All for Love
The sun shone out from the azure sky, another brand new day, it said. The radiance of sunlight avoided anyone escaping from it. Boldly, its irritating blaze ran into a small dark room. Zion Livingstone reluctantly opened his drowsy eyes, stretched his arms and yawned. Successfully dragging his body out of bed, he stood in front of a mirror. There was something drew Zion Livingstone’s attention while he was brushing his teeth. Neither his messy brown hair nor his scruffy face with overgrown moustache froze him in front of his own reflection; it was a pair of eyes gazed with emptiness. Shouldn’t be a man in his early 30s’ be filled with the exuberance? Especially he was indulging in a kaleidoscopic of colorful world; brushes and paints were the magic tools which he used to express his esoteric inspiration. Standing at the peak of his career kept a stable stream of money, fame, and women, knocking at his door. Yet, Zion Livingstone opened not for all this worldly lust, he was different as he never thought of conforming himself to the standards of this world. Bizarre, was what the world described about Zion Livingstone. Earning big money but hiding in an undersized room; crowning with popularity yet refused to glitter his glamour; going after by countless seraphic ladies yet he locked everybody out of his icy heart. There seemed no way to peep into this tightly bolted isolated door. No one could ever understand Zion Livingstone; perhaps, he himself did not even know who he was now. Staring at the raggedly handsome mirror image, Zion Livingstone touched the platinum cross he was wearing. At least, he had one identity, Zion Livingstone was assuredly His.
The sun shone out from the azure sky, another brand new day, it said. The radiance of sunlight avoided anyone escaping from it. Boldly, its irritating blaze ran into a small dark room. Zion Livingstone reluctantly opened his drowsy eyes, stretched his arms and yawned. Successfully dragging his body out of bed, he stood in front of a mirror. There was something drew Zion Livingstone’s attention while he was brushing his teeth. Neither his messy brown hair nor his scruffy face with overgrown moustache froze him in front of his own reflection; it was a pair of eyes gazed with emptiness. Shouldn’t be a man in his early 30s’ be filled with the exuberance? Especially he was indulging in a kaleidoscopic of colorful world; brushes and paints were the magic tools which he used to express his esoteric inspiration. Standing at the peak of his career kept a stable stream of money, fame, and women, knocking at his door. Yet, Zion Livingstone opened not for all this worldly lust, he was different as he never thought of conforming himself to the standards of this world. Bizarre, was what the world described about Zion Livingstone. Earning big money but hiding in an undersized room; crowning with popularity yet refused to glitter his glamour; going after by countless seraphic ladies yet he locked everybody out of his icy heart. There seemed no way to peep into this tightly bolted isolated door. No one could ever understand Zion Livingstone; perhaps, he himself did not even know who he was now. Staring at the raggedly handsome mirror image, Zion Livingstone touched the platinum cross he was wearing. At least, he had one identity, Zion Livingstone was assuredly His.
********
A light drizzle was falling, birds were not singing while the green stop dancing. Clouded with a sheer of melancholy, Zion Livingstone had his ideas all cluttered up; He fell into the abyss of depression seeing his quivering right hand failed in sketching the marvelous pieces, once again. Throwing his sight at the tiny falling raindrops, a surge of loneliness was suffocating him. “At least, the raindrops know where they belong…” pondering over his imprecise color dance, Zion Livingstone murmured. Closed his emerald green eyes, Zion Livingstone knelt down before the Almighty One, the only place where he could ever rely on. A heavenly voice filled his heart as Zion Livingstone was seeking the Lord in the midst of bewilderment,” My grace is all you need, for My power is greatest when you are weak…” Amidst those tears, Zion Livingstone beheld the words of assurance of his Abba Father. He took a glimpse at the brown envelope, another one at the crumpled painting, both lying uneasily at the same horizon on a glass desk. Two heavy blows at the very same day; pushed this wonderfully talented artist away from the fantasy world of color. One deep breathe, Zion Livingstone took the medical report from the wrinkled envelope. His shaky right hand stopped him from doing the remarkably amazing dance of color. The medical report clearly stated that the dreadful neurological movement disorder; focal hand dystonia was haunting Zion Livingstone. At that point of challenge, he was extremely confused, frustrated, sorrow, bitter, and lost, everything jumbled up at the moment. Again, he threw his gloomy sight through the transparent window. The elegiac drizzle stopped. Zion Livingstone smiled as he looked at the sky, he knew that He had called him to tell His stories. He saw a rainbow. It wasn’t just an original rainbow, but a rainbow of promise, love, hope, arching in the midst of wilderness.
********
Rubbed his somnolent eyes, Zion Livingstone asked of a cup of sky juice from the hospitable stewardess. Looking down from a 4000m altitude in the sky, Zion Livingstone gluttonously captured all the picturesque scenery; be it just a small village or a garden, everything seemed so fearfully and wonderfully made. This twelve-hours flight was an exhausting journey, though unforeseen challenges might ambush this young adventurer, yet it freaked Zion Livingstone not. Clinging on to the Cross, the solemn promise from the One whom he called Abba Father, Zion Livingstone left everything he had behind, spurned the allure of the big city. Quenched his thirst; Zion Livingstone tried to rearrange his recollection during the considerably long flight. Observing the crystal clear water in the glass, he had a self-satisfied smirk on his attractive face. Zion Livingstone remembered how he quit his job as the Creative Artist in Mode Magazine Corporation; by presenting his “masterpiece”, an abstract painting of a Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly with the word “Mnemosyne” written on it, the last piece of his work, he reckoned. Zion Livingstone walked out from the room with his usual serene paces; the shriek of frustration coming out from the room few minutes later only widened his smile, he could imagine how was the grumpy Chief Editor wrathful look upon seeing a piece of childish painting. Not a masterpiece, expectation was unfulfilled and the Chief Editor himself was fooled. First laughter from Zion Livingstone but a sigh followed; Musing on his new journey, an old poem started dancing in his mind- The Road Have Not Taken by Robert Frost. Mumbling the poem, Zion Livingstone did not bother the uneasiness of the passenger sitting next to him. Ignored the attention thrown on him, he threw his on the snowy clouds. An indescribable dashing natural, it was Zion Livingstone after all.
********
The sky was dyed reddish orange at dusk. Old Rev. Kenneth Chris was sitting comfortably on the antiquated armchair. Sipping hot tea from his cup, he threw his sight out of the window. The olive tree standing a few meters away from the window was blocking the light, its illusive shadow smacked on the carpet, adding a trace of liveliness into the sluggish air in the room. Old Rev. Kenneth Chris had to admit that it was a piece of art, a magical kaleidoscope if he saw the shadow at a different angle. “Trust me. It will be a beautiful piece, one day,” A clear voice of a child ran out of his memory box, a gawky kid with such a charming smile, who was missing for the past 15 years in Rev. Kenneth Chris’s journey. As usual, Rev. Kenneth Chris took out a wooden box from his drawer, trying to track the sweetness of the past down. Rev. Kenneth Chris took his spectacles from the table, trying to see clearly the moth-eaten photo in his hand. He smiled as he looked at the kid in the photo; the wrinkles on his face could not be hidden. Those good old days as if one again replayed on the stage, the giggle of the kid still echoing in his ears. How he wished he could hear it one more time, the chuckle of delight of the kid which could melt his heart. Rev. Kenneth Chris coughed discreetly, not to scatter the only begotten pieces that he had, the pieces which were too small to be overlooked, yet too precious to be forgotten. With his shaky hands, old Rev. Kenneth Chris gripped the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly specimen which belonged to a story from the old box. The well-preserved dragonfly looked so alive, the sparkling wings seemed like they would be spread in any minutes. Their dazzle could not be ignored under the flash of sunlight even they were just the empty skeletons without soul, waiting for a breath of life to wake them up.
********
A few heavy beats dropped on the batter face of the drums, created a piece of junky rhythm echoing in the small church. The salty crystal beads on the forehead of Raj Gopal slipped, irritated his beautiful brown eyes. Reflectively, he rubbed his eyes yet failed to sweep his disappointment away. The edge of his lips had clotted blood; the salty sweat too irritated his wound on lips and perhaps his heart felt more of the pain. It was not the first time the heavy blows of his drunkard father landed on his face, and it was not the first time he ran away from home with a broken heart. It was another gloomy day when his father’s mood swung and Raj Gopal’s mum was unluckily became the victim. The dishes on the hard concrete floor were harshly overturned. Raj Gopal’s heart sunk when his father turned into a monster again, in the rainy day. The crying sky as if mourning for the upcoming tragedy in the family. His father gave his mum a heavy slap across her pale face, and unfairly putting all blame on her. His mum fell onto the floor, silently swallowed every single blows and hurtful words which pierced through her heart. There was enough bruises and scar on her arms and legs, Raj Gopal failed to put off the bellyful of flame upon seeing his mum’s tears and blood again and again. He stood up and fought over his abusive father, yet he had not won this fight. His father was much stronger than he thought even he was crippled. His father was a captain, a wounded soldier in the battlefield and never again would he been called back for service. He lost his strong right leg, his dignity, his glorious days, and his lovely smile, all in the merciless war. That night, Raj Gopal was badly beaten up and he ran away from home again when the sky was still pouring. That night, Raj Gopal met an angel in front of the small church, a white man who kindly opened a door whenever he had no place to go.
********
Zion Livingstone was trapped in a summery afternoon. There was no way for him to look for a glass of cold water in the rural area of Bihar, India. It had been already two weeks since Zion Livingstone landed on this poor land. Some might think that he was insane to give up a much more comfortable life in his own country and ran to this slum dog place. Definitely Zion Livingstone still had his clear mind, he was so sure that he heard the calling. Even Prince of Peace gave up His glorious throne in the heaven and went down to earth, to serve His people and not to be served. This King who graciously laid down His own life even for a lowly peasant became Zion Livingstone only strength through these uncertainties. Though his right hand still juddered, Zion Livingstone’s faith was not moved. Though he had not been doing any painting, Zion Livingstone started teaching in the poverty-stricken land where education was a luxury which they could hardly afford. Zion Livingstone sat under the olive tree and writing his journal where the shadow of the olive tree changed erratically. He tilted his head into the air, not even one candy-floss- like cloud was found, but he saw an old man sitting on a rocky chair beside the church window, pondering over on an old photo. He was Rev. Kenneth Chris; a humble man of God who willingly spent his life in this despised land, still he trusted the Lord would change this land into a harvest land of the lost souls. Hence, he named the undersized church “The Lord’s Harvest”. Truly his passion for Christ was contagious and he spiritually inspired this brave adventurer. Zion Livingstone closed the journal when he saw a tan young man walking towards him. Zion Livingstone smiled as he looked at him; when his emerald green eyes met this pair of innocent brown eyes in the silent air, he knew that this young man would be a story as he had thirsty soul yearning for hope- he needs Jesus.
********
Not bothered of sweat dripping from his forehead, Raj Gopal was focusing on the mathematic questions given by the voluntary teacher from a foreign land. There was so much fun learning Mathematics and English, as Raj Gopal was hungry for knowledge instead of bread. He showed a satisfactory smile when he wrote down the last answer with the only pencil he had. Deep down in his wounded heart, Raj Gopal knew that only education could bring him out of this black void, so he must do it. Besides playing with numbers, Raj Gopal was captivated by the lively storytelling of this white man. Though there was a little language barrier between the Indian kids and this white man, still he managed to bring out the essence of the stories with rich facial expression and body language. None of the curious eyes could escape from the story session. They were intrigued by how a small boy could have killed a giant with just a sling stone, why a man would built an ark just because someone unseen asked him to do so, or maybe what made the lions shut their mouths and not to harm a good man. More and more questions popped up from these inquisitive minds, they had noticed a big hero in the stories he told. A King whose blood spilled for His people and died for sin of the world, and most importantly He has risen and His tomb is empty. Raj Gopal remembered an Indian man told him this before, still he didn’t truly understand why. 8 years ago when he was only a 6 year-old, before he could throw this question, the man left the village and never come back again. The stories again woke his fading memories, this time he was determined to know the answer. Under the blazing hot sun, he ran straight to “The Lord’s Harvest” church after finishing his work. And there, finally he met the white man Zion Livingstone, under the olive tree. In the whisper of wind, Raj Gopal heard a long awaiting answer.
********
The wind carried a trace of peace within. Old Rev. Kenneth Chris was looking out from the window, while the shadow of the leaves was mischievously disturbing him. He noticed a young man under the olive tree, carefully jotting something on a notebook. Rev. Kenneth Chris’s memories were once again being stirred up in the scorching afternoon, where the birds were attentively listened to his heart. “Zion Livingstone…” , he mumbled. He took out the flaxen photo and got an eyeful of it again. They had the same charming smile; he had to admit that, perhaps the same passion for Christ though color of skin was different.25 years ago when Rev. Kenneth Chris first came to this land, condition was far worse than ever. There he met an Indian kid who brightened his days, always so eagerly to find out more of the truth. He was like his own child; they laughed together, shared their heart and had fun together. It was times when he grew up and needed to leave the village for a good purpose, to go after his dream to become a doctor. Not for money, not for fame, but for the people, it’s all for love. Rev. Kenneth Christ has been very proud of his spiritual child, years and years they kept in touch through e-mails and calls. Distance never loosened the bond between them. Many years passed yet the shadow of the cheeky kid never seen, the trace of his adulthood never found in the land. He became a missionary doctor, as what God wants him to be. Not just to ease the physical pain but also provide spiritual medicine to the lost sheep in a foreign land. Rev. Kenneth Chris would not forget the heartbroken afternoon, when the bad news travelled in the stagnant air: the missionary doctor became a martyr for Christ’s sake. Rev. Kenneth Chris failed to hold his tears when he received a wooden box from him; it was delivered before he went to the mission. It was a Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly specimen, come with a photo and a letter. He coughed again, this time with blood stained sputum. Rev Kenneth Chris smiled as he looked at the two young men under the olive tree in the scarlet sunset. The time was near. The air was still and serene when he left with a peaceful smile.
********
The church was crowded with mourning people, those faces with dried tears. The white flowers were gracefully lying beside him. Hymns were sung, strangely accompanied by some unorganized music. An Indian young man was playing drum, he failed to keep the rhythm sometimes throughout the memorial session His brown eyes carried an elegiac portion, flooded with tears. The good old man who opened a door for him when he had no place to go, was called Home. It was not just a door of church, yet it was a door to reach his broken heart. He had had a first taste of warmth from this man and he would never forget that. The drumming was bit disappointing, he tried very hard to tell himself not to cry. Raj Gopal knew his Savior requires more than a song; He looks beyond music and melody and He searches much deeper within. Rev. Kenneth Chris told him so when he first picked up drumming. When everything sounded messy during his first trial and when this young man was the edge of giving up, it was Rev. Kenneth Chris who gave him a pat on his back. Raj Gopal turned to his drum teacher who was sitting at the front row. At the time their eyes met, he was rewarded a smile that would boost his confidence. Zion Livingstone couldn’t play anymore with his right hand, yet he generously taught Raj Gopal and the kids everything he knew. He might have nothing much, but he would give it all to Jesus the best he has. He has found himself from this old faithful man. He smiled as he looked up into the sky, it was still blue, like the same hot afternoon when he first met him. When the music faded in the air, when tears ran dry, the other brand new day quietly arrived. Time would pass but this walk of him would be remembered and God is glorified.
********
********
Zion Livingstone was trapped in a summery afternoon. There was no way for him to look for a glass of cold water in the rural area of Bihar, India. It had been already two weeks since Zion Livingstone landed on this poor land. Some might think that he was insane to give up a much more comfortable life in his own country and ran to this slum dog place. Definitely Zion Livingstone still had his clear mind, he was so sure that he heard the calling. Even Prince of Peace gave up His glorious throne in the heaven and went down to earth, to serve His people and not to be served. This King who graciously laid down His own life even for a lowly peasant became Zion Livingstone only strength through these uncertainties. Though his right hand still juddered, Zion Livingstone’s faith was not moved. Though he had not been doing any painting, Zion Livingstone started teaching in the poverty-stricken land where education was a luxury which they could hardly afford. Zion Livingstone sat under the olive tree and writing his journal where the shadow of the olive tree changed erratically. He tilted his head into the air, not even one candy-floss- like cloud was found, but he saw an old man sitting on a rocky chair beside the church window, pondering over on an old photo. He was Rev. Kenneth Chris; a humble man of God who willingly spent his life in this despised land, still he trusted the Lord would change this land into a harvest land of the lost souls. Hence, he named the undersized church “The Lord’s Harvest”. Truly his passion for Christ was contagious and he spiritually inspired this brave adventurer. Zion Livingstone closed the journal when he saw a tan young man walking towards him. Zion Livingstone smiled as he looked at him; when his emerald green eyes met this pair of innocent brown eyes in the silent air, he knew that this young man would be a story as he had thirsty soul yearning for hope- he needs Jesus.
********
Not bothered of sweat dripping from his forehead, Raj Gopal was focusing on the mathematic questions given by the voluntary teacher from a foreign land. There was so much fun learning Mathematics and English, as Raj Gopal was hungry for knowledge instead of bread. He showed a satisfactory smile when he wrote down the last answer with the only pencil he had. Deep down in his wounded heart, Raj Gopal knew that only education could bring him out of this black void, so he must do it. Besides playing with numbers, Raj Gopal was captivated by the lively storytelling of this white man. Though there was a little language barrier between the Indian kids and this white man, still he managed to bring out the essence of the stories with rich facial expression and body language. None of the curious eyes could escape from the story session. They were intrigued by how a small boy could have killed a giant with just a sling stone, why a man would built an ark just because someone unseen asked him to do so, or maybe what made the lions shut their mouths and not to harm a good man. More and more questions popped up from these inquisitive minds, they had noticed a big hero in the stories he told. A King whose blood spilled for His people and died for sin of the world, and most importantly He has risen and His tomb is empty. Raj Gopal remembered an Indian man told him this before, still he didn’t truly understand why. 8 years ago when he was only a 6 year-old, before he could throw this question, the man left the village and never come back again. The stories again woke his fading memories, this time he was determined to know the answer. Under the blazing hot sun, he ran straight to “The Lord’s Harvest” church after finishing his work. And there, finally he met the white man Zion Livingstone, under the olive tree. In the whisper of wind, Raj Gopal heard a long awaiting answer.
********
The wind carried a trace of peace within. Old Rev. Kenneth Chris was looking out from the window, while the shadow of the leaves was mischievously disturbing him. He noticed a young man under the olive tree, carefully jotting something on a notebook. Rev. Kenneth Chris’s memories were once again being stirred up in the scorching afternoon, where the birds were attentively listened to his heart. “Zion Livingstone…” , he mumbled. He took out the flaxen photo and got an eyeful of it again. They had the same charming smile; he had to admit that, perhaps the same passion for Christ though color of skin was different.25 years ago when Rev. Kenneth Chris first came to this land, condition was far worse than ever. There he met an Indian kid who brightened his days, always so eagerly to find out more of the truth. He was like his own child; they laughed together, shared their heart and had fun together. It was times when he grew up and needed to leave the village for a good purpose, to go after his dream to become a doctor. Not for money, not for fame, but for the people, it’s all for love. Rev. Kenneth Christ has been very proud of his spiritual child, years and years they kept in touch through e-mails and calls. Distance never loosened the bond between them. Many years passed yet the shadow of the cheeky kid never seen, the trace of his adulthood never found in the land. He became a missionary doctor, as what God wants him to be. Not just to ease the physical pain but also provide spiritual medicine to the lost sheep in a foreign land. Rev. Kenneth Chris would not forget the heartbroken afternoon, when the bad news travelled in the stagnant air: the missionary doctor became a martyr for Christ’s sake. Rev. Kenneth Chris failed to hold his tears when he received a wooden box from him; it was delivered before he went to the mission. It was a Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly specimen, come with a photo and a letter. He coughed again, this time with blood stained sputum. Rev Kenneth Chris smiled as he looked at the two young men under the olive tree in the scarlet sunset. The time was near. The air was still and serene when he left with a peaceful smile.
********
The church was crowded with mourning people, those faces with dried tears. The white flowers were gracefully lying beside him. Hymns were sung, strangely accompanied by some unorganized music. An Indian young man was playing drum, he failed to keep the rhythm sometimes throughout the memorial session His brown eyes carried an elegiac portion, flooded with tears. The good old man who opened a door for him when he had no place to go, was called Home. It was not just a door of church, yet it was a door to reach his broken heart. He had had a first taste of warmth from this man and he would never forget that. The drumming was bit disappointing, he tried very hard to tell himself not to cry. Raj Gopal knew his Savior requires more than a song; He looks beyond music and melody and He searches much deeper within. Rev. Kenneth Chris told him so when he first picked up drumming. When everything sounded messy during his first trial and when this young man was the edge of giving up, it was Rev. Kenneth Chris who gave him a pat on his back. Raj Gopal turned to his drum teacher who was sitting at the front row. At the time their eyes met, he was rewarded a smile that would boost his confidence. Zion Livingstone couldn’t play anymore with his right hand, yet he generously taught Raj Gopal and the kids everything he knew. He might have nothing much, but he would give it all to Jesus the best he has. He has found himself from this old faithful man. He smiled as he looked up into the sky, it was still blue, like the same hot afternoon when he first met him. When the music faded in the air, when tears ran dry, the other brand new day quietly arrived. Time would pass but this walk of him would be remembered and God is glorified.
********
There was a wrinkled letter in Rev. Kenneth Chris’s hand.
It read:
Dearest daddy KC ,
I will never forget the day when we planted the olive tree. I am happy to see it is growing stronger each day, and the shadow on it will be a piece of great art.
Me too, a piece of great art of The Lord, is in His service. I will go to the end of the earth to tell his story. It is going to be tough but I know that He is always there for me.
I do not pray for a long life, but a full one, a life that lives for Christ. I do not dream of my name be remembered but His name be exalted.
If there is one last thing I want to tell you, is to say I love you.
Thank you for everything.
p/s: I had found your childhood hero, the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly. It is as dazzling as you told me. I can't give you a live one; forgive me it is just a specimen.
God bless you.
With love,
Always your son Z
********
The words on the letter was fading, the sweetness of love within was not. There was some cluttered writing behind this letter, with some dark red stain on it.
My dearest son,
When I am writing this, I know I will be meeting you soon. The olive tree is growing stronger, just like you. You are right; it is a piece of art that will always remind me of you. And draw a smile on my face everyday.
My coughing is getting worse by days but I have to stay. This is the promise I have given you, to share Jesus in this land. Till death I will keep it. For Christ’s sake, I count it all as loss, including my life.
Until the day I know I had lost you, I came to realize that I had lost so much without you in the past, there was no way to get back to the good old days. How I wished I could love you more; let you ride on my shoulder, give you one more hug, and tell you more bedtime stories while your biological parents never did. How I wished I could have prayed more for you, or maybe meet you one more time, just to tell you: “I love you too, my son.”
p/s: Thank you for the present, it is not just a specimen but love from you to keep me going. It is beautiful, my son. Thank you for everything.
With love,
Always your daddy KC
********
It read:
Dearest daddy KC ,
I will never forget the day when we planted the olive tree. I am happy to see it is growing stronger each day, and the shadow on it will be a piece of great art.
Me too, a piece of great art of The Lord, is in His service. I will go to the end of the earth to tell his story. It is going to be tough but I know that He is always there for me.
I do not pray for a long life, but a full one, a life that lives for Christ. I do not dream of my name be remembered but His name be exalted.
If there is one last thing I want to tell you, is to say I love you.
Thank you for everything.
p/s: I had found your childhood hero, the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly. It is as dazzling as you told me. I can't give you a live one; forgive me it is just a specimen.
God bless you.
With love,
Always your son Z
********
The words on the letter was fading, the sweetness of love within was not. There was some cluttered writing behind this letter, with some dark red stain on it.
My dearest son,
When I am writing this, I know I will be meeting you soon. The olive tree is growing stronger, just like you. You are right; it is a piece of art that will always remind me of you. And draw a smile on my face everyday.
My coughing is getting worse by days but I have to stay. This is the promise I have given you, to share Jesus in this land. Till death I will keep it. For Christ’s sake, I count it all as loss, including my life.
Until the day I know I had lost you, I came to realize that I had lost so much without you in the past, there was no way to get back to the good old days. How I wished I could love you more; let you ride on my shoulder, give you one more hug, and tell you more bedtime stories while your biological parents never did. How I wished I could have prayed more for you, or maybe meet you one more time, just to tell you: “I love you too, my son.”
p/s: Thank you for the present, it is not just a specimen but love from you to keep me going. It is beautiful, my son. Thank you for everything.
With love,
Always your daddy KC
********
