the river flooded into the sea,
and bartholomew parted the sea.
he watched all day as the strip of land seemed to slowly emerge. his patience tested in such a grand, biblical act that he was certain this was a sign. that he had not done any wrong, that he had not gone astray or failed as his festering brain might have suggested.
he was on the right path.
the sea opened.
the island welcomed him with its glory. the winter kept hidden from him its fruits. a garden, homes, the signs of lives lived here before him. none of it would meet his hawkish gaze. instead he saw the winter gripping the island stronger than inland. the sea crushing at the shores with its frigid touch.
all he could see was a land of emptiness.
a land of potential, surely, for why else would he have been led here?
he thought of all the faces he had met. the young boy in the glen who had nowhere to go but home with the false idols. his own hunter who had splintered from once more, who had seemingly accepted the path of bartholomew's ways. the women who had foolishly not understood the greatness that awaited them if they merely listened.
then this last man.
a man who seemed so disjointed from his faith, but still it clung to him loosely like a winter shawl. who had made such a fuss only to ask for his presence again.
bartholomew had met all trials with his steadfast faith and he had come out each one the same man he had been before — but wiser, stronger through the power of God. and he had been rewarded for his efforts already.
he had been provided for.
the island his piece of His kingdom on earth. a show meant to further encourage his faith, he was certain of it.
but it was empty. hollowed grounds not yet turned hallowed. it was not a kingdom to spread the greatest of gospels if he simply lived here alone in the shade of the cross.
there was work to still be done.
and bartholomew parted the sea.
he watched all day as the strip of land seemed to slowly emerge. his patience tested in such a grand, biblical act that he was certain this was a sign. that he had not done any wrong, that he had not gone astray or failed as his festering brain might have suggested.
he was on the right path.
the sea opened.
the island welcomed him with its glory. the winter kept hidden from him its fruits. a garden, homes, the signs of lives lived here before him. none of it would meet his hawkish gaze. instead he saw the winter gripping the island stronger than inland. the sea crushing at the shores with its frigid touch.
all he could see was a land of emptiness.
a land of potential, surely, for why else would he have been led here?
he thought of all the faces he had met. the young boy in the glen who had nowhere to go but home with the false idols. his own hunter who had splintered from once more, who had seemingly accepted the path of bartholomew's ways. the women who had foolishly not understood the greatness that awaited them if they merely listened.
then this last man.
a man who seemed so disjointed from his faith, but still it clung to him loosely like a winter shawl. who had made such a fuss only to ask for his presence again.
bartholomew had met all trials with his steadfast faith and he had come out each one the same man he had been before — but wiser, stronger through the power of God. and he had been rewarded for his efforts already.
he had been provided for.
the island his piece of His kingdom on earth. a show meant to further encourage his faith, he was certain of it.
but it was empty. hollowed grounds not yet turned hallowed. it was not a kingdom to spread the greatest of gospels if he simply lived here alone in the shade of the cross.
there was work to still be done.
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