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a pen, I found my hope bucket empty and the page wordless. I, as much as anyone, knew that hope is what feeds us. It’s the currency of mankind. The fuel of the soul. Without it, we wither and die.
A bow is simply stored energy. That’s all. Somewhere in the riser, limbs, and string, energy is held, and when called upon—or when the string is pulled back—all that energy is released. If an arrow is nocked to the string, then the energy is transferred to the arrow, sending it downrange. If no arrow, the energy is returned back into the limbs, where it usually cracks them.
“If you don’t know something is wrong, and don’t know what to call it, and if it’s all you’ve ever known, then it’s difficult to know for certain that it
shouldn’t be happening to you.
once explained abuse like growing up in a world without hot water. If cold was all you ever knew, then a cold shower was normal. All you ever took. You had no choice. That doesn’t mean you liked it, but you didn’t complain. You could imagine something else, but what good would it do? The dial you were given read O...
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More times than I could count, I saw him leave the safety of the flock to go find the one dumb sheep that got itself lost. And when he found it, he’d feed it, care for its wounds, and return it to the flock—teaching me more about life in three months than any human before or since.
After I woke up, he did the same with me. In deciding locations, we’d tried to think of things we were never without. Bones soldered one to the back of his cross, which he wore around his neck. Wedged another inside his pocket knife—which he was never without. Screwed a third inside the guide rod of his Sig P220. And wedged a fourth inside his wallet—which he was prone to misplace. The fifth had been
placed inside his orange Pelican case—which was on the plane when he was taken.
“I’ve conducted multiple missions in countries around the globe extracting high-value targets while protecting my team.” He
slid the AR magazine in his vest. “And I’ve never left anyone behind. Be it man or woman.” He dropped the bags at my feet. “Trust me, you want me with you.”
About the time we cleared the doorway, a muscled man came at me from my left. He looked like a brick wall with no neck, cauliflower ears, and Popeye forearms.
for it. That singular sound that started the day. Many times I’ve thought it’s the sound of heaven. It must be. Any other description holds no value. If heaven has a frequency, it must be this one. It’s both a lonely echo and a magnificent cry.
Whose you are matters more to the soul than
who you are or what you are.
People in darkness don’t know they’re in darkness because it’s all they’ve ever known. It’s their world. They navigate primarily by bumping off things that are stronger. Immovable. They don’t know darkness is darkness until someone turns on a light. Only then does the darkness roll back like a scroll. It has to. Darkness can’t stand light. And it hasn’t. Not since God spoke it into existence. The
problem comes when you turn on a light and find those in darkness who, having seen light, prefer the dark. Who retreat into the shadows to do their deeds in secret. They are the ashen-skinned, amber-eyed, fork-tongued servants of evil. Pawns who do the devil’s bidding.
Those of us who walk in the light grow weary. Our hope wanes. Fades. Darkness rages and threatens to drown us. We look around and wonder what happened. Where’d it go? Where’s the light?
“When light walks into a
room, the darkness rolls back like a scroll. It has to. Darkness can’t stand light. And while we live it in real time, it happens too fast, so we watch it in memory. To know the joy, we shut our eyes and remember having seen it.”
Wanting justice, I’d kept a record of wrongs. Payment to be exacted from the guilty. On my terms. It fueled and justified my need for revenge. Bones? Bones kept a record of hope imprinted on his heart.
Sometimes, given their depth, we become little more than the sum of our wounds, and it takes someone else to see what we can be instead of what we are.
