MEDITATION MOMENT – Body of Time

Time marches on. The closing Week of this Year continues to move forward. Each Day of Past is represented by a warrior, thousands of seasoned soldiers of Time congregate outside the walls of 2017. They camp in groups, each bearing the flag of their tribe that graphically depicts their commonality of Days in the Body of Time.

At the forefront is the tribe of Destiny, a vibrantly jeweled collection of Days when one travels Time on a certain and defined path into Future. This band of warriors holds a common purpose in their hearts, to overcome any obstacle that lay before them in Time to reach their eternal destination. A strong-willed army, they focus on a vision of triumph, a glory that propels them through the circumstances they encounter to enter 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 Him as their King.

The tribe of warriors positioned behind the crown of Destiny and centered amongst the throng outside the gates of the New Year requests with Experience. These soldiers are a network of intelligence factors, each contributing a specialty of knowledge and understanding obtained from the daily battles the Body of Time has overcome. This network of 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 do’s and don’ts amassed from a lifetime of successes and failures; this history provides a roadmap through the journey into Future.

The right wing, 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 left wing, who like their brothers in Time on the right, protected this nation of Days with their Perseverance. These two tribes work synergistically to defend 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 Past. Despair is wily and sly, with its camouflaged team of snipers, sharpshooters that infiltrate the body of Time with guerilla warfare, a cancerous invasion that 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 up petitions for the entire body to the Father of Time, requests for healing and comfort, sustenance and protection, wisdom and discernment. Round the clock they continue their communion with Father. From sunrise to sunset the audible pleas are heard throughout the body. At dusk they quiet to silent meditation as Knights of the Great Banquet Table take their positions of watch and continue the chain of prayer 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 a harmony to the prayers of Hope, a chorus of “Hallelujah!” ringing towards Heaven, 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 a 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, King of kings, at the head of this great nation. 

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, provide sustenance for the entire nation. Its members circulate life throughout the body, delivering food, clothing, and supplies. They act as a vessel of encouragement, sending letters of petition 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 not unlike the herds that roam the wild, as the weak, aged and diseased fall behind and become prey to the enemy that continually pursues them, Death. Not a potent threat, Death serves a purpose for the body of Time, a means for eliminating the Days that become useless, Days that completed their roles of 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 2017, the Days knew that to move forward into the New Year, unhindered by Past, only the seven Days of Destiny and Experience, Strength and Perseverance, Hope and Faithfulness, and Love should pass through. Alas, it is difficult to let go of other Days not yet devoured by Death, Days that linger in the Past, their usefulness gone, yet the heart of Love 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 through the New Year.

"But you will not leave in haste or go in flight; for the LORD will go before you, the God of Israel will be your rear guard." ~Isaiah 52:12 NIV 

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

© Jeff Cambridge 2010

PURSUIT: A Novel – 52.1: Rancher – Father and Son

The Ranch, June 26,1989

The hooves thumped a galloping cadence against the hard-packed prairie trail, dry from a drought since the spring rains. Jerry had driven out the calves and their mothers to a protected pasture near The Ranch in a cove of hills to feed until weaning was complete and the yearlings could be driven out further to the wide-open range. His dad headed towards him on his steed and signaled him to follow east towards the river, a natural boundary that bordered the eastern edge of the main pasture. Father and son galloped at a run, side-by-side on the dual lane trail, their bandanas flapped in the hot, dry wind, heads bent forward in a competitive stance. Their steeds, nose to nose, nares flared, a thousand pounds of muscle synchronized for power and speed. As they crested the hill that gave a view of the river plain below, they leaned back, their race a dead heat. The horses slowed to a trot and then to a walk as their lungs continued to billow, their glutes flinching.

“Nice run, son. That’s something you’ll always remember, to ride like the wind, flying as one with yer hoss.” He said it with a cowboy’s drawl, one who spent his days in the saddle, rounding up a stray, patrolling fences for breaches to mend, riding the tractor to cut hay, breeding the cows, birthing calves—the endless chores of a sixth-generation rancher with a son that refused to continue this heritage.

“Yee-ha!” Jerry shouted. The race fueled him with adrenaline. “It’s been awhile since we’ve run together. I’m ready to take on the drovers Down Under.”

“So why are you makin’ that trip? Same work as you do here. Why blow the money you saved for grad school?”

The rush dissipated like air from a balloon, deflated again by his father’s lack of support. “That’s right. That’s why I’m going—to blow the money on some whimsical adventure. Dad, I need to get away, somewhere around people that I’ve never been, to gain another perspective. Right now, I’m perplexed. My plans for grad school, like a balloon popped by a blow dart—from where I don’t know . . . Or maybe I do. It wasn’t my doing or my plan, but I do know this . . . ” He pulled in the reins to stop the gentle walk. His mare snorted. “My life changed this spring.”

“You did seem a bit different at spring break son, a bit dazed and distant. This ain’t about some woman, is it?” His dad cracked a slanted grin up one side of his face, and then let out a loud, belly laugh. Jerry responded in kind, his smile betraying him. “Well, I’ll be—I should've known—your mom and I were high school sweethearts—”

“Hold on, Dad, not so fast. There’s a lot going on that’s confusing.”

“Best you talk about that with your mom, son, she knows women better than I do.” His dad nodded at the western sky now black and low, “We got a storm brewin’.” He healed the stallion in the flanks, and the horse leaped into a canter.

Jerry and his mare chased after, and when he had sidled up to them, he yelled into the wind, “It’s more than that, I had a life-changing experience— ”

A streak of a lightning bolt stretched from the dark mass to the prairie, a jagged column of white against the blue horizon, a contrast of peace and war in the heavens, the thunderhead that approached, a menace of unbalanced electric charge. Most of these thunderheads had produced no rain during this prolonged drought, yet lightning showered from them instead.

“Looks like it’ll hug the valley,” his dad said as he drew his hand on the horizon. “If we stay high with the wind at our back, I think we’ll be safe. No cover out here, and it looks to be short, but it’s suckin’ a lot of hot air off the plain, the tallgrass is near flat. Spring was so wet, couldn’t stage the burns, tillers taller than usual. This fodder is thick and dry as tinder.”

Jerry turned his horse to point across the range. “The calves and dams are cornered in the pasture cove. They’re safe. What else do you want to get done today?”

“There’s a herd grazin’ east headin’ towards Snake Pond. The spring is dry from the drought, and the water's contaminated with fecal bacteria. We need to drive them west towards the creek bottoms. Storm should be passed by the time we reach ’em.”

Jerry looked over his shoulder just as three thunderbolts buried their discharge in the tallgrass. He nudged his mare to catch up with his dad and sidled alongside to engage him in a conversation deeper than cattle or their dung that poisoned water holes.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you know you wanted to be a rancher?

“Oh, I guess when I was about . . . About ready for school. I didn’t want to go . . . It would’ve been my first time to spend each day off the ranch. My mamma had homeschooled my brothers, and she wanted me to have other opportunities, to be around other kids and adults. Funny thing is, the more I was away from the ranch, the more I wanted to make it my life. Guess that didn’t happen to you, huh?”

“Isn’t that why you sent me to college, to see a different world?”

“I wanted you to have a broader look at life and make your own choice. I knew if I tried to pin you down, you would run. I didn’t want you runnin’ away from somethin’. I was hopin’ you would see what we have here, a family heritage. The breedin’ business and ranchin’ have changed, and I’m too old-fashioned to make those changes. You’re the new generation.”

“What if I was running towards something? Would that open your mind to support me, open your heart to bless me? I’m still searching, and I feel a change that has overcome my desires . . . A change of heart produced by God’s Spirit . . . not just about Christina—”

“Christina?

“Yeah, she has a name.”

“You didn’t mention her spring break?”

“Just met her and . . . I had something else on my mind.”

“Oh, yeah . . . Something like . . . you heard from God.”

“Yeah, well, after spending most of, nearly all of our time together since then, I’m certain that I heard from God . . . About the direction of my life. Just don’t know what to do about it.”

“Yep, sounds like God to me. Never get the whole story. Would be too easy or hard, dependin’ on what He’s up to. God calls it faith and waiting. If He told us what tomorrow would bring, we might not even want to get in the saddle. Huh—been there, done that, many times, son.”

“So, you see my dilemma?”

“Oh, yeah, God and love. That’s a train wreck about to happen.”

“Train wreck?”

“Yeah, the heart can be pretty wicked.”

“I think you mean wicked different than we use it.”

“Heh . . . yeah, so your sister tells me. Okay, how about evil, then. The heart can choose to do some things that are absolutely wrong. Kind of like when you were a teenager, which wasn’t that long ago, at least for my memory, probably a lifetime for you, thinkin’ that you know it all, bein’ a college grad and all. Anyway, when you were 15, just before I was about to give you the keys to the Chevy, you said some mean things to me.” His dad looked over at Jerry, their horses slowed to a walk, the wind now in their face as they had rounded the hill and headed to a lower plain.

“Yeah, I know dad.” The memory popped up, and he hung his head low. “I’m sorry. Ya know I never meant what I said.”

“Never brought it up to your face, son. Been there, done that. Done the same with my dad. Most of us do. We take out our frustrations on the ones we love.” This time, it was his dad that hung his head low. “Your mom is a forgiving woman.” They rode in silence at a walk, the dual trails spotted with exposed flint from the rocky slope that projected through the sea of grass. “You have her heart, Jerry. You have a soft heart that will listen to a woman’s. More than listen. One that will serve—” His dad stopped short. His nose lifted high and drew in the familiar scent of springtime burns. But it was not Spring.

He whipped his stallion around and heeled its flanks. The half-ton horsepower clamored up the escarpment to the grassy hilltop. What he saw made him cringe. The horizon was a wall of fire.

† † †

Copyright 2017  © Jeff Cambridge

Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge.

Author of transformational fiction—

Real characters in real life drama that tell the story of their transformation to become more like Jesus.

To read the scenes sequentially, begin with

“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”

Located in the May Blog Archive. Click on the episodes and enjoy.

This episode is pre-published. The book will be available Spring 2018.

Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at lightbycambridge@gmail.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

a

PURSUIT: A Novel – 51: Child

Mammie’s House, Sunday, June 25, 1989

Ray of light beamed through the window. Curtain parted slightly as its end trailed on the rumpled sheets. Blue-black outline of the room gave a hint of glamour and fashion décor. Morning breeze fluttered the curtain. Poster-plastered bedroom walls with reflected sunlight illuminated a profile bust of Madonna, her head tilted back in arrogant glory, jutting a defiant jawbone with ruby painted lips. Facing her was Axl Rose, microphone gripped, bandanna ribbon ties and bracelets bound his wrists, a symbol of his own imprisoned childhood life, now free to express himself with skin art from shoulder to hand and his trademark forehead bandanna. He could have been serenading her, with “Sweet Child of Mine.” Big hair Jon Bon Jovi, the teen heartthrob, bared his pecs underneath a leather and metal studded jacket. Patrick Swayze in his classic dance warm-up tank and tight black pants, held the hands of his dance partner at his chest, the strength of his arms clearly indicating he could twirl her above his head. Across the wall from the window above her bed was a sexy, male volleyball champion.

Jessie stirred as the cool breeze fluttered the curtains and cast more light into the room. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets and pulled her knees to her belly in a cocoon. The boom box on the floor lit up with the guitar pic of Slash, a wake-up call and serenade from the rock singer who she felt understood her own life.

She’s got a smile that it seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

Where everything

Was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Now and then when I see her face

She takes me away to that

Special place

And if I stared too long

I’d probably break down and cry

Sweet child o’ mine

Sweet love of mine

She lay on her back and stretched her arms above her head, then pulled herself up with tight abs and lowered her arms to cover her breasts with the sheet. She tucked her legs up to her chin and stared straight ahead with the early morning waking dreams, figments and fragments floating in her mind’s eye. A menagerie of images—vivid colors blending, shapes distorting, a part here but missing from there—a mind processing to make sense of her emotions that bubbled up unannounced, but would not go away no matter how hard she tried to push them down.

She’s got eyes of the bluest skies

As if they thought of rain

I hate to look into those eyes

And see an ounce of pain

Her hair reminds me

Of a warm safe place

Where as a child I’d hide

And pray for the thunder

And the rain

To quietly pass me by

Sweet child o’ mine

Sweet love of mine

Brad was her only connection to the people at the party. She was left there alone.

Why did Lars leave me?

Jessie did not see Sherri or Antonio after she returned to the dance floor so they may have left together, and with Lars looking for her, Sherri must have felt she would be safe. Yet, she had only met Sherri that day, did not even know her last name. She had no means to contact her or Lars. She could call Brad, who could call Sherri, who could call Antonio, who could call Lars, but for what purpose? He had taken her and dumped her, left her on the beach in the cold of the night.

Scumbag!

For once she felt like such an airhead. She had always been on top, the head and not the tail. What happened?

Duh! Her bruised heart responded—You let your heart love someone. This was no longer a game of “take, dump, and leave.” You were vulnerable to his game because your game had an endpoint—him—and his play was a stepping-stone—you.

Yeah, I got stepped on, but I showed him!  Haha! To see his face again when I threw wine all over his hundred-dollar shirt!

Naked, she stepped out of bed to her closet to find her robe.

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go?

Sweet child o’ mine

 

She threw open the drapes to fill the room with the morning sunlight. The stiff breeze blew open her satin robe below the sash. A front moved across the plain. With nothing to stop its trek, it could be seen for miles on the horizon—dark, ominous thunderheads seemed to hover inches above the ground. Her heart blown open, it was a thunderhead of anger and betrayal.

“I’m not going to let this stop my game. I’m stronger than this setback. Brad was so full of himself, and yeah, I did allow him to buy me. But he never had me. That was my ace in the hole. They always had to wait as I strung them along.” But I so readily let Lars have me. I gave myself to him. Why?

Jessie looked out across the plain. Mammie’s house backed up to pasture with tallgrass bent over from the wind. Her heart responded—You gave yourself away because Brad rejected you.

Recognition of this caused her to flinch. Sadness rose from a deep well. She could not stop the depression as before. It loomed and tightened her throat. She felt heaviness on her shoulders. Hands folded held her robe closed. The burdensome yoke slumped her shoulders. Her head humbled in submission. Her eyes flooded and a tear dropped to the floor. “Oh, God. I don’t know how to pray.”

She knelt beside her bed and looked underneath to find the blue suitcase tucked in the far back corner. She slid underneath to grasp its handle and pulled it to the center of the bedroom. Cross-legged, she pressed the buttons to release the brass latches. With trepidation, she opened its top.

Tucked neatly on top was a baby blanket—hers—that her momma left behind the first time she ran off with a jerk that said he loved her. Jessie was only a child, abandoned to Mammie’s rule. She spread her hand across its soft downy strands and traced the head of a white lamb knitted within. She removed the blanket and held the lamb up against her cheek and nose and closed her eyes. The traces of momma and baby lingered in the fibers as she imagined her snuggling against her momma’s breast.

Her first set of baby shoes, white leather high tops as wide as they were long with white ribbon laces. She tenderly held up a long white lace gown—her christening dress when she was just six months old. Below that was an eight by ten photograph of Momma holding her—both her momma and daddy looking at her smile at them. A tear formed at the edge of her eye and dribbled down the side of her face. She did not bother to wipe it away, for it was only a prelude.

The next picture was Momma in a swimsuit, a daring two-piece that showed her belly button, one leg crossed over the other standing on the beach, surf in the background, hips long and smooth covered with what she called “bloomers.”  She looked to be Jessie’s age, shortly out of high school. Daddy must have taken the picture, for he was the only sweetheart Momma had known before they got married. The sadness rose again, this time flushing her face, and her eyes swam in a sea of sorrow. The brash voice of daddy, the curt words, the rising cry of Momma, the shatter of the bottle—If you hadn’t gotten pregnant, I wouldn’t have married you.

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go?

Sweet child o’ mine

Yet, she knew her daddy loved her. When he was home, he doted on her, brought her presents, dresses, and dolls. Then it felt right to accept his gifts, now she thought, it seemed he was trying to right a wrong. She had considered taking a California trip to see him, but that was as far as she got, just a dream of seeing her daddy, touching his face last seen when she was five. The only picture she had of him was the next and final photo that remained, one of Momma and Daddy. It was a candid picture, just a black and white snapshot with ridged edges. Daddy was holding a bowling ball with Momma at his side.

That was it. That was Jessie’s life in a nutshell.

She would move on just as she had done with the rest of her past. With so little to hold onto, it was easy to let go, just tuck it away in a suitcase and hide it under the bed.

You know the bed feels warmer

Sleeping here alone

You know I dream in colour

And do the things I want

You think you got the best of me

Think you’ve had the last laugh

Bet you think that everything good is gone

Think you left me broken down

Think that I’d come running back

Baby you don’t know me, cause you’re dead wrong

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

Stand a little taller

Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone

What doesn’t kill you makes a fighter

Footsteps even lighter

Doesn’t mean I’m over cause you’re gone



Copyright: Guns N’ Roses Music, “Sweet Child O’ Mine”

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Mgb Scandinav, Perfect Storm Music Group AB, Kurstin Music, Kelly Clarkson, “Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)”



Copyright 2017  © Jeff Cambridge

Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge.

Author of transformational fiction—

Real characters in real life drama that tell the story of their transformation to become more like Jesus.

To read the scenes sequentially, begin with

“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”

Located in the May Blog Archive. Click on the episodes and enjoy.

This episode is pre-published. The book will be available Spring 2018.

Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at lightbycambridge@gmail.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

a