Post by lee on Dec 1, 2019 19:05:50 GMT
The Phantom Stranger
Compulsion and Compassion
Memories are the collected experiences of a being's lifetime. As they go from birth to death, certain memories change—some grow dim, others become sharper, and a few are even altered as new occurrences bring to light deeply buried recollections. Just because these memories change does not mean they have not been real from their initial inception. They are as real as the reflection that gazes back at you when you stop to peer into a mirror. While a being's memories, much like their appearance, are real, they are not always true. Some occurred naturally while others were gained by a variety of means. I have spent a multitude of lifetimes examining my own memories, seeking the validity those that are true while separating them from those that are merely real.
I remember perfection, rebellion, indecision, betrayal, retribution, and pain. I remember the birth, death, and rebirth of the universe. I remember enemies and allies, some as average as the man or woman who gets up daily to go to work in the morning and return home in the evening and despise every moment in between. Others have had powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, or even beyond this mortal coil. There have been allies I liked and some that I haven't, as well as enemies that have intrigued me. I remember a woman named Rebecca and a son—taken from me along with my heart.
The problem with some memories, whether they are real or true, is that they can compel you to act upon them. I have one such memory that has driven me—and still does—to return to a certain place. The day approaches and once again I feel the compulsion to return to that place. Two millennium have come and gone and every year I must revisit the events—the weaknesses—that made me who I am. Though I can walk among the ether, this is a journey I can only take in the physical realm.
The compulsion draws me to a road leading into Jerusalem. Although those around me
see the road as paved, to me, it is as dusty as it was on that day...the day I encountered him.
My garments are those of a typical Jew of an era two thousand years past. People pass by me in modern attire, yet paying no attention to me. I know I am here physically because those also traveling this road are either stepping around me or moving out of my way, not out of fear or amazement, but simply because we would collide otherwise.
The city has seen changes since that day, yet I can still see the roads as they once were. I deviate from my path only when necessary, and then I return to it as soon as possible. I look at buildings and see them as they were. It seems like I walk for hours, and yet, everything seems to be happening so fast.
I come to a door that used to be the entrance where I met the Roman soldier in secret. My hand automatically goes to my money bag and I begin counting out the coins necessary to acquire the man's armor for the next few hours. His only job on this day is to make certain the condemned die or are already dead. I can still feel the weight of his spear in my hand—each year it seems to get heavier and heavier. Once the deal is made and I am dressed in his garments, I leave the building and fall in with the throng flowing like a river of hate towards Golgotha.
My attire, now that of a Roman soldier, still seems to go unnoticed by the people making their way to that sacred place. Instead of their murmured discussions of dinner and other itineraries, I hear the voices of an angry crowd. Even though he has been sentenced to death by crucifixion, they still cry for blood. When I first walked this road, my angry voice blended with the rest; since that day, I take the journey in silence.
When we reach our destination, the crowd tries to picture the scene from that horrible day. I have no trouble visualizing it.
The cross has already been raised when I arrive. Even now, as I stare up at the memory of that moment, I feel my mind drifting farther back in time. Thirty-three years fold in on themselves until I am back with Rebecca; she is nursing our son. Tears begin to run down my cheeks—regardless of when I am. I touch my wife's hair and caress my son's face with the back of my finger, then the screams begin. I hurry to the door and as I open it, two of Herod's soldiers push their way in. One tears my son from my his mother's breast while the other plants himself firmly between them and me. Desperation drives me to fight my way past the soldier, but, at this time, I am no fighter; he easily knocks me to the ground. The other soldier opens his hand and lets my only son fall to the floor. I try to rise as my child begins to cry and my wife screams. A kick catches me under my chin. Rebecca throws herself at the soldier and he catches her by the throat.
“Another sow fighting for her piglet,” the soldier laughs. He shoves his sword up through her stomach and into her heart. She drops beside our baby and the last thing she sees is the soldier place his foot on his neck. There is a soft snap as my world comes crashing down. The other soldier kicks me a final time before they leave.
“You can thank your coming Messiah for our visit,” he snarls before they walk out of my life.
In an instant, I am back at the foot of a cross that only I can see. One moment passes and then that moment arrives. His words still burn in my ears as the other soldiers—the real soldiers—arrive. They have the task of checking to see if the condemned are dead. Those still alive have their legs broken. He is already dead, I know it and they know it, so their was no need to break his legs; I felt cheated. This was the man they were searching for the night my wife and child were killed. They died while he lived.
He should have died by y hand, not by just 'giving up the ghost' as the writers put it. Anger fills me and I thrust the borrowed spear into his side. In that very instant, I am overcome by regret.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
I drop the spear and look at my blood-soaked hands. There is no satisfaction, only horror. I turn to leave, as I do every year, but this time, a voice stops me. The crowd is gone as I turn back to face the cross. It is now empty. The Lord stands before me.
“I am sorry for everything you have gone through,” He says.
I don't know what to say.
“Your wife and child are happy beyond words,” He tells me. “I hope that brings you comfort.”
It does.
I drop to my knees before Him. The last tears I cried were the night my family was taken from me...until now. “Forgive me.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks up at the cross. “Forgiveness has been waiting for you since the day I hung there. I've just been waiting for you to ask.”
All I can do is weep.
He reaches down and helps me to my feet.
“When will I see my family again?” I ask.
“You still have work to do,” He tells me, “but it won't be much longer.”
His answer satisfies me. “Lord, may I ask a question?”
He smiles. “It wasn't a curse,” He says, knowing the intent of my heart. “It was never intended to be.”
“Then, why? Why was I made to wander for so long?”
“You have never simply wandered,” He tells me. “Every place you have been, every person you have helped, you have been guided to. Everything you have experienced has been preparing you for what is to come.”
I don't mean to question the Lord and His wisdom, but something compels me to ask, “Why didn't you tell me all of this before now?”
“I have been here every year you returned, waiting for you to ask, but you would never hear me when I called your name,” He says.
I search my memories and find a thousand times where He called my name and I didn't listen. I'm listening now.
“You said I'm being prepared for what is to come,” I say. “Am I ready?”
“You've always been ready,” He tells me.
I blink and I'm back among the crowd. My clothes are my own. I look up and see only a place where the cross once stood. There is a tug at my being and I know I am needed elsewhere. I pause just long enough to look back, and I know that this is the last time I will be drawn to this place. I smile, at peace, and then I'm gone.
* * * *
In my memories, there is a conversation and a feeling of complete peace; I try to hold onto that. A wave of deja vu washes over me as I seem to remember being here before. The room is filled with scientists, one of whom bears a striking resemblance to me. They are dabbling with things beyond they knowledge and I know I was drawn here to prevent a great catastrophe. Something in my memories tell me this is what I was born to do.
The End
Compulsion and Compassion
Memories are the collected experiences of a being's lifetime. As they go from birth to death, certain memories change—some grow dim, others become sharper, and a few are even altered as new occurrences bring to light deeply buried recollections. Just because these memories change does not mean they have not been real from their initial inception. They are as real as the reflection that gazes back at you when you stop to peer into a mirror. While a being's memories, much like their appearance, are real, they are not always true. Some occurred naturally while others were gained by a variety of means. I have spent a multitude of lifetimes examining my own memories, seeking the validity those that are true while separating them from those that are merely real.
I remember perfection, rebellion, indecision, betrayal, retribution, and pain. I remember the birth, death, and rebirth of the universe. I remember enemies and allies, some as average as the man or woman who gets up daily to go to work in the morning and return home in the evening and despise every moment in between. Others have had powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, or even beyond this mortal coil. There have been allies I liked and some that I haven't, as well as enemies that have intrigued me. I remember a woman named Rebecca and a son—taken from me along with my heart.
The problem with some memories, whether they are real or true, is that they can compel you to act upon them. I have one such memory that has driven me—and still does—to return to a certain place. The day approaches and once again I feel the compulsion to return to that place. Two millennium have come and gone and every year I must revisit the events—the weaknesses—that made me who I am. Though I can walk among the ether, this is a journey I can only take in the physical realm.
The compulsion draws me to a road leading into Jerusalem. Although those around me
see the road as paved, to me, it is as dusty as it was on that day...the day I encountered him.
My garments are those of a typical Jew of an era two thousand years past. People pass by me in modern attire, yet paying no attention to me. I know I am here physically because those also traveling this road are either stepping around me or moving out of my way, not out of fear or amazement, but simply because we would collide otherwise.
The city has seen changes since that day, yet I can still see the roads as they once were. I deviate from my path only when necessary, and then I return to it as soon as possible. I look at buildings and see them as they were. It seems like I walk for hours, and yet, everything seems to be happening so fast.
I come to a door that used to be the entrance where I met the Roman soldier in secret. My hand automatically goes to my money bag and I begin counting out the coins necessary to acquire the man's armor for the next few hours. His only job on this day is to make certain the condemned die or are already dead. I can still feel the weight of his spear in my hand—each year it seems to get heavier and heavier. Once the deal is made and I am dressed in his garments, I leave the building and fall in with the throng flowing like a river of hate towards Golgotha.
My attire, now that of a Roman soldier, still seems to go unnoticed by the people making their way to that sacred place. Instead of their murmured discussions of dinner and other itineraries, I hear the voices of an angry crowd. Even though he has been sentenced to death by crucifixion, they still cry for blood. When I first walked this road, my angry voice blended with the rest; since that day, I take the journey in silence.
When we reach our destination, the crowd tries to picture the scene from that horrible day. I have no trouble visualizing it.
The cross has already been raised when I arrive. Even now, as I stare up at the memory of that moment, I feel my mind drifting farther back in time. Thirty-three years fold in on themselves until I am back with Rebecca; she is nursing our son. Tears begin to run down my cheeks—regardless of when I am. I touch my wife's hair and caress my son's face with the back of my finger, then the screams begin. I hurry to the door and as I open it, two of Herod's soldiers push their way in. One tears my son from my his mother's breast while the other plants himself firmly between them and me. Desperation drives me to fight my way past the soldier, but, at this time, I am no fighter; he easily knocks me to the ground. The other soldier opens his hand and lets my only son fall to the floor. I try to rise as my child begins to cry and my wife screams. A kick catches me under my chin. Rebecca throws herself at the soldier and he catches her by the throat.
“Another sow fighting for her piglet,” the soldier laughs. He shoves his sword up through her stomach and into her heart. She drops beside our baby and the last thing she sees is the soldier place his foot on his neck. There is a soft snap as my world comes crashing down. The other soldier kicks me a final time before they leave.
“You can thank your coming Messiah for our visit,” he snarls before they walk out of my life.
In an instant, I am back at the foot of a cross that only I can see. One moment passes and then that moment arrives. His words still burn in my ears as the other soldiers—the real soldiers—arrive. They have the task of checking to see if the condemned are dead. Those still alive have their legs broken. He is already dead, I know it and they know it, so their was no need to break his legs; I felt cheated. This was the man they were searching for the night my wife and child were killed. They died while he lived.
He should have died by y hand, not by just 'giving up the ghost' as the writers put it. Anger fills me and I thrust the borrowed spear into his side. In that very instant, I am overcome by regret.
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
I drop the spear and look at my blood-soaked hands. There is no satisfaction, only horror. I turn to leave, as I do every year, but this time, a voice stops me. The crowd is gone as I turn back to face the cross. It is now empty. The Lord stands before me.
“I am sorry for everything you have gone through,” He says.
I don't know what to say.
“Your wife and child are happy beyond words,” He tells me. “I hope that brings you comfort.”
It does.
I drop to my knees before Him. The last tears I cried were the night my family was taken from me...until now. “Forgive me.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks up at the cross. “Forgiveness has been waiting for you since the day I hung there. I've just been waiting for you to ask.”
All I can do is weep.
He reaches down and helps me to my feet.
“When will I see my family again?” I ask.
“You still have work to do,” He tells me, “but it won't be much longer.”
His answer satisfies me. “Lord, may I ask a question?”
He smiles. “It wasn't a curse,” He says, knowing the intent of my heart. “It was never intended to be.”
“Then, why? Why was I made to wander for so long?”
“You have never simply wandered,” He tells me. “Every place you have been, every person you have helped, you have been guided to. Everything you have experienced has been preparing you for what is to come.”
I don't mean to question the Lord and His wisdom, but something compels me to ask, “Why didn't you tell me all of this before now?”
“I have been here every year you returned, waiting for you to ask, but you would never hear me when I called your name,” He says.
I search my memories and find a thousand times where He called my name and I didn't listen. I'm listening now.
“You said I'm being prepared for what is to come,” I say. “Am I ready?”
“You've always been ready,” He tells me.
I blink and I'm back among the crowd. My clothes are my own. I look up and see only a place where the cross once stood. There is a tug at my being and I know I am needed elsewhere. I pause just long enough to look back, and I know that this is the last time I will be drawn to this place. I smile, at peace, and then I'm gone.
* * * *
In my memories, there is a conversation and a feeling of complete peace; I try to hold onto that. A wave of deja vu washes over me as I seem to remember being here before. The room is filled with scientists, one of whom bears a striking resemblance to me. They are dabbling with things beyond they knowledge and I know I was drawn here to prevent a great catastrophe. Something in my memories tell me this is what I was born to do.
The End