AMERICA’S FICTION — OR IS IT?
I surveyed the harbor. The water was choppy and dark and roared against the rocky shore. The sea salt stung my cheeks.
What happened to my beautiful country? Men and women fought and poured out their blood for me—for my ideals—for my vision of a great society.
The ground was drenched with the crimson blood of martyrs. Some on the wrong side of history and some on the right. The clay earth burned with the metallic taste of sacrifice.
I looked around to see if anyone on the island could see my tears.
No. They were too absorbed in their own thoughts. They saw the beauty of the city, while I saw the ashes. When you bury your head under man-made bridges and the anesthesia of entertainment—you are blind.
A hand, the size of the earth’s form, reached down from heaven and extended its palm toward me. I climbed into its heart-shaped cup. I needed to know if I’d survive the betrayal. I needed to know my purpose. I needed to know… And from this height, I could see.
My name is America—and I took my blindfold off.
I nuzzled into the cupped hand and was transported to a library as vast as the Atlantic Ocean. As I climbed out of the hand the scent of vellum and papyrus wrapped around me like a cozy blanket on a wintry day by the fireplace.
I looked around the expanse. “Father, where am I?”
His voice reverberated through my body, “You are in the Eagles Library.”
I surveyed the room. Books filled the shelves as far as I could see, and a mahogany desk inlaid with a pattern of circular thorns set in the center of the room.
One book laid open. Its top pulsated like a beacon. It drew me toward it.
I took one step and then another as it beckoned me forward, and with each footfall the pages fluttered and glowed more intensely with an ethereal light. Each page was alive. The words, sentences, and paragraphs danced with light.
I looked back at my Father. He was reclining next to the fireplace. I could not see His face, but I could feel Him smiling at me. His glory shown so brightly that His facial features were masked but I could see His hands. His lovely hands. The hands that had caressed my hair as a child when I was sad, and had wiped away my tears when I’d been torn apart by civil war, and rejected by so many. This was my Abba. My Daddy. My heart flooded with a love so great that I began to weep.
“My child,” He said softly. “I love you, too.”
I ran to Him and buried my face in His lap. He stroked my hair and then lifted my chin. “Do you remember the question you asked me on the island?”
He gestured to the desk in the center of the room. “The answers you seek are in the book. But I warn you, you won’t like all of the chapters. Some are of darkness and some are of light. It’s the story of an eaglet learning to fly. And it’s a story that has been embedded into your DNA. The good and the bad are all apart of your genome code. You can not separate the good and the evil from your lineage—but the evil can be redeemed by His blood.”
Suddenly, I was on Skull Hill and Jesus was before me. His face and His body was mangled and broken. Bones punctured through His muscles and stuck out through His skin. Iron nails smythed by dark beings in the pit of hell drove his hands and feet into the splintered wood of a cross.
I fell to my knees in horror and wretched my stomach’s contents onto the rocky ground. I did not want to look at Him. My Jesus, my beloved, was disfigured beyond recognition—yet, I knew it was Him. I heard someone wailing behind me on the cliff. I looked back and saw Jesus’ mother, Mary, rocking back and forth in agony.
The sky grew black as night and thunder roared through the atmosphere as the wind pelted my face with loose rocks.
Jesus heaved his body up one more time to take a breath and shouted, “Eli, Eli, lama sabchthani—My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” And then He slumped forward and died.
“Noooooo,” I cried, but the earth started to rattle and shake violently. I tried to stay on my knees but fell to the side and hit my head on a rocky outcrop. I held my head and lay prostrate. Blood and tears mixed together on my face. “Father, why did you let Him die like that?” I asked to the heavens.
Instantly, I was back in the library kneeling before my Father.
He leaned forward and lifted my face toward His. “My child, it was for you. If He had not taken onto Himself the evil in your lineage and defeated death, you could not be here with me, today.”
Tears streamed down my face and my body shook from the inside out as my Abba wiped my tears away and stroked the side of my face and smiled gently. “America, my child, it was all for love,” He said. “Love for you and love for all of those that will come from you. Your destiny is entwined with your sister’s, and through you the whole earth will hear of my Son.”
He placed His hands on my shoulders and peered into my eyes. I breathed deeply as liquid love poured into my being. “Arise, America. It’s time.” He nodded toward the desk. “Go—step into the Book.”