The Processor

The mind is a diligent worker. It labors relentlessly and realistically to assemble the expressions of the spirit. And while the tongue blurts out the partially assembled interpretations of the mind, the eyes can take control at any time. What the eyes take in, the mind must gather and assemble. Close our eyes and our mind no longer intakes. It either shuts down or works on what information it already possesses in its factory. Control the eyes, and what they scan, and you filter down the amount of information the mind deals with; but the disciplined eyes don't just control the quantity of flow, they become picky shoppers. Eyes that are directed by the spirit shop for the best quality, most nutritious consumption, giving the mind exactly the right parts for the assembly of the understanding. When the spirit directs the eyes, the mind does not waste time sifting through unnecessary and unworthy tangents-- tangents that consume time with processing and investigation to determine worthiness. Thus, the spirit directs the eyes, which feed the mind lean and mean. This speeds the processing of the understanding. Speeding the process of the understanding produces a timely, effective tongue, rather than an impatient scattering voice. Spirit-led eyes produce wise and constructive speech. In order to stay in this pattern of beneficence the entire process must be locked in place with wisdom, and adorned with knowledge. Knowledge completes understanding and presentation of the voice. Wisdom ensures that the final product is of the highest standard before it can be spoken. If the voice is not worthy, then wisdom reduces it to the junk pile of "good intentions" and "never will be good."

The Rock of Reality (Part 2)

A few meters of climbing and the mountain became sheer, jutting upwards as to hang me upside down. Just above my position was a ledge that I reasoned would afford me a place of safety. As I reached for the rock, the handle on the ledge broke off, slicing my hairline just above my ear as it tumbled out of view.
Dangling now, I fixed my eye on getting to the ledge. To retreat meant a fall, likely resulting in injury. A struggled lunge and I landed a second hand grip
on the flat above. A great heave with a sideways foothold lifted me precariously on to the front of the outcropping. I was still trembling from the adrenaline as I cursed my slip. Regaining my composure, I curiously noticed that the ledge had an inscription carved into it. However, a big chunk of the chiseled word was now visiting the lower regions of the hill. Looking up the sharp angles ahead, I could make out other inscriptions. However, I was unable to read them from where I was positioned. Each carving held a spot along the route.
After catching my breath I froze in study as movement caught my attention to the left. A noise behind and to the right confirmed that I was not alone on the mountain. To the left I saw another man, much older than me trying to make his way up. Out of audible voice range, he looked over at me with a sparkle in his eye. His climb was slow but sure. He somehow knew he was going to make it to the top. Behind me I noticed a young woman sitting on a ledge dejected. Her slump and head shake cried defeat. She too was out of voice range.
My returning glance brought the realization that the mountain was alive with people trying to make their way up. Some however were slip-sliding back down. Seeing the others also awakened me to the fact that we were not all on the same mountain. My first investigation had been trained to the people. A little craning and turning of the head and I saw that each was on his or her own mountain. From one angle they all blended together like one defiantly gigantic wall. Closer inspection showed the individual rises. Like the turning of a hologram the dimensions and character began to rotate my assumptions.
Their mountains too had names on them. It was much easier to read the names in front of everyone else than it was to read my own. My words were viewed from the bottom up; and were only legible when rising to within a breath’s distance.
Over at the neighbors’ playgrounds I saw the words addiction, family, busyness, unforgiven, injury and pride. There were many more too numerous to absorb without lengthy study. Some words were fixed upon the mountain, while others seemed to ripple across the rock like so many searchlights jailing the climber when framed in by their presence.
The different words also seemed to define what type of rock, and what type of conditions existed in the immediate vicinity. Busyness had chiseled out a very noticeable resting area of rough-cut unfinished construct. Success had ornately plastered its own banner in the flat of the stone; but once a hand passed over it, the word temporarily faded. They could admire it and touch it, but not completely possess it.
Pride was one of the moving words. It would be there one moment, and then gone the next. Pride would re-appear elsewhere. Whatever it touched transformed into the brightly colored and extravagant. The presentation caused some to smile and others to duck. There were numerous encounters with Pride, for it was on most mountains. In fact, as I began again my climb, similar words began appearing on my wall. I too saw the flash of pride in front of me. It paused just long enough to illicit a “hey, look at me!” When it passed it was blindingly bright, causing me to look to the side for a moment to maintain my vision and direction. Every time Pride left, I knew it would come back. It was relentless.
Surprisingly, knowing that my struggle was not rare strengthened me. As I made my way forward, I came to a large outcropping. It was too large to go around. There were good handholds and footholds up the side; but as I reached for the first grip I realized a new challenge. In addition to being large, the outcropping was extremely slippery and covered in a moldy slime. It was not reliable at all.
Up and to the right I found a heavy vine with Trust grafted into its fibers. Several unsuccessful attempts at scaling the greasy steps and I targeted my plan on the possibility of the vine. To reach it would require a lunge. If I missed, a decently scary drop to a ledge below waited. My stretch was half-hearted. Midway through my reach I knew I would not make it. I had misjudged the effort needed to propel myself across to the vine. In turn I found my momentum escaping as I fingered franticly for the lifeline to my side. Finally gaining a grip, I belly-flopped off the shelf, dragging dirt off the ledge behind me with my feet. Clinging desperately to the vine, I winced in anticipation of my knees and toes smacking into the ridges ahead. No places to grab hold, and my options about to swing backwards, I heaved a leg onto the landing. A few grunts, and ridiculous flailing, secured me sufficiently big-eyed on my goal of a next step. Graceful, I thought sarcastically.
After catching my breath with a survivor’s smile I looked upward and spotted a dry foothold. However, I lost focus for a moment as the bruises on my knees reminded me that the next jump would have to be an all or nothing proposition. Another word sat paused in my landing zone. I shifted onto my feet to get a full look. Achievement was scrawled there. My first thought was I did it! My second thought was: You’re lucky to not be lying in a heap of unidentifiable parts down below.
Had Trust not been there, I would have never scaled the Achievement. It wasn’t just what I had done that firmed me, but how I got there. What had I trusted in? And what had I achieved? In both cases I wasn’t sure. I did know for sure that without that vine I would still be down there looking up, trying to figure out how not to quit.
Rotating on my seat I found a climb of steps through a crease in the hill. My ascent encouraged, I began once again through this narrow stairway. Enthusiasm strengthened with each step. The haze above that had thickly barricaded the summit began to thin, revealing the openness of blue above. Despite heavy respiration, I covered big chunks of terrain while enjoying the giving of myself. I grew fatigued and energized all at once. Still I pushed faster and faster while keeping an eye on my destination.
Suddenly the stairs ended against an accidental wall. I thought surely this wall was not meant to be here. The entire top of the mountain was a steep glassy sheet too tall and wide to get over or around. I studied the impasse, but found no cracks nor holes. I reasoned, sat down, and frowned up at what I was sure was the finish of this bruising stretch. The sun was warm and the breeze crisp. Alternating between plans and pouting, I sat until Quitting came and took a seat beside me. I had invited it over by the demoralization that also allowed it to take root. In other words it was fertile soil. Quitting’s message was clear: You’ve done enough. Nice try. Quitting also visited the others on their mountains. Sympathy too briefly joined our static party, but left as soon as it arrived.
Looking over the edge, I did not consider down as an option anymore. Nonetheless, in my mind I could still see the cozy cottage by the trail that was maintained by the watchman. How nice it seemed. I was frozen. I couldn’t go up or down. An eternity of sighs had left knuckle imprints on my cheek. Numbness had come through immobility when I heard a feint voice. Initially I could not locate the direction of the voice for the restrictive tunnel of doom that encapsulated my interpretation. Slowly the voice approached my awareness. I eased back a look left and right for the possible approach of one of my fellow climbers. There was no one. My ears scanned the wind for the origination of the sound. Again came the voice. My radar pointed up. Up? I thought. Could it be? The voice cascaded from the top of the mountain down the granite to my position.
“Throw up your rope!” he shouted.
Rope? What rope? What was he talking about? Finally frustrated enough to end the voice’s obviously uninformed directive, I let out my response.
“I don’t have a rope,” I mumbled.
“In your bag,” came the reply.
“What bag? I don’t have a bag,” I charged.
“On your back,” he said
What was he talking about I wondered. Do I really want to connect with someone who is obviously detached from reality? I did not bring a bag or a rope. Maybe he was talking to another climber. I still couldn’t see anyone else. Again it came.
“The rope in the bag on your back, Get the rope out,” he retorted.
Exasperated and somewhat offended, I finally ventured an embarrassing glance over my shoulder. Jumping back, I quickly scurried back to the face of the mountain in shock.
“How? What?” was all that I could muster. There was a bag on my back; and I was none too settled about the prospect of magical appearing rucksacks. Saucer-eyed I cautiously slid a hand inside the bag. Slumping in surrendered stubbornness, I pulled the rope slowly out of its hiding place. On the end of the rope was a heavy metal hooked clasp with Humility inscribed in its crook. Sufficiently stupefied, I poked another glance up the giant rock window.
“Throw it up,” the voice called.
“I don’t think I can get it there, “ I finally exclaimed.
“Don’t worry. It will find its way,” was the response.
With an expression of Here goes nothing, I let the end fly skywards with my best, if not doubtful, effort. To my amazement the heavy metal hook did not plummet back down with the correcting force of a boomerang. Instead it continued to spiral up through the veil of mist and cloud above until the rope went taut.
“Tie it around you, and I will pull you up,” shouted my invisible friend.
By the slow rhythm of my shaking head I secured the rope around my torso. As the rope began to retreat, I planted my feet upon the rock, climbing steadily upwards perpendicular to the ground. Remarkably my feet held firm against the mirror that was the sheer face of the pinnacle of this hill. In relatively little time I was reaching over the top of this wall for the extended hand of my new acquaintance.
He was a young man. Not large. In fact, he was quite small by most measures. He smiled a greeting and helped me from my seat.
“Thank you,” I managed rather sheepishly.
‘It’s a pleasure,” he replied as he nodded for me to untie the knot holding the rope in place around my waist. Thumbing the tie undone, I tried to blurt out my big question.
“How did you--”
“How did I know about the rope?” he interrupted.
“Well, yes.”
“How did you not know about it? That which you carry with you are things unique to you. That’s why Humility was in your pack,” he answered.
“But how did you know I had it?” I insisted.
“Have you never noticed things in people? Have you lost all judgment? I could tell by your travel thus far you had what you needed,” said the youth.
“That’s more than I know,” I mumbled.
“I realize that; but you might want to become aware of what else you have in you.” With that he helped me to my feet, and we began to make our way across the thin-aired plateau. After several attempts at securing the young man’s name, I finally tight-mouthed my surrender. And then he answered.
“It’s not important for you to know right now.” With that terse statement he motioned me over to the other side.
“How’s the view?” finally broke our code of silence.
The view on the backside of the mountain was not bad at all. The down side was much more accommodating than the front side had been. A sturdy, easily traceable trail slithered down the much less aggressive slope. Below I could see others feeding onto the track from neighboring mountains. We all crossed the mountains at different points, but merged now into the same directive after our ascent. Those joining the flow seemed light upon their feet. The gravity of their success shoved them forward.
Everyone trafficked in one direction as they gathered mass and relationship on the road. The road itself headed straight out from the base of the hill. Calibrated for speed, the rural ramble hastened sure footing and the confidence to pursue the journey.
Ahead in the distance lay a city of mid-level occupation. It was where the tide was taking us. I could hear the low, throaty “wumps” emanating from the mountain’s base. Each deep tone seemed to correlate to a wave of enthusiasm amongst the scatterings of people. The effect was a shoving from behind that almost pushed everyone forward with too much pace. The urge within was simultaneously to push back, and to race down the slope in unrestrained gallops.
“Are you gathered?” asked the young man.
“Huh?” I replied, almost forgetting my new friend.
“Are you ready to continue?” he said.
I stammered out a yes and shook his hand like a welcomed guest whose stay has reached its acceptability. I smirked an acknowledgment and started my descent. As I edged the first bend the young man reminded me to always check my backpack. My pack and a conveyor belt of curiosity rushed me towards the travelers on the road below.
About three-fourths down I began to be joined by others swiftly exiting the mountains. Conversations eased our introductions as everyone was relieved to know they were not alone in the journey. Talk almost exclusively revolved around the mountains, which blended once again into one giant rock on the horizon.
“What was the name of yours?” was the usual question. Fear and Pride were the most common responses. My mountain, without question had been Fear. I have always been fearful of, and frustrated by, that which I couldn’t control. Thus far my life’s ambition had entailed building and accumulating a lifestyle that answered to me and me alone. I also began to realize that my castle of comfort had actually been a collection of all things inconsequential. My home amounted to rooms filled with milestone trinkets valued only for resale. However, it was all mine; and I controlled them.
“Fear. Fear will always war against opportunity and reality,” she interjected.
None of us had noticed that an older woman with a walking stick had joined us until she broke up our day-dreaming session. One of my new companions decided to question her further as it seemed evident to us that she was anticipating a discussion. She continued after a few moments of absorbing her presence into our group.
“Fear immobilizes and conjures up crazy un-thinkables,” she said. “What you fear is usually far worse than the thing you fear, warping reality. If you’re immobilized, you’ll never engage new opportunities and possibilities.” We all paused as she plodded past us. It was then that I noticed her walk was not like
ours. Where we had been anxious and ready to run, she had a strange graceful peace about her.
“We’ll be coming into town soon,” she informed our small huddle. A few eternities later she broke the silence that had settled on our entourage.
“Fear is a mocker, a loud mouth that rambles and shouts like a gossip not heard. Fear is a mountain; but courage, courage is different. Fear is aggressive, corrosive, and a bully. Courage is tiny but excessively strong. It can look insufficient or an impossibility.”
Our talk had carried us to the town gates. We had consumed the balance of the road without realizing the distance. A few meters from the gate our new sage stopped and turn to our small group.
“Just remember, courage is forever tied to the smallest visibility of hope. Together they are unconquerable.”
At that, she parted through us on her way back towards the mountain. A bit confused, and hurriedly trying to absorb her words, the seven of us realized we knew little about our journey.

A Stubborn Tune (Part 1)

Rumored memories of the distant me. A faintly remembered and forgotten identity played out in simple melodies. It was the music of me that I had lost contact with over the years--the same original song that was awakening my programmed stare. Initially the music seemed evaporative. I had heard it years ago when I was just a child. Over time it faded into the noise of those who said it wasn’t there. These elders entrusted with the wisdom of all mankind were of course quite educated and aged by my standards.
After all, anyone who had achieved the all-wise, and borderline geriatric age of teenager or older, was not to be challenged in such matters. What can I say? A child’s perspective is squatty at best, and non-existent in most cases. Maybe that’s why adolescents think skyward so much? They dream dreams that tread the water of survival. It is only later that dreams drowned form the foundations of our regrets.
I’m not sure when I began to notice again the music. The moment was like opening the front door to collect the morning news only to find an old friend patiently waiting for me. The friend knew I would come out sooner or later and be forced to confront all the years of unanswered correspondence and invitations. When I asked him how long he’d been there, he simply replied “always.” It wasn’t just that the music was familiar that peaked my curiosity. I possessed lots of warm fuzzy memories looking back over my childhood. We lived in a good home. Secure, solid, moral, and generally achieving of that which makes us all happy--with a little hard work of course. Isn’t that the pinnacle? A little sweat, a testing of commitment, achievement? These are things to be desired and obtained for sure; but nothing in that house played the music, or even listened for it.
It’s funny though. I had heard a familiar refrain of the music in the quiet moments of my father’s day occasionally end the voids of expected distraction. However, the song had been a private stash, not intended for general consumption. I knew I’d have to get my own. Otherwise the sound would forever be that lost familiar tune with the forgotten title.
Yet there it was again and again. Random teasings. In the flicker-sway of the branches, and ricochets of volume endlessly bounding in the passages of road and building.
The music called and moved like a child attempting to move a parent from stillness to a game. This also meant that to truly catch the melody I would have to leave the luxury of my own place. So I fought the urge for many months, even years. The strange reality was that my place was not all that enticing. It’s just worn comfortable. It is the numbing of routine mixed with only speculation of the weather outside.
Philosophers one and all we are, theorizing personal greatness or catastrophe on the mounds of our past un-dones. It’s the garment of “mine and mine alone.” I was sure it was a cold and empty place outside my kingdom. I also surmised that it was always the same inside as outside, so why venture out? Occasionally, on perfect big blue days of planned comfort, I transplanted myself to some outpost of slack and escape; but just for a view of what I wanted to see and then quickly back before I knew I was gone.
I guess the question was: why do I care? Why even open the door to invite such a possibility of an unknown journey? It was always much easier to hide in the back of the house with the lights off when the knocking at the door commenced. I could always plan for the visit by the music—that song that stirred the inside. It always came when my routine had been opened up. The silence of my hidden existence had been deafening; but the music was even more prominent and stubborn.
So I left my little kingdom, and walked the hill that overlooks the interchange to see what I could see. I knew the road below to be well traveled, but not by anyone I knew. Which way to go was already chosen before I took my deep breath at the crest of the view. Would I take the chance and explore this calling? That was the question squeezing my will that day. The hesitation to move stemmed from the fact that the path I needed to take was littered with the corpses of my regrets. Monuments of accusations directed at me for the things I had either done wrong, or not at all. How could anyone pass through such a gauntlet of angry mile markers?
Down the lane I went, tip-toeing past most memories without any response, while simultaneously shutting my eyes at the most replayed failures. At first the bodies seemed to rise in condemnation. It was only after trying to confront several that I realized they were not moving at all. They were completions in my life that I willingly carried around with me. As much as I hated them, I could not let their memories go. As far as I was concerned, they were just as alive today as the moment I breathed them into existence.
It took a few gestures of steadiness to put my focus forward. I came to the conclusion that the hindrance of my mistakes could only be remedied with a new me. I had to start new in order to be able to confront my regrets with anything but fear.
A quick glance back and I fastened my foot to the road. The launching of that first step freed me for the first time to focus on what I could bring into future being instead of what I couldn’t change from the past.
My stagger magically transitioned to a stroll as gravity and courage pulled me down the hill and into the road. Afraid of what I might miss, and scared to look the fool, I resisted the urge to run. I had not been this way before; and I wanted to take it all in as I went. Somehow I knew following the music was the way to go.
The road was skinny as it danced and flowed through the expanse. Vast herds of faithful trees, whose feet were carpeted with fields of reflective color, lined the boundaries of my vision. Their distant song I could faintly hear as it flowed across the plain like a tide lapping ay my feet, and then racing back out to the trees for another intake. The song was not complete in its composition, but it rested the air for those who breathed it in. It was here that I realized for the first time that the music was both inside and outside of me. Everything around me testified to the accuracy of my search. My indecision about pursuing this trail, however, had caused me to get a late start. I suddenly became very aware that the day was almost spent, and I had no idea where the road led, or how far to the next town. I had already traveled farther than I realized. My known streets were now traded for a rural road with not so promising prospects on the path to the front.
Ahead, shadows paced the road in anticipation of my arrival— panthers of bad intentions and intimidation. The music in the woods was distant now, and content not to leave its sanctuary. My thoughts turned to retreating the way I came. I could probably still make it back to my place with what little light was left in the sky. The road ahead was darkened to a void.
Arms tight against my body, and hands hidden from the cold, I started into shadows. At first the fear eased back, giving the eyes a moment of adjustment. However, just as my confidence gained momentum, my feet became unsure as the darkness drifted back in around me. I had felt this shock of fear before. It’s the trembling of prey as the predator circles. More than one presence I thought to myself. At least three, with others watching. In the middle of the trap there were low growls emanating from all directions. My bearings temporarily askew, I told my feet to move. The communications did not get through at first effort. Finally I labored a few steps. The encirclement continued. It was as if my legs were completely asleep. The pain of restoring blood flow made the motion even more painful. I wanted to stop. The shadows though had a purpose. It was intended damage. Any more pauses would signal the feeding frenzy.
In my periphery I noticed a boundary of dim light. My continued movement forward in the road towards the opening seemed to wall off the hungry. My steps once again discovered purpose. My heart trained my mind to the entrance of color ahead. The scrabble of branches that cloaked the daylight thwacked and jeered threats; but it was too late. My pace grew arrogance, sending me to the exit of this miserable tunnel. Breathable, reviving air began to sweeten the lungs.
Crossing again into the light, I was relieved. For many paused minutes I could not inhale enough fresh air. Hands on knees I ventured an under-arm glance backwards. Eyes, pacing in the dark, waited for me in the tunnel. It had been a warning; but of what? Not to come this way?
While contemplating my new position on the road, I was greeted by two feet that shuffled up the dirt under my bent-over frame. The shoes had a strange glow about them. Regaining my strength, I straightened to see an older man holding a lantern. Smiling slowly, he grabbed my arm. We started to walk. He let me know that it would be dark soon. Already the lantern was needed, increasingly growing in strength as the sun laid down for the evening.
Not many had come through that part of the path he said. Inside I knew why. Not sure if I could have explained it; but I knew something threatening that I did not know before this day. Ahead of me was a small lit home just below road level. An outpost of loneliness I thought. There was nothing else livable in sight; and yet it was the most inviting spot amongst a day of restlessness. A warmth of peace in an encroaching night. As we stepped down to the door I took one last glance at the country.
The golden fields had traded their active talk for soothings of purples and deep blues as the pink of the day washed out into the retreating sky. Sparse patches of grass bearded the slope that ran up to the crags of the mountain ahead. I turned to my companion for the confirmation I knew was coming. “Tomorrow the mountain I guess?” I queried. He just smiled a he ducked inside the door. “Tomorrow,” was his only reply.
Together we settled in for the night by the fire that my host watched and stirred meticulously. Hesitantly I broke the silence after a patient eternity of waiting for the man to speak. Despite my asking him his name, he did not give it. So I asked him why he was out here all alone. “Purpose,” he said. “It’s my purpose.”
I thought he must be crazy to live in this place intentionally. Before I could voice my bewilderment, he explained that he is a watchman.
“I’ve been watching for you,” he said with a pause.
“Me? How could you be watching for me? I only decided a short while ago to come this way,” I protested.
“Malleable hearts come this way,” he replied.
I promptly corrected him, letting him know that I was just following the music. The music? In all of the rush to get in before dark, I had lost the sound. Before I could complete the thought, he chimed in.
“The music is still playing. You just don’t hear it right now because your focus is on your trials. Get some sleep and you’ll hear it again in the morning.” Seeing that he was finished being generous with his conversation, I gave in to the narcotic of the fire. I soon melted into sleep.
At first the sound seemed barely audible. Rapidly the music swept over the little house like I was sitting on the bottom of the ocean watching a wave pass overhead. It became loud and was seemingly everywhere. Stepping outside into the first fingers of sunshine, I saw my new silent partner sitting by the road watching the thicket back down the lane. Momentary memories of the day before shivered me back into reality. There was no sunshine in that place. I did not want to pass that way again. As the morning pried open my eyes I heard the wave of music flow back towards us like a pendulum that had reached the full peak of its swing and was now retracing its course.
I felt like ducking to avoid being tumbled over. His hand raised, the watchman encouraged me to hold my ground. As the sound grew, I fixed my feet ready to either run into the house or to brace for the battering. When the music came over us my heart lifted like a buoy and back down again. It continued past us, spreading across the slow rise to the mountain. I watched for the wave to smash into the bottom of the mountain. Instead, the music nimbly vaulted up the craggy base, its pitch elevating as the wave gave up its own volume to catapult a perfect sound to the top.
At the peak the new sound apexed in a single sweet note like the ringing of a small bell. It in turn triggered a trumpet blast from the mountain as the wave freefell in applause to the valley floor. From the top the sound was forceful and announcing. So much so that I didn’t notice the return flow from the first sounds as they reorganized in accompaniment, heading back down the slope towards us.
Quickly trotting back to where the watchman was slowly rising I asked him why I had never heard this before. Again his response was plain.
“You never listened before,” he said.
Amazed, I pushed further. “You’re saying that the music has always been here?”
“It has always been here,” he answered. After a brief pause, he continued. “The music is for you. It is for those who have an ear and a heart to listen.”
“For me?”
“ Not just for you; but just for you,” he answered in his best teacher’s voice.
He could see that I was struggling with the riddle. Out of disappointment at my ignorance, he clarified. “The music is the song of the heart for everyone. It is heard the same by everyone who listens; and yet the song is played individually and uniquely for each person.” Before I could plead another beginner’s need for definition, he interjected that my journey would bring understanding. At the conclusion of our lesson, I stepped back to the realization that the symphony between the wave and the mountain was in full rhythm. The mountain blasts would dissipate just in time for the wave to scale to the top again.
“So this music is always like this?” I stammered.
“The music is always here,” the watchman replied. “But the variety of tone and reflection are endlessly changing. What you have seen thus far is just the oceanfront. If you are to know what you seek, you must leave the sea where you have been living. Come, it is time for us to go. The mountain you must climb.”
I decided it was better to pocket my library of questions for the moment as we turned down the road, for the mountain was beginning to skyscrape as we approached the base.
My enthusiasm made the initial climb easy and enjoyable. The mountain and the wave continued to play over the top of us as if we were walking behind a waterfall. Before I had awakened fully we had scaled half the mountain. I had not looked down as my feet had been light, and my energy high. At the midway point we stopped as the watchman nodded for me to look down where we had been. Like a map laid out below, I saw the little house with its fire signaling from its roof. A little farther back I saw the thicket of darkness that straddled the road. I had not noticed while there, but roads exited out either side of the blockade.
My eyes followed the road that went left. In the distance I could see what appeared like a large city with much activity. Glancing quickly to the watchman for a reading of the map, I was further encouraged by my choice.
“It’s a smooth road with smooth living,” he answered.
It sounded nice; but I could see that he did not agree with my assessment. Returning my gaze to the mountain I suddenly realized how rocky and narrow the path had become. The road we had traveled thus far was not wide, but it had been gentle and sloping. What lie ahead was anything but gentle and sloping.
A firm grip and solid footing would be necessary here. My reversal caught me by surprise. The watchman was starting down the hill.
“Aren’t you coming?” I mumbled.
“Here lies the perimeter of my boundary. My purpose is within,” The watchman replied.
As he started down the path, the watchman returned my open-mouth with not-so-comforting words.
“You must cross it on your own. You created this mountain long ago. You’ll understand its being more as you give it your effort. Give up and it will grow larger and more treacherous still.”
“What? That’s it?” I blurted out. “What if I fall?”
“Get back up,” he shrugged in monotone. Seeing my exasperation, he shot back his own frustration with a head shake. “Stand on the firm. Grab hold of the trustworthy. Fix your eyes on the top; and if you do not give up you will be rewarded.”
At that he disappeared down through the switchbacks. Suddenly tired and deflated, I took one more look at the noisy city that deflected from the thicket. Smooth living. Maybe I should go that way. A second glance at the watchman’s house gave some assurance of the direction I was headed. Again the wave pursued my spot on the mountain. As it climbed over me, the wave seemed to whisper a “follow me.” The music trekked skyward, and so I started again my climb.

A Shouting Whisper: (Preface)

This is a tale of a journey. It is a discovery we choose to explore or ignore Either choice will do nothing to undermine the reality of God's love for us, and His constant beckoning of us to Him. It is not intended to be the story of a specific person. It is the story of God's never-sleeping love for His creation. His love is written upon the hearts of men. He has lavishly decorated life, and hidden in plain view His message to be explored and discovered. What's that message? Come home again. He established us in His image to create, love, govern, dispense justice, defend the defenseless, and to know Him--to choose Him. For all mankind longs to be loved. Yes, even God desires to be loved. Love only has the freedom and soil to sprout to fruition in the environment of choice. Without choice we cannot love. Without choice we can only do what we are required to do. What do we choose today? Do we choose the comfort of self-constructed realms of instant gratification and insulation from the risks of living freely? Or do we choose to live freely--to love. To love and be loved. To intentionally place ourselves in vulnerable positions on the way to loving others and being loved. With people, the risks of uninhibited love are great and real. The target of our affection can at any moment destroy the bond of trust that holds our gift of love in place. What then? Do we cease to love because of the pain and the hurt? If we cease to love, then we also cease to be free. If we cease to be free then we have forfeited our choice. Without the restoration of choice, how can we once again love? Or for that matter be loved? God defends choice--or free will-- vehemently. If we burn the bridge of trust between Him and us, He rebuilds it yet again and beckons us to cross over to Him. He will not force us to love Him because it would destroy the relationship. Instead He calls to us consistently and in every way. His calling out to us has been described as "a still small voice." A whisper? A whisper that contrasts boldly with the noise of man's pace and distraction. God is not hiding from man. Quite the opposite. His whisper declares unshakable and unconditional love in all that He has created and given to man. All creation testifies as God woos us with His love. Can we walk in the whisper today? Can we let the love song that was woven into our being proclaim, and mesh with God's melody of redemption and reconciliation? I hope you enjoy the story, and it causes you to think. More importantly, I pray we all find the unity of the heart's song that God has created in us and for us, and take the lover's path back to Him.

New Series

I will soon be posting a story in a multiple part series. It is not intended to portray a real place, but rather the opportunity to discover God's love and "song" for us. If you like, dislike, or end up confused, feel free to comment. There is truly much to be discovered, including God Himself.