When the World Was Gone (Or: Redemption)

Churning madly in the belly of the midnight sky, copious, black clouds wrestle each other with merciless vehemence. Thrashing one way then pounding to the opposite, each fragment of storm slams into the other, throwing jagged strings of fire to the ground with a deafening bellow.  The tumult increases as the storm clouds smash their bulbous frames into the soft underbellies of their fellows. With a rip and a tear, the bottoms of the contenders shred open, dropping sheets of flailing raindrops to cascade down to earth where they slap gruelingly against the ground.

The thudding beat of the drops soften the dirt, and mud boils up out of the earth in swift, sucking whirlpools. Leaves and debris are swept into the muck, sinking into the wetness or skimming over the surface to be carried away over the flooded terrain.

The varying slope of the land pulls the waters, twisting and turning, but ever downward, parting both rock and soil to carve smooth banks and gaping canyons. Out of these crevices spring fountains and geysers, filling the pocks in the land’s expansive surface. Earth and sky empty their bowels over sodden valleys sunken with weeping, wilting fields of battered grain bowing their heavy heads, and even the peaks of the mountains, drowning in the tears of God.

Under the crush of the waters, the stone in the ground breaks like His heart. Waves roil and burst like His wracking sobs. Death coils into the air like a choking fog, wounding hope and bruising faith. 

But look, there, beyond in the oppressive distance, bobbing in the fray, tugged by the current… Minuscule within the vengeance of the cataclysm, rolling and tumbling with the waves on which it floats. But it will not sink. No, it strives with the strength of a lion. It perseveres with the groan of life. It rises with the love of the Creator.

A simple boat of wood, sealed with the promise of a future. A durable vessel designed by deity and built by man. It holds merely a taste of what once thrived on the earth, only enough to begin one more time. One person, could his survival be worth the destruction of the deluge, could his loyalty be enough to sooth the heart of a saddened God?

One alone is enough. One alone is worth it all. One alone is enough to come back, this time not with water, but flooding the land with forgiveness’ blood. Covering not the earth, but the sins of the earth. Washing away not creation, but the shame that would shackle us. One, loved by God, is enough to reach down and save from destruction.

And there the first of us floats, hidden in a wooden boat, buffeted by wind and rain, swept away from all he knew, small and frightened by the noise, but clinging to the truth aflame inside his soul. The truth that burns brightly in the night, piercing the darkness and the storm. The truth, the joy, the freedom… of redemption.

-By Kimberlee D. Long

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This is an essay I wrote in 2012 and first shared in February 2013. I actually used the first paragraph of it to open Wolf Prints: Treason. I know this is not your typical poem, as nothing rhymes or follows a set rhythm, but the writing style I used was of an aureate nature, its embellished wording classifying it, in my mind, as a form of poetry.

I hope it is obvious to the reader that the subject here is the ark of Noah as he and his family waited inside it for the wrath of God to blow itself out. It was the first Apocalypse as we know it, the literal end and rejuvenation of the world.

The Bible says that at the time of the flood, every man's heart thought of nothing but evil. It wasn't that they were full of evil -it was that there was absolutely nothing left to redeem except for one man, fallen like everyone else, who kept one last spark of obedience to God somewhere in the depths of his soul. God exploited it, as He is mighty enough to do, and coaxed it into a burning flame that convinced Noah to build an ark in the mocking presence of his peers so that his wife, his sons, and their wives were saved alone while the rest met the doom that awaited them.

I can only imagine the fear and humility that permeated that lonely ship as it was lost to the world, sinking below. Who were they to be rescued like princes when their lives were doubtlessly only minimally less vile than their neighbors who were cast out?

But God sees more than we do in our own lives, and He knows the value of a soul. Whatever chance there is to be had for a soul to be redeemed, He presents it. If there is even the tiniest flicker of hope or love or obedience in our hearts for God, He finds it, feeds it, rewards it, and strengthens it into something wonderful.

That's why He formed His own words into flesh and bone, creating a Son of Himself He sent down to us as a gift, as an offering, for us. That Son's name is Jesus, and He died a brutal death in our place so we may be forgiven. Then He rose again three days later, conqueror of the grave, so we could follow Him to Heaven when we die, never again to be soiled by the ruin of our imperfect nature. We don't have to be perfect or wise or even passable. On our own, we cannot be even the least of these things. God sees our hearts and knows well even the tiniest mustard seed of faith in our hearts, and He loves it. He loves you. That's enough for Him.

Never give up, weary child of God. You are not too far gone to be redeemed.