Are You Free?

Four feet meet, they are ignorant of the vice and corruption they carry about. Far above in a reality that is inconceivably evil, two hands meet. A trade is made, the deal is done. The light reveals a poor and once innocent child, now destitute of life, pleasure or the assurance of love. If she was being watched, and the horor of the moment caused a sickening silence to the watcher, the silence is now interrupted. A cloth washed in the sweat, dirt, tears and blood of so many before her is forced between the lips, sealing off the last scream that might grant her rescue. With a blow to the head, she falls to the ground. She wakes up in a cold, dark room. When darkness fades into its boundless realm, it seems to taunt her with realizations that she is trapped, nowhere to go. The years pass, people come and go from that room. Into her heart are etched memories of brutality, debauchery, and cold-blooded apathy. They provoke her thoughts to dispare, they torment her very existence, and in place of fear, she has guilt. Believing it to be her fault, believing that she was the cause of all this sorrow, emptiness, and horror, she decides to quite. The pander takes a cloth, a cloth once used to silence her screams, and silences the blood off the cement. The cold floor seems to mirror the heart of this man, he carelessly casts aside the blood-ridden cloth of his own making. He steps outside. Who is next?

Smoke ascends to the once clear sky. Painted on the earths blue backdrop is the remnants of a once peaceful village, no more peaceful or inhabited however, all dead or gone. Cries of war are heard in the distance. Chains clatter, a chapter closes, past comfort is no more. The sight of mother and father both slaughtered before his eyes, keeps him from feeling the real pain clasped about his neck, hands and ankles. Brutally forced into a distant land, he toils countless hours. His back aches from the continual strain of beatings and oppressive heat. The Cocca must be harvested, and comfort is not an excuses for respite. Eighteen hour days for fifteen years, completes the young and once healthy, happy boy's existence. No funeral, no mourning, just more Cocca. The cycle goes on, and does not end.

Then there is you. An everlasting chain of guilt, discouragement, fear and fill in the blank, makes it clear, you are a slave. Searching for satisfaction, deliverance and purpose, you fall deeper and deeper into slavery. We are all chasing wind. Grasping for something that is impossible to hold. The very thing we want, we can't seem have. The girl in prostitution is a reality. The boy in slavery is a very real occurrence. And yes, you are a slave, but to who? Yourself. Humanity stubbles in darkness, longing for light. Many do not realize they need to be delivered, but their cold blood spilt on the ground is a testament to their search.

So where are you? Will you chase wind? Will you realize that you are in need of deliverance before your death tells the world that you were. You can be delivered.

That cloth of sweat, dirt, tears, and blood must be taken from every girls mouth. The evil of this world can not go on. The slaves on Cocca plantations, and the slaves in our very own neighborhood, they must be delivered. And you. You too, must be set free.

Respect

"Where?"
"Prince (I forget which one)"
"That is where?"
"Northern B.C."
"So...like the North Pole?"
"I guess."

It was the first day of school; meeting people is always so exciting. This exchange happened with a soft-spoken, mature freshmen, Sierra. A perpetual smile seemed to inhabit her face. Never finding a moment to say goodbye to its abode, save the times which sympathy demanded of genuine concern to make good of its spot.

Our paths seldom crossed throughout that year, but what she did was seldom missed by anyones observation. We all were young in those days: mischief, adventure, drama, and laughter dominated our every motive for being. Reckless as I was and foolish as most of her class was, she stood apart. Like one last ray of sun in a fading twilight, or the concluding flicker to a candles last breath, she was there offering hope for a hopeless situation.

Sierra taught me that situations can't overcome you, if you do not believe failure to be an option. She has always stood apart, as one who is quiet, but when biden to speak, will speak. What she says will not be taken lightly, because it is powerful, embedded with meaning, and full of purpose.

I respect her not because she demands respect, but because that is the natural consequence of who she is. A man is respected, when he shows that he respects others and himself. It occurred to me, that when I act stupid, trying to be who I am not, I am disrespectful. Even putting on a masquerade, we all do it in an attempt to hide pain, disrespects who we are because we are lying to the world around us. No, we should not go around telling people that we are feeling terrible, the results to that would be far more detrimental then a facade. However, to tell people that you are having a great day, but in reality your friend has cancer and you feel like murdering someone, is dishonest. There is a balance we each have to understand individually on how to handle these situations.

As the years have passed, I have seen Sierra grow, maturing in Christ and life in general. The influence she has on the school is inspirational, and the legacy she will leave is commendable.

We sat together at lunch one day.

"So do you have internet up there?"
"Yes."
"Seriously."
"What about cars, or do you still use dog sleds?"
"Cars, Moses, and no we do not live in igloos."

The conversation went on; I thought of how much I stereotype cultures. Is that how she does it, could it be that she sees everyone equally?

Thats what Christ does too. All covered, all loved and all equal. That is respect.

We are all equal and equally respected at that.