Alone in the Desert

There’s something more that I’m looking for. There’s a fulfillment that I have not yet reached. There’s a boredom that idles from a lack of purpose. Meaninglessness oozes as the days ensue. Entertain me cruel world, I cry in monotone. When friends are in session, I begin to forget the existence of an apathetic life. When the latest media blares in surround sound, I’m saturated with temporary eye candy. Then, as quickly as the tsunami of involvement came, it vanishes, leaving me in the desert to fall asleep– not wanting to awake. How do I walk through this sand of life dehydrated with no soul around to share the burden? Do I sprout wings and fly off the pages of self-pity?

A stranger in the distance calls to me. Wait, not that strange, I have bad eye sight. Usually, we only say hi in passing. Usually, I only come his way to beg when I am in desperate need. He is always off in the distance to offer his friendship. I can see him whenever if I look hard enough. Apart from me you can do nothing, he always says. I’ve always taken it like the many grains of sand around me. How can that help? Frequently, I just look for the next mirage. The bliss dazzles my eyes and depletes me like an icy fresh can of Mountain Dew.

And then I found her or her or her. Maybe a girl can make my life complete. I see her not off in the distance. She is very tangible. Riding on her camel. I want one of those. Maybe I could find a place of meaning if I rode her camel with her here, there, anywhere. But sooner or later, I see the look on her face. She’s famished too. We are in dire straights and she doesn’t know the “stranger.” In fact, she might actually drive me away from him in my time of need. Sorry, I think for the sake of us both, I’ll have to leave you behind in the desert.

Stranger can you hear me? Look what I gave up to know you better. Tell me what is the secret of fulfillment. Where can I find the spring of life and meaning.

In this life you will many times be famished and wonder where your feet are treading. Trust in me with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways ackniwledge me and I will make your paths straight.

How can that come about? I ponder.

I can hear your thoughts, he replies. But don’t worry, I’ve always been able to. I know your experiences personally and have your best interests at heart. In fact, I walked through the desert myself on your behalf.

Oh yes. I read once, “In that he himself has suffered, being tempted, he is able to aid those who are tempted.” You can help me stay on track. You can help me keep my focus off the dazzling lights, the mirage– though a little bit of entertainment isn’t bad.

Yes. Now you are catching on. I gave you eyes didn’t I? In fact, I the stranger gave you everything. Dan, I am your father.

We walked and talked. When I grew tired, he carried me. And one day, he took up in the clouds to show me a true utopia– better than any mirage.

All in the Proper Context

I was unsatisfied. I was stressed. I looked at sin– gave it a careful analysis. Then willfully, I plunged in– to fulfill carnal delights.

There was something mysterious and lifelike about the form I was pining for.

Call it a picture if you shall. I saw before me a projection of reality and it brought me great pleasure to gaze upon. It was the picture of this rare, exquisite tropical flower– an object that would hopefully bring meaning to the room called life. Somehow, I thought it would be my living, breathing companion.

Outside on the terrace, stood a man carrying a very small seed. He told me it brought him great fulfillment. I was puzzled! What delights I had at my fingertips! I had the necessary means to cover my entire room with these glorious paintings or perhaps even cover my room in a one-of-a-kind mural. But this foolish man held up a single seed and exclaimed that it was worth every penny of his entire inheritance.

If that weren’t enough, I saw this man spend countless hours tending the garden where the seed was planted. I didn’t see anything happening, but he exclaimed all the more of the beauty and wonder of the tiny, putrid seed.

Meanwhile, here in my room I sit. I’m fidgety. I’m bothered. So what if the foolish man claimed that I could sell all my paintings and have eough money to buy my own seed! I have every painting I need right here. So I sat and moped. And moped again. Every time I was about to cry, I decided it was time to spend!

I bought pictures of every rare plant in town. I dreamed that meaning was just beyond the horizon– in the next sparkling glistening picture.

But even old stinky Rich myself had a limit. I spent every red cent in the house.

I fell down to the ground. Precious invaluable art fell along with me.

I was enraged and kicked those paintings. They wouldn’t move.

They had me trapped even though they were now hated.

For what status would I be in without them? (I asked myself.)

In the door, to my alarm, walked in the haggard man with radiance unimaginable. He still offered me the deal to buy a seed. I looked at him puzzled– then with bitter hate!

I spat on him and shooed him away. I threw my pictures in his face that I knew he despised.

Day after day he came– knocking away. He had a force– a motivation about him that would not be stopped. It really irked me. It cut to the bone– how he claimed of this seed growing into much more. It sounded ridiculous– much like folklore. For some reason I cried and cried. He continued on end.

I retreated to my room that night sensing that this stranger cared. His ways were foreign to me, but I had to consider them. What else was there to do? My home was an exquisite art gallery in shambles. I was a man with nothing but yesterday’s paintings to hold onto. So hold on I did and did– until even those very paintings began to deteriorate in the climate.

Little did I know that the stranger was dying. He had planned one of his last visits. (Like I really cared!)

In it, he would’ve, for the final time, explained the power of the seed– how the seed had taken root and blossomed into a mature tree– not an image of reality, but reality itself. And this tree he could climb, eat of for nourishment, and even gather seeds from to share!

No ordinary tree– this tree could give its owner the desires of his/her heart at the proper time– as long as the owner forfeited everything he/she had to purchase the seed and kept it nourished. As terms of the deal, this tree would never die and its blessings would never stop flowing. The stranger I knew was quite sure of all this and that his status wouldn’t change as he passed away.

The same couldn’t be said for me at the time. I remained in the stale air of my despicable room still fixated on the tiny bit of pleasures my paintings gave me. (They got very boring.) My anger built up and I just decided to spite the owner of the seeds. No, He could not have my pictures or anything I owned in MY room. With a malicious, cute, mischevious smile on my face, I pulled out a match to set fire to the place. My intention was to experience those pleasures like never before. I could gaze on those pictures in motion now– even closer to the reality of life.

What I did not anticipate was the left over charred pictures or that I would die in the process. My time was up and I had nothing to show for it– nothing to my name but potential– now wasted. Without a deposit, without a deal, I would suffer while that haggard stranger lived among the trees.

The Harvest

In the garden he sat, waiting for forever to take its toll, certain of the harvest, yet bitter of its toll. Reluctant to pull out weeds, he stood still all the same. His anticipation remained that others would do the pruning as he stayed confident in his future harvest. What he failed to realize was that all the gardeners concentrated on their individual plots. The original seeds sown in his garden were not planted by him, but he was responsibile for the weeds vying for priority spot.

What could he do? This problem seemed out of control. How could the vegetables be salvaged in time? He was embarrassed and mocked. Prize tomatoes expertly framed lied inches away. How did this masterpiece come to fruition? Were magical seeds involved? He must inquire.

“I was given seeds, though unique to the ones you possess, of equal value just the same.”

“Why your bountiful produce then?”

“My seeds have been maintained by the principles of the Gardeners’ Guide that I have never ceased to research. I am no expert gardener. Instead, I glean wisdom day by day from the book.

“Yet not even my efforts are enough. The Great Planter rains down on my crops and gardeners aid me.

“Do you need help?”

Sadly the man was too proud. Ignoring his garden’s sad state, he somehow still blindly relied on his previously planted garden. At harvest time, his weeds were gathered up and burned. His choked crops were nowhere to be found.

Paintings by the Sun

Lord, write the book of my life. Let your Son/Sun bring light to radiate and color my world.

I overlooked my campus and saw a Mighty Cross of Amazing Grace overlooking all. It gazed at the white “S” amidst the green astro turf canvass. The crowd, too numerous to count, seemed as little, colored, dotted paints of light to the Mighty Cross, but at the same time each individual speck amounted to everything in the way of importance.

If He looked close enough (and He did), He could make out me. I was in the stands amidst the crowd.

Then He astonished me, the Lord handed me a cowbell. With this small instrument in hand, I was to direct the crowd to a large Cross overhead– the Sun Himself. Many people feared that if they got too close to the Sun, they would burn up. They were right. They couldn’t even get a complete picture of the Sun from a distance and needed sunglasses to simply gaze at Him.

But as an instrument of God, I had some the crowd’s attention. I was playing my part with the cowbell– letting them know they needed new bodies to approach the Sun. The individuals in the crowd would have to die to self just as the Mighty Cross/the Sun had died for them– that they might start a new life in communion one with the Sun.

Lord, God, I don’t just want to paint a pretty picture of words. I want You to write Yourself through me.

The Story of A Pen

The pen stood in uncertainty of how to adapt to the surroundings it would soon meet. Nestled inside a safe, secure world seated in its box, the pen awaited the future his maker would take him to.

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All about, everywhere unseen by the world’s eye, the maker smiled as his story began to unfold. He created the canvass of earth on which the pen existed and where he was destined. Carefully, he crafted the writing tool and inspired his workers to help put it together for specific purposes that would both bring him honor and bring joy to the participants. From the beginning, the maker declared, “I love my creation!”

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Then today, this pen, flew on the mechanical bird– awaiting the journey the maker had set before him. No, it did not matter that the unknown lay ahead, that his beautiful letter formations would look like scribbles where he was headed, that the shine of the wooden instrument would lose its sparkle without polish. For nothing would be more adventurous and rewarding then becoming someone new, unfamiliar, out of the norm, someone with purpose. Besides, the maker had something special for him to share with others and he knew that just like all of the maker’s creation, he was specially made for that reason!

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So as it stood, this uncertainty turned into a shared smile as the maker made it clear to the pen that even in the distant lands the mechanical bird was carrying him to, he would meet up with more of the maker’s unique creation, created for not yet revealed purposes– except that they would all bring the maker honor as he saw fit.

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To Be Continued…

The Story of a Pen (Part II)

The pen was dreaming. For it had never seen the likes of this mechanical bird. Instead, it remained in its familiar land of comfort. Yes, there was still time to return to the maker’s shop to be sculpted for the maker’s writing. Following his lead, the pen traveled in its case to an old, nearly abandoned print service and art store to await transformation– just the beginning– preparations in store. It wondered, “How long must I wait on the shelf?”

But even this part of the canvass was inspired by the maker. This story that the pen was weaved into followed a course of plan. And the pen found itself instructed to write and write laboriously for the task of preparation. “Will not my ink run dry?” it thought. “I should conserve myself for where I am useful.”

“I will determine that,” replied the maker. “If you are to be used to communicate my reality effectively where you are not familiar writing and anywhere, you must allow me to use up your ink and believe that I will replenish it.”

With that, the pen went back to work, realizing much refinement of its maneuvers and durability was necessary. It was written dry and further. It slept outside of its case and began to deteriorate. In fact, the pen worked intensely to the point of breaking in half– springing a leak. In horror, it fell to the ground thinking it was allover, devastated because it wanted to fulfill the maker’s purpose.

As it awoke, it found itself sitting next to the maker’s firing kiln. “I thought you left me for dead.” “No, I just brought you to an attitude willing to give yourself up when you had nothing left– ready to enter in and burn away your impurities– leaving the silver and gold that I put in you. “But I’m wooden.” “I will re-create you and use the gold and silver I have already put in you. Otherwise, you can have no part with my writing.”

With that the pen marched, resisting its own fears, in the kiln to begin refinement.

Invasion

I sat still as the story unfolded like lightning. In the blink of an eye, the setting was set. The space shuttle came to the rescue to carry everyone who had a free pass to the safe planet. The remaining earthlings laughed and felt comfortable where they were at.

Within minutes, it came. Dark unidentified flying objects of death encircled about. Using extreme magnetic force, they attracted every last bit of iron in the planet. This included the iron in the remaining earthlings. The people were destined to travel to the wasteland planet to eternally rot.

The Empty Cistern

I sat down at a metal bench of reflection– not knowing how long I should lurk there. Filled with inferior demolished thought, I sought the center fountain to grant me the desires of my youth. Liberate me from the tide of troubles, worries, responsibilities– long enough to grant me a fresh breath of new life! But I flung my penny in the empty cistern to find no water flowing. Worlds around me tried to absorb moisture from the nothingness within me. A demand for love without a source. In place of the flowing fountain, a mound of straw.

I sit and look around for something deeper, but find myself alone. In the midst of the birds chirpin’, the bushes blooming. I ask you, “What brings about your ambience? What sets you apart from the empty cistern and the quiet/distant, inhuman buildings throughout?”

Does some outside force of nature bring about your serene glow? You are perpetual, the everlasting smile shining down from heaven.

But this countenance shares not in the splendor– moping about while the young of the needy world sucks him dry. Day after day, night after night. Sleeping away. Using human toys to escape the reality of an empty cistern that must pour the Widow’s last drops. “Bless the children,” it cries.

Some tell of another tale– the way it should be. From where did my mere Widow’s drops come to my possession? What in my being, keeps this heart beating? What keeps this boy from falling over the edge and becoming the black hole of endearment– destroying the very force it creates?

That speck of love, ever so small, that dirty rag– is a mere glimpse of reality as it could be, should be, would be.
Listen to the birds. They hum a sweet melody– of our dear Jesus– really quite near.

See his radiance shine upon the humble few selected for his purpose; experience love bountiful too– to cup overfloweth.
Lord, grant me this heart. I surrender once again– to the one true God– the one that matters. Please remold me from what I am.
Not to become a collegiate manufactured instrument of instruction of the highest caliber. But something far superior– with that simple joy of that bird chirping, a heart ready serving– You oh Lord and all humanity.

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Meaning of Terms Within the Literature

Center Fountain-

The source we humans go to to find fulfillment. We can’t rely on it though and in the end we find it dry.

Empty Cistern-

1. Used at times to describe the fountain.

2. Our hearts are many times virtually empty and consequently have no love to give.

Mound of Straw-

This dry barren land remains at the place where we once looked foolishly for a source of fulfillment.

Ambience- The atmosphere of an environment. In this literature, a peaceful and joyful environment.

Serene- Calm.

This Countenance- My face shared not in the joy.

Widow’s Last Drops- All the love I have left to give. The drops alludes to the widow’s last drops of oil that she gave when God asked.

Black Hole of Endearment- A vacuum that sucks up all the love around me.

Dirty Rag- The Bible describes our righteousness as filthy rags before the Lord. The same goes for the love I give unto the world. The amount of love I show is way below what it could be.

Collegiate Manufactured Instrument of the Highest Caliber- I do not want to become another mass-produced ideal teacher with the best teaching methodology. I want to come forth with something even more valuable– praising my Lord and serving others in love.

The Fountain of Just Because

Springs pour forth. The evenings filled with joy, rich in bloom, flowers in chorus to sing of the passing of a cloudy mashed potato laden day. See blue skies emerge in magnificience. Changing hue a sight to see upon the bench of reflection. And in the center the fountain does pour. Once an empty cistern now emerging with life as the giant cup overfloweth.

Nourishment, clean waters provide, a song of beauty beeming smile with light beeming from the Sun. And flow waters do fill the innards, making them function, filled to the brim with the spirit of heavenly Sunshine.

Into a lull the body cannot remain. Propelled to action at the simple glimpse of a rainbow– that too from the Sun. An existence of promise and assurance that a much higher power speaking in you and through you is sure proud of you.

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Do you sense the Holy Spirit, the very Spirit of God, flowing through you and blessing you? Do you know that as God’s child, you are someone He is proud of! Imagine that!

Life as a Teacher

Scatterbrained, drained, withdrawn in the physical he lay, on the bed looking up about. Dogs barking, left corner of cranium, unable to contain himself he sank. Confusion, pandemonium, complacency. No place for the survival of a teacher. Why I can’t even reflect on my own mind, let alone many details! I lack the will to move this pen.” He sat very still that evening not moving an inch. “Joy to the World!” said the card with a simple, joyful manger scene drawn by young youth. “Do I belong with such trust of a child and many? I care for them, but do good tidings far outweigh the bad? Does jubilation or benefit result from the students’ stay here? You cry Jessica each day when I cannot go on. All it takes is one broken spirit and I’m broken too. Unable to press on, through the trauma of a single circumstance, it seems I’ve tarnished something sacred– as though someone higher will fire, but that day never comes about. I run, run, do-run, will-never let go. Then we play on the horsies to and fro. I will guide you and together we’ll learn. You love me, but can’t stand me at times that so often pinch nerves. I feel the squeeze within and ask if I shall go on where I’m loved and at the same time can’t hold my own. The same place I reach and embitter alike and leave depleted asking, “Are we the better for it?”" Then, he grabbed the picture. See little boy dressed in white with family. And he asked himself the purpose, but the smile took all logic away. This was who he was! A teacher. He lived and breathed to reach them with his love and no measuring stick, grade book, evaluation could draw him away. No matter the success in the eye of even a mirror, something greater than he was willing him to continue life… as a teacher, as a Christian, as a child of God in His will. Lord, that teacher is me. And being a Christian is that way. They are both who I am. The passion involved in both are indefinable. It cannot be denied. Lord, I can’t imagine your infinite patience with us as children to the point that despite our daily flaws, you call us more than worthwhile– the apple of your eye. Loving us unconditionally is who you are.