His companion snickers. “Now, now, Spite. Take it easy. After all, the boy wasn’t even man enough to handle Miss Terry.”

  “Oh, man. I forgot you told me that, Bully. What a loser! What a total loser.”

  “Plus, Spite and me heard you just up and left your best friend stranded out there in the woods, alone with the wolves. Probably robbed him blind first. Nothing but a thief and a coward, I’d say.”

  “And don’t even know what to do with a pretty thing like Miss Terry? I almost take that personally. For her, I mean. Did you hurt her feelings, punk? Did you make her cry?”

  He backhands you. “I hope you rot here forever, moron.”

  Spite grabs you, holds you while Bully punches you in the stomach. You double over, gasping for breath.

  “How’s that feel, Mr. Judas? Mr. Shrimp. Maybe you should learn to treat your friends better. Act like a man for once. Grow up.”

  They walk away, chortling. One of them shouts back, “The boys took a vote. The moment you stepped off the gangplank, we nominated you ‘Most Likely to Never Matter.’”

  They erupt into hoarse laughter again. Slowly, their voices fade.

  You look up at Gritt. “I didn’t betray anybody. You’ve got to believe me. They’re lying.”

  Gritt nods. “I could try to make you feel better right now. I could tell you I believe you. But True Man taught me to go deeper, to stand alone if needed, to not be distracted by what others think of me. Just do the best you can and stay humble, Questor. If you do those two things, what anyone else thinks about you is their problem, not yours.”

  You think about this. How much do you depend on what others think of you?

  You have need of endurance.

  HEBREWS 10:36 ESV

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  The stress and sweat and difficulty continue. Gritt labors hard beside you. One day—it seems like weeks have passed—he strikes the rock, and out falls a chunk of something that glitters.

  “Ahh!” he whispers with delight. It is a large chunk of pure gold. “Now, that’s a keeper.”

  You stare at him, stunned.

  “What do you mean, ‘keeper’?”

  “It’s what I’ve tried to tell you, Questor. There is nothing fair about getting shafted. There is nothing fair about barely surviving your time in Adverse City. Even so, your days or months or years do not have to be wasted. Whatever treasures you find—they are yours to keep. Forever. The taskmaster will not take them from you. No one can.”

  “You mean, if I find treasures here, and one day I escape this place, I could be rich?”

  Gritt smiles. “Starts to change the equation, huh? Wealth far greater than money. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “But how long will I have to work?” you ask. “Where do I find them? How long before I can go free?”

  “Don’t know times three. But really, you’re missing the point. Just be faithful. Look hard. Keep your chin up. Find reasons to be thankful. If it was easy, everyone would want to come here.”

  You shake your head. “How do you know all this?”

  Gritt smiles. “Nothing special about me. I’ve just been a pupil of True Man for many years.”

  You swing the axe again, this time with a bit more eagerness and a bit less resentment. Strangely, the axe feels lighter.

  Days and weeks pass again. The security guards come by every so often for no good reason except to mock and tease and beat you. You hear more rumors of what the uplanders think of you. None of it is good. You feel greatly misunderstood. The constant clinking of the chains on your feet drives you nearly to insanity. Still, with Gritt, you keep swinging. Though the food is tasteless, the water is brown, and the air in the tunnels is either stiflingly hot or bitterly cold, you give yourself to the labor and learn to be thankful for simple things. Food, water, rest. You have decided that while Adverse City is no place to live, neither is it a place to quit.

  “I just want to get out of the Mines!” you say one day, weary, striking at the rock with extra force.

  “Yes, good,” says Gritt. “‘The Mines’ are a dark, bottomless hole. Self-focus traps you in a small life. You are meant to be larger than yourself, but it can only come about by learning character, learning to serve others, learning to—”

  “Care about others more than myself?” you say. As they flood your thoughts, you realize how many “mines” you’ve been trapped in.

  Then you think of one time in particular when you served someone without being asked, without thought of reward or recognition. You did it because someone needed help. Because it was the right thing to do. You remember how it made you feel.

  You didn’t know it at the time, but you realize now that you felt more like a man that day.

  A fresh new thought enters your mind. It’s good to feel like a man, you think. If I’m meant to be a man, it’s good to feel like a man. I should do those things that make me feel like a man and avoid the things that don’t.

  With a fresh pang of sorrow, you realize you did not feel like a man in the Hall of Shame. You felt like a slave. Though the desires were masculine, the use of them was corrupt.

  Men are meant to be free, you think.

  Hidden wealth of secret places.

  ISAIAH 45:3

  DAY TWENTY-FOUR

  Gritt is staring at you, a funny expression on his face. You realize that for several moments you have been lost in thought. Your axe point, biting deeply into the stone, is stuck.

  “Push! Pull! You’ve got ahold of something,” says Gritt.

  Groaning, you pry the handle up with all your might. You strain all your muscles. The veins on your neck pop. Finally, a huge chunk of black rock falls, exposing a small cavity in the shaft wall. Inside you see a small golden chest.

  “Whoa!” breathes your friend in a low voice. “Dude, that looks serious. Get it! What’s inside?”

  The box is simple—wood overlaid with gold. The lid opens easily. Inside are a note and three ancient-looking scrolls.

  Weary traveler, you have put forth your hand upon the rock, you have spent your strength in the labor of dark and hidden places. You have submitted to the quest for character, wisdom, and humility. Find now treasures to sustain your life: Integris, Veritas, Valorium.

  “The Three Lost Scrolls,” breathes Gritt, eyes wide with wonder. “The whole world has been searching for those!”

  Carefully, you lift the scrolls. They tingle on your skin as if electric. The sheets are heavy, made of lambskin or something like it.

  “Should I open them now?”

  Gritt doesn’t answer. “What’s that other thing? That note there in the bottom?”

  You notice a small, unadorned envelope in the bottom of the box. It is sealed, but the outside reads, Certificate of Release. Present to taskmaster immediately.

  “Sounds like your ticket outta here,” Gritt says. For some reason, he doesn’t sound jealous at all. In fact, he almost seems proud.

  You stare at him, afraid to believe it could be true.

  “Do you really think . . .”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  You hesitate. “Come with me.”

  Gritt holds up a hand, shakes his head. “No, no. My place is here. Other Questors will be along soon enough. I know you think I’m young, but I’m really six thousand years old. My first and proudest name is Perseverance of the Saints. My first visitor was your father, Adam. He’d lost his way big-time, let me tell you. True Man sent me to help him. Others will need me too. I’ll be here for them, down in the darkness, when they want to give up. Like you, they will take a part of me with them wherever they go, when they are finally free.” He places his hands on your shoulders. “Go with this command: Endure.”

  “Thank you,” you reply. Amazingly, it is almost hard to leave. Gritt has become a part of you. Yet surging with hope, you drop your axe. Clutching the Three Lost Scrolls and the certificate of release, you hurry away, down the long shaft toward the river at the heart of the Mines.

  Now I have found favor.

  JUDGES 6:17 ESV

  DAY TWENTY-FIVE

  The taskmaster named Testing sees you coming. Other prisoners and security guards notice you too. They rise to block your path. Some of them pick up rocks to throw, some draw swords. Others hurl words and insults. You duck your head and begin waving your certificate.

  “Hold!” shouts Testing. The guards stop. You pass by. Dropping to your knees, you lower your head and present the certificate. The taskmaster takes the note, opens it, reads it aloud.

  “Hardship embraced,

  Though wronged, misplaced,

  Opportunity creates,

  Promotion awaits.

  By royal decree,

  Open the gates.”

  Testing stares at you. His expression is stern, unreadable. “Fine. I don’t like it. But fine. The same ship that brought you shall carry you away.”

  You look. The vessel bobbing gently in the current of the river bears the name Favor.

  “But Hardship brought me here,” you protest.

  “It is the same vessel,” Testing says in a tone that does not invite challenge. “Only you have changed.”

  You remember another particularly difficult hardship in your life. A time not so much of painful sorrow or regret, but testing and unfairness. You remember how it changed you, for both good and bad—how you responded well and poorly. You understand more now. If I could, you think, how would I handle it differently?

  Testing bends down, inserts a key into the lock of your foot chains. You have grown so used to walking a tight line, weighed down, you can hardly believe the lightness and range of motion you feel.

  “Go now,” says the taskmaster, showing his teeth in a cruel smile. “But know this. Over the course of your life, I will see you many more times. It is inevitable. Though it’s hard and desperate, many fools come to value their time here more and more. Be wiser than they. Fear me. I’ll always be waiting, ready to crush your soul, and I hate it when men no longer dread me. My fondest desire is to break you beyond recognition. Only bitterness awaits you here.”

  You hear him, but in truth, he seems smaller, less threatening. Besides, clutching the Lost Scrolls to your chest, you know otherwise. You leave with treasure, not bitterness. You climb aboard the boat, find a spot on the deck. Safe at last, you feel tears slide down your face. You have never endured such a trial as this. But you feel stronger, more determined, more ready for whatever challenges lie ahead. Somehow, there is a sweetness to the darkness of this place.

  “I’m ready,” you say to the captain.

  Unmoored, the boat drifts into the current of the river, picks up speed. The Mines fade from view.

  Men of valor in their generations.

  1 CHRONICLES 7:2

  DAY TWENTY-SIX

  After a half day of travel, the river terminates in a vast cavern. Here, the collected waters swirl gently in a circle with no place to go. The channel has ended. Overhead, the ceiling vaults away into an inky blackness that the lanterns of the ship cannot penetrate. A tiny pinpoint of light is all you see at the very top. It feels like it could be miles away.

  Captain Destiny approaches you.

  “Do you see it?”

  He points. In fact, you had not seen it. Dropping down from the center of the vaulted ceiling, as if from nothing, is a thick rope attached to a large bucket. The rope trails upward into shadows, seemingly hung upon nothing. The bucket sways gently. Steering closer to the bucket, the captain urges you forward.

  “Go on, get in.”

  “What?” you exclaim. The bucket is surely big enough for a person. But why in the world should you get in it?

  “It may not look like a promotion. And I can’t even tell you how it works. All I can tell you is, you’ve got to get out of the boat.”

  You don’t even try to hide your exasperation. “I don’t want to get out of the boat! I just want to get out of this mountain.” Exhausted, you wipe your eyes. “Is anything ever normal around here?”

  “Take a step, lad,” the captain says gently. His eyes sparkle. “Have a little faith.”

  Angrily, you reach for the rope, climb into the bucket.

  “There!” you say defiantly.

  “Attaboy. But you better hold on. They tell me this can be a wild ride.”

  You never even see the captain disappear. In fact, the captain does not. You do. Without warning, the bucket shoots skyward, like a rocket launching. It moves so fast, so suddenly, the colors of your dream start to bleed together. You feel yourself shaking. You feel wind. You feel terror. One thing you cannot do, at all, is see. It’s all happening too fast. You have become a human bullet, aimed straight up. Squatting inside the bucket, screaming, you clutch at the rope and the rough wood for dear life. Slowly, the tiny speck of light at the top begins to enlarge. You dare not look down.

  As you blast upward, in the midst of the terror you feel a pure sense of joy, of thrill. You feel like a superhero. Superman or Spider-Man or the Green Lantern. Soaring. A strange thought to think at a time like this, but if you could be a Marvel or DC Comics character, you know who you would choose. You think about why. . . .

  It occurs to you that there is a little bit of a superhero in every man’s heart. You remember a cherished time when you did something brave or daring. It was risky. But you did it anyway. . . .

  From weakness were made strong.

  HEBREWS 11:34

  DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

  As you travel higher, you see that the light at the top is actually blue. You are staring up at the sky, looking through a hole cut in the top of the mountain. In the span of about five minutes, you’ve gone from the very bottom to the very top. You taste the words on your lips.

  Promotion. Advancement.

  The bucket starts to slow. You notice a ledge of rock that extends a few feet into the opening at the top. The bucket comes to rest level with the platform.

  A familiar voice greets you.

  “Welcome, Questor,” says True Man. He laughs loudly and heartily. “It’s good to see you.”

  Relief floods you as you reach for his outstretched hand. Gratefully, you climb out.

  “You’ve come a long way,” True Man says. He is wearing clothes made of thick brown grizzly fur. His voice is deep like you remember. He is just as tall, just as strong. His beard is just as heavy, his eyes just as fierce. Yet, for some reason, you no longer find him strange. Near to him, you feel safe. It has been a long time since you have felt safe.

  A torrent of emotion wells up.

  “Faker betrayed me, or maybe I betrayed myself,” you blurt out, choking on your words. “Maybe he lied about me. I don’t really know how it all happened, but I woke up in the Mines under this mountain. It’s been months, I think. They made us all work so hard, night and day. They were cruel. I felt like a slave.”

  You want him to rage, to seize the massive broadsword slung across his back and charge down the mountain to avenge you. Instead, he turns, says one word.

  “Come.”

  You follow him down a winding path through crunching snow.

  As you walk, a pang of memory hits you.

  “Whatever happened to Close Friend?” you ask.

  True Man smiles. “Ah, never fear. You will see him again. He will have an odd way of being there throughout your life, though perhaps he may look different when you see him next. Besides, others need him, too.”

  For some reason, that satisfies you. You double your stride to keep pace. The air is mountain thin and laced with swirling streamers of fat white flakes falling from the sky. Evergreens sag under burdens of powder as fine as talc. The sun is painfully bright. The sky is pale blue. Half your field of view drops away to nothing beneath you, falling down steep cliffs, sweeping across miles of crags and jagged spikes and a fertile valley of green lost in the mist far below. You tromp perhaps a hundred paces through the woods behind True Man, who does not speak a word. Finally, you reach a clearing. A pool of dark water steams at its center.

  “Look,” says True Man, pointing.

  You lean over the water to see what he sees. There, in the surface, like a mirror dimly, you see yourself for the first time since beginning this journey. Your shirt is torn to shreds from the labor in the Mines. You are startled to see your face and frame. Your jawline is angled and square. Your biceps and triceps are defined. Your chest and abdomen are knotted with muscle. As you look at yourself, the water ripples. Now you carry a sword made of black metal. All around you, a battle rages. You gasp at the determination you see in your own face. With your eyes alight, you charge into the ranks of an unseen terror. An entire army rallies to your cry. . . .

  “Now look at your hands.”

  You obey, flexing your fingers in front of your face.

  “Those are a man’s hands. Not a boy’s. They are meant for a sword, for battle. Now look again. What you first saw is true. Reflected now in the water, behold another image of yourself, of what you would look like in the future if you had not endured Adverse City.”

  Once more, you lean over the water. You see a version of yourself you easily recognize. Your face is smooth. Your body is little changed. Your eyes are soft and dreamy. In this vision, a similar battle rages. You see the world collapsing all around. Desperate people cry out for help. But you give none. Your eyes are timid and fearful. You cower. Your arms have no strength. You carry no weapon. In the vision, you can feel yourself wishing it would all just go away.

  You shudder at the sight, close your eyes, ashamed.

  “I was a fool with Miss Terry. I should have listened to Wisdom.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10