Brave Quest, page 7
Knowing this, you are a bit confused. After naming and feeling your grief, and feeling somewhat cleansed and freer, you still carry a heaviness you can’t define. Climbing to your feet, you wonder what to do next. Absent of a better idea and pricked with curiosity, you take the whistle from the table and blow it. The sound it makes is high and clear and wild, like the cry of an eagle swooping in for the kill. Immediately, a matching cry rises from the empty air below you. In a flash of feathers, an enormous bird rises from the chasm, flutters its wings, perches on the ledge, stares at you. The rush of air from its ascent nearly knocks you over. Its feathers and eyes are piercing blue, like the purest sapphire sky distilled and concentrated to ten times its normal strength.
You feel afraid. Fascinated, but afraid.
“I am the Messenger of God,” the great eagle says in a voice that sounds like a gust of autumn wind. His eyes are noble and fierce. His talons, as long as your legs, cut into the rock with the force of steel. “I am the Spirit of Prophecy. The Visioneer. I am the Foresight of Imagination. Do you wish to ride my wings and dream your dreams?”
Trembling, you cannot find words. You can only nod.
“First,” says the Visioneer, “you must Fire Wash. You carry guilt. You have witnessed your past. You have visited sorrows beyond your control as well as shames of your own making. Only the pure in heart may truly see reality. Place your hands in the Flame of Unquenchable Mercy. Be brutally honest with yourself. Though the flame will burn, it brings healing to the soul.”
You don’t know what any of this means, really, but the great eagle continues to stare at you so forcefully you find yourself moving toward the table, toward the flame. You glance hesitantly from blue bird to blue fire. You feel the heat of it.
Never play with fire, you think wryly. That’s what the adults always say.
But you have come to trust that this process—this whole, strange dream—is ultimately good. Summoning your courage, face scrunched and braced for pain, you thrust your hands into the flame.
The pain is immediate, intense, searing . . . but not physical. Though you nearly jerk away, the flame is magnetic. It holds you in place. You start to shake, to cry out. A door opens within you. The lingering heaviness collapses upon you with suffocating force.
Brutally honest, the Visioneer said. Sorrows beyond your control . . . shames of your own making . . .
Fresh from your experiences with the telescope, you discover the great eagle’s words trigger more memories. You realize you have not only been wronged, but you have wronged others. With words, with carelessness, with selfishness, with secret thoughts. You remember how others have done the same to you, in similar ways. And so, on many levels, you realize you have need of forgiveness. It is a fire to face, to feel, but you do not shrink back. As the pain of the flame unlocks the pain of your soul, you confront yourself within the memories, and you make choices. Will you forgive—
“Others?” the eagle says, in sync with the fire. Your eyes are squinted shut with pain, but you hear his airy voice whispering on the wind. “Whom will you forgive? And for what? Be specific. . . .”
I acknowledged my sin . . . and You forgave the guilt.
PSALM 32:5
DAY THIRTY-SIX
The Fire Wash increases in intensity. Though it burns, the pain comes with a sense of release, leaving you feeling cleaner, somehow truer to yourself. Somehow more whole and real, as if you had been trapped under a weight but are no longer, as if you had been hollow and made of straw but now you are flesh and blood. Yet you are not done. The Visioneer speaks again. “And what of your own shame or weakness or failure, Questor? Do you have cause to be guilty within? In what do you blame yourself for false reasons? In what do you feel rightly convicted by God? In either case, can you forgive yourself and thus be released? Sometimes this is the hardest of all cleansings. . . .”
“Finally, though He has done no wrong against you, it is a fact of your kind that you may hold God guilty in your own thoughts for wrongs you have suffered. Do you blame Him? If so, do not be afraid to admit this. Admitting it will not surprise Him or anger Him. If you do blame Him in any way for any thing, it is the fact of how you feel, and it must be faced. The sweet burn of mercy is for just such broken moments of the soul. Questor, can you forgive God? Will you? Remember, He does not need it. But perhaps you do.”
You no longer feel the fire. The burning is complete. You pull your hands out of the flame. They are not burned. Not even a single hair is singed.
Yet you feel alive, free.
Come up here, and I will show you. . . .
REVELATION 4:1 ESV
DAY THIRTY-SEVEN
“Now it is time to fly!” says the Visioneer, beckoning you with a motion of his head.
You don’t hesitate. You leap onto the back of the great bird.
“Clutch my neck feathers!” he cries. “We are going to go high!”
He steps off the side of the platform. Falls. The world spins. You tighten your grip on his thick feathers, gulping for air. You cannot even find a voice to scream. The bottom of the world has dropped beneath you. You are plummeting downward. . . .
Upward.
Effortlessly, the eagle spreads his wings. A mighty updraft of wind catches you, him, lifts you both with jarring force high above the mountaintops. You see the platform dwindle beneath you. All around are clear, cloudless skies, and below is the tiny scale of faraway earth: tiny trees, tiny rivers.
“There are two purposes for vision,” says the Visioneer. “The first and easiest is to dream—to think big. To imagine possibilities. To recognize and name the passions buried inside your heart so that you can more easily find your place in this world. This is where you say who you want to be and what you want to do through your teen years and on into full manhood.”
You strain to hear the Visioneer over the roar of the wind in your ears.
“Yes!” he cries, as if agreeing with your focus. “Yes, of course, your dreams may change as you grow older. But putting names to desires is important because it focuses you. It is better to start than to stagnate. Why? There is a proverb: It is easier to steer a moving ship. So, Questor, tell me your dreams. . . .”
“Good! The second purpose of vision is to gain clarity of soul. To focus your energy so that you can actually achieve something, rather than simply talking about achieving. Wishing, but never doing. Many men are dreamers. Great men dream, then do. This requires clarity. So here is the more difficult task of vision. What can you do to make your dreams more likely to come true? Remember, no one is promised their dream! But the surest way to miss your dream is to think you deserve it without working for it.”
You cannot believe how high you have flown. Your stomach lurches. It is thrilling, dazzling, scary. Glorious. It feels as if you can see the whole world from here. Yet the air is thin, and you begin to feel it in your lungs. You realize that at some point you will have to come back down to earth. The Visioneer seems to be leading you to that very place in your thoughts.
“So, Questor, what sacrifices are you willing to make? Yes, even now. You are not too young to begin thinking these things. College? Then what kind of student should you be now to receive scholarships and superior choices? A man of faith? Then how are you feeding your spirit? What series of smaller goals can lead you to the bigger goal? What should you be doing now to prepare for tomorrow?”
The weapons of our warfare . . .
2 CORINTHIANS 10:4 ESV
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT
After you name your dreams, the Visioneer carries you far and wide, showing you lands and sights you’ve never imagined. You travel through history, witnessing warriors, conquerors, explorers, adventurers, daring deeds, and noble sacrifice. Cruelty and compassion. Strength and weakness. Freedom and bondage. You see it all. Abraham. Noah. Pharaoh. David. Plato. Socrates. Paul. Justin Martyr. Irenaeus. Genghis Khan. Columbus. Da Vinci. Ponce de León. Galileo. Isaac Newton. George Washington. John Wesley. George Whitefield. Hudson Taylor. Robert E. Lee. Lincoln. Hitler. Stalin. Patton. MacArthur. You see empires form, then fall: Babylon, Egypt, Israel, Maya, Greece, Rome, Germany.
You see yourself standing on the backs of the giants of history, awaiting your turn. In that moment, you realize you should take note in the future of what stories, what heroes, move your soul the most. Very likely they hold keys for your own life as it unfolds.
Slowly, you circle downward, coming to rest by the waters of a placid lake at the base of Mount Transformation. You dismount to find True Man waiting for you. When you turn back to the Visioneer, he has risen up and away and is already small in the distance. You feel overwhelmed with gratitude for your soaring journey together, but also a pang of sadness that you could not tell him good-bye. But you have no time. A booming voice commands your attention.
“With vision comes strength,” True Man declares, his words echoing over the water.
He carries a bundle of folded fabric. From this, he withdraws a scabbard. It is polished and finely crafted. It is beautiful.
“When the occasion calls for it, a man must be ready to fight for what is true. For those he loves.”
He holds out the sword with the haft facing you.
“Young man, take your weapon,” he says with a gentleness that surprises you. “But remember, your enemies are not people. Your enemies are fear, darkness, lies, injustice. Apathy. Pride. These lie within you too. Face what lies within, with honesty, before you go about waving your sword, pretending to fight for a cause.”
Gingerly, you place both hands on the haft and pull. The blade slides cleanly free with a cool scrape. It is breathtaking. A strange metal—black as night, razor-sharp.
“Forged from the molten metal of a fallen star,” True Man murmurs. “Very rare.”
He starts walking. You follow, belting the scabbard around your waist. It feels good.
“A sword is like truth,” True Man says. “It cuts, wounds . . . but it also saves. It is a spiritual weapon. Such are all things of the Spirit of God.”
The path meanders down into a marshland. The ground softens more and more as you walk on the wet earth and bog grass. Not too far away, a solid footpath leads away to the left and higher ground. In the distance, following this path, you spy a large castle. Colorful banners snap in the wind. A trumpet call rises from the watchtower, sounding like an invitation to feasting.
“Not there,” True Man warns solemnly, seeing your wandering gaze. “That place is death to a man’s soul. There,” he says and points across the swamp, through the muck and mire. You follow his finger, see a little hut on stilts at the far edge of the marsh, then, on a hill, a tree surrounded by laughing people. Beyond that . . .
“I can’t see. What are you pointing at?” you ask, annoyed. You already want to go to the castle.
“You will know it when you get there.”
His answer irritates you even more. You’re getting a little tired of this.
“You know, this may come easy for you, but it’s a hard journey for the rest of us,” you say. Though you continue to finger the haft and scabbard of your new sword with appreciation, you are also more than a little indignant. “Sure, I’ve seen amazing things. But it’s been harder than I thought. A lot harder. I have to constantly guard myself against so many things. Temptation—even a little slipup can cost me big-time. Weariness. Loneliness. I have to work. I have to pick the right friends. I have to persevere. It takes focus. Really, I don’t know that I’m ready for manhood. I don’t know that I can pull it off.”
Somewhat embarrassed by your confession, you look down at your feet, feeling stubborn.
When you look up, it is into the gaping, screaming maw of a monster.
Behold, I am unskilled.
EXODUS 6:30
DAY THIRTY-NINE
The Bog Monster is a hulking beast of mud and bone, somehow brought horribly to life. It is huge—three times your size, dripping with moss and weeds and stench. It has two arms the size of tree trunks and a face that is mostly mouth filled with sharply chiseled rocks for teeth.
Before you can gather your thoughts, it swings.
You fumble for your sword, duck just in time to avoid being crunched by the massive forearm. The blade won’t come free. You aren’t used to it. You roll, spring to your knees, mind reeling.
The Bog Monster bellows a sound both high and deep. And deafening. You cover your ears, nearly passing out. Finally, you manage to pull your sword free. Your feet are sinking in muck, making it hard to maneuver, but you do, with effort, trying to climb to higher ground. The Bog Monster is ponderous, but its stride is enormous. You can’t move fast enough.
It swings again.
A clawlike branch protruding from the clumpish paw grazes your leg, drawing blood. You cry out in pain, flail wildly at the beast. A lump of something falls off. The beast bleeds green goo that stinks.
It howls again, angry, but not necessarily pained. It may have no feeling whatsoever. It comes at you again, and again. You cannot move fast enough or swing hard enough. It is relentless.
It occurs to you, for the first time in your life, that you could die. Here, in this marsh. With a heart full of terror.
You strike at the beast’s leg. Your sword lodges in something like dense clay. You barely pull it free. The Bog Monster swats at you, knocks you twenty feet away. You fly through the air, slam into a pool of water. The beast blows steam and mud into the air, full of blind rage. You can barely breathe. It feels like you might have cracked a rib.
Behind the beast, you spy the path to the castle, its banners snapping in the breeze. Solid ground. No monster. You don’t have to fight. You don’t have to prove anything. No one will watch you run away. No shame.
By now, fear has gripped your heart. You don’t know how to beat this thing. You imagine it is probably unbeatable—foolish to even try.
Wisdom (yes, wisdom!) says you should flee. A man may need to fight sometimes. But he should also know when a battle is lost. Right? A thousand such thoughts flood your mind in two seconds’ time. A battle rages, more fierce even than your fight with the beast.
Do I have what it takes? you think. In response to your silent question, you know the answer. You have been given gifts. From the time of your birth.
The things I’m good at, the areas where I feel confident and successful are:
The beast lunges, tries to crush you with his massive arm. You barely dodge. Your mind races.
But there are other things I’m not so great at. I’m usually afraid even to try these things:
You glimpse the castle again. It looks like a palace, really, all shiny and new and lavish. It is your only hope. You roll away, leap, gain a step . . . and flee.
They have prepared a net for my steps.
PSALM 57:6
DAY FORTY
The way to the castle is short, but the Bog Monster has no power on dry, solid ground. He leaves you alone. You try to reassure yourself of the rightness of your decision but are plagued with doubt. A sense of failure nags you. You stand a little taller, puff out your chest, brandish your sword. It was an amazing fight, eh? you say to yourself, trying to feel better. Bigger. But your heart knows the truth. How will you ever get across the swamp, where True Man said you must go, without facing the monster?
Before long, you arrive at the castle. The drawbridge is down, and the guards welcome you with smiles.
“Best go straight to the dukes,” one guard says politely. “This being their place and all. They’re three brothers. They’ll have a word for you and plenty of help. Straight ahead, through the big doors. Can’t miss it.”
Cheered, you follow his advice. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad decision after all. Maybe True Man hasn’t met the new owners? Feeling smug, you cross the bridge and walk through the big doors and down a long hallway. In a large chamber with plush red carpet, high windows, and higher columns, you find three men reclining at a table, eating their fill, laughing. Sure enough, they are dressed like royalty in fine velvet and gold and leather. They see you enter.
“Well, well! Look at the mud boy, fresh from the swamp!” says a clean, handsome man. “Really, lad, did you have to come straight here? I mean—and please don’t take this rudely—but you stink!” He laughs coarsely. “And just look at your clothes. How out of style could you be? I suppose if there is one saving grace, it’s that the mud helps hide the awful colors underneath. You don’t even match. Have you looked in a mirror? Do you even care about your hair?”
Suddenly, you feel very self-conscious. These people are royalty, after all! Dukes. You’ve never met a duke. You should have been more mindful, even though you have no idea where you could have gone to clean up.
In a flash of insight, you realize something. How comfortable are you with your own outward appearance? You think about how you would describe yourself to a blind person:
It occurs to you that God made you a certain way. Do you approve? Is it good or bad in your eyes? What would you keep? What would you change?
All these things will I give.
MATTHEW 4:9 KJV
DAY FORTY-ONE
“Don’t you mind Vane,” the second man says pleasantly. He is younger than the first man, sharp-eyed. “Vane’s always uptight about looks. Although, if you don’t mind me saying so, he does have excellent taste . . . and you could use a few good tips. No offense. In fact, now that I think about it, let’s bring in some groomers!”
He snaps his fingers. Instantly, four groomers surround you.
