What He Felt

I walked through the gathering dark of the night, with an uneasy feeling that something was following me. The wind whipped around me, and icy rain hit my face. I looked around, but nothing was there. I could see it in my mind's eye - a gigantic figure - like I always imagined a werewolf would be. It was on top of me. Was it me? Shrouded in darkness, no features other than that outline. It stalked, hungry and ravenous. Eyes glowing like half-spent coals.

A cruel barbed whip lashed out, and he stumbled sideways. His arms were bound to the cross-piece, and he was helpless to support himself. This was the man the predator stalked. He knew, he felt it, he heard the wicked laughter. He walked alone, miserable. He was a man familiar with sorrows and suffering. He walked into the blackest pit of despair, and said, "Father, forgive them". How did he do it? How? What secret lies in the heart and the soul that we could, in our despair, be consumed with compassion? Teach me your heart! I hate my own, only looking to itself. I hate being limited. I hate it when I hesitate to help or care. I hate coming home, to be consumed by my own tiredness and self-pity. I HATE IT!

I returned to the weaponsmith, resolute in tears. I leaped into his furnace, to see what he'd make. It burned away the padding I'd built up in denial. It left nothing but what was established in Him. I cried in anguish, as he removed what was left. It was the size of a marble, with a fire inside. That was everything in me. Now I hope, and I watch, and I wait, as each time he beats out the metal and folds it, it seems a little larger. Maybe one day I too will be a sword. Maybe I will never make it.