My son Alex wrote several stories this one, called In Due Time, was one that we were working on together.
Sadly he only made it to chapter 3 and I’ve thought about trying to continue with it but in these short chapters so much was said and I feel that it’s almost complete but won’t come to an end until that final day when we reunite in heaven with our Heavenly Father.
Alexx’s concept for this story was focusing on Jesus when he was just a young boy and the difficulty He may have faced as a child, yet being The Son of God.
Alexx takes a personal look back to when Christ stayed behind at the temple. Then he imagines what it was like dealing with other adolescent boys and finally he paints a creative picture in words describing what it could have been like for the young man, Jesus, as he watched his earthly father die.
Although Christ had the ability to heal and even raise from the dead He accepted the fact, will & perfect timing of His Heavenly Father. So shall I.
Here’s the story that Alexx wrote
In Due Time
by Alexx Bailey
It was always so loud as the stream of people migrated back home from the festivities in their flocks. One could seemingly make it home without moving a foot when caught on the wave of tuckered out Nazarenes. I became as though a rock in this stream of people when it first caught my eye, then entering the temple it was all at once that the sound ceased its bellowing. I had not even heard the robes speaking to me at first I was only focused on the silence surrounding me with its unique sense of comfort. This was no ordinary silence; it had a sound to it, a voice. It was not until he touched me that I realized the robes were there and the second he did the silent voice was gone being interrupted by an ignorant attempt to enlighten me of what I had already known. We began to dance with our words as I finished his sentences and baffled his years of study.
Days had gone by before we found an end to our discussion and until my mother had found me. I settle her worry while informing her of my stay at the temple but she began to make more so a look of confusion. In an attempt to settle her once more from her questioning I offered an explanation that I felt she should have known already informing her of the silent voice, though I was not quite sure she understood.
Leaving the temple and now alone my mother began to pry at a more personal level towards the explanation I offered. So into depth I went as my words began to come alive painting our conversation. The colors flew in beautiful directions and twisted their way into shapes. I could now see it in her eyes, the same comfort I had felt in the previous silence now making an art form out of my commentary. When I had finished explaining my mother seemed to need no more from me; dropping the subject entirely and yet it was evident that it stuck with her for she never did lose that look in here eye.
The world around me seems to make a different kind of sense and this was made evident in all sorts of ways daily but this was different. There was a thickness of hate huddling us together as we stood around the bird pocking at its life. One by one my surrounding company found ways to enlighten their curiosity by plucking what thin thread was left and yet the reality of it seemed to hold them all back so I jumped at the opportunity suggesting we leave it be yet this got them more riled up. As one gouged out its eyes another stomped on its wing only to be outdone by the final crushing of its head. I would never hear the end of the tear my face streamed but this was not my concern and the sound around me faded into that silent voice.
Now that the life was sucked out of the fun the other boys went off to destroy something else beautiful but I stayed behind digging my knees into the dirt. I reached out to the silent voice with a memorial for the creature so wrongfully ended within its innocence. Cupping the carcass between my hands I could feel the silence no longer around me but within me, it breathed life through me. Then as I opened my hands the bird flew away once again free from its torment.
Catching back up with my previous company began again the banter, though to me it wasn’t very humorous for I could not see the point in their laughing. Was it the murderous tendency that should have had me giggling or the sorrow found in my wet remorse for the dearly departed victim? Still ponderous on the sense their world didn’t make my feet departed from the confrontation and yet even this began a stir as what I had avoided followed me now angrier then before. As he began to speak something I had never felt before began its boil inside of me and as my adversary continued he went too far regrading my mother teasing at the mystery of my birth. It was not me that picked up the much larger bully ringing him by his neck and I could see a much larger adversary reflecting in his eyes back at me, it smiled.
I was now running but no matter how far I got from the confrontation he was still right there with me I could feel him. My legs had been going so fast for so long before my mind caught up with them tripping me over my own feet face first into the dirt. I could hear a faint hiss as I cupped my hands in the nick of time silencing the overwhelming factors around me.
By the time I had made it home I noticed the tear in my sleeve and though I wasn’t so much concerned with its mending I hoped it would keep my mother from the worry my blood had drawn up. As I explained the misfit my day had become she sewed silently resembling that voice wither listening. Then as I became flustered with my story she interrupted me completely off subject explaining why she hadn’t used a new cloth to mend my tattered old ones. While she was informing me of the way the new cloth would end up tearing a bigger whole as it shrunk the way my mother had with words made me realize just how on subject she really was.
It got harder and harder to see my father the worse his condition got it was this very process that made today, in particular, a loud day. I could feel it all day, in the pit of my stomach, yet I could not quite figure out what it was sitting in the depth of my gut, not until I got home. My day only got louder as I began multi-tasking my way toward his room. Between my mother, his wife, ranting wordlessly through her sobbing, the ringing in my ear, and the clutter of my feet kicking dust in all directions I made my way like a dull knife through the thick, stale, air all the noise had made of my house; then nothing. His eyes, floating in tears, swam towards me through their sag and said the words he wasn’t sure how to speak. It wasn’t until I began to panic that words came to him, or rather through him. His acceptance of this inevitably occurring, and quickly ending, pivotal point in my life was of no help yet as I began my plea towards all the things I needed him for he stuck to the peace he had made. You could practically see his body shutting down as his eyes grew dimmer each second and this brought back to me that anger I had be running from. I got myself all caught up in the concept my mind had brought to life and as I envisioned the barbaric manor in which the darkness creeps around poking at life with its stick it occurred to me.
I saw the light in my eyes reflecting off of his as I unveiled my master plan yet as I looked past my reflection and into his eyes I saw discomfort. In an attempt to make myself more clear I enlightened my father of the bird I had saved yet still as my ideas began to fill the room they were conflicted with the mixed feelings my father had. He was always a man of few words, which I respected, his ability to sum up things short and sweet made life not only easy but simple and yet while I wanted to believe his math wasn’t adding up I knew my father was right, he was always right. Once I finally gave up the fight I made a metaphor out of my hands. Staring at them for some time, examining there tatter, I expressed myself through my father’s trade implying that my hands lack what gave him superiority in the field. Between the now slow trickle my tears had become I question my ability to take care of the house without him.
My father used his last words to explain that rain would come and may even bring a demand for repair but he also spoke of the foundation to which he had built our house on. Bringing me back to the first time I used my father’s hammer I thought it beautiful to end on such a note as this, for it was also one of my first and fondest memories of Him. Like it was yesterday I could feel the rain pouring down on me as we stood there watching the fort I had built all by myself crumbled into a pile of debris. I remember even better the look in my father’s eyes the next morning as he showed me the new fort he had built with reassurance that this one would stand strong due to its foundation. Now back at my father’s bed side I watched as he left with his life but just before he was gone I, again, saw that very same look in his eyes.
The foundation makes all the difference. His foundation was not in or of this world, but rather, with His father in Heaven.