Why Be Sure?

The Bible comes in many forms, namely in various wordings. Some call them translations, others interpretations. It's gone from King James to New American Standard Version, to the Message.

Me? I've been reading out of the NIV (New International Version) since I was sixteen. The majority of verses I use in my writing are from this version and this specific book. The pages are wrinkled, dog-eared- not intentionally because I'd NEVER blemish a page like that!- underlined, tabbed, and there's notes on everything that's ever caught my ear on a Sunday morning. It's well used and well worn... and I still have SO much to learn.

My NIV started falling apart two years ago and my family told me to get a new one. I still have a mint condition NIV in my closest, given to me at my high school graduation. But when you've studied, pondered, and cried over a Bible as many times as I have, replacing it with a new one isn't that simple. So, I bought the great American fixer-upper known as duct tape, and taped the covers of my NIV back together!

Nobody really understood why I was going to all the trouble for an old, old Bible. Truthfully, it's an answer I can't always put into words. But I think about what Peter said,

"Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone that asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior in Christ may be ashamed of their slander."

~1 Peter 3:15-16~   

What am I trying to point out here? Good communication. Owning a Bible DOSEN'T save you; your heart's decision to follow God does. But owning a Bible leads you in what an imitation of Christ looks like. Which can lead to the witness and salvation of others.

You can give someone reasons until the cows come home, but if those reasons aren't solidly articulated, then you've already lost your audience. Part of this solid speech comes from the version of the Bible you quote from. Quoting or citing a bunch of different versions only makes your case for God seem weaker. Think about it... if you're not firm in the Bible that you use, how can you be firm in the One who wrote it?

God wrote the Bible so He could tell us of our history, remind us of the sacrifice of His son, and proclaim His mighty love for us. Be certain of how you use it and, yes, what type you use. A Bible is a tool of your faith... a sword that becomes an extension of yourself and of Christ's example in your life...

"Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God."

~Ephesians 6:17~

You practice with a sword so as to master its weight; you practice at your job so as to learn the company inside and out. And be it American Standard, New King James, or New International, practice with your Bible as well and know the word of God! 

"Do not let this Book of the Law depart from your mouth; 

meditate on it day and night so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. 

Then you will be prosperous and successful.'

~Joshua 1:8~

Opening

               "Ticket please."
               "What's a ticket?" Theyet remembered asking for the first time. To which Mister had formed a little rectangle with his fingers. "A piece of paper that lets you in."
               Theyet had nodded instantly at this. "And you don't have it, they shoot you?"
               "What, no!" Mister looked shocked at this suggestion. "They just don't let you in."
               Theyet became nervous with the memory. As though the date or time on her ticket was suddenly wrong, or somehow the teller's scanner would find it 'invalid'. Tonight was so special, something she had waited so long for-
               The gray-haired teller with coke-bottle glasses returned Theyet's stub unceremoniously. "Enjoy the show."
               "Thank you!' Theyet snatched it up in relief. "Oh, thank you!"
               The teller's brow furrowed at her bubbling excitement, but Theyet moved on, eager for the rest in her line to be admitted. The lines didn't end until they reached the autumn twilight on the steps of the theatre. Theyet had practically floated up them, not understanding why so many were needed... but also not caring. The doors beyond the tellers' booths pushed in and Theyet found herself walking across rose carpet and staring down a bolstered hallway where people chatted and sipped from wine glasses. Theyet looked subconsciously down, catching the glimmer of her painted nails, striding under the hem of her floor-length dress. The lace along the sleeves and neckline itched her skin, but it looked so beautiful, she couldn't not pick it to wear tonight.
               "I have a dress, Mister!" Theyet's chest puffed out proudly beneath the thin and stained frock she wore over jean shorts. Stripes of shade cast over her and Mister as they sat beneath a dying tree. It was part of the trenches outside the village; one of the few spots of relief from the sun. Nobody had asked them to be dug and many people complained. Theyet and her friends didn't; the American soldiers were cool.
               Mister was shaking his head. "It's not that kinda dress, Teeny. Look-"
               Theyet took in the shiny photo he held. It had been of a tall woman with ghostly skin, dark make up that made her eyes pop, and bright clothing... deep colors that Theyet couldn't believe were real. Like the earliest spring blooms. But, why didn't her skirt cover her legs?
             "It's a tutu." Mister had pointed, enunciating like he did. Theyet had pointed too. "Her underwear, Mister!"
               Mister had rolled his eyes and redirected her attention. "She's a dancer, Teeny, a ballerina. All ballerinas wear tutus. Now... read that."
               The command had been gentle, yet nonnegotiable. Mister was an army man and that was how he had given orders. Theyet still felt her squint at the letters above the woman. She recognized them; they made sounds... she needed to put the sounds together to read the words. "S-S...Swa-a..."
               "Swan Lake." Theyet mouthed the elegant title as she stood before a life-size poster. The pose, the woman, the clothes were different. But to Theyet, she wasn't in the lobby of a Paris theatre, where the marble floors gleamed and concessions jutted from ornately carved walls. She was outside her village, seated beside Mister and eyeing his gifts from home. The images where it all started, pulling her out of the heat and fields of her village, graduating with honors out of Hanoi.
              Theyet had been five when the soldiers started coming and digging the trenches. Set back from an enemy highway, their village was the perfect spot for what Mister had called 'recon'. His real name wasn't Mister, but Captain Percy Basille. Theyet had learned this years later, but hadn't cared back then. Mister, being so terrible with their language, ended up calling her Teeny, the closest thing to her name. She always responded with Mister and he never corrected her. Neither complained, becoming comfortable with it.
               So many faces, she didn't know why Mister's had stood out. Maybe because he was the first to answer her question, 'What you rea-ding?' Her pronunciation alone proved that she couldn't read, outside of road signs. Mister hadn't stood for that. Every day, in the trenches or in his tent, he used the dirt- damp with humidity- to teach Theyet her letters. For the words, he used his Bible. Theyet could still taste the first verse she ever read. "I am... the L-or-d... y-you-r-r G...od."
               The sensation of her mouth and brain connecting to the lines on Mister's pages... Theyet hadn't stopped smiling that entire week. From there, Mister led her through the Ten Commandments, before backtracking to Moses' childhood and the plagues over Egypt. Each one tasted like the milk and honey God promised the Israelites.
               Theyet moved past the poster and strolled into the lobby, anointed in the same colors, thus setting the theme for the evening's production. Yards of robin's blue wound the banisters leading to the balconies; pastels of purple and pink and gentle gray hung from the ceiling like feathers. Everything else, from the usher jackets to a great wreath staged between the twin staircases, was a frosty white to match the ballet's titular bird. Where everyone else scurried, chatted, and drank around her, Theyet had to stop. How could they act so oblivious? Theyet felt like she'd stepped inside a music box, just waiting for someone to wind the handle.
               "Miss?"
               Theyet turned to find a mustached usher addressing her. His chin was erect, with the most enduring grin on his face. Absently, Theyet held up her ticket. "It's my first time, sir."
               His eyes, brown and deep in wrinkles, sparkled as a child's. "Well then-"
               He crooked his arm. Theyet hesitated, uncertain of the gesture. The usher looped her arm gently with his. "Like so."
              "Like this, Teeny." Mister had urged, tracing his finger over the 'q' again. Only Theyet hadn't been interested in letters that day. "Show me the picture again, Mister?"
               "Finish your letters and maybe."
               Theyet had huffed, but listened. All while watching for Mister to take out the picture of the dancing woman again. Only he had pulled out a different ones she worked... the family photo he prayed over all the time. Not to the great elephants or to Buddha, but to God Almighty. That was the name Mister had used the most. He had showed Theyet, named his wife, his baby girl... his little brother and parents. The first time Theyet had studied these people, she still only wanted to see the ballerina. "They like ballet like you?"
                "I don't like ballet!" Mister had snatched the photo back. "My mother does. She's French and won't let me forget that I am also."
                Theyet watched his face, saying other things his mouth didn't. Her mother's face did that too, when she thought about where they used to live. Where they had to run away from, so as not to be killed. Theyet nodded. "You miss them."
               Mister had tucked the picture away. "Every day."
               Theyet had wrestled in that moment with a sadness. Sadness at Mister going back to his family someday. It would happen; her people wouldn't need the soldiers forever. Some of her elders felt they didn't need them now.
               "How about that 'q'?" Mister pulled himself closer to Theyet to study over her shoulder. "Well-"
               "Well now," the usher cleared his throat. The stairs had ended and he walked them through thick velvet curtains. Theyet's face was instantly illuminated by the sparkling chandelier hanging off a doomed ceiling. Embellished cour-de-fleurs and cornucopias seemed to dance out of its blinding light amidst clouds of blue, coral, and jade paint.
                "It has its own sky." Theyet whispered, mesmerized. The usher chuckled, as though he understood. He pointed down the narrow slant of stairs to their left, handing her ticket back. "Row F, seat 15."
               He faced Theyet then and gave the back of her hand a light kiss. "Dear girl, your journey awaits."
               "Don't wait!" Mister's voice sounded above the rapid fire of the guns. "Go! That's an order!"
               His harsh words and red face hadn't seemed natural, but Theyet had clung to him as he picked her up. She had been too afraid to move from her family's house. The commies were firing on their village; Mama and her cousins were down by the river. Theyet had wanted to search for them, but her eyes stayed shut against Mister's shoulders. She jostled as he ran, catching the sting of branches as he dove into the thick jungle. The trees that'd kept their village hidden... safe... 
               "It's ok, Teeny." He had breathed. "When we stop we'll look at that picture huh? You remember... what it says?" 
               Theyet remembered as she reached her row. She also remembered the sinking feeling in her stomach as Mister's body jerked, then fell on top of her. His pained breath ordering her to play dead. She had, long after the commies stopped firing, long after his blood had dried over her shirt and skin. She stayed still for hours, waiting for Mister to give her the okay. He didn't.
               American soldiers had taken Mister's body, but to Theyet, he was still in those trenches, vigilant over her village. Mama was still there, her grandparents and cousins. But Theyet had gotten out. She'd taken her skills and run with them, until books were a regular thing and English was second-hand. She had a job with the consulate in Ho Chi Minh over two years ago. That was where it had begun, her search for Mister's family. She needed to thank somebody, for teaching her to read, for giving her dreams... for letting her love ballet.
               Their faces when I told them, Theyet's mind had frozen that image of Mrs. Basille and Mister's daughter, Polly, now twenty-one. She had only been able to connect with them by phone at first, until Mister's mother- the original lover of ballet- had insisted that they needed to see her.
               Theyet was happy- relieved- that she had found them, met them, planned to know Mister's family. Her search however, had always been meant to end here... in a plush, cushioned seat, gazing upon a broad-lit stage, ticket clutched in her hand. The ticket and Mister's photo, wrinkled and yellowed, but folded so neatly in Theyet's purse. She collected her breath, smiling at the woman beside her to hold back the tears. The light dimmed, faces and voices fading as spotlights drew their attention to the curtains. A welcoming voice gave a few announcements, then quiet. Theyet felt the moment suspend, and she was eight again, in that plush theatre seat, eyes going wide as the curtains drew back.
               "Made it Mister," Theyet whispered as the orchestra strummed its first notes. "Made it."

THE END

~ To the men and women who died in uniform. 

Your sacrifice is felt, even decades later. 

By those within, and beyond our borders. ~

         

Always Reaching

'Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, 

too lofty for me to attain.'

~Psalm 139:6~

What knowledge comes to your mind at the sound of this verse? Chances are it gives an indication of what you value- in terms of what you know. Here though, David is speaking of knowledge that remains too cumbersome for his brain to envelope. He lived a long life (into his 70s) and he was a king at that. Scrolls upon scrolls of literature, army reports, land surveys, and personal letters would have been available to him. Plus, he would've done a lot of traveling, seen many of the known world's kingdoms and provinces. Still, he speaks of a knowledge that he doesn't hope to fully understanding in his lifetime.

This is where context strides in to clear some of the clouds. Psalm 139 is David marveling over the ways in which God knows him. From his 'going out and lying down' (verse 3) to having 'knit me together in my mother's womb' (verse 13). David acknowledges how he CAN'T encompass all the ways in which God knows him. And more importantly, loves him.

We are complex beings, sometimes frustrated by our own intricacies and emotions. How many have uttered that popular angst of 'No one understands me?'. God, however, is never frustrated. He is ecstatic that you are alive and living- with your strengths and your weaknesses. We were each a thought to Him when He first gave light to the world and He waited anxiously for the day- or the eye blink in His case- when each of us were going to be born. 

This post could stretch on into eternity, but it would still never account for the measure of God's love for us. His love is demonstrated by how well, how deep He KNOWS us. The strengths, the weaknesses, the righteousness... and the sin. 

He knows and He loves.

'O Lord, you have searched me, and you know me...

My frame was not hidden from you 

when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth 

your eyes saw my unformed body...'

~Psalm 139:1, 15-16a~

Back to the Dust ~ At Home

          

Drew had never been a weapons man. Right now though he wouldn’t have minded shooting down every one of the chirping birds above his head. The December winds still fraught with chill, but the few that had remained were full of song and laughter. And they had no right to be.

         The sun had no right to shine, the sky no right to be blue. Not here in a cemetery, with the mouth of Jasmine’s grave, fresh and wet, waiting for her coffin. The American flag ruffled in the icy breeze. Jasmine’s pastor and many hometown friends had gathered. Her mother had been dutifully notified, but had not been at the viewing, the service, or now, as the US Marine Corp prepared for their final goodbyes.

         There had been no question of who the pallbearers were to be. Sergeant Emery, Corporals Koehler and Pruitt, Lance Corporal Schrader, and Privates Holst, Humriche, and Duro, all present. Pressed and ironed in their military best, the least any Marine could do for a brother or sister-in-arms. For them though, for Drew as well, this wasn’t just Jasmine’s burial. It was the completion of their mission.

         Jasmine had expired while the helicopter was still sixteen minutes out. The village was no longer in priority, the bad guys lay dead and the tunnel entrances had been found. Drew listened as a final formation was made, watching as the seven dots encircled the eighth, a neon compass in the dark dawn of the Middle East. The whole sixteen minutes it didn’t move, didn’t falter, and had there been more hostels, the 138th wouldn’t have yielded even to that.

         “Our nation has held too many of these in the last decade it seems.” Jasmine’s pastor was suddenly at the head of her coffin, speaking. “I’ve met pastors who have stopped telling one from the other, a terrible injustice in any circumstance. But this…” His head bowed a moment, glancing at the coffin. “Losing someone in this time when we’re meant to be jubilant, basking in Christ’s birth...”

         Drew felt his legs tense, to get up and run away right at that moment.

         “The only consolation I can give is that Jasmine Foley left with such an attitude.” The pastor turned in his long, gray overcoat. “Her good friend, Hosiah Schrader, was there. He told me how Jasmine’s last thoughts were on nothing but her Savior. All her face showed was the peace at the prospect of entering Heaven. My friends, there’s something to be jubilant about.”

         There were some nods and Drew noticed a couple lean over their teenage daughter as she sobbed. Entering Heaven? Didn’t Jasmine give any thought to what she was leaving behind?

         “Anyone who knew Jasmine,” the pastor sniffed out a slight laugh. “Anyone who MET Jasmine, knew that the Psalms were her favorite of the Scriptures. But I was entrusted with her Bible last night and I found quite intimate notes on Deutoromony 4, verses 32 through 39.’

         ‘If you’ll allow me, the last verse Jasmine had highlighted; “Acknowledge and take to heart this day that the Lord is God in heaven above and on earth below. There is no other.’

         ‘Jasmine, as I saw and knew her, sent this message out to everyone she interacted with. She lived out a message- God’s message- and I believe the reason for its success was her boundless confidence. The Lord was her God, her Father and Master. She would tell you that here and now with no doubt in her voice.”

         The pastor spread out his arms. “Many people here can say they have faith and I believe that statement. But how many of you doubt yourselves, doubt your God? I apologize for the sermon, but I know Jasmine will find a way to haunt me if I don’t get these words out.” He took a step back, nodding to Jasmine’s fellow Marines, who hadn’t moved an inch. “Jasmine Foley was in her fifth year of service to the freedom of this country. The soldiers here today, I’m sure can testify to what she saw; death, suffering, injustice and disregard for life, the exact opposite of what the Bible teaches us.’

         ‘If there’s anything made to cause doubt in a benevolent God, it would be war and I can’t say Jasmine never had her moments of falter. But she never let them linger; to say that would be to contradict the way she lived. So, in conclusion, I think Jasmine would want you all to take Deuteronomy 4:39 to heart today. She’d want her death to be a testament of her God, not a reason to doubt Him.”

         He left it at that, dropping Jasmine’s legacy here at the foot of her grave. Drew had to practically unsnap his jaw from the rigid position it’d been clenched in during the whole talk. The only testament he’d wanted to make would’ve gotten him kicked out of the service. He put his brain on pause while Emery, Schrader, and Holst about-faced and prepared for the 21-gun salute. Humriche had begged to be the third gunmen, but he was already on crutches, defying a doctor’s clear orders of zero activity and bed rest.

         BANG! The weapons released in unison. The people gave little jumps in there seats; had this been even two years ago, Drew would’ve done the same.

            BANG! The blanks echoed again and again, until the final volleys were ringing over the forest of marble and limestone. With the fall of their echo, the sharp notes of ‘Taps’ blasted from the bugle player; a friend of Hosiah’s from New Orleans. They’d pulled out all the stops… BANG!

*THE END*

Back to the Dust ~ Mission Three

    
         Both ears exploded in an array of static and survival. The puffs identified themselves as gunfire, Emery and Koehler passed out orders in a panic, and Alec was torn between foreign swearing and crying out in pain.

         “Alec…” Jasmine commanded in the respite between gunshots. “Hold on… GSW to the hip, Sergeant!” BANGBANG! “I count two hostels flanking my left!”

         “Drew.” Srgt. Emery roared- more in rage then in volume. “What’s going on!”

         Drew’s heart released from his stomach and he pounded his fingers into the keyboard.

         “Contact front, Sergeant!” Hosiah added to the fury. “We got four of ‘em!”

         “You see the whites of their eyes?” Brent joined the fray.

         “No sir.” Hosiah grunted.

         “Fire anyway!” Koehler shouted, his rifle sending out a spray of lead. Hosiah followed with a “Yes sir!”

         “Paisley!” Emery demanded again. Drew widened his screen, narrowed it again, keeping the thermal on. His green dots became glowing red aliens. Only rather then eight as there had been, there were now over fifteen!

         “Thermal…” Drew hyperventilated the words.” Puts… ten hostels in your path. Serg… Sultan I swear, they weren’t there three minutes ago.”

         He wasn’t sure if anyone heard him. Emery, Koehler, and Pruitt were barking out maneuvers and positions, trying to stay ahead of the bullets that darted back and forth. Drew stilled and listened. Hosiah was covering Eddie, Jasmine held Alec’s position while he comforted himself by cussing out the Taliban and any known associates.

         All that could be heard of Holst was his ammo pinging into the night. Or so Drew was telling himself to believe. He kept his hands poised over the keyboard, but what could they do? Thousands of geographical miles laid between them and even then, he had never fired a gun. He had never wanted to, lacking the backbone his friends obviously had.

         Hey egghead! His subconscious Special Agent Gibbs slapped his brain. They need you! They need answers, statistics! Do what you do!

         Drew zipped his screen back into a wide shot, the cluster of his team on the far left end, their intended target, the village, to the far right. The five heat signatures hadn’t moved from the compound, though they would certainly hear the echo of the gunfight by now. Nothing in-between. Where had the others come from? People didn’t just appear out of thin air, yet that was what they had done! There was no way to completely scramble a thermal scan, no way was it possible…

         “Tunnels!” Drew leaned forward, the answer hitting him like cold water. “Sergeant Emery, there have to be tunnels! If anybody hears me, tunnels! It’s the only way…”

         “We copy, Paisley!’ Mason huffed. “Now shut up while we…”

         “AAGGGHHHH!”

         Everything stopped. Not really, but all other sounds became dull and hollow as the cry suspended through the earwigs. A cry, then a soft thud, unlike Humriche’s. His shout came afterwards. “Sultan! Jazz’s down!”

         English and Arabic became one dialogue, the bullets coming harder and faster. Hosiah’s praying rang louder, Pruitt and Duro’s cursing harsher. But all Drew heard was a gurgled breathing. Jasmine’s breathing. It seemed to be all there was, the epicenter of the swirling hornet’s nest they’d fallen into.

         “Grenade!” came the shout, then the rattling explosion that caused Drew to rip out his headset. He stared at the mike, the noise emitting through the net of tiny black holes. How could this be happening? He needed to remember to breathe, to slow his heart rate down, before he connected himself back to them. In, out, in, out…

         “Paisley!” Emery’s scream about shook the earwig out of Drew’s fingers. “Radio base, NOW! I wanna hear copter blades five minutes ago!”

         Drew looked at the barren blue screen that surrounded their skirmish. It would be thirty minutes before anyone heard anything! He placed his headset back in its sweaty socket. “I’ll have to disconnect to open a channel with the base… sir.”

         Three more seconds of rapid gunfire, followed by Sultan’s shout. “Get on it, Paisley.”

         Two strokes of the keys and it was all gone. Drew punched in the secure line that went straight to the military base.  The voice of Military Commander Quinn Hayley answered. “This is…”

         “Sir, Drew Paisley.” Drew interrupted. “Operation Christmas Goose is south. I repeat sir, Christmas Goose has gone south. We have two teams under heavy fire, two wounded…”

         “Coordinates!” Commander Hayley demanded. Drew spat them off. “Sir, permission to reestablish contact with Srgt. Scott Emery.”

         “Permission granted.” the commander told him. “You tell them ETA’s twenty minutes.”

         Drew doubted that his calculation of thirty minutes was wrong, but there was no arguing with a Marine pursuing a fallen comrade.

         Just hurry. He couldn’t help but pray as he switched the channels back, bracing himself. Only he was met with nothing. No buzzing machine guns, no splitting explosions, no profanity… how long had he been on with the commander? Two minutes? No, not even that. Wait, there was still the shouting.

         “I’m fine!” Humriche huffed out heavily. “I’m good. Jasmine… check Jazz!”

         “Hosiah, get over here.” Holst shouted out desperately and that’s when the breathing came back into Drew’s focus. “T-to the only… God our Savior… be gl-lory… majesty, power, a-a-and authority…”

         “Jazz just take it easy.”

         “…Jesus Christ… now-w and fo-orever more. A-ugh-Amen.”

         The words were pinched, the breathing shallow and hitched, and after everything else, hearing them was turning Drew’s ears numb. “Sergeant… Sergeant Emery, the helicopter is twenty minutes out. How are they?”

         “The hostels are all dead.” Emery reported gruffly. “Private Humriche has sustained minimal bleeding…”

         “Get her vest off!” Hosiah’s voice took over. There was shuffling and a hoarse cry from Jasmine.

         “Sorry, Foley.” Eddie muttered.

         “How’s she looking?” Pruitt demanded.  Drew could feel the whole team take in their breath. Hosiah however, took too long to answer. “Ah, Jazz..”

         Nonononono! Drew’s thoughts fired the word in rapid succession.

         “The one to her neck was a graze.” Hosiah said. “But this second one ricocheted into her lung. It’s filling up.”

         No one had to ask with what.

         “Make an incision.” Holst cried. “Relive the pressure so she can breath.”

         “She’s already losing too much blood.” Hosiah spoke like a robot now. “I make a hole, it’ll just speed up the process.”

         “The copter will have reserves.” Duro protested, Humriche quickly agreeing. “Yeah, they’ll have an IV ready…”

         “Not in time.” Brent stopped them, his tone cold and dry. There was silence, stunness, seconds of disbelief. Then Drew’s weight hit the back of his chair at the same moment expletives hit the Pakistani sky.

         “Christmas.” Jasmine blurted, then gasped for air. “Isn’t today… Christmas… Hosiah?”

         “Shh, sister.” Hosiah’s voice became so calm, so gentle. “Yeah, it’s Christmas. Only 300 miles from Bethlehem, ain’t that something?”

         Drew braced both his palms on his desk so neither would take his earwig back out.

         “Christ’s bir-r-rth-hday.” Jasmine’s sharp exhale. “God’s… h-having me… home… on H-His Son’s birthday.”

         Was that a smile in her voice?

         “Paisley, where’s that copter!” Emery demanded.

         “Still eighteen minutes out.”

         More swearing, hot and sobbing, wreaked his ear. Drew was surprised he had yet to join in their filthy song. The probability of death and the actual reality of it often refuse to coincide in our minds until it’s forced to. Drew felt himself descending, degrading from that reality, denying its existence. But Hosiah spoke before he was too far gone.

         “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.” Hosiah broke out, silencing Alec, Mason, and the others. “We’re gonna sing to You, Father God, for You have been good to us…”

         For a moment, there was nothing. Then came bleeding, dying, Jasmine’s reply. “Amen.”

         “God has made my heart faint; the Almighty has terrified me,” Hosiah recited a bit louder. “Yet… Lord, we are not silenced by the darkness, by the thick darkness that covers our faces.”

         Another sickening gargle. “A-Amen.”

         Stop it. Drew pleaded, his brow sweating the tears that his eyes were supposed to feel. These weren’t the words meant for a dying Marine. Marines didn’t just get shot and die! God in Heaven, they survived explosions, shrapnel, the loss of all four limbs! Two bullets were nothing.

         “Arise and shine for your light has come,” Hosiah choked the words out, but he kept on. “And the glory of the Lord- sweet glory, sister- rises upon you. Then you will look and be radiant. Your heart, Jazz, will throb and swell with joy.”

         There was a breath.

         Two breaths; and still, Jasmine didn’t say amen.

            C’mon Jasmine, say it! Drew stared at his screen, willing her number to speak, to move. But there was only the cease of her tortured breathing.

*To Be Continued*