No one expected it. No one saw it coming. See, all of Patrick’s life, people brought him down, kept him out of the sky, destroyed his dreams.
Patrick took this all very well. His feet were well planted on the ground, and his head never within fifty feet of the clouds. At first, it seemed as though he was simply a very well-behaved, quiet child. But as it turned out, he had given up his dreams in order that they might not be destroyed.
And so, in a way, he destroyed them himself.
He grew up to be a solid young man, focusing on his studies, completing all his work. He was kind to people in general, though a little distant. People thought him aloof, which was not at all the case. He simply was so solidly on the ground that he thought of little else but the very present moment, for his future was shackled to the hard stones of the earth, and his past was far too painful for reminiscing.
One day he met a young woman, and their relationship developed from his steady solidity, and her complete adoration for the way he quietly obeyed her orders.
For years he followed her as her steady shadow, quiet and solid, taking orders and obeying, and finally through an unexciting marriage. She refused to have children, though he had allowed himself to hope for them. Another dream dashed against the solid rocks of earth.
But finally, he had enough.
No one expected it. No one saw it coming.
He told his wife he wanted children. She stared at him for a long time before telling him that they had discussed this already.
He told his wife he wanted children. Again, she told him they had discussed this; they were not going to have children.
He walked out of the door, solid to the core, and walked down the street. He turned the street corner and continued to walk. With each step, he allowed himself a dream he never let free, each one of them causing his next step to be taken with a little more buoyancy. The neighbors watched him as he continued on and on, until suddenly, he sprouted a set of wings made of all the dreams he never had.
Patrick reached the end of the sidewalk, dropping off into a deep abyss. The neighbors stared at him as he spread his wings, a smile touching his face as the sun burst through the clouds above.
This is an experimental idea put together by a friend and I inspired by a post on the internet. The gist of the idea is to put a story together person by person, beginning with me and ending with whomever chooses to send this back to me. Here's what you need to do:
1. When you receive this, click reply, then copy and paste this email into the reply email.
2. Read what has already been written and add your own section, making sure to separate your section from previous sections (usually done with an extra line). There are no guidelines for what is written. The point is to see how creative you can get.
3. After you have finished your section, send it to whomever you think would come up with the most creative addition.
Whenever you think the story has been completed, send it back to me: cim2@students.calvin.edu. Otherwise, keep sending it on!
If you would like to see the final result, email me.
Thanks for your participation!
Sincerely, Charis and Josh
And now, the story:
His heart pounding, Wallace raced down the hallway. I still have time, he thought, glancing outside the dark windows. The sun had barely set, and the hazy glow of dusk was just beginning to fade into darkness. I still have time, he repeated to himself, slipping as he turned a corner too quickly. He shook his dark hair out of his face, a flare of frustration weakening his resolve. He had to continue; there was still time.
He picked himself off the ground and sprinted to the end of the hall, crashing through the double doors and onto the balcony. Young Wallace was not normally one to do stunts, but with no time to waste, he had no choice. Leaping off of the railing and dropping two stories onto the copper roof of the building below, Wallace's knees gave out and he slid over the glassy tiles until his leg caught on the gutter. His eyes flickered to a dull glowing red, obscuring their natural blue, when his leg shot pain through his body as he stood up. I still have time he thought, driving him to continue on.
"Oh, how I wish I could sparkle!" said she, "Like the wood does when it lies in the sun; And Oh, how I wish I could glitter!" she cried, "Like water on the leaves when the rain is done."
"Oh, how I wish I could shine," she smiled, And the hopefulness shone clear in her eyes.
Oh, but you do, said I in my mind, But you do, said I in my mind.
Explain to me whose hands are these, which hold me in my need.
Explain to me whose ears are these, which hear despite their creed.
Whose arms are these which carry me, though I deserve to fall?
Whose eyes are these, which cry for me, though they know me not at all?
Explain to me whose words are these, which heal despite disease.
Explain to me whose feet are these, which walk despite their grief.
Explain to me who'd take my place, if I were sentenced to death.
Jesus, you say? The only way? Oh, please. Don't waste your breath.
A little something I jotted down reflecting on how people can be astonished by how morally great Jesus sounds, but as soon as they hear His name, they dismiss it. Sometimes our explanation is unacceptable to people.
It is the day after that ordinary man was pinned up on the cross.
The towns have been more silent, the day darker, and we sat in our homes quietly, contemplatively, waiting for the end of the Sabbath. I found myself glancing out the window and breathing many a sigh. Emotionally, I was confused. This man, this man who had done no wrong, was dead. Not only dead, though, but finished. I heard the words myself as I stood there, transfixed by the sight of him, barely breathing on that cross, that cursed cross.
"It is finished."
Never has a phrase haunted me so frightfully. It is finished. It is over. There is nothing else.
I still could not believe it, even as I watched them take down the body from a distance, even as they carried him to a tomb. I knew not where it was, nor did it matter. He was dead. It is finished.
I was almost grateful, though, when he died. After all, he was only a man. It was not as prolonged as these things usually were, though I myself was not a frequent audience for such events. There had been horrid stories of crucifixions lasting days.
Days . . . I could hardly stop myself from thinking again of the tormented expression on that ordinary man's face. Who was he? They claimed he was the Christ, they gave him the title of Messiah, they even went so far as to declare him the Son of God. I knew nothing of it, and I had hoped not to think any further on the matter.
It was evident, however, that this man was possibly more than just a man. But if he were more than a man, my mind questioned cryptically, how is it that a mere crucifixion was able to finish him?
"It is finished."
I bowed my head, intent on concentrating on something else.
It is finished, I repeated to myself. It is finished.
He was quite an ordinary-looking man. No gleaming white Hollywood teeth, no bright, clear blue eyes, no clear complexion. His eyes, I imagined, were the drab color of mud, his stature not too tall, nor his physique something to be admired. He had rough, calloused hands and a slow smile. There was, in fact, not a single thing about his appearance that I might find appealing. He simply was.
I did not understand why the people listened to him. Sure, some of the things he said were interesting, and he often defied the Pharisees, which was exciting to watch, but I found more of what he said frightening, something that caused terror and uncertainty. I did not want to think about such things, so I did not. He talked about things that many did not understand and did things that were inexplicable. There were rumors, terrible, indefinite rumors, whispers about his involvement with demons and the dead. I wanted no part in any of it, since I did not understand. Others followed him blindly, believing he was the one who would rescue them. I scoffed at them in public, but in the dark hours of the night, I could not help but wonder about this strange, ordinary man.
He was finally brought to trial, this man. At first, I thought it served him right. He was a stranger, and he was stirring up trouble. The people were loyal to him, and I almost guessed that he might try to raise them up against the court. How odd, then, when he was accused of both false and misleading crimes that he would remain silent in the face of his accusers. I began to think many thoughts at once. Perhaps he was simply putting on a show for his followers, the majority of them in the crowd waiting below. I found this likely. Perhaps he was waiting for the opportune moment to whip out his dagger and plunge it into the heart of the political figure before him. I hoped not; that would cause more trouble than the matter deserved. It would also convict him on the spot for execution.
The thought slipped into my mind that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something far greater at hand. I shook it out quickly. The man in charge, unable to truly find fault in this man, turned him over to the crowd. Surely, he was safe now, I thought. How shocked I was to find the crowd around me demanding the release of a terrible criminal in place of the ordinary man who committed no crimes and stood with his head bowed, hiding his mud-brown eyes. This crowd, who just days before had been begging for another word from him, for a chance to idolize the ground he walked upon, was betraying him without a second thought. When asked for his sentence, I was appalled when I heard the crowd’s response. Crucify him, they said. Give this man the punishment deserved only by the scum of the earth, by the men so despicable that they no longer reserve the right to live, but rather to die in suffering in order to repay for the amount of suffering they have caused. Give this man crucifixion, give him pain, suffering, and death in order to repay for...repay for what? What suffering has he caused? What hearts has he broken? What losses has he caused? I heard him say once, “Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone,” and yet the only one who has not cast a stone is the one worthy of the task. I fled from the coarse, ugly, deceived faces around me. I could bear it no longer.
I could not escape. I heard the crack of the whip, the sound of the soldiers’ laughter and jeering. How unfair! I thought. How cruel! No one stood up for him, even his closest friends denied him. Did he have no one? He was homely, unrefined, unattractive...and yet I found myself unwittingly drawn to him, as a stone is drawn to the earth when dropped.
The things I had heard him say began to make sense; bits of the puzzle began to fall into place. This man of the humblest beginnings, the humblest appearance, the humblest character was being punished for a nonexistent crime. He was being punished merely for making a claim that was implausible, but not impossible. Did that make him deserving of a punishment designed for the most depraved of sinful man?
I heard his agony; I saw the mocking crown that was pressed cruelly into the skin of his forehead, his face which was swollen and bleeding. He said not a word against his oppressors, and he did not try to fight. It may have been that he was far too weak from loss of blood...but I don’t believe so. He could not fight because he was meant to fulfill.
They led him, stumbling and nearly blind from the pain, up a hill. To walk in such a wounded state must have been pure agony, pain beyond anything I can imagine in my small experience in the area. I shudder when I try, and am glad that I am unable to comprehend such pain. Up that hill they marched him, a local man carrying the instrument of death behind him. I cried out in fear of that terrible cross; I averted my eyes from it, for I feared the pain it brought.
Again, I wondered how easily betrayed this man was. He had done no wrong, had committed no sin. What was his place among murderers? The soldiers continued to bait him, tried to provoke him to action. The people joined in, readily cursing and laughing derisively at this man, afraid to stand up to such a large crowd. I admit that I, myself, did not dare say a word in protest, nor did I beat my breast in grief or join in the mocking. I merely watched in horror as they cruelly drove a nail into his wrists, securing him to that dreaded cross. I watched the waves of intense pain cross his face every time the hammer even jostled the nail or the cross. Tears, sweat, and blood covered him, flowing profusely. Who would stop this? I wondered. Did any man wish to call down God on this matter?
I stood there until the moment he died, the crowd screaming, yet oddly silent. I was there when the sky turned black, when the sound of the Temple veil being torn in two rent the silence. Nothing, however, tore away my focus from the dead body of the plain, ordinary man. His mud-colored eyes clouded over; his uneven complexion turned oddly pale from loss of blood. His average-height body of unimpressive physique went limp, hanging from the huge metal pins.
And somehow, this ordinary-looking man without gleaming white Hollywood teeth, without bright, clear blue eyes, and without a clear complexion, was the single most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my entire life.
