To the hurting

Hey everyone,

We all hurt at one time or another. I know how it feels.
I wrote this to all those out there who are hurting and alone.
The best medicine is often times made of bone, skin, a little muscle and an absorbent cloth covering.
No talking, no resolving, just crying, just being held.
Because, although we know God is in control and things will work out, it hurts like hell right now.
We just have to let it out with someone who cares.

So here's to you.

Tears

Give me your tired, your broken-hearted.

Give me your lost and all alone.

Give me your hurting, throbbing, and aching

Give me your sorrows, your tears, and your moans.

Share all the pain way down deep that is robbing

your face of the joy it's been missing of late

For I have a shoulder fit just for sobbing

a shirt that will take all your wet tears away

I'll hold you awhile till your shoulders quit shaking

and heartache has left you spent to the bone

Stroking your hair and mildly whispering

Believe me, my love, you're never alone

I'll be there for you when your world comes crashing

down to the ground, your walls paper thin

I'll be there protecting, forever defending

your heart from travails of the wrath of the wind

The storm will be fearsome with clouds above thundering

and threatening to wash you away as debris

Yet shelter within, as my arms encircling

guard you safe in the rock I was crafted to be

I will protect you, guard you, and shelter

I will prevail in the face of the wind

I will ensure your safe survival

For I will be anchored, on the King my eyes pinned

Take a Look Inside

     Hey everyone, I apologize for the sporadicity (?) or rather, the sporadic nature of my blogging. I've been all over the place with all kinds of not-internetted stops.

     Apparently someone's granddad went to an ATF who knew someone who works in ATF Ops (where I work now). Anyway, he was quite the storyteller when I tracked him down. Personally, I think it's pretty accurate. I copied it down as close to the original dialect as I could.

     "Well now, jest set ye down here where it's warm and listen to the tale I'ma gonna tell ya."

     "Ye've heerd of ol' Pecos Bill and hims doin' all sorts of outlandish tomfoolery. He done lasso'ed the moon fer his ladylove, grew up with the coyotes, and dug the Rio Grande, all the way to Mexico. By golly, he was sumthin."

     "But no one ever tells ya 'bout his cousins. They be a right courageous folk, taming a beast so big and feersum, that it makes poor grammy here pale ev'ry time ye mention it. Y'see, it's been growin up these past years, gittin' bigger and more cunnin' all the time. But these folks be right professional in there dealings with it."  

     "It be called ATF Operations, the meanest cuss of a tornado you ever did see. It's got all kinds of whirlin's and whiskin's, all twisted up into a nasty ordeal of logistical storminess, but them folks handle it like a walk in the park, all dressed up fancy while they do it too. 


     "First off, they've got that Chris Lay fella, him 'n his lovely little wife there, they hold the thing steady with their lassos. Then the rest of the crew come in, all efficient like, and set up the riggin's lickety split, binding that thing up so tight that it don't know which way to go. Sure, it whips around and lashes out a bit, like I say it's a tornado of a thing, but they just do what they do, all nice an' purdy like. Mighty clean job they do too if I do say so, considering the, "cacophonous" nature of it. (He nods his head at me, knowingly)


     "Then their fearless leader, they call him “mister cool”, well, he climbs up into that saddle, all hootin' and hollerin', jes like a right bull-rider, big ol' smile on his face, enjoyin' the view an' all. Yup, that crew rides the thing clear across the whole big country, all the way out to Californee an' back, half a dozen times or so. Then, when it's jest about plum tuckered out, they take it back down to good ol' Texas (one o' the only states big enough fer it t' live in). There they unstrap it, lock it up in its pen, and right put it t' sleep until it gets all antsy to come out agin in a year or so."

     "I tell ya, it's quite a sight, them ridin' inta town like that. It's like nothin' you ain't ever seen before, an' might never see agin."

     "I seen 'em though, an' that's the honest truth."

- From the WoodStove Tales of Ol' Man Whittaker

Hope you enjoyed it, I had fun writing it. 

Peter

Justus

Death has visited this place.

Unsteadily, Justus rose from where he had stooped to examine the corpse. The poor girl had been eviscerated, long gashes riddling her body where the knife had ended her young life. She didn't deserve this fate. She should have been carefree for many years to come. Instead, she lies broken in the middle of this run down, backwater town; life stolen, another victim of the one Justus knew as Blade. The smoke from a half dozen fires stung his eyes as he took in the devastation around him. Buildings, once regal alabaster white, lay in ruins, charred and blackened with soot. Victims of the chaos littered the street, crushed under the debris, never to rise again. Others still faintly clung to life, their moans the only reprieve from the eerie stillness that clung to this once beautiful city.

In his mind's eye he traced a path back in time, to another scene, another place, another body, the same picture. The same broken death. It was the same back then, a similar picture. Not very inventive, this killer, but chillingly brutal, his weapon of choice a long knife. He seemed to revel in his victim's pain, savoring their deaths like a fine wine. Justus had been the sole survivor on that day as well, crawling out of the carnage, his heart aching silently inside, just as it did now. Back then, he had fled the wreckage, determined to free himself from the nightmare pursuit of this death-dealer, but he seems to have finally caught up. His hunt is relentless. Justus had thought himself safe at first, but then he would feel the dark eyes watching, waiting to catch him off guard, mocking him from the shadows. How foolish he was not to have left then, before it was too late. But no, he had chalked it up to frayed nerves and tried to make a life for himself. Justus cursed under his breath.

The limp form at his feet had been his friend, once. They had shared the joys of life, the ecstasy found in the scent of fresh bread, in a cool wind through the trees, in the squealing laughter of children as they chase each other through the meadow. But now the horror etched into her cold face turned his stomach. Gently, he closed her eyelids for the last time and said a prayer for her eternal peace. Absently wiping the blood off his hands he rose once again, his mind wandering in a haze.

“Is there no end to death?” he asked the silent gray sky, “Can we ever be free?”

He stalks us like a starving lion, indiscriminate of whom he devours.

Panic began to well up inside him as he looked at the girl's lifeless body. He rubbed at his stinging eyes and realized that blood was everywhere. It coated his hands, soaked his tattered shirt, and ran in small rivulets from where had just wiped his face. It had already began to dry, crusting on his arms, making his skin crack with every movement. Desperate to be clean, he scrabbled over to a fountain.

So much blood...

He swiped at his arms with the cold water. The caked blood slowly began to melt, veins of red draining into the clear fountain. Stripping off his ruined shirt and throwing it away, he dunked his arms up to the shoulders.

“God, it's not enough!”

The girl's terrified face assaulted him, a waking vision begging someone to save her, to free her from this tormented betrayal. He submerged his head, squeezing his eyes shut to block out her haunting gaze, scrabbling furiously at his crusted hair.

“I must be free of this!”

Her dying screams reverberated before the black of his eyelids as he thrashed about. With a gasp he burst from the water, still gripping his head, writhing silently in the torment. His anguish lost all focus and became a cacophony of of noise, roiling through his brain as he sunk to his seat at the base of the bowl. Her stark terror struck like a knife to his heart, wrenching guilty tears from his eyes and sending them pouring down his cheeks. Desperate to be free, for escape of any kind, he slammed his head backwards onto the rim of the fountain. Once, twice, and three times he belabored the bowl, and then the soft blackness of unfeeling took him.

______________________________

Slowly, Justus regained consciousness to find the torment dissolved with the blood in a light rain from dark skies. Panting, his head throbbing, he struggled to his feet. A cold hard fog had drifted over the barren wreckage of the town, wrapping his mind in its emotionless embrace.

I am the living dead.

Stone-faced, he stared into the fountain, now solid red from the blood. Between ripples he caught a glimpse of his face in the water. There was a cruel glint in his eye. His lips turned up in a sneer and he turned from the reflection. Readjusting the long, thin knife at his belt, lost in the tempestuous darkness of his own soul, he slowly left the ruined town behind.

Death has visited this place.

Gehennan

-from the writings of the traitor,

Judas Iscariot

I am a new man.

No longer will I pander to the whims of the Galilean.

I followed him for a time, but never again.

He spoke of life abundant: joy, love, and happiness.

But I was constantly spurned, ridiculed and spited.

All for him.

No more.

I am the author of my fate

I am the captain of my destiny

He will no longer lead me down paths of mindless servitude

I will make my own way.

Servant of all, he said

Servant of none, say I

I will see him dead.

Messiah?

No.

Messiah will lead Israel to sovereignty

Jesus sits astride a donkey,

Fanned with the peace offerings of the city.

Ha

They will see

I will destroy the Rabbi

I will bring his end

The last three years will be for naught

Memory will fade and he will be no more

If his “Father” resides in heaven,

I will be Gehennan

There will be weeping, and gnashing of teeth.

A Bitter Night

I said in my heart,
"I will ascend to the heavens,
I will raise my throne above the stars of God,
I will make myself like the Most High."

A fool in his folly.

"The greatest in the Kingdom is the servant of all"

"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment?
'You shall love the Lord your God...
and the second is like it...
You shall love your neighbor as yourself"






Even my search to see the Lord is tinged with selfishness.

I want to be like him,
I want to be perfect as my father in heaven is perfect.
I want to see his glory.
I want to be in his presence
I want to share in his power.
I want him to use me in mighty ways.
I want to bring him glory.

Though every instance of his love were to shine a bright, burning star, they would remain encapsulated in a black night sky of egoism.

Were the Lord to cast me aside, disdaining my use, a person forever without meaning or worth, I would hate him for it.

Woe is me, wretched sinner that I am.

Almighty, Omnipotent, Author of life
free me from this cage of self,

Show me not my faults and failings,
for they remain beyond my control,

Rather deign to faucet your healing power
through this imperfect vessel

Let restoration fall on those close at hand
and reveal your power

Meanwhile, keep my focus outward,
attending to needs that I see,

content in the moment to be under grace,
to be as broken within as you please.

A Shot of Healing

     The warm styrofoam cup in his hands comforted Jason. The black coffee was his defense of choice against the biting wind and snow. From the porch he could see Caleb and Janel building snowmen. Their little faces screwed up in concentration as they struggled to push a ball almost as big as themselves across the lawn.

Caleb, the oldest at five, looked down at his sister, and in his typical “take command” sort of way, said, “Go ask mom for a carrot, he'll need a nose.”

     Janel scampered past him into the house. The screen door slammed behind her, muffling her yell, “Mommy!”

     They were so happy, these kids, so young. Taking a sip of the bitter coffee, Jacob thought back to his own childhood. Kids knew nothing of hunger, had never met loneliness, and the touch of sorrow was short at worst.

     “Childhood,” Jason mused, “where only movie stars and old people died, and where killing was how you won at video games.”

     His thoughts were interrupted by Janel, slamming through the screen again, triumphantly carrying a big orange carrot, her twin pigtails trailing behind her, frizzy and beautiful.

     “I got it!” she yelled.

     That was Janel, always yelling. She was such a little bundle of energy, all wrapped up in her puffy pink winter coat. Jason chuckled to himself as she pelted her older brother with a snowball. Indignation jumped into Caleb's face as he cried out, surprised, then bent to gather up his own weapon. Screaming in joyous terror, Janel turned and ran off.

     A shadow passed over Jason's eyes as he heard the scream, echoing back to the trenches, the screams were different then. Theirs was no mock terror. Those screams were an involuntary response to the gruesome pain. An involuntary shudder ran up his back and out through his shoulders, and he blinked away the memory. The screen door behind him opened, and he turned to see his sister Jenna standing there, little Kyle, not yet a year old, resting on her hip.

     “Need more coffee?” she asked.

     Looking down at the now-cold drink, Jason shook his head, “Naw, I've probably had enough.”

     “Alright,” she said, coming out to stand next to the railing beside him. “You okay?” she asked, looking up at him.

     “I dunno, sis.” Jason wrapped his arm around her. “I just feel so... old, y'know?”

     “Ha,” she snorted, “try having three kids and call me when you hit thirty, you're only twenty-two, you don't know what old means.”

     “Yeah,” he admitted, turning to look her in the face, his back to the yard, “but I hurt like I do, in here” he said, pointing at his chest. “War does a quite the number on you.”

     “It was bad, huh?” Jenna said softly, putting her hand on her brother's arm.

     Jason didn't answer, the memories threatening to swallow him again. He could feel them hovering around the edges of his mind, waiting for him to let his guard down so they could sweep in and take him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remain in control. Faces hovered behind his eyelids, friends he had watched die, whom he had held through their last moments. He felt the tears welling up, his throat constricting with the raw emotion and fought to keep his face composed. The dark numbness of grief threatened to take him, and he felt his resolve slipping, felt himself giving in, surrendering to the pain. His body trembled almost imperceptibly. His breath caught in his throat, the makings of a sob. 

     Thwap! Cold snow smashed into his head, shaking him out of darkness' grasp. He shook him self, and looked around, wide eyed, his face stinging. Wet snow dripped down his neck, freezing its way through the back of his shirt.

     Caleb stood on the lawn, hands frozen at his sides, his eyes wide with fear, “S-s-sorry, uncle Jason,” he stammered out, “I... it... slipped.”

     Jason stared for a long moment. His eyes were blank and unfocused. He blinked. Slowly, his face shifted into a small grin.“Oh really?” he replied, “well, we'll just see about that” Jason jumped up, the grin splitting his face wider and roared in his best monster voice, “I'm gonna get you!”

     Caleb squealed with delight as his uncle picked him up and spun him around in the air, tickling him the whole time. He tossed the boy gently into a snow drift and turned to chase little Janel, hunched over and still growling melodramatically.  Jenna smiled. Picking up a wad of snow, she lobbed it at the three kids playing in the snow, then turned, baby Kyle in hand, and made a hasty retreat to the safety of the house.

We Strike at Dawn

     

The snorting of horses punctuating the pre-dawn hour.

     The restless shuffling of armored men, that clinking of metal on metal.

     The still, wet air that fills the lungs with anticipation.

     All this fell under the cool observation of Marcus, commander of the 305th, as he sat mounted on his white charger. From this far away, the city below looked asleep. His men surrounded him like a sparkling lake, latent moonlight reflecting off weapons and armor. No one spoke a word. The order had come down from General Dorian to assemble before dawn as silently as possible, surprise was of the utmost importance.

     Not that they had anything to fear, mind you, the Commander himself was riding with them. No, He wanted to catch the enemy that occupied his beloved city unaware, to rescue as many innocents as possible. Swift and decisive, that's how it would be done.
  
     Marcus hadn't been there when the Commander had arrived, but he had heard the fanfare, felt the ground shake. The troops were saying that Mount Olivet had split in two. Whatever the case, Marcus was finally seeing his work pay off. For years he had fought to ready the Commander's forces, alerting them to the coming war and uniting them from the four corners. They day was fast approaching, he had said, and people had listened. They had begun sharpening their swords, polishing their armor, and training for battle in the secret of their homes.

     Then the news came, the Commander had arrived and He was gathering those who remained loyal for a final campaign to sweep the world. Through the old, neglected channels, He spread the word. Jerusalem. The campaign would start from the Holy City. They would cleanse the center of the spiritual world, and radiate out from there. Marcus had set out immediately.

     Now, standing here, his breath quickened with anticipation. At the front of the mass of warriors, some seven hundred yards ahead of where he sat, the Commander waited. Mounted on an enormous white horse, in regal solemnity, he awaited the dawn. Then, as the darkness around lightened, as if on cue, the soft scraping of  a thousand swords split the silence of the night. All around, men stretched the stiffness of night from their muscles and readied themselves.

     The Commander turned his horse to face the assembled throng of warriors. A smile lit His solemn face. With his left hand gripping the reigns, he thrust his right skyward, sword extended. The first ray of light burst over the horizon, igniting the cold steel like burning tungsten. Then, with a rolling laugh, He wheeled around and charged down the hill. All around, trumpets burst their voices through the silence, joining a harsh chorus of voices shattering the dawn with war cries. The sun broke the horizon then, illuminating the valley floor and filling each of the soldiers with light. They each shone with the brilliance of a hundred candles. Light spilled from their eyes and mouths, their very pores shone with the radiance.

 The Son was leading them into battle.

Geek Moment

Okay guys,

I'm geeking out a bit.

I just got The Wise Man's Fear in the mail today.

For those of you who haven't heard me ranting for the last few weeks, it's the continuing tale of Kvothe Kingkiller, hero and legend extrordinaire. I read the first book, The Name of the Wind, a debut novel by Patrick Rothfuss, a little over a year ago. It is quite simply the best told story in the fantasy genre.

I've been waiting for this book quite literally since I finished the last one.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
It is finally here.

Peter

P.S. Although I'll probably be immersed in the book for the next few weeks, I still plan on posting stuff. If I miss a day though, you know why.