The Hunter (published 26 April 2008 in the RECORD)

(To see this article in the RECORD please go to http://record.adventistconnect.org/ and click on the April 26 issue.)
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The hunter crouches, muscles tense, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. It is silent, except for the rush of blood pumping through veins and his shallow, rapid breathing. He runs the net through his fingers one more time, rough fibres chafing at his skin. It shouldn’t be long now.

There it is! In a single movement he launches himself from his hiding place and throws the net with such accuracy, such skill, that it is obvious he is an expert. He captures his prey quickly and subdues it. He hands it over to be destroyed. The hunter is victorious once more.

This is not the hunter’s first attempt. At first he was clumsy, unco-ordinated and plain unsuccessful. He has spent many hours honing his craft, practicing in controlled situations – all to prepare him for this moment. He has invested the time, the energy and the commitment to his cause to become a skilful hunter. It was a slow process, but with each catch it became increasingly natural, increasingly automatic – as though the very nerves in his body knew how to respond and when. Now, he could complete a capture with a minimum of fuss and expend a minimum of energy. He is truly the master of the hunt.

So what exactly, is in his net? What wild beast, savage and ferocious lies tangled within the knots and folds? Is it a jaguar, or a tiger, or some kind of fearsome reptile? No, it is indeed something far more sinister, more dangerous, more unexpected. It is something that lives on every continent in the world; it can be found on desert plains and mountain ridges, in the deepest valleys and rockiest outcrops; it is present in every race, every culture, every creed. In fact, it dwells within each member of the human race.

What lies at the bottom of the hunter’s net? His thoughts. The ideas, the inspirations, the concepts, the criticisms; the flashes of words that flicker through his brain at lightning speed. These are what he has worked so hard to subdue. These are the prey he has hunted and conquered. He has read the words of Paul and he has taken them seriously: “We capture every thought and make it give up and obey Christ.” 2 Corinthians 10:5 (NCV)

It wasn’t easy at first. Initially, he wasn’t even aware of many of the thoughts that trespassed his mind. They were so automatic, so momentary that it was hard to focus on them, let alone capture them. His first job was to listen - listen to the soundtrack of his life, the running commentary of ceaseless “brain chatter” that dwelled within his mind. Listening was harder than he thought. It took time, it took effort, it took commitment. But eventually, he could hear the inner workings of his thought processes more clearly. At times he was horrified by what he heard; other times he was confused, bewildered by the logic or lack thereof of his own thoughts. But still he listened.

Once his listening skills were honed and his senses alert to the thoughts that narrated his life, the hunter was then able to begin the process of thought catching. Using the Bible as his guide, he assessed each and every thought against what he knew to be true, right, honest, pure and good. The standard was high, the effort required monumental. Those thoughts that were acceptable, pleasing and obedient were allowed to continue and to grow. He nurtured those thoughts he knew would be pleasing to his Lord. Those thoughts that were contrary and disobedient were the ones he sought to capture.

Once captured, the hunter’s thoughts were made to give up and obey Christ. How? By being reworded, revised or replaced by Christ-like thoughts. It took effort, it took time, it took commitment, it took prayer. At times he won the battle and captured a net full of useless, negative, destructive thoughts. Other times his humanity prevailed and one got away. But he didn’t give up.

Today, he was once again successful. Crouched behind the foliage of his mind, a thought had been festering. It was a critical, hurtful thought that would only bring pain and destruction. It would bring no glory to God. With ease that only comes with practice, he had waited for the right moment and had cast his net. He had captured his dangerous prey and handed it over to his Master to be destroyed. His job complete, the hunter brushed himself down and continued on his way.

Imagine if each one of us took Paul’s advice seriously. How would it transform our relationships, our families, our churches if we took captive every thought and made it obedient to Christ? It takes time, it takes effort, it takes commitment. It’s something worth thinking about. After all, “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.” Proverbs 23:7 (KJV).

The Code

“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Well…there’s this thing, and I kind of said I would go…”
“So you can’t.”
“Exactly. I’m sorry. I really want to, but I just don’t see…I mean I don’t want to let Frank down and then instead I’m letting you down and….ohhhhh.” I was hoping he’d let me off the hook, but it didn’t appear that was going to happen.
“Well if you had to let someone down, why d’you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick Frank if that’s what you’re asking. And that is what you’re asking, isn’t it?” I waited, the silence the only confirmation I needed. “It’s just the way it happened.”
“Ah hah.” The flatness of those two words spoke volumes.
“Oh I get it. You think that just because I said that it didn’t sound like my cup of tea, then I actually went out of my way to find an excuse not to go with you.” Silence. “Well, I didn’t, OK. Frank asked me, I completely forgot that this was on and it’s just one of those things.”
“I see. Just forget about it.”
“No, I’m not going to just forget about it. You said…”
“Just drop it, OK. I’m not in the mood.”
“So now it’s all about you is it? As usual we can’t even have a civil disagreement over something trivial without you…”
“Trivial?” He was standing now, scarf in hand. “You think this is trivial? Shows how much you know.”
“I know enough, thank you very much.”
“Oh do you just? You think you’re so clever, so high and mighty that you know enough. Well you don’t know squat!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you know everything then why don’t you tell me?”
“You are a mongrel, you know that? You always twist everything I say. I said I was sorry right at the start, but noooooo, you had to keep going, keep pushing me until…”
“Until what? Until you snap like you usually do? Until you lose control and chuck a hissy fit? Why don’t you just grow up!”
“Me, grow up?? I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You want me to grow up?” I was standing now too. “Let me give you some free advice – I’m not the one who can’t hold down a job, OK?”
“Oh, so that’s what this is really about, hmmm? Another chance to take a dig at my work. Go on then, take a free shot. Give it your best.”
“Well you aren’t exactly beating down doors to get an interview are you?”
“What, so a man’s not allowed to take some time out every now and then? Fine.” He threw the remote control across the room. “I’ll start looking right now. In fact, I’d be glad to get another job. At least it would mean I wouldn’t have to put up with you.”
“Well go on then, be dramatic – you’re so good at it. And I hate to point out the obvious but exactly where do you think you’re going to find a job at 7:30 at night?”
“You have such a smart mouth, you know that? You just can’t help yourself. You have to have the last word.” We were toe to toe now.
“Oh I think that honour is actually one that you deserve – not me. What about last year? In September? Who had the last word then, hey? Did I challenge your stupid decision? No. I gave in for the sake of the code – just like I always do.”
“If life is so tough for you then why are you still here?”
“Sometimes I ask myself that very question…”
“Well let me make it easy for you…I’m done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m done. I’m done with being treated like dirt and disrespected by a wannabe like you.”
“Wannabe? Puhlease! Surely you can do better than that.”
“You want better, baby? I’ll give you better. It’s over.”
“If you walk out that door don’t think for a moment that you’re coming back…”
“Fine by me.”
“I mean it. You can’t say that…that…stuff and then just expect to walk back in tomorrow morning and everything is back to normal…I mean it this time.” He threw me a withering look as he grabbed his jacket and walked out the door for the game.
Oh man. This is ridiculous. We’re going to get divorced over the code. I can’t help it if I like AFL more than Rugby League.

Let There Be...

It wasn’t the light that drew me; it was the darkness beyond. A moth mesmerised, I sought you. Your light was easy to see. It was what you wanted me to see, what I wanted to see. But I knew the darkness that lay within. I pretended I didn’t know, sheltered my wings from the night – but I knew.

I was content to flutter around your halo, comfortable in the eerie glow you cast. But the darkness was always there, always encroaching, always enveloping. I was stronger than the darkness…or so I thought.

Why did I keep coming back again and again, knowing what I knew? Was I that weak, that desperate that a true angel of light I would not seek? But you needed me. You needed my light. Without my light you would be enveloped in darkness.

And I needed your darkness. For neither was complete without the other. What is a moth without a flame, night without day, good without evil? When I was with you I could believe that the darkness belonged to you and you alone. I could disown my blackness, make myself one dimensional, golden, safe. It was you who was dangerous. It was you who was dark. And beside your darkness I shone all the more. My brightness was only enhanced by your shadow. So in your shadow I dwelled – by choice or by design I know not.

Darkness has a way of diminishing the sum of the light. The strength, the energy, the power required to shine into the abyss drained away. I became disenchanted, oblivious to your light. I no longer just saw the darkness hovering beyond the light; the light itself dimmed and the darkness grew. I began to lose my soul, myself, my light to you. I had resisted my own darkness for so long, I had not the strength to resist yours as well. I was drowning.

I was lost to the darkness. The light that shone from me was willed into existence. It no longer shone from my soul, but from my consciousness. I still shone, that is true. But not quite so brightly, not quite so easily. I was light, but not authentic light.
At the point of despair I realised that I too had darkness beyond the light. The grief, the sorrow, the loss. I didn’t want the darkness, I didn’t understand the darkness. It surely could not be mine?

But until I claimed the darkness as my own I would never again rightfully possess the light within. It was hard and scary and painful. Darkness threatened to drown me once more – this time my own. The sheer depth within was terrifying. I couldn’t fight anymore. And so, I surrendered to the darkness within.

Surrender brought unexpected relief. The less I struggled, the looser the grip. The darkness was retreating, backing away, diminishing at my acceptance, my validation. It no longer needed to prove itself, to shout to be heard. It was content with a whisper.

And laws of nature directed the void it left behind be filled. It could only be filled by something equally as powerful. And thus the light returned. Slowly at first, it waited to be claimed, to be adopted once more as my own. The light and dark respectfully sought balance between themselves, the overlap defining who I was. There were no outbreaks of violence, no power struggle, no sabotage. Just a simple acknowledgement that one could not exist without the other. The light needed the darkness to shine; the dark needed the light to lurk. There were shadows and shades of grey, neither of which were possible without both darkness and light.

And so, dear one I am no longer simply drawn to the darkness beyond your light. Nor am I hypnotised by the light that emanates from within your being. Instead I am aware that you are both light and dark, shadow and shade, truth and lie. I have learned to celebrate your light, but not deny your darkness, embrace your golden embers and acknowledge your blackness. But I have learned something even more important, more precious. No longer do I need your darkness to shine brightly. I have my own. I too am darkness and light, shadow and shade, truth and lie. For until I claimed the darkness, I could not claim the light. My darkness. My light. My authentic light. Like a moth to a flame I am drawn to you. Let there be light.

Glow

I could hear the glow across the room. The luminescence caressed my ears and drew me in. There was a warmth, a gentle crackle that invited me to search, to look. I knew she was here. Somewhere.

The crowded room was a hub-bub of noise, a gaggle of words and movement. It was hard to see her. She was just a waif, a will-o-wisp that melted into the cacophony. I had seen her once before, but like so many others she was just a faceless name, a nameless face. In a place where the days blended into one long nightmare, it was hard to distinguish just one soul.

“Number 342987,” I called. The line in front of me shuffled forward en masse, a human caterpillar that never seemed to run out of legs. No response. Louder this time. “Number 342987.” The desert of faces stared back at me blankly. I held up a sign with the numbers clearly displayed. Worried brows compared their page to mine, until finally, an old man appeared. He was hunched and wrinkled from a thousand days in the sun.

I motioned for him to approach. “Number 342987?” He nodded and handed me his grey card, crumpled from the long journey. I examined him and his card closely. There was no date of birth. And so I bestowed upon him the first gift he would receive from my country – a birthday. April 16. I studied him more closely. Age was hard to determine when a life had been marred by this much tragedy, this much pain. 1945. That would do. “You’re 63,” I said with a smile. He nodded, clearly not understanding.

He watched nervously as I reached for my stamp. Side by side, they were the determinants of destiny. One signified freedom, or at least the chance of freedom. The other was a death warrant. We never said as such, but we knew. His English was non-existent, but every traveller in this room knew the difference between life and death, the red stamp and the green one. I emblazoned ACCEPTED across his card and returned it to him. His toothless smile emerged from its hiding place as he ran his fingers over his precious card. The green ink smudged proudly on his fingers.

I motioned him away from my desk. The human caterpillar shuffled forward once more. “Number 342988.”

The next day continued as did the last, with little to bring to my attention except the depth of need, the depth of sorrow, the depth of desperation experienced by the numbers in front of me. Immersed in the mechanics of stamping red, green, green red, red, red, green, I was suddenly jolted. She was here again.

It took me a few seconds to find her. She was small and gangly. Her face was not dissimilar to the thousand other faces I saw everyday. She was an urchin, a waif. Nobody’s child. In the weeks I had been here I had never seen her with anyone. No adult had caressed her, no child had played with her. She had simply appeared each day, then disappeared back to the camp in the evening.
I placed a sign on my desk and stood up to stretch. Break time. It was a little earlier than usual but I was compelled to find out more about her. Snaking my way through the quagmire of people, I reached the point where I had last seen her just a few moments before. But she was gone. The glow was testament to her presence, but she herself had vanished. I ran my fingers through the remaining particles, their soft timbre welcomed by my ears. I thought I caught a glimpse of her ragged dress and strained to look, but she was gone.

The processing continued unabated. The line was never shorter than it was on that first day. The decisions became mechanical, detached, unimportant. The pleading eyes of those who presented themselves did not need interpretation. The eyes shouted, screamed for mercy. “Please!” they all begged. “Please let me stay.” But there were quotas, there were numbers, there were rules. Occasionally I wasn’t sure and would call over the uniformed superintendent for clarification. One mother attempted to stifle the wracking cough of her small child, but I had heard enough. DENIED. Drops of blood dripped from the page, tears mingled with red ink. A small part of me winced, knowing what their combined fate would be, but it was out of my hands. I was just doing my job.

I took to eating my lunch in the windowed room above the gallery. I wanted to see her again. Sure enough, my vantage point offered a commanding view. And I did see her. She glided amongst her fellow refugees with a grace and gentleness I had rarely seen. No-one spoke to her, no-one claimed her. I don’t think anyone even saw her. She was just another lost child. There were so many, they themselves were unable to differentiate one from the other.

Her pitiful dress grew more ragged each day. She moved with her hands in her pockets and through the rotting strands of material I could see her fists were clenched tight. She was holding on to something tight. The glow. It wasn’t always present. Sometimes I had to look twice just to make sure it was her – without the glow I was uncertain. But then I would see it. The glow. Just a glimmer sometimes, at other times a bright burning flame. I appeared to be the only one surprised – perhaps I was the only one who noticed.

I came across her once, on my walk from the lunchroom to my desk. For the briefest of moments she was there, in front of me. Involuntarily, I drew breath. My gasp caught her attention and for a split second, I held her gaze. She didn’t smile, she didn’t speak. But in her eyes I it was unmistakeable. The glow. And then she was gone. It happened so quickly I began to wonder if I had dreamed the whole thing.

But then the lines began to diminish. The ships stopped appearing. The people stopped coming. Word had spread that red was as common as the blood that had been spilled. Pirates captained their ships to other ports, in hope of finding a pasture of lush green. They wouldn’t find that here.

The human caterpillar shrunk, and shrivelled until at last there were just a few stragglers left. The processors were sent home, one by one, until it was just I who remained. In the end, it was me…and her.

I had run out of numbers. She was not on my list. But still she stood in front of me, eyes defiant. In the weeks, no months, that I had been here I had never seen her stand still. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She was exposed, she was raw. And she was in front of me.
I motioned for her to come forward. Her tight fists bulged in her threadbare pockets. The luminescent dust decorated her skirt.

I motioned again. “What is your name?” I whispered as she came close. She took a deep breath and drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. Shoulders back, those eyes flamed at me once more.

“El ayami per Tala,” she said. I had learned enough not to need an interpreter. Tala. My name is Hope.

A Frog In My Throat

Hi everyone

Just wanted to get some feedback on a short story I've written for kids. Imagine you're a 10-year-old boy and see if you find this amusing...I'd love to hear from you.

A Frog in My Throat

It was just another ordinary day. I woke up in the same house, in the same street, in the same bed as I always did. But then things got weird. Really weird. Like you-won’t-believe-what-I’m-about-to-tell-you-but-it-really-happened kind of weird. It was the day I got a frog in my throat. Seriously. I really got a frog in my throat.
It all started when Mum came in to wake me up. She knocked on my door, opened it and said a cheery, “Good morning, Gilbert,” as she threw back the curtains. I went to say a sleepy good morning back, but nothing came out. Mum glanced at me as she walked out of my room and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? Got a frog in your throat?”
At that exact moment, I really did feel a lump in my throat. A wriggling lump. A lump that had arms and legs. I started to panic as the lump crawled up my throat, tickled past my tonsils and hopped onto my tongue. I opened my mouth wide to scream, but nothing came out…except a little, green frog.
My little sister, Debra, happened to be walking past my room at that exact moment and caught sight of the frog hopping out my door. “Mum!” she yelled from the top of the stairs. “Gilbert had a frog in his room!” She dobbed on me every chance she got.
“Gilbert!” I knew I was in trouble from the way Mum said my name, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. What a way to start the day.
Things got worse over breakfast. While Mum had her back turned, I glared at Debra. I was so distracted I didn’t hear Dad come in from his morning walk. He must have asked me a question, because the next thing I knew he was standing behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “What’s the matter, Gilbert? A cat got your tongue?”
Before I knew what had happened, there was something in my mouth again. But this time instead of being cold and slimy, it was soft and fluffy. It wriggled a lot and had really sharp teeth and claws. Worst of all, it was attached to my tongue! Debra’s eyes were as big as saucers. There was a cat attached to the end of my tongue!
After about five seconds, the cat relaxed its grip and dropped into my cereal bowl with a splash, before high-tailing it out the kitchen door. Debra was still staring, her mouth wide open, with a spoonful of cereal suspended in front of her. Mum hadn’t seen the cat. Phew! But she did notice that I’d made a mess with my cereal. “For goodness sake, Gilbert! Please be a bit more careful.” She looked at Debra, frozen like a statue. “And hurry up, Debra. Finish your cereal or you’ll miss the bus.” Debra opened her mouth to dob on me again, but was so surprised she closed it and didn’t say a word.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Hopefully at school things would be normal again. I got dressed in record time, brushed my teeth for twice as long as usual and grabbed my lunch off the bench on the way out. “Bye Mum!” I called, as the front door shut behind me with a thud.
Van and Thomas were waiting at the bus stop for me as usual. The bus was running late and Mr Howard, the bus driver was anxious to get everyone on board. “Hurry up, you lot,” he grumbled. Van and Thomas got on ahead of me, while I fumbled around in my bag looking for my ticket. I knew it was in there somewhere…among the old chip packets, the half eaten sandwich and the crumpled up note I forgot to give Mum.
Everyone was on the bus now, except me. I stood on the top step, still searching through my bag. Mr Howard glared at me. “I said hurry up! I don’t know, you young people today. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”
As he craned his neck out the window waiting for a break in the traffic, I felt the now familiar feeling. Oh no, it was happening again! There, on the top step of the bus, I turned into a brick wall. Row after row of red bricks cemented themselves around me until I was completely covered. The noisy bus suddenly became very quiet and everyone stared straight at me. Van leant forward to speak. I saw his lips moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I guess brick walls don’t have ears. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the brick wall vanished and I was left standing there with my bus ticket in my left hand and a single red brick in my right. Mr Howard looked at me again. “For goodness sake, put your ticket in the machine and go and sit down,” he ordered. “And put that brick away. The things you kids have in your school bags never ceases to amaze me…”
I mumbled a quiet ‘sorry’ as I shoved the brick in my bag and went and sat in the first seat I could find. Nobody spoke a word to me for the rest of the trip.
At school I waited by myself outside the classroom until the bell went. I was too scared to look at anyone or say a word. Three weird events already today – what else could go wrong?
Sitting at my desk, I tried to concentrate on what Miss Walker was saying. We were in the middle of maths – my favourite subject – but today I just couldn’t focus. I was supposed to be copying down multiplication problems from the board. Instead I kept coughing, trying to get rid of the fur ball stuck in my throat from the cat who got my tongue. I also noticed that my jumper was covered in little bits of cement from the brick wall, so I quietly picked at my sleeves. “Gilbert, will you get back to work please,” said Miss Walker, frowning. She’d already spoken to me twice before.
“Sorry,” I replied, as I tried to concentrate on problem number six. I wriggled around on my chair and took a sip out of my water bottle, trying to get comfortable. Miss Walker looked at me disapprovingly.
“I’m not sure what’s gotten into you today, Gilbert. You are normally the first one finished.” She turned to walk to the whiteboard and said over her shoulder, “It seems to me that you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I groaned. This was not going to be good.