I
have built an empire next to the sea. It is a beautiful empire, custom crafted
by my own strength to include all the things I have ever wanted. The foundation is fear, and it rests firmly
upon the sand. It is built up with my well-worn tools of desire, control,
ambition, jealousy, envy, pride, and obsession. It is enclosed by walls of
insecurity, doubt and fear. These are strong walls that nobody can penetrate,
and the door of weakness is locked. I once had the key, but I don’t remember
now where I left it last. It doesn’t matter, because I never plan to leave.
This is where I live, this is my home.
Dear
God. What have I done?
~*~
The sun was sinking into the watery horizon of the bay,
marking the end of another day. The
feathery clouds that stretched across the pale sky were stained with pink, red,
and copper traces. The ocean extended to
the horizon, and tiny sparkles glinted across the gentle rolling motion of its
surface. On the shore, small crabs
scuttled away from the lapping waves, hurrying to bury themselves in the grainy
sand before prying seagulls snatched them up.
A light breeze played across
the bay, gently cooling everything in its path with a soft, sighing touch as it
traveled across the air. Intricate patterns
of brown and gold and tan shifted ever so slowly in many directions across the
sandy ground, guided by the wind. Palm
trees, old and weathered, stood proudly in abundance along the winding
shore. Waves crashed on the beach with
power and prestige, slowly wearing away the rocks and shells that rolled back
and forth in its tide.
The sound of the sea could
be heard to varying degrees from any vantage point on the small island, with
the exception of the Valley. In that place, there was no evidence of beach
life- it was devoid of the sea breeze and the gulls never frequented its
shadowy confines. It was frequently shrouded in fog. The only signs of life here
were stone faces which looked down upon their altars with immobile passivity,
waiting for a suitable sacrifice. This godforsaken piece of land was called the
Valley of Achor, named after its master. The inhabitant that dwelt here carried
himself with well-practiced patience and gallantry, for the prince of darkness
is indeed a gentleman. The Valley was
meant to be the source of all bitterness and the birthplace for the dark night
of the soul. Here was found the key to death.
With the exception of the
Valley, all other living things on Empire Island were calm and existed
simply. All things worked in unison just
as expected, every day, for an easy and comfortable existence. In such an isolated world here, life was
simple and safe. Not a particularly enjoyable way of living, but a steady form of survival.
There were no undue surprises, no interruptions in the daily routines of adequacy on this island. There were no shameful
reminders of pagan idols, as those were all hidden discreetly within the confines
of the Valley. And over time, this predictability and comfort had become the
definition of peace.
The sun
finally sank below the water, leaving traces of silver ripples which traveled
outward into the ocean, to be lost from sight.
Seagulls came to rest on their rocky beds, and the frantic crabs by day
found sleepy refuge in the dark cover of night.
Several seashells, unbroken by the tide, rocked back and forth on the
sand in the foamy edges of the water, creating a subtle clinking chime as they
were pushed together and pulled apart by the tide.
The stars
came out, twinkling in their black velvety beds of night sky. The clouds were no longer shades of red, but
reflected the white, pale glow of the waxing moon. One of the sandpipers somewhere below the jut
of rocks gave a last call before silence settled in on the small bay.
And in the distance, there
was a disturbance of ripples in the swaying ocean which only the silvery fish
noticed. In the peaceful silence, a small boat floated quietly into view, far
out on the moonlit horizon, traveling across the water towards the shore –
towards the sleeping island.
~*~
We
are worlds, we are bodies
Empires of dirt and grace
Silhouettes and reflections
Caught in His holy flame
Empires of dirt and grace
Silhouettes and reflections
Caught in His holy flame
–Empires, Hillsong
The inspiration was escaping so rapidly that she couldn’t
capture it in words. Her blue eyes were filled with uncanny longing, and her
light-brown hair was escaping from her long braid in defiance of her best
attempts.
The blank pages were
increasingly frustrating. Each empty
sheet seemed to represent a wasted day, a mark of shame, or perhaps a lack of
control. The white space in front of her
reminded her of a willing laziness and self-destructive selfishness. All these things were combined and made
tangible in a single and very heavy sigh.
For years and years she had
known what needed to be done, but as it grew from an idea to a realization, her
resolve moved from a place of hope to one of apathy. She needed to give up her
idols, but she couldn’t find the words. She needed to write her story, but she didn’t
know how to begin. Something held her back from writing- a lack of
self-awareness, a fear of looking too deep inside her own mind. Instead, she
remained always on the outskirts of her motivations, in a place of unconcerned
acceptance where there was no need for asking any troubling questions. She
danced around her own thoughts, keeping to the edges in order to avoid offense.
This was perhaps the biggest
problem, and the reason why she couldn’t find any inspiration. Apathy is quite possibly a writer’s greatest
enemy, and it was certainly hers in this moment. And yet, though it stopped her from pouring
herself onto paper, it also helped her to walk through the hard days with her
head held high in a queenly state of dignified denial. For the princess of light is indeed a
lady. Her writing was meant to be the source of all introspection and the birthplace
for the freedom of the soul. Here was found the key to life.
This is why she felt such
tension and resistance when she sat at her desk. So Mara pushed her chair back
and placed her journal back into the desk.
Instead of writing, she decided to take a walk down to the seashore,
hoping for some kind of discovery in the smell of the salty air and the sound
of the crashing waves. The eternity of
the ocean was always somehow calming, a soothing balm for the unquenchable desire
that she carried with her each day. Her
mind would wander often to the troubling idols of her past, but the sound of
the sea would always pull it back again.
She tugged her knitted
sweatshirt over her head and slipped on a pair of worn sandals. The sun was setting and she knew the
temperature would drop, but something about the feel of the warm pebbles and
cool sand prompted her to approach the beach with sandal clad feet no matter
the weather. She liked the sensations
when she removed her shoes and walked the shoreline; the smooth pebbles and sea
stones retained some warmth from the sun for a short time, contrasted against the
coarse sand which had quickly cooled. She liked the inspiration that crashed
upon her there, wave by wave.
It was as if she was able to
steal the last bit of warmth from the seashore every evening and keep if for
herself, like a coveted secret. For the
seashore often called to her with promises she couldn’t articulate in words,
but which spoke to her spirit with an eternal perspective. The feeling of
walking the shore was a calming ritual, one that could transport her to any
memory in her life, to times before she had worshiped lifeless idols in the
Valley of Achor.
She walked the shoreline
every evening, longing for Someone she did not know, and trying to articulate
the words she would like to say to Him. She was waiting for a treasure of great
price to wear around her neck and a crown of beauty to place upon her head. These called to her soul…
~*~
To learn more about my personal story, click here.
With gratitude for all my readers-
Rebecca
