The Hand

Misery, nothing but misery.

Like a thick foggy blanket resting upon the Earth all sense of direction is hidden.

No purpose, no perspective and hope for something better, just a thick cover of misery over my Soul.

What am I to do?

Am I supposed to run through the thick fog which robs me of my vision?

I know the road has many pitfalls, and where the obstacles hide is anybody's guess.

So am I to run knowing that I will fall flat on my face and hurt myself?

Am I to run without knowing where I should run to?

I can't run, I can't move, because there is no vision that I might have a sense of direction.

Even if I carefully try to put one foot in front of the other, the blindness the fog imposes on my senses may cause me to walk in circles, or get off the road into the swamp which lurks on both sides of the road.

So what am I to do but to stand still as I have for so many years, crying out through the thick fog to my Creator Who has been silent for all this time?

I used to have a much better vision, there used to be much less fog, but nowadays all is grey and hidden from my sight.

I cry again, only to hear the blanket swallow the sound of my voice in its impenetrable silence.

No response, nothing.

I know I am tested, but I do not have the strength to endure.

And still, I do.

I persist and stand still, waiting, hoping, praying, crying, believing, drowning in my sadness.

And yet I live, enduring in spite of it all.

The tide of the sadness seems to grow continually like a sea swallowing the beach more and more with each minute of the tide, and it has reached my mouth, taking away my breath.

The fog I see all around me is the spirit of the sea rising up from the netherworld to become the suffocating blanket smothering my cries, robbing me of my breath.

I take short shallow breaths to compensate for the lack of air my Soul needs, trying to survive in a scenery which should have taken away any remnant of hope.

It is not because of my strength I still stand and wait, because my strength has been broken a long time ago.

It is not because of my patience I still endure, but because there is nothing else I can do but wait and endure.

I don't understand the reason, and searching for the answers to my many questions I am greeted by silence in return, a wordless message which answers none of my questions, as if they do not matter.

And perhaps they don't.

Perhaps they are nothing but cries of pain, and it is not the cries which need to be answered, but the pain which gave rise to the questions needs to be addressed and removed.

Yes, the pain, my faithful companion on this road of misery.

I know the road is supposed to lead me to a destiny, but I have been standing still as hostage of the fog for the longest time, so I am not getting any closer to my destiny.

I just stand still, frozen in a cold damp lake devouring my very Soul.

And yet I wait for that outstretched Hand which lifts me up above the fog into the light of the sun, the Hand which rescues and takes me to my destiny.

That is where the pain comes from: the absence of that Hand.

I wait, and I wait, and I have waited for the longest time, yet no Hand suddenly cleaved through the blanket, no Hand took me by the neck to lift me up out of this cold world.

So I am left in total isolation, left in the company of the Shadows of this nebulous world as the familiar stranger.

I abide in the icy cold of an alien environment where danger lurks around every corner, a zone where people are turned into organic robots and rewarded for their servitude to the exploiters and the predators.

Unseen forces hunt me and stalk my very Soul, and I can hear the noise of my hunters scurrying all around me.

I don't know their plans, but I know all too well that their schemes will bring me nothing but misery and all manner of Evil.

They set traps, they dig holes, all for the single purpose of hurting me, punishing me for my refusal to be one of their faithful servant robots.

The fog is their natural habitat, and they can see clearly through the thick blanket which robs me of my sight.

I can only guess, based on the sounds I hear and the faint Shadows I notice hurrying past me.

How could I even begin to run blindly in this maze of terror knowing that traps are set all around me?

Yes, they would love to see me run away from the agony they caused only to fall into the trap of their greater agony, they would love to see panic and fall into their power.

If that should happen, my terror truly would know no end.

But I know of their plans, I know what makes them tick, I know of their tricks and strategies.

And that is my protection in this danger zone.

So even when I look and hope for the Hand to come, the silent waiting conveyed a message from my Father giving me the information to protect me.

The silence came from His presence, not from His absence.

It's just that I did not know how to listen which made me feel as if I did not matter to Him.

I thought He ignored me, yet He was listening all the time, not addressing the symptoms of my complaints but dealing with the cause which gave birth to the complaints.

Is it not He Who gave me eyes to see, is it not He Who showed me the works of the Predators, is it not He Who made me aware of the Shadows scurrying around me?

And is it not this knowing of the Truth which protects me?

Yet how this silence, this existence in limbo, presses on my Soul like a heavy weight.

I stand on a road where no one can be trusted, for all have faded into the Darkness.

The fact that I managed to survive is a miracle in itself, even though the miracle came in the form of an unbearable weight placed upon my Soul.

What are you to do when the Shadows use your own family you grew up in to possess and devour your very Soul?

All this time I stood frozen in the fog, letting my eyes be fed by the tormenting presence of the icy blanket chilling me to the bone.

It was only when I stopped looking at the fog and bowed my head in sadness that I noticed Your Hand.

That is when I noticed I was standing right in the palm of Your Hand all along.

The scurrying Shadows appeared to be moving only because You were moving me forward past their presence.

They were the ones standing still as frozen fossils in an icy landscape, not I.

In fact, it was YOUR Hand moving me closer towards Your destiny for me.

Yet I still stand here in this fog like an icy statue, waiting, hoping, and yes, believing in that Hand.

I know I am safe in the palm of Your Hand, I know I am loved by the One Who created everything.

How could I not rejoice in this privilege of knowing I am loved by my own Father?

Yet what will become of this world?

The fog seems to have devoured all of it, and when in plain daylight the blanket robs all of Creation from my sight, then what will the hour of Darkness bring?

And I know that hour is very close, the hour of the great sacrifice.

Who is left that truly seeks You, my dear Father, who is left to love You as You are instead of following after a religious icon of what You are not?

How many are left to love You without any ulterior motive of personal gain, how many can still love You when their love brings them pain and humiliation?

How many can follow in your Son's footsteps?