pride

The sun hung low and a brilliant orange over the fields of my farm. I always enjoyed the view. The scent of the air and the kiss of the wind lent a soothing fixture to my soul. And it was good.

In the background I could hear the sounds of the screaming bugs and their rhythmic chorus. Behind them I could also hear the soft humming of my wife as she busied herself inside our home. She would hum for almost any chore, saying that it helped to pass the time.

I remember her. She was a woman of remarkable stance. Her hair was golden yellow and shone like honey in the sunlight. It fell over her shoulders, a waterfall of gold.

Her eyes were grey like the clouds of a gentle summer rain and they saw strait through me when she looked at me. I would spend far too much time looking into her eyes. It often made her uncomfortable. But she knew I loved her, she could see that.

The rest of my wife was beyond compare, a perfect blend of beauty and obscenity wrapped in an ageless casing that no matter the years, always shone as seventeen. She was beautiful and she knew it and yet she did nothing fair or foul to gain her favor. She was humble and wise.

She came out and sat with me as I watched the sun go down. We gazed together at god’s great wok and smiled serene in our happiness, secure in our little kingdom. We were lords and masters of our patch of the world.

“Are we not blessed this day?” I smiled as I spoke to her.
“Are we not kings of all we may see?”

“Don’t speak that way husband. Pride is not good on you.” She chided.

“Dear wife, how can be but proud? My fields are full and ripe for harvest. The days are blessed with light and warmth. And I have by my side the one true beauty god has set upon this earth to tend to me and love me as I love her. Pride, I scoff at it. If I speak in pride it is because these two hands have made a life worth being prideful of.”

“Use care. God is listening. He is the reason we live as we do.” She said.

“You are wise. God has had his hand in this to be sure. And I wonder, will he lend his hand at harvest?” I laughed as I got up and went into the house.

That night as we lay sleeping, I woke to a strange sound. It was muffled at first and then began to grow. The house shook and rattled. Looking out the window I could see the fields swaying and with a flash of lightening I saw… tornado.

Quickly I woke my wife and pulled her from the bed. We struggled to get dressed and tried to get to the vegetable cellar. The house now rocked violently making our egress nearly impossible.

I threw the door open and taking her hand I made way across the porch for the cellar door. I put my wife against the wall so that I could open the door and push her in. I barely made it in myself as we huddled in the deafening maelstrom until we could no longer bear it and fell into unconsciousness.

I woke in the silence of the night. The storm gone and the air still as a tomb. I sat up looking for my wife in frantic fury. I saw that the door to the cellar was gone and made my way out of it.

She stood looking out over the wrecked, mangles fields, now mud and twisted stalks. The sight of it looked as if a giant finger had come from the sky and drug itself over my crops, smearing them into nothing.

I walked to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She turned as if she were underwater, in slow motion and sluggish.

“Are you alright?” I asked frantically.

She nodded slowly as she smiled.

There was something not quite right. As I said she looked as though she were under water and there was a small shine to her. Was it a leftover artifact of the storm? Were my eyes playing tricks on me?

“The house still stands. Come inside we’ll get some rest and clean up in the morning.”

I turned to go inside and made a few steps before I realized that she was not behind me. Turning I saw her standing in place looking at me with a forlorn look in her eyes.

“What is it?” I asked walking back to her.

“What’s wrong?”

As I approached I saw a strange looking lump at her feet. I knelt down to clear the debris away only to find the bent, broken body of my wife covered in mud.

“NO!” I screamed a feral plea as I sat holding her in my arms. I did not understand at all what was happening. How could this have been?!

I looked up to see the image of my wife fade into nothing as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She was gone from me. She had been taken by god to a place that I could not follow.

I sat in the mud holding my wife, mourning her, lamenting her, begging for her to return and alleviate this sudden and soul crushing solitude that had been dropped on me from above. I could not understand it, not in the least. Why would he take her from me and not the other way around?

Was it because of my prideful ways? Did I do this to my wife? Why would he take the innocent and leave the sinner? How can I forgive that? How can I forgive anything?

It took a very long time for me to recover from the loss of my wife. It took a very long time for me to understand that God is not a compassionate and caring god. He is a vein and vengeful god, all the writings say so. I took from him a piece of glory, the pride in a hard day’s work and fruits it yielded and he took everything I held dear in return.

I understand now. I get it. It’s not my place to happy about the things I do, the glory and the joy belongs to him… or else…