Chapter 13: Great Signs and Wonders
I begin my journey back to Paul via the street way. I don’t want to chance facing the fallen LD I left behind near this end of the alley. That’s if they are even still around. I make it a half a block and hear the song of that lonely bird once more. I experience an unnerving peace as I listen to its song. For some reason I feel like it is trying to tell me something; rather than just calling to its lost mate. I stare up ahead and see it perched on top its lonely pole. I continue toward the intersection nearest Paul’s location and see it swiftly fly off.
All of a sudden, I hear a rumble coming from everywhere. My legs tremble slightly as I stop to observe what may be causing this vibration. The noise grows as far off buildings begin crashing down. The shaking quickly intensifies, making it much harder to stand. I hurry to look for the closest unobstructed open spot to sit. All the water in my body violently gyrates, pulling me in its ebbs and flows back and forth, and up and down. Being from California, I know this is an earthquake. But, this is not like one I have ever felt before.
I sit, and then lay back on the pavement. I extend my arms to fight the increasing waves rolling under me. Utility poles begin snapping and crashing to the ground, as the house nearest me collapses. I hear fountains of water shooting out of the ground and the smashing sound of the returning asphalt slide across the street. My hands and back begin to heat up. The frequency of the rolling, pressures the street to melt. It smells just like roof tar being poured on a hot summer’s day. I see out of the corner of my eye several suspended snapped utility poles dancing up and pounding down, over and over, pulverizing the concrete sidewalk below. More buildings around me collapse causing dusts clouds bellow up, polluting the air all around. I hear the surrounding debris piles snapping, as the immense shaking shuffles their slapping lumber around. I fight to breath, as the oxygen around me sucks back and forth. Snapping, crashing, rolling, and screaming reverberate from every direction. I lay disorientated and prostrate to the power of the unending event. I fight the jolting motion with my clutching hands. Jutting splinters shoot just over me into the forming fog of steam. I pray, and pray, for this to end.
The spot where I am laying immediately ceases to move, but everything around me continues as it was. I sit up in my fascination and see a fissure forming in the street. I find myself helpless to the terror running straight at me. It looks like it will split me in half. Suddenly, it turns, and cracks the pavement, running around me. This “Angel of Death” proceeds past my position, while swallowing the middle of the street. The mouth in the earth opens its jaws wider and wider, gulping down the entire road just past me. Everything continues shaking and screaming, except right, where I am seated. It seems everything that can be shaken is shaken, and everything that can fall, has fallen. I proceed to stand in my bubble of protection and turn around to view the madness of this moment. Ironically, this murderous event is causing everything to come to life.
I decide to place my right foot outside my calm area into the misty misery still viciously vibrating. The bubble of protection seems to follow my foot, as the shaking immediately settles in that particular spot. My curiosity causes me to bring along the rest of my body, braving this first step into this mayhem. The surrounding chaos turns to clarity and calmness. I clasp my hands and thank my God for His holy presence that goes before me. I step again, and again, with the same results. I hear the roadway give way where I laid a few seconds before. The large chunk falls like a great glacier breaking off, falling into the lava ocean below. Residual pieces of the street follow. They skate down the crevasse, shattering towards the fire inside. I turn back to look and hear the belly of the beast explode, spewing out a fountain of red hot liquid.
I run away wishing not to test my supernatural protection.
I can see about twenty feet fairly accurately. Everything past that point is an indistinguishable moving mess. I try and make my way back to meet Paul. I become aware this must be the longest earthquake the world has ever seen. It’s been at least five minutes since the quake started. I fearfully step on a mosaic web of cracks that settle under my feet. I watch the surrounding debris, chewing more debris into smaller and smaller pieces. Churning piles on both my sides are swirling whirlpools, sucking slats of lumber and hunks of concrete down into their middles. Dust shoots out their centers, as they shake then gobble the debris down inside their gnawing mouths. Liquefaction ponds spring up and fill the lowest areas surrounding these monsters. They drown all the floating debris trying to escape. I journey along, wondering if this is the end of this world, realizing the only thing left is to pray my brothers and sisters are alright; especially Paul.
I finally make it to the double door storm cellar. It is no longer hidden by the dead bushes, but is now covered with a fine film of dancing saw dust, instead. I grab hold of the doors and pull on them, only to find Paul must have locked them. I pound the doors with the sides of my fists, but can barely hear the loud drumming sound I know my fists must be making. The rumble of the quaking and the noise of the moving debris are much louder than the pounding on the steel doors. “Come on Paul, come on and open these doors!”I see them slowly begin to open and say, “Thank you Jesus.” I instantly notice Paul’s awestruck facial expression to what’s going on. I am surprised that he seems surprised. I watch his mouth form a, “What?” as his response to this trembling revelation. He moves down allowing me inside while his face remains frozen upwards. I hurry to scurry down to the safety of the descending steps.
I see the man is sitting by himself on a bench in the back of this small chamber. Paul shouts, “I thought something happened to you.” I bend down to light the “Canned Heat”
container I find on the floor, as Paul hurries to secure the outer doors. As Paul descends the stairs he states, “I’ve been praying a hedge of protection around you, but I was worried about you being gone so long.” I tell Paul, and this gentleman sitting on the bench, “Thank God you’re alright.” Paul tells me, “The LD took your bait. They never came here.” I tell Paul, “I’m not talking about the LD; I’m talking about the earthquake going on.” He replies, “Is that what I saw! I thought it was a really bad storm.” I try explaining how the world is shaking apart outside, even as I speak. It seems hard to believe, sitting in the stillness of the storm cellar. I finish by stating, “It’s amazing how God is protecting us.” This realization leads Paul and me to pray, thanking God.
“Hi, my name is Joe.” I lean over the flaming can and offer my salutation with a hand shake to the strange man. Out of the shadows his face and hand appear. As we shake hands, Paul announces, “This is Mark. He’s been searching for his wife and sons.” I watch as his worn worried face returns to the darkness, and then begins quietly chewing. Paul sticks out his hand and offers me a protein bar, but I wave a “no thanks” to him. I ask Mark, “Is that what you were doing on that mound when I first saw you?” I make out his darken head is nodding “yes,” but I feel he is too drained to physically talk. I believe he is somewhere between the states of utter exhaustion and hopelessness.
Mark leans against the rear wall while bracing his head up. It’s like he is forcing himself to eat with each slow struggling gnaw. “Can you tell me anything about your family?” I hear the protein bar fall on the bench. Mark suddenly reappears in the light, as he thrusts his head into his hands. I hear his elbows thump off his legs onto the bench, and then search for a more secure place to support his heavy head. His body silently bobbles, crying the tears his eyes are too dry to produce.
Paul interprets Mark’s intentions, and explains what he has found out so far. “Mark told me he has two sons. Aiden is the oldest; he’s eleven, and there is nine year old Abraham.” Paul’s introduction settles Mark, as the intervals of his bouncing silhouette slows. “A group of men came by Mark’s home several days ago. Then, Mark’s house was still standing. They wanted him and his family to come with them, and join their Irreverent militia.” Mark interrupts Paul by cryi
ng out, “My boys.” Paul continues by stating, “Mark said he refused their offer, but one of the men threw a piece of paper at Mark right before he left. He saw it had instructions for joining their militia. The paper also contained the militia’s purpose along with directions to its location. He thought that would be the last time he’d see them.” “My Peggy,” Mark cries in his hand, “They took my wife Peggy!” Paul continues by stating, “Mark was told by this man about this other place he could bring his family. They offered free food and shelter to anyone.” Paul stares at me, as we both shake our heads in acknowledgement. We both know that place has got to be “Project Hope.”
Mark fights to lift his head and interject his personal views in our conversation. He stares cockeyed towards the floor, which illuminates just the corner of his left cheek and mouth. It’s like he’s ashamed of himself. “I abandon my babies!” Mark proclaims. “I left them alone while I went to check out this rumor-firsthand. Shortly after I left, I heard this loud noise. I ran back, and my house was destroyed, and, and my family too!” He returns to the dark wall behind, and then leans the top back of his head against it. His throat sounds too dry to cry anymore, so he just coughs several dry scratchy coughs instead. I ask him if he knew what caused his house to collapse. He tells us he could not figure that out. I ask Mark what he was looking for this morning. He replies, “It was for that piece of paper with the directions to the militia.” He checked through the pile, and there was no sign his family was inside when it fell. Mark figures that the militia has something to do with them disappearing.
I see Mark grabbing his stomach while his body jerks in agony. I ask him if he thinks the pain is being caused by hunger, or something else. He reports having diarrhea and gas pains the last two days. Mark complains, “I can’t stand all this pain!” I ask him, “When was the last time you drank any water?” Mark states that it’s been two days. I find out that’s when his symptoms started. I reach into my rucksack and pull out two pieces of my carbon medicine concoction. “Mark, swallow these. It’ll make you feel better.” He leans forward over the light and grabs it. I also hand him my water canteen and tell him, “Take several swigs, it will help you swallow the medicine.” Soon after, Mark’s pain is relieved. His irritable condition, causing to squirm, subtly turns more melancholy. I make a mental note that the local water source is probably poisoned, and it’s the reason for Mark’s illness. That is most likely what made him sick, and what killed the LD I found in the alley.
I ask Mark if he has a personal relationship with Jesus. Mark immediately gets angry and barks out at me, “I don’t want to hear about that god thing. Where the heck was he when I lost my family?” I think Mark would probably try and take a poke at me if he wasn’t so worn-out. I pray silently, “Dear Lord, give me the message you would have me say to change his hard heart.” Mark repeatedly rocks in frustration, into and out of the light. He slides his hands over his face, and then combs them through his hair all the way to the back of his head, repeating this process over and over. I feel the last thing I want to do is push him over the ledge by forcing my beliefs on him. “When you’re ready Mark, I’ll promise you a way to find your family.” Mark mightily makes an untrusting lunge at me, stopping his face just inches from mine. Angrily and powerfully he musters all his strength to condemn and test me with his one word sword, “How?” I sense Mark’s reasoning is waiting to slice my throat, if my next words don’t agree with his logic.
I realize both sides of this blade only seem to oppose each other. But, in reality, it is where the metal gets its real strength. The razors edge of “reason,” and the steel of “faith”
are just two different parts of the same blade. The shank of true wisdom is what holds the temperament together. I appeal to the whole sword with, “When you’re heart is ready, I’ll tell you how.” He just stares deep into to my eyes, waiting for me to flinch in my faith. But, my faith is strong.
I decide I need to pop my head out and give us all a fresh breath of air. I move out and ascend up the stairs to release the excess tension outside these doors. I pan the perimeter and see everything is still shaking. It’s like looking through the beveled glass of a blender with my eyes fixed even with the liquid horizon, as it churns on high speed. I check my watch and see the shaking has been going on for over two hours. There is nothing standing anymore. I think this must look like the flat plains of Kansas during a cyclone, or a view of the “badlands” on a “Santa Ana” windy day. All I see are tornados of dust, steaming black clouds, vibrating debris, and dark gray spewing fountains fixed along the distant horizon. It seems everything that can be shaken apart is now apart, and everything that can’t be is still standing. The only building still standing, that I can definitely make out, is the pulsating outline of “Project Hope,” which is about two miles away. I pray, “Dear God, let all my Irreverent family be safe, and the other “Alpha” teams too.” I shut the doors and return to find everyone napping. The only thing we can possibly do right now is sit here, and ride the rest of the quake out. I decide to join the fellows in a much needed nap.
I slip off into the calmness of my rest as the peace of darkness covers me. A fresh wave of sweet smelling honeysuckle, orange blossom, and lilac warmly wash over me. I feel a loving hand supporting my heavy head, as the other hand gently bathes me in the cleanliness of innocence. I hear splashing on both my sides while I rest in this pond of protection. There is a familiar melody humming all around me, which I’ve heard over and over before. This beautiful music pours over me, as I playfully pat this puddle. Everything is wonderfully warm and bright, under this Sun of all possibility. Giant wet velvet hands slide me up into the newness of the light. I am astounded at the things ahead of me; things I never ever seen before. The stranger connected to this string of music, circles me with her soft voice and warm wool robe, softly brushing over me. I somehow recognize this beautiful kind woman. I don’t know who she is, but I feel I do know her. In her protective presence I just feel happy and carefree. I hear something strange that alerts me something is happening, so I try and lift my head up to see what all the commotion just ahead of me is all about. I hear laughing and giggling, and see running and leaping. Small little people circle this large man and laugh at him. He leans down, shooing them into his outstretched arms. I am so enticed to know why he is making this roaring noise, scarring these little people. The beautiful woman humming comes between me and this intriguing event. She shoves her face towards mine; scarring me! Big blue eyes stare into mine, and her moist lips begin pressing at me. She starts on my head, and then moves to both sides of my face. She continues down to my chest, and finally onto my flailing hands, attempting to frighten her away. I just can’t find the words to tell her, “Please move out of my way!” I don’t understand why she is so attracted to me. I cry out in anger, and try jiggling lose from her overpowering embrace. But, she just holds me firmly tighter.
Finally, she allows the light and the scene to return. I think she too must be attracted to the event. I watch her head turn towards the commotion, as she lifts me to her shoulder. I want to tell her, “Thank you for this advantageous new view point,” but, I just can’t find the words. I see a dust cloud forming below, as this lady holding me swings me quickly away from it. One of the small people that made it emerges, running to attack the large man that roaring, and taunting the little people with his wicked laugher. I think this tiny herd must be under his evil spell, because they freely welcome his clutching arms. They run into his trap lassoing them; and even grab his arms, pulling the snare even tighter. This just makes the tall man tilt his head back and forth, and roar even louder. I think he is very bad, as this lady holding me oddly laughs at him. This makes me upset, and I cry. She makes this sound to me, “Shhh,” and then tries bouncing me. I don’t understand why she thinks this will help the situation. This just makes it even harder to see the giant monster man. I cry even louder, yelling in her ear to stop. This makes her yank the cloth she is wearing further over he
r head, while she too stares at the beast. I think it may attack us, because she begins holding me very tight.
The whole world grows mysteriously quiet in my epiphany. Suddenly, I can understand this man in the funny white tunic. He stares at me and smiles. “Oh, all my lovely children, come to me.” Every little person sits, and then patiently fidgets against his flowing tattered white fountain. A benevolent breeze blows tickling threads across their giggling faces. He asks, “Who wants to hear a story?” I want to scream the words the children are screaming, “I do, I do, I do,” but, I just can’t find the words. He starts his story with, “Who knows who the wisest man whom ever lived is? This includes the past, the present, and the future to come.” All of us, including the lady, are speechless to answer. “I’ll tell you. His name is Solomon.” This monster man turns and smiles a particular personal smile that he bobbles along to each and every small person sitting in attendance. I want to yell to him “How about me? I’m over here!” But, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know why it is so important, but every part of me urns for him to just briefly acknowledge my small existence. A film blurs my vision, as I experience this great sadness of my rejection. I stare at his eyes, but I feel they’ll never see me across this vast ocean of distance. Then, his eyes move slowly upwards, as his head remains facing down towards the small people. A special smile forms just under his jutting stare. His words pierce my tiny heart and hurt it so kindly. “I have not forgotten you. For you are very, very special to me.” I feel both the drums of our hearts pound proudly faster and louder. A notion of doubt warns me, “But, I am tiny and useless. How can you possible think I’m special?” My reason saddens me.
“I’ll tell you why Solomon was the wisest of the wise. It started when he was a child. He had a wonderful loving father who filled his tiny heart with love.” I think about me in the moment, and how I have a tiny heart too. “Every moment of every day his Abba reminded him of how very special he was to him. He taught him what was true, right, merciful, wise, and loving. The young son asked his Abba how he knew all these things. His daddy smiled down at him from the pedestal his son had made of him. He replied, ‘It is because I love and fear God’. Solomon didn’t quite understand how anyone could love and fear at the same time. But, his wise Abba explained it so he could understand.”
I watch intensely as this intriguing man, very, very slowly inches closer towards this woman holding me. “One day two children asked their father which one he loved the most. Immediately, both the son and the daughter cozily contended with their hugs of affection to their adoring Abba, while awaiting his response. This complicated question briefly perplexed the father. He responded, ‘I love each of you differently, but the same. You, my sweet son, are like the warm sunrise of day. And you, my dear daughter, are my cherished beautiful sunset’.” This storytelling man continues to humbly approach the lady and me. His face is bowing downward, and his penetrating eyes continue facing me and the lady. “‘I’ll answer your question’, the father said. ‘Which of you loves me the most’?”I think their father is just trying to evade the question. “As you’d expect, both proclaimed they each loved father more. ‘Prove it to me’ Abba asked. ‘Would you give me everything you have?’ Both children thought then nodded ‘Yes’ to his request. ‘Son, give me your pet lizard Sampson, and daughter give me your darling dolly.’ Both scampered off to retrieve these objects of their affection and return to deliver it to father before the other does.” This strange smiling man bringing along the entire herd of little people. He stands very close to us now. The woman holding me opens her mouth in awe, and I can smell the eggs she’s eaten for breakfast. I want her to close it, but the suspense seems to have propped it open. The smell makes me cry, so she starts bouncing me up and down again, making the situation even worse. I decide to ignore her and concentrate on the storytelling man.
“Both children arrive together and force their most cherished treasure up towards their Abba’s face, proving to him their utmost sincerity. These two things were all each child had that they could call their very own. So, they loved their possession very much. Their father pushed the objects down and asked each child to go stand near the well. From a distance, father said ‘hold out your present to me overtop the well’. Both obeyed and did what father asked. ‘Now, I want you to let go of your gift to me’. Each sibling turned towards the other with surprise filling their face. Father watched patiently for them to obey his command, but both were reluctant to let go of their beloved treasures. The older son just could not drop his Sampson to his drowning death. The daughter watched, as her crying brother ran away with his dear lizard. This made her sad too, but she was determined to honor her dear father’s request. She closed her eyes and hung her head back, as if to face God while asking Him for immediate help in this matter. She began crying loudly saying, ‘Abba, why?’ Her father beckoned her to let go, by encouraging her with the words, ‘trust me my love’. The hand squeezing her dolly tightly suddenly opened, and her heart waited to hear her dear dolly splash to her dark drowning death. But instead, all she heard was a ‘plunk’. Through her tears all she saw was Abba’s smile approaching. She was confused by all that had happened, and ran to leap on her wise poppa for help. He embraced his dear daughter and walked over to the well. ‘Now dear, don’t cry anymore’. Her sobbing subtly subsides as she watches Abba reach into the well and retrieve her dear dolly. She immediately grabs her precious child and hugs both of them like never before.”
This funny man standing in front of me is reaching his hand towards my face. The lady is bending her protecting head away from me allowing this atrocity to happen. He is sliding his rough hand over my cheek and staring fervently into my eyes. He asks me, “Which child do you think loved their father the most? She feared the father, but also trusted her Abba with all she had, and with all of her heart. You see, father had prepared a way of escape when the children weren’t looking. He placed the well bucket back inside the well to catch their treasures.” This rough hand of this strange man feels surprisingly comforting. He tweaks my cheek and laughs at me, as the lady leaks on her wonderful smile. “This is why it is impossible to please God without faith. Trusting Him in the midst of fear is real love. That is why Solomon is the wisest of the wise. He feared, but trusted God.” After these words, the not so strange man winks at me while moving gradually away. “Don’t go!” I think to yell. The nice man steadily smiles at me as he gets smaller and smaller. “But, I don’t want you to go,” I want to scream to him. I wave my arms frantically up and down, crying for him to come back. But, not even the beautiful lady can stop this chain of events, as she fights to hold on to me. I drift back, and back, and back into the darkness, feeling somehow I’ll return to him one day.
I awake to a lighter shade of darkness that barely distinguishes itself from the one prior. This one is cold though. I feel around for my rucksack and retrieve another “Canned Heat.” The flame restores some facsimile of order to my focus. The warmth comforts me into a state of momentary meditation. I ponder the wonder of this wise flame, and find it too is like faith and reason. The life giving breath blowing the fire is no more important than the material the flame dances upon. It is the wisdom of the heat that sears them all together, in this one spot, in this certain time, and for its own purpose. Yes, the burning question is answered in the eternal flames.
Reason, without faith, is a fire without light.
I gain my composure by rubbing my cold hands on my warm face. I stare into the dark and see the gang is still sleeping. I slowly rip back my Velcro’s watch cover to see the illuminated hands silently whispering to me, “It’s 5:15.” Quietly, I stand and turn in the dark, and then ascend up the stairs. My feet crunch the fragments that must have adhered to the bottoms of my shoes during my previous journey. Paul begins rustling on his dark spot of the bench. He undoubtedly is influenced by the loud pop of the stowaways sticking to my soles. But, he turns this in to an opportunity to search for a better and more co
mfortable resting position. I feel blindly under the metal doors for the retaining rod securing them shut. I find it and begin sliding it slowly away, which creates an irritating sound; similar to the one that a full bow by a new violinist might make. The metal rod slowly scratches an eerie song along the metal securing hole. I am amazed it does not wake Paul and Mark. I lift one side of the door into the darkness that shouldn’t be. I stick my head out and see the world is still shaking with the same violent intensity. This time, vibrating orange and red sunsets paint the distant dreary sky. I spin my head and notice the brilliant colorful horizon extending in all directions. I turn my stare straight up and see a pitch black starless sky. There are no stars, not even one. This sight is beyond belief. I think this must feel sort of like the night Rome was burning. I close the door and leave death to pass over us.
It “hits me,” as I return to my section of the bench. It has to be five in the morning. I start crunching the numbers and am numb to the results. The quake has been going on for at least sixteen hours, and I’ve been asleep for fourteen of them. This realization overwhelms me enough to wake someone and share these amazing statistics. “How is this possible?” As I contemplate the reality of this situation, I feel myself begin to comfortably drift back into the dark. The exercise of my reasoning uses up the little energy I still have.
Out of the darkness, I immediately find myself running past pictures, moments, and glimpses that are moving alongside me in this dimensional tunnel. Every instance is a brief view of my life. I pass by my birth and accelerate through history. My clothing quickly ages, and then falls away. I try running away even faster, but there is no exit from what is happening. A new set of attire magically materializes over me. It seems the further back in time I run, the more ancient the style of clothing. Out of breath, I slow down under the weight of this shabby robe. I feel like I’ve ran for two thousand years. I see the brilliantly lighted exit I’ve been looking for. It lay slightly up ahead. All of a sudden, I become scared while hearing the extremely loud blasting clamor emanating just beyond the mouth of this cave.
I attempt to protect my eyes from the intense light with the waving flag draping down from my arm. My eyes hurt as they try adjusting to the bright sunlight. In my temporary blindness, I listen to what sounds like a passing precession. The crowd around me is filled with extreme emotion towards, what seems to be, the passing parade. Some are screaming shameful suggestions to vulgar to repeat. Others in the crowd are crying pitifully, while loudly yelling, “Mercy!” I let my ears be my eyes, as I try making sense of this extremely unusual event.
I am able to see the faint outline of and image through my loosely woven robe. I hear the thumping of something heavy pound down over and over on some sort of stony path. It is becoming louder and louder as it comes slowly closer and closer towards me. The crowd of voices grows more violent in their extremes. I feel shrugging on all sides of me. I am forcefully tossed back and forth while being continually jabbed in this sea of churning elbows. It seems there is a war within the crowd, contesting to roar their own convincing convictions. Each battle of persuasion is attempting to push their counterpart over to their verdict. I wonder amidst all this hostility what could cause them all to feel so violent. I think,
“What could cause a man to act so hateful towards another?”
The approaching pounding is very close now. I notice in my blindness something particularly odd. An eerie awkward silence seems to parallel the point nearest the sound of the pounding. I can only guess at the reason these independent battles among the crowd momentarily stop. Is it to briefly view their passing guest of honor? I’ve been to championship parades before with a million hysterical fans, but none were like this. The pounding sound strikes me like a large resounding baseball bat. That’s what this pounding sounds like. It has the same wooden pitch that tingles when hardwood echoes off a stone surface. I use to make a similar sound as I bounce my baseball bat vertically off my concrete driveway. I wish I could see who is making this sound. He must be some sort of super star to have gained all this attention.
I feel the jousting elbows slowing, and notice the pause in the approaching silence coming nearer. I subconsciously command my eyes to hurry and adjust to this bright light. I continue to stare through the loose weave, and see a large shape moving up and down, as it inches forward. I am able to determine it is definitely the source of the pounding. I try and see the machine that could be driving, what must be, a very heavy wooden pile downwards. I know now it is much bigger than a baseball bat. The only reason I can come up with is: there is a special machine demolishing the road so a new one can be laid. But, this does not explain why all these emotional people would be here to view such an event. I don’t hear the sound of the engine it would take to repeatedly lift the heavy beam. I think, “This machine is very efficient for it to be working as quietly as it is.” I hear something else strange coming out of the almost silence. Terrible voices are yelling at someone who is trying to maintain the machine. I hear them threatening the operator to keep the device moving. I kind of feel sorry for the guy, as this machine breaks down and stops in front of me.
I strain to see what is going on through the veil of material hanging down from my arm. My vision improves just enough for me to see the shape of something lying on the road. I reason something big must have broken off the machine. I hear the sound of leather slapping bare flesh. I yell, “What the heck!” I know this familiar sound from when I misbehaved as a child. I still remember the stinging pain of my father’s leather belt on my bare bottom. I hear this gentleman’s agonizing moans, but those evil leaders just don’t care. They continue slapping him over and over as he tries to fix the machine. My swelling compassion overtakes me. I yell through my cape commanding these bullies, “Stop it!” I feel the weight of the crowd’s stare suddenly turn towards me. I muster all my strength and defy these beating bullies once again by yelling, “Stop hitting him!” Off to my sides I see a sea of sliding heads churning side to side. They seem to be quietly warning me to “stop it” myself. My growing anger towards this apathetic horde is much greater than my restrained fear. In the heat of the moment, I realize I don’t care one iota what they think! Why should I? I don’t hear one lousy soul screaming out “mercy” for this poor guy just trying to do his job. The sound of rising commotion is coming straight at me. My senses heighten amongst the chanting chatters of, “Ahhh, you did it now!”
Stomping feet and growing growls quickly approach my direction. I ball my fist from behind my draped arm and prepare to secretly plow over the encroaching thug. His waving silhouette is about three or four people away. I time my punch while watching this welcoming sea part under his advancement. I think to myself, “You whips. That’s alright; I’ll stand up for this poor fellow all by myself.” I slowly lower my arm while still staring through the loose weave of my robe. I jerk my eyes over the blind spot my arm is creating, and, and, and I swing and knock the heck out of this devil. In this moment I see what is really going on. I stand submissive and helplessly in awe.
My eyes swell up with instant tears of compassion in my realization of what I’m looking at. This poor man covered in blood is the machine carrying that gritty splintery heavy wooden beam attached to his cross. He looks directly at me and forces himself to comfort me with his most amazing smile. I shake my head silently side to side as my heart profusely repeats “No, this can’t be!” His battered face reveals a gasp that looks like He’s saying, “This has to be.” His overwhelming compassion allows me to feel some of His immense pain and exhaustion. In this moment, I decide I will risk everything and go help him. The soldier I knocked down is now grabbing me. I am mesmerized as I hypnotically stare at this totally bloody man. One soldier from the street yells to the one holding me, “He needs a good beating! Bring him down here!” But, the poor bloody man gains the strength, from where I can’t imagine, and yells “No, give his lashes to me instead!”
Immediately after this proclamation He fa
lls and weeps in the puddle of blood he is leaving. For some strange reason the soldiers decide to take him up on his offer. I move to advance, but a large invisible presence abruptly comes and confines me in my current position. This poor rejected man on the street turns his head again back towards me, as if to say, “Thank you Joey,” just before they tear violently into his flesh without any sign of mercy. He screams, but He continues His inch by inch march. I shake and cry as I feel this humungous invisible presence clutching me remorsefully tremble right along with me. Suddenly, I am pushed helplessly back towards the darkness in the cave I came from. I wave as I depart to the dead man walking, “Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus!”
I rub my eyes and feel the grit and dirt that must be forming in this dark chamber. I think, maybe it is some of the ancient dust from that holiest of days. I see Paul is awake and sitting considerably quiet across from me. I make out Mark’s strewn body that unbelievably is still sleeping. I whisper to Paul, “Follow me.” I stand, and then proceed up the steps. I slide the screeching bolt, and then lift the door into the sunlight. Paul lifts the side door, as we peer out together.
Everything still continues to shake as it has. I check my watch and determine it has been over twenty four hours since this all began. We see there is absolutely nothing left outside, except two things. There is a fine mixture of pulverized organic and inorganic debris resembling sand everywhere, and the reverberating silhouette of where “Project Hope” should be. Paul humbly looks at me and says, “The Bible mentions this. It predicts there will be a three day period of shaking where no man will be able to stand.” I look down at my watch and tell Paul, “That means we still have two days more to go.” Paul moves back down the stairs as I decide to test the power of protection I was previously given. I place my leg onto the vibrating ground, beyond this still area of protection, and set it down. I am suddenly twisted and thrown back down the steps. I know now that the preceding gift is gone. I shut the doors and return to my friends in the lower chamber. I again leave death alone, and pray it will continue to pass over us.
I watch Paul light the “Canned Heat” bringing this chamber to life. “I woke earlier and put the can out,” Paul informs me. “I figured there was no sense wasting its fuel while everybody was still sleeping.” He reaches into the rucksack and states, “I guess that’s it for the protein bars.” I motion for him to slide the rucksack over to me. I reach deep down inside and pull out two empty cans that were formerly “Canned Heat.” I tap any remnants still in them onto the floor below, and then remove my canteen of water. I fill both small cans with water while asking Paul if he might like a delicacy. I reach back into my sack and remove two thin foil packs of instant coffee I saved from some previous MRE. “Sure thing,” Paul responds. I place both tins partway over the flame and use three stone fragments to prop the cans up. We sit back in the partial light and wait for the water to get hot.
Mark finally seems to be waking up as we notice his shifting shadow stretch over the wall. Our attention is now on Mark slowly swings his feet around from his horizontal position. I remark, “I guess tea for two has turned into coffee for three.” He returns my offer by responding, “Who has coffee?” I mildly chuckle, and discern Mark’s very long nap has restored his cognitive ability to a higher level of function then he previously had. “How’d you sleep Mark, and how’s your stomach?” I stare for his response while watching him using the palms of his hands to twist his eye awake. He asks, “Where am I?” I figure he’s disoriented by that comment. “It’s me, Joey. We’re in a storm cellar.” The realization of his situation begins to return, as depression and hopelessness appears on his darken face. “We’re making you some fresh brewed coffee,” I remark. He sits in there just rocking and simmering with the knowledge there’s no current way to release his pent-up anxiety or frustration. Mark barks, “I heard you guys remark the quake is still shaking out there.” I’m careful to respond knowing Mark is hanging by a real thin thread-mentally. I know his hope hinges on still finding his family alive. The shaking world is beyond just devastating to us.
I try and change the subject by remarking, “Do you take cream and sugar?” I have neither, but I figure the offer is worth a thousand words. I am glad to hear him say, “I haven’t had fresh coffee in months, or has it been years?” I try subtly to work the epic question into the conversation. It’s the last question on everyman’s heart. “So Mark, do you think there is anything after life?” Mark says nothing in his attempt to control his battling emotions. He kind of shrugs his shoulders as his answer to my question. I know now he may be receptive enough to listen to the might of the Holy Spirit inviting his heart to really reason.
“The way I look at it Mark, there are only two logical possibilities for our existence.” I go on to explain both possibilities while confidently suggesting he looks like a man of reason. He shrugs his shoulders again and replies, “Well, I guess so. I’ve always tried to be rational in my decisions.” I pose the two epic possibilities given to man. “Mark, one is we came from nothing and are going back to it. Everything and everyone you love will die when you die. Why go through the pain of caring about anyone if you’re just going to lose them anyways? If the only reason you live is for whatever you decide your life should be then your purpose is really worthless. This means living itself is a selfish act and there is absolutely no reason for us to even live. If you buy this argument you might just as well live like hell and fill your gut with every personal satisfaction you can swallow.” I stop for a brief moment so Mark can digest this no calorie thought. “Every law of science says everything has a beginning. This requires something eternal to create the very first thing. Some secular scientists try to evade this realization by burying the absolute beginning to the universe in String Theory, alternate universes, or supposedly locked dimensions. But these too must have a beginning. You see Mark; always look for the cracks in the foundation that every proof is built upon, because eventually that house is doomed to fall. Yep, the house is only as strong as its foundation.” Mark agrees with this logical conclusion by giving a silent nod of his head. I try to steer clear of psycho babble regarding absolute truth and post modernism by keeping the idea simple. “I once heard that Albert Einstein stated: ‘If you want to see inside the mind of God you need to think and believe like a child’.”
I go on to strengthen my debate by saying, “Do you know Sir Isaac Newton is probably the smartest guy who ever lived? He devoted more of his life to writings about the proof of God’s existence; which most people are never told. Why look for something if it’s not there? This genius mind knew in his heart there has to be God. That is the only real logical answer.” I bend over and place my finger tip in the tin can to check the temperature. “Ohhh, a couple more minutes.” I continue by stating God put this desire to fellowship with Him in every heart at the moment He created each of us. This yearning to be complete with God is why every society in history contains one particular part experts have a hard time explaining. It’s called religion. God has given us His word to prove which religion leads truly to Him. He also has given us one hundred percent verifiable accurate prophesy to prove Christ is God. He doesn’t expect us to blindly believe, but rather test Him, and His word.” I want to introduce evidence proving Atheists are nothing more than self proclaimed idiots by saying they know nothing exist, but I appeal to a different reasoning instead. It’s the one answer that always comes down to the heart of the matter.
“Let’s put God to the scientific test.” I lay the ground rules for this experiment and remark to Mark this will only work if he is prepared for the results. “This is why God won’t give certain unbelievers the miracle they require to help them believe. God knows their hard hearts will explain away any proof, even the miracle they asked for as evidence.” Mark suggests that I am crazy, and he wants nothing more to do with this. I reply, “Okay then, but if I’m right I know one day in eternity I’ll be with my loving God, and those whom I loved here in life.??
? I return to my silence and let this thought stew a while longer. I know the heart is a funny kettle. Some are made of thicker metal than others. I return my finger thermometer to the tins below while formulating my next move. “Feels like coffee time,” I remark. I see Pastor Paul smile and lean back, as if he might be learning something.
I juggle one steaming hot can over to the available section of bench closes to Paul, and then toss him a brown foil packet of the instant coffee. I tell him he’ll have to improvise a spoon to stir it with. I watch him think as he comes up with his solution. He empties the coffee into the tin and bends the foil packet into a “V” shape. He smiles as he stirs and remarks, “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.” I stare at his agitating face as he presses the hot tin to his cold lips. He seals his contention with a subtle smirk and a smile. I quietly and slowly simmer, watching this godly man return to stirring his brew. I think how I missed the opportunity to have a hot accident on his lap. I nod and smirk my laughing smirk right back at him.
I repeat the process Paul went through, and then hand my coffee tin over to Mark. It seems he has given the issue more thought. Or, maybe it is sheer desperation to grab at any solution which may save his lost family. He asks, “So, you’re saying you have proof God exists?” I nod a sincere and simple, “Yes.” He thinks a second and tells me, “You’re trying to tell me for thousands of years man has looked for absolute truth that God exists, and you finally found it?” I respond with another simple, “Yes.” Mark finally seems relaxed enough to find the missing key that will open this true treasure. It is the key to his heart he had all along. He finally gives me the answer I am looking for with his, “How?”
I return to the one simple rule he must subjugate himself to for this scientific experiment to work. “This test requires that for one minute in your measly existence you ask God, your father and creator, with your broken heart, to prove to you He exists.” I proclaim the one certain condition of the experiment, “You have to be willing to accept the miraculous result when it happens. Sometimes He’ll answer in a very small way, but in a very significant way. Other times he may send giants. God promises to always answer a sincere open heart.” He looks at me through the wall of his defense he’s built to protect his hurting heart. I watch as he opens his deepest desires to me. He cries out, “I want to believe. Oh God, I do want to believe!” I sit by Mark and wrap my comforting arm over his shoulder and around him. I tell my new buddy, “You are not alone.” I ask him to promise me one more thing. “When God does prove exclusively to you He exists, will you then ask Him to come into your heart and be the Lord of your life?” I feel him nod his skeptical affirmation from his head currently buried in my chest. I pat him on the back as Pastor Paul moves towards Mark’s other side. Paul leads us in prayer.
“Dear Lord; our dear brother needs your love. He is in a terrible situation Father. He is so very desperate to know where his family is. Can you please use this as your sign proving to him you are the only God, and the most mighty God in search of our heart?” I feel Mark shake out the thick callus coating of doubt that’s been holding his hard heart together. He melts down in his brokenness, as he is heated by the warm power of the Holy Spirit. I am urged by the holy sensation to let Mark know that his urgent request has been accepted, and God will respond shortly. In my heart, I know this to be true. We all comfort each other in this perilous and dark time. For, we are not alone.