A Tale Of Souls Cities

 A Tale Of Souls Cities

Greetings from Souls City, the haven for the lost and forgotten. We’ve dwelled here for ages, and I am the spokesman, your point of contact from here on out. If you attempt to breach our realm, even by familial ties, you may be banned from any future contacts. 

We comprise a tight-knit colony of lost souls, often questioned about our purpose. Our mission is to collect the forgotten of the two cities. Some call us the trash collectors of sorts. Are these souls truly discardable refuse? To some, perhaps. Yet they are more than just trash; they are the overlooked and the disregarded. Our task is to gather those souls who are lost and forgotten. Who decides their status? Some say it’s humanity, but others would say fate. But regardless, our duty is to rescue these souls.

There are those who say there is another city that collects the righteous and the ones who are called to a purpose and have hope. I’ve asked about this place, and I haven’t received a conformation that this city exists. I believe it does. I’m considering venturing out of my city limits to conduct a more comprehensive investigation. As I have mentioned before, I am the spokesman for Souls City, so it seems fitting that I would be the one to deliver any news of a potential tale of two cities to the community. 

So, with that being said, I pack up and gather my tools and supplies to make the trip. Souls City is a desolate land; there is no green grass, no green trees, and no colors of any kind; It’s just black and white. That defines our position in humanity. We are lost in color, and only think in yes or no. There is no gray here. Our minds are bound to the present, and there is a limited vocabulary. There are several words that are foreign in our land and one of them is hope. Souls City is devoid of hope, and that’s okay for now. We have dwelt in hopelessness for years, and that doesn’t seem to bother anyone here. So why change? 

Finally, I’m all packed up. I have everything I need to make this exploration. There are a handful of souls here to see me off. In the depths of their being, I sense a yearning for me to return with the story of a city overflowing with promise. 

A city that is hopeful and a city that brings life to humanity. In the deepest part of my being, I desire this as well. That’s the purpose of my exploration. 

I take my first steps toward the unknown. You don’t need much when you have no hope. All you need is a little of this and a little of that. When there is no hope and no promise of tomorrow, it doesn’t take much to transport you to the next place. 

I’ve been walking this path for days now, and I still haven’t found a city of hope. I’ve traveled east and west. I’ve been north and south, but still no sign of a new city. The land here is as barren as the North Sea. There is nothing but wave after wave of hopelessness. I thought I knew what an absence of hope was until this exploration. I mentioned that hope is not a word in Souls City, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know about it. 

After several months, I still see no trace of this city some claim exists. At this point, I haven’t surrendered hope—not that I had much to lose to begin with. How long is this going to take? I wasn’t sure, but it really doesn’t matter at this point, anyway. Even finding my way back seems improbable. I am in a land that is so desperate that the sand makes conversation to stay in existence.  

Years have elapsed since then. The count eludes me, yet I know my absence isn’t consequential to those in Souls City. Well, perhaps a few of those souls might be on the lookout for me, though that’s likely my hopelessness speaking. As the years have passed, I have persisted day by day and week by week, searching for that elusive city that might bring hope. If such a place exists, perhaps they know the location of Souls City and can point me back in that direction. I am not only lost, but completely dead to myself. Some may deem it hopeless, but to me, it’s simply life. 

As I look ahead, about to take what seems like my last breath, I notice something in the distance. Step after step, day after day, I have inched closer to this city’s edge. I collapse by the sign that reads, “Hopeful City – Where Lives Are Changed and Grace is Given Freely.” I found it! I found it! Tears stream down my face and flood my soul. Is this real? Hope flows into my soul, bringing new life into my weary body, just from reading the sign at the city limits. I am exhausted and crushed but given new life at this moment. 

I have found this new city—a place of stories woven with grace and mercy, a haven of hope. Its inhabitants rush out to meet me, eager to know where I have traveled from. My answer is simple. “I’ve traveled a long distance over many years from a place devoid of hope. That place, Souls City, needs you all. They live in a city that doesn’t have hope.” They recognized the name of the city; its where they all came from many years ago. With that, they all band together and load up to make a trip back to Souls City to share with the people the reason for their hope. 

So, it turns out the tale of two cities is true. There is hope through mercy and grace. While they may appear parallel in nature, only one focuses on the vertical dimension. In this vertical alignment, we discover the source of hope, mercy, and grace.    

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Oh Snap

 Oh Snap

Oh snap! Before I knew it, I found myself at the bottom of a pit. It happened overnight, leaving me bewildered. I hadn’t experienced that feeling in several years. There was no tail spin or spiral; I simply woke up to find myself in a pit of despair.

I was not just exhausted; I was in a place that I could only hope to emerge from once again. It’s a constant battle to break free from this place. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about. 

As I looked around in this dark pit, I noticed it was a cylinder about six feet in circumference, and the walls were made of a type of dark, slippery mud. The mud was streaming down the pit, and I knew it was going to be a struggle to get to the top. Could I make it out? I wasn’t sure this time. 

I glanced upwards, searching for any sign of light, and there, in the distance, a dim light flickered. It felt incredibly far away, almost unreachable. I felt lost, my heart heavy with pain, uncertain if I would survive. My head just sunk and my eyes closed, questioning the impact of this evil and the weight of my human emotions. Will I even live?

Lisa saw something in me early that morning and asked me if I was okay. I assured her I was just fine. In my heart, I believed God’s love was giving me the will to survive. My only hope was in my redeemer, trusting that I would come out of this dark and lonely place. I know His name holds power and can break any stronghold.

The walls were so thick and the climb out would be one of the most difficult of all time. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been equipped with the tools to face the walls of this darkness.

Lisa continued to press me for clarity, checking in with me hour by hour. It became increasingly frustrating, not just navigating out of the pit but also seeing the love of my life trying to rescue me from it. She understood where I was; she has a special way about her. She threw me a lifeline in the pit, but I couldn’t see it—it was too dark. 

Has anyone reading this ever experienced a similar place of despair? I was in pain, but I knew I was not alone in the pit. I knew that there was another presence with me in the darkness. 

As the hours passed during that day, it seemed I was living a dual life. A life of despair and a life of hope. As I grabbed the lifeline of hope and spoke the name of Jesus, I slowly made my way out of this pit of the strongholds that had held me captive. 

The darkness had not prevailed that time. Lisa asked me one more time if I was okay. My answer was very simple, “I am.” I told her about the intense battle I had faced within myself that day, in a pit deeper than any I had ever known. She understood and explained she had been praying for me. 

She prayed I could break every stronghold and emerge victorious! That I did! As the power, known to only a few, lifted me out of the pit, I didn’t struggle to reach the top but emerged victorious, not by my own strength, but by the power of Jesus. These broken pieces, buried deep in the pit, were brought to life by a light I hope you can also find, as I did. 

I need to be real with you here; it was never me, but Him. I have been given invaluable tools by a remarkable person who understands humans like no one I have ever known. She perceives every thought and its impact on my emotional well-being. With her guidance, I’ve learned to navigate the exhaustion, stress, and pain of life. Coupled with the faith that anchors me, everything falls into place. It’s a delicate balance between faith and human emotions. And then there’s my sweet Lisa, a wonderful and beautiful lifeline who recognized the pit I was in, prayed for me, and encouraged me throughout my darkest hours. 

Coming out of the pit is never easy; it never becomes easy. It is far simpler to fall into it, given our human nature. Our thoughts, emotions, and our spirit must be guarded constantly. Keep looking up; that’s where you will find hope, and HIS grace will restore all the broken pieces. 

www.sandwestedit.com

 

By The Sea

 By The Sea by My Sweet Lisa

By the sea, come be with me.

In the light, we will take flight.

Soaring high, in the sky.

This is the way, we will spend our day.

When evening comes, my love

We will return to the water’s edge.

By the sea, just you and me.

The Writers Museum

 The Writers Museum 

She visited the museum every day, consistently making her way to my exhibit. Sometimes, she brought friends along, purposely guiding them past me, almost as if she was showing me off. Her beauty was striking, with long brown hair and captivating brown eyes that matched her elegant style. Her presence in the museum was intoxicating, like a gentle breeze that enchanted everyone who saw her. 

It was natural for her to come to the museum; after all, she was a talented writer herself. This museum was dedicated to writers, showcasing both the renowned and lesser-known ones; each exhibit was beautifully crafted for each time period. 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harry Fawnsworth, and I am an exhibit in this museum. The year is 1817, and I just finished a novel titled “Lisa,” a romantic book that reflects the love of my life. My exhibit is set in a charming wood-laden library that houses all the books of the past centuries. The writer’s desk I occupy is a hand-carved oak piece, surrounded by scattered pages longing for words that elude me. Soft lighting envelops my exhibit, adding a touch of realism to this time period.

I’m dressed in an eloquent black suit paired with a crisp white shirt. My shoes gleam with shiny black leather, matching the hue of my hat. My skin is tan because I loved to sit outside and write. I have a meticulously styled handlebar mustache, waxed up to impress the ladies and make the men jealous. I hold a beautiful writing instrument in my hand that was invented during this century. 

Every day, she stops and stares at me. For hours, she watches me with great intent. I want to speak to her, but I am unable. She’s in the early 1900s, enjoying a progressive era in America. She revels in a life of peace and prosperity. What could I possibly offer her? My hands don’t move, and my speech is confined to the contents of my exhibit. I just sit here day after day, trapped in my realm. Oh, did I mention I am in a different dimension? 

This writer’s museum is different from any other museum. We, as writers, can perceive each other and communicate indirectly, almost as if in another dimension. We observe and comprehend your conversations and written expressions. Occasionally, we have been able to communicate our thoughts to the paper on our desk. So how does that work you may ask? The mechanics behind this phenomenon are a mystery to us; it happens spontaneously and without explanation. It’s a rare occurrence, yet it happens.

Day after day, this beautiful lady comes in. Recently, she even engaged me in conversation; I could hardly hear her because she spoke so softly. She sways back and forth, coming close to breaching the red velvet ropes that surround me. I can smell the beauty in her hair and in her melodious voice. One day, she leaned in so close that a slight breeze caused strands of her hair to brush against my face. 

That’s when it happened. My words in my mind came to life on the paper right under my pen. It was a simple thought that appeared on the paper: “You are so beautiful. Please join me. Signed, Harry.”

She looked down at the paper and couldn’t conceal her shock. It was as if she was frozen for a moment and couldn’t speak or move. She was paralyzed. Oh my, I thought. What have I done? After a few moments, she dashed out of the museum. I was as heartbroken as the novel that I had just completed. It seemed to end the same way; she just ran away.

I looked for her every day; we all did. All of us writers, regardless of our era, rallied around this marvelous story that was being written in real life. Day after day and week after week, there was no sign of her. Was she gone forever?

Then one day, the door to the museum opened; I looked with determination, and it was her. My heart jumped, and my mind was free from the costly mistake I had made, even though it was not my intent but the powerful thought of love I have for this stunning lady. She made her way down that long hallway toward my exhibit, each step deliberate and calculated. As she approached, I could see her scanning the paper below my pen, and the words were still there. Right below my hand were new words, and they read, “I’m sorry.” They had appeared on the paper weeks after she left me. She read them and seemed unfazed. The other writers in the museum watched in awe as this romance unfolded right before them. Was it truly possible to bring another to our world like this? 

She stood there and stared at me for hours. I dared not dwell too deeply on our connection, knowing that each thought could bring new words to the pages in front of me. I could not make the same mistake. I could see her lips moving as she was speaking to me, but not so loudly that I or anyone else could hear her. She left after a few hours and would return day after day, just like in the past. 

Once more, she entered the room. A lanyard hung around her neck from a recent writers’ convention held next door. We were all aware of the convention, which brought in fledgling authors, sharing their words, dreams, and visions. These writers discussed their stories and the impact their words would have on humanity.

As she drew closer to me, I could read her badge. Her name was Lisa. Oh my, I thought. Was she the one who had left me in the last novel I wrote in 1817? There she was—a bombshell wrapped in mystery. What was her last name? You guessed it, Fawnsworth. Who was this exquisite lady? Had she escaped this dimension somehow and left the pages of my last novel in sadness? 

It was her. My sweet Lisa had somehow escaped the pages of my very last novel before I passed. It wasn’t supposed to end that way, but somehow it had to because she was gone. Now, she is found. I can see the love in her eyes—the great salvation that she brings to life, mending the broken. She has brought me to an excitement for life, even in my dimension. There is hope that we can finish the novel with a proper ending. Even though it’s a hundred years later. Is she willing? I’m just not sure.

Once lost, but now found. I’ve been blind, but now I can envision this beauty in front of me. 

My sweet Lisa continued to return day after day and watch me and the paper beneath my hands, waiting for a message. A sign to come back, a signal to return to her love. 

One day the curator of the museum placed an empty chair right beside me. I wasn’t sure why or what he was doing. He was acting as if I needed a new addition to the exhibit. This frustrated me, but I had no say in the matter because I was just an exhibit; I was honored to be in the mist of the best writers in the world. That empty chair stayed that way for months.

Lisa continued to visit day after day, and I could see she was perplexed by the empty chair as well. Because of my frustration, the words just appeared on the pages in front of me and they inked, “Will you join me, Lisa?” Oh my, what will she think when she comes in today? Will she run again? Will she never return? It was time; it’s been long enough. She will either join me or never raise to life this story that needs to end the right way. 

She appears—a picture of amazing grace and exquisite beauty. She is void of judgement, unyielding in her love, and always accepting those full of fault. She looks at the chair and then looks at the page in front of me and sees the words, “Will you join me, Lisa?”

She speaks in a gentle voice, but I can’t understand her. She steps over the red velvet rope beside me, places her hand on mine, and says, “Yes, I will join you.” She sits beside me in the chair. 

The pages come to life now, speaking all the words of grace that abound. I’ve laid myself down to bring the broken to life. Lisa is back now, and she now knows that His grace is sufficient. How sweet the sound of what is now being written. As she sits beside me, she comes to the dimension of grace and love. The place where she is going and where she belongs. She’s been set free. 

It’s the writer’s museum where stories are written every day and where the lost are found and new beginnings start. Come by and visit. That empty chair might change your life. Will you sit?

www.sandwestedit.com

Was It Love or Was It...

 Was It Love or Was It...

According to Wikipedia, betrayal is defined as “the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract, trust, or confidence that produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship amongst individuals.” 

Is this a story of betrayal or the story of a mother wanting to save the life of her son? You be the judge. 

At the age of five, I trailed behind a group of individuals, accompanied by my mom and the evil person she had married. We were entering what would be my new residence. I had been removed from my home because of the torture I was enduring by this evil person. Describing the extent of the damage he wrought upon me and my siblings is a challenge; the scars he left run deep, making it difficult to articulate the sheer malevolence he embodied. 

I have never given that person the satisfaction of calling him a man or even a step dad. You may feel the emotion in my words even in describing this person, but this story is not about him. It’s more about the emotions I’ve carried around for decades. I’ve been treading around these waters for a few years now. I’ve been sticking my toes in, and sometimes I can put my whole foot in. Now I’m about to be waist deep in these waters of betrayal. My hope is that I don’t fall in a pit here and sink. 

My biological father was absent from my childhood. For most of my life, I’ve held him responsible for the pain and suffering caused by the poor choices my mom made. He ended his race with a bullet.

I remember entering that giant brick building that I would call home from then on. I met my new mother and all my new brothers. “This is George,” she screamed to the entire house. As I stood at the door with my paper bag of clothes, I watched my mom walk away. As my mom and the social worker drove off, I could see her looking back at me. I could see the anguish in her tiny eyes. 

I wasn’t sure if she would ever come back for me, or if she would make it through her own torture at the hands of this evil person. I could only hope that the evil would die.

I was led to my bed in a row of several other boys. They just looked at me as if I were damaged goods. In truth, we were all in the same boat. None of us had a place to call home. There was no one to give us a hug, no one to crease our hair, and no one to say the words, “I love you.” We were all isolated in our own little worlds. Even at five, we were all trying to understand why we were betrayed. Or were we? 

It wasn’t until recently that I realized the deep-seated emotion I had been carrying all along was betrayal. For so long, I harbored feelings of anger, frustration, and resentment towards my mom, feeling there must be something more beneath the surface. Despite knowing about forgiveness and surrendering to God’s will, I still felt a profound sense of confusion about this aspect of my life. 

Now, as I immerse myself in this story, I realize that if I can finish it, I will break free from strongholds that have bound me for decades. This story is unfolding in real time and the emotions that are surfacing are really extraordinary.

We have defined what betrayal is, but what about love? Let’s delve into this further.

Love encompasses a range of intense and positive emotional states, ranging from profound virtues and deep interpersonal affection to the simplest pleasure. For example, the love of a mother differs from the love of a spouse, which differs from the love for food. Most commonly, love refers to a feeling of strong attraction and emotional attachment.

People consider love to be both positive and negative, with its virtue representing human kindness, compassion, and affection—defined as "the unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another” (Wikipedia). 

After reading this definition, I find my heart overflowing with love for my mom. Suddenly, the fear, depression, anger, disgust, and resentment I felt for her for just disappear. The betrayal I had carried with me for so many years now seems insignificant. The last sentence in the definition says it all. She demonstrated love in an unselfish and loyal way, and her concern was for my well-being. It’s clear to me now that she was never solely focused on herself. She wanted to save me and give me the best chance at life that I could have, and for that I am forever grateful. 

Is it possible to feel betrayed and deeply loved but not know it? I’m not talking about something that happened last year or a few years ago; this happened decades ago, and it’s one of my first memories. For most of my life, I’ve had a profound lack of trust and confidence in others. I never knew she loved me that much. Identifying with the betrayal was so easy for so many years. But as I write this, I realize it wasn’t betrayal at all—it was an act of love, a desperate attempt to rescue me from the death that was sure to come. 

Now that’s she’s gone, there is no opportunity to express my gratitude. No chance to embrace her, kiss her, or explain to her that her child has overcome this deep-seated emotion of betrayal. I can only lift my eyes to the heavens on this moonlit night and cry out to her, screaming, “I love you.” 

It reminds me of the song, Scandal of Grace. (Hillsong)

Too much to make sense of it all

I know that Your love breaks my fall

The scandal of grace

You died in my place

So my soul will live

Her motive will always be a scandal of grace. I am now free from this emotion of betrayal and full of the grace of her love.

The song reminds us that the true scandal of grace brings true life to our soul that this world wants to destroy, 

All to be like You

Give all I have just to know You

Jesus, there's no one beside You

Forever the hope in my heart

Now, the story goes on. I’m now walking out of this river of water that has surrounded me for so many years, and now I’ve been washed and baptized in the truth that has set me free. It was out of love! Forever, Mom, you brought hope to my heart. I love you, Mom! 

Jeremiah 29:11

New Living Translation

11 For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.

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