Devo 12
12/6/99
"Hope"
Well, I'm finally back from my two week sabbatical--OK, not really a sabbatical, more like I was too busy--yeah, that's it, too busy--to write anything meaningful. A lot has changed since Thanksgiving, and I'll only briefly tell you here before I move on to my main topic. The long and short of it is this: As of last Thursday (12/2/99), I started a full-time job with Back to the Bible International Headquarters as an Order Fulfillment Specialist. I had originally applied with them back in April, but they weren't hiring then, and I had pretty much given up on hearing from them. That was when I decided to go back to school. Then the Thursday before Thanksgiving I received a call from BttB and was informed of a job opening. The next Wed. I interviewed, and the Wed. after that I was hired. My plans for school are now on hold indefinitely as I now concentrate on work and paying off my student loans and hopefully establishing a career at BttB. Talk about a roller-coaster ride. Also, I am quitting my job at the restaurant effective this coming Thursday. But enough about me. I thought I would tell a little story to illustrate my topic.
(BTW: This week's CD: Jump Swing Christmas)
(Now it is 12/13/99! I guess I got busy!)
A little dusting of plaster drifted to the floor as he scratched his 2556th tally mark into the wall. 2556 days. Seven years exactly. The square of light shining on the opposite wall revealed scratch marks from months long forgotten. 'Forgotten' probably wasn't the best word to describe those days long past. In fact, with very little effort, he could recall almost exactly everything that had happened on any one of those days. There was no secret, really, to this 'prodigious' feat of memory. The simple truth was that each day was exactly like the other. The only thing that kept one from bleeding into the next was the carefully inscribed line in the wall placed there each day precisely two minutes before the daily meal was served.
The circumstances that brought him to this monotonous existence were less clear. He dimly remembered a war and a failed mission. But beyond that his memory was enshrouded in a pale mist that only revealed shapes and forms, never images. He knew if he tried hard enough, he could begin to drive back the mists, but it just didn't seem worth it. Whatever circumstances that led to his imprisonment these last seven years couldn't be worth remembering.
One memory did remain, however, and it came to him often; sometimes in his dreams, sometimes in daylight. In it, a little girl toddled up to him and wrapped her arms around his legs. She then looked up at him with a wide grin before turning around, and stretching out her arms, toddled forwards again towards a shadowed figure in the mist. It was his wife, he knew, that was standing in the mist, and it was their daughter running between the two. The figure of his wife, though, had become less and less distinct over the years. He looked towards a darkened corner of his cell and saw the faded outline of a human head sketched into the plaster. When he had first came, he had attempted to sketch his wife's likeness, but an imperfect memory and a lack of artistic skills had brought that project to a disappointing end.
The thought of being home seemed foreign to him now. Even the thought of another person caring a whit about his existence seemed an impossible luxury. The idea of the freedom to organize one's own schedule was as out of place in this cell as was the feeble rays of sun the struggled to brighten the dark cell. Three full meals a day seemed gluttonous now, and eight hours of sleep a night just plain lazy. He knew that should he ever return to this haven of bliss, he would feel terribly out of place. But that only served to fuel his longings.
The days in the prison camp weren't spent entirely in solitude. Three hours of each day, the hottest of course, were given to manual labor out in the work yard. This labor was probably the only thing that really kept the memory of the war in his mind, for all the prisoner's work was in the production of war materials: blankets, bullets, food harvesting, etc. etc. He hated every minute he spent in aiding the enemy, but the chains around his wrists and ankles kept his ambitions from ever being acted upon.
Through the years, he had seen many people come and go from the camp. The comings were always accompanied by triumphant exultation's by the captors and tortured sobbing of the captive. The goings were never noticed until one, maybe two days after the fact. Most were suicides, though every now and then a guard would get carried away in his 'correction'. Whatever the case, both were treated with the same indifference. To be honest, he had contemplated suicide many times, and even envisioned many ways of accomplishing the deed. But every time he had begun to act upon the gnawing desire to end his pathetic life, he saw that little girl rush up to him and wrap her arms around his legs. And then he would look up and see the mist enshrouded form of his wife. But it wasn't just his wife. In that dim outline, he saw everything he was longing for; friendship, caring...freedom. And though he couldn't see it clearly, he knew it was there. All he had to do was to look into the sky-blue eyes staring up at him to know that.
After dutifully marking his seventh year on the scarred wall, he tossed the tiny pebble into the corner. He sat down on his cot to await his food for the day. On cue, the cell door opened up, and the man looked up into the eyes of a stranger. It was then he heard the noises of fighting and shouts of protests in the language of his captors. And then the stranger spoke:
"Sir, the war is over."
The End
A couple thoughts in conclusion:
Hebrews 11:1 says, "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." As a Christian, one of the hardest things to cope with is the knowledge that at some point in the near future, I will sin against God. What's worse is that at the moment of the sin, I won't care. And in those moments immediately following (that is if I realize my sin so quickly) I sometimes wish I could die just so I won't sin again. But God has a plan for my life; He has people for me to touch, missions to complete in His name. And until I have completed all He has for me, I must remain bound hand and foot to this corpse that is my body. But praise God that one day my spirit will set free from this body of death and I will no longer do the sin that I do not want to do. And it is this day that I hope for. Even though the concept of heaven seems impossible remote and dim, all I have to do is to look to Jesus, whom God sent from Heaven to Earth, to know that the day of glory is coming.