story

When I was little I remember often waking in the middle of the night unable to go back to sleep. Mom would scoop me up into her lap, covered with an afghan, settle in the rocker and begin to tell "the story". I would close my eyes and see it so clearly, and it helped transport me from my present fears to a far away, safe place that I came to love and yearn to go.

Now, as I rock my own babe, the story comes flooding back in the form of images and memory. I know I don't remember it word for word, and the picture my mind created and recalls is different from the one Mom had in her head, but the result is still the same. 

The following is that image translated into my own words. I look forward to scooping up my frightened little one and sending her down the path...

The Throne Room

Your bare feet pad softly along a worn path as it twists through the woods. You are strangely aware that you aren’t really following it, but it’s leading you. There is a dim green glow as the heavy hang of branches filter light through their verdant leaves. It’s peaceful, a purposeful trail even though you aren’t sure exactly where you’re going. You have a feeling deep in the recesses of your soul, in your very fiber, that you’ll know when you’ve arrived. The overhead branches begin to thin and the light illuminates the path more clearly, and suddenly, you're there.

It looms before you, tall and earthy brown, weathered with use but no less sturdy for the wear. A door that you know you’re supposed to enter. As you approach, you realize there is no handle or knob to assist with the daunting task of trying to open such a massive structure. You look up and it seems to become part of the trees at it spirals towards the sky. Intimidating in size, but welcoming in presence. Take a deep breath ,raise your scrawny arm, much to feeble for the task.

As your fingertip barely brushes the warm brown surface, the door swings open with no effort and you have to shield your eyes from the outpouring brightness. Step over thresh hold, pause, listen.

As your bare feet strike the new surface that stretches seemingly miles before you, the sound of millions of crystals and delicate chimes deafen you. Where is this light coming from?

There’s no visible, singular source, just reflection after reflection of beautiful light dancing down the long corridor of mirrors and windows before you. You make your way across the crystal floor that has no beginning or end, with no boundary to the windows that form the sheltering walls. Before you realize it, you’ve made it to the end; you have no comprehension of how far you’ve walked.

Before you stands another door, much different from the first. Polished gold is inlaid with millions of precious stones. There are gorgeous colors you’ve never seen, you couldn’t imagine existed. Like the first, this door also speaks of forever, but is not worn or weathered with use. It gleams with perfection, reflecting the light behind you. 

This door requires knocking, you think to yourself, and as you raise your fist, you pause as you feel it.

A vibration traveling from your feet up your spine, then reaching your ears and becoming sound. At first a simple low hum, then words begin to take shape in form of chant. You feel your heart race, and then slow to timed rhythm with the chant. Deep breath in.

You knock and the door burst open and you’re greeted by the sound in amplified proportions coming out of the darkness before you. Again you cross the threshold, this time aware that you are no longer alone.  You cannot see clearly yet, but you feel you’re standing in the center of a round room. Your eyes slowly adjust and you see the shapes covering the walls, even the ceiling. You know they aren’t human shapes, but are some sort of living creature, strong and fierce, yet totally unaware of themselves, united in one focus and purpose. So they are where the sound is coming from, you hear yourself whisper.

At that moment the rushing sound becomes words in your ears.

“Holy,     Holy,     Holy,     Holy,     Holy...”

Over and over again, never dulled by the repetition, each word bursting forth with new strength and conviction. And then you turn.

 Before you is new light that you couldn’t see before, and in the center he sits. The light isn’t illuminating him, it is HIM, pouring out and drenching everything it falls upon. Hands reach out to you and draw you close where he sits. You fall before feet and your eyes begin to trace over the hands that support you. They are worn and speak of years of work and heavy labor, each bearing a scar in the center. Yet there is youthfulness in their strength, a sturdy grip that claims energy and readiness for whatever battle they undertake. They know no fear, nor defeat. Your eyes then fall to the feet you’ve knelt before. The same scars are present on the feet that you saw on the hands. Feet that have walked for ages, born the load for many, tread dirt, stone, straw, crossed stream, river, ocean. They are creased with miles, now glistening with fresh oil and incense. You can’t take your eyes off the hands and feet; you don’t dare look up and meet the gaze that is piercing through you, already knowing you.

You aren’t afraid, and you realize you aren’t ashamed to meet the gaze, but you tremble nonetheless. 

Then chin begins to raise, shoulders square, and you allow your eyes to rise to his.

Louder and louder it comes,

“Holy,     Holy,     Holy,     Holy...”

Exhale, and rest.