How I Was Called On This Mission Trip, Part 4

He opened his mouth and from the black hole in his throat, as seemingly large and terrible as any formed in space, came a roar that could have been heard across the continent. It hit me in the chest and face and I nearly lost my balance and fell. I don’t know how I stood upright because the earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook. And in the roar I could hear him calling my name, issued as a challenge. He called me to fight. 

But I was still struggling to stand upright. As the earth shook and that terrible roar pushed against me like a boulder. The sound of his call reverberated through my chest, through my soul. I placed my hands up before me to try and block the sound, but they did nothing. I backpedaled, attempting to regain my balance. It felt like a hurricane blowing in my face, and tearing the fabric of the air next to my ears. I squinted my eyes, which stung and watered with tears. My foe became just a blurry silhouette, but I didn’t break my stare with the beast.

My knees… my knees… my knees… would they hold me? Would they keep me upright?

I found my balance, and in the midst of that roar, I took a step forward. Shoulders square, determined, I faced him. I would not back down.

I woke from my vision, realizing the 15 year olds I was in charge of would be confused to see tears running down my cheeks. I was back in the room, back in the dusky blue parish hall, now fully dark except for the glaring light of the projector. The woman, the “missionary,” spoke on. I forget what she said, but I remember she spoke in a dry, matter of fact way. Maybe she was raised in the Midwest.

I leaned back in my chair and looked, my eyes unfocused, at the speaker. She went on for a little while longer, finally closed and asked if there were any questions. The tame Presbyterian crowd obediently asked one or two. We lingered a little after the presentation, chatting with our kids. We left. 

As Brett and I drove home I thought of the lion. I thought of his teeth, of the blood on his teeth, on his snout, of his appetite. I thought of his call. I wondered if I could answer his call, and how I would get to that field of battle. 

I never told anyone this. Eventually, I forgot my lion, my enemy. He sunk back into the dark stream-like waters of my subconscious like a canoe floating on top a fast river, unable to find any place to make land.

A hero is judged by how he confronts his enemies. A coward is one who avoids his enemy, or worse still, forgets he ever had one in the first place due to his own self seeking. A coward is one who shrinks from his destiny for the banality of what some call reality. In my comfortable world, the words hero and enemy are vague and strange on the tongue.

And I nearly chose banality, chose it freely and happily, without even realizing there was another choice, another reality to choose from. My enemy challenged me, and to answer his call is to risk death.