Post by mongoose on Jul 22, 2008 0:35:33 GMT -5
((This is one way of doing the story I wrote of in the Generas area, the one of the pseudo-romantic relationship between Jesus and an individual. I just had to write it, almost train of consciousness. It's obviously not the only way, though.))
I know her. Like none other, I know her, and I love her. Even she does not know herself as I do, nor even her parents. I know her so as I designed her just as she is. I love her so for I created her to love her. I love her and I have chosen her, and having chosen her, I now pursue her. It is a strange thing to her, one she can not understand, that anyone would go to any lengths to reach her. But I have gone to all lengths to not only reach her, but to be with her in every true way, in all intimacy that she can neither imagine nor desire now.
She doesn’t even know me, for the moment. Susan Douherty has only the merest inkling that I exist. Yet I keep after her, keeping showing her some of myself. I can not show her more for she is not ready. She could not believe, and might even die if I were, as she has asked, to prove myself to her in a way so undeniable. And that would not serve the purpose. What kind of a marriage would it be, between one desiring true intimacy, and one grudgingly worshiping what she has seen proven, simply because He is True?
No, it is the journey, the pursuit, the growth and the discovery as much as the actual union that I seek. It is for her true choice to love one she does not know that I died. It can not be obvious, lest she merely believe what her eyes have seen. It can not be coerced, lest she serve only out of obligation. She must find what I deign to show her of myself, and choose to love that which she has neither seen nor known.
And why should she love me. Because I am altogether lovely? Perhaps, but I am also terrible and mighty, just and fearful in my anger. Because I am good? Perhaps, but my goodness is based on a holiness and wisdom so far beyond her that she cannot comprehend the goodness of much that I do. It is not easy for the finite to love one infinitely beyond them. No, she will not love me because of who I am, or what I have done, but perhaps because I first loved her and bought her with my life, she will give herself to me, and learn to love me. I will not stop till I have made it so.
But life is hard for her. It must be, else how would she learn to depend on me? Even so, it has made her strong in her own estimation of her flesh. Even that is a superficial estimation. She cries now, feeling a fraud, weak and frail, and cry with her, shrouding her in her vulnerability to protect her. It is only herself that will undo her, and the footholds she’s given to the enemy. Alas, I do not yet have her heart. Still, I will not let him take her yet.
She does not know it, nor did the enemy until it was too late, but it was I who showed her how her strength was faked, put on, a mask presented to the world but transparent should anyone look closely. I even brought in a sinful boyfriend to be the mirror in which she saw the truth of herself. In her rage, in her perceived strength, she would have hurt herself, even ended it all, but it is not her time. The blade was dull, and she afraid, her accuracy hindered and she succeeded only causing minor damage that will soon heal.
With the flow of her blood came a small victory. She began to realize how far she’d fallen, how much she hated what she had become. In that self loathing she saw weakness, and despised it, and herself, all the more. These feelings, she hoped, would provide her with strength. If she could not truly hate others, or if that hatred was not strength, perhaps she could hate herself. But she was too afraid to do anything about it, as evidenced by the short and shallow slice into the flesh of her arm. She had failed even in her attempt to hurt herself, and what would this prove to anyone else?
So she sits now in tears, beyond hate, beyond fear, beyond anger, simply mourning the loss of the dream that was to be her life. She has not seen, yet, what her life could be, what I have designed it to be. She wouldn’t believe it now if she did see it. Still, her heart is prepared for the planting of a seed, and all is prepared in due time to become beautiful, the bride worthy of me.
Some expect the miraculous of me. The big, the grand, the signs and wonders. I do work that way, but more often I speak to my friends, and they cooperate with me. Sometimes they realize what they do, but more often they do not. Susan needs, now, to know her value to me.
She’s heard of me, but does not believe. She wrote a poem not long ago, a good one questioning the nature of reality, one that I partially inspired. She has this gift I gave her from the beginning, the gift to look at the world, question it, and describe her thoughts and feelings effectively. She does not know its source, but it is there in her none the less and she used it, not for the first time, last night before the boyfriend.
Her would be friend, Roger, one of mine, just finished reading the poem. She asked in it about reality, about me, in-fact, and Roger is eager to explain it all to her, but I will stop him. She is not yet ready. No, she simply needs encouragement, needs to know her value. I tell him so, in a simple, quiet way. He’s somewhat full of his own thoughts and ideas, and has trouble listening to me. What he hears is something like, “She’s a good author, isn’t she? A poet. Look at those descriptions, so vivid, so deep, so visceral.” Were I to tell him outright what to say to her he’d be blown away and would do nothing.
This way is better. He types his response and sends it. Susan didn’t know why, thought maybe it was for the would be boyfriend, but earlier today she set her computer to notify her with an audible chime when she received e-mail. The sound now breaks through the numbness that set in after the initial mental pain passed. With nothing better to do, she drags herself back into the chair, and pulls up the message.
It’s shorter than most of Roger’s messages. He wrote the essentials, and had a sudden urge to use the bathroom. It simply tells her how awesome her poem was, and what a heart she has. How could she write such, illuminating the beauty, the wonder, the questions inherent in the finite minds of the created, prompted by the Creation they experience? He has some of the answer himself, but did not have time to tell her.
It is enough. She reaches the end and looks for more, hungry now for approval. She goes back and re-reads it, mentally consuming it carefully now, absorbing the words into her consciousness. Scientists seeking my truth found long ago that it takes 7 positive statements to overcome the mental/emotional/spiritual impact of a negative statement. It is a truth I’ve told them over and over through my people through the ages, but some required their studies to learn it. That is well. I gave them the minds to discover the truth by their investigations.
Susan now takes in the seven truths in the e-male Roger sent, and they begin to overcome the most recent of the years and layers of negative lies that have been put on her, that she’s built up around herself. She is exhausted now, and will go to bed, where I will guard her and bring to her dream consciousness images of the Susan I see and long for, images of the princess and the bride she believed herself to be, of the princess and bride that I will make her, if she will let me.
The enemy will try to interfere, but Roger will pray for her, and as he stands in the gap between her and me, I will guard her heart and mind through the night. She doesn’t know it yet, nor does the Enemy, though he has suspicions, but Susan is mine.
I know her. Like none other, I know her, and I love her. Even she does not know herself as I do, nor even her parents. I know her so as I designed her just as she is. I love her so for I created her to love her. I love her and I have chosen her, and having chosen her, I now pursue her. It is a strange thing to her, one she can not understand, that anyone would go to any lengths to reach her. But I have gone to all lengths to not only reach her, but to be with her in every true way, in all intimacy that she can neither imagine nor desire now.
She doesn’t even know me, for the moment. Susan Douherty has only the merest inkling that I exist. Yet I keep after her, keeping showing her some of myself. I can not show her more for she is not ready. She could not believe, and might even die if I were, as she has asked, to prove myself to her in a way so undeniable. And that would not serve the purpose. What kind of a marriage would it be, between one desiring true intimacy, and one grudgingly worshiping what she has seen proven, simply because He is True?
No, it is the journey, the pursuit, the growth and the discovery as much as the actual union that I seek. It is for her true choice to love one she does not know that I died. It can not be obvious, lest she merely believe what her eyes have seen. It can not be coerced, lest she serve only out of obligation. She must find what I deign to show her of myself, and choose to love that which she has neither seen nor known.
And why should she love me. Because I am altogether lovely? Perhaps, but I am also terrible and mighty, just and fearful in my anger. Because I am good? Perhaps, but my goodness is based on a holiness and wisdom so far beyond her that she cannot comprehend the goodness of much that I do. It is not easy for the finite to love one infinitely beyond them. No, she will not love me because of who I am, or what I have done, but perhaps because I first loved her and bought her with my life, she will give herself to me, and learn to love me. I will not stop till I have made it so.
But life is hard for her. It must be, else how would she learn to depend on me? Even so, it has made her strong in her own estimation of her flesh. Even that is a superficial estimation. She cries now, feeling a fraud, weak and frail, and cry with her, shrouding her in her vulnerability to protect her. It is only herself that will undo her, and the footholds she’s given to the enemy. Alas, I do not yet have her heart. Still, I will not let him take her yet.
She does not know it, nor did the enemy until it was too late, but it was I who showed her how her strength was faked, put on, a mask presented to the world but transparent should anyone look closely. I even brought in a sinful boyfriend to be the mirror in which she saw the truth of herself. In her rage, in her perceived strength, she would have hurt herself, even ended it all, but it is not her time. The blade was dull, and she afraid, her accuracy hindered and she succeeded only causing minor damage that will soon heal.
With the flow of her blood came a small victory. She began to realize how far she’d fallen, how much she hated what she had become. In that self loathing she saw weakness, and despised it, and herself, all the more. These feelings, she hoped, would provide her with strength. If she could not truly hate others, or if that hatred was not strength, perhaps she could hate herself. But she was too afraid to do anything about it, as evidenced by the short and shallow slice into the flesh of her arm. She had failed even in her attempt to hurt herself, and what would this prove to anyone else?
So she sits now in tears, beyond hate, beyond fear, beyond anger, simply mourning the loss of the dream that was to be her life. She has not seen, yet, what her life could be, what I have designed it to be. She wouldn’t believe it now if she did see it. Still, her heart is prepared for the planting of a seed, and all is prepared in due time to become beautiful, the bride worthy of me.
Some expect the miraculous of me. The big, the grand, the signs and wonders. I do work that way, but more often I speak to my friends, and they cooperate with me. Sometimes they realize what they do, but more often they do not. Susan needs, now, to know her value to me.
She’s heard of me, but does not believe. She wrote a poem not long ago, a good one questioning the nature of reality, one that I partially inspired. She has this gift I gave her from the beginning, the gift to look at the world, question it, and describe her thoughts and feelings effectively. She does not know its source, but it is there in her none the less and she used it, not for the first time, last night before the boyfriend.
Her would be friend, Roger, one of mine, just finished reading the poem. She asked in it about reality, about me, in-fact, and Roger is eager to explain it all to her, but I will stop him. She is not yet ready. No, she simply needs encouragement, needs to know her value. I tell him so, in a simple, quiet way. He’s somewhat full of his own thoughts and ideas, and has trouble listening to me. What he hears is something like, “She’s a good author, isn’t she? A poet. Look at those descriptions, so vivid, so deep, so visceral.” Were I to tell him outright what to say to her he’d be blown away and would do nothing.
This way is better. He types his response and sends it. Susan didn’t know why, thought maybe it was for the would be boyfriend, but earlier today she set her computer to notify her with an audible chime when she received e-mail. The sound now breaks through the numbness that set in after the initial mental pain passed. With nothing better to do, she drags herself back into the chair, and pulls up the message.
It’s shorter than most of Roger’s messages. He wrote the essentials, and had a sudden urge to use the bathroom. It simply tells her how awesome her poem was, and what a heart she has. How could she write such, illuminating the beauty, the wonder, the questions inherent in the finite minds of the created, prompted by the Creation they experience? He has some of the answer himself, but did not have time to tell her.
It is enough. She reaches the end and looks for more, hungry now for approval. She goes back and re-reads it, mentally consuming it carefully now, absorbing the words into her consciousness. Scientists seeking my truth found long ago that it takes 7 positive statements to overcome the mental/emotional/spiritual impact of a negative statement. It is a truth I’ve told them over and over through my people through the ages, but some required their studies to learn it. That is well. I gave them the minds to discover the truth by their investigations.
Susan now takes in the seven truths in the e-male Roger sent, and they begin to overcome the most recent of the years and layers of negative lies that have been put on her, that she’s built up around herself. She is exhausted now, and will go to bed, where I will guard her and bring to her dream consciousness images of the Susan I see and long for, images of the princess and the bride she believed herself to be, of the princess and bride that I will make her, if she will let me.
The enemy will try to interfere, but Roger will pray for her, and as he stands in the gap between her and me, I will guard her heart and mind through the night. She doesn’t know it yet, nor does the Enemy, though he has suspicions, but Susan is mine.