The Dark Unseen

The prince runs around the field, wildly singing the anthem of his father's realm, the blood-red banner pursuing him on the flexible pole. The lion-in-attack ripples above, dancing to the wind.
The fierce banner cuts whistling arcs, broad arcs of joy. The scarlet fabric flutters with regal celebration. The young, bold voice sings melodic boasts, the greatness of his father. The prince is a fountain of hope, bubbling with brightening color as he skips. The Counselor, sitting at the edge of the field, watches with dim eyes, but hears all, spoken and unspoken. The boy's praise coaxes a smile from the elder's wrinkled lips and tapping from his thin feet. As the bright melody continues to dance around the field, the wizened ears hear a another response to joy's young author.
In the dark unseen, hideous groans sing terrorized harmony to the prince's praise. Dark eyes bulge at the searing song of a grim-edged sword. In the land of light, it is the scarlet banner, dancing in unfettered praise of the king, directed by loving innocence. In the unseen, corrupt hordes press the youth, but the brilliant arc harvests a painful crop in the morbid throng.

In the light, the king's son at play, rejoicing, dancing. In the dark unseen, he is a tool of mayhem; relentless despair to those who hate the king. The sing-song voice of praise hammers unstoppable justice in the ears of the wicked.

The old Listener calls to the boy, who bubbles up to him on the bench. Hugging the youth close, the proven heart sings a low song of praise and protection. Joyful motion stops and the tousled, sweaty head turns to the Counselor.

"Babba, when can I be a real warrior?" The boy puzzles as the old man laughs. He laughs hard and loud. In the light, frail and precarious, the man bounces with laughter, while the boy, all elbows and knees, is enthralled. Black, unseen eyes, glazed in pain, bent on destruction, stare. They cautiously watch the older, laughing warrior, tall and light. His heart pulses with fire, visible through his translucent armor. The white fire surges outward, seeking whom it may consume. Next to him sits Young Justice, in his untiring hand a hungry sword, coated in the vain intentions of his enemies. Their bond flexes the unseen like a beating heart.

The Listener smiles grimly. "Your dancing with your Father's banner makes my heart happy. Let me hear more..." Old lips sing melodies, that danced, before time knew them. Young feet and a fluttering lion bring new justice to the dark unseen.

Are You A Cap Gun Soldier?

God pelted me with several new ideas. Probably like an owner trying to feed a clueless dog. The dog is thinking "Stop throwing things at me! I'm busy begging!". Owner is saying. "Stop being so distracted - I'm trying to feed you!"
One if the ideas stuck.
Premise: "Humble yourselves therefore under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you"
Initially, I was baffled. Why discuss humility and suddenly make a left turn to talk about anxiety. Perhaps some apostolic ADHD? Can the Holy Spirit inspire someone with ADHD....was Peter just disorganized?
Out of that attack of focus, it appears:
Humble people don't stress out. Arrogant people are anxious. You see, if I choose to be humble and trust God, then I cannot experience anxiety. He cares for me. But if I am arrogant, then I am guaranteed to be twisted with worry. Worry is like the reaction of a boy with a cap gun walking into a real fire fight. Loud proclamations of strength that are smothered by a hail storm of lead. The moment of revelation ignites a cloud of anxiety. I quickly discover that there is only one God. And I am not He. My facade of control and wisdom crumples like cardboard in the rain. Revelation: I am not the center of the universe. I must trust the One who is.

Don't worry. Be Humble.

Honor

Veterans Day prompts many memories. Mostly stories. Old voices sharing stories of sacrifice and fear and humor. Time has dimmed their short term memory, but has left their moments of service untouched. Young voices, still enthusiastic, tell stories filled with the moment. They are still working through what their memories mean to them. Both groups tell stories from a perspective of honor. Their recollections center on honor towards their comrades. What they did right, even when under fire. They are of course, patriots. But their stories tell us that honor to country is built on honor to our comrades in arms. Our buddies. The people we slept next to in a muddy fighting position. Or showed off their feet with blisters after a brutal road march. Or read a tough letter to during some down time.

We marvel at the bravery and endurance of ordinary men and women. But we forget that honor banishes fear. Where there is no honor, there is always fear. Fear kills initiative. And in combat, initiative is everything. When the plan meets contact, it comes down to a group of friends working out how to accomplish their mission. They are the microcosm of battle. Because of honor, the idea of failure is intolerable. It is not individual bravery, skill or particular fitness. These help, but without honor, the thing that binds men together, nothing great can be accomplished.

When we got out of the military, we say we miss the camaraderie. I believe we really miss the honor. Doing right because of who I am and who my buddy is.

I appreciate the example that veterans set. In service and honor.