2024-02-13

Vultures 0

                          After Tolstoy ¹

“When my bird was looking at my computer monitor, I thought ‘wooooah, that bird has no idea what he’s looking at.’ And yet, what does the bird do? Does he panic? No, he can’t really panic, he just does the best he can. Is he able to live in a world where he’s so ignorant? Well, he doesn’t really have a choice. Yeah, he can kinda live… usually the bird’s okay, even though he doesn’t understand the world, and he can kinda learn what’s safe and what’s dangerous.”

                         –Terry A. Davis

     And in this city lived a software engineer named Stephen. Every day he left the house at 7AM for to go to the coffee shop. He was consistently the first customer there and typically hung around the storefront for five to ten minutes before the store opened. He had to get there early to secure his spot at the bar positioned in front of a large window, granting a clear view of the passersby on the busy downtown street on which sat the café. His job was one, as they say, “work-from-home.” This indeed he did, or used to do, when his family was home, but they no longer lived at Stephen’s home. They had moved to Gehenna- at least, according to Stephen’s fears.

     Yes, he once had a wife and four beautiful children. His family had been the light of his life, and they were his reason for his home job. Throughout his youth he had been an adventurous soul, travelling there and there – switching jobs, switching lanes, switching lives. The secret was that he really wasn’t fond of being alone, and the secret to this secret, general unfondness of loneliness, that is, is that the alone has two options: flutter about, arguably aimlessly, or settle down and start a family. In his days of travel (Statesville to Asheboro to Rocky Mount to Elizabeth City, a distinguished and worldly man, truly!), he was quite indifferent to Scylla or Charybdis, one or the other. “Come what may,” he thought, “Thy will be done,” etc., etc..

     Later, thine will was done, and he became a bonafide family man. They were a God-following family. They treated their kids well, with a healthy balance of love and discipline. Any onlooker would have called the man and wife a perfect team, and maybe they were. I once heard that a cherub ostensibly testified that Stephen was the most loving and well-loved man in the State of North Carolina. Ah, well, He doth giveth and taketh away, and one day the entire family was struck by a bus. I’ve heard it said that the driver was drunk, or the sun made like St. Paul, or even that there wasn’t even no bus. The details are of little import. Suffice it to know that Stephen escaped without a scratch, and the rest of the family was forthwith reduced to an unidentifiable pile of mess which took three weeks to properly clean off the bus and the street. It would seem that the bus was going quite fast at the time, but I wasn’t there, and reports vary wildly. However, there is unanimous consensus that Stephen was in no way at fault; to this I happily and undoubtedly grant my assent.

     And the poor soul was thusly alone. His old wandering ways had been settled by family life, and he couldn’t imagine thenceforth moving or living anywhere else. So there he stayed, and in that time he became quite angry with God. He would curse Him and lambast against His perceived wanton cruelty. In the darkest moments he would beg God to let him die so as to rejoin his family and put an end to his suffering.

     Several months into this protracted bereavement an old friend visited. He was entering mid-life, as was Stephen, but he had recently decided to enter into Seminary. Stephen complained to him:

“I no longer have any desire to live. I beg God daily to take me away, for now I am become like a broken vessel- a man without hope.”

And friend replied:

“You don’t talk right, Stephen. We must not judge God’s doings. God’s sovereign will decreed it thus that your whole family should die a violent death and that you should live. Find solace in that God’s will is what’s best, and so it is. You despair because you desire to live for your own happiness.”

“Well, what else is there to live for?”

“We must live for God, Stephen. He gives you life and for Him you must live. When you begin to live for Him you will no longer grieve, and all will seem easy for you.”

“But how does one live for God?”

“Here, I have a TLB Bible with me. When was the last time you read the Gospel?

“Lord… It’s been years.”

“Read it and you will discover how to live for God.”

     A blaze was started in poor Stephen’s heart. At first, he wanted to take it slow, but as he read, passion increased. He started only on weekends, but eventually he came to read every morning and night, before and after work. John 12:27-28.² Matthew 5:4.³ Revelation 21:4.⁴ Much comfort touched his weary soul, and peace slowly came to overtake his heart.

     The café, formerly a place to escape that dread loneliness, became his refuge and his monstrance showing Christ’s shining love. He talked with clientele, gave daily alms to nearby loitering crackheads, and felt unspeakable joy swell in his heart upon hearing the coo or cry of the occasional infant. In this day and age, the software engineers itself, as you may well know – all the more time for to see Christ’s reflection in the beautiful public. The more he read, the more he understood how to live for God. Where before his thoughts were full of mourning and suffering for his family, there was now simply “Glory be to Thee, O Lord! Thy will be done!” And he came to understand that this will was Matthew 25:34-45.⁵

     One night after an extended reading session, he fell asleep at his desk. His head rested on the pages with the lamp still alight, face first, as one whose coronary invited too many friends, even. He awoke with a start upon hearing a strange voice calling his name.

“Stephen…”

He wiped the drool from his mouth and frowned upon seeing a not unseizable puddle soaked into the Gospel according to Mark.

“Who’s there?”

“Stephen, Ah, Stephen! Look out tomorrow from the window at the café; I am coming.”

Stephen looked around the room, but no one was there. He reckoned that someone could have broken into his large and mostly vacant house, but in Christ he had no reason to fear for his life, and so he cut off the lamp and went to bed.

     The next morning, he awoke, said his prayers, and prepared for the day ahead. A strange thought entered his mind, “Perhaps that was the Lord talking to me last night… after all, such things do happen!”

     And so, Stephen sat at his usual spot, having some sort of afflicted beverage. He bought everyone there a drink and spent exceedingly more time looking out the window than working on any sort of engineering (the software, I’m told, was a program which, with the use of a camera, would track the number of hairs that fall out of your head. AI or something), hoping that the Lord may actually come for him.

     After some time waiting, upon returning from the restroom (one affliction begets another, frappé to intestine, as they say), he saw outside shivering (for it was the dead of January) an old old woman in the snow. All she had on was a gossamer black dress and a thin coat. She was hunched over, absent hat or gloves, with the toes of her equally black flats pointing away from the front of the café. Stephen felt a rush of pious opportunism in his veins. Never having seen her before (he was quite acquainted with those who usually inhabited the sidewalk), he figured she might be scared or lost.

Facing her back:

“Ahem, excuse me, ma’am.”

     She turned to look at him, and he was struck by her countenance. She wasn’t beautiful, indeed quite the opposite. But she had one of those old lady faces of years around late sixties to seventies where one could tell she had been incredibly beautiful in her youth. This kind of realization, for those keen enough to comprehend, usually engenders pity and a sort of confused reflection on the meaning of beauty itself. If she had once been beautiful, where did it go? One then may think that there’s only a certain amount of human beauty that can exist in the world, and perhaps when new babies are born (the ones fated to become attractive in life, at least for a time), they suck up beauty from those who already have it as they age into early adulthood, which, incidentally, could be why some people remain handsome or pretty even into old age. Of course, the kind of handsome and pretty which exists in old age is unlike that of youth, which is often sexually attractive, that of oldness usually being simply pleasant without the sort of disquiet that sexual desire can often bring. Regardless, this lady was one from whom beauty had been stolen, if such a thing really does happen, but in her eyes was revealed that long ago she had known what it meant to be beautiful. It was unclear the extent to which she currently missed it.

“I noticed you were out in the cold, lacking suitable winter clothes, with seemingly no companion.”

“You are correct, sir. I have just been paid visit by the repossession agents; they took everything. I am but a lowly widow with no one to help me.”

“Oh, you poor woman,” our Stephen sighed, “I can help you. Please, come with me. My house is too big for one person, and I have more money than I know what to do with. There’s plenty of food, and I, being a widower myself, have plenty of clothes to give you from my late wife. They just sit in the closet; I have had difficulty parting with them but knowing that they will go to someone in need eases my heart.”

     And so, after regaining his engineering materials from the bar at the window, Stephen and the widow set out for his home. It was a large property, with an extensive yard that made it quite secluded. Stephen had wanted such space to ensure that his children would have ample room to explore. I assume that he assumed that a certain kind of adventurous spirit was hereditary. Besides, playing outside is good for children, though, I am told, not in the city streets. He served the Widow tea as he prepared for her a heavy dinner: steak (a ribeye, even [she took it rare]), mash potatoes, and boiled broccoli. The widow looked around the spacious dining room and kitchen with amazement.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a house this big,” she said.

“All the more reason for you to stay,” was the reply.

     He said grace, and they shared backgrounds over dinner. She was a former textile worker who had lost both her ring fingers in an accident. Her husband was lost in a similar way (work accident), though she was apparently still too bereaved to divulge precisely how it happened. Stephen told her his story as well, heavily emphasizing the power of the Gospel. He invited her to read every morning and evening with him, to which he amicably declined, professing in earnest (and almost zeal) her certainty in the power of the King of Kings, and that she had no need to read with him. He went to fish out some clothes for her from his wife’s closet. Then, he showed her her new room, her bathroom, the pantry, the telephone, and he told her that she was welcome to anything in the entire house. She thanked him with a wide grin, and a tear fell down her cheek:

“The mercy of the Lord is strong in your heart.”

     A few weeks went by that they spent together. He no longer went to the café to work. In fact, he barely worked at all. His employers started to take notice, but Stephen cared little. He was much more fulfilled now, and he really did have plenty of money. He cooked her three meals every day, did her laundry, and cleaned the dishes. She was always very thankful and insisted that she be the one to go outside to the shed and into the vast forest behind the estate to collect firewood and pinecones. Every time she did this, Stephen objected, doubting that she had the strength for the task (which itself was quite unnecessary). Indeed, she often spent awhile out in those woods, hours even, but she always found her way back with ruddy smiling cheeks and ample fire materials.

     One day, the weather forecasted an upcoming blizzard, and, wanting to have enough food, Stephen decided to leave the house for the first time in weeks. On the way to the store he saw a street preacher out the window of his car:

“The Kingdom of God is at hand! Repent, and believe the Gospel!” he hollered, and Stephen exhaled.

     Upon returning home, groceries in hand, Stephen discovered the widow on the phone. When he entered the kitchen (which is where the phone was housed), she turned to speak to him, covering the end of the receiver with her hand:

“Oh, Stephen, this blizzard is coming, and I have extended family that live not too far from here, there are ten of them. My two cousins, their two wives, and six children… plus a dog. They have no electricity and no car. I am worried sick; they all live in a little shack not bigger than this room. They all fear God but have never been blessed in their life.”

“Please, there’s no need to worry,” assured Stephen. “This house has five rooms. The two couples can each share a room and the pairs of children the rest. You can sleep on the couch if you’re okay with that. I will give up my bed and sleep on the floor. Don’t worry about me, I-”

“Oh! I’m so happy!” exclaimed the widow. She hung up the phone immediately and skipped towards the front door.

“When will they arrive?” called Stephen, but it seemed she was already gone.

     He had hardly finished putting the groceries up when there appeared at the door twelve smiling figures.

“Gee, thanks mister!” a small child piped. The dog (a mangy little thing) let out a resounding woof. A slight weary eye-smile crossed Stephen’s visage; he was about to reply when the widow started: “Come on, everybody! I’ll show you to your rooms.” And the crowd rushed inside the house without so much as an introduction. Stephen had many questions and, for the first time in months, felt a certain amount of anxiety, but then he remembered Christ’s teachings against worry, and so he didn’t.

     They woke him early and kept him up late at night with constant merrymaking. He cooked them all large family-style dinners at which there was often very little left for himself (the dog ate more than he did). But he felt no affliction; may the exalted be the lowliest etc.. The blizzard did come, and it furiously flurried outside as his guests went for the wine and liquor. They talked and sang loudly and generally paid him no mind. His back began to hurt from sleeping on the floor.

     At the blizzard’s peak, three to four days into its torment, the pantry was again running low. Stephen found his keys and was almost finished unburying the door when a loud crash sounded from the lawn. The crowd dropped everything and rushed out the door, pushing the remainder of snow aside and instantly clearing the path. Stephen followed them outside; an unknown car had struck his in the driveway, totaling both, and a figure emerged from behind the wheel. The widow gasped and fell to her knees:

“It can’t be! Balam! My husband!”

The score cheered, and a procession formed around the man. They hollered and whooped as they encircled him.

“This calls for a feast!” Balam shouted, and they all went through the front door while Stephen remained outside, staring up at the cloud covered sky pensively, blinking as often as snowflakes fell in his eye. The “widow” then came running out of the house. “Oh Stephen!” she called. He turned his gaze towards her. Her eyes alighted- sure enough so did her teeth. An anachronistic, almost sort of youthful glow had returned to her face. “Be sure to get some lamb when you go to the store!” and she slammed the door shut behind her.

     His car now destroyed; Stephen began to trudge towards the store as the snowfall increased. Though he was well bundled, the store was five miles away. First the cold entered his digits, then head and genitals. It crept up his torso until it reached his heart, and he was forced to stop in his tracks. He lie where he stopped, face bearing the winter onslaught. It should have been painful, but, as it goes, he could no longer feel any pain. A contentment passed over his face, and a drop fell from his eye and froze, solidifying his tear duct and rendering him half-blind.

     Then, from the four corners of the earth came those bald-headed Seraphim, circling. They lazily and aloofly looked upon him as they flew at their sluggish circumferential speed. One of his last thoughts was of the voice he had heard all those months ago.

“Lord, where were you?” he would’ve said.

The vultures, dials tuned to his mental projection, laughed heartily at his expense:

“Stephen, Stephen, don’t you know me? It is I,” one called.

“It is I,” called another.

“It is I,” again another.

As his spirit began to leave his body, they mocked him:

“For I was hungry, and you gave me meat; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a STRANGER!!!! AAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH!! AND YOUUUU TOOK ME IN!!!!” with commensurate cackles.

     Just then, a thunderous clamor came from the heavens, and a beam parted the clouds to fall upon Stephen’s rising soul, melting the snow around him. The creatures dispersed, complaining and cawing. He was floating upward towards the break, when another beam came from the depths of the earth (we now know this subterranean beam was projected from the morning star, right then rising over China), disintegrating all matter around the poor man’s body, a body which then fell into the newly formed pit.

Stephen’s ascending soul felt a tug from the new force, and he was suspended. A booming voice came from above:

“Halt, Accuser! This man is yet to be judged!”

And all hope fell out the bottom.

“Stephen, answer me this: why would you ever dream upon developing this new Babel, reaching towards a knowledge that was designed to be accessible only to me?”

“Wherever the corpse is, there the vultures will gather.”

                        – Matthew 24:28