Chapter 42: A Story Long Overdue

Author's Note: I more or less wrote this chapter in a stream-of-consciousness style… That's it. Read into the heart of what Paul is saying rather than the precise words... Also, this will probably be the longest chapter of the story at over 12.6k words

…

I grew up inside those walls. Not many years after what we've called the "Migration from Ogden." Our community's always had it rough, even since the start. You might see some New Canaanites in the market, see the pretty dresses on the women, see the smiles on the men's faces, but don't believe anyone who might say we were spared from so much of the wastes. We fought for what we have, and we die for what we have over and over again, and others might take that as a reason to seal themselves off from the rest of the world like one of those Vault communities before the bombs.

No.

It was pretty much day one that our community was nearly crushed from existence. I've read about it in school. I've read about the horror of those first days and far too much about what happened before our community even came to be. I've read about the people who blamed our God for what happened to the world. They tracked down and killed men and women like us in the early years. They've blamed our book for causing the bombs of 2077, and yes, our people were almost rendered completely extinct before the Fallout even landed.

It's easy to think that what we do is crazy, think we are ignorant, or stupid, especially when you know where we could be, and I see why you would when you see how different those people within the walls are, but I spoke about fighting since day one for a reason.

I am the descendant of one of those who helped establish the community you see today. When the world was ripping itself apart on the surface we now live upon, while many of my brothers and sisters were being killed for what they believed or knew to be true, there were those of my family who survived by the shelters. There were those of my faith who survived the bombs, lived in the shelters, and could have probably lived in those same shelters for the next 200 years if they didn't know how important their faith was. I've seen the records, visited the sites, and seen those arks sealed after the emergence, and although some might want to call us stupid for leaving the safety of the shelters and sealing them behind us, all I have to do is ask you to look around.

Where's the NCR? They're busy fighting an army of slavers for an old-world wall. Too busy trying to rake their claws in an old-world city devoted to greed. A nation like that is doomed to die when it's trying so hard to emulate a nation that got itself saturated in nuclear bombs and radiation and will end up taking a lot of people down in the crossfire wherever they decide to move to.

I'm sure I don't even need to ask, but what good is the Legion going to do for literally anyone? You can easily argue that the need to serve something much larger than the individual is the default state of every human heart, but what kind of options are slave or fanatical warrior slave?

Then you can look around the wilderness, the place where we live. You can point to the state of the wilderness and think the chaos of warring tribes and raiders is proof that my home doesn't have much better ideas when you compare it to the lands of Caesar or the lands of California. We aren't trying to emulate something that has already failed, a nation that got itself destroyed, so I'll ask anyone to look again, look deeper at what we're trying to accomplish.

We aren't trying to build a nation, ensure the safest territory, or build the biggest army. If you look at New Canaan, you will see a symbol, a way to live, a way that has proved to work for thousands of years. You see the war across the wilderness and you see so much death and hate and fighting, and then you look to the lands of nations like the East or West and you see the same thing, just on a bigger scale… Anyone who sets foot in this wilderness looks at the light of the Temple and doesn't even need to enter through those gates to know that what we're doing is different. What we do is not hard, it's actually very easy, but people come to our gates, hear the lesson, and forget the lesson the second they step foot past the last stalls along the market road.

You want to know why we haven't tamed the wilderness after over 200 years since the bombs? It's because unlike those of the nations outside the wilderness, we don't force anyone to do what we do. It's because we know that although our way is the correct way, it is not a way that can ever work if people are dragged into it against their will, sent to it through practicality, or enslaved into it.

And still, our beacon stands as something so different from everything else out there.

You look around the wilderness we inhabit, see all that awfulness, and then look me in the eye and tell me that we should have stayed in our shelters. You look me in the eye and say that it's better we stayed safe and let everyone in this land above kill and steal and rape one another. Is all that going to happen anyway? Sure. But you tell me that this land does not need at least some place, some minuscule tiny place of relief, a place that looks at all that terror that everyone wants to do and instead says "No."

You come to us if you need something different from what this world says is just human nature. You don't believe that's real? Just look at us. No. Of course, we are not perfect, sometimes we are not even good at being good, but we're going to try. We, my home, will try with everything within us to be something different from all that evil out there because we know all about the one who did. We know all about the one who actually did this terrible thing called life in this world and how he did it so well.

We are always going to fail at being Him, and we are always going to be killed for it, but the greatest thing He ever taught us, taught me and taught this world before we decided to kill this creation, is that just because we will most certainly die for trying to be an example of good, death means nothing when He Himself defeated Death… I know life after death is real because I myself have been killed so many times in so many ways… and yes, I have been killed physically as well.

When I was 18, I set out for missionary work just like all New Canaanites do.

I can admit that I wasn't all that excited to go on mission. I looked up to my father, the man who raised me, and admired what he did for the Guard. I just never really saw missionary work, or even life in the Guard as my purpose.

The Constable doesn't talk about it much, but he was fairly close with my mother and father. My parents were a very young couple when they had me, and they were taken from me when I was very young. You can say that I was introduced to just how terrible the wilderness was when my father was killed out there and my mother died of disease scarcely a few months or a year later.

I can't really tell you much about the parents. I never really knew them. All I can tell you was that I woke up one morning to Mr. Graff standing in the doorway preventing me from seeing the body of my mom when she was carted out of our home after struggling with sickness for a while. I remember him leading me to the door of my new father, the man of the guard and his beautiful wife. They embraced me with tears of sorrow in their eyes, unsure how to help me, or even what to tell me about what happened to my mother.

They raised me well. I grew up knowing every person in town. My adoptive father, Obadiah Hanshaw, was exceptionally admired and loved by everyone in the community, and I did my best to be just like him as I grew up, but I don't need to tell someone like you that scars, even scars from so long ago, sometimes don't fully heal. I could not see myself as a man of the guard. I did not want anyone to think I got my position due to my father, and simply could not see myself going into any of the other trades.

I was great in school, learned to read and write and do math so well, and for a time, I was so great at Bible studies and evangelizing to those who came to our gates that I considered going into the Temple Sect. But I also grew up with her..

I grew up right alongside the beautiful green-eyed girl with the light brown and nearly red hair and the light freckles that I'd later marry. We fell in love in our later years, and as we approached the age of our first mission, we made plans to get married as soon as we returned home.

Still with no real direction, still unsure of what exactly my place was in the community, a small part of me did look forward to mission since that has always been said to be something that helped young men like me sort that out. Although the overwhelming majority of me just wanted to get the thing over with in order to marry the girl I grew up alongside.

It may not be too necessary to say, but a young man who lost his parents before he developed true consciousness grew up with a fairly decent idea about how fragile life can be or how dangerous the world outside is. We are not naïve, we understand what lurks outside, and perhaps we are sheltered from the worst details, we know what we are going into. We've been to the funerals, we've heard the stories, we've gotten our samples, and we've seen our history.

Although knowing a lot "about" something isn't the same as "knowing" that something.

I entered that wasteland for the first real-time with one of my brothers and two of my sisters as we followed the men of the guard to the post outside town where we were to meet our missionary. The man would lead us to our stay with the Tokewanna people out east.

None of us had ever met, "Mr. Austin Wesley," but when he stepped towards us, gave that smile, and gestured with his arm to follow him, some of the things my instructor in Missions Prep told me began to make sense… I couldn't quite tell you why.

Many times during my years in Missions Prep, I'd be seated in front of Mr. Walton when he'd say things like, "… I think you'll begin to feel better and have a clearer idea where to go in life when you meet Mr. Wesley…"

I remembered the Constable being exceptionally pleased when I learned that me and three others would be accompanying Austin Wesley on mission. Although Obadiah was never a harsh father, it seemed as though the mere mention of that unknown missionary caused him to lighten up on me for months.

The others of my mission group could corroborate this mysterious feeling around the missionary as well. I'd even asked the woman who'd become my wife about it. I asked if her family had ever heard of Austin Wesley of Missions Outreach, and the same thing occurred. All the adults we younger people knew became delighted at the mere mention of the name, and none of us young adults ready to set out had ever so much as heard of him.

For whatever reason, I'd almost completely forgotten all of my troubles back in town upon sight of that man and remembered the strange little mystery surrounding him. Mr. Wesley smiled at our approach, gave each of us a nod, and without any word, he gestured for us to follow as we entered the wilderness for that first real-time. We kids became curious, excited, and eager almost, as we followed him off the roads and he remained silent all the while.

He was nearly totally silent the whole time as the minutes turned slowly into hours. He only stopped to give calls to the scouts attached to us suggesting a water break or a chance to eat. Hours later, curiosity got the better of the two girls in our group, and they'd run to his sides to chat with him along our hike. Each time, he'd cut them short with a gentle smile and soft words like something to the effect of, "We'll chat when we make camp. Is that alright?" The girls would fall back, our home went further into the distance behind us, and one of them would later try again only to be met with, "It's a little dangerous around these parts, let's hold off the questions for now."

Each time the girls approached, whether with Bible questions, questions about the mission, or about how far we were going, he'd always refuse their questions with the truest and sincerest smile.

Night would fall, and the fire was made in safer territory. Now it was my turn to get eager. I was excited to hear what the man would say now that he had a moment to answer questions. He told us he'd speak to us when we made camp, and the anticipation began to eat not only the excited girls but me and the other young man of our group. He looked at us across the fire, just about to speak when one of the scouts approached, whispered something in his ear, and made a motion for us to stay quiet as he snuffed the flame. There in the cold and dark, he walked to each of us, the first words he ever said to me directly being;

"Go lay down. Do it quiet though. There's some danger out there a little close for comfort, but nothing to worry about if we stay quiet."

Even in the pitch dark, I could see the light of that man's smile.

The next two days went almost exactly the same as the first day. The next two nights were exactly the same.

During the walking, however, the girls would approach him, still occasionally asking him questions about scripture. The girls would fall back to me and my friend. A few of the times, he'd tell them we were in a dangerous area. Other times, the girls would ask questions about theology, his take on this verse versus that verse, or which books of the Bible the tribes were familiar with.

All the man would say was something along the lines of "I don't know. We can find that out though."

The four of us would think back to time in Mission Prep about everything we'd heard, and everything recently returned first-time missionaries would tell us. We had heard so many times how the hike out to the assigned tribe was very important. Those who just got back would tell us everything they learned along the way would range from language to customs to observe, to relevant verses to help evangelize, etc, etc.

We got none of that. Mr. Wesley was silent, or at least very short with his answers, and yet, he still emanated a presence of care and understanding to us while our scout escorts were busy keeping us safe.

The minutes and then hours would slowly pass, our home went further and further with each step, and we began to feel as though we were missing out on very important things to help us in our mission to the tribe that was only said to have been reached out to one other time by our missionaries. Eventually, the girls would approach Mr. Wesley's side, and begin to quiz him about his opinion on this chapter in this book of the Bible, or he agrees with what Mr. Walton or Mrs. Lewis said about verse X in Book Y.

The man again would remain quiet, once more telling them he could chat with them about it later, or saying something like "I'm not sure. I'd definitely like to find out that answer with you later."

Over and over again, the girls would fall back to talk with my friend and me, relaying the questions they asked him, telling his response, and leading to discussions about how "Mr./Mrs. So and so would go on for a 40-minute lecture about that verse alone."

After another two nights of no fires, no questions answered, and no tips about what we were going straight into, we began to probably unfairly wonder, "What exactly does this man know about the Bible? What has he actually Done as a missionary?"

It was that fourth morning when we set foot on a dirt road in the territory rocky, hilly, and brush-filled territory that was somewhat frequently used by the allied tribes of the region for trade and migrations. Around midday, we stepped up to a wooden scrap structure surrounded by signs in different languages. Many tents of hide and old-world cloth were set up around the place and a large group of people in garb of every description and material were wandering about while another large group were waiting to enter the little structure. It was here that the scouts and then Mr. Wesley told us we were at a trading post used by many of the local tribes, and that this was our best chance to stock up before the last trek to the Tokewanna's home on the Little East Fork.

Just as we began to ask the missionary if he would finally answer our questions and tell us what we needed to know to be good missionaries, all our questions were cut short as we stepped toward the structure. The tribespeople of so many friendly people in the region all began to turn their heads towards the man, beginning to whisper to one another until we approached the line of people waiting to get into the trading post itself. People began running up to Mr. Wesley, men, women, and children, many with tears in their eyes as they spoke at him in various languages. He was swarmed, many warriors and tribal males would shake his hand, the women would embrace him, and the children would cling to him.

Me and the others could only step out of the way and stand by while Mr. Wesley was soon surrounded by several dozen people all evidently overjoyed to see him again. And yet through it all, I could hear the man speaking at them all with a smile, talking in various languages, and occasionally pointing at the sky as if to give a reminder to all these people that he was not the one to be thanked for anything.

Even the scouts attached to our group were wowed. None of us had ever seen anything like what happened to Mr. Wesley at that trade post in the wilderness. Eventually, he began making gestures for us young adults and scouts to come over, and soon enough, we were swarmed as well. Each person of the wilderness all speaking words we could not understand at us as we were embraced by people with tears in their eyes.

None of us knew what to make of the whole thing, but it seemed to answer several questions we had in a way we couldn't explain, while it also gave rise to even more questions. Eventually, the event died down, several began to depart, and although we could not understand a word Mr. Wesley was saying to any of the people around him, we watched him take a young tribal mother who'd been sobbing since the start around back to a clear little pond behind the shack, followed by a group of small children. Me and the three other first-time missionaries in our group watched the man as he held a Bible in one hand, speaking tribal words that were completely foreign to us before lowering the mother into the water. When her head went under, he pulled her up, and the mother did not cease her tears as she embraced him.

We watched as the man did the same for each of the woman's five small children, each one coming out of the water and running to their mother's side through the cheers of those who followed the beloved missionary to the pond. All we could do was watch, and join the applause when necessary, the mysterious silent missionary standing soaked in the water with that subtle smile on his face.

We must have spent a few hours at the post, and the man scarcely said a word to us first-timers as his attention was kept by the tribals still beyond happy to see him again. Eventually, however, the crowds did depart, and eventually, Mr. Wesley was speaking with our two scouts as the sun set, and a group of tribals with spears and one with a painted and decorated carbine stood by.

The scouts approached us first-timers, and gave their goodbyes to the four of us, saying that Mr. Wesley was offered protection for the rest of the trip by some warriors of the Tokewannas. The young men of the scouts gave their offering of armaments to us before leaving our company, as was customary during the time. The other young man, and one of the young women, each took the offering and placed the semi-auto .45 pistols in their satchels. Myself and the other girl were armed by our parents before departure, me because I was the son of a lieutenant of the guard who would become Constable in only a few short years.

In the end, the scouts of the guard gave each of us a parting embrace and told us to have fun before setting off back toward home. Then, scarcely two minutes later, Mr. Wesley gave us a smile, then motioned for us to follow him as we followed the Tokewanna warriors further into the east.

Two more days passed in relative silence, the event having created a new enthusiasm in the girls, only for that enthusiasm to quickly be dashed to pieces by the short answers of the missionary. Needless to say, the closer we drew towards the Tokewanna's home, and after even more non-answers, it was night, and we were told as we made camp how we'd be arriving at the Tokewanna's home sometime in the late morning.

This last night was different. The Missionary had finally, at long last, kept his word. The fire was keeping the cold at bay, and although the girls and the other young man were relatively thankful to finally get their questions answered, it was a little too late for me. I didn't even think the silence of the missionary affected me the way it did that last night. I already didn't feel like I even wanted to go on mission before setting out, and although the man's appearance that first morning seemed to spark something in me, that something was quickly and unconsciously diminished by the man's silence. What happened at the trading post again seemed to bring that something to life, only for it to again be diminished during the silence before this last night.

As the girls began asking the same questions they'd ask all throughout the long days of hiking and the Missionary began answering with that slight smile, I couldn't bring myself to stay, and almost immediately departed the glow of the flame. I found myself sitting on a little rocky cliff, looking out over the long drop and mile-long stretch to the river that sparkled in the moonlight. Although I was not more than a decent stone's throw from the campfire, I found the solitude more fitting and was far enough to not distinguish the words being said as it came to me in one soft sound in the cold breeze. I couldn't quite tell you why I felt the way I did, but I felt somewhat angry at the idea of the man just now being available to answer all the questions that were supposed to help us for what was only a few short hours away.

Atop that ridge, I tried to think of what I would need to do for the tribes to help them learn about the Lord we served, knowing I could get the answers if I returned to the flame, but my body and mind prevented me from doing that. Mostly, I was stuck in thoughts of home, thoughts of Dani, the woman I'd marry, and how I still had no idea what I wanted to do for the community when I finally returned home. For a minute back at the trading post, I considered making good on my thoughts of joining the Temple Sect, or the missionaries. Then, I thought of Mr. Wesley's silence yet again before finally deciding to engage with us only hours before our task from God would begin.

The minutes passed, then more minutes, and then more, the conversation back at the campfire increasing in volume, even punctuated by the occasional laugh until finally, it stopped. Another minute passed, and my eyes stayed on the faraway river even as I heard the footsteps behind me. A moment later, I saw the man in his flannel shirt and vest and wide-brimmed hat take a seat on the ridge right beside me. I greeted him with a simple, "Hey Mr. Wesley," my focus still out in that wild. Almost just as expected, the man did not answer. He just took in the same view as me, reclining back on his hands, that smile still on his face, and looking out at that river beneath the stars.

I heard the low talking behind me at the distant campfire between the other young man and the two girls, but I was just fine in the silence. After probably a few minutes, he broke the calm;

"Quite a view, huh Paul?"

I could only nod. The silence resumed between us before I said my thoughts aloud, "I could hear y'all chatting back there. Share any good tips with the others? Anything I can expect? Anything to help us do things for the kingdom like you did at the trade post?"

He had clearly heard the sarcasm in my voice, but when I was done, he began to laugh softly, and this only made me angry. I didn't think this mission, or missions in general, were a joke. I looked forward to this time helping me figure out a lot of things in my life back home, and I did not like the start, or that laughing.

Mr. Wesley had caught hold of himself and eased himself down, but by the time he's regained his composure, I was looking straight at him. I felt my own face, and it was not wearing a calm one, even as his laughing face returned to that subtle smirk. Studying him in the moonlight, it had not occurred to me just how young he was. He must have been no more than 30. He returned his attention to the river as he asked me the simple question;

"You want to know what I told your friends?"

He must have seen my slow nod in his peripherals because his smile became a bit wider and he said;

"There's nothing I can tell you to prepare you for what's next. You won't be using almost anything they taught you in Mission Prep…"

He reclined back, that smile remaining, not in an arrogant way, but strangely enough, in a rather comforting way.

"… Those girls kept asking me questions about what I thought of Deuteronomy Chapter 6 verse x, or my take on Hebrews Chapter 2 verse haha, and I'm like, 'I don't know!' Let me get out my Bible and get back to you…"

I found myself asking, "Did you answer some questions about what the Tokewannas are like? At least knowing how to say 'hello' in their language could help us out.."

"Not after I told them the truth, Paul… " He looked to me, "Even with those questions, I can not answer for a reason. If you want to know why those people back at the trading post knew me, why I knew their language, why they loved me, why they came to God, why that mother had me baptize her and her children, it's because I didn't know one single thing about the people of those tribes before I showed up at their homes over the past years."

"I don't get it."

"I didn't answer those questions because I want you kids to show up at the Tokewannas home tomorrow with open hearts, not full brains…"

"I-"

"Listen, Paul. I'll admit that I can't tell you what X verse says and the different theological arguments that have been made about Z passage and how it can help comfort a person in Y scenario, but I certainly know people. Although I am working on it, I admit that I can't tell you this particular fact about Jesus said in this passage, but I know His heart like the person He was and is. I won't be able to recite this verse or that when asked, but I have seen His heart. I've seen what it does for people out here. I've seen the beautiful things He alone has done out here… Take those people back there at the post… Some of them I'd only met once probably 5 years ago."

I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't even actually entirely sure what he was saying. Although, I thought I saw a glimpse of it when he glanced my way again and smiled once more.

He wiped his eye, "Most of those people had gone through quite a lot since then. But that's their story, and you're going to make your own story when we get there, Paul…" He smacked me on the shoulder, "I can see he's doing something in you, and it's going to be pretty amazing."

The man got up, and without even thinking about it, I got up too. I followed him back to the campfire, still trying to figure out exactly what he was telling me, exactly what questions he answered for me…

I think I was beginning to see what a heart looked like. A heart doesn't always make complete sense when it speaks, but what you feel when you hear it is undeniable. When it speaks, it's powerful. Thinking about the way that man stood in the water with those children, with that mother weeping tears of the utmost joy, and thinking about the way he grinned at me when we sat on the ridge, I thought just for a second that if I ever saw the heart of Jesus Christ, it was shown just in a flash through that man.

We joined the others, and the five of us had a nice talk around that warm fire as the cold night went on. We spoke about life, spoke about things at home, and spoke about the girls or boys in other groups out there. Occasionally, one of the Tokewanna warriors would join our group, only knowing just enough English to ask to join us and not much more. Still, they'd join us, sitting in the glow, smiling and joining in the joy of we New Canaanites, speaking words to us we couldn't understand, and us doing likewise. The grins never left the warriors' faces, even as they left the glow to take places in the night.

Our group was not greeted when we arrived in the sprawling village of hide tents and makeshift structures beside the river.

The girls panicked, forgetting what was said last night and again asking Mr. Wesley how to introduce themselves in the Tokewannas language. Mr. Wesley only reminded them of the answer he didn't provide to that specific question when he pointed to an elderly woman in a shawl holding an armful of pelts trying to move while trying not to trip over a group of kids that was running circles around her like a swarm of mongols.

The girls approached, one helping the woman by carrying half of the stack in her arms, the other rounding up the children and beginning to whistle a tune that the kids tried to emulate. I watched those girls I knew so well merge into the flowing stream of life within the village without any effort, and without any knowledge of how to say a single word in the Tokewanna language. My gaze slowly went to Mr. Wesley who was looking straight at me with that smirk that now seemed to say "Told you" before he gestured his head towards something to the right as he said to me;

"Care to join me with this one?"

I nodded, not knowing exactly what he was saying before I followed him into the waters of life within the village. Mr. Wesley and I approached the group of men and hunters carrying heavy crates of feed and scavenged goods towards the little grazing grounds beside the fishing platforms along the waters. Just as we began to help alleviate the burden of these tribal scavers and ranchers, the other young man called to Mr. Wesley from behind;

"Mr. Wesley? What should I do?"

The missionary took the heavy box in his hands and called over to the kid, "Didn't you quiz me about Matthew 10:8 last night?..." The young man stood in place and the missionary added, "… I gave you my extra med kit for a reason, kid."

I walked side by side with Mr. Wesley following the tribals, and the last time I saw the other young man of our group that day, he was sitting in front of a tribal man with broken feet in a lean-to, med kit open, and doing precisely what Matthew 10:8 told the men over 2,000 years ago to do.

6 Months Later

The girl who helped the woman with the hides would go to her home, help her with the skins, watch her grandson, meet the parents, help them trade, watch their kids, help the family make a meal, dine with them, and even meet the chief. The girl who wrangled the kids would lead them out of the road, teach them songs from the Temple, keep them out of the way of the busy people at work in the early afternoon, take them to their homes, meet their parents, receive their gratitude, and help the women with their chores. The other young man would help that man's destroyed feet with old world medicines we brought from our home, be escorted across the village to the other sick, healing radiation, making casts, and was probably the only one of us who put some of what he learned in Mission Prep about first aid to use. Mr. Wesley and I dropped off the boxes in the cattle pens, filled the troughs, joined some fishermen on the shore, helped them haul in nets, and began helping a big group of men construct wood railing that would later be used in a platform for a water wheel. And this was just the first day.

The five of us were later brought before the chief who was momentarily upset about the fact that we didn't introduce ourselves to the tribe. Mr. Wesley joked (with the help of a Tokewanna interpreter) that his group had indeed introduced themselves to the tribe, just not through a meeting with the chief. The chief even laughed at this. Mr. Wesley explained that his group only just merged with the tribe in order to say that we weren't there for special introductions, special treatments, or anything like that, we were just there to help his people in whatever way needed. The chief appreciated this immensely, still somewhat puzzled by the bizarre customs of New Canaanites since he'd only had one other experience with our people through the initial outreach team. The second night included a nice dinner with the elders and prominent members of the tribe where we were treated very well.

After those ceremonial events to officially welcome us, what happened the first day was what would happen day after day. Each day, we'd wake up and do whatever we could for the people of this tribe, whenever we could. The girls and the other young man had already established their own little reputations. One of the girls would become very close with that particular family, and later be there to pray for the grandmother who'd leave this earth scarcely two months after first meeting her. The other girl in our group would become very involved with the kids of the village, taking care of them, learning from them, having fun with them, and teaching them while their parents were working during the day. She would also become very close with many of the women in the women's groups, helping them with their chores across the village while the husbands were busy, or out in the wilderness. The other young man was already established in town as a healer, and that work made him revered by nearly everyone in a tribe where the old-world medicines had been used up decades ago. Using only what he or any of us knew from Mission Prep and classes about first aid to work right alongside some of the Elders or Healers, learning new remedies from herbs in the wild and teaching the others New Canaan or old-world techniques to heal maladies of every description.

Mr. Wesley stuck by me, or I stuck by him. I don't know which, but every day, he and I would find ourselves working with a big group of men in the tribe. Whether that was on construction jobs, fishing groups, field crews, or hunting parties. Wherever I was, I always had Mr. Wesley on one side, and a man of the Tokewanna on another.

We all worked side by side with the people of the tribe, worked as part of their lives, we made friends, and the girls became members of new families. We learned their language and they learned ours, word by word, and there were days when I'd completely forget about my life at home. I forgot about my troubles, while at the same time getting a clearer picture of what my life at home would look like whenever I got back there. I never forgot the face of Dani, even though I will admit that I began to see a number of the girls of the tribe in a way I hadn't at the start. I envisioned my wedding to Dani, and hammered in the last nail on the finally finished water wheel, hearing the cheers of the men of our group, feeling the grin of Wesley beside me, and then I'd turn to the new friend on my right to respond to his question and pat on the back;

"Mish tahk nah, Tahk Yahweh."

"Don't thank me, Thank God."

… That's the only phrase I remember of that dead language.

That day about 6 months after we arrived was the proudest day of my life, as it was also the most conflicting day as well. Mr. Wesley had us first-time missionaries gather those we were closest to, those most willing, and ask if they wanted to be baptized.

Standing in the shallow waters, I was somewhat envious of the others. Between the two girls and the other young man, they had preached enough of the Gospel to gather 13 men and 11 women of the tribe to be baptized, while I had only gotten one man. I knew that the only reason the girl closest to the tribe's children didn't have more was because the chieftain had forbidden the baptizing of children, as children were not allowed to actively participate in any rituals of outsiders until they underwent their maturity ceremony at 15. This was a custom we would not argue against, especially since the chieftain was so friendly. Looking back, I know I am not alone in wishing we had subverted this request, but in this event, doing so would not help me with my one convert standing in the water with me.

In the days previous, Mr. Wesley told me it was not a competition, but it was hard for it not to feel that way when the others did so much better. The water wheel slowly turned in the river current behind me, grinding the razorgrain of the harvest, and I listened to it moving, the thing grinding my shame ever so slowly to replace it with pride. I envisioned my future at home in construction, wondering if the pride I felt in the creation of that structure was a sign that was where I was to go whenever I got home. So, with my hand on the shoulder of the one and only young man I convinced Jesus was worth following, I looked to the others, feeling not that great about anything minus my work on the water wheel until Mr. Wesley stepped before me with that smile.

Mr. Wesley gave me that wink, then gestured with his head towards the large group of hunters and male laborers off to the side, and said to me, "You're just the spark, Paul. I told Him you and I are still working on that lot over there."

I gave the man a nod, knowing without any more doubt that this young tribal man I stood with was only the beginning, my shame disappeared in an instant, and I met eyes with the grinning young man who gave me a thumbs up. It was a simple gesture I'd taught him, but I gave him one back, and as Wesley began to pray, I knew what joy was.

I thought of what Wesley said in those waters, then thought of everything else he said to me over the past months, and when it was finally my turn to speak, I asked the young tribal man called "Uintah Jone" if he accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior, the young man punched me in the center of the chest, howled to the sky, shouted his answer, "Yes," and I lowered him into the water.

Never had I ever felt as much joy before this moment than when I pulled Uintah from the water and heard everyone in the tribe who came to watch the spectacle shouting from the shoreline. Many did not understand the baptism, but watched their friends choose to undergo it anyway under the care of us young people from a distant place. Those Tokewannas did not know what they were looking at when the girls raised their tribal friends from the water, but they saw the tears, the love, the true care, and overpowering joy. They saw the young man of our group raise the sick and injured from the water, seeing each one come out different. They probably couldn't tell you what was different at the moment after emerging, but each person was undeniably different in a way beyond sight, but different in a way far later that would only be traceable back to that moment they answered "yes" to that question.

I felt those strong tattooed arms wrap around me, and nearly had all the wind squeezed out of me as I saw Mr. Wesley laughing, my friends of mission clapping, and everyone on the shoreline cheering.

There are so many who are just like me within those walls, atop those towers, behind those barricades, who experienced so many of the same things, perhaps only on different levels. I know at least a dozen men on the day shift alone who can tell you almost the same story… But it doesn't make it any easier when you re-live it in your mind.

I think about that last hunting trip I went on with Wesley before the baptism. We were heading back with several large golden geckos strapped to the thick transport beams when a spear landed next to a group of hunters accompanying us. I think we were all momentarily puzzled before another spear landed, then a tomahawk, and then some gunshots. The warriors spread out in a flash, some already beginning to move up the rocks to engage the attackers when I found myself firing my gun up at that sandy ridge with the large rocks leading up to the jagged cliff.

I couldn't get off more than two shots before I was thrown to the floor not even realizing what was happening. Thinking I'd been tackled by one of our group's attackers, I fought the person only to stop when I saw it was Wesley. The man pinned me to the ground with a strong arm, staring at me with wide eyes, and a shaking finger over his lips as he stuttered, "Shhh, don't move, stay down, stay safe. You'll be fine! Don't panic!"

The man pulled the pistol from his belt, aiming out at the enemies in the rocks. His arm trembled violently, his nerves seeming to be replaced by panic. More of our warriors scrambled up the sandy rise as a couple other guns of our attackers popped off on the left. Mr. Wesley shifted the gun to the new group of raider gunners on the left, only pointing it up at them before he began to smack the pistol with his other hand, "My God, my God! Why won't you fire?"

He studied the thing, kneeling beside me, and my hand gently rose till I was holding the gun in his hand. Without any resistance, I took the pistol from his hand as he continued to tremble like a leaf. I switched the safety off and pointed up at those rocks on the left. I pulled the trigger, feeling the gun recoil in my grip until I had emptied the magazine. The other warriors of our party saw where my shots hit as I aimed up at those rocks, and the warriors who stayed back with us to offer ranged support began sending arrow after arrow, and bullet after bullet up at them before our men were done with those original ones they made contact with.

As the moments passed, the gunshots faded into silence, the raiders all retreating or killed, and I watched Wesley sitting upright still collecting himself. More time passed and the warriors began to trickle back down the sandy rise, back to us, and the man continued to breathe deeply. The warriors met with the others back by us, all patting themselves for injuries and looking around to ensure the attack was indeed over, and I had stood myself up, placing a hand on Wesley.

When my hand touched his shoulder, his eyes shot open, and he calmed himself again immediately when he saw it was just me, saying with a forced laugh;

"H- Hey, Paul. You alright?..." there was nothing to say, I just nodded, silently telling the man everything was fine now. "… I'm – Thanks for that, Paul… I'm so sorry, son…" He grabbed my hand and hoisted himself up to his feet, glancing at the congregated group of warriors now seeing to some of the injured as he forced a soft laugh from himself, "… You'd think I'd remember to flip the dang safety off before- I… I'm sorry son."

I thought of that trembling hand, that terrified look in his eye, and how he threw me to the ground, absolutely petrified in fear, but still... What he did was the bravest thing I'd ever seen up to that point…

Without anything else, I grabbed the man's shoulder gave it a firm grip, and handed his gun back when he, still catching his breath, said to me with that same smile he almost always wore, "No, no. You hold onto that, Paul. You're better with that than I am…" He forced another chuckle before grabbing my shoulder and said, "… thanks, son."

I still think about that all the time, and even now I think about that look he had on his face after he threw me to the ground for safety, I hear those words, and although I may not have known it in that very moment, even that terrified face proved he was the bravest man I'd ever met as I told him;

"It's alright, sir. They're going to need your help with the injured."

He nodded, and we walked to the warriors and hunters together.

There were no deaths, but there were six injured in our hunting party. From what I heard, there were only about four dead raiders, but there had been much worse attacks. There was not a week that went by that the raiders at "Red Castle" didn't attack. The Tokewannas had been attacked by them several times in the past months, even since we arrived. My whole group helped treat the injured in attacks by them and even attended the funerals.

It wasn't more than a week after the baptism that we were part of a new celebration. This celebration was for the news we received from the Tokewanna's allies in the Muchacanos about the destruction of Red Castle. An enemy, believed to be the Maesers, was said to have completely taken over the Red Castle fortress. Our most bothersome enemy in this part of the wilderness, a clan of vicious raiders who had caused so much heartache for the Tokewannas were said to have been completely destroyed…

But just because an even bigger fish takes over a lesser fish's home, that doesn't mean the lesser fish was killed.

I don't remember the attack. I still try not to think about it. I think my brain wouldn't let me remember that attack. I wish my mind would have blocked out what I so vividly remember, but I know why He wouldn't let that happen.

All I see are the fires. I hear the screaming, the gunshots, the crackle of flame, the burst of bombs, the cackling, and… Not a minute goes by that I don't hear the crying. It may be buried in the sounds of the day-to-day, the jokes from my men, the words of my wife, the laughs of my children, but when everything goes silent, it's still there. I hear those girls crying the most desperate painful cries…

I remember the tears on my own cheeks, the gun recoiling in my grip, and how it did NOTHING to prevent what was inevitable.

I remember Mr. Wesley finding all four of us as the fires burned, seeing the bodies collapse to the ground, the kids falling into tears over the bodies of their mothers, and I see his frantic, terrified face as I hear his words, "We'll be fine." Those words repeat in my mind again and again in my mind, and as unsure and afraid as those words were, I believed them with all my heart. I believed his words as the girls cried, the fires burned, and the cackling went on and on and on and on and on…

I can't even remember crying, but I felt the wet streams flowing from my eyes. But I do remember that everywhere we went, everywhere Mr. Wesley tried to lead us, there was fire. The fire was so hot it dried the streams from my eyes the second I'd felt it… Mr. Wesley was so scared, and still the crying went on and on and on as the fire touched my skin, the painful sensation getting hotter and hotter and hotter.

I remember the feel of those tight ropes on my wrists and the blood pooling in a bootprint in the dirt, and I remember that terrible ringing in my ears, testing the strength of those ropes behind my back, and not being able to move my arms at all before I heard the cries of that girl as I knelt there on the ground. The heat of the inferno around us still burned the skin, and I could feel the presence behind me as I looked up, at long last, to see the bound frame of Mr. Wesley kneeling across from me.

I remember feeling more wet streams trickle down my face as I watched the man raise his terrified and tear-streaked face to the girl still sobbing as he mouthed the words;

"I'm so sorry. Don't cry. It's all going to be okay, Michelle."

My vision blurred, but I saw him turn to the other sobbing girl and mouth the words;

"Look at me, look at me. You're going to be okay, Hannah. Trust me, please sweetie."

I tested my restraints again, but it did nothing, and I felt a cold steel touch my head from the presence behind me as Austin Wesley turned to the young man beside me and mouthed the words;

"Stay strong, look at me. You're going to be okay, Joseph."

I heard the young man muffle the most terrible cry before Mr. Wesley's eyes finally came to me. I thought of that look of terror in his face I'd seen on that hunting trip, and it was nothing compared to the one I was looking at now. I watched a man I'd come to respect even more than my own adoptive father on this trip stare me straight in the eyes and break more and more apart with each word he said to me;

"Look at me. You're going to be fine. You're going to make it out of this. You understand that, Paul?"

My eyes blurred to the point I could not see him anymore with the last word he spoke to me. I could not truly see it when the demon behind him struck him across the head and hauled him back onto his knees, or when that huge satanic blur emerged from the flames.

The gun behind me was pressed to my head again, this time harder as my vision returned to see a large beast pacing back and forth between us and Mr. Wesley. If ever I had imagined what the incarnation of the devil looked like, it was this creature, a tower of a man in the terrible ragged metal armor ensemble of a Red Castle raider and the big filterless gas mask with actual horns.

The beast stopped his pacing, and I just noticed the creature was holding something in his hands as he knelt in front of Mr. Wesley. The beast raised that something up to Mr. Wesley's eyes, my vision cleared a little more, and it was the severed head of the Tokewanna chief.

The sobbing of the girls, and even Joseph picked up as the demon stripped Wesley's pack off his back, carving into his chest with the knife before emptying the thing onto the ground. Kicking the contents across the ground, he picked up the Bible inside, flipped through it, and then chucked it into the chieftain's burning home crackling behind Mr. Wesley. The girls continued to cry. My eyes blurred again, but that didn't stop me from seeing it in full clarity when I watched the demon slam the head of our friend, the leader of the Tokewannas onto the ground.

All I could hear was the piercing wails of the girls, and the new sobs of the children somewhere behind me as the demon stomped on the head of our friend again and again and again and again and again. It was stamped into dust and blood and I'll never forget the sound of that skull breaking apart with each stomp…

I'll never forget the cries of Joseph when the demon chucked a handful of the blood and brains at that young man.

I'll never forget when the demon gestured for one of the other demons to come forth with a small child. I'll never forget when the tower of a demon grabbed the little boy by the legs. I'll never forget when he began slamming the kid into the ground. I'll never forget the sound of that laughter. I'll never forget the sound of that head hitting the ground, the shattering of the skull, the blood, the screaming of the other kids, the even more hopeless cries of the girls, the sight of that limp body and head breaking apart as it hit the rock again and again and again and again and again and the fire and the blood and the laughter and the screaming. I'll never forget when four other children knelt before the girls. I'll never forget the whimpers of Michelle or Hannah when they were sprayed in the blood of each bullet that killed the kids they loved…

I'll never forget the heat of the fire, the bodies of those kids, the obliterated head of the chief, and I'll never forget the words screamed straight into Wesley's face through the mask;

"WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR GOD NOW?!"

And I'll never forget the look in Wesley's eyes, the look he gave to all four of us when the demon screamed through the mask;

"RENOUNCE HIS NAME! RENOUNCE IT RIGHT NOW AND I'LL SPARE YOUR FUCKING KIDS!"

My hero immediately began to sob, unable to say absolutely anything. After only a few seconds, the flame burned brighter and the demon screamed the words;

"THAT'S NOT AN ANSWER!"

*Bang.*

Michelle fell to the dirt.

Mr. Wesley broke apart, scarcely able to form a single word as he regained only enough control to sob the words;

"I'm so sorry Michelle."

*Bang.*

Hannah's head hit the dirt facing me and Joseph, and although I could scarcely see a single detail through the tears in my eyes, I could see how pretty she was. I could see those lifeless eyes, the blood pooling around her head, and the calmest, most peaceful tear-streaked ash-covered face.

Neither she nor Michelle ever had to worry about something as horrible as this life again. I knew that without any doubt as I cried. I knew that without any doubt when I saw those girls' calm faces now only touched with the misery of all this life. The tears dried in an instant in the heat of the flames, their faces even more angelic now as Joseph pleaded through tears and hysteria;

"Wesley, just say it, please. He-"

But he couldn't get another word out before his head hit the ground. I stared at the remains of the chieftain's shattered skull as the demon struck the head of my friend with a hammer again and again, over and over again.

I could see nothing. The world around me disappeared as I stared at that mess of bones and brains, only hearing the hammer and feeling the heat of the flame. I don't know what I was thinking or how much time had passed before I finally looked up and met the eyes of Wesley.

The laughter, the crackle of flame, the gunshots, the sobs, the screams, the wind all faded away as I looked at the face of Wesley. Never has there ever been a more broken and defeated face. I'd never seen more tears mark a good man's face, but somewhere deep in those green eyes, I saw something. Just past the tears, the reflection of those flames, past the sorrow, the fear, and the pain, I saw what he'd accepted beneath all that horror and grief just outside his physical body amidst this awful world.

What I saw in those eyes, past that tremendous sorrow, told me right then and there that we had already been killed 5 minutes ago. What I saw in those eyes, the eyes of the man I knew, trusted, and respected wholeheartedly, was that there was no good that could possibly come if he even could act upon Joseph's plea or the demon's offer. What I saw told me what was true. What I saw told me that there was no reason to believe in a promise of freedom delivered by a demon who just killed everyone we spent over six months loving; a promise of freedom and safety delivered by a beast that killed five terrified children for no reason beyond savage psychosis and lust of horrific violence. Deep past the tears, the dirt, blood, fear, and supreme sorrow at what he just watched happen to all his work, was a trust. He saw a trust in something far greater than himself or me. A trust that knew beyond all reason that what would come from this awful world was beyond anyone's understanding, but a trust that knew that whatever was past this terror and death and fire and screaming and evil was something that was so amazing. Whatever was past this inferno, this heat, the tears of those girls, was absolutely incredible, and it proved to be so when he stared into my eyes, shook his head, and told me as the tears streamed down his face;

"I'm so sorry, Paul. He's just too good."

*Bang.*

I watched Wesley's head hit the dirt a single second before I felt my own head slam into it as well.

I never heard or felt the bullet, the hammer, the tomahawk, the whatever. I didn't feel anything before I found myself sobbing into the earth as the image of Wesley and the others dying replayed in my mind over and over again. All I could see was that, as I cried harder than I ever had in my entire life for seconds and then minutes and then more minutes, on and on and on.

Slowly, over the seconds, then minutes, then hours, then day, then weeks, the gunshot faded ever so slowly into the distance, revealing the crackle of the flame and the sobbing of the girls. I cried more and more and more, and the crackling flame went on and on mixed with the unbearable tears of those angels. More minutes, seconds, hours, and the looping image of Wesley's head hitting the dirt slowly merged with the sands I was staring into, and I continued to cry. More time passed, more hours, more days, and little by little, the crackle of flame, and the sobbing of the girls faded away; the new sound replaced so slowly by a deafening screech. Eventually, I could not hear anything but the screeching sound, and after even more time, I began to wish for the sound of those sobs, and I couldn't even hear my own crying. I struggled to remember what Wesley said to me, and at last, found the screeching so unbearable now that I raised my head from the sand.

Feeling the grains of sand fall from my face and hair, the sands I laid upon for so long faded from existence and I simply have no way or words to describe what I was looking at.

I was no longer lying in the dirt. I was not looking at the skull of the chief, the murdered children, the lifeless bodies of my friends, the demons, the flames, the burning village, the night, or anything I could describe then or now. I was not kneeling before a golden throne in a golden city, not a bearded man on a cloud, and not a wonderful green paradise where my mom and dad were waiting to greet me…

There again, are simply no words that exist to even remotely describe what I was staring at, or who I was staring at.

What I saw was something I knew beyond all logic before I was even born, something I saw and knew when my brain was still being formed in my mother's womb, before, and only a little bit after the first neuron sparked to life in my brain. What I saw was something that we forget almost at the exact second we emerge into the light of this world and enter the darkness of a tragic being. Something that is buried under so many lights and sounds and feelings throughout the days, something that is so unbearably hard to see at so many times throughout our lives, something that occupies a place in us that we try to fill with pleasure, with sex, with chemicals, and countless other sensations, but something we cannot comprehend when we see it move in the world. We chalk it up to what we think we know, what we learned, when it's actually something so much greater. What I saw was something I knew beyond all ability to explain. What I saw was something that we won't ever know for sure until we meet it once again when we are reunited with it at the end of existence, the end of the world.

What I saw was a being, an entity, a self-creating creation, an image of every atom, every grain of sand, every blade of grass, every place, every creature, everything past, everything present, everything that has ever inhabited this earth or will inhabit it. It was an image of pure light in every spectrum, a series of signs and pictures of everything that ever was, and everything that will be. It was a story. It was a story that had been told every second of every day since the very beginning, a story that is still being told, a story that still had so much more to say before the writer, the teller of it is done. And right there, right in the middle of the entirety of this all-encompassing being, there, staring right back at me, encircled by a forever turning ring of sounds, the images and lights took on the shape of the most beautiful face that could ever possibly exist as the rings and lights continued to turn.

It was the face of a man. It was the face of the most beautiful person anyone or anything could have ever known. It was a face that was the amalgamation of every person who had ever lived, lives now, and will ever live, a face that upon sight made me fall right to my knees in the nothing I stood upon. My eyes clouded with more tears, the face disappeared into the lights and the screaming sound grew even louder and louder, telling me through it all that it was a trillion different sounds and voices as the face faded even more until all that remained was a light going down the center and across the eyes of where that face once was. The sound became louder, and the images disappeared. The light of the being grew brighter and brighter and burned hotter and hotter until all there ever was in this dark dark tragic world within the enormous and spectacular creation was that cross emitting its light.

It was a man, it was a being, an entity of love so strong and so powerful that it holds the neutrons together, that it keeps the electrons and protons in orbit, that it keeps the rocks together, that holds this world together and keeps the flow of time moving on and on forever. It was a being of love so powerful that it entered the most tragic part of its own creation, experienced all that awfulness inside the monumental good, and then chose to die just for me and me and so many others… He came to this place just for me. He died just for me… and He proved how monumentally good even His own death was when He rose again. Just like He did for me alone, just like He did when I saw the rings still turning, just like He did when I heard Him tell me through the overwhelming enormity of His true form, "Stand up, son."

I was returned to this life sobbing uncontrollably into the sands as the smell of smoke filled my nose, and I could just make out the bodies of the dead beside me. I felt the continually thumping pain in the back of my head, and I was so weak I could not move as I struggled to remember what I saw seconds ago, only for it to disappear by the sight of the lifeless man of the Tokewanna beside me and that smell of smoke. It was so bright out, and I started to remember the sight of what happened to my friends.

I can't tell you how long I cried into those sands before I heard the rushing footsteps come to a stop around me. Feeling myself come under the grip of several sets of firm but delicate grips, I felt myself get sat up, felt the blood trickle down the back of my head, and after feeling the gentle work of some people behind me, the blurred figure kneeling before wiped my face with a cloth, showing my friend, "Uintah."

The man knelt there looking at me with the most angry, but tragic and happiest and most sorrowful gaze before he threw his arms around me and said through enormous restrained emotion;

"Oh my God, Paul! We thought you were dead!"

Too weak to return the embrace, I could see the row of dead I was laying beside, the graves being dug amidst the smoking ruined village, and could feel the ongoing pain in the back of my head as those other survivors behind me continued to work.

To this day, I do not know if I was shot, beaten, or whatever. Part of me likes to think I was unconscious. Most others will say that I was. But the Tokewannas were not stupid. Those few who survived or managed to get away still put me in a row of the dead after returning to the site of their destroyed home. I still had a blood-pouring mess in the back of my head, and I would learn that I wasn't more than probably only a half-hour from getting buried. After getting escorted back home, I underwent two months of treatment by the apprentice doctor who would one day take charge of the place, Dr. Stepp.

When Dani, my wife-to-be, returned from her own mission about 3 months after my return, I would tell her what happened to me. She would cry for me, cry for Michelle, Hannah, and Joseph, all three of them she was very close friends with before she left with her own mission group. We agreed to name our first children after them, and if she and I ever decided to have another child, and it was a boy, we'd name him Austin…

I never saw Uintah again after he and the three other warrior survivors who helped escort me home parted ways. He had spoken of returning to the other survivors they'd left with their friends in the Muchacanos tribe. There was also talk of them leading the fight against the survivors of the Red Castle raiders after the Tokewanna massacre. I don't know if the survivors of the Tokewannas just merged with the Muchacanos, successfully defeated the raiders who'd been pushed from Red Castle, or anything… But I do know the Muchacanos would suffer their own minor and extreme tragedies over the years before they too would merge with another tribe.

You asked in the beginning why I believe in Christ? I believe in Him because I saw perfect examples of what His love, the love I've read about my whole life is like. I saw that firsthand through Michelle, Hannah, Joseph, and in the eyes of Mr. Wesley.

I think about what he said before our deaths all the time;

"I'm so sorry. Don't cry. It's all going to be okay, Michelle."

"Look at me, look at me. You're going to be okay, Hannah. Trust me, please sweetie."

"Stay strong, look at me. You're going to be okay, Joseph."

"Look at me. You're going to be fine. You're going to make it out of this. You understand that, Paul?"

I did make it out of that… and I believe I was allowed to have a quick glimpse of what I had known before I even was, and will know again when my time on this earth is up. What I described does absolutely no amount of justice to what I truly saw, but whenever I think about it in a silent moment in the dead of night, or when talking about it to a person like you, I find myself thinking of what God said to Moses in Exodus 3:14

"I am who I am."

There are no words, there is no image you can conjure up in the mind that can describe His enormity or power.

If what I saw, Who I saw told me anything before the words that made me rise, it was that Mr. Wesley was also right when he told Michelle, Hannah, and Joseph that they would be okay. Their voices, souls, and forms had joined with Him, they had returned to the all-encompassing being that ever was, is, and will be. The one who told my people thousands of years ago to call him, "Father," the one who sent His Son, and the one who left His Spirit for those who are chosen to walk this earth.

I believe in Him because I remember that face that made me fall to my knees in sheer awe, I've seen Him in the eyes of my wife, my kids, my friends, and so many out there. And I remember the shape of that light before I myself rose from the grave…

Hard to believe? Sure. I don't doubt that at all. I myself doubt sometimes, but just imagine living through it, seeing what I saw, and feeling what I felt. You read about Him, you learn more about what He says in His word, and you will understand who He is, and the way He moves in this world. You will start to understand that there is something far more at play in this world than the tragedies of the wilderness, nations, or wars down south.