They
took Jesus therefore, and He went out, bearing His own cross, to the place
called the Place of the Skull, which is called in Hebrew, Golgotha. John
19:17 NASB
Where has
all the courage gone? For long days I
have waited. For many days I have
searched. Where has the life gone? For many long years I have been dead, trapped
within my pain.
Where have
my feet taken me? Why do I continue to tread
the desert places, walking to high mountains and again finding only desert on
the other side for all my pain of gaining the heights?
How is it
that high mountains and deserts lead me to little hills? What is this place? I ask.
It smells of death.
The path is
clear to some, a granite wall to others. Understanding pulls me up the path. The suffering here is more than I can grasp.
This place
is full of dead men’s bones. The Angel
of Death has used his scythe here many times.
Fear. There is a man here. I come to him as the wind blows coldly in my
ears. “What place is this?” I ask him.
“It was a
battle ground once,” he muses. “Yes, I
can see that,” I say. “Your hands are
wounded.” As I gaze at those hands I ask
“Was the battle terrible?”
“Oh, yes. It was the most horrible battle in history
and it all took place right here on this little hill. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I
do, sir. You carry the wounds of the
fight.” I look around with discomfort and fear.
“You seem a wonderful man but I must go.” I do not let him touch me. He
smiles and nods, saying not a word but seeming to know what choice I would make.
I again find
vast wastes of sand and heat. The desert
is all I have again. Is this all of this
world? No, there is a hill I once saw
with a man. No man has had the courage
this man has. No man has the life
returned from the heat of the fight like this man. No man carries scars like this man.
Scars? They are living badges of honor. Medals? He is the bravest man I have ever met. This wasteland is lonely and cold now. I’m ready to return to the little hill.
Days and
days I travel. Can I find it again? Will I ever arrive? My journey goes on. I am so tired. I finally stumble and fall, giving up. I look up and there is the hill not now far away.
I smile and push
myself up, running forward, hoping the Caretaker has not gone away. He is still there. “It is you!”
I cry. “Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” he
says with a smile. “I have never forgotten
you.”
“This place,” I ask. “How many died in the battle that wounded
you?”
“Only one,”
he says with satisfaction. “Only One had
to die.”
Wounded
hands. Strong hands. Eternal hands. He touches me.
Ken
November 15, 1989
