AN: I love Goodnight Mister Tom, its one of my favourite books ... and the poem Our Deepest Fear by Marrianne Williamson is one of my favourite poems ... so I thought I'd try to put them together. I probably didn't do so well so let me what you think. I'm open to critisism and opinions...
I dont own anything to do with the book or the poem. have a great day. :)
x
'Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,'
For many young boys, they would have cowered in the corner of the small run down townhouse.
But not William.
He stood to face the monster that was his mother.
'Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.'
For many young boys, they would have cried out in agony as seemingly innocent house hold items became weapons of twisted hate and gut wrenching pain.
But not William.
He stood bearing the false sins of an innocent child. He stood enduringly. His eyes showed no emotion as he stared into the blood related eyes of passion filled hate.
He stood ... until he could stand no more.
'It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.'
As the old man sat quietly in the pugh of the small county town church, his eyes drifted questioningly between the old church organ and the lopsided tree outside. Alone, the small town church was dimly lit by the natural light rays peeping through the wooden frames of the old and dusty window. He sighed as he watched the shadowy reflections seemingly cast out of the emotions tearing between him and his heart.
Memories.
Reminisce.
'We ask ourselves ...'
He sighed, the creases on his forehead perplexed as he questioned again. He felt trapped. Sandwiched between the things he loved and the painful memories that came as he remembered. He knew what she would have wanted.
He knew what his son would deserve.
'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?'
Brilliant insanity.
Gorgeous tyranny.
Talented sadist.
Fabulous relief.
'Actually, who are you not to be?'
Grudgingly he slowly rose; his age evident through the slight tingling and stiffness of his bones.
And he played.
The soft off notes a sweet melody accompanied by the orchestral sounds of nature. The tune a bitter sweet reminder of all he had lost and all he had gained. He felt as though the heavy burden of sadness had suddenly been taken off his shoulders. The memories of her didn't seem to be as painful as he had imagined they would.
Memories.
For better and for worse; forever engraved in his heart. Or would they too fade with age like his deteriorating health? No. Somehow he knew, despite his age, that it was these memories weighing on his mind that he would never forget. The memories of his family and the memories of a little boy who had somehow come touched his heart forever.
William Beech.
'You are a child of God'.
In her eyes he was the demons child. In his eyes God was the only one who would and could save her now. He didn't care about himself. He cared about the small fragile package he held tenderly in his hands. He knew that she was a child of God. Even if he wasn't.
'Your playing small does not serve the world.'
Zacharias Wrench stood on the stage and bowed. The applause made him forget the horrors of the war surrounding him. This was where he belonged. This was where he would always belong.
Happy.
Natural.
Talented.
Sensational.
He smiled. Acting was his passion. His joy. His parent's looked on from the wings, proud of their son's performance. He was theirs, and they were his. Mother; Father; and the one and only Zacharias Wrench created the one thing this war had proven it couldn't separate.
Love.
Love and his family.
'There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.'
The shrieking sound of descending whistles filled the air.
Sirens.
Panic.
Fear.
Confusion.
The crowds ran in a mixed rush of confusion, panic and fear. London was under attack once more. Zacharias looked frantically for his parents as he was effortlessly swept away in a flash flood of frantic bodies.
Lost.
Scared.
Alone.
He crouched into a small ball trying to ignore the mortal horrors of the war around him. He was scared. He just wanted to go home. Home was this. Home was safe. Home was Little Weirwold.
A sense of finality approached him.
Somehow he knew this was his final act. Wiping the tears from off his eyes he stood. The world was his stage and he was only a player, and with that the howling stoped.
Light.
Silence.
Peace.
We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
There was a certain urgency in his pace. Thousands of miles away and he had still heard the boys cry for help. As he stepped wearily off the train he wasted no time heading for the address he held written scrawnily on the back of the piece of paper "Deptford" it read. Tom looked up at his surroundings. Bodies hustled in every direction; the streets filled with worried scanter as everyone tried to get back to safety before the next raid. With help from some local strangers, Tom headed off in the direction he was shown. Anxiety overwhelmed him as he approached the door.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
Sammy became agitated. The dog trying to communicate the urgency of what he knew. The old man's stomach flipped memories of how the boy had looked when he had first arrived at his home replayed in his mind. He raised his hand as he began to knock on the door.
A beat.
Silence.
A beat.
Urgency came through his voice as he called out the name of the boy who had impacted his life so much.
A beat.
He wouldn't give up.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
A beat.
That was it. He looked to the two men stood beside him hoping for approval for what was running through his mind. With that manners were forgotten and the door swung open with a loud thud.
As they entered the dilapidated town house, they were drawn to a tiny door sat under the stair well.
The odour was over powering.
With a flip of the latch, the smell hastily made its presence known.
Will looked up stiffly, his joints almost immovable after being crammed in the space for so long.
A liberating fear overwhelmed him as he stomached himself for another round with the monster he called 'Mum.' Somehow he knew, this would be the last time. And then maybe, just maybe he and Trudy would be safe.
... and As we are liberated from our own fear,
The small torch light illuminated the horrible scene before them all. A thin emaciated boy tied down to a length of copper piping. In his hands a small bundle the complexion of a stale gray. Tom held his breath, praying and counting his stars in hope that the boy was still alive and would live. It had taken a while to free him, but for now he was safe, and the dreams that had kept Tom perplexed would now disappear. He would not leave the boy. The boy was ... dare he say the word he never would after the death of two he loved ... but he was Family.
A contradictory word in war.
Family.
War's usually tore them apart ... but somehow the story would end differently.
Somehow Tom had found his.
Our presence automatically liberates others.
His body was once again etched in sweltering sores. Though this time, he wasn't worried. Sores would heal. He wasn't scared. He looked at the man he now called 'dad'.
He was safe.
He eyed the small plate of biscuits that sat next to his tea; his eyes wondered lustily to the larger meal he knew he could not quite stomach just yet when he heard the soothing voice of his father.
"Takes yer time my boy, everything in its own time."