It's dark and cozy-warm under cover. I hear the thunder roll heavy across the sky. The black undersides of my eyelids beckon me back to sleep. But rain pours down unrelenting, and electric razor touches a half-night's stubble. Two men, one grown, one growing, mumble preparation into the house silence. When the zipper whizzes past four corners of the suitcase, I know. These are the sounds of Fallen Earth.
The one where extra water was introduced with divine regret, and now cycles the earth with no permanent place to reside. It evaporates, gathers thick in the blue sky until the weight of it is too heavy and black to be borne, and crashes violent down again with loud cracks and violent streaks. And light flashes. Zigzagging its powerful way down to the ground.
Fallen Earth. The one with Narrow Gate that few will find. The one cursed, that produces only with man's toil, and even then, thistle and thorn. The one that rings with the sound of man's work, the kind that very life itself depends upon. It's strangely different from the happier sound of work's pleasure. The path is narrow and lightly trod because man is distracted now, busy eaking out meager existence by day and night. Walking with God in the cool of evening not even a vague memory, Man the word over is subject to the prince of the power of the air.
So they go. They pack the gospel, the medicine, the friendship into carry-ons and heft the burden over shoulder. They cross time zones and water gulfs in the sleeping hours to bring Hope, Peace, Life. And light flashes. Headlamps burn before the sleepy man and boy behind the three o'clock in the morning dashboard.
And light flashes. Blinks on a radar screen of airplane in air traffic control tower.
Armed with goodbye kisses and warm momma prayers for her boys and the families they travel to, father and son begin their journey to reach Fallen Man that struggle against Fallen Earth, and are far from their God. This work, too, is Fallen Earth's work. In the Garden, all was the right of communion. In the Curse, all is hidden, a mystery, a choice. Christ in you; the hope of glory. And light flashes. The sinful heart bows and the Light of the World sparks fire that changes a life forever.
Soul by soul, village by village, mountain path by rocky tail through Guatemalan jungle, step by step. The work of the Father and the Son done by fathers and sons, daughters and sisters, nine joined by Holy Spirit. And light flashes. A Bride is prepared for Lord Jesus, radiant white.
And Light flashes. The Son shines on new heaven and New Earth. All have chosen. All is rightful communion again. And my sleepy eyes yearn for the sights and sounds of New Earth.