"Fulfilled Promises" by Amber A. Neighbor

I see so many tears. So much hardship. I look out and see a world of pain, and heartbreak. That was not my purpose. That was not the reason I was placed here. I am here for joy, promise and hope, but so many see me as a loss. So many tears.

I want to help. I want to make life better, but when people look at me, all they see is death. Torture. Stealing of all that is good in the world. When I am an instrument of torture, how do I change my image? Am I supposed to change my image? A man died to change my image, and yet that memory only brings more hate, death and destruction, all in my name, around the world. How can one compete with that?

           I am an image. I am a symbol. I am all that I am supposed to be. Or am I? When people hate and yell and curse at each other, was my purpose fulfilled? Was I not supposed to be a sign to all that a change was coming? Did I not hold that change on my arms, while the nations yelled hate and spread the promise to the world?

           All symbolism changes and it used to create a meaning by whomever chooses, but when did mine become death? What is the meaning of it all? I started as death. I blame Rome for that. Then I became hate. I blame Pontius for that. Then I became a promise that soon was twisted into a promise for domination. I blame the world for that. So many tears.

           But now, how do I change what I see in front of me? How do I make things new? Is it my job? How do I accomplish something everyone hopes, but no one cares to help? I bore hope to heaven and now, I hold the tears of the damned. Does it end?

           Once there was a man who claimed to bring hope. I followed him. I trusted him. I loved him. Then I was used to kill him. So many tears. My life is not what it was supposed to be. This is not what I am supposed to do. Where is the hope? Where is the love? Where is the future? Where is the promise? I am not worthy nor is anyone else here. So many tears.

           Life is tough and life is rough, but where is the joy?

           I see her.

           There is anticipation.

           There is expectation.

           There is peace like a river in her soul.

           She looks up at me. She sees me, but then doesn’t. She see beyond me; above me. She sees Him. She sees Him. What words leave her lips and what love flows from her arms. She lifts up her voice to me, and I send them to the heavens, reminding me from whence my help comes from.

           The meaning of it all. It is more than the laughter and the tears; it is more than the hate and fears of a nation. He is calling and she is running to Him. Her voice calls out in praise and thanksgiving, even as I see tears in her eyes and hear sadness in her breath, purchased with loneliness of youth. But through it all, there is love. Love. The emotion is so strong it sings out of her skin, radiating the thrills and joys that once I held every time a soul came to me. Every time a need was met. She sings a love song for a Savior. She sings to the One above me, the One whom I need and needed me to fulfill the promise. She sings.

           It is well. It is well. It is well with my soul.