stories

Prison

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 16:10:58 +0100

Philip stood at the prison gate, head low, back against the icy metal bars. He shifted, but in every position, the bars dug into his back as if they were determined to keep him glued to the gate. The warden marched toward him. Philip did not look up.“Stand up straight! You think you’re one o’ them?"
The warden moved on to holler at the next guard before his voice had even finished echoing against the prison walls.

“Yes,” Philip mumbled under his breath. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

He lifted his head and curled himself away from the gate as if his body had molded there and needed to be peeled off. He stared dutifully ahead. His shoulders tensed as his gaze fell on a small bundle lying on the stone floor, a child’s face peeking out to look at him. He looked away before the big blue eyes caught him in their mournful stare. He knew if they did he would be immediately entranced into running to the child, taking him up in his arms, and fleeing this bleak, miserable place.

But he knew it would be hopeless. He would never try it for the same reason no one else had ever tried it. Where would they go? The streets? At least they had the tiniest morsels of food here.

London was quaking beneath their feet, threatening to fall apart at any moment. The cries in the streets, the filth, the poverty, the starvation—they were all dying and no one knew. The poor weighed down the balance scale. The lower they fell the higher the rich rose to prosperity. There was no middle class anymore. There were the rich, who gorged themselves on food and ignorance, and the devastatingly poor.

Philip was poor. Only a few shillings in his pocket separated him from the people he guarded now. Without the coins he would be the one guarded, an inmate, a debtor.

He shivered. In his mind, he was already a prisoner. He was trapped in this cave of black and white and grey, surrounded by filth and lifeless bodies. A few shillings. That was all.

He did not have a family to drag with him to this place like others did. Even now he watched a family, huddled together, trying to stay warm.

“Mama,” a tiny girl said. “I’m hungry. When do we get to eat?"

“Not till mornin’, dear,” the woman said, petting the child’s hair.

“Let me work!” the boy beside her said, coughing between words.

“You’re too ill to work, son,” the father said.

“Then how’ll we ever get out? If we can’t work?” The boy stood, resisting his mother’s tug at his sleeve.

“Sit down, Johnny. You can’t work.”

The boy lowered himself down after half-heartedly throwing his hat to the ground.

Philip’s jaw clenched, his head burning. This was merciless. It was inhuman. These families were forced into prison because they could not pay their debts. But in prison, they not only had no way to pay those debts, they had to pay for their imprisonment. If they earned or were given money, most, if not all of it, went towards prison food. Where was justice in that?

People crammed into every corner, hoping someone would pay their debts. Philip shook his head, settling back against the bars once more. No one would ever come.

An old man rasped and hacked in a corner. A younger man offered a cup of water to him. He drank it gratefully. But the moment he swallowed the last drop his coughing persisted. Philip watched, helpless. He could not leave his post. The man kept coughing and coughing, until Philip’s own throat was sore, and his heart ached with every retch. He bent over, grabbed his own glass of water, and pushed himself from the metal bars.

“Philip! Stay put!”

The warden’s croaky voice sent chills down Philip’s spine. Or was that from the bars?

“Sir, he needs help . . .”

“He’s just an old man. He won’t last long.”

“You can’t just leave him!”

“Stay put, Philip! Or I’ll see that you join ‘em.”

Philip stiffened, backing up to the gate, his jaw clenched. The warden glared like a hawk, his fingers stiffening into claws. He eyed Philip with pale, nocturnal eyes then skulked into the darkness.

Philip’s back tensed as he resumed scanning the room. The sweep only formed tears that washed away his vision. He had been there too long. He was losing it. He sank to his knees, shaking, ignored by the guards to his left and right.“When will it end?” he wondered. “Will it ever end?”

“The poor will always be among you, my friend.”

Philip looked up, but could not see the speaker, whose voice seemed to pour into his soul like cool water. A hand rested on his shoulder. He started, jumping from the bars and stifling a cry. A man stood behind the bars, reaching through the gate. His eyes and cheeks glistened with tears, but, as Philip drew nearer, he thought he saw a faint smile.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I need to speak to your warden.”

Philip nodded slowly, forcing his eyes to look away. He felt a sudden darkness when he turned his back. He spotted the warden and ushered him over. The warden’s face distorted like a wrinkled tomato as he lumbered over, grumbling in protest, but he grew silent when he saw the man on the other side of the bars. His keys rattled as he unlocked the gate, inching it open. The man nodded gratefully as he stepped in. His eyes fell on the children in the corner and he sighed deeply, his tears multiplying.

“What do you want?” the warden demanded.

The visitor caressed a small pouch in his hand, and he passed it to the warden.

“I have come to free them,” he said. The warden’s eyes widened. Philip’s staggered, a weight of gratefulness and confusion rushing at his chest. Who was he? A king? He must be! And yet he was clothed in peasant rags.

“What did you say?” the warden asked, squinting one eye and scanning the man with the other.

“I’ve reconciled what they owe. Free them.”

The warden stared, stunned. He opened the pouch. It was filled to the rim with coins. He gulped, closed it, and glared at the man.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine.” He spat on the ground and stomped away with the money.

The visitor turned to Philip, smiling gently. Philip could hardly breathe.

“Philip,” he said. “You are free, too. You will always be provided for.” He placed a firm hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I will be waiting outside.”

He slipped out before Philip could find his voice. His heart pounded. He was frozen in shock. In an instant he was brought from frustration to confusion to pure exhilaration. He was free! Grabbing a candle from the wall, he ran to meet the people and tell them the good news.

“You are free!” he cried, his voice erupting in the silence. “Someone paid your debts! You are free! Come! The gate is open! You’re…”

No one was listening. The echoes of his own voice came back to him, unheard. He ran up to the sick man and shined the light on his face. The man looked up, wincing.

“You are free!” Philip repeated. “Come!”

“You’re crazy!” the man spat. The effort had him coughing again, and he coughed so hard he could not hear what Philip said. Philip ran to the next person, the younger man.

“The gate is open! Please! Come!”

“What?” the man asked, looking up with tired eyes.

“A man has paid your debts!”

“Oh. Well I can’t go, see? I’m better off here.”

“What? Are you mad? Come! Be free!”

“I’m better here. I have shelter. I am safe. Leave me be!”

Philip’s head burned with confusion and frustration. Why wasn’t anyone listening? Then he glimpsed the family. The children had raised their heads and were looking at him. He ran over to where they sat, shining the light on their pale faces.

“Come,” he said. “A man has come to free you.”

“No!” the father said. “No, we can’t go.”

“But father!” the boy cried.

“Please sir,” Philip pleaded. “Let them come.”

“No!”

But the boy and girl were already running toward the gate, their parents calling after them. Philip watched as the children ran outside of the prison, where the moon was rising over the stone courtyard. The visitor, their savior, was there to embrace them when they ran into his arms. The parents watched, shocked, then stumbled after them. Philip beamed as he watched. He nearly raced alongside them just to see their smiles when they met the man that freed them, but Philip wanted more people to come. He ran to the next family and the next, spreading the news.

Some caught onto the excitement. They ran out the gate to thank the man who had saved them. Some stayed, grumbling that they had been disturbed. Others seemed to go deaf when he came near. Others could not move and he had to drag them to freedom. When he had told everyone, less than half had gone through the gate. Philip did not understand. He stumbled outside, dejected, discouraged, and exhausted.

It was dark. The streets of London were silent, all lights extinguished for the night. All lights but one. The man, the stranger, held a single torch, the small flame illuminating his face and body so that he glowed in the darkness. Philip’s own torch quivered falteringly as he ran to the man.

“They won’t come,” Philip breathed. The man stepped toward him, still smiling. He bent his torch over Philip’s, igniting it with a new, powerful flame. He glanced around at the small crowd. “Everyone must have a light. Go back to them with the light and they will see that the gate is open. Then they will come.”

The crowd scattered, gathering the sleeping torches that clung in metal beds to the courtyard walls and taking them to their leader to be awakened with his fire. Every boy and girl and parent was soon glowing like a star, and as they gathered at the prison gate, each individual glow became one, beautiful, blazing sun.

Philip stood tall in its heat, knowing his tears were not concealed. Their leader faced them, his own tears visible. He turned, beckoned them with his torch, and led them into the prison of men and women who had rejected freedom. Lifting his own torch, Philip followed in awe as the brilliant glow of fire invaded the darkness, consuming even the blackest corners. Warm light pulsed on every pale, wondering face whose eyes could now see the path to the open gate.

rim of the grand canyon

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 03:41:51 +0100

I sometimes wonder what it was like for the Spanish explorers when they first glimpsed the Grand Canyon. I can see them staggering through the forest, their heads bent, their heavy feet threatening to give way with every step. Suddenly they are standing on red rock. Too tired to care, they lean their heads back to pour a douse of water into their mouths, then choke as they see what lies before them; a deep canyon of painted rock stretching for miles and miles, the men’s feet planted inches from their deaths. Every step had brought them closer to the edge. Their wanderings must have seemed endless, but there they were, standing at one of the most magnificent formations in the New World.

Similar emotions filled me as I stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon, my mouth open in speechless astonishment at God’s creation. My steps had taken me to that spot, that huge destination, but in different ways from the Spaniards. My steps had not carried me through forest and desert, but through a life of fear.

When I was around nine years old, I had my first panic-attack. I curled up on a couch in my parents’ bedroom, breathing heavily and holding a stomach that ached from an overdose of imagination, my mind oblivious that this moment would begin a cycle of anxiety that only God could cut through.

Circles never end. You can run around them and try to find a way out, but, unless a door is opened, you end up back where you began. My life was filled with ups and

downs, triumphs and failures. I would begin to imagine the worst-case-scenarios about a vacation at least four months before it took place. I would have days when I could not eat and could not leave the house. Every time I would build up my fears until they nearly swallowed me up, but every time the trip was easier than the mental preparation. To me, going on a trip was like asking me to expose myself to a stomach bug. I was terrified. But every time, God pulled me through, holding my hand and speaking peace into my spirit.

Unfortunately, every time I ended up in the same rut, doubting that God could do it again. I subconsciously convinced myself that spending the night at a friend’s house was much different from going to the zoo for a day, so God must not be able help me this time.

A few years ago, my parents told me we were going to Washington D.C. in August. Of course I began to worry at the very start. I imagined myself panicking in the big city, unable to eat or move. I panicked about panicking, feared about fearing. I gave myself stomach aches because I was afraid of getting a stomach ache. I prayed and prayed that God would get me through the trip. I read my Bible every day, hoping for encouragement or advice. My most common prayer was for God to help me not be “nervous, sick, hurt, or scared.”

Finally, I noticed a pattern as I did my devotions. Every time I opened my Bible, it would open to Psalm 23. I paused, closing the book, and prayed: “God, if you are trying to speak to me through this passage, please show me.” I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the Bible. When I opened my eyes, I was looking at Psalm 23. Peace flooded into me as I read “The Lord is my shepherd,” loving and thanking God and knowing that He would be with me during the trip. He was. Somehow I did not have a single panic-attack the entire trip. I was able to eat, have fun, and constantly thank God for his presence.

I have always known God was with me. I have experienced His peace at home and on vacation. Yet the cycle would continue. Every time I got to the top of the hill, I had to go back down again. It was not a specific fear that held me. More like a feeling. I have had to learn to recognize that feeling and shove it away before it takes over. At the beginning of the year of 2010, I had controlled that feeling. I knew its face, I knew where and when it usually came, and I knew how to dim it down. I also knew that God was my stronghold, and that He would carry me as He always did.

But then my sister asked if we could go to the Grand Canyon. She had been in China, and would be flying to El Paso, New Mexico, and from there, back home to Tennessee. My parents agreed. We would be leaving in about three weeks to pick her up and drive to and from the Grand Canyon, tenting in campsites along the way.

It seemed like I was turning back to my old excuses. “This is different. It is too last minute. I’ve never spent a comfortable night in a tent. I’ve never been on a road-trip. I’ve never been gone for ten days. I’ve never…I’ve never….”

Even with these fears weighing on my mind, I was somehow peaceful about it. I would have moments of panic that would somehow die, as if my body was telling me it had been through enough, and it just wanted to relax. So I did.

I can say that the trip went well because of my own effort. I can say I had learned

to relax and push away fear. I can say I was strong, and that I beat panic by sheer willpower. But it would only be a lie. As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 1:31, “Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.”

It is all because of God that I was filled with peace on that trip. He guided me and led me through a long and painful journey that still continues to strengthen me. I do not regret my fear. I still fear today, but Faith is stronger. My experiences drew me closer to God than I would have ever been without them. Instead of leaving me on the worn path, unable to take another step, God picked me up in His gentle arms and carried me all the way to the rim of the Grand Canyon.

the deathbed: a metaphor

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 03:42:10 +0100

My brother is dying. He has always been dying. But he never dies. He simply hangs on, breathing in and out, never getting better and never getting worse.

I remember when he was born. My father carried me into my mother’s hospital room, whispering in my ear. “Ernest,” he had said, “this is your little brother.”

I saw the pale, wrinkled thing in my mother’s arms, and at the age of five I knew what death looked like. My three-year-old sister cried in a rocking chair, her face in her hands: she knew what death looked like, too.

This event changed our lives. In our small, dark apartment we cared for my brother the best we could, hand-feeding him and cleaning him with wet rags. We never knew what was wrong with him. Doctors were puzzled by his illness that never ended.

He lived, if you could call his existence living, in his deathbed, and in his life he has now had three deathbeds. First was his cradle, where we never thought he would leave, then, when he was older, a small bed with a bright, boyish-colored bedspread that he could not see because he was blind. Now, as an adult, he dies in a large bed with black sheets covering his frail body. He may as well lie in a coffin.

For a while, I really pitied my younger brother. I had grown up in a home of sickness, and my greatest desire was to stop it, in my home and in others. I wanted to cure people. I watched doctor after doctor enter my home with no remedy, and I wanted to come home with a cure for my brother. But my dream was shattered when, halfway through medical school, I was diagnosed with chronic heart disease. I was too weak to endure the stress of doctoring.

They told me the sick could not help the sick, and I was forced to quit. As I underwent treatment, which was mainly rest, I picked up pen and paper and began to write. Out of my mind flowed a complete book on doctoring, all the things I could never do. I got it published, and I was able to sell enough copies to buy a decent home for my brother and parents, a house isolated on an island in the Pacific. I had learned that fresh air could help many people. It was worth a shot, anyway.

This was where I was headed now, the Spring of my brother’s twenty-third year. My father had died of a heart-attack, and I was to come and check on my brother once-a-week until his last day, which appeared to draw near at times, and then quickly was snatched away again, leaving my brother in his eternal dying state.

I squinted in the sun, my hand gently steering my small boat toward the island, where no one could see it from their shores. The trees loomed up bigger and bigger, until I drifted beneath them into a calm lagoon. I climbed out, drug the boat to the sandy shore, and grabbed a few bags of groceries before treading through the sand to the tropical paradise where my brother lay dying.

Tall palm trees stretched above me, coconuts dangling like jewelry beneath their leaves. Around me, light poured down in hot segments, illuminating random plants like spotlights. I brushed my way through the tall plants, stepping down on them to get through. Anyone who visited the island out of curiosity would never have known that a house rested in the center. Even I had trouble finding it, it being only my second visit to the island, and no path having been worn through the underbrush.

As the house came into view, I felt some pride in what I had done for my family. The stone sanctuary was a home anyone would be proud of. I was admiring the grand windows and green shutters and green doors, when a flutter of a different shade of green caught my eye.

“Ernest!” A ripple of long golden hair flooded over me as my sister embraced me.

“Eva! I did not know you were here!”

Eva backed up, her smile leaving my own lips curving into a grin. She brushed back her wavy hair, adorned in various, colorful island flowers. Her eyes sparkled, the green matching her ankle-length dress.

“I’ve been here a week,” she explained. “Oh, Ernest, it is so beautiful! I’m so glad you could give this for our brother!”

“Something had to be done,” I said.

“Yes. And what about you? Surely this place could help you, too.”

“Yes…How is he?” I asked.

Eva frowned. She took my hand and began walking toward the house.

“No better, no worse,” she said.

We walked up the ramp to the porch, passing a wooden sign, where “The Adamson Home” was carved. We stepped into the house, where light followed us through the windows. The sun beams danced in the living room, warming the floral cushions and soft, white carpet.

Eva led me to the door to the right of the house. She looked at me, her eyes flickering worriedly across my face, and then she opened the door.

There was no sunlight in the room. The curtains were drawn. Only the artificial glow of a ceiling lamp dimly lit the bed, the black sheets like a dark shadow in the room. Beside the bed was a strange, white machine with tubes and bottles of liquid sprouting from it. And in the center of the bed was my brother, the tubes branching from his arms, and two others holding a white cap over his mouth. His glassy grey eyes stared from his narrow face, which was as white as his short, snowy hair.

Eva gripped my hand, leaning into my shoulder.

“It’s still a shock,” she said. “Whenever I see him.”

“What?” I asked, blankly. “Oh…yes.”

I had been thinking just the opposite. Years of living alongside my brother had finally numbed me to the sight of death. I did not admit to Eva that I felt nothing for him at the moment. I slid the groceries to the floor and glanced at the drawn curtains that blocked off the sunlight.

“Why are those drawn?” I asked. “I didn’t buy this place so he could die in the dark.”

“He can’t see it.”

The voice was not Eva’s. I turned, and I saw my mother sitting in the corner of the room, rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Mother…”

I could not say it was nice to see her. She frowned at me, her lips pinched, her grey eyes searching me.

“He can’t see the light and he never will. You know that. And he will not see the blue sky or the green trees. And he will not breathe the fresh air. And he will not hear the ocean. My son is dying!”

Eva fluttered to her mother’s side and knelt by her, petting her hand.

I was about to shout in frustration, but my eyes caught sight of a mechanism beside my brother’s deathbed. A wheel chair, with another set of tubes connected to it, sat still, its clean, unmoved wheels meshing into the carpet.

“Why hasn’t that been used? Has he been outside at all?”

“I told you he would not know the difference!” my mother said.

My chest ached, and I began coughing loudly. I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle them as I sank into a cushioned-chair by the window. A few moments passed and Eva nudged me on the shoulder. I looked up, and she held out a glass of water.

“Drink this,” she said sweetly.

“I’m not thirsty,” I said, coughing again.

“You look ill,” she insisted, bringing the water closer to my lips.

I accepted just a sip, then shook my head to show I was finished.

Eva stepped back. She took the glass to her dying brother and filled one of the bottles with the remaining liquid.

I closed my eyes again, trying to block out the dark memories. But on the back of my eyelids I could still see my childhood-self pressing a glass of water to my ill brother, his lips unresponsive.

“Drink! Drink!” I had cried. But my brother would not accept a drop.

Now he had a machine to do it, a machine that kept my brother from death, but never from dying.

“Why do we even bother keeping him alive?” I said, my eyes still closed. “What kind of life is that?”

“Ernest…” Eva said. She was crying. “Ernest, I…I could not even live if I…if we…” She could not even repeat what my mind had thought. I opened my eyes and frowned at her apologetically.

“Then let’s at least do something,” I said. “Something other than keep him trapped in this room!”

Eva turned to her mother, expecting a shout of opposition, but the old woman had fallen asleep.

“But what?” Eva whispered to me. “What can we do? All I want is to see him well.”

I thought of the idea. My brother--well. What would that be like? Suddenly coming alive? How would he react to going from existing in a dying body to suddenly being well at the age of twenty-three? I could not be sure if that would be a relieving experience, like getting your braces off and finally being able to run your tongue over your clean, straight teeth, or a frightening experience, like waking up from a peaceful sleep and realizing you have a whole day of responsibilities ahead, and you just want to go back to your dreams.

“Can’t you do something?” Eva said. “Can’t you do something you learned in medical school?”

“The dying can’t keep other men from dying,” I said bitterly.

“But you can make him well. You can make the remainder of his days worth living.”

Tears streamed from her eyes. She turned to her dying brother and knelt by his bedside. She took his frail hand, her skin folding over his like sunlight passing over a shadow. Her lip trembled as she lowered her head onto the black sheet.

I watched, but I could not join her. I had cried over my brother too many times. I had stayed by his side when no one else was able. But it was like being alone. I would never understand why my sister would sing to her brother who’s ears could not hear her sweet voice, or why she would cry over him as she did now. It was like mourning the death of someone you never knew.

But as I watched her I felt different. I wanted my brother well as much as she did. I wanted to see my family together, finally able to live without death lingering in our home.

I rose. I took hold of the wheelchair and pulled it from the deep dent it had made in the carpet. I rolled it back to my brother’s side.

My sister looked up. “What are you doing?”

I could only look at her imploringly, then I began disconnecting tubes and reattaching them, moving my brother’s life support from his bedside to the wheel chair. My sister watched silently, her eyes following my movements with understanding.

As I lifted the black sheet from my brother, she stood and helped me lift his frail, exposed body, dressed in a simple, white gown, his arms and legs limp as we slid him from his bed to the chair. Eva situated him, helping support his head with a small pillow. By silent consent I wheeled the chair across the room, the living room, and out the front door. Sunlight greeted us. A soft breeze blew the palms so that their leaves seemed to wave at us--beckoning us. I paused at the doorstep, gripping the handles of the chair, then I pushed.

I pushed the chair through the tropical underbrush, its wheels crushing the plants. We passed the flowering and fruit-giving plants, lit by the sun’s spotlight. We passed lush, green places where warm beams of light streamed through the trees. But my brother, ice cold, stared with unseeing eyes, his hands dangling from the arm rests and barely brushing the leaves that slipped beneath the chair’s wheels. I pushed faster. I could hear Eva behind me, trying to keep up. But the shore was in sight. I had to reach the shore.

Finally, I passed the last tree, and I was running through the sand to the ocean.

Eva called for me to wait, and I halted, inches from the waves. She came up beside me, her hair flowing in the breeze. She gazed up at the sky, the sinking, orange sun resting just above the water. She turned to me, and then to our brother, who sat still, his head tilting to one side. I felt anger rising in my chest. My head burned.

“He can’t see it,” I said. “He can’t hear it. He…he can’t even breath this fresh air. He…he can’t…”

I stopped, gasping for breath. My sister laid a hand on my shoulder comfortingly as I struggled to breathe, to stay standing.

“He can feel it,” she said. “Somehow. It may sink in. We have to hope.”

I nodded, halving over, clutching my chest, my head swimming. My forehead dripped in sweat, and my heart quickened.

“Ernest!” my sister cried. She quickly slipped off her sandals and stepped into the water. “Ernest, come in. Cool down.”

I nodded again, slipping off my own shoes. I stepped in. Eva walked backward, inching her way deeper and deeper, leading me through, the waves reaching for my heels and dragging me further and further in.

My breathing slowed, my pulse steadied. I looked back at my brother, dying on the shore, the white foam drawing up and licking the edge of the wheelchair before sinking back, then rising and falling over and over again, slowly drifting closer and closer to the black wheels.

I dug my bare toes into the sand. My sister smiled at me and ducked under the water, her golden hair flowing on the surface, looking like the reflection of the sun that sank deeper and deeper into the sea. And as I stood, relaxing in the ocean’s hold, I could feel the tide rising.