Last month I had the excitement of announcing our first place winner and second place winner of my 3rd annual Worth it All Blog Story Contest! Both winners won their story being featured here on the blog for you to see. Disclaimer: I, as the author of this blog, do not necessarily claim to agree with the opinions stated in these works. The first story I'm posting is our runner-up, "Ever Heard of Love, Luke?" Let's get going... When I phoned Peter and asked if I could come over, he agreed immediately. We made a date for that afternoon. I met him in their clean kitchen; he made us each an espresso and then we sat at the table. Peter fastened his grey-green eyes on me and nodded. “Talk.” I closed my eyes, wondering where to begin. I thought of the things that came to haunt me in the quiet of night. They weighed heaviest on my heart, so I started there. The boredom of war ate at me. We just . . . we’d vegetate, you know, until we were called to action. Most of the guys sat around, swearing and smoking and talking junk. Others would do things like playing cards. Grant and Matthew and I read. We read until we had our books memorized; then we started on each other’s books. Because of the censors and checkpoints and taxes, I couldn’t write to Mom and ask for more. It was soul-destroying. Humanity was not made for that. And then we fought. Then it was guns and blood and yelling and shots and wounds and death. And only afterwards, when you stood with your hands clamped painfully around your gun, heart pounding in your head, sweat pouring down your face, knees shaking . . . only then did you realize how scared you’d been. How you’d been terrified enough to wet your pants. Humanity was not made for this either. The contrast just killed me. It was no way to live. I realized how white my knuckles were, became aware that I was clenching my mug like I’d done my gun. I looked up at Peter. “It was wrong,” I whispered brokenly. “It was no way to live.” He nodded. “Go on.” I stared at my hands, trying to find words for the masses of stuff piled inside me. The swearing rubbed off on me. Funny how I’ve come to regret such a fairly small thing and still kick myself for using the language I did. But what could you do? Everyone did it; it was really hard not to get a dirty mouth. Maybe I should’ve tried harder. I don’t know. I’ve always gone against the grain, always hated to conform, always stood out . . . yet there I gave in. Softie. Smoking, swearing, drinking . . . I know it’s stupid and unambitious. But what else do you do? If you’re stuck there, how else do you cope? Those guys needed to somehow deal with our living nightmare. Somehow they needed distraction from the wretchedness which was constantly in our faces. Not that any of it ever worked. Smoking stinks; it’s so stupid to mess up your lungs and does it ever do anything for you? And alcohol turned you insane. You did things that you still beat yourself up over years later. I don’t know why we did it, and I still wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d been stronger and hadn’t conformed. I wish I’d done better at following God, done better at living. I had my head on my arms on the table. Sobbing. My words made no sense, not even to me. Peter’s hand was on my shoulder. I looked at him. “If you knew . . . if you knew all the things I’d done, I bet you wouldn’t care for me as you do.” “Luke.” His voice managed to be soft and hard as nails. “We love you for who you are, not for what you’ve done.” I clenched my jaw. I didn’t want to tell Peter, didn’t want the love in those grey-green eyes to vanish – but confession was pushing up inside me. I got tattooed,” I burst out. Only once did I get drunk during those four years – and I mean drunk, now, not tipsy. (That happened about twice, I think.) I was nineteen. We were awaiting marching orders, and we were beyond fed up. I was so emotionally low I let a crowd with whom I never mixed drag me along on their drinking spree. I got drunk. I got hard heavy roaring drunk. I could still walk, but I’d taken leave of my mental senses. They said something about “tattoo parlor”, and I let them haul me there. They asked me what I wanted, and I remember saying, “A cross.” Heaven knows why. I remember thinking, It’s permanent. Just like this war is going to be. They asked where I wanted it, and I unhesitatingly folded my hand over my heart. Man, it hurt. The alcohol may have dulled a lot of the pain, but it was still a killer. I cried my eyes out when I was sober. Countless times I felt like clawing that thing off my chest with my bare hands. I felt as though God had left me. I scooted my chair back, oblivious to the tears running down my cheeks. I got up and pulled my shirt over my head. “There, see? Now I’m ruined. Scarred on the inside, tattooed on the outside.” Peter got to his feet and came to stand beside me. I wrung my shirt in my hands and continued talking. “And then God took Matthew. Two years later. Four months before the peace treaty. Peter, I felt like I was in a desert. There was nothing and no one and God had left me. I wanted to die.” He said nothing; just enveloped me in a bear hug. I had my hands over my face, shaking as I cried. “Luke. God loves you.” That week was Holy Week, and it rained all of Good Friday and Saturday. But Easter Sunday was the most stunning morning I had ever seen. The sky was so incredibly clean, a blue so pure and intense it almost hurt your eyes, almost made you feel it was going to melt away. It was so beautiful it bordered on unreal. I had only ever known one person with eyes that color. Matthew. They had a cross set up in church. Next to the pulpit it loomed: rugged, plain, real. It claimed my attention and held it for the whole service. Afterwards, as everyone was going for tea, I went to the minister and asked, “Can I . . . can I kneel at the cross for a while? Please? I promise I won’t be long.” She smiled. “Of course.” Slowly I walked into the deserted church building. I caught my breath. Sunlight poured in through the windows and illuminated the cross. Dust danced in the gold light, glinting like tiny diamonds. Jesus . . . I knelt at the foot of the cross. I bent over, forehead to the ground, arms spread before me, palms up. I felt the coolness of the silver cross round my neck as it swung forward and tickled my chin. Tears pricked my eyes. Jesus. Why did You die for me? Why did You subject Yourself to that pain? Why did You do it if You knew of all the despicable things I would do? Why, Lord? Silence descended. I kept my eyes squashed shut. Images appeared behind my closed lids. A Man walked – stumbled – fell – up a hill. He bore a heavy wooden cross on His back, but His true burden was heavier: the sin of the world. A woman stood at the foot of the cross, helpless with grief as she gazed at her Son. He dangled there like a common criminal – He, the perfect Man, the perfect sacrifice. He, the Son of God. A man stood beside the woman, took her in his arms like he would his mother. His best Friend – that Man of love who hung dying before them – had asked him to take care of His mommy. I heard weeping. I heard groans. Pain hung in the air. Blood tainted the wind. And loneliness invaded. The Man on the cross felt His Father turn away from Him. He felt His God turn His back. He felt Himself left alone. And He was not silent. “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me? My God? Why? Why? Why did You forsake Me? My God, why? The images faded. Silence descended once more. Ever heard of love, Luke? I knew that Voice. No other spoke with total gentleness while penetrating every chamber of my heart. Only the Holy Spirit. Ever heard of love, Luke? Ever heard of feeling so strongly for someone that you throw caution and commonsense to the wind? Ever heard of such a desire for the best for someone that you will give your everything so that they may gain? Ever heard of love, Luke? Love that fights and never gives up? Love that transcends and overpowers? Love that covers all the scars and stains? Love that forgives? Love that cleanses and heals? Love that encompasses all? Ever heard of love, Luke? I hung on that cross because of love. For the love of you. And nothing you’ve seen or thought or said or done can change that love. The blood on your hands can’t. The swear words on your tongue can’t. The images in your mind can’t. The scars on your heart can’t. The deeds in your past can’t. Luke, I love you. About the author: I’m Jeanette, and I’m His :) I’m a nutty South African bookworm, writer, music and drama queen. I love Middle-earth, Narnia, Discworld . . . oh, and all things Celtic! I blog at Only by Grace (https://onlybygrace325852412.wordpress.com) and would love to have you come visit.
Hannah K
4/22/2019 10:24:11 pm
This is great! Congrats!
Jeanette
4/23/2019 12:06:53 am
Thanks so much, Hannah, and thank you for reading! I really appreciate it :) Comments are closed.
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