PURSUIT – A Matter of Choice: A Novel – Chapter 1, Scene 2 – Blinded by the Light

 

Lungs filled like someone blowing up a balloon. As shrill wheeze emanated from Jeremy’s throat as he exhaled. His chest swelled again. Eyes popped open. Twin water spots on the ceiling goggled at him. They seemed familiar. Where am I?

He propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the gloomy room. Budweiser cans scattered on the floor. TV screen twinkled static. Clock flashed digital red—4:44. Pink Floyd poster ripped through the colored rays. Papers and books strewn in a tornadic mess.

But the supermodel remained unharmed, her ivory smile leering at his nakedness.

Where are my clothes? Across the room, hooks hung vacant.

Am I still in a dream? Was It a dream?

Hesitantly, he patted his neck. Sticky goo. Examined his hands—bloody. Caked fingernails. Nose tingled. Rubbed it with the back of his hand. Fresh blood.

It was not a dream.

I am with you, a voice that was not his own echoed in his throbbing head. That voice. He had heard that unique voice before, but where? When?

His eyes flitted to the ceiling, the corners, around the room, searching . . . but nothing lurked.

A cool wisp brushed his shoulder. He jerked his head to its source. A shattered window. How did that happen? Shards of glass sprinkled on the floor.

You have received the power of my Spirit. That thundering voice again—in his head, this time.

He swiveled his eyes around the room—the doorway open to the dark hallway.

You will be my witness wherever you go—that same commanding voice.

He examined his feet. He could wiggle his toes!

What was It that had strangled him . . . to what seemed like death?

Receive me as your first love, and you will be a new creation, a new man, said a soothing voice between his ears.

Puzzled by the words, he searched his mushy mind. He skimmed the room, trying to make sense of it all. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs. Breathing never felt so good. Inky blackness swirled his inner world. He curled up on the bed, nestled his head on the pillow, and hugged it as this scene unfolded like a movie reel in his mind that engaged all of his senses. . . .

Spidery web of lightning penetrates the darkness.

Smoky wisps shroud the radiant orb with churning fingertips so close I could reach out and touch them.

An explosion of intense brilliance. The white light collapses inward to form a glowing ball. The sphere shoots a pure-white shaft that divides the darkness.

My visual screen blacks out.

Burnt motor oil tinges my nostrils.

Warm dampness swathes my face.

Cool mist sprinkles.

An over-exposed image is torn in two, its jagged edges forming a horizontal bolt. Hazy shades of white trees and buildings lie on their side.

Wet, gritty asphalt warms my cheek.

I’m shuddering in bed, now, amazed that I’m experiencing this horrifying scene as if I was there in this moment! How can that be?

He wrapped the pillow over his head and curled up with his knees beneath him.

Blaring trumpets announce a triumphal entry.

“Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah,” penetrates rolling thunder.

Who is speaking? Who is Jeremiah?

His heart raced. He squeezed the pillow, trembling and gasping. He would not open his eyes, afraid that It was in the room.

What happened to me? And where was I? Or is this It tormenting me? Is It in my mind, too?

“Do not be afraid. You are not alone. I am with you.” Those words. Unmistakable. Audible. They boom in stereo from within the storm that’s fulminating in my mind!

His body twitched as if something were fighting to escape from within.

I am with you, murmured a warm, comforting voice in his head.

The tremors stopped, and long, deep breaths calmed him.

As the movie reel continues in my mind, this is what I see, but I still do not understand when or how this has happened . . . or is it a premonition of my future? Oh, my God!

My cheek rests on hot, wet, rough pavement. I scoot arms underneath my chest and press up against my body’s dead weight, draw knees to my waist, and stand. Power and strength course through me, electrifying every bone, every fiber, every cell. My clothes become dazzling white and blaze with light. Pure peace washes through me like a current flowing from the top of my head, down my arms and chest, shuddering me to my toes. Above, the glowing cloud parts and brilliance blinds me. But. I am unable to take my eyes off the light.

“You have received the power of my Spirit. You will be my witness wherever you go. Receive me as your first love, and you will be a new creation, a new man.” The voice again. This time, crystal clear, not shrouded by a thunderclap.

I am in awe of the light’s presence. Everything is brilliant white, including me, as if I have disappeared, consumed by the light. I raise my arms. I feel that movement, but I only see the light. The feeling of warm oil pouring over my head, trickling down my cheek, the back of my neck. Warmth filling my belly. How strange. I soak in the glory of the light, filling with its strength.

The movie has stopped. Or is it continuing in time with me enveloped in brilliant white . . . forever? Is that what happens when you die? What is this movie, this vision, showing me? The dramatic contrast between heaven and hell? Light versus Darkness?

Is hell the dearth of everything, a soul imprisoned in total darkness without any sensation? Is heaven the essence of everything, a soul liberated to live in total light, with every good sensation imaginable?

An eternity without light would be endless torment.

An eternity in the light would be endless joy.

For how long did I experience the light? I do not know. Minutes? Hours? The sensation within me now, a feeling of total void, yet wholly filled . . . as if someone has suspended time.

Jeremy smiled, hugged his pillow tightly to his chest, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out as the brilliance faded, and his mind drifted . . . and fell . . . asleep.

PURSUIT – A Matter of Choice: A Novel – Chapter 1, Scene 1 – Darkness

 

Friday Evening, March 3, 1989

Darkness. Complete void of light.

            

I can’t feel anything, but I am aware of my thoughts. Is my head severed from my body? If so, I’d be dead. Is this the experience of dying, or is this death itself? Would my soul be aware if I’m gone from this world? At any moment, will my mind click off? Am I paralyzed? I cannot move, no sensation, no smells, no sounds, as though I’m in a cocoon hibernating until the next stage of life begins. Is this the afterlife when the soul leaves the body, suspended in Purgatory awaiting the Judgment that sends me to heaven or hell? Or is this hell, the dearth of everything, a soul imprisoned in total darkness without any sensation?

An eternity without light would be endless torment.

Darkness flashed to pure white light. The brilliance faded. An image developed in his mind like a photograph in a darkroom’s tray—fingers reaching for a mangled hand twisted and broken, smashed with empty sockets, knurls of boney white, and jagged edges of torn flesh.

This was the day of Jeremiah Cristi’s reckoning.

—

Saturday pre-dawn, March 4, 1989

Thunder boomed. Wind howled. Rain pelted. Jeremy bolted upright in bed, panting. His gaze darted around the dusky room. Where am I? Digital red numbers glowed—4:44. The outline of a pyramid of cans in the corner. Closed door. A desk piled with books and papers. TV at the foot of the bed.

Lightning flashed and illuminated a poster of a prism refracting white light into a spectrum of rainbow colors. He glanced up at the wall nearest him—the image of a supermodel gazing over her bare shoulder and back, an arm covering her nipple, seemingly studying him.

Fury hurled rain against the window. Breaths rapid and shallow, a shiver crept over his shoulders, down arms standing hairs, goosebumps pricking up. His back tightened, sensing—

Something.

Body chills, clammy palms, icy fingers, roiling stomach. He forced a swallow. Throat dry, mouth sour, breaths now sucking in and bursting out.

He flinched at the sound of toppling cans. Heartbeat skipped, then galloped.

Silence. Wind and rain had ceased.

Eerie. Foreboding. Silence.

Something is in here. The air is electrified. It’s just a storm. It’s just a storm . . . It’s just a. . . .    

A fluttering—swoosh, swoosh, swoosh—churned oppressive vapor clouding the room . . . duskier . . . murkier . . . inkier . . . swirling closer, tighter . . . clenching . . .

His throat.

He grabbed around his neck but found nothing but air. Nothing but the feeling of something wringing his neck, constricting tighter and tighter against his Adam’s apple as his butt lifted from the bed. Clawing, he sought whatever It was that choked off his breath. His lungs tugged and tugged on his closed windpipe. He strained his arms above his head in search of a rope to break It loose but found nothing there.

It intensified the vice-like pressure—nose gorged, eyes bulged, eardrums sirened.

Fingernails dug. Jeremy scraped and scratched and tore against the invisible noose that stretched his neck, his fingers tacky with oozy slime.

Head pounded—baboom, baboom, baboom.

Drippy nose, sticky lips, the taste of blood. Nostrils tinged with sulfur’s foul fumes.

Eyes burned, ready to explode.

Ears pulsed—vavoomp, vavoomp, vavoomp.

Face drenched from fierce, sauna-like heat.

His vision blurred.

Walls pulsated with each beat of his heart . . . faster . . . faster, faster.

He willed his legs to move, to stand up and fight back, but no response.

His hands fell from his neck, arms lame and lifeless.

Fear rose like a tsunami wave, stretching, reaching, curling— engulfing him. He fought against its pressure and turbulent force, his arms and legs writhing and thrashing in a convulsive final effort to save himself from drowning.

Depleted of life-sustaining oxygen, chest ready to explode, mouth coppery, bladder released—

And then . . . he gave up the fight to live.

Whatever It was, it clenched him upright and stretched his neck taut but left his shoulders sagging from a crippled body.

Darkness. Complete void of light.

I’m gonna die.

His mind exploded with intense light, fading to reveal a massive, bucking bull, a cowboy somersaulting in the air, hat twirling and floating down to arms and legs splayed. The bull bucked high, the beast crushing the cowboy’s hand.

His throat clenched a scream.

A roar penetrated the room.

A lion’s roar . . . outside the door!

Eyes bulged. Vision blurred. Walls hemmed in closer . . . closer . . . closer. The shadowy room faded until only the closed door remained, trimmed with a line of light.

Boom!

Blinded by the light.

Deafening crack of bone-splitting thunder.

Piercing, blood-curdling scream from within the radiance.

Eyes stung from acrid smoke.

Glass shattered.

Whoosh! Air sucked from the room.

He fell to the bed.

Blackness. Dead silence.

I’m dead.

No. Dizzy, spinning, falling . . . falling . . . faster, faster.

Falling to my death.

Caught. Secured by . . . what? No crash. No smash. Safe?

Floating down as if suspended from a parachute.

A sprinkle of dazzling dots and crisscrossed, lit lines.

Circle of bright lights.

An open-air arena filled with a crowd in the stands.

Hovering above as if snagged in a treetop.

Cowboy and horse round up a bull and direct it through a chute.

A body . . . face down in the dirt corral.

Timer’s green lights 08 00.

I can’t make out the man’s face.

I must help him.

Is he dead?

Body of Time

Time marches on. The Body of Time continues to move forward. Each Day of Past is represented by a warrior and thousands of seasoned soldiers representing the Body of Time that congregate outside the walls of 2025. The Days of Past are divided into seven groups, each bearing the flag of their tribe that graphically depicts their commonality as Days in the Body of Time.

At the forefront is the tribe of Destiny, a vibrantly jeweled collection of Days that travels Time on a precisely defined path into the Future. This band of warriors has a common purpose: to overcome any obstacle in Time and reach their eternal destination. A strong-willed army, they focus on a vision of triumph. This glory propels them through their circumstances to reach the Promised Land, an eternal Utopia void of sorrow, pain and suffering, broken relationships, heartache, and death. Their leader, the King of kings, rides the sole white horse and is a visible icon of strength and power to all warriors of Time who will receive the Savior as their King.

 

The next tribe of warriors, positioned behind the crown of Destiny and centered amongst the throng outside the gates of the New Year, is seasoned with Experience. These soldiers are a network of intelligence factors, each contributing a specialty of knowledge and understanding from the daily battles the Body of Time has overcome. Experience communicates to the front lines of battle the strategy of Victory, plans culled and developed from lessons learned from shattered dreams, failed relationships, bankrupt financial ventures, and unhealthy lifestyles. A collection of dos and don’ts amassed from a lifetime of successes and failures, this history provides a road map through the journey into the Future.

 

The wing on the right, the tribe of Strength, contrasts sharply with their neighboring tribe of Experience at the head, for their physique is matched by no other except the wing on the left, who, like their brothers in Time on the right, protected this Kingdom of Days with their Perseverance. These two tribes work synergistically to protect and hold the Body of Days together. They move throughout the Body of Time, wherever a battle cry is heard to conquer Despair, the dark enemy of the Past. Despair is wily and sly, with its camouflaged team of snipers and sharpshooters that infiltrate the Body of Time with guerilla warfare. This cancerous invasion could spread quickly without the fortitude of Strength and Perseverance. 

 

Two columns extend from the amassment of tribes that act as a rear guard protecting the Body of Time during their encampment at the gates of the New Year. Composed of Days who previously held rank in the Strength and Perseverance battalions, they are retired from the frontline wings of battle to support the Days with Hope and Faithfulness.

 

During peaceful times, the column of Hope is seen in congregational, intercessory prayer, their swords strapped to their sides while lifting petitions for the entire Body to the Father of Time: pleas for healing and comfort, sustenance and protection, wisdom and discernment. From sunrise to sunset, audible appeals are heard throughout the Body. Round the clock, they continue their communion with Father. At dusk, they quiet to silent meditation as Knights of the Great Banquet Table take their positions for the night watch and continue the prayer chain in silence, broken only by their hourly call of “all is well” in unison.

 

Each new Day, as the sun crests over the horizon, Faithfulness adds harmony to the prayers of Hope, a chorus of “Hallelujah!” ringing towards Heaven, and praises of worship to their Creator and Provider, the One and Only, the All in All. This band of Days is survivors, honorable comrades wounded in battle, those afflicted with disease and healed, warriors of Yesterday, yet capable with their strength in Faith to overcome the enemy of Despair. The blend of prayer and praise adds Spirit to the entire Body, their symphony of voices heard by the crown of Angels of Destiny and its jewel, the King of kings, at the head of this great Kingdom. 

At the heart of this Body of Believers are Days of Love. Protected on all sides by Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, guided by Experience, and led by Destiny, this tribe of families, generations-long, sustains the entire Kingdom. Its members circulate Life throughout the Body, delivering food, clothing, and supplies. They act as vessels of encouragement, sending letters of requests and praise, testimonies of Father’s faithfulness to provide and protect, and the Good News of grace, mercy, and forgiveness---a message of His Love for all the Days of their lives.

 

The Body of Time is unlike the herds that roam the wild where the weak, aged, and diseased fall behind and become prey to the enemy—Death—who continually pursues them. Death serves a purpose for the Body of Time, a means for eliminating the Days that become useless: Days that completed their roles to develop experience—days of hate and malice, strife and anger, discontent and frustration, loss and failure, worry and hopelessness.

Time marches on. While camped at the gates of 2025, the Days knew that to move forward into the New Year, unhindered by the Past, only the seven Days—Destiny and Experience, Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, and Love—should pass through into the New Year. Alas, it is difficult for the Body of Time to let go of Days not yet devoured by Death, Days that linger in the Past; their usefulness is gone, yet the heart of Love is bound still. 

The King of kings, riding His white horse across the front lines of Destiny, posts the noblest Knights at the gate’s columns and gives the command, “No Day shall pass through this gauntlet of Time that does not bear the name of Destiny, Experience, Strength, Perseverance, Hope, Faithfulness, or Love.” With His staff held high above His flowing white hair, he reigns the white horse on its hind legs and orders the gates of the New Year to open. 

~May your New Year become a blessing of Days of Destiny and Experience, Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, and Love. As you ponder this metaphor on Time and the Days of your life, consider the Days that should be left behind, holding onto the good of each Day, logging Experience, marshaling Strength, concentrating Perseverance, building Hope, fueling Faithfulness, giving Love, and following Destiny. Have faith in your Savior, Jesus Christ, and allow Destiny to lead you throughout the New Year. 

 

These words, stellar rhema, were inspired by the Holy Spirit and scribed by Jeff Cambridge. All praise to the King!

© Jeff Cambridge 2024