The Book of Michael
From “Show’em Israel” He Said”, for remembrance:
“And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works."
Your own “book” will testify against you, written IN YOU. Your DNA, in which everyone had a corrupted “book of the law”. Jesus, the “last Adam”, the only pure, uncorrupted, perfect sacrifice is the only one who can restore you. And you know what he went through to do this for you.
Now is the Time
How to explain a thought, a single thought that slowly buds, then flowers exponentially in a dozen directions all at once. Like time lapse video, the flowers multiply and multiply until your mind is no longer your own. They have branched beyond the walls that you had put up so long ago, overgrowing them, invading the cracks and taking them down. You can’t claim responsibility for the thoughts in your head, because they are so numerous and outside your scope of understanding, that you finally have to admit that they came from somewhere else, outside you.
That is about how I feel right now, at this moment. And after drying just a few tears (of wonder this time, not of sorrow), I find myself unable to organize the words in which to describe this . . . experience for lack of a better word because doing so would probably “blossom” into another seven hundred-plus topic blog, so I’ll spare you. (And the multitude cries, Amen)
Two and a half years ago, I started a story, about eight months into this journey I will call “Michael’s Guardian”, which I did not really understand. I understand it now.
The words could not have been my own, because I did not know then what I know now.
The experience of sitting down, wanting to write a birthday tribute to someone you’ve never met, but that God wrapped your heart around in answer to a prayer, and having it turn into . . . THIS, is like being taken over.
I have trouble adequately explaining that as well, but I tried to over the phone with someone I talk to and it is like no thinking. You’re not thinking about what you’re going to say or write. I just comes out of you and you do not stop until you are done, asking yourself “what did I just do? Where did this come from?”
That is how God works through people. I didn’t know this at the time, exactly, but I know it now. Just like I know why I had certain dreams when I was too young to understand them. I just know I was told to pay attention to them and I wrote them down and remembered them.
God. He knows your heart before YOU do. He also knows every change you put in your book that doesn’t belong there BEFORE you put it there, which is why he gave us Christ.
He talks to us through this book, he “moves” us with this book. He plants within us and our “book” opportunities to turn back and get to know him. If you can feel Him, you need to thank Him. If you don’t feel this, you need to pray.
As I reflect back on this work, which has seemed at times like personal torture within an unprecedented and undeserved blessing, there things I wish I had done differently.
For one, I no longer believe that everyone that was sent to incite dissention on the comments did so to undermine me, but to STEER ME in the direction I was next to go:
"32. And such as do wickedly against the covenant shall he corrupt by flatteries: but the people that do know their God shall be strong, and do exploits. 33. And they that understand among the people shall instruct many: yet they shall fall by the sword, and by flame, by captivity, and by spoil, many days.
34. Now when they shall fall, they shall be holpen with a little help: but many shall cleave to them with flatteries. 35. And some of them of understanding shall fall, to try them, and to purge, and to make them white, even to the time of the end: because it is yet for a time appointed."
When the books are read at Judgment, those who have not been cleansed and restored by the blood of the lamb will have their “books “opened and their iniquities read for everyone to hear, and they will be judged according to their works, none of which will be good enough for them to enter Heaven, because only through Christ can they be made whole. No one’s work surpasses that of Christ.
Works will never surpass that of Christ.
I have another story for you. And maybe this time you won’t have to wait so long for the understanding.
The grounds were filled with people, tents, vendors, cat calls for one game or another. As she walked she became more filled with the feeling that she had been here before. It wasn’t a comfortable, familiar feeling though. She didn’t want to be here, but she felt she had something to do.
She remembered each tent as she passed it. The same path was well worn from the classroom tent to the fortune teller’s tent, to the tent she passed before, not wanting to see the “wonder”. Always with the feeling that over her shoulder, back in the crowd somewhere, they were there, stalking.
She didn’t see them this time. She wasn’t here for that. This tour had a different purpose.
“This is it . . .” a voice in her head said. She stopped and slowly turned her head. She had a vague recollection of a thought of her husband. They had parted ways with the intention of meeting back somewhere. Where was it?
As she turned her head, she saw before her a long corridor with glass halfway up the wall and enclosing above like a tube. It looked like a typical breezeway one would find in a shopping mall or hospital.
She thought for a second and felt drawn to it. She entered the corridor, leaving the carnival grounds behind. Norma looked out of the glass encased corridor and from there she could see no grounds. She saw clouds instead. She could look down and see storms and tornadoes whirling and one funnel cloud kept whirling around, never dissipating. Like a moving sentinel it seemed to “walk point”, sometimes taking other clouds within it, pushing others out. She watched this for a minute or two before continuing on.
At the other end of the glass corridor, she entered an open shopping area where all merchants and stores and eateries faced a massive glass enclosed court. Then she remembered she had left her husband at the book store. She entered a café with glass facing the same area of sky. She sat at a table with two unknown men who were watching the clouds and the tornado. They were commenting about “the end”.
She sat down silently, drinking the drink that she did not remember standing in a line to get. It was a fruit concoction. She sipped it, watching the clouds through the window, below them and listened to their conversation. Her own thoughts centered around the storms and knowing what they were and why they were there, below them. She knew this place shared space with the place of storms. They were there, but separate from the storms. She could not see through the clouds, but she knew what was going on below them.
The men exchanged “good days” with her and they left the table, and her with her thoughts. They were below the storms – the ones that never woke up. The ones who in their arrogance and rebellion were never allowed entry to the city.
She left her table, the café and moved out into the court which smelled of fresh grass and trees. She began searching for the bookstore where she left her husband.
As she entered she found her husband and an older man bent over a box of books. When they both turned to behold her she saw that the older man was one of her husband’s uncles, but she had never met him before. She only knew him from pictures.
Then she saw the books . . . all bad ones.
She saw the book of witchcraft. Her eyes scanned them all in the box. The book of “Kabbalah” the “Zohar”, “Morals and Dogma”, one of the books on “The Babylonian Talmud”, the “Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn” and books on Wicca, Druids and “Witches Book of the Dead”.
“Stop!” she said to the man who looked like her husband’s uncle, “He can’t have those books, they are bad”, she said to the older man.
The man picked up one book and explained to her, “But look at this one. The title is the 999th verse of the Bible”.
Quickly in her mind, she knew 999 was 666 upside down. She stared at the man but refused to turn her eyes toward the book. She closed her eyes, feeling the loss. She opened them again.
They both regarded her with what looked like confusion. She was angry, but also hurt. Her husband knew these books were not to be in their possession, but this uncle was giving them to her husband. While no other words were exchanged, she knew that choices were going to be made and that she was going to be alone. Once she left the room, they would be no more to her.
She walked back through the court, past the café and past the corridor that would soon be completely gone with no link to the carnival grounds or any of that world beyond it.
Through the glass as she passed by it, she could see people swimming in a large swimming pond, like a water park. The pools were made of marble and other stones, polished smooth and translucent. Both children and adults swam, floated on round, flexible boats. There were slides and fountains and smiles and peace. She felt a smile broaden her own mouth. She wanted so much to take part and enjoy, but she still had things to do.
Through the bottom of the pools, which were translucent, she could still see hints of the storms and tornadoes below. Pretty soon they would cease to exist as well, no longer visible. They would just be no more and the place she was in now would be complete with its inhabitants – all family, the ones who were saved.
She sighed and turned back toward the tunnel of glass. There was one last show that she knew she had to see. She knew which tent on the grounds of the carnival, and so she walked into the corridor of glass back to the carnival grounds.
Puppies were running around as she got to the other side. They were the ones who still had to be collected. As she walked, she gathered them one by one, and put them over the gate to the corridor. She would be collecting them as she moved on until she heard the call to go back. She was still gathering the lost. Every time she would run across them, she would pick them up and put them over the gate into the corridor.
She found the tent, closed her eyes for a minute. She had a feeling what she would see. She had seen it before, from HIS eyes at the very, very beginning of her journey. Now it the rehearsals were over.
She walked inside.
Bonnie Cox ©2013
The Last Spotlight
Even though he knew about this for such a long time, seemingly since the very beginning, he had to admit he as a little afraid. Taking this next step was going to be emotionally difficult. He had to prepare himself and the only way he knew to do that was to pray.
He sat on the chair in the dark room, forearms resting on his knees, hands hanging down he leaned into his posture, head down facing the floor. He closed his eyes. He drew in a long, deep breath and held it for a second. Then let it out very slowly through his nostrils. It was then the overwhelming emotions took hold of his diaphragm, tightening it. He did not want to cry. He’d done enough of that. But still it came.
Tears dripped down his haggard cheeks along the bridge of his nose and onto the floor. His prayer was a mixture of anguish, love, loss and relief. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. He just wished others could too.
Even knowing what was to come it was still sometimes so hard to admit that people could so easily and completely forget the lessons of the past. Was he ready for this?
Every year of his life passed before his eyes. Even though he knew he didn’t have any years left in this profession, he was not afraid of leaving it. His fear came from the unknown. How? Will I die or will I just not be here anymore? Will it hurt? Will I feel the experience of leaving and what will it feel like? He didn’t want to feel any more pain. He’d had enough of that too, but someone else was in control of that. He’s been through that before too. He prayed for mercy.
He was so very tired. More than anything the ridding himself of the exhaustion will be relief in itself. He had spent a lifetime preparing for this day, and that also made him sad. What if he didn’t do everything he was supposed to do? Was there someone he still needed to reach? Was there any film that hadn’t been made? Any song that still needed to be written or sung? Any words of comfort to another in need gone without said? He felt he had done all he could do. He loved the best he could, completely. It was now out of his hands.
No. He was satisfied that everything had been done, all the preparations had been put in place. And now came the final act. But there would be a long intermission before that. He hoped the people who knew him would understand. That was his last thought before the door opened and the light came on. It was time for the ride home.
A pleasant face peaked in the door, a silver haired gentleman. “You said ten after” he whispered respectfully.
The tired one looked up and smiled faintly. “I need a tissue, please” he said to him, looking up through hair that had fallen in front of his face. The silver haired man’s face fell in intense empathy that could be felt in the air.
“I’ll get you one”, the silver-haired man said to him. “Are you ready?”
The hands of an old man braced themselves upon a pair of long abused knees as he pushed himself back up to a proper sitting posture. “It’s time”, he said to “silver” softly. “But I don’t want them to see me like this.” He paused for a second, then looked directly at “silver”, “This show is about hope and that is what I want to leave them with.”
Silver smiled back at him and shutting the door again, to retrieve a tissue.
Left alone again, he turned around in the room filled with props, cut up pieces of costumes strewn on folding tables and various pages of instructions, none of them ever going to be used.
“Show within a show”, he smiled, “plans within plans, wheel within wheels.”
He used his long fingered hands for leverage as he pushed himself into a standing position. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking at it all. He smiled.
“Order out of chaos”, he whispered with a soft, private chuckle, “you reap what you sow”.
He sniffed once, smiled, shook his head in slight amusement then. He then looked up at the ceiling. “All for love. Here we go.”
To be continued . . . .
"Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast, and repent. If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will come on thee as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will come upon thee."
Bonnie Cox ©2013
I have just one more entry for this blog. Then this blog will remain as an archive for as long as it is needed. The next entry on this blog will explain what was given me. I pray you will see it. Click below on the title.