Edited by Nancy Enlow
Photo Credit: Jeremy Thomas
He reveals deep and hidden things;
He knows what is in the darkness,
and the light dwells with him.
Daniel 2:22
“The longest journey is the journey inward.”
Dag Hammarskjöld, Markings
John shoved aside the flap of his tent and ducked out into the early morning air. He stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The base, though never fully asleep due to the nature of their work, seemed almost peaceful. In this predawn hour, nothing but faint engine noises and occasional shouts interrupted the soft sounds of crickets. A slight breeze rustled through the nearby evergreens that bordered the east edge of camp. He closed his eyes, inhaling the fresh, pine-tinged air, and imagined standing in an ordinary meadow on an ordinary day with nothing but ordinary things to do.
The gunshot-like backfire of a nearby jeep startled him out of his reverie, reminding him that, while one day it might be a reality, it is not reality today. He took a sip of the steaming coffee in his hand and began the journey to the other side of the base.
Ever since he became a treatment officer, he always followed the same morning routine. They had offered to move his tent closer to the treatment unit, but he repeatedly declined the offer. His daily commute, such as it was, gave him a chance to clear his head before he dove into the day’s work.
Dim overhead lights populated the passageways through the tents. Their weak glow cast just enough light to guide him during this predawn hour. As he ambled his way along in the semi-darkness, a squad of privates marched past, bleary-eyed, driven by their sergeant for early morning maneuvers. It had been a while since he had seen a batch of fresh recruits, and his mind wandered to his early days in the retrieval ranks. He had arrived that first day on the base thinking he would change the world. Back then he thought himself superior. At the first glimpse of his inner-self, he concluded he surely now knew everything; one successful self-reflection and inevitably the doors of wisdom opened wide before him. How could they not? He chuckled inwardly at the arrogant, blind idealism which drove him back then. How would his younger self react if he could reach back through time to offer the insight he now carried? It had taken many years to understand that the world is not so easily changed nor is your true self so easily seen. He watched the group until the last of them turned a corner before moving on.
The dark sky lightened slightly as he neared the main entrance of the base. He observed staff trickling into the intake tent, preparing for today’s arrivals. He often referred to his time in intake as “the angry years.” In every memory from that period, he had been angry. He had been angry at the victims who refused to listen, angry at his fellow officers who questioned his methods, and angry at his superiors who failed to see his greatness. He quietly shook his head at himself. Even with his improved vision, his blind spots remained large.
A caravan of trucks driving past checked his progress. He knew they held the first round of recovery teams the base would be sending out that day. As he resumed, he wondered what kind of victims they would meet that day and how many of them would have their eyes shut so tightly that they wouldn’t even listen. Of course, just getting them here held no guarantee either. He had seen truckloads of victims brought in, but, in the end, only a handful of them ever grew to see past their own hurts. The hardest part of his job lay there. As a colonel, the highest ranking treatment officer on base, he saw the toughest cases from all the specializations–cases in which the treatment majors and even lieutenant colonels over various specialty areas had made no progress. Yet despite his skill and expertise, he had treated plenty of victims who still walked away clinging to their viewpoint and ignorantly blind to anything else. It was always hard to see. He found, after watching it happen so often, he needed a daily, fresh vision to affirm victims really could see. As part of his regular routine, he needed to visit the recovery tent.
The walk to recovery, slightly out of his way, would have been quicker, but before anyone could reach recovery they had to circumnavigate the triage tent. For sheer size, no other tent matched it on the whole base. Every person in the entire battalion, from the lowliest private up to the highest general, had spent time under its green canvas roof. As he drew even with it, he felt a sense of sorrow swell up. It happened whenever he passed it. He had spent years in that tent. The severity of his injury did not dictate the length of his stay however. The treatment itself took half of a day and the post-treatment recovery had been minimal. No, rather than receiving the treatment offered, he spent his days insisting the problem did not lie with him; he continually asserted he wasn’t the one that needed treatment. Even though no one could see him at the moment, he reflexively covered his face in shame as the memory of his behavior rose before him. Only a blind fool prefers pride to water in the desert.
He finally left the triage tent behind just as the early glow of dawn began to run across the sky; the recovery tent now stood before him basking in the rosy hues. A large smile spread across John’s face. Something about the recovery tent always made him smile. The tent itself seemed to radiate with energy as if the open-eyed hope that filled it vibrated the very canvas in front of him. He stepped inside.
Four columns of beds neatly ran down the length of the tent, each flanked by a small bedside table and a chair. Amid this orderly backdrop, patients moved in a chaotic jumble. The range of post-treatment reactions could be seen all about the tent. John took a few minutes to drink it in. Some patients weeping quietly in their beds mourned the opportunities wasted. A few sat staring straight ahead as if in shock. One man with grey just beginning to show at his temples rocked back and forth, muttering, “How could I have missed it?” Off to the right, a group of patients seemed to be quietly celebrating. John smiled, understanding the feeling. A wise man had once told him, “the greatest day of your life is the day you face yourself1,” and this held true every day he did it. A fresh, honest vision of yourself is indeed worth celebrating.
As John continued to move through the tent, he noticed one of the patients, a rather large man, had cornered two of his fellow convalescents off to the side. He seemed to be lecturing them; his beefy arms moved in large sweeping gestures as he harangued. John passed closer and heard the novice forcibly informing the others of the treatment he received and the grave importance a similar treatment would “naturally” have for their own lives. John winced as the man’s discourse hit a little too close to home. It amazed him how, time and time again, with just one glimpse of lucidity, some patients think they can see everyone clearly, including themselves. These neophytes failed to realize they are only at the start of the journey. Honestly, he would be incredulous whenever he encountered it if he hadn’t walked that road himself. He wanted to pull the man aside and explain there were many things he still couldn’t see, and even most of what he could see would remain opaque for a while. However, every treatment officer worth his weight knew that exhortations were little more than an exercise of the exhorter’s ego. Only time and humble treatment would bring greater clarity.
He made his way toward the back of the large tent where a woman stood staring at something in her hands. As John neared, he could see an open locket sitting there; it’s fine gold chain trailing off to the side and down her arm. Up until yesterday she had been a victim in his care.
“Hello, Greta.” John greeted her softly
Her green eyes slowly rose to meet his face and rested there, unblinking. As recognition dawned, the corners of her mouth moved into a slow but gradual smile.
“Hello Colonel Schaeffer. I recognized your voice but I wanted the pleasure of recognizing you by sight.” She let the last word out of her mouth slowly, as if longing to savor some delicious flavor. When she finally released the last of it, her smile moved to a full-faced grin.
“How is recovery going so far?”
“I know they keep telling me that I can’t see everything yet but…” Large tears began to well up under eyes, “I can see.” Her voice trailed off and she stood silent but beaming while the tears trickled down her face. Eventually she returned her gaze to the locket. “I can see him truly for the first time.”
“And?”
She pondered this, all the while staring at the locket. “He’s human. He’s just as broken as I am.”
“Your vision is progressing faster than most if you can see that already.”
Not taking her eyes off the locket she asked, “Will he ever see too?”
The statement floated alone in the silence, as if it had to drift to the ground before anyone could speak. John sighed “I don’t know. We never know who will and who won’t. All we can do is treat; the rest is out of our hands.” He wished he had a better answer.
Frustration flitted across her face, and she closed her eyes a moment as if to steady herself against it. “I wish there was something I could do–something in my control to open his eyes.” Her own eyes opened and looked up at John. “I used to think I could force it–argue him into it. At times I wanted to reach out to peel back his eyelids and thrust the truth into them.” Her face hardened as her voice took on an angry edge. Just as quickly as it came, it passed. Her face and voice melted into a soft sorrow. “But even I didn’t have a clear vision of the truth then.” She began looking at the photograph in the locket again.
“How long will this next stage of treatment take?” She queried.
“It’s up to you really. You can stop at any time, but we don’t recommend it.”
“Why?”
“There is always more to see.”
She took hold of his hand. “I am so grateful for all you have helped me see already.”
Squeezing her hand in reply, John took his leave and navigated his way back toward the exit. He stepped out and took a hard right. His office within the treatment unit lay just a quarter of a mile up ahead.
Halfway there John turned aside. Before starting the long treatment day that stretched out before him he had one more stop to make. Just to the right, a large hill rose slowly out of the ground. He knew from experience the top afforded a stunning view of the entire countryside. If people could just experience what it felt like to stand there and take in the view, John felt more would undertake the rather arduous hike to the top.
When he crested the hill, he bent over and rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. The top lay bare save for grass and a lone tent pitched at the summit. It looked like a million other tents in this camp. It’s army green canvas appeared faded by the sun; the ropes holding it in place looked a bit worse for the wear.
He looked at his watch. In just over an hour he would have to descend. Down below he would take the skill and sight he had received and use it to help others see themselves. But first, this last stop here, a necessary stop, before his work commenced.
Before entering the solitary tent in front of him, he turned to take in the view this lofty elevation afforded him. His eyes moved past the base below and off into the distance. The sun, just below the horizon, set the sky aflame with color. He held his breath for a moment.
This is the moment when nothing is written yet; the day is all ahead, and the world hangs on the edge of possibility. He wondered what he would see today, and where that sight would take him.
As the fiery orange of the sun broke through the distant skyline, John let out a long, slow exhale and entered the treatment tent behind him; entering not to give treatment but to receive it.
(1) Konopka, Louie (2017). The Foundation of Marriage [mp3] https://bhbconline.org/teaching/the-foundation-of-marriage/
Bread Upon The Waters 