Monday, August 29, 2011

I Watched


I watched as New Orleans was violently and cruelly
Inundated by raging Katrina.
I watched as men, like animals,
Annihilated the Other in the name of survival.
I beheld the displaced homes and the marred cars
And the charcoaled dead bodies scattered across
The landscape like the seed of a sower.
I saw the waving banners and white flags
and heard the cries
And the pleas for salvation.
But no one heard and no one came.

Then I turned my eyes and watched as
Wave after wave invaded the man made walls
That Aneyoshi and Fukushima constructed for protection.
I watched as the deep sea, black and hideous,
In an unrelenting fury
Suffocated the city and overturned her defenses.
No man, woman, or child spared.
I watched as the waters rose
and drank those eastern junks
And tore down her bridges and crushed her homes
And overwhelmed her crops
And trespassed every corner of her domain.



I watched desperation and panic flush Japan’s tender face
And I heard her pitiful soft cries for salvation
Each one to another crying out, “The end has come! The end has come!”
But no one heard and no one came.

Then I turned my eyes and watched as
Buildings collapsed and dust and dirt filled every lung.
I watched the utter decimation of hotels, churches and temples
Each one a wound upon itself.

I watched as men, women, and children lay in a grey fog of debris
A debris which hid their faces in a quiet shroud of dust.
I watched as Haiti and Chile were shaken and buried beneath their own buildings.
Each one imbibed by the thirsty and broken Earth.

I watched these atrocities, one by one, and my tears did not cease until the dawn.
I wept for the children and I wept for the Fathers.
I wept for those unheard and unseen.
I wept for those who had no savior and for those who alone were saved.

Then I turned my eyes and watched as
The undetected ocean came raging toward pagan India.
I watched as the sea angrily billowed
And took into itself the inhabitants of the land.
I watched as the cold, merciless, undaunted waters
Surged through the city streets and did not stop.



I watched with great fear and sorrow in my heart
As I saw myself in the eyes of those heathens.
I heard a preacher scream, “It is the justice of God!”
“His wrath upon their wickedness!”
But I did not rejoice.
I did not dance upon the chains of justice or clap with the song
Of judgment.
I was not joy’d by the desolation.

No! I cried aloud with the perishing and sought refuge just as the dying!
I begged for mercy like those drowning
And reached for hands of salvation just as those abandoned.
When their hands bled - mine did.
When their faces wept - mine did.
Their loss became my loss
And their death, my death.

I have seen the cries of the dying
And heard the lament of the forsaken.
I do not rejoice at the sorrow of sinners
Nor am I excited at their destruction.



Joshua Clayton

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Tadpoles in a Blender


Abundant life has appeared before me out of the miry waters.  Where there was chaos and cloudy sight, new life has now emerged.  Or was it already there, just waiting to be discovered, waiting to be revealed as the dust settled to the bottom?  Amidst the rocks a dizzying swarm dances as they feed on the life-giving water.  The truth is that most of them will die, yet life goes on for the rest.  Those who pass will become food for those who remain, and those who remain must fight for their survival.  Their world is encased in glass, the world of their brothers encased by eternity – a world the survivors could never fully discover.  Who is to say who will live and who will die?  For some, all that is known is the struggle for survival – and then nothing.  For the others, the fight to live must continue, but is it in ignorance that the survivors live?  Do they truly know the dangers they could face:  teeth, tires, feet, and sun?  Would that knowledge change the way they lived?  Would they stay in their holes, bury themselves in their dens?  Or would they live life to the fullest and feast on all that the Lord offers them?  Who is to say?  For right now they are tadpoles in a blender sitting in the sun.  The top of the table on the deck is their home, and who is to say what will become of them?

Saturday, May 21, 2011

The Boardroom Chronicles: Sarkis Ekran

There are some who, as you approach them walking down the street, or anywhere else for that matter, one will avoid at all costs.  No eye contact.  No accidental brushing up against.  Nothing of the sort.  Only complete avoidance will do.  The sidewalks aren’t quite wide enough to give berth to such, and much effort is made to sidestep them as quickly and as obviously as humanly possible.  No effort is made to hide or disguise the deviation and disgust of an encounter with such a person.

Filthy.  Smelly.  Ugly.  Sewer trash.  They haunt the alleyways and sewage systems.  Their homes are abandoned and condemned buildings, dumpsters, cardboard boxes.  More than homeless.  These are something beyond homeless.  These even the transients and vagabonds avoid.  They are unclean amongst lepers, a walking disease of bile and excrement.  While human, they have lost touch with their own humanity.  They live like animals hiding in shadows, more creatures than anything else.  The man amongst the tombs of the Gerasenes was such as these.

And so was Sarkis Ekran.  Though perhaps not outwardly so, but in the mind and in the heart he was vile to the core.  Where a conscience should have been there was only darkness.  Sarkis lived for one thing and one thing alone:  to satisfy his cravings – whatever they happened to be at any given time, and whatever the cost, though the cost was usually at someone else’s expense.  The only law he followed was the law of selfish nature.  Sarkis took without giving except for pain, misery, and sorrow.  He killed without remorse and destroyed whatever he laid his hands on.

On most days Sarkis lurked in the shadows seeking out his next victim.  Today, however, he was cowering in darkness in a room with no windows.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Ode to My Mother by Randall Stephens

I’m writing this not just for Mom but also for me and my selfish pain.  I hope it may in some way make you and me feel a bit better about our very special Mom.

Sometimes life sucks, other times it just hurts really bad and often it’s wondrous, amazing and confusing.  But always it is mysterious and puzzling.

Mom told my oldest daughter that “I’m going away to see Dad but don’t be sad for me.  It will all be OK.”

Isn’t that just like a Mom?  Moms are like life, they are surprising and amazing.  Mom always told me in my darkest hour that it will be OK.  It will all work out.  Moms are the best, the bravest, the weakest, the strongest, the softest, the wisest, the gentlest of all God’s lovely creatures and I haven’t always realized that.  Mom, I’m sorry.

In their softness is the strength of Hercules.  In their gentleness is the Rock of Gibraltar.  In their hum is the song of Angels.  In their reprimand is the non conditional love of God.  In their discipline is the broken wing of a dove.  In their laughter is the birth of life.  In their smile is the promise of love.  In their presence there is grace.  In their embrace the whole world stands still.  In their protective wrath the heavens shake and in their loss we are forever broken.  Mom, I love you.

They give life and light.  They give us love and compassion.  They give us foresight and direction.  They give us calm in the storm, wisdom in confusion, hope in the mysteries of darkness.  They give us the best of their best, their life for ours.  They give and give and give and continue to give without demanding anything for themselves in return.  Mom, I’m so grateful.

Their words send us into the battle of light and darkness.  Their embrace makes our pain disappear.  Their smile melts all our fears.  Their memory keeps us going on and on, forever forward, forever challenging, forever brave, forever forgiving, forever loving, forever strong, forever understanding, forever compassionate, forever thankful.  Forever.  I just wish I could give my life so she could live a little longer.  Oh that she could live and love my children and grandchildren into adulthood.  To love them into brave, strong, understanding, loving and forgiving graceful adults.  I know she could do that so much better than me.  Mom, I’m proud.

Mom taught me how to shoot.  She always could outshoot Dad and knew how to rub it in real good.  She taught me to reverence all life, to respect others, to be nice to girls and animals (not that the two are related or anything).  She helped me with school work and with life’s conundrums.  She told me stories about what could be.  She held my hand when I was scared and hurt, wiped my tears of rage and fear, dried my eyes of pain and disappointment.  Mom told me about my ancestors’ heroic journeys and exploits.  Who I was and where I came from.  Mom laughed with me and cried with me.  Mom healed my wound, soothed my pains, held my hands and told me about life even though I didn’t understand at the time.  She took me by the arm and whipped me in a circle with a tree branch and then told me how much she was disappointed in me and how much she loved me.  Mom did all she could to lovingly form and mold me into a brave, whole man that others could be proud they knew.  Mom, you gave so much so I could have the chance of being something.  So that I could someday be the twinkle in your eye.  The love of your broken life.  Mom, I’m still trying to make you proud.

Moms!  There’s nothing like them in all the universe and without them there would be no gentle strength, no tenderness, no compassion.  There would be no loving, brave feminine side of life, and the beauty of our world that Moms form with their loving, broken heart would be forever lost.

Mom, this is from the heart of your eldest.  The son you formed from your joy, pain, and love.  I’m proud to be your son!  I’ll always love you forever and ever!

Thursday, May 5, 2011

The Boardroom and the Hiker (Introduction to The Boardroom Chronicles)

Footsteps echoed down a dark hallway, hard soles against hard wood. 

Clop.  Clop.  Clop.  Clop.  

A door was opened by an unseen hand.  The hinges creaked as the door gave passage to the Bringer of Light and a light switch was turned on, giving life to two chandeliers hanging far above the board room table.  Then the door shut and the Bringer of Light was gone again. 

Clop.  Clop.  Clop.  Clop.

The chandeliers were aged brass – not polished, yet not greened with tarnish – and shone their light through dozens of pieces of rectangular glass.  The board room was filled with their light, though not overwhelmingly so.  The room itself looked out of place in time.  Clap boards made the floors, walls, and ceiling, as if the room had been transported through time from the Colonial eighteenth century.  Yet at the same time, however, it was very fitting – simple and functional.
There were no windows and only one door, which gave the board room great privacy and seclusion.  There were no decorations on the walls, and no furniture except one long, oval table and eight wooden chairs, each befitting this room out of time.  The table was hewn oak and hand carved, sanded, yet unfinished.  It had been well used and weathered with time, yet just as sturdy and strong as the day it was built.  Although the chairs were mismatched, each fit in with the table they surrounded – five on one side and three on the opposite.  They were carved out of the same tree as the table and each chair was handcrafted to be similar yet different from the others.

The board room was ready.  An important meeting was about to take place.  Yehu himself was going to be the there.  More than important, this meeting was critical and long awaited.  Many great decisions were about to be made in this room, crucial decisions. 

And under one end of the table someone or something moved, shifting its weight as it breathed heavily and nervously.

The door opened again and the Bringer of Light entered the room with another chair different from the rest.  It was newer, with a cherry finish.  It also had a padded seat and back and arm rests.  There would be a guest at today’s meeting.  The Bringer of Light set the chair down in the corner to the right of the door and turned to walk out of the room again, this time leaving the door open.  Shortly after, the scribe, who would serve as the meeting’s mediator and conductor, took his place in the padded chair, pen and notebook in hand.  The meeting was about to begin.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, a young man was sitting on a small precipice overlooking a winding creek, about sixty feet above the water’s surface.

Footsteps snapped twigs and crunched leaves somewhere in the forest above the precipice.  They drew nearer with each step as if the precipice was their destination.  Or perhaps it was the one sitting there on the rock that the footsteps came to see.  The young man stood and turned, not startled or afraid, but perhaps curious or on the other hand, expecting.

“Mind if I join you?”  The voice belonged to another young man who looked to be in his early thirties.  He stepped through the trees and brush of the forest into the rock and moss clearing just before the small cliff.  He wore blue jeans and hiking boots, a button down flannel shirt and a backpack, and he had long hair pulled back into a pony tail.  His face was kind, yet not exactly handsome.  He wasn’t necessarily ugly, but he wouldn’t have made it on any calendars either.  But something about him was very disarming.  His persona quietly shouted, “Hey, I’m a good guy.”  And so he was.

The young man stood up to respond:  “Sure.”  He watched as the hiker climbed down to the cliff.  “I was hoping you would show,” the young man said as they both turned to look out over the water.  For a moment they stood in silence.  Then the hiker spoke:  “Of course I came.  You asked me to meet you here, didn’t you?”  He smiled as he said it and the young man responded with a smile of his own.

Then the hiker turned to the young man and began to speak:  “I have a message from my father.”  The young man gave him his full attention.

(For the continuation of this story go to the "Boardroom and the Hiker Continuation" link on the right under the "Pages" header)

Sunday, May 1, 2011

A Heavy Heart by Kayla Brooke Quillen

Emptiness, silence, tears
Where have our minds been for all these years?
Thinking we're free from the devastation
Saying "You can wait" to the salvation
Of God, who alone can set us free
My spirit rolls over inside of me
At the sight of the loss and the sorrow
For people who said "Maybe tomorrow"
And have taken their leave
My heart is grieved
And sick to see the women, children, and men
Who will not live to life's long end
For like a fish caught on a line,
No one really knows their time
No one is exempt from death
Any one could be your last breath
Could you look back on your life with peace?
Or be haunted for all eternity
For things you did or did not do
For those who really needed you
A prayer, a word, or just a smile
Can make somebody feel worthwhile
It only takes a bit of love
To bring down Heaven from up above
Proverbs 27:1 says
"Do not boast about tomorrow,
For you do not know what a day
may bring forth."
Ecclesiastes 9:11-12 says
"I returned and saw under the sun
that --
The race is not to the swift,
Nor the battle to the strong,
Nor bread to the wise,
Nor riches to men of understanding,
Nor favor to men of skill;
But time and chance happen to
them all.
For man also does not know his
time:
Like fish taken in a cruel net,
Like birds caught in a snare,
So the sons of men are snared in an
evil time,
When it falls suddenly upon them."

Thursday, April 28, 2011

The Darklands by Stuart Clayton


I woke in a daze up not sure where I had fallen from and wondering what had caused me to fall in the first place. I was not sure where I was either, for the darkness was the only thing that I could make out. I laid there for a while waiting for a thought of things past or present to come to my mind but all that came to my mind was a blank confusion. The earth around me seemed to groan under the misery of the conditions that had befallen it.

After lying for a while I decided that this was no time for ignorance, something had to be made of the conditions that I found myself in. I sat up to discover the ground under me seemed to move as I arose, and in fact I was on no ground at all, a small wooden canoe had become my resting place. The canoe may have been 6-7 feet long and held nothing but an oar and a pole that stood at the front of the boat. The canoe had clearly seen better days, some of the wood near the top of the canoe seemed rotten and a small hole sat on the starboard side high enough to let a drop or two of water leak in with the occasional wave that would drift by.

Confusion seemed to abound as to why exactly I was in a canoe until I looked out at my surroundings; Water seemed to stretch for an eternity.  Tree stumps poked out of the water sporadically causing me to believe that the water may have been 5 feet deep in the deepest spots. The darkness seemed to be broken slightly by flickering points of light in the distance that were dimmed even more by the thick fog that seemed to be as constant as the darkness. 

Complete loneliness and fear began to envelope my being, "I was never prepared for this" I thought. I knew of nothing to say or think it was as if fear itself came and sat with me in my canoe, and as I opened my mouth to scream for help I found nothing came out for I had nothing to say.

            Two options were presented to me I figured, wait or begin to paddle into the foggy darkness. Waiting seemed to be the most obvious option, after all I knew nothing of the place I was in and fear seemed to be the only companion I knew at that point, so wait I would do until I could find something else out about this place. And about this time I saw something in my canoe that I must have missed in the darkness. A small wooden sign that sat at the front of my canoe that read:

                                               Searching is the way of the Darklands
                                               Questions do abound, paddle out to find your way.

(For the continuation of this story go to the "Darklands Continuation" link on the right under the "Pages" header)

The Veteran


The battle weary soldier stood solemn.  Sweat and blood mixed and dried on his face and body.  Cuts and wounds, now fresh, in time would become scars and the story tellers of the battles of yesterdays gone by.  The war was far from over, but this brief lull in fighting brought much needed respite to the worn and battered body of the Veteran; not so much that he could lie down and rest, but enough to search for a moment some peace of mind to focus on the battle that still lay ahead.

Many brave men and women followed the Veteran.  Many were lost in the fighting.  Many more remained at his side and fought just as bravely as he.  All would receive the promised reward. 

Behind him stood those who continued with him -- bloody, exhausted, determined, valiant to a person.  All were here not just by choice but because they were chosen, handpicked by the General himself to go to war against an enemy known as the Plague.

Memories of battles and strategies for war, always on the forefront of the Veteran's mind, were set aside for this brief moment as he looked heavenward and breathed out a prayer.

"What would you have us to do?"

The General's answer came quickly, silently, as if whispered in the Veteran's ear:  "Draw them into the valley.  Meet them there while you still have the advantage of the higher ground.  Fight them and you will win."

Silence, as the calm before a very bloody and gruesome storm, hung heavy in the air, an almost tangible substance, as the Veteran turned toward the host of heaven.

"It is time," he said in a tone that was somber, though not defeated, but rather seasoned in wisdom in the face of the reality of the confrontation that awaited him and his men.  Many would die.  Many more would continue on to fight many more battles to come.  All would receive the promised reward.

Dathan Stephens