another drop falls. The blood runs down my forehead, and stings my eyes. I close them. I can't help it. I don't want to see anymore. I can't even look at the tree in front of me.

Batter Up

There are a lot of moments of which we don't take advantage. The pitch leaves the glove and time stops as we watch the fast-approaching leather sphere near our oblivious state of mind. We see it coming but we are completely unaware of its significance. Moments like this pass us by daily. When we refuse to be aware of life's opportunities we miss out on crucial, defining moments. Most of us don't get second chances at things. We come to a point in our lives where a decision really does affect us permanently, and it's impossible to get a do-over. Attempts can be made to redirect the consequences of our decisions, or lack thereof. We can try to be more attentive to our actions. We can try to be more watchful for those little and big moments and opportunities that reshape our lives. 

It's not fair that certain things are out of our control. We can't predict how fast the ball will come at us, or which direction it will take. We can't dictate when the ball leaves the pitcher's glove. And we can't always expect to hit a home run. But we should never strike out looking. We should never just sit back and watch as life's opportunities whiz past at lightning speed. 

You're at the bottom of the ninth in life. The game is tied. The count is full. The crowd waits, perched tentatively on the edges of their seats. Everything in your life has led you to this moment. The whole world is watching you. Relying on you. Waiting for you. So swing with all your might. And, for the love of God, don't miss.

Outstretched Hand

I’m lying in the dirt, on the side of a crooked road. The sun is beating down on my face, and sweat soaks the thin clothing that barely covers my body. I feel it drip down my face, stinging my eyes. I taste the salt in my mouth, willing myself to swallow the acrid taste. I do not know what is wrong with me. I only know that there has been something terribly wrong with me since I was very young. Other people move to the opposite side of the street to pass me by. They are afraid of me. They are afraid that they will catch my sickness.
        I manage the strength to prop myself up on my elbow, slowly dusting the grime from my face. Someone is coming. Someone important, it seems, for there is a large crowd following. People in front and behind. The sun is so bright, I must lift my hand to my eyes to shade them so that I can see. A cloud of dirt precedes the people. As it clears, I can barely see a man in their midst, clothed in black. He is apparently someone of significance. Immediately, in my chest, I feel a wrenching; like the sinews of my being are threatening to stretch me to infinity. Is the man in black causing this? No, it must be the blackness inside me, the awful disease that slowly sucks my life away.
        Yet, there is still a horrible tugging inside me. Why am I so drawn to this figure? My body seems to think he is a cure, it urges me on so. He walks over to me, and as his sandals come within reach, I stretch my arm out to touch him. But he passes by, slowly. I try to grab his cloak, forcing my voice to hoarsely call out for mercy. My mouth is so dry that only crackling moans escape. Still, he walks on. I feel his cloak between my fingers, and I hold on tighter. Still, he walks on. I drag myself along, painfully trying to keep up with him amongst the crowd. Sweat runs into my mouth, moistening it, and my voice escapes clearly this time. Still, he moves on. He does not turn. He does not look. He walks away.
        I need this figure, desperately. At least, I think I do. My body craves him. Whatever this man has, I want it. I feel as though I might die without it. Finally, I muster the strength, and call out loudly, “Stop! Why will you not look at me?!”
 The crowd hushes. The dust clouds settle. And the man turns. My tongue catches in my throat. My face is frozen, wide-eyed and horrified. The man has now fully turned around, and his lips are formed into a sneer. My own face looks down at me. The man I tried so desperately to gain the attention of, whose essence I craved, is the evil that I have produced.
        It is my sin that looks at me, I realize. All the horrible, dark things I have committed throughout my life laugh in my face. Still, my body stretches itself thin; it wants it, still. My flesh craves it. My double looks down on me and continues to laugh, as if to say, You could never survive without me. I alone am what keeps you together. Without me, you would be nothing. Worthless. Already, your sickness destroys you. With me, you gain pleasure. Happiness. With me, your body feels alive.
        I stare down at my hands. They are stained with blood; the blood of my appalling sinful life. Could these hands ever be cleaned? Is there anything that could possibly wash the muck away?
       Silently, at a whisper, I barely hear his voice above the laughter of the crowd. Somehow, the word reaches my ear. Yes.
       That simple word. My head swirls. Still, the crowd laughs, and my sin laughs with them. But I heard it. It was there. I painfully turn my head to look behind me.
       I do not see him at first. He is not surrounded by a large crowd, but stands by himself. Yet there is something about him that commands respect. Something that causes the crowd to be hushed, without him saying a word. He lifts his head and tears stain his smiling face. I hear it again. Yes. and this time, I know it comes from this stranger. Slowly, he lifts his hand, reaching it out towards me. I look at the distance between us, and know there is no possible way I can cover it.
       I’m right here, you know, I hear from behind. I won’t make you drag yourself to me. I won’t make you suffer. Look, I am so much closer to you. It would be far easier to take my hand and come with me, than the hand of a man who would make you suffer to reach him.
       I look up at his outstretched palm. So very close to mine. Simply a fingertip away. The easiness of it appeals to me. I lift my hand, and as I do so, I hear a sigh. Again, I turn my head around, and see the stranger with his shoulders sagged, as if he is sorrowful at the choice I am about to make. But still, his hand reaches out.
       Even though my body begs me to take the hand in front of me, there is something deeper calling me to drag myself to the stranger. I begin to use my skin tight arms to pull myself along the sand to the opposite side of the road. Behind me, I hear gasps. And someone tugs at my feet. I turn around, and see the cloaked man, my past, holding my feet and trying to prevent me from crossing. I kick out viciously, freeing myself. Persistently, and painfully, I drag myself to the other side of the road. Dirt and grime cake underneath my fingernails and in the grooves of my skin. The stranger, clothed in purest white, still holds out his hand. He smiles down at me. Again, I wonder if even this man could take away the blackness from my body. And again, I hear, Yes. With one final gasp, I reach up to his hand and grasp it with mine.
       Immediately, my entire body is shaken, and something burns underneath my skin. The stranger is shining in a light so bright, it blinds me. As my hands become weak, unable to hold on, his grasp stays strong, lifting me to my feet. At first, I stumble, but then I feel a strength in my bones, and I see my sickly flesh become new. When the light stops burning, I look at the stranger. His face glows and radiates joy. He points to my hands. Where once there was blackness and blood, there is now soft, golden skin. I look behind me, scared that my double is close behind, but I see nothing. Nothing except green grass and a radiantly blue sky.
       I face the stranger, knowing now that my Savior stands before me.

The Dark Night Rises

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." - Terry Pratchett

Sometimes at night, I think about darkness. About how it's all encompassing. Completely and totally powerful just by being what it is. And it seems like the light has to work so much harder to be known. It has to try to shine brighter than ever to beat that ever lingering darkness. And why? Because the dark will always try to put it out. The black abyss will always try to encapsulate any vestige of light that tries to penetrate its despairing lack of clarity. How can any hope possibly slip past this seemingly impenetrable wall of blackness? It seems fruitless. Pointless. Hopeless. With so much darkness dampening down the light, what does this mean for the future? Why was the darkness made? To make us feel terror? To teach us that the way of the light is impossibly difficult? No. There is darkness because its existence is essential in order for us to understand the meaning of the light. In order for us to fully grasp the significance of the light that does get through. It seems hopeless. It seems like the world drowns in the darkness of despair. Like that's all we're ever able to focus on. But the struggle of the light is never fruitless. It will always burst through the gateway of the night. It will always catch our attention, even when the darkness seems to overcome it.

Because that's why God made darkness, you see. So that when the light shines, it's all you notice anymore.