Sorry For Sins

Samson reluctantly shuffled to the local bus stop in trepidation of the protocol he had recently endured. As his wayfaring thoughts wondered to a safer place, he stumbled, which abruptly regained his realism, and as he faced the impending, growing tarmac path, he instinctively threw forward his hands in defence, and shrieked in pain as they scraped hard against this aggressive surface. 

He felt the blood on his palms before he inspected these sources of suffering, subconsciously aware of his ambivalent, temporary respite from its rooted cause! He inflated to scream in defiance at the world, only then to instantly deflate with an understanding, comparative weakness. He sighed loudly and did not care who might hear this cry of desperation, as he wanted protection, but found none of it in the humorous countenances passing by that mocked him. He regained what little composure he had, and carefully recommenced his fateful journey.

As he neared the crowded bus stop, he consciously felt his body movement stiffen, and every move he made felt robotic – and very oiled with perspiration profuseness. His mind was racing as he uncomfortably wondered to the edge of this abyss, that he knew would suck him right in to its scary depth. He looked away in some vain hope he would not be seen and found a little comfort from the heavenly garden scenery before him. 

He flushed in humble recognition of his name being whispered from behind him, and froze, willing the ground to swallow him up right there and then, with an emphatic empathy to the suffering in life worthy of excellence! 

At first there were just a few cruel jibes by a few, then it amassed to the many; he felt tears well up in his eyes for the injustice of it all, and then, uncharacteristically, he was struck in the face with a cowardly blow from behind with such a force that he keeled over with grateful imprisoning hands hiding his shameful face. 

The bus came moments later, and all but himself boarded.  He stood up as it left and wondered in trial as why none of the adults waiting at the stop had come to his aid, and judged them accordingly to be guilty too. 

He skipped school for days after that and became a recluse, not trusting no one but his loving Father, who since his mother’s untimely passing had devoted himself wholeheartedly to his one and only Son.  But regardless of this trust, he could not bring himself to depart from all his woes and kept them selflessly wrapped up within himself. 

During an evening in, cornered in his bedroom, he was surprised to see his door pushed open by his circumstantial friend, who duly informed him that they were now one and the same, alienated, and tarnished with the same brush of indignation to religious respectability, and that he was now the victim in Samson’s absence at the aggrieved, civil bus stop. He told Samson that they pulled on his long hair, which fed their supposed dominant superiority. They reflectively cried tears and found no shame in their consoling manly hugs. 

That night before going to sleep, Samson remembered a parable his Father had advised him to heed and fell softly to sleep with this understanding embrace of wisdom. 

The next morning, wearing his Christian armour and carrying the sword of peace, Samson marched to the bus stop with his Father’s knowledgeable strength. He quickly passed his friend; whose tresses were waving in the strength of the wind and threw himself to these lion peers with a loving and forgiving heart.

 

© Andrew Stevenson 12/03/2017

 

An edited piece.

 

Thank you. Love love, Andrew.