To his dying day, my father refused to believe me and could not and would not understand that what had been done in me by God made an irreconcilable difference between him and me not only in terms of thought and way of life but very nature.
He lingered for the old Victor he was once the father of, not willing to accept that I had died. He went to his grave lingering at mine. If only he had desired not the grave for the two of us but the resurrection. What man in his right mind would trade the skies and birds for the underground and worms? So, in all sadness, I turned my back on him, but do not regret it, no, not for a moment.
You linger at my grave, longing for your son;
I’ve left the darkness for the light and what is done is done.
The change in me is not perceived by frail human sight
And so you think that I am wrong and you are surely right.
Reason fails to comprehend the things in my new life;
Explanations will not do, they only lead to strife.
People, habits, memories call but I’ve traded old for new;
I’ve traded all that’s bad and false for all that’s good and true.
I’m a stranger in this world whom you have never met;
I’ve only kept this outer shell on which your hearts are set.
My life is hid in Jesus Christ; believe me you will not;
Your hearts are very hard and cold, for truth you have not sought.
I’d rather walk on foreign soil than to this evil world be loyal,
And trade the rags of dirt and toil for robes magnificent and royal.
Kingly blood flows through my veins as I am led down holy lanes;
I’ve left the world of sorrow and pains, and climb the heights for greater gains.
Some day I know I will return for others who will come
And each man will, in his own time, ’til all are in the sum.
Great and glorious will be the day when all men drop the sword
And raise their hands in harmony to praise our mighty Lord.
Dauphin, 1978, 79
The unknown brings fear to some. To others there comes a sense of excitement and adventure, especially if they believe that all will be well in the end.
We are all in need of help. But is it the noun or the verb we need? Woe is me! How can this be? Where is that help I have sought? Nothing but wretched know-it-alls Come to disturb my thought - and my peace. Peace? What peace? What am I saying? Who am I trying to kid? If this is peace then give me war And I shall rest and sleep and snore. Time passed on and matters grew worse. I soon lost all that I had. My friends had gone their merry old ways, My family too was gone. My business failed, uncertainty prevailed; I slowly began to wrestle with myself For a change. What's this? A knock? A tiny knock? I haven't had a knock since that beggar came by! I wonder who it might be? Eh? A whimper? A sniffing? A sobbing? More trouble! Add fuel to the fire! Is there no rest for the wicked?! I opened the door and there stood a boy, One hand over his eyes and one on his knee, From where trickled blood to my doorstep! Sir! the lad cried with tear-stained face, I stumbled and fell just in front of your place. I have nobody to help me. Are you a doctor or someone to bind my wound? Angered at first at the gory mess, I nearly chased him away. But though I knew I was only a laborer, He had flattered me with his question. Fancy me a doctor!? “Lad, you have saved your knee,” I thought. “Oh, very well, come in, come in. We'll see what to do with your wound.” I bound up his leg and sent him away, Not...
The terrible battle to be fought by the seeker of God is against unbelief. One moment, we can be so full of belief, of joy and excitement, assurance and boldness. Then, as little as it takes to slam a door, so quickly and surely have saints of God known the onslaught of unbelief in all its terrible power. Our fight is the fight of faith. Our faith is the victory. Nor is it a faith concocted, a matter of will power. It is rather, a surrender to God, an acceptance of things as they are, an acknowledgment of things as they are and entrusting them entirely out of our control to His. Thus we come out of our valleys, our clouds of darkness and into the light. Wave after wave, Billow after billow, No rest, no peace, except for a time, A short time, a breather so to speak, From the unrelenting pressures which increase. Darkness all around us, Blind alleys at every turn, Clouds obscure the light of day And leave us damp and cold. When will we be free? When will the storm cease? Has it no end? Has it no bounds? Can we go on with our hopes Dashed to pieces at every turn, Like cardboard huts in a hurricane? Is it sin in our lives that causes this state? Is the wrath of God kindled against us? Have we no hope, no reason to expect An end to intermittent turmoil? “There is no peace to the wicked,” the Scriptures say, Yet we have searched and searched ourselves again. And though we know that in our flesh dwells no good thing, We still find ourselves without an answer....