For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father's family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?
Esther 4:14
A man and his wife were traveling - driving the highways and byways, enjoying the out-of-the-ways - the sceneries and eateries they encountered. Friendly, they looked forward to conversations with other travelers, with locals; they looked forward to learning about the people and places they visited. There was no destination; it was the journey they sought.
On one particular day, the man and wife stopped by the side of the road. A man and woman were standing on the shoulder - a young man with ebony skin, a young woman, tanned and blonde - together they held a sign. Stop. Look. Listen. So the traveling man and his wife did.
Later, as they drove on, the man asked his wife about their unexpected stop. "What did you see?" He asked.
"I saw Brotherhood." She replied.
The man looked at her in surprise. "I saw Strife."
"What did you hear?" She asked him.
"The wind in the trees, the cars on the road, the shifting of Time." He replied. "You?"
"The wind in the trees, the cars on the road, the shifting of Time."
The road wound through and around the countryside, up hills and down valleys, around fields and trees, over and under bridges, broad rivers and sparkling streams. It unraveled by farmhouses and silos, barns and yards, clipped, mowed, overgrown - by hedges, gardens, and rows of crops. The man and his wife began to notice more traffic, more buildings, more signs. The air was less clear; it smelled stale and muggy, with a hint of sulphur. They approached the city in a snarl of traffic lights and intersections, on-ramps and off-ramps, and green-and-white signs - directions to new-and-different destinations.
The man pointed. Three words flashed in neon across the intersection. Stop. Look. Listen. So the traveling man and his wife did.
Later, as they sat together eating, the man asked his wife about their second stop. "What did you see?" He asked.
"I saw people. Neighbors. I saw Brotherhood." She replied.
The man looked at her in surprise. "I saw people. Strangers. I saw Strife."
"What did you hear?" She asked him.
"Voices, and vehicles - the sounds of the city, and the shifting of Time." He replied. "You?"
"Voices, and vehicles - the sounds of the city, and the shifting of Time."
The day was drawing to a close. As was the road. Out of the crowds and congestion, it had unwound to rest, finally, at the end of a long spit of land. The man and his wife held hands and drank in the sight of endless water before them - rolling, cresting, and spilling toward the broken rocks and sand strewn beyond the black ribbon of pavement. The sun - brilliant orange - sat low on the horizon - perched on the shifting blue of the ocean - precarious, beautiful - sliding past the edge in holy silence. They held hands and drank in the twilight; they shared the birthing of the stars in the darkening night. They gasped together when one fell, in a wayward streak of light.
"What did you see?" He asked his wife.
"I saw God - sending His message of Light to the world." She replied.
The man looked at her in surprise. "I saw a flash, like lightening, live and then die."
"What did you hear?" She asked him.
"The surf and the sea, the wind across the dunes, and the shifting of Time." He replied. "You?"
"The surf and the sea, the wind across the dunes, and the shifting of Time."
She nestled close to him, breathing him in, comforted, safe, loved. The man rested his eyes on his wife, flesh of his flesh, one with him. They sighed together, an unplanned choreographed release of the day, of their differences, of their sameness.
It was, after all, the journey they sought.
It was, after all, the journey they sought.
Father God, who's to say that the very differences that pull us apart, aren't intended to eventually draw us together. Thank you for the opportunities of this day. Thank you for change. Thank you for Time.
Linking with: Faith Filled Friday
Linking with: Faith Filled Friday
