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.

Out of Concrete

By Asche Keegan

Across the Earth gardens grew and ivy trailed across long lost walls while forests rose and fell with the passing of the planet around the sun. Fertile soil reaped fair results, but little grew where men had domesticated.

But in one place, the Moon and a Rose loved a Girl, and the Girl and the Rose loved the Moon, and the Moon and the Girl loved the Rose, and all three lived in paradise together.

One night, when only the Moon was awake, the Girl ran out from her house and through the bushes that lined the home's exterior. Plants scratched at her legs, coming awake from their slumber, but when they saw only the child, they returned to their dreams. The Girl had come out to visit the Moon and the Rose, but the Rose bush had caught a disease.

They held a whispered conversation, and the Girl saw a Seed beside the ailing bush. She picked it up and whispered to it in turn. "How are you today, Seed?"

The Seed seemed to glow a little brighter in her hand, as if smiling at her.

It lay nestled in her clammy hands, and she grubbed about in the dark for the perfect place for it.

“Should I plant you near the well?”

Again, the Seed seemed to smile.

She trod towards the well near her parents’ house, too young to read the signs of warning. Besides, she had always wanted to explore the well, so there she ran during the night, leaping up onto the side and peering down into the dark.

“Rose, you couldn’t grow down there,” she said to the Seed. Despite her youth, even the Girl knew that all things needed love and light to grow. Near the side of the well was a patch of concrete with a crack filled in with dirt and grass. Content, the Girl knelt beside the well and pulled out the weeds. Soon, she had created the perfect cranny to nestle a seed, and she clumsily buried it in the dirt.

“Now all you need is a little bit of water and you'll grow right up,” she said, remembering her lessons from school.

She turned to the well, where a bucket dangled from a fraying rope. The Girl leaned over the chasm to untangle it. Her stubby arms could not quite reach the edge of the bucket, so she leaned a little further—just far enough to lose her balance.

She toppled in, and even the Seed started awake with her aching scream cut short. All the world fell silent and wept for her loss, watering the Seed's nook with tears. Because the Girl who had given the Seed a home had died, the Seed chose to live.

Thus, the Seed grew. Night became day, then days turned back to nights. The well was closed and barricaded, and the original owners moved away. Weeds covered the Seed, closing in and cutting off its food sources and nutrients. The Seed huddled away in its shell, waiting for the weeds to fall back. Finally, at the next rainfall, it shoved through its casing and plunged into the soil.

It took advantage of every moment the Sun gave light and warmth, absorbing its heat from dawn to dusk. It used its stored energy to grow at night, even while all the others around it slept. Gradually, the Seed became a Sprout, and the Sprout became a Bud.

The Bud caught the attention of the Moon, for though the Moon had the pleasure of looking down on every garden in the world, he still missed the Girl, and looked after what she had planted. One clear night, the Moon reached out a special moonbeam to the Bud, pulling it from its slumber.

“Rose, why haven't you given up yet?”

The Bud looked drowsily upward, caught by the entrancing light. “Why would I give up? How could I give up? I am watered. I am warmed. I live.”

“You grow in concrete,” the Moon pointed out. “You will be cut away before you grow your first flower.” The Moon said these words with no hint of malice, but rather curiosity to the Bud’s motives. Yet, the words seemed to pull the Bud from its slumber, and it looked up, shaking its head.

“It matters not what I grow in, just that I grow.”

And so the Moon sighed, wishing that the Bud would not meet the defeat so clearly evident in its future. “Then I will help you,” the Moon said. “Some have said my light holds magic. Some have said it brings joy. Regardless, of the weeds in this garden, it will shine only on you, and it will bless you above all else. It will bless you because I loved the Girl who planted you, and I see you loved her too.”

The Bud hummed, and the light of the Moon pumped quicksilver through its veins. By dawn, the Bud had begun to unfold, becoming the flower it was meant to be.

The other plants did not care to grow as the Bud did, and they took turns jeering and comparing. “It’s a good thing you’re growing in concrete. It means you have less weeds trying to stop you from climbing up. You know you are just going to die, right? There’s no space for your roots."

The Bud paid the other flowers no heed, and when the Realtor arrived, the Bud paid him no attention either. Yet when the Realtor came back in the afternoon, dragging a lawn mower behind him, the garden cried out for mercy. He cleared the plants growing around the well—all the weeds, dandelions, and even the unfolding Bud. Cut down to its roots, the unfurling flower lost all its progress.

That night, when the Moon came back around to the Bud’s crack in the concrete, only darkness loomed where the Bud had been. The rest of the garden had also been destroyed, and in despair, the Moon flooded the garden with his light, searching in vain for the one who had also loved the Girl.

Eventually, the Moon saw the spot the Bud had been, watching the seedling push itself further out of the ground once more.

“Rose, why don't you weaken?” the Moon asked.

The Rose wobbled in the night, but almost stood an inch taller under the Moon's gaze. “I may be weak, but my roots are strong.”

“Your roots are thin and buried in concrete.”

“There’s a crack in the concrete. I made it,” the Rose hummed.

“You…made a crack in the concrete? But grass can not push past stone.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m more than grass. My roots are rocks hardened by grief and my stem is willpower embodied."

“Then grow, Rose,” the Moon said, and he poured out all his light to the Rose, which stretched upward and flourished.

That night, the Rose grew. And the next day, while the rest of the garden moaned, the Rose continued upward, sucking in the nutrients from the ground around it, reaching past the crack in the concrete and pushing forward.

By the time the Realtor returned, a solitary rose soared high, a wild survivor in the midst of tragedy. This time, the Realtor brought others with him, showing off the well as a decorative display, but the Wife seemed more interested in the Rose.

“It’s growing from the concrete,” she mentioned to her Husband.

“Like us,” he replied.

Every day the Wife and the Husband would take turns coming out to the Rose and nurturing it, watering it, weeding the surrounding grass and helping it grow. The Rose began to love the family, humming along to their whispered conversations around the flowers.

One day the Wife started crying, hands plunged into the soil around her. Her Husband held her and comforted her. “She will come one day, and when she does, we'll name her Rose after you.”

The next time the Moon came down to converse with the Rose, he found it fully abloom, despite its odd lodging in the ground.

“I see you found some caretakers,” the Moon said.

The Rose hummed its familiar song and bobbed in the cascade of light. “Yes, but you were my first. My mentor, my light, my hope in the darkness.”

“Don't forget about the Girl,” the Moon replied.

“I miss her," the Rose said.

“She will come again,” the Moon promised. “Already, the Moon could hear the planning in the house, the promise of another life to come.

Two weeks later, when the excited shouts of parents to be erupted, the Rose grew even taller, waiting for the Girl to arrive.

When she came, she looked a couple years older than the Girl had been. Her parents taught her how to hold the roses, taught her how to use the well even though they kept it covered, and taught her how to love the Rose, which grew and grew with the Girl throughout all her years.

And the Moon and the Rose loved the Girl, and the Girl and the Rose loved the Moon, and the Moon and the Girl loved the Rose, and they lived happily ever after.

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Waiting Here

By Asche Keegan

He sat alone on an abandoned park bench, the first flakes of snow dusting the top of his frozen ice cream cone. Well aware of the askance looks he received from those walking by, he licked away the mint chocolate chip—the one source of color in the otherwise dreary world. He shivered, as was to be expected, and pulled his coat closer around himself.

For the last 364 days he had sat here, a brutal test to his resilience and his motivation. Only if I can make it to the end will I invite her, he had said. He had loved her once, two marriages, forty years, and a war ago. He had not thought of her since without love and regret in his heart.

“Abe?” her voice rang behind him.

He turned, at once caught up in her aged beauty, crinkles in her once-smooth skin, gray hairs peeking through the black.

“You look different.” Yet, somehow, he loved her even more.

“As do you. Although I believe time has been kinder to you than I,” she joked.

“Nonsense, you look beautiful.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized his error; he had belied himself immediately. “Sorry, I apologize,” he scrambled.

“No, no, it’s fine…thank you.” She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out. “Do you want to go inside? It’s kind of cold out here, and I see you have an…ice cream cone?”

“It’s a tradition,” he said, rising from the park bench and walking with her towards a nearby restaurant.

“Every time I have sat here, I have bought a cone of ice cream, and on today, the one-year anniversary of when I began, I felt it only fitting to treat myself one last time.”

“Congratulations! It takes commitment to come out here every day. Unfortunately, it’s a more somber anniversary for me—my late husband passed away last year on this date.”

He knew that of course, just like he knew mint chocolate chip was her favorite flavor, and winter her favorite season, and the restaurant they were walking to was her favorite location. He had practiced how to reply to a statement such as this nearly a thousand times, but now the words escaped him, and he mustered out a scratchy, “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”

“Life happens, and I’m moving on, you know?”

The conversation fell into silence, before she asked about his day and proceeded into chatter about the mundane. The two of them had lunch, and the conversation passed in a blur, every moment a dynamic exchange that left them choking over their glasses.

“Do you remember when Emilio put soap into the fountain and got foam all over the commons?”

“Yes! He was always such a jokester!”

Yet, about an hour and a half later, when the waiter had stopped coming by and the giggles had fallen into a relaxed silence, she began subtly gathering her things.

Desperate to prolong his time with her, he cast about for something left to say, but had nothing but the truth. “You know, the real reason I sat out there every day,” he began, “was because I could barely see your apartment complex if I squinted.”

She fell still, eyes fixated on her frozen hands. He sensed he had ruined everything, but he had no choice now but to bumble on.

“365 days ago, I wanted to go to you immediately, but I stopped myself, saying I didn’t deserve you. I vowed to myself that only if I could sit outside in all the bitter elements for a full year would I then reconnect with you. I still don’t deserve you, but I know now this is not a passing faze and never will be. And I will respect your decision, whatever you make, but I want you to know that I lo—” he froze, and as her face shot up he cast around for another word, “—love spending time with you, and I will be your friend no matter what.”

Her gaze returned to her hands. “So that’s why you always sat out there. I always wondered but didn’t have the nerve to ask.”

She met his eyes, and he knew what she would say before she said it. “You’re a good man, Abe. Thank you for letting me know how you feel, and I admire your courage and bravery to talk about it in such a candid manner with me. But I loved my husband—I still do, even as he lies dead in a cold grave. I fear that if I moved on so soon, I would not be doing him justice.”

So soon? He had months in excruciating heat and cold waiting here for her, and it was too soon?

“I understand,” he said instead.

“Thank you…I have to go now, but it was good to see you again. Maybe we could do this again some time.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice."

“Okay…bye? See you later, Abe.”

“Bye.” He watched her leave—just as he had the last day of high school all those years ago, a joyous wave behind her and a skip in her step.

“See you later, Abe!” she had called.

“Tough luck, friend,” the waiter said, coming up beside him and drying his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Yeah, a Tetravis please.”

He closed his eyes and could still see her there, hear her voice, feel her hand in his. So soon… But for him, he had waited not one year, but forty.

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"Blurry Photographs" (Journaling)

By Asche Keegan

Some say love is invisible. It’s not.

It hides in the way two people look at one another, the way they talk and the lilting of their voice whether they stand in person or call across great divides. It shines in the teasing laughter and the caring acts that trace ways across the constellations of the unimaginable reaches of the human mind.

You can see love in the faces of those who have confided their heart and soul with one another—who have been left bleeding to death and stitched back together by the person who they love. The smiles are larger, the touches are gentler, and even in photos it seems like the edges of hardship and reality have been blurred just a little when they’re standing next to each other.

Some say love lasts forever. It doesn’t.

In fact, I used to think my parents never truly loved each other, but old pictures seem to tell a different story. In pictures, everyone is laughing, smiling, hugging and standing close to each other. The smiles are larger, the touches are gentler, everyone seems so loving and caring, and more than anything else the people feel like family.

The pictures show a family that hasn’t yet seen the trials of the world and splintered apart beneath them, unable to survive through sickness and in health. The world has twisted their features, and now even in the happiest of pictures you can see the forced attempts at a smile, the misery beneath every gaze, the heartache that evolved so quickly from the love that once flourished everywhere.

Acts of service and words of assurance have become a thing of the past, and the world that once stood aside before their love has kept on doing what it does best—dishing out hardships and strife before humanity has time to recover from the last challenge life threw at it.

Yet here in pictures preserved on digital profiles of twelve years ago, you can finally see why your parents have kept trying—hoping to salvage what is left of the love that existed so long ago. The message is hauntingly beautiful, but perhaps it is a warning of what is to come.

Is love worth it? I don’t know.

What should you do if nearly all love is doomed to fail? What can you do when no matter how strong you build your bonds, they will splinter apart and leave you with only a harmful shell of what was? How can you love when your own doubt holds you back?

These questions and a thousand others just like it plague my existence. I sit here sobbing, listening to the loud voices of beautiful children in digital videos, bemoaning the gradual deterioration of happiness and the establishment of hard lines into the faces of children and parents alike.

Old pictures share hope and tragedy, and the comment sections echo of a patient, happy life that once was vibrantly lived. So be wary oh lover, for perhaps the world will gape in wonder at the beauty of your devotion, but more than likely it will shudder beneath the weight of your heartache and burdens, before moving on ambivalently.