My heart is dark and weary.  I struggle to find oxygen in the thin foggy air of the high mountain.  I have been hiking and alone for hours.  I look up and see the peak wearing a gray fog like a crown.  Soon, the pine trees have halt their wooded and green march.  They sway in the wind, a silent crowd of onlookers, watching my doom unfold.  I walk further, my only company now the wind, the rocks, and my heavy sorrow.  After an hour I see my destination.  The tired wooden structure that I go to when the darkness finds me.  My shoulders ache deep inside.  A heavy invisible weight seems to grow hands and push down on me.  My eyes are thick, inflated, and swollen.  I am thirsty, so thirsty.  I push the old wooden door open.  Splinters of wood burrow into the reddened pink of my palm.  I take off my hat and wipe the hot sweat out of my matted hair.  I know I should get ready.  My doom is coming.  My redemption is waiting.  My choice will determine my fate.

The dark wooden shack holds tight to the windy mountain side.  It looks as if it were a tubercle of wood, jutting from rock.  An unnatural growth in a land of stone and wind.  It is  octagonal with open windows all around.  The smell of old wet wood hangs in the air.  Glass does not occupy the openings, there are only creaky wooden shudders with rusted hinges.  A deep water well made of stone lies in the middle of the room.  Fresh clean water can be pulled from the belly of the earth.  The taste is mineral and devoid of any dying swamp odors.  I have a fire going in a dulled brick fireplace.  It crackles and pops as the mountain wind whips and dances outside.  I should close the windows and drink.  Water to dilute the darkness.  But, I gaze out the open windows.  Memorized by the moment to come.  My mouth and throat are a sticky dry mess.  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.  The storm is coming.  The air has a wet arctic bite.  The crows are coming.

Thousands upon thousands of dark birds fly up the mountain toward the tired wooden shack.  They caw and swirl, like an angry black ink swirling in  water.  I should shut my windows, but I my eyes are fixed.  My breath quickens.  Thousands of cries, getting closer and closer.  They want my water well.  If I close the window and drink, they will crash upon the wooden walls like beaten waves on a rocky cliff.  If I let them in, they will defecate and poison it my well after they have drank it dry.  I should shut the windows, but I don’t.  I stand still and let the feathered storm overtake me.  My clothes are pecked and ripped.  My skin becomes hot and cut.  They devour me to the bone.  They drink up all the water from my well.  The stoned circle is stained with the aftermath of their loosed bowels.  They fly away into the mist.  Hunting for the next sorrowed soul.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

I bought some new black socks.  I opened the package, and that faint chemical odor new  clothes have attacked my nose.  After a good wash and adequate dry, they are ready for my feet.  I love to put on socks right out of the dryer on a cold Colorado day.  A warm cotton therapy session before work.  In those moments of bliss, evil awakens.  Seeds of destruction, in the form of tiny black threads, somehow burrow into my toe nails.  From side to side my toe nails have a curvature.  I try to stick to my rule of, if I see white, I trim.  When I gain weight, it becomes difficult to get my toes just right.  As I jog, and lift, the bulge of my belly recedes and I see tiny black cheese balls stuffed deep under the nail of my toe.  Aged all winter long, they are a festering stench.  To combat the smell, I could wash my socks, over and over.  Even if I wore new shoes every day, they would still smell.  I could use chemicals and sprays to fight the battle, but the source of evil would endure.  The only solution, is to get a file designed to excavate that putrescence of evil that rots under my toenail.  Though some pain, and perseverance the tiny slimy strand is beaten.  A good foot scrub in the shower with a brave loofah sponge is the chaser.  Finally, the odor is vanquished into a the dark abyss of the drain.

I may say I am a good person.  “I washed my socks today!”  But, if there a patch of festering lint lodged in my soul, am I really a good person? Perhaps the stench of my entombed secret is hurting the proverbial noses of those around me.  I may shout, “I bought new shoes!”  Did that solve the problem?  My attitude is toxic because of my laziness has anchored me from doing a complete clean of myself.  I consider comments ‘flat’ when they sound like this;  “I did the dishes!”  Ok great, but, how well.  Did you just cram them in the dishwasher without a prewash? Did you scrub?  Was the water hot?  Ambiguity lies within ‘flat’ statements.  Another one of my favorites is that store brand soda tastes the same as name brand.  In my opinion, it does not.  “I bought you soda.  Just drink it, it tastes the same.”  Uhm yeah, no it doesn’t.  ‘Flat’ statements.

A person can offer the self proclaimed statement of, “I am a Christian!”  Isn’t  that vague?  What does that mean?  A preacher who screams and yells at someone who simply trying to sell you business cards?  (Yes, that happened to me).  A cheap ‘Nickle Denter’ who won’t tip on Sunday afternoon?  A walking human file of judgmental banter and acidic hatred?  A human grudge archive?  Perhaps my willingness to remove my soul lint will un-flatten the term for me.  I might accept the term of Christian to mean; One who realized there is evil hidden under  their toes? Attempts are not made to hide it with clean socks, new shoes, and sprayed air fresheners.  For me, use the term of Christian requires true cleanliness. Step one, I must admit I have a toe jam problem.   I realize I am a ‘Self Aware Sinner’, and I may require a ‘Self Sacrificed Savior’ to dislodge that smelly evil lint lodged under my heart.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

Interstate 25 used to be a reliable place for me to lose a good mood.  Drivers, aggressive and erratic was my interpreted focus.  I used to offer free drivers education rolling commentary on every commute.  I was perpetually angry and irritated.   My attitude is much different now.  If someone gets in front of me and goes slow, I think of them as a guardian angel, perhaps protecting me from some unseen dangers up ahead.  When I was young, I would see every rolling piece of metal as my enemy.  Blockades of agitators that were on the road simply to annoy me.  That wasn’t true.  I was full of anger and aggression, and I was egocentric.  Today, as I drive, I make sure I have extra time for unseen delays.  While I drive, I look at other people, and wonder what their story is.  Did they just get promoted, or lose their job?  Did they lose a loved one, or just get engaged?  Are there kids still living in the same town, or did they lose a child last year?  Oh no, they cheer for the wrong football team, oh well, I am sure they have their reasons.  Cars are powered by people.  People with lives and stories.  Today, I am grateful that I finally see that.

A safe arrival after driving is a blessing.  Every time.  In all my years behind the wheel, I have always arrived safe.  Among thousands of people, we all coordinated our efforts within very dangerous machines, and made it to our destinations safe.  If there was a score card that showed accidents to safe arrivals, what shred of anything would I have to complain about?  Nothing.  Realizing that, I drive happy.

God has blessed me in so many ways.  Family, career, and health.  I wonder if he takes it as an insult when I complain that the line at the coffee shop is moving slow?  Does he feel sad when he blesses me with that sports car I have always wanted, and I lust for one better? Does he shake his head when I complain about a cold, and forget that surgery that solved my life long struggle with perpetual sinus infections?   When I pause, most days I shake my head.  I am like a spoiled child, hungry for more.  What I am trying hard to do is identify what is good in my life, and enjoy it.  The negative things are mosquito sized problems.  They are annoying, and they capture my complete attention and irritation, but they are so insignificant to the big picture.

One of my newer tricks for happiness is to find what is good about someone and compliment them, encourage them, brag about them, and mean it.  This takes my attention off of me.  I pause, I sigh, I finally see that the ratio is in my favor, and there are good people to be noticed all around me.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

The Soul was wounded, because it had racked up quite a bit of debt over the years.  That one lie, that time it stole, that forbidden affair, and that burning perpetual hatred.  Humanity has been blighted by The Soul of the wicked.  The Soul is sorry.  The Soul has regrets.  Yet, The Soul still carries the debt.  The payment can never be made, and the inevitable punishment looms like a mountain snowstorm over a stranded hiker.  Moving in for the cold bitter kill.

A long time ago God sent his son to the Earth.  He stitched and formed him to look just like his creation.  His creation, that pulled fruit from a tree and faced death.  His Son became the fruit and was put back on the tree.  The debt of all souls, paid.  So why would a divine being choose to add his likeness, his son, among those who defy and hate Him?  Why would God, apply torture and humiliation to his Son to pay the debt of souls?  Love.

So who killed Jesus?  They did! No, they did!  No, No, NO! THEY DID!  The argument is saturated with anger, however, it is misplaced.  The truth is, The Soul of Humanity killed Jesus, mine and yours.  Is it the gun the killer or the one who wielded it, that one judged guilty?  Is the murder weapon placed in prison or the murderer?  Is it the spoon that makes the glutton?  Should the obese fire up the treadmill and reconfigure the spoon?  The Soul made the debt, that had to be paid.  The instruments (people) involved in the execution of Jesus are not the issue. The sin of The Soul is.   The Soul with its deeds prompted the pain of God’s Son.

A visual of the damage of defiance to a Almighty Creator is seen upon that lonely cross.  Beaten to the brink of death.  Human resemblance robbed and replaced with tattered flesh.  His entire existence in that horrific moment became pain, and sorrow.  Yet, his love held on until the moment of his death.  It remains intact today.

God doesn’t say, “Look at that death!  The one you deserve!  Your next!”  You don’t have to be next.  The debt of The Soul is forgiven, daily wiped clean.  The choice is to not think that any debt is too large, and failure is permanent.  The relationship between creation and Creator is renewed.  The Soul doesn’t need to shred its credit card, because that is impossible.  To stop doing evil, is to stop breathing.  The Soul must take the card and daily hold it to the blood stained wood of the cross, look up and see that the cross is empty and so are the deep vaulted chasms that once held the debt of The Soul.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

What if evil became tangible?  Words might take flight in the air and dark thoughts could grow out of heads like dusty twisted weeds. Hatred could be seen as a swirl of smoke from angry lips. Hot, smoldering, and black.  Resembling a trash bag snared on a cold gray metal hook of barbed wire.  A wind storm of hurtful words make it rage and buck.  Then loosed, it bites ears, pricks hearts and spills burning ink.  Its eyes deep in the storm burn like red lightning.  It splatters on faces and stains walls.  The word, ‘sorry’ tries to slow the damage.  Like weak soap it is devoured.  Once these creature are created, they can be hard to subdue.

Luke 11:24-26 (NCV)

²⁴ “When an evil spirit comes out of a person, it travels through dry places, looking for a place to rest. But when it finds no place, it says, ‘I will go back to the house I left.’ ²⁵ And when it comes back, it finds that house swept clean and made neat. ²⁶ Then the evil spirit goes out and brings seven other spirits more evil than it is, and they go in and live there. So the person has even more trouble than before.”

I like this story because self improvement is something that is a good thing.  When evil is purged or displaced, it has to be replaced.  Vacancy in our hearts and souls doesn’t seem to be a wise option.  What if love, respect, and compassion could inhabit our dark insides?  What if they could exist within tangible form.  I imagine they would be like large butterflies made of white silk.  They smell like warm honey and fresh roses.  Large and strong, they fly and pick people up and fly them around for a moment.  Giving them encouragement, hope, and a better perspective.

 

Copyright © 2016 Zachary W Gilbert