I never thought that I would love a man. I am amazed by them, of course. They are fascinating creatures with such powerful potential and deeply rooted flaws. I like to watch them puzzle through a problem. Innovate. Recreate. But never have I felt a connection any more binding than curiosity.
Occasionally I am permitted to interact with them. Sometimes I flash down in a lightening bolt and dazzle their fragile eyes with the brightness of my countenance. They squint into the rays and can discern me, and I can tell that I am the most amazing being they have ever met – taller, stronger, and more capable than all others. When I speak to them like this, my voice resonates in their chests and they nod at my words – wide eyed.
Other times I walk up to them, the men, from the street. I speak as a neighbor would, with familiarity. It isn’t until long after I have left that the hearer of my words realizes something is different. That something about me was different.
I like both ways. They are each interesting and fulfilling and get my point across.
Well, not my point, I suppose. I’m just the messenger.
They are interesting creatures, those men. And women. Those humans. So different from us. I never really understood their purpose. For a long time I was in the dark, waiting to have them explained to me. Why put everyone through such heartache? Such trial and error? Such danger and judgment? What was wrong with the way things were – before the earth, but after the Battle? When we knew where everyone stood.
But then there came these new beings. These image-holders. These play actors. Pretending to be wise when they cannot see the future or the past or even their own hearts. No. I did not love them.
And now the One that I do love, the One who is my purpose and my world and my joy, He is a man. The Original is an image-holder. A play actor who is no impostor. Why? If he was going to become something else, why did it have to be them? Why could he not have become one of us? Then we could have been brothers as he is now brothers with those men. Those broken twelve.
Such suffering He has chosen. Such betrayal. Even now I can see one of his brothers coming to the garden, lit by a torch.
I cannot bear it. Why does he not call for help? He knows that they are coming. He knows what they will do.
I am right here. I am next to you. Your tears and your human blood are staining my heart. Your brothers fall asleep but I am here. Let me help you. Let me save you.
The torch has reached you now. It has cast its light on your rock altar. One man comes close and kisses your blood-streaked cheek.
Still you do not look at me, although you know I stand at the ready. My sword is drawn and my life is yours. Your friends have awoken and are now rushing to your side. All of us will stand together. The victory will be ours!
No, you say, do nothing. You extend your hands to be bound. I think you are scared. I take a step toward the group. I know they cannot see me.
No, you say again, and you turn your back on me.
You never called for me, but I was here. I could have spared you. If you didn’t want me to help you, why did you make me so strong?