Author: prayerfullife7

Sometimes, when I lay upon my bed, and it is night, as the dark enfolds me, I sense the cold approach of death, and I panic. Suddenly, my bed is far too small, my sheets too heavy, and it seems as though the walls of my room bear down upon me. The ceiling looms above, then collapses, like a dead weight upon my chest, and I sit up to catch my breath; but I cannot breathe. I yawn, in a desperate attempt to expand my lungs, but I cannot draw anything into them. They are like withered sacks, dusty and shrunken, and useless.

I pace the room, to shake loose the thoughts that scare me, so as to gather my wits, and put death far from me. But it is always there. Still. Waiting, and watching. Counting my breaths greedily and smiling menacingly (it seems), lurking somewhere in the shadows.  

“Death is natural,” I tell myself futilely. “Death is a transition, to a better place,” I argue. But I’ll have none of it. My arguments are hollow, unconvincing, and miss the point. “I don’t want to die!” And there it is—the foolishness of it is almost embarrassing. We all will die; so who am I to complain?!

In the silence of this darkness, where no one else is there—I am alone. And what is in there to meet me, but myself? And who is in there to greet me, but my future? And my moments tick on by, the moments of a far too short existence—far, too far along now—leading to an ending that is certain. But I am not alone, my friends. We are not…alone; though the darkness may be silent, and very quiet, as if there is nobody here but us.

The Breath of Life. In times like these, I call to the Holy Spirit. In my fear I pray for Life. And the Spirit of Life blows through me and comforts me, soothes my panic, and calms my labored breathing. Peace descends upon me. And gratefully, I can sleep without fear. Though death still watches over me, and I feel its presence as I always do, I no longer care. I have no new, rational answers for my fears, but instead, another’s presence fills me: Ruach HaKodesh, the Holy Spirit, my love and my hope—my source and my breath—my life, and my eternal life.

One such night, after fear had split me, and then the Spirit had repaired me, I lay in a deep sleep. (And here, now, I only write what I saw, making no claims upon veracity.) Perhaps it is best to consider the following as a fiction, and to enjoy it as a possibility, or a simple fantasy:

I saw my body as if it had cracked wide open, although it hadn’t, and I saw another body within my body—and yet it was somehow still my same body—and this other body was made of light and not of matter. It emerged, or rather lifted, perhaps floating, though not precisely that, and it was shaped as I have always been shaped, and so I recognized it as myself. The world too, our Earth, was as though cracked open, and blazing with heat and light, as if on fire, yet not consumed.

Rings of light, like rays and waves flowed outward, emanating from a center, and they pulsed. And I found my new body shimmering as it lifted through these rings of light. And there was light upon light—reddish, and blue, golden and white. And I saw other bodies, a few at first, but then more, as my body was raised up through the rings. Great multitudes of beings dwelling together, and greater multitudes still, as I passed even higher.

I saw thoughts, like lightning, carry beings along. Thoughts which we generally consider as loving, moved faster than light, connecting persons together in fountains of joy, and creating ripples like laughter among them. Unloving thoughts, such as accusations and negativity moved more slowly, though still with incredible speed here, and they seemed to dull the beings who had them, turning their light into an insipid reddish-brown, and isolating them.

The rings of light, when viewed another way, appeared as enormous plates of glass, stretching off beyond sight in all directions. And their surfaces rose and fell pleasantly, and people rode upon these plates like surfers. Everything had form but not as I had known before, not like matter. It was a world of diamond—seemingly, as though our carbon world had ignited and compressed, and then expanded, and all bonds were now made of light and crystal.

I met a person there, whom I felt I knew, though I couldn’t recognize. And my heart burned with love and gratitude in his presence. A warm breeze encircled us as we spoke together, and my thoughts became pure and noble. With the wind, came great power, and I felt it strengthen me, with an ecstatic joy, and I felt my being expand immensely. All things were present and all things were now, as if everything that had ever been I could touch; and pure thought connected me to all things, and noble love connected me to all times.

And love was not a feeling, or an action, but a being. And my being was this love. Yes, all of our beings were simply love. But this love was not what we had previously known love to be, for here there was no absence of it anymore. How does one describe something, if it is everything? All light and life and substance—all were Love.

~FS

Who of us hasn’t wept at the loss of a life? We shed tears when someone dies, as we realize that we will not see them anymore, in this life. We will never know them again, as we had once known them, and this makes us dreadfully sad. I have cried these tears for my mother, and my father, and my brother, and my step-father, and for several friends, and even for some people I never knew personally but whose lives impacted me nevertheless. I suspect you are the same; having cried for those you know, as well as those you didn’t.

Jesus wept. Even he was sad at the death of his dear friend Lazarus. Death is horrible, even if you are God himself. And while we strive to make peace with death—somehow—convincing ourselves (possibly) of the naturalness of it, or appreciating it as the end of suffering, and the hope of rest and peace from pain, still, if we are honest with ourselves, and aren’t trying to convince anyone that we are doing okay, we likely will admit that we hate death. There is no detente between the living and their death; and no lasting peace-deals in this world between death and those we love. It is our mortal enemy, it always has been and always will be, forevermore. Most of us would agree that this is true, if we are honest about it, I think.

However, there is one who makes a claim that turns the power of death on its head. This same Jesus—the Christ or messiah—the savior who came to mankind, came to us all as The Life. This is his claim: he says he is the way, the truth and the life. He is life itself! He came to destroy death and to give us life eternal. Well, if so, where is this life? And why is there still death all around us?! I don’t see this life, and death continues to torment us.

But isn’t it so that the truest things, the realist things in life, often don’t start out visibly, but are rather, like an invisible seed, germinating below the ground, and out of sight? These things are hidden for a time, until the time is right, and then they spring upon us almost as if by magic! Every living thing starts out this way. In fact, there is no grain, or fruit that we can eat, that didn’t begin invisibly; and yet our material lives depend upon these. Seemingly non-existent at their beginning and yet, in due time, they are the very bread of life, without which we cannot sustain ourselves.

The Life waits to burst forth! Growing and growing within us and within this fallen world, the Life exists in all His truth, glory and reality. And He has brought with him the Kingdom of Life—still only barely perceptible, even for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, but just waiting for the moment when the time will be ripe, when Life will finally triumph completely over death.

And then, what use for these tears we shed? Then, there will be no more tears. But for now, we still shed them, when death asserts its terrible power. Today, I cried, which I haven’t done in some time. Death is always terrible, but willful death—murder—is more terrible still. Someone spoke the word—infanticide—to me today. Abortion—and even after birth—of a person, a human person, for certain reasons. And aside from all the arguments about ‘rights’, and all the nuances that confound us, and the extenuating circumstances that perplex and paralyze us, and the euphemisms that obscure the simplicity of the act; my body wanted to cry. Before I let myself think, or consider the reasons, I just felt the sadness of the death of a living creature, a human being even, so small and tender—invisible really, so that we hardly believe it is real, or that he/she really exists. But he/she is alive, they are all, each of them, a life that is real. And since it is better to feel the pain of the truth, than it is to hide the truth and numb ourselves from it—I let myself cry for a while.

Like so many other things in this life that start out invisibly—like the food we base our own lives upon—these humans start out so small, unseen and unheard, and yet, in time they become forces to be reckoned with! They become human beings, each one of them, made in the image and likeness of God Himself. We weep at the death of our loved ones who we cannot save. Death overtakes us all, until Jesus Christ finally puts an end to death. But do we have to keep crying also for the deaths of those who could be saved, even now?!

Can’t we put an end to the murder of invisible humans who are just waiting for a little more time to burst forth into view?!

~FS

If you are like me, you’ve spent the better part of a year now wearing a mask in most public places. And regardless of whether one agrees or not with the usefulness of a mask in fighting the spread of coronavirus, most of us have done so in order to be considerate of others, at the very least.

Personally, wearing a mask has led to headaches and muscle aches (for which I’ve even missed work as I recovered from these effects), so I’ve understood from early on in this pandemic, that there were going to be a host of extenuating circumstances—similar to mine—surrounding masks, which would never be discussed in any serious way, nor would allowances be given to us. We’d be asked to toe the line at any expense; and any objection would be cast as un-neighborly, selfish, and careless—perhaps even criminal.

Even so, we wanted to be good neighbors, so we put our misgivings (and difficulties) aside, and we went along with the protocols and mandates; and there have been many, many misgivings about the protocols employed to ‘supposedly’ rein in this virus. But still we’ve worn the masks, many of us even when we are alone (not certain why)!

Now we are nearly a year into this (mad) experiment, and many of us are growing mad about it. I try not to get angry, because it rarely helps anything. But I understand the feeling. And I was sitting by myself on the upper deck of the ferry recently. I sit up there in the breeze during my commute in order to keep to myself, and to go maskless. Officially, this isn’t allowed; we are mandated to wear masks in all public places, even outside, alone, on the ferry! But I’ve learned this year that breathing is more important to me, sometimes, than following the rules.

As I sat there reading, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a ferry worker approaching me with her mask on, and I braced myself for a stern rebuke, or at least a reminder that it is mandated that I put my mask back on. I considered what I might say to her in my defense: perhaps a biological defense—that humans are made to exhale, we need to eliminate carbon dioxide and other waste products (this isn’t optional), and masking ourselves is detrimental to our health; or a sociological defense—that we are alienating ourselves from one another by hiding our faces, and this is unhealthy and detrimental to the fabric of our society; or a psychological defense—for those who feel trapped behind the mask, it increases anxiety and feelings of loneliness, depression and despair; or a spiritual defense—for those who don’t believe that the masks work (and there is plenty of real evidence for this [see Great Barrington Declaration] among other studies) what is the price for wearing them, and essentially lying against oneself for an entire year? To act contrary to one’s beliefs must be corrosive to the soul, I would think.

It is damaging to be a hypocrite against one’s own self, isn’t it? Even if it is done for a good cause, or with good intentions. And if we do this for too long, might we cause irreparable damage to our integrity? This is an honest question. To act in opposition to what we believe, even if done out of kindness for others, won’t this lead to a breakdown of the psyche, on some level? And then, if we no longer listen to our soul, will we eventually lose our ability to hear it? And if this happens, are we human any longer, or are we now merely automatons—robots and consumers, pure materialists doing only what we are told, and thinking only what we are told to think…

I considered these responses that I might make as the young woman came up and stood in front of me. I looked up at her expectantly, and she leaned forward conspiratorially, and pulled her mask down slightly just below her nose, and then said quietly while looking me straight in the eyes, “What are we going to do about these?” She pointed quickly to her mask.  

I was surprised. I hadn’t expected this from her. I smiled briefly and shrugged before she continued, “This is horrible. And they’ve increased the mandates. People are so angry about the masks, as they get on the ferry.”

“I’m so sorry,” I replied empathetically. “I understand how people feel, but they shouldn’t take it out on you. It isn’t your fault. You’re just doing your job. I know. But we need a break, we need a way out, don’t we?! I understand wearing a mask, if you are indoors in a confined space, or with the elderly. But in the fresh air? It’s too much, I think. They need to understand they are pushing people too far.”

She nodded agreement and then continued. “I am so sad. I came here from Ukraine. I escaped that, to come here, to be free. But now it is starting to happen here too. I’m so scared. I don’t want that.”

I voiced my support and asked her to tell me more about that. I recognized her accent now, and was interested in an immigrant’s perspective on our current situation. She seemed to consider the masks to be a symbol of a more widespread oppression occurring in our country, though she focused her concerns and fear on the mask mandate specifically, as if the masks were the clearest manifestation of our national illnesses.   

“I left communism. It is horrible. I love this country, but it is changing. I’m so sad. I’m scared, I don’t want it to become like Ukraine. My family escaped through Italy years ago. We can’t go back now. We are considered ‘Enemies of the People’ in the Ukraine. I have to be careful if I Skype with my family in Ukraine. I would get them in trouble.”

It seemed she must have trusted me, perhaps since I wasn’t wearing a mask. It seemed she saw me as someone who she might confide in without fear. I didn’t ask her why she came up to me, but as we talked, she smiled, and she became more relaxed, and even pulled her mask down under her chin briefly as she spoke, “People don’t read enough here, they don’t know what they have. They don’t know communism. They don’t understand why we left it to come here. This country is free. But I’m so sad. I don’t know what is going to happen here. It seems like it is becoming like where we escaped from.”  

She then apologized for interrupting me, and I assured her I was glad she had. We then introduced ourselves, at the end of our conversation and just prior to her continuing with her work, and leaving me to my reading. We said our goodbyes, and each expressed our hope of another future conversation. As she left me, I pondered everything she had said, and I reconsidered the slogans and mottos we’ve been taught this past year about wearing the mask. And I recognized a new reason to remove my mask in public—for the sake of our immigrants.

Imagine losing everything to leave the country you love in order to live in freedom. Only to find that country willingly giving up those freedoms. This young Ukrainian was afraid, and I believe she came to me, in some small way, for hope and for inspiration; and for some assurances that this country won’t make the same mistakes of previous ones that fell into totalitarianism. We are told to wear masks for the sake of others, and I’m okay with that, to a point. Yes, let’s protect the elderly and those who are vulnerable. But for the rest of us we need to breathe freely again. It’s time; it is way past time, I think. If you can’t take the mask off for yourself, do it for an immigrant from a communist country.

~FS

I stood staring at the edifice before me, present and real, so close that I could practically touch it, but not truly within reach, just beyond my grasp. It rose up from the earth and towered into the night sky, with something like vertical boards—streaked in red—peeling, and revealing a natural wood beneath; and as it rose to the stars, its sides converged into a peek, like the topmost part of a roof. And I saw that this could be my home, and it had been made for me, and all I had to do was enter. Yet, I couldn’t.

There wasn’t a light inside, but there might have been. The windows were darkened now, but at some time—in the not so distant past—they had been ablaze. Golden light had streamed forth from within and cast the outer landscape in a joyous hue. The rocks, which were strewn here and there upon the footpath that led away from the edifice had been golden, and they rested comfortably in the soil.

What was this place, if not a symbol of my eternal abode? An icon of paradise, or the doorway to it; but also lowering upon me like a casket—leaning, and appearing to be falling onto me. Snuffing out hope; or kindling hope? Perhaps both snuffing and kindling—snuffing false hopes and kindling truer ones.

I was as much a child of the earth as anyone. Just like you are, I’m supposing. And I didn’t want to take that step too quickly, not quite yet, not too soon. Even if the door is open and all it takes is a bit of effort, to light the dark, and to answer the call. No, I still had pain to live, and anxieties called me to listen; there is suffering yet to be had in the guise of desire.

And ambitions, didn’t they still have a role to play—to draw me (and to quarter me)? I jest, or I just play with words for a brief moment. Torture, surely passions would torture me when they could, or I might torture myself were I not protected. If another light didn’t light the way, when my light went dim, I could surely fall, and bruise much more than just my knees. And were it not for that other light, I would be in darkness indeed!

And all of this is simply to say, not so artfully, that I am in need. This world piles on, and over us, and on and on, piling ever on; and we run, we run and try to hide, or try to find, that special peace: that is just around the corner, just over the hill, just beyond the horizon, or streaming from an icon. And all the while, God is watching, watching over us, and waiting, waiting for us.

That edifice—our home—it has a threshold, that we must step over—if we are to enter. What does it take, to take that step? Courage, determination, peace. They say that home is where the heart is. So shall we enter our home across the threshold of our heart? Will we find that glimmer of paradise here, and shining into the world to come?

~FS

I was raised in a time and place—another world really—where we believed that every man and woman, and child even, was worthy and valuable, and each person possessed an inherent dignity by simple virtue of existing. It didn’t matter what color their skin, or what they believed, or where they came from. Admittedly, we didn’t all practice this perfectly, but it was what was taught and what we learned, and how we tried to live with one another; it was the noble goal of our lives, even when we failed to live it out.

In fact, we were taught—and we believed it—that everyone was made in the image and likeness of God. Imagine that! And though each of us failed to live up to that likeness, still, the essence of who we were was divine and filled with dignity. And armed with this belief it was near impossible to see another human being as a thing—an object—or to look down upon them for any reason.

However, this did not mean that we weren’t held to high standards of conduct, in all things; we were made in God’s image after all! So, certainly there were reasons to admonish, or suggest, or instruct one another—to guide—when one of us inevitably lost our way; as it happened to all of us from time to time. And this was an aspect of our love; upholding what was Godly in one another, and therefore most noble and pure within us, and also what is most essentially true about our being human.

But now I live in a new world—and in this time and place—God is being forgotten. And by extension, our awareness of human divinity is also fading away. Now, if one suggests that all people, regardless of race or religion or political affiliation, are created in God’s image and likeness, we might hear in response, “God who?!”

Instead, the people in this world have been taught, and they believe it: “I think, therefore I am! And therefore what I think I am—this is what I am!” What they are, is no longer dependent upon God, but simply upon what they think. More efficient, less complicated, remove the middleman; nobody is the boss of me any longer!

I had the strange experience to visit a place recently—I won’t mention exactly where—but a place populated by folks who had, from a very early age, all been taught that they were not at all the sum of their parts, but completely on the contrary, they were all taught to identify their entire personhood with a mere portion of themselves. They had complete freedom to choose what part they wanted to be, they could be their race, or their gender, or whatever they fancied; in fact, even if they wished to be something that had no relation to themselves at all, they were entitled to be that, if they had the compulsion and desire.

Oh, the freedom they all enjoyed! Whatever they thought they were, suddenly they became that thing! It was a magical place; though it seemed unreal, and in the end, it made me a little bit sad. They could be anything they wanted; but they never knew who they really were.

One group I met there was particularly fascinating to me. They had been raised, of course, like everyone else in this place, with the mantra, “What I think I am, this I am”, but this sect had also been taught from the very beginning: “You are what you eat!” Now to you and me, this is more of a figurative statement, but for them it was literal fact.  And so some believed themselves to be hamburgers, while others were certain that they were soda-pop, and nearly all of them believed, to various degrees, that they were French fries.

They clearly didn’t eat very well. But apart from their poor nutrition, I was concerned for their mental and emotional well-being. And, coming from the world that I did, I also cared deeply about their spiritual health; I could clearly see they were made in God’s image and likeness, even if they couldn’t see it. I wanted to help them see and believe they were more than simply what they ate. They were more than what they thought, or what they felt; and they were more than a mere small portion of themselves—even if they identify deeply with that part—even if they were taught, and believed and accepted, that their complex personhood could be reduced to a mere hamburger.  

So I tried to explain this to them, but you know, folks don’t like being told things. I was accused of hating them, since I didn’t accept what they thought they were. And if I couldn’t see that they were really French fries, then I was obviously a bigot, and I should work on myself, and maybe get my eyes checked. “But!” I protested, “You all can be, and are, so much more than merely what you eat…or simply what you think. Yes, you might be anything, but not in this way; this isn’t really freedom after all. You are an entire human being, a whole and unique part of this wide and grand human family; and this already means that you are something quite special and spectacular!”

And had it been a former time and place—the old world—they might have listened to me; but needless to say—in this world—they canceled me. And when I got back home again, I received an email from their lawyers, inviting me to learn more about people who think they are food. So that I might become a more loving and accepting person in the future.

~FS

When I look death in the eyes, I hesitate to think, of you whom I’ve built my life upon. But then I wonder, where did you go—after you promised to protect me from this fate? How is it that I don’t perceive your presence?! But perhaps your still small voice—which my faith, if it were stronger—might perceive, would give me courage not to blink, as I consider this my death. And when I bring you to my mind, I remember, no, you never promised to protect us from this fate—but rather to save us afterwards.

You said this different word, with greater meaning; though somehow now, it’s still cold comfort with death staring me in the face. And I hear the clock is ticking—hear it tick—ticking away my time; and I wait, or I run (it makes no difference) until death comes for me. Then, I shall see you, won’t I see you? Then will I see you come for me?  To comfort me?!

Calvary was long ago—too long it seems, for me to know; but still I strain, to hear your still small voice. And I like to imagine you dressed in white, upon a mighty steed; and a battle cry—a thousand angels at your side—and all coming to rescue me! And if you’ll lead this holy cavalry; would you also come for me?!

Faith is such a fickle thing; it dances on the winds. Feel it slip between our fingers, as we grasp it with both hands. Or if we stretch our arms out wide, and hug the sky from side to side, faith still may not embrace us, though we try with all our might.

~FS