the evil

I've always loved time travel.  I have read all the books, watched all the movies, participated in on-line chats, and done everything I can to allow myself the hope that somehow, some way, I can travel backwards in time.  Some want to do it because they think it would be fun.  I have a much more important quest.  I want to stop my best friend from being killed.

It happened nearly 40 years ago, in 1994.  We were young, barely in our teens.  Naomi was a sweet girl, always willing to help a stranger.  That's what she was doing that day.  A man came up to us saying that he had lost his dog.  I told him that we had to get home, but Naomi offered to help.  I didn't see anything wrong with it--if I had, I guess I would have called the cops.  But he didn't look like I thought a bad guy would look.  He was around 50 or so, and he smiled easily.  He had a picture of a pretty little dog and seemed about to cry, and so when Naomi offered to help, I figured that she'd be fine.  I was 13--what did I know?

So I went home and waited for Naomi to call.  She didn't, though--not that night, not ever.  Instead, her mother called me at around 5pm, wondering if Naomi was staying over to have dinner.  It happened sometimes, though she always called to let her mom know.  When I said that she wasn't there, her mom asked me if I'd seen her since school.  I told her that I hadn't seen her since she'd helped that guy look for his dog, there was silence on the other end, then Naomi's mom asked, very quietly, "What man?"  I told her what I remembered, and she thanked me and hung up.  She never talked to me again.  Later, she told news reporters that if I had said something earlier, her daughter might  still be alive.  My mom tried to make me feel better by telling me that wasn't true, but I knew it was.  But how could I have known?

I thought about that often.  How could I have known that man was evil?  He didn't look evil.  He didn't look like the kind of man that would trick a girl into trusting him, then hurt her, strangle her, and throw her in the landfill like a piece of garbage.  As the news about the man--the man who was never found--spread, I began to collect articles about the murder:  first long stories with determined optimism--it was only a matter of time before this man was caught.  As the days turned to weeks, months, years, the articles grew smaller and curter, hope dimming until the only mention of the case was a retrospective in the years after.

That man--I used to dream about him.  I'd see him, and sometimes in the dream I'd bring Naomi's attention to the man--"Look, Naomi, isn't he nice?  Why don't you go talk with him?"  Other times I would try to plead with him to leave her alone, but the scene would play itself out as if I wasn't there.  I saw the whole thing happen--I saw him take her by the hand to look for the dog.  I saw the hand grow tighter around hers as she realized something was wrong and she tried to get away.  I saw him drag her into his van and then hit her over and over until she stopped trying to resist.  I saw him take her clothes off, tie her up, then do horrible things to her.  And I saw her lose all hope.  That was the worst.  I saw her give up.  When she did, it was like the fun went out of it for him, and he put his big hands around her neck and tightened them, just for a minute.  That was all it took.  Then he wrapped her in a bag and threw her away in the dump.  Nobody noticed; nobody cared.  Why should they?  Nobody knew Naomi was missing.

The dreams were what started it for me.  I thought--those dreams are so real!  What if they really WERE real?  What if I'd gone back in time and actually seen it?  Maybe I could do something.  And so I started to read.  I hated science, but I learned as much as I could so I could find a way.  I did everything I could, talked to anyone that might have any lead, and spent my life in search of a way to find myself back with Naomi so I could save her.

It happened the first time in my early 20s.  I went back to the place where I had left Naomi, and I concentrated.  In my mind's eye, I saw it all again in my mind's eye.  I saw the man come to Naomi, and I heard her say that she would help him.  Without thinking about it, I screamed.  Naomi, startled, looked at me.  So did the man.  "Run!" I cried.  She did, and so did the man.  Others in the park looked at the two of them, not noticing me at all.

But it still ended the same.  The man dragged her into his van as I watched helplessly.  Others tried to follow him, but it was too late.  Naomi and the man were already gone.  I was almost relieved, knowing that it must have been a waking dream.

It wasn't until I got home that I noticed the change.  My house seemed brighter, more airy.  I couldn't quite put my finger on the difference, until it struck me--there was no guilt in the air.  I didn't know why until I went to the clippings.  They weren't the same.  Instead of my name, Naomi's mother spoke of a woman who saw the whole thing--a woman who shouted "Stop!"  Article after article asked that woman to come forward.  Any information she could give would be useful in identifying the unknown suspect.

I couldn't believe it.  Others had really seen me!  My cry had made others aware of the danger!  Maybe, then, there was more that I could do!

Well, year after year passed, and time after time I concentrated myself into the past.  Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn't.  When it worked, though, it only managed to slow things down, never stop them.  It seemed that the outcome was inevitable.  So what good was my interfering in the past doing?

I decided to try one last thing.  I went to an antiques store and bought a Polaroid camera--the kind that developed instantly.  Thankfully, there was film available still for those fools that didn't trust digital.  I then visited one thrift shop after another until I had the right combination of clothes--clothes that would fit into the 90s without question.  Then I went to the corner, and I concentrated.  And I waited.

I didn't have long to wait.  I saw Naomi and the man, struggling.  Quickly, but careful not to jostle the camera, I took a picture.  I waited until the film developed, and then I ran.  I quickly grew out of breath--I was, after all, at least as old as the murderer by now--but I knew that somehow I was running for Naomi's life.  I didn't stop until I had reached the police station and turned in the photo.  When the police started to question me, it was easy. My attention snapped, and I was immediately back to my own place and time.  The camera and photo, however, were missing.

As I walked up the street to the house that had been mine since childhood, I half expected to see a much-older Naomi meet me.  Of course, though, that didn't happen.  Once again I had not managed to save her.  Sadly, I went in and opened the scrapbooks containing the articles.

The first one was pretty much the same.  Girl's body found abandoned in landfill.  However, the second, third, and fourth one were quite different.  They detailed the story of a middle-aged lady, breathless, who had turned in a photo to the police, a photo that gave them their only break in the case.  The photo showed the kidnapping as it was happening, and it was more than enough to give a face to the kidnapper.  Further articles spoke of the arrest, subsequent trial, and death sentence given to the man, who clearly deserved it.

That was new, yes.  But what followed made me understand the importance of what I'd done.  After the man had been found and detained, a search warrant had been issued.  In the van, poor Naomi's backpack.  In the house--a journal complete with full details of the torture and death.  Then--page after countless page of what he planned to do to others--it was quickly realized that Naomi's details hadn't been added after her death.  No, they'd actually been written before her death.  Her murderer had a game plan, not only for Naomi but for twenty-five other children.  Yes, Naomi was gone, but those others never had to suffer what she suffered.  Naomi's fate couldn't be changed, but evidently others could.  And for that, I'm thankful.

Cycles

Have you ever noticed the back and forth motion that nature exhibits?  The revolving, renewing, self-replenishing idea can be seen everywhere in nature.  Trees start as tiny seeds, grow, shoots and leaves appear, many die, decompose, and become food for the very tree from which they fell.  The ocean sweeps shells out only to gather them up again moments later.  The ocean itself loses water to the air, to the soil, to clouds, and then is replenished by the rains  that settle over them and sprinkle the water that had been lost.  Rivers contribute water that had been part of the selfsame ocean days, weeks, months--maybe millennia before.

You can see the same idea of cycles in the Bible.  Israel, the land of promise, is born of Abraham, and immediately goes into the cycle that defines it throughout the old testament:  trust, impatience, disobedience (trying to do it without God), reminders to come back, refusal, punishment, return, trust.  Over and over it goes.  And always God sends his reminders--and nearly always they're refused.  After punishment, though, the errant child is welcomed back.

With these demonstrations of the cyclical nature of life both in Scripture and in nature, why are we surprised that we find ourselves also cycling?  I know that it is true in my own life.  I have believed since I was a young child.  I have trusted throughout my life.  Yet I cycle.  I question.  I doubt.  I wonder if there even is a God, and if so, why does he allow this suffering to happen?  But I always come back, and when I do, he is always there with open arms.  My questions are not always answered, but I always regain my trust and my sense of peace in His presence.

I think that we cycle because when we return, we are stronger.  I think (and this is my opinion) that when we roam, we see what it means to be without the Shepherd.  And friends, being without the shepherd brings such a weight--nobody to care, nobody to watch over us, nobody to help us remember that we are loved!  We live under the weight of our own fleece:  our waywardness, our disbelief in the face of God's overwhelming presence, our stubborn self will.  When we finally turn around, we realize that our shepherd has been there all along, loving us and waiting for us to turn back.  And then--the shearing!  We find that the desire to stray (for the time being, anyway) is gone, replaced by the desire to stay under the shelter of his wings.  Our disbelief is replaced by the reminder of his presence, giving us the opportunity to have our faith strengthened.  Our self will is gladly given over to the Master, whose yoke is easy and his burden light.

Thanks be to God for the cycling!  For when we leave, we return stronger.  I only pray that as we grow in faith and the knowledge of Him, we are less and less tempted to roam and more and more pleased to be his servant, his child, his love.

How precious is our faith?

I just finished watching the Tudors.  I'd tried to watch it a couple of years ago, but I found that the sex and brutality was too much.  This time, however, I was determined.  The reason I was so intent was that I noticed how much the series touched on religion.  Of course, right?  Henry started the Church of England.  His second wife, Ann Boleyn, is said to have done much to bring about church reform.  The clash between Catholicism and Protestantism was swift and brutal.  I don't want to dwell on the historicity of it so much as bring forth one point that was demonstrated over and over again:

People were ready and willing to die for what they believed was the True Church.

It was astounding to me what was considered worth dying for.  In one scene, people are given the choice:  affirm that Henry is the head of the Church in England and live or affirm that the Pope is the head of the Church and die.  Some people had no problem with that.  Their life was more important than the whole issue of who ruled the church.  Others, though, most notably Sir (later Saint) Thomas More would not make the affirmation.  He was beheaded for his protestation of his Catholic faith.

In another scene, Cromwell hears that a dear friend has been arrested for his Reformation beliefs.  He goes to the man and tells him that all he needs to do is to state that Henry is God's representative in England.  The man refuses.  Cromwell pleads, "You don't even have to believe it!  You can simply say that Henry is King' and then state to a witness that you did it under duress.  But no.  His friend chose to die by being burned at the stake rather than lie about what his faith told him was true.

Women were not immune from this, either.  The Princess Mary was given the chance to come back to court and be reunited with her father.  She just had to deny her Catholic faith.  She refused for years and finally agreed, although she did aver that what she had said was done under coercion.  Another woman, Anne Askew, was broken on the rack and burnt at the stake for her beliefs.  She could at any time have avoided these by giving up names of others who were of her faith and also by denying her faith.  She did neither.  She chose to die a martyr's death rather than deny her faith.

Whar has happened in the years since?  Why is it that our faith is now something that we can throw away?  You might say, "This isn't the true picture.  These were rare exceptions."  But I will remind you that the common people also fought for their faith--and died for it.  Why don't we care to do that today?

I think that the answer is simple.  Nothing is right or wrong any more.  Everything is a shade of grey.  If it's good for you, great.  If it's good for me, great.  If you want to worship a Jesus that was not supernatural, more power to you!  If you feel that the Bible is literally true, go for it!

This rationalism is causing us to have no sense of the importance of what we believe.  We're becoming complacent.  Well, the Bible had a different word for it.  We're becoming--lukewarm.  And it warns that God would rather you be hot or cold than lukewarm.  He will spew them out of his mouth.

So the next time you sit down at church and prepare to doze off during the sermon, think about this:  are you maybe too comfortable?  Would you be willing to defend your faith to nonbelievers?  Would you put your life on the line for your faith?  If not, maybe you should ask yourself if your faith is really faith, or if it is just a blanket to keep you (luke)warm.

Twinkle

The old woman settled in her chair.

She looked across, and there he was, 

as always.

Her dear husband.

She smiled at him,

happy to see him there,

and no longer questioning the fact

That he'd been dead for 25 years.

It used to bother her,

The sight of him in his favorite chair,

Especially when others would sit in it

with him still there.

But he would look at her with that familiar twinkle,

And she knew that he didn't mind.

It was their joke.

As time went on, the children grew up and grew old,

And grandchildren took turns coming by

Seemingly to pass the time of day with her,

But really to check up on her,

Make sure she was still alive.

Other than that,

she was alone--

Well, alone except for him.

Their friends were all gone,

She was the last of her family,
As he had been the last of his.

But it didn't bother her,
Because he was always there,
In his chair,
Twinkle in his eye.

She already knew that one day he would be gone.
One day, her grandchildren would come calling,
Then her children,
But they would not stay long,

She was certain of it,
Because she would not be there to greet them.

One day, she knew,
She would fly away,

Off to her future,
Off with that patient man
With the beautiful twinkle.
Her Joe.

it's up, it's down--

Today has been a stay at home and recover day.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to stay at home and recover.  I was up and down all night, then I woke up early to get an x-ray and bloodwork.  I'm not sure why, but every part of my body seems to hurt.  Well, wait, not my chin.  My chin seems fine.  So almost every part of my body hurts.

When I came home, I went to bed.  I thought an hour or so of sleep would help.  It did--for about 15 minutes.  Now I'm hurting all over again.

Nothing is wrong mentally, really!  I'm not depressed.  I'm just under the weather, I guess.  But I'd appreciate prayers anyway, just in case.  I have places to go and people to see through the rest of the week, and I don't want to be sidelined.

Empty house

I woke up early this morning,
automatically walking quietly down the hall
in case I wake him.

Then I remembered.

He's not there.

It's a strange feeling,
sort of like ghosts,
but at the same time
not.

He is not gone,
just in a different place.
And I am happy for him.

We had always wondered,
He and I,
if independence was even conceivable,

and now he is transitioning,
learning to be that person--
independent, self-resourceful, and free--
that he's always wanted to be.

That leaves me with an empty house.

I had been warned:
You'll be lonely,
You'll hate it.
You'll have to get used to it.

None of this is true,
at least not yet.

I enjoy solitude,
and I think that boredom,
for me,
is simply not an option.

There are so many things to do--
Art, violin, guitar, voice
Writing

How  could I be bored?

Lonely?
Maybe,
but that's why there is Skype
and Facebook
and the phone.

So I accept this empty house,
and I even accept that the phrase is not true.

This house is not empty.
It is full.
Of me.