“3 I thank God whom I serve, as did my ancestors, with a clear conscience, as I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. 4 As I remember your tears, I long to see you, that I may be filled with joy. 5 I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well. 6 For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands, 7 for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control. 8 Therefore do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, nor of me his prisoner, but share in suffering for the gospel by the power of God, 9 who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his own purpose and grace, which he gave us in Christ Jesus before the ages began, 10 and which now has been manifested through the appearing of our Savior Christ Jesus, who abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel, 11 for which I was appointed a preacher and apostle and teacher, 12 which is why I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed, and I am convinced that he is able to guard until that day what has been entrusted to me. 13 Follow the pattern of the sound words that you have heard from me, in the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. 14 By the Holy Spirit who dwells within us, guard the good deposit entrusted to you. 15 You are aware that all who are in Asia turned away from me, among whom are Phygelus and Hermogenes. 16 May the Lord grant mercy to the household of Onesiphorus, for he often refreshed me and was not ashamed of my chains, 17 but when he arrived in Rome he searched for me earnestly and found me— 18 may the Lord grant him to find mercy from the Lord on that day!—and you well know all the service he rendered at Ephesus.” (2 Tim 1:3-18 ESV)

Somewhere amidst the Encounters, amidst the orb meets orb, shoulders brush as if angel wings, a line is drawn in the sand. Amidst the ebb and flow, amidst the pleasantries, Alert scouts hearken to a distant thundering roar. Both behind us and in what lies ahead, the roar means that all coincidence of who and where we find ourselves taking respite, taking limpid patient rest, taking tent city life, our better angels are rewarded for their Diligence: hark, it approaches. It looms. It bears down illustriously on each of us, beaten into submission at times, or rather hastily and aggressively folded and formed, shaped and restored: the hands of God do ready each living soul for Tomorrow’s War.

Because what Approaches is no cock-eyed enemy, no loony tunes army, but Christ Himself, ushering in the thousand years of Reign. It is Christ Himself who looms, who approaches, who brightly shines His aura into our little peeping circuits and routines. It is Him… and a thousand mischief seekers in short stead after Him: right in the nick of time, He assuages and readies, nips and tucks, Forms and Prepares. He is our helpmeet, our bunkmate, our simpler Friendly Setting: species of Spirit do orb and meld, bounce and Encounter, but these… these Friends… also forget not the Line in the sand: all things, God don’t make no junk… all things can be negotiated and patiently Lived Into.

Access. We have Access to some third Realm, not always shared at once with even kin and species near to us. Each Person… a Family… each has their own gig and livelihood but ours: envision a Together undeniable Line, an arms-linked No-Go-Zone and buttressing front line. To Invite… to take the Rare Stand of being… no rival but willingly Affectionate for one another, we with gladsome grin on our faces do Harken to the distant roar, the other side of the line drawn in the sand, the Hope of the Peoples, of the Nations, of this plain Desire to go calmly into a Father’s Arms, war… if War comes… let us nurse and rest through the encroaching bomb blasts, nurse and rest in His loving care, because He is master of the battle line, master of the border, master of things too yawningly—we are yawning, not hawk-like alert, when times of rest do come—beyond our concern. Yes, we yawn, because by end of Sabbath Rest, we shall be lightly Ready, lightfooted, fleetfooted, post Transversal. We transverse some intentional Rest. We let all our concerns float away to Indulge, to Eat, to Fellowship with almost a yawn.

Because we are not located Here, quite, but There: in the looming Roar, in our own personal Prerogative. We have a unique Calling, to point to Christ, to I.D. Him in the dull roar. There shall be War (He said), and there shall be fleetfooted Service (He honored); there shall be Nursing and Patience (He appreciates). We are nursed and we are Readied, eighteen years old and nothing more in some cases, babes in a Mother’s arms, and already tasting the strange No-Man’s-Land of the arbitrated or disputed Plains. Who and why… it is not in vain, but Service against all odds, against all immediate Doubts, of a Crown and of a borderless Claim to all lands being His. Including our imperfect ones. Including our retreat for a brief moment, to the orbs Engaging and Embracing each other, in a Identify Friend or Foe Reality.