is was the best of times and the worst of times. 2020.
cognitive dissonance became a daily occurrence as hidden works of darkness were revealed.
like the realization that all those narnia stories were not just stories. they were real.
c.s. lewis, in his wisdom, was gracious enough to provide word pictures of the future he saw, to warn the world what was coming.
the books became training films depicting a dark, powerful army bent on enslavement, death and destruction.
and here she was. all around her she now saw what he saw then. the pages of the books were alive.
this is not a game.
war erupted openly in the streets, driven by a relentless enemy.
headlines were grim. fires blazed across the west coast. people died. animals died.
enemies of the people openly threatened more death.
grief, heartache, mass rioting, all told unthinkable stories in this hard place.
people lost everything as arsonists and drones set fires across the land.
deep state and shadow government figures utilized direct energy weapons, the evidence caught on film.
law enforcement on every level was caught exposing their allegiance.
it was ugly.
what the headlines didn’t say was significant.
what was god doing?
he was busy.
redemption roared across the planet, freeing humanity and creation from bondage, plowing through hard places like a battering ram.
it plowed through rock walls, accessing tunnels in hollow earth.
brave patriots destroyed enemies, going in after them, rescuing the nameless, faceless ones.
they’d either been trafficked or born into the catacombs.
some were tortured, some enslaved for sex or child production. baby mills. some were used lab experiments. every story held horrific details.
some never saw the light of day until the rescue, while others never would see never see it at all.
her own hot extraction was a miracle, one she dissected almost daily.
the assignment was completed, but the was danger high. she didn’t know what she knew. but they would know when she knew. and that was a problem.
leaving was a mixture of deep gratitude, relief and survivor’s guilt.
nine years of memories flooded the car as she drove across the country. the rearview mirror had plenty of stories to tell.
some things could never be spoken out loud while other things would never be reconciled in this life.
post traumatic stress clung to her like sticky cobwebs. triggers were frequent the first few weeks as she struggled to heal and rest.
moving forward was the only path.
re-engage the gifts. set the captives free.
listen. encourage. love. give.
jesus was always present. but in this hard place, his hands were visible, his protection and provision undeniable. he was in the rest and healing.
when she was strong enough to field it, he threw his question at her from right field. it wasn’t an easy catch. they seldom were.
he asked her if she would cast her bread on the water again. now there was a verse she hadn’t heard in a very long time. what did that mean?
she unpacked the inference, saw it, heard him. “do it one more time. trust me one more time.
she drew in a breath, blinked back tears, steadied her lips to answer decisively.
“yes, lord. i will do it. one more time.”
risk always carries uncertainty.
but risk avoidance is a guaranteed detour to hope deferred.
one more time.
she’d placed the large piece of sourdough in the car the night before, not wanting to forget it.
the journey took took some time. funny how the fog lingered until she reached clear lake. god is always speaking. and he is funny.
four hours later, she parked the car at the destination. this was a big day.
a well groomed trail led out to water’s edge. she sat on a log bench for a while, looking at the water, listening to it splash over the rocks.
when the time was right, she stood up, pulled the sourdough out of her pocket and walked to the water.
bread in hand, she gently tore it into eight pieces, tossing them one by one into the headwaters of the mighty mississippi.
she declared back to jesus what he’d asked of her, bringing her heart into alignment with his.
it was a pivotal moment, a holy moment in this hard place.
copyright © 2020 jane doe productions llc