Category Archives: Fiction

Threads of Life

This short story is dedicated to my mother, who is a true example of what it looks like to choose joy in every thread of life.

It was a quiet, summer day – one of the kind where Samuel found himself standing under the porch of his home staring out at the world around him – at trees and grass and flowers, and the quiet streets and sidewalks that led the universal roads straight to his childhood home. Yet this place was more than just his childhood home. It was his life home. It was the only home he could remember. To think of home was to think of this place.

For a brief moment Samuel’s eyes caught the clear, blue sky and the many trees that thrust their numerous hands and fingers into that sky, and then his eyes moved toward a portion of sidewalk, which, as ordinary as all the others, traversed its way through grass on either side. He remembered how as a boy he would look out from his bedroom window on the second floor at the sidewalk, at an older version of himself. He sometimes imagined himself as this man looking back at the boy in the window, and before tearfully waving goodbye, saying to enjoy the present and not be caught wasting life away with wishes about the future.

Now, as Samuel looked, he didn’t take the role of either the boy or the man, but instead of an observer standing by and watching them both in their silent, timeless communication. Part of Samuel felt very much as he knew the boy felt – safe in the comforts of home, and anxious at the life that lay before him. Another part of him felt like that older version of himself looking back. Where others might see only a man looking at his house, Samuel instead saw a man looking at memories long gone.

His home was like a history book, and he couldn’t look at it without memories knocking at the door of his mind – memories of a life passing by, memories of his parents and siblings, of family and friends, memories of laughter and tears, memories of his younger self staring at the man on the side walk that he was becoming. It was as though the memories were a thorn in his eye that he could not help but notice every time he looked homeward, and at times even everywhere he looked.

Though some memories were painful to recall, Samuel could think only of how beautiful a picture they all made of his life. At times he wished in vain to revisit some of them and stop them at the most glamorous of moments. And yet, he thought, is it not the brevity of each moment that drives the world to seek that greater weight of glory?

Samuel shut his eyes, and in that world of neither being the boy or the man, he thought that all this life had ever given him is a life he’d be grateful and honored to live again. He did not think this because he had a perfect life free of pain, but because he was, at this moment, deeply thankful for the gift of life. A man gone blind, he reasoned, although at times consumed with longing for the sight he once had, is surely grateful still and, perhaps all the more, to be alive and for his other senses.

Samuel teared up as he remembered, not because he couldn’t go back, but because he came to realize more beauty than he had ever seen before. Why is it, he wondered, that years later, the past in its entirety of joy and sorrow, health and sickness, tends to look so perfect and beautiful? It must be, he concluded, all the threads tied together – threads of life so sweetly woven.

He then wondered about the future of his life, and all the threads yet to be tied. As he thought about his life from beginning to end, it was a restful thought to realize he didn’t have to worry about which thread went where, since, instead, it was of utmost importance to live as though every moment was a thread.

“No matter how long I’m gone, I’ll always miss this place,” Samuel thought, his eyes watering with tears. “And the longer I stay, the more painful it is to leave.”

Samuel’s mother soon joined him on the porch and stood beside him, taking in the beauty of the day. As his mother’s eyes looked up towards the heavens, Samuel turned to look at her. Respect for her and tears rushed to fill an emptiness that had suddenly begun to swallow him. Things were different now than they had been before. The familiar world of his childhood looked so much older now, because for some time he had not been present to see it change. He realized that it is the day’s change that takes a special eye to notice, as the years’ change lashed his heart like a blizzard wind, informed him of a past glory that he’d been too busy or impatient to notice, and sounded a chime in his soul to remind him that time is rushing towards completion.

His mother’s gaze met his, and sensing his grief about his nearing departure, she wrapped her arms around him.

“Son, I love you so much,” she whispered.

“I love you, too, Mom. I just wish that when I was younger I hadn’t wished to grow up so fast. It always felt far away, but now that it’s here . . . .” Samuel couldn’t find the words to say, and he had started a good cry by now.

As the scorching heat of summer makes one long for winter’s first snow, so youthful passion had made Samuel yearn for the future of his life to come soon, as though it would usher in some kind of earthly paradise that the present surely couldn’t offer. Yet, as his parting was nigh, he began to fondly remember all that was past, as the cold of winter makes one long for that heat of summer or think of a warm, sunny day under an umbrella on a beach.

“Change with the seasons, Samuel,” she spoke sweetly. “Let the past you know drive you to choose joy right now, and in every moment yet to come.”

“I will,” Samuel said, as he took in the weight of his mother’s words, considering that too many are drawn into a rhythm of life that tempts them to believe that true joy is found only in future acquisitions or accomplishments, only to be rudely awakened to find their past robbed of all the daily joys granted by that greater weight of glory.

Samuel put an arm around his mother.

“Another cup of coffee?” He asked, smiling.

“Yes, please,” she said, and kissed him softly on the cheek.


Friends in Passing

Samuel awoke to an ordinary, splendid spring day. It was of the kind where you wake up to a shining sun and a cool fresh breeze – the kind that makes you want to sing and sniff the air and dance and drink coffee. And it was one of the kind that makes it very difficult to go spend a day working inside. Samuel stopped at the post office before heading to the train station to drop off a pair of shoes he’d ordered online that didn’t fit.

“Why did I order those shoes online? It would have been way more efficient to just go to the store,” Samuel questioned himself.

He pulled into the station and found a parking spot at the very back of the parking lot, since it was empty in the back and he felt more comfortable doing so. He usually boarded the prior Washington Station, because it was closer to his house. But Windsor Station was closer to the post office, so today it made the cut.

Samuel took a seat on a bench near the tracks, watching others arrive and enjoying tidbits of conversation with strangers and familiar faces now and again. He looked intently at the faces around him – some were happy, some seemingly stricken with sorrows of life, and still others he couldn’t quite describe, but maybe plain was the right word. He sat patiently, here and then glancing at the papers in his hand or his phone to check the time, waiting for the train to arrive. Five more minutes until 6:00AM arrival. This train, however, always ran early in the mornings, and Samuel knew by experience that it was usually always here 5:50AM every morning.

“I wonder why it’s not here by now,” Samuel thought.

A few minutes passed, and looking around Samuel could see and feel the growing frustration of the crowd. He turned and glanced down the track as far as his eye could see. No train. No sound. Just the morning breeze and the sniffles and breath of the assembly. Minutes continued to roll by. It was 6:15 now, and finally one man spoke up, stirring the silence to complain.

“They’ve got one job, these guys. Why can’t they just show up on time and do it right?”

The majority of the crowd joined in, with growing frustration about being late for work or about plans being messed up for the day. Samuel stayed silent, so sure that the train would arrive any minute. At the same time, the pressure to conform to the voices of those gathered tugged at his tongue, and at last he caved in.

“Good grief,” he said to a familiar looking woman beside him. “So much for getting off work early today.”

She confirmed his words “I know, right? I’m supposed to lead a meeting this morning. At this rate I will barely make it.”

Samuel looked again; the tracks were still silent. Many people began to make phone calls to co-workers and bosses, letting them know that they would be late. Some even began to get in their cars and drive away, the time now being nearly 6:30AM. Samuel sat still.

“Something must have happened,” he spoke at last, before the train master’s voice came through the speakers overhead.

“I’ve just received word that the Northwest Line is now closed due to an accident. You will be notified of it’s reopening in the days to come. Thank you for your business.”

Samuel heard some gasps from the crowd, but still the majority of the pack complained.

“An accident? Seriously? What did they do this time?” An angry man’s voice could be heard above the throng.

The crowd began to move away from the rails and towards their vehicles or other means of transportation. A bus arrived on the scene and within minutes was full and on its way again.

“Well, I guess we’ll meet again when the line reopens,” the lady next to Samuel spoke softly as she began walking away. “Have a good day.”

“Thank you,” Samuel replied.

A few more minutes passed and Samuel alone remained near the tracks.

“An accident?” Samuel wondered. “That was all the information they gave? An accident that closed the line down?”

Eventually, he rose and walked slowly towards his car, stepped in, and drove away towards home, making a mental note to call his manager upon arrival in about twenty minutes. He had done this drive at least a thousand times, having grown up here as a child and now having been commuting daily into the city for work. He passed the familiar banks, stores, coffee shops, parks, and drove through the same stoplights he knew the timing of down to the tee. He traveled passed the same signs and streets which felt like home, and with the same railroad line which, though curving at times, ran mainly parallel to the road he took most of the way home.

“What an unusual morning,” he thought. “Why did it feel so strange?” Almost the whole time, Samuel had expected the station master to say those words. It was not at all surprising to him. Why else would the train be so late?

In the distance near Washington Bridge he could see flashing lights and traffic that had piled up.

“There was an accident,” the words played again in his head. “The train must have run into a car.”

The traffic came to a dead stop and Samuel could see people getting out of their cars to see what was going on. Pulling to the right side of the road, Samuel decided to do the same. As he stepped out and began walking towards the lights, he saw the looks of horror on some of the faces of people walking back from the scene of interest. His heart began to beat faster. He didn’t want to ask anyone what happened. He wanted to see for himself. He could see the flashing lights clearly now, and people on stretchers. He saw police tape forming a perimeter blocking the entire road, and he walked straight up to it, out of a line of trees and into the open sky. He stopped in his track, looking up. He knew these skies, but everything had changed now. The familiar sights and sounds of cars and trains were no longer. They were now replaced by the cries of those being rescued, the yells of the rescuers, and the slam in the distance of people getting back into their cars.

Samuel’s eyes filled with tears. The scene reminded him of a story he’d read in the newspaper as a boy. But he could only imagine it then. Now it was right in front of him.

“How foolish I was to be complaining this morning, joining the murmur of an impatient throng!” He thought, wishing to hear what the man who had initiated the grumbling would say after he saw this. “What were we grumbling for? Such a small thing in comparison. We wanted to get to work, but He didn’t want us there. We wanted our lives to work out so badly the way we expected, but He had something different planned for us, something we should learn from.

Samuel wiped his tears and walked towards a police officer to offer some help. The police officer said he was alright, but then another police officer suddenly spotted two limp bodies barely floating on a train seat in the water. Before anyone else acted, Samuel had already entered the water and was swimming towards them. Within a few minutes the passengers were on the shore, but it was too late. They had already passed. Samuel was drenched and cold. Someone handed him a blanket, and he gratefully accepted. He didn’t know what to think. He was still so stuck on the fact that they had all been waiting as Washington Bridge collapsed, and complaining as its passengers were smashed and drowned to death. He couldn’t believe it. All the year and times he traveled across it . . . every day for years now. And it was only today he was dropping by the post office and came to Windsor, the station after Washington, where he usually boarded. He would have entered the train this morning to sit next to the two passengers he so quickly dove in to save, not just because they needed help, but because he so easily recognized them – his friends in passing.

Sophia Klesis

In the following play a fundamental question is pondered: does God exist? The implications of the answers to this question are of great spiritual significance, and the play seeks to follow the roads and thoughts to which certain of these answers lead.


Aletheia: Truth – sister of Plastos

Distazon: Waverer – cousin of Aletheia and Plastos

Plastos: Falsehood – brother of Aletheia

Sophia: Wisdom


SCENE I.  A cabin room with a fireplace in use.  Light Rain outside.

Enter Distazon and sits by the fire.

Distazon. Sinful actions, Aletheia says?! Sinful actions!? – when I have struggled to be good – to do good! Whatever does she mean? All I’ve ever been told is that it’s greener on the other side. But wherever I seem to be she’s always calling me out. I told her I believed her and still she said it wasn’t enough. She raddled on about being able to see fruit or something. Yet if by fruit she is referring to that which is pleasing to taste, I see fruit in many places where she does not.

Sophia. Oh Distazon. Beloved Distazon. Even weeds have flowers and the looks of fruitful beauty. But beware, Distazon! Beware lest the seeds of weeds stretch themselves across your mind and dig their way into your soul. If you could see with eternal eyes Distazon – with eyes that transcend time – then distinguishing one fruit from another would be a light and easy task. Yet your flesh begs you to taste all you see and to love whatever pleases you most. But surely from one tree to another, from all that you have tasted, certain fruits tend to taste better! Distazon, beware! Beware lest your taste become dull – lest your pallet become dark and cold.

Distazon. Oh that I would know for sure the way I am to go! Oh that someone would tell me what to do! Oh that I would become wisdom and yet taste what Plastos tastes! For if I follow Plastos, Aletheia will not cease to bother me, and if I follow Aletheia, I am subject to painful withdrawal and the mocking blows of my beloved Plastos. Oh the fire grows cold and wastes away as does my soul and mind with all this pondering.

Exit Distazon to sleep his worries away.

SCENE II. A broken road. Clouds and sun overhead.

Enter Plastos walking towards the city.

Plastos. There it is! Ah, such a beautiful, fruitful city! – So full of fruits lovely to see, and taste and touch. Fruits that so many never taste and fruits that so many only suck. Oh that my sister and cousin would experience the joys I experience. But never the matter. Let them waste away in their holiness – their fruitless pondering and pleasureless living. Let them judge. Let me taste. Let them die. Let me live. For they know not the folly of their ways. They know not that their supposed righteousness leads not to everlasting joy, but rather to bitterness. They are at war with themselves, Aletheia more than Distazon. Distazon at least has some reason to taste, but Aletheia never wants even a glance, though she acknowledges that part of her supposed sinful self does. She will never see that it is actually sin that profits.

Sophia. Plastos! Plastos! Plastos!

Plastos. Be calm, my mind. Why worry about death and what lies beyond? There is no thought in heaven above or earth beneath. Why worry about that which is not seen? No one watches you, but those you see. Some say life is a gift, but life is not given. Life is had, and that is all. All that we see we attempt to explain, yet none perhaps can fully understand.

Sophia. Plastos! Plastos! Plastos!

Plastos. No, there can be nothing more. There can be nothing outside of what we see. For what then do we search? We search to understand how to further ourselves. We search not to understand ourselves, but to please ourselves. For if what is visible is all that is true, and if what we see is all that is pleasurable, and if meaning is found in all the brings pleasure, then what can we search for but to lengthen our joy and expand our pleasures? Oh that all would see as me! Then fuller pleasure would be had, and there would be no need for fighting.

Sophia. Plastos! Plastos! Plastos! Listen to my voice!

Plastos. I hear voices in the city. They bid me come.

Exit Plastos into the city.

SCENE III. A stream surrounded by trees and green grass. Blue skies and sun overhead.

Enter Aletheia to sit in the grass and rest her feet in the stream.

Aletheia. Behold the works of wisdom! For God in heaven is wise, and all we see He has created. His wisdom is deeper than the ocean, and His love higher than the heavens – both soft as this stream and yet at times seemingly fiercer than all that we can compare it to. Blessed be your name, O God! May your kingdom here be as it is in heaven above! May all people here praise and serve you as the angels in heaven! Be our God, I pray, and provide for us Your people. Give us opportunity to speak truth to those in our lives and to forgive them as You have forgiven us. LORD forgive us! Protect us from the snares of the devil, and deliver us from sinful ways. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen.

Sophia. Eat honey, my daughter; “for it is good and the drippings of the honeycomb are sweet to your taste.”[1] Forget not the LORD your God. “In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.”[2] Pray for your enemies, and hold back those who are stumbling to death. Do not fear to speak the truth, for that is what I have called you to do. And in all that you do I will deliver you.

Alethia. Blessed be the name of the most high God! Praise the LORD all that has life and breath! Amen and Amen.



House of Aletheia. Aletheia and Distazon are holding serious discussion. A large doomed room with couches in the middle and a kitchen and other rooms surrounding it. Sun outside.

Distazon. You claim to know the truth. But how can you know?! How can you distinguish one truth from another?

Aletheia. It is not my truth, Distazon, but God’s. I do not claim authorship, but only stewardship. Tell me, Distazon, is there anything that explains everything like Christianity? Can you find meaning even in the smallest of details and even understand the purpose of the most beautiful stars? Is there anything so comforting as a God watching your every step to lead you and guide you and pick you up when you stumble? Is there any man in history like Jesus Christ? Tell me that he did not do what we say, and I will find you eye witness accounts in more number than the words of Plato and Aristotle.

Distazon. But cousin how can you be sure? I see that if one believes Christianity the whole world makes sense, but to say that the world cannot be explained in any other way is to become an enemy of so many. Can it not be mere chance? For every creation must there really be a god?

Aletheia. I understand your frustration Distazon, for at one time I knew not the truth. But if life is mere chance, where is purpose? Is it only in transient pleasure? Tell me, Distazon, what other way can you explain life? What other meaning is there to be found for us but that we are children created by a kind, almighty and loving God. Have you not yet tasted and seen that He truly is good?

Distazon. Your soft tongue persuades me Aletheia. Your kindness tugs at rusty doors in my soul. If what you say is true, then I must change. And if I change, I fear for my life. And in that I see only sorrow and pain, for the joy you experience and see I am blind to. Will I see it, too? If I believe with all my heart and confess that Jesus is LORD will I see it, too? – That blessed, eternal, peaceful joy?

Aletheia. The fruits you have tasted are bitter and sour, and I can say no other than a resounding yes. You will taste it. You need first believe and confess with all your heart, mind, soul and body and you will know the peace of God that surpasses all human understanding. Believe, Distazon, and find rest for your soul.

Enter Plastos loudly through a front door.

Plastos. What is this?! Aletheia talking and Distazon in tears?! Listen not nor be convicted by her words Distazon. Aletheia speaks only to hamper your pleasure and weaken your joys. Her words do not bring comfort, but condemnation that only she and those like her truly deserve.

Distazon. I see truth, Plastos. I see truth in her words. And life, too! My heart yearns for what she has, and I have seen where our joys together have led. They have led me only to want more the next time. My longings are temporarily satisfied and eternally expounded. I need peace for my soul, Plastos. Do you not see the truth?

Plastos. Distazon! Don’t you see the fool you are becoming? Peace for your soul? There is no peace for your soul but transient satisfaction. That is why we must work, Distazon. We must work for satisfaction until we save up enough for our whole lives and our children’s lives. That is the struggle of life – to find bodily rest. Aletheia’s philosophies only work against our way of life.

Distazon. Your way of life, Plastos. It is mine no longer.

Plastos. Aletheia! Look what you have done. You are wormwood to this world. You are the hater of good and the lover of falsehood. You say you speak truth, but your truth is lies! You say you seek our eternal good, but what is eternity in a life that doesn’t see it? What about now? What about the present?

Aletheia. Plastos, there is beauty and pleasure now – fruits of all kinds to be tasted, and love of all forms to be made. But can you not see that there is sin that mars our pleasure? – That life is more than pleasure?!

Plastos. (Pulls out a sword and walks towards Aletheia) I have spoken to the authorities. Your life is in my hands. Answer your ultimatum. Revoke your Christian stupor and live as we or die the death of an infidel. Times are changing, and we saints of true pleasure will have no more of your condemnation or judgement. Life is to be lived to the fullest and those that disagree must die. Repent of your sin and I will spare you, Aletheia. Repent and you will live.

Distazon. No, Plastos! She is innocent! There is no blood on her hands! She speaks only what she knows to be truth!

Plastos. Distazon, you know the fruit of her ways. If you seek to save her life you will only lose your own. Your life is in my hands. I have the power to do you good or ill. I have the power to take your life or to keep it. Be silent!

Aletheia. You have not the powers of which you speak. You cannot take life unless it is first given to you by God to take, neither can you keep it unless God grants it to you. I will not revoke what I believe, for all that I believe is true.

Plastos. Very well then (raises sword to thrust it through Aletheia)

Distazon. No, Plastos! Stop! NO! NO! NO! (Plastos strikes the sword through Aletheia’s heart)

Aletheia. Into your hands I commit my spirit. I am yours. Save me. (Falls dead)

Sophia. You are delivered, my daughter. This day you are delivered by your death. Come to me. Come home.

Plastos. (turns to Distazon): What say you!?

Distazon. Deliver me, oh God! I believe the truth! Jesus is LORD! Save me for I am yours! Deliver me!

Plastos. (strikes Distazon)

Distazon. (Falls dead)

Sophia. You are delivered, my son. This day you are delivered by your death. Come to me. Come home.

Plastos. I defy the living God! Come fight me, oh God! If you are real then show yourself to me that I may destroy you!

Sophia. Plastos! Plastos! Plastos! Your blasphemy will not deliver you, and wickedness does not profit long. You will be overthrown in your evildoing, as My Word declares.

Plastos. (Falls down to his knees feeling the sting of death come over him)

Plastos. I kneel out of weakness not because I have seen and believed.

Sophia. Do you now believe only because death knocks at your door?

Plastos. Is my pleasure over so fast? Is my destruction so sudden? What is the pain I must endure? How I have lived so wrong! How I have lived in a moment and shall suffer for eternity! My reward is justice. True justice is my reward.

Plastos. (Falls dead)

Sophia. Plastos, eternal darkness awaits you, and weeping and gnashing of teeth. For I have delivered my righteous ones. And precious is their death in My sight!

Curtains close.

Enter Sophia.

Sophia. ‘“Whoever is simple, let him turn in here!” To him who lacks sense she says, “Come eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed. Leave your simple ways, and live, and walk in the way of insight.”’[3] “Now therefore, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth. Serve the LORD with fear, and rejoice with trembling. Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and you perish in the way, for his wrath is quickly kindled. Blessed are all who take refuge in him.”[4] Amen and Amen.

[1] Proverbs 24:13

[2] Proverbs 3:6

[3] Proverbs 9:5-6

[4] Psalm 2:10-12

The Graveside Letter

Sometimes, my love, it was in the hardest of times that I loved you most, because I saw the fruit of your love so clearly. Sometimes it seems that in the sting of defeat we can better taste the sweetness of victory, because what seems to us as demise God works for our good. It’s been a wonderful life I’ve lived with you, my love – one about which I have my share of regrets for my failings, but one through which I’ve grown to love you more than I ever thought possible. As a young man I wondered what the future would hold. Now, as the final chapters of my life draw to a close, satisfaction that comes only from Christ overwhelms my soul. You, my love, have already blazed ahead and the joy of thinking about meeting you again brings me to tears. Do you think we’ll remember our wedding day? Or perhaps even the day we first met? Do you think we’ll remember those nights by the fire when we stayed up late reading and laughing with each other? Or the times when we argued about petty things and then realized how selfish we were? Do you think we’ll remember? We’re part of a great, big book, and I wonder how there could ever be time to sit and read it and remember it all, especially since it’s one that doesn’t have an ending, or at least not an ending like the endings we know.

Whatever the days ahead hold, my love, I enter the grave a better man having known you, and I enter it a loved man, too – a loved man not because of my loveliness, but because you saw me as Christ saw me, and were willing to go every step of the way to see me home. Thank you for that. As I breathe my last I shall think of you, and do my best to see our children off to fulfill what they have been called to do – to live their lives in many ways the same as ours, yet all unique in their own ways. I will love you always, my love – always. Until we meet again then, goodbye, my love. Goodbye.

CHAPTER V: Wilderness

(Disclaimer: Due to finally coming up with a solid ending to this book, I needed to make a few revisions to some of the previous chapters in order to provide some clearer direction. So here is the FYI: Chapter 3 is roughly the same but has more stuff added to it. Chapter 4 has the same idea but different setting and less of the dream. Chapter 5 finishes off the dream, but IN a different way than what was previously presented. Also, please feel free to comment about whatever you would like. I am open to suggestions and criticism.)

Samuel watched the plane in the distance as it sped down the runway increasing its speed. He watched as its feet lifted off of the ground and its metal cylinder began to float in the air. Who could have ever imagined what the world would be today in all its machines and gadgets to further man in his subduing, or at times, maybe, which hold him back.

“Now boarding Group 4! Again, since this flight is going to be full, we are checking bags for free if you want to check them know. Regardless, if the overhead space fills up we will have to check all of the remaining bags.”

Samuel stood up from the bench he was sitting on, and walked over to the boarding station to have his pass scanned before walking on the plane. He watched as the man with a cane in front of him had his pass scanned are began to walk through the boarding tunnel. He followed the man with a cane, and could not help but notice the way he dragged his right foot. Such painful, slow movement.

And then it was as if Sam was a ghost already on the plane, hearing the shuffle of this man’s approaching foot. Sam then saw the man and himself as the pair turned the corner and finally stepped onto the plane. This vision then quickly faded and another took its place.

“What is it that makes a nation great? What is it that makes this nation great? Is it the strength of our hands or the wisdom of our lips? Is it the passion of our young men, or the beauty of our women? It is hard to believe that any would dare to say it is not in the glory of these things that our greatness is found, yet surely greatness goes beyond these things. Our true American greatness is our oneness under the headship of our Creator and savior Christ Jesus. It is by His will that America is what it is. It is by His will that America will continue to be what it is. Yet there are those that would disgrace this truth, and by doing so they make of themselves fools. There are those that would sit idle as our soldiers are tortured for the petty gain of world wealth. There are men in our leadership who would eat with our enemies rather than honor our heroes. And with the words that I have left I say that these men redeem their name through right action, and I call for those of you here today to hold them accountable for their actions. Save our heroes! Save our brothers and fathers! Pray for their witness to our enemies, yet may our enemies never be graced by the sense of our weakness, but may they know that we will protect our own, as our own have protected us. Remember Company K! Remember the K!”

Samuel watched himself speaking these words with force and passion atop the podium overlooking a crowd of thousands of people. As he finished his last sentence, the applause of the crowd rang out and in unison a cry began.

“Remember the K! Remember the K! Remember the K!”

Samuel had experienced this dream before, so he knew what was about to happen. He had seen and felt all of this already – the images of dead bodies, smoke, and blood – the feeling of pain and sorrow. He wanted it to stop, but he knew that this future was already written, and he could do nothing about it except accept it. Everything inside of Samuel told him to run, and remembrance of the coming fierce emotions made his body tremble. But he couldn’t run. For the life of him he could not run. His legs were buried thigh high, and his arms were glued to his sides.

“Ah! No!” Samuel screamed, and before he could say anymore, a thunderstorm and pouring rain had begun to block out all other noise. The ground also began to shake vigorously. The trembling of Sam’s legs brought him to his knees. “This is just a dream, Samuel. Calm down. This is just a dream. You’ll wake up in a few minutes.” But Samuel didn’t wake up in a few minutes, and the ground continues to shake as he lay stunned on his knees. A scream pierced the air, and Sam heard it clamor above the clamor of the crowd.

“Run! Run! Run!” It was the sound of a woman’s voice. Oh, such dreadful urgency.

Then the image of the gunshot flashed through his mind, and he could feel the bullet ripping through his own chest and out the other side. And sure enough, Samuel looked down to see a bullet had pierced just below his heart, and blood was pooling steadily around the wound. Samuel watched as the crowd scattered like in all directions like the breaking of a dam wall. Soon after this his mind was driven into the wilderness of his visions, and this bloody scene too faded away, but this time to what Sam remember not – to what, at the break of day faded into eternity without remembrance, as if it never was dreamed of at all.


CHAPTER I: New Beginnings

The moon’s silver light shined down upon a quiet neighborhood street, where here and there windows stood glowing with light from within houses. Now and then some of the lights would turn off, and some would turn on. But as the hours rushed along, all the beaming lights faded away, trusting that the moon would continue steadfast, and wage their war against the darkness; yet one light did not fade away, but like a watchman continually scanned everything in its grasp, exposing dust and swallowing darkness.

Thomas closed his eyes. He saw something. It was a world, and he could see a mountain top with clear streams flowing down its sides.  And then he saw a sun and a forest, a luscious meadow, and an ocean longer and wider than the eye could see.  He saw a blue sky and a valley running towards a desert land.

“Perfection!” the place seemed to shout, and Thomas smiled, feeling grass beneath his toes, and smelling the scent of roses and pine and fresh water, and . . . something he didn’t feel he could describe without marring some of its beauty. Wind grazed his face.

Then a strange sensation struck him – a feeling of embarrassment – and the parabola of his smile began to stretch horizontally. He felt completely out of place, as if his presence, though fully desired, was unfit for this world he saw.

Thomas opened his eyes. He was still in his bedroom sitting on his chair next to his dark, wood desk, and his light was still shining. In his hand lay a pencil held over a blank page in a notebook. Thomas sighed. He believed he had so much to say, yet he suffered speechlessness. How could he tell someone else the wonder and amazement he felt when he ventured into the world of imagination? He’d expected it to be hard, but not impossible, like it felt at the moment.

Some words came to him, and he quickly wrote them down, but then crossed them out soon after. They didn’t do justice to what he imagined. This process repeated several times before he lost motivation and set his pencil down.

“Has all already been said?” He considered. “God already spoke the world into being and is speaking even now! C.S. Lewis already created Narnia, and Tolkien Middle Earth. Is there beauty yet to be revealed? Is there a glory that has yet to be spoken and discovered? I’m thinking about this too hard . . . .” Thomas put his right hand to his chin and gently rubbed his fingers back and forth on it.

“Will these words ever come to fruition? Is the fruition of this time words themselves? It must be more than that. Fruition is a process. Ideas must be conceived and born in the form of words. Then they must live and proclaim the glory their symbols represent,” Thomas folded his hands and rested them on the notebook. He inhaled and exhaled, feeling content.

“Why don’t I just write these thoughts down?” He contemplated and proceeded to do so.

He wrote, “Is a nation born in a single day? No one has heard of such a thing, the Scripture says. Like nations, ideas must be conceived and then born in the form of words. The process of fruition in this case ranges from the imagination to what the reader profits from reading. And in a sense, if the words are words that point to glory and mirror Christ’s Words, then the words do not cease to bear good fruit.”

“Yet sometimes this process does not bear good fruit, either because the ideas were conceived in sin, or because they came to words too early, not having enough time to grow. Sometimes these words die early, and sometimes they can be nurtured and sustained. Editors are like nurses, and newly spoken words are like children. Some words die early, and some old. Still more never die. Words that never die are those that give life. They are living words, like God’s words. They are words of creation, words of love, words that speak glory . . . .”

“Thoughts need to rest and develop before words can do them justice,” A smile of satisfaction formed over Thomas’s face as he was now assured that the time he had spent so far was not a waste. He continued, “Ideas need to grow, and expectations that hold writing to be impossible or easy, and not somewhere in between, will sooner or later face disappointment. For the world fell into sin, making us incapable of speaking glorious words, but God sent His one and only Son, so that he might save us from the horrors of sin and to the glories of His presence. So now we can speak of good things, because we have been saved, but we cannot speak perfectly, because we are being saved.”

“At the moment of conception the Spirit forms a child, and this is miraculous. Time needs to pass for the child to take shape; it will be nine months before the child is fully ready to enter the world outside his mother’s womb. For the process of speaking, the mind is the womb, the imaginations and ideas are the child, and God is Creator of them both.”

Thomas shut his eyes. He saw the world again. It looked like the world he lived in, except that it was perfect, or almost perfect. He realized now that it was his own presence that marred its perfection. The very wandering of his mind to the place brought imperfection. Yet now he was not ashamed.

He knew that even the best of his words couldn’t describe the glory of this place, not only because he was not fluent in the language of glory, but also because he could not see the extent of the glory.

Yet he was not upset, because he saw more now than he saw before. He saw that there was beauty even in the midst of his want of vision and lack of perfection, that his battling against the muting forces of sin and evil was itself glorious; that the full glory of this place, though for a time out of reach and inexpressible, was actually more glorious with his struggle, because the substance of the story all of the sudden welcomed and required God to be in the midst of it.

Thomas opened his eyes and exhaled a deep breath. Contentment and satisfaction embraced his soul like a mother her new born child.

“So speak good things . . . . Speak life and speak glory. All of us were made to do so. So let the deadly silence of our lips kneel before our Father who speaks all things, and shout hosanna in the highest . . . hosanna in the highest . . . hosanna in the highest!”

The grandfather clock struck, and Thomas listened to its voice. It was time to rest. He laid his pencil down and turned off his desk light.

“I will write a story,” he said. “A story of life and death and life. An imitation story of God’s. Because that is a way that I can speak His glory. Because that’s a way His glory can be proclaimed.”

Thomas stood up, and soon lay down to rest, knowing that more could have and should have been accomplished that day, but trusting that even his weaknesses and failures would be mediums of a greater glory. And then Thomas closed his eyes.





CHAPTER IV: A Perceived Mistake

Glass – thousands of grains of refined, clean, transparent sand shaping our cups and windows, covering our skyscrapers and giving the blind sight. The sound of it shattering into pieces – the sound of a perceived mistake. No visible fragments. No sight at all. Just the fragile, screeching pierce of those fine crystals separating, as of a lover watching a loved descend into the grave – like the fierce blow of a baseball bat against a chandelier. It is difficult to resist flinching at the sound. The sound grew clearer now, and more consistent, as of a waterfall of hollow glass balls pouring out onto a marble floor, enhanced by echoes within a cave. It is the sound of destruction – the sound of sudden mistakes caused by the slip of the hand or mind. Then suddenly came a flash as of lightning, and the sound of thunder followed.

Samuel opened his eyes. The hospital room was dark. He slowly turned his neck to the right. His brain felt the shock of the movement, and screamed pain. He could see his mother sitting in an arm chair beside his bed, near an open window. Outside it was raining heavily. The lighting flashed again, and the thunder boomed in imitation shortly thereafter. It must have been early morning, because Samuel could see a faint source of light on the horizon. He shut his eyes tight; the world appeared the same as he remembered, but it felt different – older maybe. Another vivid flash and boom, and then Samuel suddenly remember what had happened, but he didn’t know where he was. His eyelids felt heavy, so he shut his eyes. The storm had calmed slightly, but he could still hear the rain falling outside. Within minutes he had fallen back to sleep.

Vivid images began to flash through Samuel’s mind. Some of them were just memories that Sam clearly recognized. Others were of familiar places where Sam used to spend his childhood days. Still more were of past, repeating dreams, to which Sam shared no connection, but which radically affected his emotions. Yet more than ever before the images were so clear and began to flow so seamlessly that it was as if they were not images at all, but scenes that Samuel was presently and physically experiencing. The images began to play again.

“Hey, watch that corner. Okay, were gonna have to tip this vertically to fit through the door,” Samuel told his younger sister Rachel as Alethia held open the front door of the house, where a large mirror would soon make its way through.

“Careful!” Mrs. Elizabeth Wade spoke. She had asked Samuel to take down the mirror in their front bathroom and bring it down to the street curb, since she was renovating the bathroom and had purchased a new mirror to replace what she referred to as the 90s style wall mirror. It sure was a wall mirror – measuring about 6ft by 3ft.

“Strike two,” Rachel said as Samuel accidentally bumped his side of the mirror into the door frame. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and it was quiet as well.

“Ah, well at least we are through now,” Samuel said. “Thanks for holding the door Ale’!”

“Your welcome!” Alethia replied with a smile on her face. Her mother was now looking out one of the front windows in the house to watch the completion of the task, so she walked over to join her.

“Almost there!” Samuel said as they were now on the concrete drive way and just about 20ft from the curb where they would place the mirror in the grass to be picked up by the garbage company the next day.

Then the unexpected happened. Bless the driveways slight incline and that small, rough pebble over which Rachel lost her balance, which was then followed by the crashing loss of that most blessed wall mirror which had hung in the house for 17 years. TSHI! A side of the front part of the mirror smashed into the concrete scattering tiny shards of sparkly, silvery glass. Seeing that Rachel had tripped and fallen, Samuel not too gently let down his side of the mirror, causing some more cracking on the surface of the mirror, and then ran over to help his sister up off of the ground.

“Rachel, are you okay?!” Samuel spoke loudly, while hearing the front door open and close behind him as his mother and sister also ran to Rachel’s aid.

“Well, I’m alright, but the mirror is not,” Rachel said, slightly embarrassed by the whole event.

And then this vision, too, vanished away leaving Samuel’s mind scarred with the sound of shattering glass on concrete. TSHI! The sound repeated over and over again in his mind.