cries – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

The Board cast a unanimous vote. Sometimes such things happen.

The searing heat of Oklahoma’s mid-summer had eased and our annual volunteer-sponsored canoe float down the Illinois River was behind us. It had been a popular event (literally) navigated in the very heart of Cherokee country over past years. Our friend, Les, of Cornerstone Church had rounded up his latest band of water-lovers once again to help facilitate the day-long attraction. Water levels had risen higher than usual this season and fast-paced currents demanded extra vigilance. No one guessed what a close brush we would have with disaster.

A couple hours in, a chorus of sharp cries broke through the relative calm of easy laughter amidst frollicking splash wars of students and new friends The cries of alarm sounded from a place just downstream,

“Quick! Somebody, please hurry. It’s Sai and Rao”, a voice was shouting. “They are in trouble!”

The canoe transporting the pair of South Asia friends had instantly capsized within a narrowed passageway of especially rough waves. As it flipped, throwing the college students to the churning waters, the canoe spun sideways, now pinning the young men against a large downed tree trunk that had long obstructed a portion of the river’s pathway.

The force of the oncoming river pressed strong against the vessel which, in turn, pushed the flailing young men beneath the water again and again. Neither of the two, we later learned, were skilled swimmers. And, like bobbing floats yanked repeatedly downward by powerful arms, the canoers could barely steal a gulp of air in those rare and brief moments breaking through the surface.

Lunging headlong through the torrent, several swimmers reached them. Heaving the capsized vessel up and off the two in abrupt rhythms of Hurculean thrusts, the rescuers freed the men at last. Relief!

(Note: Counted among those volunteers showing up Summer after Summer were two young ladies yet in their teens – Tara and Elizabeth. Float ventures down the Illinois, along with other special outings, fueled their mission vision. Both these women, in time, would plunge into the rigorous work of literacy development, making their presence and skills known in areas of the world void of adequate service in this field. Elizabeth and Tara would each offer up years of service – right into the present – serving full time in linguistics vocations. Advancing literacy and Bible translation, stretching to remote regions of the earth.)

Meanwhile, following a certain drama-filled August Saturday, our ministry’s Board of Directors came easily to their unanimous and unchallenged consensus.

Canoe excursions suspended, till further notice.

[Note. This fictional six-minute read may best be savored while relaxing with a steaming cup of hot tea or cool glass of eggnog. Regardless, Merry Christmas to you and yours.]]

Gaspar sat atop the moving beast, his body swaying in the rolling gait. Memories stirred.

He savored such occasions as this when he could, without interruption, review his past, his station in life, and his good fortune.

Gaspar knew that certain inner qualities had seemed to elude him. Like humility. He found himself growing uneasy these days with his self-congratulatory reflections. But only slightly.

‘Of Course it was I”, he mused, “I, who first took serious note of the unique light beam in the western sky. And didn’t I, Gaspar, in my research, uncover the mystery-promises?’

The promises he reflected on were oral references of ancient Hebrew parchments – oracles predicting a king’s birth. A child-king promised to the Hebrew peoples. . . perhaps even to the larger world!

‘Of Course, it was I.’

His shoulders lowered and he sighed, still hesitant to credit others who were equally vital to the venture onto which they had embarked. At this point they were months in.

The star’s brightness radiated almost directly overhead now. Gaspar squirmed atop the saddle. A curious discomfort of spirit had been welling within. The saddled shifted again.

The star’s beam – brighter than he had yet observed it – converged, it seemed, with another kind of light.

Gaspar felt a stab of conscience unlike any he had felt before. The regal traveler muffled a cry.

“Impure! Impure am I – unworthy and defiled! I have regarded my brothers with contempt!”

His remorse persisted, conviction’s light piercing his inmost self. “Unworthy.”

His brow furrowed, “Yet before whose face I am unworthy I know not. This I do know, I dare not proceed to the place of the king-child, not with this, this inner stain.”

He mused further within himself, ‘Who is this one really, this child? Is it he himself who moves upon me so – here beneath the night sky, even before I behold his face?’

He drew his camel back and brought a scarf about his face.

At his command the camel lowered its frame to the sandy earth. Dismounting it, Gaspar went to his knees. I must find mercy. . . mercy!

“Oh exalted being”, he whispered, his eyes turned to the heavens, “Oh great governor of constellations. . . mercy!”

In this moment he sensed a thing wholly new to any experience he had known. Sitting motionless, the learned star-chaser felt a warming presence – bathing him, it seemed. Wave on purifying wave. Burning, cleansing. . . Comforting. Wave on wave.

Gaspard did not measure how long he lingered before moving to rise. His right foot pressed beneath him so long had lost feeling. Extending one hand upward, he grasped a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. A picture slowly took form in Gaspar’s mind as he rose, balancing himself on the steadier foot.

‘Yes, yes, I am seeing it now.” His grip tightened about the branch. “This is who I am, I am a man not able, not of my own might, to properly stand. I am out-of-balance, weak and in great need of support – much as this tree limb supplies aid for my body now.’ The thought lingered.

He sensed within him the stirring of a fresh, even joyful, resolve. A whispered pledge began to form – strong, tender. His jaw anchored in place even as tears of relief moistened his eyelids,

‘From this hour I shall walk in the company of others. . . Yes, in the company of my brothers – Melchior and Balthazar! Indeed, and all others about me. All unto whom I shall henceforth render true service. And to my household, my family. Yes, we shall be – each to the other – a supporting limb. As a branch.’ Gaspard lifted his gaze skyward, his voice fading to a whisper, ‘May we find strength.’

Suddenly, excited voices came, spirited cries, from a place further ahead.

Each step brought him nearer, discerning more clearly the shouts – jubilant, adoring, calls voiced in varied tongues – Aramaic, Hebrew, Persian, Arabian. The calls rang in proclamation, shouting sacred homage to a special personage, obviously near at hand.

The child-king!

A Hebrew voice bearing a trace of Persian accent rose strong amidst the others. Distinct, jubilant.

Cupping a weathered palm to his ear, Gaspar savored the exclamations.

“All worship to him”, the shouts went up, “to the Christ-child, the Messiah!”

More titles followed, “to the King! The Morning star . . .

“the branch!”

Gaspar’s heart leapt, ‘the Branch?’

He swallowed. A breeze touched his face, stirring his graying beard. Turning briefly, he glanced to the tree and its still-extended limb, now back of him and beyond reach.

Peering once again to the path ahead the sage took in the lighted glow of a modest dwelling. A tender and purest kind of warmth enveloped him,

“Soon I shall offer up my gift of myrrh to this, this regal young one – my Lord.”

Gaspar gave a tug to his animal’s halter. “Come, camel. Do you see the light of the dwelling there, camel? It is there at that place we shall meet a child. .

“The King-child. The Branch.” *

Tag: cries

Downstream Drama

The Branch – a yuletide narrative