The Scars of the City

September 11, 2001. A day we shall never forget.

Thirteen years... Today is the annual day on which I cannot write the date at the top of a page without pausing, reflecting, and feeling so...so many things. For a moment, everything around me is silent, and I feel numb. As I stare at the date, a plane crashes into the the two penciled ones. Eleven falls. Black smoke rises. My heart twists, and I feel angry, sad, and still in shock. I was five years old when it happened. But I remember it so clearly. I just cannot even fathom what this day induces in the hearts of all those who were there- those who witnessed and who lost.

I visited New York City with my family three years ago, in 2011, ten years after the horrific event. As we stood near the not-yet-completed One World Trade Center building, our tour guide informed us different facts regarding the tower. He mentioned things such as that it would stand 1,776 feet tall (note the significance of that number. Hint: it's a year ;) making it taller than The Empire State Building, and the new tallest building in NYC. Then someone asked, "Where were you...when it happened?"

A graveness passed over his face and immobilized him. He no longer spoke in his tour guide voice, but with one that was very distant. "I was in my apartment on the twentieth floor...watching. I saw it all."

He then cleared his throat and pointed out different places of damage. There was a large cross-walk structure above us. On its side was a large scrape. The tour guide explained that what was destroyed was replaced, but those certain damaged sections were still able to serve their structural purpose, so they were left as they were, defiled.

He told us how the 18th century chapel, St. Paul's, just across Dey street from the World Trade Center, though blanketed in debris and soot, somehow still stood, untouched.

Then he pointed to a large, round chunk of metal, that looked like it was dug up from a junk yard. However, once he explained what it was, it became so beautiful and moving. The battered bronze orb had been the sculpture at the very center of the World Trade Center. It was salvaged from the rubble.

The Sphere by Fritz Koenig. My photograph taken 10 years after 9/11.

Before 9/11, The Sphere, by Fritz Koenig. Photo credit: Mark Lentz

The artist, Fritz Koenig, designed and created the sculpture as a "monument to world peace through trade." If only he had any idea, as he formed his piece of art, how much it would fulfill that meaning; and how it would become a memorial and symbol for so much more.

Of course, not only was Koenig's Sphere bashed and scarred by the events of 9/11, but God's Sphere as well. We too, as a nation, have been rescued from beneath the collapsed towers and debris. We too, have a gouge in our heart. We too, still stand- indivisible and scarred.

Image source: HuffingtonPost

Photograph of The Sphere after 9/11 is my own. Photograph of The Sphere before 9/11 is by Mark Lentz. Source: http://www.pakistanartreview.net/Rashid_Arshad.html
For more of the story of The Sphere: http://www.percyadlon.com/film_and_stage/koenigssphere_1.html
Regarding St. Paul's Chapel, I referenced this map, and this National Geographic article.
Information on One World Trade Center: http://onewtc.com/press-center/press-releases/one-world-trade-center-surpasses-empire-state-building-reclaiming-honor-as-new-york-citys-tallest-skyscraper

Here is my Never Forget story and remembrance of that frightful day. (click link)

A Bequeathed Death

This is the first of two writing submissions which earned me the Distinguished Artist Award in Creative Writing at Hope College. I hope you enjoy it!

The following is an excerpt from my short story, “A Bequeathed Death.”

"CLIP-CLOP-CLIP-CLOP." My shoes responded to the hard wet pavement. The thunder rolled and raged, while the rain unsuccessfully ordered the bellows to silence- "SSHHHHHHHH" I was on my way to the Manoir Mortelle for the distribution of my deceased wealthy uncle's possessions. As I approached the grand, cold, iron gates, I noted that although I had gained a good foot or more in height since my last visit, the unwelcoming gates still towered well above my head. While one would expect gates of a property and house of this size to keep trespassers and criminals out, I always had the sensation that these bars served to confine something in. For not a soul with a bit of sense would dare to place their foot onto those grounds, across those boundaries, by their own will. I frequently visited as a young boy in obedience to orders or for family occasions, but never of my own want. I suppose I had grown accustomed to the spectral surroundings- that is- as accustomed as one could be, yet I never ceased to tremble as I unlocked the stiff, gloomy gate. I thought this as I cast my glance to my aged hands, which trembled all the more. I began to apply pressure to the lethargic wall of spears, which squealed as they reluctantly created a gap just enough for me to pass. "SLAM! CLUH-CHING!" They locked me in. Although many years had passed, I was still startled by that rushed latching and locking of the black iron fence. I slowly turned my attention to face the once-dwelling of my late Uncle Audon. The mansion could very well have been the house of Usher before its fall; perhaps Mr. Poe found his inspiration in passing this house one similar day. My shoes continued to click and clack against the weathered cement as if they were a metronome. The walkway to the entrance was long, yet it never seemed long enough. I dreaded the moment of having to stand once again on the cold, heavy, fractured slab. I raised my hand from its warm pocket to the chilling brass knocker. "THUD. THUD. THUD." It struck the tall ebony door three times. Nothing. After a moment of hesitation, I began to raise my hand to repeat the action. "CLICK. CREEEAAK." The door unlocked and opened enough for a cat to pass. I touched the massive door lightly. It gaped some more. "Hello?" I searched for someone or something with life. The patch of light entering the mansion from the doorway slowly increased, and there stood Mariette. She nodded her head towards me. I stepped off the cold wet slab, through the threshold, and onto the cold dry slate. After closing the large door behind me, Mariette stepped in front of me and motioned me to follow. Her short, black heels rhythmically echoed as they percussed the stone. My own steps echoed as well, although not as precisely as the maid's. She had lived in the manor ever since I could recall, yet she still to this day had neither changed nor aged one bit since I had first met her, forty-some years ago as a young lad. It did not cross my mind initially, since she always seemed a part of the old house, but as she walked I could not help but ponder her age. She wasn't a young woman now, nor was she then. Her gray hair was still loosely pulled back into a bun beneath her white lace headpiece. Her long black skirt reached down to her ankles, her black blouse reached up to a white collar around her neck, and her black sleeves reached down to her wrists, ending in white cuffs. She wore a white apron which began at her waist and ended a few inches above her long black skirt. Her feet walked in simple yet sophisticated, black, leather, one-inch heels.

I followed her into the grand, once extravagant, dining room. Held by massive marble Corinthian columns, the two-story ceiling towered my head. I walked across the antique, heart-pine wood floor, and onto the rustic, regal, rug. Around the long walnut table, in chrisom, tapestry, chenille chairs, sat my mother, brother, aunt, cousin (whom I had not seen in decades), and a man whom I presumed to be the lawyer. There was a plethora of scattered papers in front of him. I received nothing more from my family than nods acknowledging my presence.

Although my uncle had died six months prior to our solemn reunion, all of us present had each received a copy of his will only the week before. The lawyer explained the delay was due to the probate process, to ensure its validity.

"Now that we are all present, we may begin dividing the estate of Audon Ruelle Voclain according to his last Will and Testament. Under most circumstances, I take it upon myself to retrieve and deliver the bequeathed property to the beneficiaries. But I simply can neither find nor gather all of Monsieur Voclain's belongings and requests. Thus, I have asked you all to come here today to seek and divide his property according to the orders on this will."

Gleinig

A Horrible Bit of Hope

I know this may seem like is a really terrible thought, but I just had a realization. If society continues down their path of promoting abortions, sterilizations, contraception, same sex marriage...and all this "don't reproduce...you're over populating the world...children ruin your dreams and life and body..." there is actually a horrible bit of hope in the end of all this...

Of course, it is not a new realization that they are going to wiping out entire cultures and huge fractions of the population. But who is it that they are weeding out? Themselves. They are killing themselves. They won't have any new children to teach their sick and perverted, irresponsible, promiscuous, murderous ways. And who will be the survivors? Our children's children...or their children...possibly another generation, I don't know how long it will take. But I do know that the survivors of the abortion holocaust will be the ones fighting against it. Don't you see? One way or another we WILL win. Eventually there will be no more of this anti-children society since there will be no more people to make up that society. It has taken many generations, and unfortunately billions of lives, and it will probably take many many more- in fact we most likely won't live to see the day- but the day WILL come.

But don't misread my tone. I am not rejoicing. No, the bloodshed is far to great to rejoice. We have a suicidal society. This does not mean we just sit back and wait while it kills itself. No. We intervene. We continue to fight for every life at stake. We must conquer in this battle with the least amount of causalities, even if that means one less innocent killed. But this does not only mean resistance- closing down abortion facilities, stopping contraception mandates, etc.- but assistance. Showing love to this suicidal society. Letting it know that life is indeed worth living. We need to help society put down the pills, knives, forceps, blades, body-shredding vacuums, and poison filled syringes. We need to help her recognize the fatality. And we need to help her find the reason to live.

This battle we fight is not one regarding whether or not this sickness will overcome or we put an end to all of it. Neither of those things will happen. The only way the sickness of society "wins" is if it dies. And we are not  the ones to put an end to it, society will end itself. This battle is over how many will be standing with us among the surviving.

Into the Black Hole

You are tethered to a spec of dust which revolves around a mass of fire, which inevitably spirals with others into a hole of nothingness, never to return. You are on your way. It is only a matter of time- spacetime, that is.

The closer your system gets to the black hole at the center of the galaxy, the faster you travel and the more rapidly you are pulled in.

An enormous space creature or ship with massive, spiny legs passes by in the distance before being sucked into the blinding black hole in an instant. 

It gets tight as you approach the vacuum. Everything is peaceful and then *WHAM* you, people, trucks, buildings, creatures...everything on your hemisphere of the earth is catapulted miles into the air. Nothing returns to the ground for over twenty minutes. Another planet had slammed into the other side of the world. The globe is no longer a sphere.

Its smashed side causes the world to ferociously half-spin, as the remaining half of the earth slips around the axis, gravitating towards the destination of despair.

A colossal shadow begins to rapidly blanket what remains of the earth. Everything is dark. You see nothing. An earsplitting screech is accompanied by an uproarious grumble. It is then silenced by deafness. You hear nothing. Suddenly, the world is lit up once again by massive gobs and streaks of fire spurting forth from the ground. A moon grinds against the earth as it is shoved between your planet and another.

You see it approaching. Mile-wide chunks of the earth are erupting from it's surface as a moon grooves a gigantic gorge into the globe. The trailing trough goes deep into the mantle of the earth. Immense heat blasts from this valley.

Somehow, you have survived. But only you. You are the only one left.

In the next instance, other objects in space begin to soar past the earth at hypersonic speeds. This causes gusts and currents of wind which chip off the tops of mountains. Water is spinning hundreds of miles high. Cyclones the size of what used to be China now dance around each other in destruction.

You see two gargantuan orbs swiftly approaching what is left of your planet. They are about to collide.

In the far distance you can see it. That gaping hole of blackness.

In the next instance, blinding rays of light flash past you faster than it's own speed. Stars are disintegrating into gaseous blazing streaks. Not even light can escape a black hole.

The two advancing spheres grow more and more massive by the nanosecond.

You cling onto what is left of the world and brace yourself.

***

You lived on a molecule of a spec of dust which was being vacuumed amongst other dirt, dead bugs, and cheerios, on a suburban kitchen floor.

The Flame of Hope

"I'm not who I was.

I've lost focus on You, the only One Whom I need to focus on. I've been swallowed in pride and other worldly things, and I haven't been putting You first. I can't do this on my own. I need Your hand to lift me back up and pull me closer to You. I've been lost, but instead of calling for You, I've tried to find my way back on my own. But I only wandered in different directions and became more lost. So I'll stop moving. I'll stop searching. I'm calling out for you. And I'll wait here so You can come find me. Rescue me. Pick me up. Hold me close to You. And carry me home. Because I can't walk on my own any longer."

I wrote these words in my journal a few months ago.

This past weekend I had the great privilege to participate in a youth conference. I was moved and inspired during the conference, but a pinnacle time for me was actually the night before.

My brother and I stayed the night with the youth organizers of the event. That night, we all gathered in the chapel for praise and worship. I can't put that into words. No earthly words can describe feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit. (I know He is always with us, but we don't always reach out for Him, or notice He is there.) But I will say with outstretched arms He did pick me up. After listening to an inspirational transformation story from one of the teens, we all took a small candle which bore the word "hope" and lit it from a main candle.

We all have a flame. Sometimes it burns bright, other times it is dim. Then there are periods in our life where our flame has been blown out- either by ourselves or by others. But, they pointed out, all it takes is one spark. One spark to reignite that light. In that moment, I realized- relighting my candle was not something I could do on my own. I was wandering in the dark. While searching for light, I kept bumping into things- I couldn't see since my light was so dim. But that night, His light was shining so bright- spiritually and physically- that I could see it like a lighthouse beaming through all the spiritual fog which clouded my vision.

The teens there carried the light of Christ to me, and re-lit my candle of hope.

Revenge.

Revenge.
Revenge takes purpose out of suffering. It only travels in reverse. It gets you no where.
There is always reward through suffering. Some do not endure the suffering, and by trying to escape it, may lose their reward, yet they still served a purpose because others are affected by that suffering.

If someone were to be caused great hardship, and upon leaving the suffering is given a great reward, they may either-
1. take the reward, and benefit others
or
2. use their reward to quench their vengeance against those who did them wrong.

But what a waste! What a waste of life, of suffering, and of a reward! This person has been wronged, but then by using the gifts which came out of their suffering, to get their revenge on their wrongdoers- what has been accomplished? For someone's sole purpose in life to be to hurt those who hurt them..."an eye for an eye"...what has changed? We all still have an eye- except now we've all been wounded, and our eyes- mine in your hand, and yours in mine- serve no purpose since they aren't in our sockets...but, oh sure- we're "even."

A man, betrayed and unjustly imprisoned, upon escape is blessed with unfathomable wealth. Instead of taking this wealth, giving back in gratitude towards those who did good to him (which he does to a degree), sharing it with those he loved, and focusing on assisting others less fortunate (such as he once was, dying in prison), he uses it to take revenge on those who betrayed him. With this wealth given by providence, he wants only to play providence. He spends majority of his after-escaped life and fortune dealing out his vengeance. Once all who had in his eyes destroyed him had been destroyed BY him, what has he achieved? What is left? What purpose does he have? If these people had never betrayed him- yes he would not have suffered as he did- but even more he would not have received the wealth and power which he did. His betrayers were not only responsible for his suffering, but for his wealth. He then takes that wealth to unleash his revenge against them, claiming that only death can stop him from this. If these people had not done wrong to him, the ill-fortune caused by the man's revenge would not have happened to them.
He does not succeed in triumph, but only allows his life to be ended and wasted by these actions of theirs.
A person thirsting for revenge allows himself to be conquered by those who did wrong to him. They do not live their life, but focus and remain on this hurt. They are given a gift and purpose through their suffering, but they then choose to spend it on those who caused them to suffer.

(I'm referring to a book...you get a cookie if you know to which one I am referring.)
And oh yes. Hello there. Long time no post.

We Are Created Perfect.

We are all created perfectly. And why wouldn't we be? We have been created by a Perfect Creator, so why do we struggle with understanding we are just that- perfect? We are made in the likeness and image of our Maker- and He is definitely perfect- so we must be made perfect as well. Just to clarify, I don't mean our souls, or our choices…no, those aren't perfect. Those decisions, actions, and pasts are all made by us- not by a Perfect Maker. But those things we are given by the Creator- our bodies, our intelligence and minds…are made perfect. You may challenge this. Perhaps you or someone you love is coping with an illness. Maybe it's cancer, maybe it's a trauma that caused some drastic change in life, maybe it's a daily struggle to keep up or a lack of an ability. Society tells us that these are flaws, or that we are 'damaged' but this is so untrue. How could a Perfect Creator create something damaged or flawed? He can't.
Therefore- We are created perfect for our purpose.