The Dark Room

A man sits in a darkened room. There are no windows, no doors that he knows of, only a single 1/2 watt reading bulb for him to see by. On each wall of the room are shelves of objects. Little statuettes and figurines and models of things. Each is made of glass and very reflective. Some have minerals mixed in or other types of glass and so appear colorful and wonderful in the hot spark of that reading bulb.

The man treasures these silicate wonders he has stacked up on these shelves. One by one he takes them down from their places and turns them over and over in his hands, examining every facet by that tiny light. However, as the man ogles these marvelous objects, he becomes increasingly excited and so starts to quiver and giggle as he fondles them. Eventually he gibbers so much that the glass idol slips from his fingers and crashes to the floor, breaking into jagged fragments.

Regaining his composure he reaches for another sculpture, but the same thing happens again. His excitement grows to such a fervor that the glass flies from his sweating hands and shatters like the one before. In desperation he grabs another, hoping to maintain the euphoria of his excitement, but it too falls to the ground and disintegrates.

With the breaking of each object the satisfaction he longs for moves further from his grasp and fills him with anger. No longer placated by the beauty of his collection, he begins to feel pleasure only in destroying them. One by one the objects fly off the shelves and crash against the floor, or the walls, or against the man's fists. He batters the heavier ones against others, he crushes the delicate ones with his fingers. His hands are bruised and bloody, but his happiness continues to wane despite his fevered efforts.

Finally, when all is said and done, the man lies upon a twinkling landscape of debris and gouging shards, exhausted, cut up, in pain, and bottomlessly miserable. In one final fit of rage he reaches up, and, burning his marred palm, snuffs the tiny bulb which provided the only illumination of his once majestic and now tragic collection, hoping that in the darkness he can forget everything he ever saw in that cruel light. After a lengthy moment of silence he weeps.

Suddenly a knock issues from the wall before him, startling the man greatly. Was there someone outside? Was there an outside? A moment's reflection brings bewilderment as to how he had entered the room to begin with. He had always just taken it for granted that he was there. The knock rings out again, causing the entire structure to throb. "Who is it?" the man shouts. "Will you open the door to me?" comes the reply from without. What a strange reply. "Tell me who you are," the man says. "Behold, I knock. Will you open the door to me?" gently answers the voice with such power that the man's heart jumps into his throat. Who could it be? It could be a friend, or it could be some malevolent force seeking to do him even greater harm. He winces as the sting of his wounds begins to set in.

"Come with me and I will heal your wounds," states the guest. How did he know the man was injured? Perhaps he had heard glass breaking and come to help. "Will you open the door to me?" and another knocking, so crushing and universal that the man fears he may be destroyed by it. With a trembling hand he reaches forward saying, "I don't know how!" Mysteriously, his hand rests upon the cold firmness of a brass doorknob and he winces in agony and terror as he turns it.

A seam of brilliant light frames a rectangle in the wall and punishing radiance floods in as the door opens, overwhelming his eyes. A stream of cool air rushes to fill the space and fragrant smells waft in upon it. His saturated senses at first rebel against this new stimulation and he cries out, but gradually latent memories return and ancient knowledge brings recognition to it. A moment later he opens his eyes to see the frame of another man standing in the doorway, reaching his hand out to him. This new man seems to be just like him in every way men are a like, and yet somehow more.

Looking closely, he sees scars on his hands and feet, and somehow knows other scars exist. The scars indicate to the man that he is there to help, and so he takes the outstretched hand and lifts himself to his feet, nearly collapsing in weakness. The other man supports him and leads him out into the brilliance from which he came.

Every step brings a sensation of recovery and new life. Soon the man no longer needs the other's support, but continues to rest on him, finding increased strength in his embrace. The other man leads him down a hallway of increasing size that bends around a corner. As they walk out of the passageway the man finds himself bathed in sunlight. This feels familiar, this feels right. He stands in a grassy area filled with trees. He recognizes the fruits hanging from some of them, he had glass figures of them back in the room. Only these were not made of glass, but some other substance. He picks one; it falls easily into his hand. His hand! The wounds are gone! The shards extracted! The flesh even shows no scars! He lets the fruit drop away and takes a bewildered step forward, squishing it beneath his foot. He jumps back in surprise; it is soft and malleable and emits a wondrous aroma. He plucks another and pokes it with his finger. Juice runs onto his knuckles and he tastes. Slendid! It's a peach! He had a glass peach with flecks of orange and goldenrod buried beneath the surface, but this is a real peach! Ecstatic, he takes a bite, then another, then quickly consumes the rest, sucking the juice from his fingertips.

Turning about he is approached by a woman whom he immediately recognizes. It is the same woman as that golden statue, the one that had first slipped from his hands. His knees weaken when he sees her true form: she is very beautiful and though the glass statue was beautiful also, it could not begin to compare with the reality. He joyfully embraces her and she returns his embrace as one who has not seen her dearest friend in many years. She says to him amid tears, "Welcome back. We're all waiting for you at home. Please come soon." Home! He only had the dim image of the glass house and made the connection with this new place: there would be a real home, made of wood and stone, with all his familiar people and things really inside. The woman looks toward the sky and seems to be thanking someone. Then begins to walk and motions for him to follow.

The other man is still standing with him. The man looks at him and said, "Who are you, sir? And how have you done this?" He replies, "I am the Resurrection and the Life. When you put your trust in me, I brought you from death to life, from darkness to light. Behold where you have been." He points at the ground to the left. The man looks in that direction and pales. What he sees lying upon the ground is a tiny wooden box, no more than an inch high, with a small horn attached to it. "How did you get down...but how did we come..." the man stammers. "Your faith has made you well. Now go and tell others what the Lord has done for you."

He embraces the man heartily and thanks him repeatedly, promising never to forget the deeds of this remarkable person. He takes a step after the woman, then turns to ask if he can return the favor, but the man is gone. In his place is a vagrant who has picked up the box with a horn and is looking deep inside it. He smells bad, but the man knows what lies within the box and approaches the pauper. "You do not want to know what is in there. Are you hungry?" The vagrant nods assent. "Would you like to come to my house and have dinner? I have a feeling there is a wonderful feast waiting for us, the likes of which neith of us have experienced in a long time."

------

I would have liked to add more about his wonder at the reality of real life, but the well ran dry. Comments, questions?