One of the Ransomed

Isaiah 35:

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God.

Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, “Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.”

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy. For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it. It shall belong to those who walk on the way; even if they are fools, they shall not go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

~ ~ ~

Trumpets echo over the desert, proclaiming the name of the Lord of Hosts for the dirt and the sand. Not a drop of water in sight, yet at the sound, the ground explodes with green life, dormant seeds coming alive at the name of their Creator. The grasses grew around the outline of a white road, and by the time the trumpet players arrived, they walked into a full jungle—swept with hundreds of streams and brooks. Rejoicing, they knelt by the waters and drank as if the welling springs—sand mere moments before—were themselves an instrument of pleasure.

Arising once more, they lifted their trumpets and bowed to the radiant figure walking around and beside them, lifting a hand to salute their King as He passed. Then, lifting their instruments again, they played. Singers marched beside them, yet their song had become a medley of shouts and laughter and off-key screeches and beautifully strung sopranos. The cacophony of noise echoed about the hills and caterwauled through the jungles, so that even the animals joined in, adding their song to what counted for a melody among the King’s children.

The parade continued. Those were once lame now leapt like a deer, and those who had been mute sang beautifully. Reeds and rushes came up around them on every edge of the road, and the gathered children ran in and around them, laughing as they rolled in their softness. Together, they delighted in the shade from the sweeping trees.

Each looked as if they had journeyed far—weathered by various conditions and now-healed maladies—yet not one person suffered. Even the aged laughed and shouted like the children, giggling together with the freedom of their youth. Some even skipped, turning and dancing about as if they could not restrain themselves a moment longer—as if something within them had finally been set free.

Ahead in the neighboring jungle, a lion roared in response to the trumpets, a terrible sound, yet the parade did not halt, nor even pause in fear. It carried on triumphantly, and when the lion appeared around the bend of the white road, not even the children cried out, for there was no fear to be found.

Instead, they chanted as one, “Be strong; fear not! Behold your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.”

The lion roared again, settling back onto its haunches to stalk the road, and seeing one of the little ones was lagging behind the others, he snarled and leapt towards it. Yet, as if an invisible boundary protected the road, the lion fell short against the road’s edges. It cried in pain, nursing a wounded paw.

It limped away, and the Protected renewed their shouts of praise and thanksgiving, rejoicing in the one who had rescued and redeemed them, setting them on the path of righteousness. When other attackers lingered, attempting to snipe them off the road, none reigned victorious, and still the parade marched on.

When it had traveled far, the road wound from desolate deserts to a city filled with desolate hearts. Hundreds of people crowded about the road, reaching out with awe, wondering at the green growth sprouting from the sands beneath them, the singing, the laughter, the freedom.

Yet when they tried to join the others on the road, they found themselves stopped the same way the lion had been. Most turned away in dismay. Others resented the parade. Some longed for the road and the safety it provided.

However, only one remained to ask. He followed the parade as far as he could, finally managing to get the attention of the group near the back. “Pray tell me, why do you sing so?” he asked.

The woman who turned must have been ancient, yet her face shone like the stars. She bounded towards him, eager in her delight. “My son, we have been ransomed! We head home to Zion victorious, walking the Way of Holiness!”

“You were slaves?”

“To the evil within us,” she asserted. The young man puzzled over the idea.

“Who saved you?” he asked.

“Our Father, our Redeemer, Our Rescuer, the One who knit us together in our mothers’ wombs. The One who has known us and perfected us. The One who writes our story!” Her praise continued, and a strange thing began to happen. As she lifted up the name of her Savior, her voice joined the song that echoed about her, and the ebullience swept also through the young man.

The lion roared again, and the man flinched. “I want to go with you.” He tried to step onto the road, but he could not. “How can I join you?”

The woman grinned, and though she lacked her front teeth, he had never felt more alive than in the face of it. “The unclean shall not pass on this highway. It belongs only to those who walk on the Way, and none shall go astray upon it. The Redeemed will walk here and the Ransomed of the Lord. And my son, you must be made clean.”

The young man looked up and around, soon noting a spring that had just sprung up, still bubbling. As the trumpeters knelt to drink, he ran forwards. “I want to be clean!” he shouted, diving into the water. He scrubbed at his skin, ran his hands through his hair, throwing back the water, until the droplets cascading into his eyes were replaced by a set kinder than any he had seen.

The face he peered into glowed, and he knew he had found the King.

“My son, will you let me save you?”

The man nodded.

“Will you let me transform you through my love?”

He nodded again, scarcely able to look at the One before him.

“Will you follow me?” And with those words, he saw the magnitude of the decision. It would take everything from him. He would need every bit of strength he could muster for the journey ahead, and it wouldn’t be enough. But when he faltered, the King would carry him forward again.

He said yes, barely more than mouthing the words, then again, a triumphant shout that echoed as loudly as any of the others.

Then the King smiled and swept him into a hug. It hadn’t been what he’d imagined being clean would feel like, but it transformed him. Hundreds of layers fell away, leaving him feeling as if he had just been born—as if he had been dead and was now alive. When he pulled away from the King, he too had become radiant.

He leaped forward to step upon the road, but the King lifted a hand to stop him. Confused and dismayed, the young man looked up into that kindly face and asked, “But I don’t understand? Don’t I get to walk the Way of Holiness too?”

And the King smiled and said, “Yes, you will. But it is not yet your time. Go now and tell the others in your home of who I am and listen for the Spirit to come to you. And then, when it is your time, I will come to find you, and we will march on this road together—you and I—as we journey home.”

With a final clasp about the back, the King smiled and strode onward, the singers and dancers falling into place around Him. The young man watched for a long moment, yearning with something he could not discern, before turning and racing back to his home to tell everyone of the love and joy he had witnessed.

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Bottled Up

By Asche Keegan

“You might as well come in,” I say. “I’ve thought about every possible ramification of your coming, and I’ve determined I can no longer deny your existence outside my door. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t inviting in a ghost. Not that those exist, of course, but I’m sure you know what I mean.”

He coughs, stooping in and glancing around. Dust and cobwebs cling to every wall, and a broom lies abandoned in the corner of the room. Random objects clutter every desk, each also covered with the dust and grime of time. His gaze rests on the ceiling though, where glass bottles swirling with multicolored liquids are taped to nearly every crevice of the roof.

“It leaks sometimes,” I say. “But don’t worry, there’s bottles in your room too, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”

He nods, then asks, “Do you live here?”

“Have for years.”

He looks around some more, surveying His new home.

“Well, are you going to come in?” I ask, gesturing with the door. “I decided in your favor, didn’t I? You don’t have to be so reticent.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. What, are you a vampire or something?” I say it like it’s a joke, but it falls flat, and He merely smiles and steps inside.

It happens so quickly. Thunder rolls, the room trembles, and above me, every bottle taped to the ceiling shatters at once.

Coming down, the glass cuts me in every way, and I instinctively sink into a defensive crouch to wait it out. Blood soaks my shoulders, but it’s the bottled liquid that stings, sizzling in the wounds. I bite back a cry, on the verge of tears, but I refuse to cry in front of Him. Eventually, I risk a glance at Him.

He’s just standing there, unfazed, offering me His hand and pulling me to my feet. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

He looks worried, rooting around in His bag. “I’ve got some bandages in here, hold still.”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, panicking. “Don’t touch me. Did you do that?”

The emotions are coming in now, and this is the part I hate the most. It’s clouding my judgment, blanketing my actions in irrationality, pulling apart every carefully chosen word and argument.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. You can drop your stuff in your room. And after that, you might as well help me put my bottles back up. After all, if you’re going to live here, you might as well make yourself useful,” I say.

Yet later, even as I’m balancing on the top rung, stretching over three or four different items to affix my bottles to the ceiling, he doesn’t help. Doesn’t even hold the ladder.

He does sweep up the glass though.

A few days go by, and we form an uneasy truce. We don’t really talk much. He stays in His for the most part, and I stay in mine, coming out only to change the bottles when they start filling up too much.

Then I decide that if we’re going to live together, I might as well get to know Him, so we start talking. He proposes questions that exercise my imagination. We debate spiritual intricacies and life choices. Morals and ethics. I go for the middle ground, He for the black and white. And throughout it all, he challenges and delights my mind.

And it is through my mind that He reaches my heart. My roof starts leaking more, but it’s a purple liquid I’ve never seen before. Once, I stretch my hand under the leak, just to see what it feels like, and it is the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever experienced. I don’t really know how to respond, so I shy away, and I reinforce the tape and the bottles to make sure it stops leaking into my house.

Sometimes, He comes in and dusts, and I watch him, confused.

“Why are you dusting?”

“It’s dirty, and I’m cleaning it,” He responds.

“It’ll just get dirty again, you know. What reason is there to cleaning?”

He just shrugs, and I leave him to His work, baffled. Afterwards though, as I linger in those places, I run my fingers over the clean brass, wondering why I never thought to dust before.

Yet somehow, resisting every step of the way, I learn to love this stranger in my house in a deeper than words sort of way. If He even goes for a walk, I look forward anxiously to His return. He helps me with everything around the house except changing the bottles, though He’ll sometimes hold the ladder to make sure I don’t get hurt.

It gets to the point where I wait up for him, where I’ll get up early to seek him out or we’ll stay up talking long into the night. One such time, I whispered to him, looking more to the stars than to him, “I’d do anything for you. I’m all Yours.”

And He said, “Anything?”

“Anything,” I responded.

“All mine?”

“All Yours.”

He smiled.

Then one day, He walks in as I’m sweeping, and again, every bottle above me shatters. As it slices into my back, I fall apart, screaming. The familiar pain burns in old scars, drenching me in the sticky-sweet smell of blood and emotions. But this time, it aches and burns more than ever before, the collected purple stinging every mark and bruise.

He runs to me and picks me up, carrying me to safety while purple rain continues to gush. I start crying, fighting against Him as He bandages my cuts. “Stop, I need to stop it,” I say, but He doesn’t let me run away until my wounds are covered. I stagger from my couch, limping back to my ladder, grabbing more bottles to plug the holes.

“Why are you trying so hard to keep it out?” He asks.

I’m crying, trying to hold on to some semblance of logic, and it’s abandoning me in droves. “None of that belongs in here,” I say. “It’s ruining my carpet. It’s horrible and smells disgusting.”

He glances at my carpet, and I follow. It’s odd, but in tears, I see it how He must have seen it: ripped, tattered, stained. I look around the rest of the house too, at walls once covered in cobwebs, ornaments once decorated in dust. Glimmering lightbulbs shine where my musty chandelier hung, and the room feels almost cozy. What once was dry and austere is now cozy—almost alive, even when dripping purple.

“The liquid isn’t what cuts you,” He comments. “It’s the glass.”

“It never used to crack like this before you came along,” I say, angry from the red liquid seeping over my shoulders from the leaks. “I was doing just fine before you came along, destroying my house, changing everything. Quit breaking my bottles!”

Yet, in memories, these bottles have shattered many times, carving the same scars deeper into my back every time. Every inch aches from miles of pain and maps marked far beneath my skin.

“I used to play in the rain,” I say. “I used to bask in it.”

“Why don’t you still?” He asks. I teeter on my ladder, and He holds it for me, ready to catch me if I fall.

“It hurt.” I think to the first time blood seemed to seep through the ceiling, pouring around me, scarring and burning my skin. I screamed, running away, but my entire roof was leaking, pouring everywhere.

It happened again and again, leaking nothing but pain, betrayal, hatred, anger, misery, grief, regret, fear, desperation, and more. I had to contain it somehow, so I made bottles, sticking them up there, taping them to the ceiling, trying to stop the rain from falling in.

“I can fix this,” I had said. “I can fix this all on my own.”

And even if the bottles got too heavy and fell over, the glass still didn’t hurt as bad as what was inside them. Sure, glass stopped the few good things too, but that was a small price to pay.

I climb down the ladder, crying, and He catches me, holding me tight.

“What do you do with the rest of the bottles?” He asks.

Wordlessly, I limp to the back room, an off-limits place. I pull the key from around my neck. It’s locked just so I can say, “I fear nothing. I regret nothing.”

Now that the rest of my house is clean, I can smell what the inside reeks of, and I wrinkle my nose, repulsed.

He pulls a string, and a single lightbulb sputters on, illuminating a room of thick shadows, dust, and cobwebs.

As far as the eye can see are rows of bottles, lined up. Each is corked and wrapped in three or four layers of plastic wrap, just like I did in chemistry labs to keep samples uncontaminated.

Each swirls with hundreds of colors, and I pluck the latest fragment of glass from my clothing and place it on the shelf next to all the orderly rows.

“There’s no organization except by time,” I say. “Just colors and bottles, all neatly contained.”

“Do you ever go back and open them?”

“Not really. Only the ones that are mostly blue and green,” I say. The colors swirl around, and only now do I notice just how rare the blue and greens are. I almost don’t ask, but I whisper to Him, “Why is there so much red?”

He doesn’t answer, merely starts trailing His fingers along the shelves. He walks halfway down the hall before pulling a specific bottle from the shelf. He takes it and three or four others and walks back to me.

“You said you would do anything for me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes, absolutely. But what does that have to do with anything?”

He takes a bottle that is almost entirely red, and He uncorks it, instantly filling the room with the sickening scent of festering pain. Before I can protest, He dumps it over my head, and it soaks through my skin, burning unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

I scream, and through it all He holds me, a vague, unseen comfort. In the first’s peak, He pours the second bottle over me, which burns even greater than the first.

“Stop! Make it stop!” I shout. But He continues, until each of the four has poured over me.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, please, please!” I weep, but He does nothing, and I am forced to face the truths I’ve hidden from for so long.

In fully embracing these emotions, the universe ends in one fell blow. I cry for the pain I have caused. I feel every regret I’ve once had. I see every way I’ve darkened the worlds of those I said I loved. I see all the hatred I’ve ever doled out, every life I’ve harmed.

It cascades endlessly, and I groan in a pain I can’t voice, my soul screaming.

And as He tries to pull me closer, I pull further away. “Stop, don’t touch me!” I shout. “It’ll just get on you too. Don’t come near me. Don’t come near me. Don’t, just don’t.”

I curl into a ball in a corner of the room, sobbing. Still, He draws near to me, and in His hand, He holds a bowl, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. He dips in His hand, and it flows white.

“You are forgiven, if only you ask,” He says.

In that white, I see His goodness, and I see my evil. I picture this house of mine He’s been living in, falling apart in every corner. It’s ruined and destroyed, covered in dust and dirt and mud. It holds nothing of note but tattered carpets and broken furniture. And somehow He’s still here.

“I can’t. Go away. Get out of my house. I don’t deserve to have you here. It’s not good enough. I’m not good enough.”

“You only need to ask.”

He waits there, crouching beside me, but I ignore him. I ignore him for days, crying over this pain, shivering in its hurt, feeling every cut and bruise with an intentionality of never before. I cry over the smallest things, each thought hitting me harder than the ones before. I think of every moment with my sisters and mourn for the love I haven’t given, for the pain I’ve caused.

Two or three weeks later, when I feel like I might be able to stand again, I turn around, thinking He must have left by now.

He’s still waiting there.

“I’m so so sorry. I can’t—I can’t express it—”

And as I struggle to form the words, He pours His bowl over my head, simply covering me in His forgiveness.

Under its weight, every red line flows away from my skin. Every orange, pink, and yellow scar, every mark left by all these bottled hurts, and every piece of shattering glass fades away.

I marvel over new skin, left spotless and mark-less.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” He says.

He stands, offering me His hand, and I take it. Together, we leave the room, and I enter a far different one than I left behind.

“You have to let the rain fall sometimes,” He says. “See, that carpet is completely ruined. We’re probably gonna need a new one. And if we’re getting new carpets, we might as well get some new armchairs too. I mean, we might as well rebuild the entire house.”

“What—what about the other bottles?” I ask.

“We’ll get to those eventually,” He replies. “Some will probably stay bottled up for longer than others. But until then, let’s maybe set the glass aside.”

“But…but the rain,” I say.

“Hmm, maybe you just need a new roof,” He says. “Besides, anything that comes in this house has got to go through me first.” He laughs, gesturing as if in a mock battle with an adversary.

The sight strikes me, and for some reason, I throw back my head and laugh in joy, and the rain leaking in feels cool and good on my spotless skin. It’s no longer weighty, but light, flowing right off my back.

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Soul Searching

By Asche Keegan

I’ve been soul searching lately, but I never thought I would find myself on the softball field, caught between a base and a pop up high in the air.

The game is tied, and the pitcher shoots me a glare through her eye makeup. I grin back, leaning onto the back of my foot. She throws the ball, and even though it is just outside the strike zone, I swing, making contact and watching it soar into the air. I can feel my soul rising alongside it, as if freed from all Earthly pursuits.

I’m a Christian; Someday I’m going up there, I think.

That’s my first thought, and them I’m racing towards first base. The coach is yelling at me to run faster, to beat the ball, so even as I touch the base I’m turning towards second.

I’m excitable, I realize, and it pushes me on, propelling my feet forward.

My teammates are screaming at me in the dugout, yelling for me to beat the ball, and I dig in my heels, running harder. As I round second, my coach is watching the ball, telling me to hustle if I want to make it to third.

I’m obstinate.

The ball’s coming towards the base, but I beat it to third, and the umpire calls me safe. The player at third sighs and throws it to the pitcher, who misses the ball.

My coach is screaming for me to stay on the bag, where it’s safe. My teammates are yelling at me to stay. Everyone on the bleachers is yelling for me to stay where I am.

But I’m ambitious,

so I take off running anyway.

I give it all I’ve got, even as the pitcher realizes what is happening and whips the ball to the catcher. I drop my knee and slide, foot slamming into the plate just as the catcher turns to tag me out.

“She’s SAFE!” the umpire cries, almost as excited as I am. I stagger to my feet, my teammates shaking their head at me even through their grins.

“The coach said he was gonna kill you,” one mentions as an aside.

But as we stream back onto the field to shake hands, I realize most of all that I’m competitive, and that probably accounts for the entire lot.

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Author's Note: So this is a rambling MESS, but it is a rambling passionate mess as well (It was three times longer before I deleted those verses... xD). It's been three days since the six hour conversation that completely changed my outlook on God and love, and I can still feel this joyous, righteous love of God filling me and shaping me.

See, I knew Him, but I didn't know where He was. For the past few months, I have been significantly struggling to create a solid connection with God. I would pray, and it would feel like I was talking to myself. Reading my Bible was as dry as a history lesson. Even before I lost my closest confidant and friend, I was struggling to find that missing piece I had forgotten with God.

What I did not understand is that I had forgotten to love.

Oversharing a bit here, but I have had love messed up for me in so many ways. In my past, cruel and abusive actions have been justified as love, and I grew to fear things done through "love." I also refused to believe that true love could exist out there in any form. Due to my own cynicism and trepidation, I continued to push love and loving people away from me, attracting mainly those who only reinforced my thought processes of "tough love," or that I was less than they were.

Yet, I came to the realization three days ago after a conversation with a fantastic friend who wants to one day become a minister, that I had completely missed the point. Christ's first two commands are to love God and love people. These are what we should prioritize above all else.

Love is not about hurting others or trying to change them into someone else.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." - 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8

I never truly understood what that verse meant until now. Now, I rejoice in awe over what God has done for me and His actions. Reading my Bible, particularly Ecclesiastes, makes me feel alive.

So that was long-winded, but I wanted to share this testimony in the hopes that some of y'all may be able to find that closeness with God again as well.

Now for the messy poem. 😅

~ ~ ~

Religion became a prison

Empty prayers every night

Freezing your daydreams due to loveless duty

Shackles pulling you down, down, down…

Your friends justified injustice

Under the name of “tough love”

And you looked around and asked,

“Is this who my God is?”

You forced yourself through routine:

Nightly prayers that feel

More like you are talking to yourself

Than to the being who knows all.

You’ve talked to others

And they say it’s lasted for years

It still hurts some, and they follow God

Because they know it’s right, not because they feel it’s right.

You’re giving up, drifting away

Losing yourself in an attempt to be

Someone other than heartless.

When you meet a messenger of God.

“Love God, love people,” he preaches to you.

You leap onto the message, asking him more,

And he lights up, his face shining

With the joy that wisdom brings.

And he tells you what you’ve forgotten.

Again and again he says, “Love God, Love people,”

Christ’s two greatest commandments,

And he sings and plays piano with the voice of an angel.

You break into tears at the sound of it,

And you feel your shackles Snap.

“Love God, Love people,” you repeat aloud.

“There is no perfect person.”

The joy of God fills you

And you understand that it is more than duty

To a fearsome God,

But LOVE and AWE for the Creator.

And the music drops,

And you lift your tear-stained face and smile.

Once more, you hear God’s voice

Whispering to you and guiding your life.

"Love God, Love People," by Danny Gokey

Matthew 22: 37-38

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Freshly Dusted

Bottled Up

By Asche Keegan

Soul Searching

By Asche Keegan

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