Voice in the Wilderness

They will come when they realize it. They will come because they need release from it. They will come for this, but it is not release I offer so much as the hard gift of preparation, of expectancy. I stand on the outskirts, the natural wilderness just beyond the concrete one. My feet are ankle-deep in the brown water, my throat is sore from the shouting, and my skin is pricked by the midnight cold. Though I am accustomed to all of this, I do not relish the feelings, but I relinquished my feelings and my comforts and my pride and my shame and my misguided "better" ideas some time ago. It is the only way I can do what I do.

Perhaps they will come tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow they will realize who they are and where they are - what they are - and they will hear my commotion or hear of it, and they will wander down to this dirty water, to the hoarse shouting man standing in it, and they will listen and ponder and suspect their need for release, and they will gently and timidly touch a toe into the water as if it were white fire, and then step in and wade out, and stand next to me ... and then I tell them I cannot give them release, but only the hard gift of preparation, of expectancy.

But this is what they need. If it is release they seek, they must first step into this water for preparation. They must first understand their need for expectancy. They will desire release - yearn for it - but too many comfortable, prideful others are hocking release in their faces everyday, and such sales pitches are wearing thin. Those vendors have no tremble in their voice, no hoarseness, no bare feet in brown water, nothing but better ideas, and if I know anything, I know there is no better idea than the Idea itself.

Perhaps they will come tomorrow. When they realize it, they will come. And until then, I will continue to cry out, for as much as I am the preparer, I must also be prepared. I also wait with expectancy, for it is this same release I, too, am seeking.