so a muki

Prologue

March 21, 1997,

Dear Friends,

I feel alien. Unintentionally created, my existence is a mystery. Unbound, I have no anchor to Earth. I belong to the universe. Without doubt, I have no connection to time and space. I exist. Although it is my native tongue, I do not comprehend English. When I open my mouth, I speak only gibberish. Equally disconcerting, I do not comprehend what other people say to me. Their words, actions, and expressions clash. There is no meaning. Caught off guard, even I am aware that what comes out will give the wrong impression and shut down communication.

When I was very young, I thought I was special and nearly all others were ordinary. I conversed with God and played games among the stars. I loved everything and everyone. Innocent and naive, I danced in the rain and sunshine, delighting in the gifts surrounding me. Told I was not living in the real world, I rejected it, and thrived in the one that made my heart soar. I could reach the sky.

Once older and more cynical, I determined I was abnormal. I was too small, left-handed, spatially handicapped, and gullible. A misfit, I was simply born at the wrong time. I tried to figure out whether it was too late or too soon to no avail. Content to be abnormal, I preferred myself to the rest of the world. Does it matter if I did not belong? If I did not care, why should anyone else? Living in a world of association and acquaintance, I thrived within my comfort zone and gave the rest of normalcy a wide berth.

Wiser and approaching adulthood, I accepted a damaged label. My brain did not function in a similar fashion to other people. I was not normal. My central nervous system improperly wired. The synapses of my brain lacked normal function. I was not alien; residual spermicidal chemicals and allergens from latex altered the working of my brain. In general, I chose to believe I was a forerunner of evolution. I allowed conceit to compensate for the efforts I needed to make to succeed using standards in which I held neither belief nor faith in their righteousness over what my essence offered. I grew defiant and stubborn. I would not conform. Instead, I fought. Brick walls became challenges. I was ready to stand up and call the world as I saw it.

I learned my lessons the hard way when I was very young. If you talk funny, people laugh and treat you as an imbecile. Recommendation: do not speak. Moral: life is a secret. If you are an original thinker, people shun and belittle you. Recommendation: learn skills required to persuade and manipulate. Moral: fight with fire. If you fail to conform to the accepted ecology and ethos, you risk failure and limited access to the future. Recommendation: work harder. Moral: Believe in yourself, else, no one else will. If you are different, you will be isolated and alone. Recommendation: befriend those who are also different and respect their differences. Moral: seek kindred spirits, your soul will grow and thrive, and you will not be lonely.

Thus, I grew up with a very best of friends — God. I had human friends. They were few, but they were good friends. Deliciously, when God offers you a friend, the skies open, and it rains sunshine.

Thankfully, when God takes away a gift, He helps you find peace before shocking the system with a new demand, “My child, I have given you an apple. Now spit out the seed and savour the light.”

Assuming God meant tell my story, I tried. Reams of paper fell upon the floor. The words would not come. They hurt.

Thus, God laughed saying, “Start in the middle. Tell the prophet York Sabastin’s story. I will send you help.”

True to His word, He sent me to church. Receiving lessons on love, I saw Christ in a church. He always arrived in a breath of wind, He sang to my heart, and I recognized him as Jarrock. They are the same. They are God. I rejoiced, and courage descended upon me. I told you a prelude to prophecy, a tale from the Land of the Butterflies. I listened to God, searched for the signs and endeavoured to follow destiny.

Although seeds are bitter and hard, they hold promise of growth. With a seed, there can be a tomorrow. That truth is comforting. Whatever the wrapping, the tale is made of mud.

Sit back and make yourself comfortable. I will tell you a tale of receiving prophecy. Come, laugh and cry with me.

Sincerely, Tara

1 An Encounter with an Angel

I was in high school, thirteen years old and in grade eight. I had the world by the tail! The school board did not know what they were doing when they had robbed me of a year of high school by putting grade seven back into the elementary school. Sure, I admit I was terrified on the first day of high school, but I was also extremely proud. I was among the big kids — young adults. I was probably the smallest kid in the school. My homeroom was in the converted eight-room primary school at the end of the lower field, with toilets so low to the floor that my knees suck up into my face when I sat down on one. Even I had to kneel to use the drinking fountain. Proudly, I was one of the big kids.

It was a beautiful September day. Many leaves were still green. Summer was stretching far into autumn. The morning air had been crisp but not rainy. I had not needed to wear a coat. It was the kind of day, when my steps were light, and joy filled my heart. Feeling wonderful, I was on the way home with a stack of books in my hand on a Thursday afternoon. Only one more day until the weekend I thought with delight. Oh, life was so good. I was alive.

I was nearly home when God spoke to me again. I am afraid of God. He called my name. Now, God always got me into trouble. I did not have many friends. I was a shrimp, not athletic, or even very friendly for that matter. It was not that I was unpopular. Others ignored me and that suited me just fine. People were simply a bother to me, I could find much more fun and satisfaction in doing my own thing alone than conforming to the blasé existence of ordinary people. I did not consider myself ordinary at all. I loved life. I loved questioning and arguing. I liked to take risks and be disobedient. I liked to shock my teachers and took a measure of satisfaction in the discomfort that I caused them. A teacher called me an independent thinker. I liked that term. It suited me!

However, I had my problems, too. My mouth got me into trouble with those I did know, including God. My friends thought I was crazy or at least unstable and God was so bossy. The things God asked me to do were not that difficult, but they always involved doing something, which did not come naturally to me. In general, they were outside of the realm in which I defined my own character. They were things that I simply did not do. Often, God would ask that I interact with people in a more intimate way than was comfortable. Naturally, God did not take no for an answer. Ignoring a call does not work either, but over the years, I had learned a few intricacies of answering God.

When you know for sure no flesh and blood person is talking to you, a call that comes out of the air around you, I have discovered can be answered it three correct ways. It does not matter whether you say God, my Lord, or Jesus. God does not care what you call Him. However, more is required.

If you say, “Yes, my Lord, I am yours!” you are asking for big, major trouble. It is the answer best given just before a truck runs you over or when a bolt of lightning strikes from the skies above. Either way you are just as dead. If God does not have death in mind, then such an answer seals your fate to be obedient. I did not want to be obedient then and doubt that I will ever have a smooth relationship with God; consistent, but certainly not perfect. God is my taskmaster, and I do indeed love God, but I also fear God. I do not like to disappoint God and felt quite incapable of living up to God’s expectations.

If I felt up to it, a safer answer was “Yes, my God, I hear you.” It would set the tone for an incredible experience. Such an answer implied that I intended to devote my whole being to listen to whatever it was God wanted to tell me. It would take courage to say, because I never knew just what God had in mind. If He asked me to do something I did not want to do, racked with horribly guilty feelings, I would be depressed for months to come. Of course, there was a challenge, too. If I could do as asked, I could be in seventh heaven for just as long. God rarely asked of me what I could not succeed, with enough effort, in accomplishing.

The third answer, which I thought a real copout, but used most frequently was to say, “Yes, God, I am here.” This answer was simply noncommittal. It meant I was listening, but not guaranteeing I would hear, without implying that I would heed His words.

In short, I was a quiet unobtrusive brat whose thoughts and actions often went right over the heads of those around me, even if I could not fool God.

Do not get me wrong. I was not special. My grades were average, and I was not ugly, rather small and skinny, and maybe a bit homely. I was just a kid growing up in the sixties. That day was like the kind of day I got my glasses...”

I rode my bike to pick them up, and as I rode home marvelling at the beauty of the world around me, a wave of awe and thanksgiving struck me. I shouted, “Oh God! Thank-you for letting me be four-eyed!” In my heart, I knew that I would never have appreciated the fine intricacies of creation around me had I not experienced its loss. There were birds flying above me, and they had individual feathers along their outstretched wings. The trees were no longer a blob of green but hundreds of clusters of smooth little needles extending from perfectly balanced branches. There were little pebbles on the pavement. If I was careful how I aligned my front wheel, I could make them fly out across the street as I rode over them. That day, God had laughed and sent me peace with a simple, “You are welcome, my child.” I had blushed, happily ridden the rest of the way home, and did not mind the teasing that my older brother and sister sent my way.

It was not fair. I had teased my older sisters about being four-eyed mercilessly some years before. I felt guilty and tried to be especially kind all week, which mostly meant, I stayed out of the way.

Anyway, it was that kind of day, and I answered in a clear confident voice, “Yes, my Lord, I hear you.”

“I am going to send you a friend. I want you to listen to him and learn what he has to teach you.” The answer came from the air around me like speech through a surround sound system. There was no vision, just the customary warm feeling flowing through my veins. It was an unusual event. Usually, God told me that I was hurting my mother with my disobedience or needed to do a good deed for someone in my neighbourhood or some such thing. I was surprised and shocked that God would see fit to send me a friend.

“How will I know him?” I asked.

“You will recognize him.”

The imp in me yawned and stretched, then giggled.

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

Thinking quietly while imagining this friend, I wondered how I could evaluate just what it was for which God was setting me up. Everything had an angle, a purpose, an objective, and I was not sure whether I would need to scuttle the plans or not. Best to be prepared, I concluded.

As I walked up the hill of the back alley, I daydreamed about a knight in shining armour, a poor starving little orphan, and all things in between. Of course, I was the hero. I giggled as God chastised me, quickly opened my back door, and ran up to my room.

That night I had a wonderful dream. I met a man, a full grown, honest to goodness he — man. He was tall, brown skinned, had jet black hair, a little on the longish side, a very square face, and beautiful sparkling black eyes. His hands were huge and rough. Oh, I had a crush on him. His name was David.

I had had crushes before, mostly on boys in my class or at least attending my school. They were usually nasty little boys who called out to my heart for a hug and needed a little loving. However, this man was different. Maybe I was growing up. My dream was very clear. He did not need me; I needed him. Was this the friend, God was sending me? I was so scared I woke up.

I had an awful time falling asleep again. After some time of tossing and turning, I checked the hall to make sure my folks had gone to bed, and then went to my closet and dragged out my big rubber doll. I held him close then tucked him under the covers so no one would see him if they walked into my room in the morning. Then, confident that I was not ready to grow up just yet, snuggled under the covers close to my doll and went peacefully back to sleep. God and his friend could wait.

One cannot underestimate God. There is absolutely no truth greater than the word of God. God did not wait. The next day after school, I met David. I had joined the gym club, and it was late when I headed home. After crossing the field and entering the alley, I was upset to see a person on my pathway. Although surprised to encounter a stranger on the way, as I came closer, there was no doubt in my mind that the man standing at the corner across the street was the man I had seen in my dream the night before. It was drizzling just a bit. A hardhat and a steel lunch kit sat on the ground beside him. He probably worked at the mill. I could smell the sawdust on his clothes when I was halfway across the street. I love that smell. It is rich and reminds me of walking in the forest. I stared at him.

He laughed.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted as though he had no right to be standing at the corner.

Smiling, he half laughed. I blushed. He said, “I am waiting for a friend.” Then, he winked. I dropped my books. Not even purposely, I just tripped. Kneeling, he helped me pick them up.

I looked into his beautiful eyes. Although completely out of character, I was overwhelmed with emotions. Feeling like an idiot and terribly inadequate, I struggled to gain the courage to speak to him again. I uttered, barely above a whisper, “I would like to be that friend.”

Frowning, he looked at me very strangely. Neither of us moved for what seemed an eternity. Then David said, “You are a bit young for me, wouldn’t you agree?” A great big smile spread across his face and lights danced in his eyes. He laughed.

Shocked and embarrassed by his response, I pulled my books close and ran. When a few feet separated us, I turned back to him and yelled, “Not that kind of friend, David, a real friend.” Then I ran and did not stop until I was at my own back door. I ignored his call. Thinking I had really messed up something important and special, I felt relief when he shouted back, “How do you know my name? Do I know you?”

I prided myself that I had the last laugh. Suddenly, I was confident that I would see him the next Friday. After all, he was a gift from God. He would have to be my friend. He did not have any say in the matter whatsoever. Ah, I had power! I was going to find out a bit more about this game God had invited me to play. The only things that really bothered me were why I had offered to be his friend, and just what I meant by not that kind of friend. Had I spoken to David or had God intervened putting words into my mouth? God sometimes did that. God was setting up something big and exciting for me. I just knew it, but it really terrified me.