A Abba's Apocalypse (33 page)

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 comfortable 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 falls 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.