A Sad Story

The American Civil War tipped the scales for sad stories, many of which wrench the heart, even today. It reveals an era stacked with gloomy playing cards, cheerless scarecrows, heartsick yarns, and war-torn dilapidation. These are flora and fauna, these essentiality. The distinctive dream-escapee tasted life till it died; the bursting of bubbles, the swipe of found-less islands.

Enheartenment looks not like a gratuity, windfall, or sweepstakes hit. It is not about happiness, joy, bliss or blessedness. Inflated words solicit us to their lip-service. Instead, a tidbit inspirits, a morsel of food enraptures, and a mere scent sends goose bumps up and down the neck. True love breathes not much in these parts, only in diminished silhouettes; all numbed down, reductionism dulls the culture, drives the humdrum, heats the monotonous day.

War has come, Gung-ho! — but we are not ready, we have no guns; for soldiering, no skill-set. Go, the politician’s incite us. Bigger things hang in balances, moral cruxes adjure the high spirits; bones of contention cannot delay! War, after all, has beneficial ends. We cherish the chance.

“They don’t understand,” — laymen grovelling beneath the water of scruples mutter, “We survive, fellow souls, we only survive.” But, Johnny has gone for a soldier. He departs, she pines. “She dyes her dress; she dyes it red, and in the streets goes begging for bread.” Thick-and-thinners fight frantic nerves …but, oh, the Cause.

Bloody fields, bloody names, Bull Run, Shiloh, Corinth, and Chickamaugua; the whirlwind of wind-sown jabs of hatred find bustle; full blown madness. A butchered land, death, but no resurrection, except for a reputation reborn of hell; it’s who we are. We kill, we burn, we pillage, and we discover the barbarian within. It’s the lesson for fear; to make us look at it squarely. We despise the stained garment.

Roust the troops, inflame their members, another round of bloodshed, the devils cry of lust. Kill so you can die too; isn’t that the game? Die inward so you can kill outward. Isn’t that it? Kill a conscience for vengeance; at men? No! – at the hell of who we are, our subsistence, our sin-drenched fate. Blame, but who? Silently God, the concept, the projected demanding, uncaring, unloving, judgmental god – the one created of the ultimate foe; of flesh and blood, even possum skin. We eat the falsification!

Well, that war pressed on for all were not dead yet. Bottles of tears wanted for filling, hearts still remained for breaking. The conditions must be met again — Hopelessness, helplessness, cluelessness, and grovel. Impossibility of beaten heads prepared the way, the joy-steal accomplished, prosperity forgotten. No human can fix this now.

But then a corner turns, and He cries, live! Who cries? It is Love who we never knew; how has He hidden Himself? We are stunned and unprepared. He withdraws Himself; then returns again. Yes it’s real, we pinch the arm. We open up.

Himself pours into our stony heart. A heart of flesh results? Tendering, softening, healing, and soothing; this virginal brightening, the cure binds up, seals the drip; unscabs, unputrefies, mends. Boundless love conquers over death and grave. It is like a mirage, but this one is timeless, beautiful for situation, born of impossibility, amazingly true. It’s a hope, an honest one, a promise from eternity, a substantial peace, confidence, rest, and buoyancy –- exuberant joy. We are ravished.

It’s a God awakening, for unless He is, all means nothing, and hell awaits. But hope against hope, cloud nine begins; an above thing, a thrill from another dimension, a supernatural, a world never imagined.

So, it was a War to end all wars. (For a while). Liberty revitalized, goodness, wholesomeness, and mercy. Deceit would have to wait another 1-2 hundred years, though it tried it’s darnest. Reconstruction managed itself, and unity re-birthed. Harsh reality and fear, of the Lord, spawned wisdom. The nation survived.

But now we retreat, mind glossed over, history scratched, we allocate hate once again. Afresh we can kill, anew we kill our consciences, once again we blank out the true God. Can it be turned? Perhaps, but only of God. But watch, this time He may justly judge; for the last time? Possibly. But, not to despair, a trumpet awaits to blow, a shout is cued up. A twinkling of an eye is next. Love ya

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