In the stillness, the moon
made the whole garden seem white. The bright wash of light left nothing alone.
Every twig, leaf, stalk, and insect looked like an ivory chess piece. Flowers
were drained of their rosy complexion. Only the lake, which encircled the
garden completely, was large enough to keep its true color. The garden was a
moon itself, flanked on all sides by night water. Like all shrouded sanctuaries, no one could ever find it by looking. It takes accidental courage, and
sorrow, for such a radiant isle to appear at the end of a
weary journey. Where the dark sheet of the lake gave way to ground, in the
milky grass, a man sat trying to remember the
name his mother gave him.
He listened nightly to
the garden. A few crickets peppered the air.
Every now and then, small fish leapt from the water, with their splashes echoing off the surface, and the tall willow, the only sign of life in the garden
visible from the outer edge of the lake, sighed as the wind wound through it.
When these sounds performed together, it brought peace to his mind. But if for
some reason the crickets stopped, and the wind ceased, and the fish felt pinned under the moon, as they did tonight, there was not a single noise. The
Man In The Garden was alone— until a sudden rustling in the reeds woke him from
his loneliness.
"Is something
there?" The rustling grew louder. The man picked up his stick and tapped
the ground lightly. He had not heard anything other than music in the garden
before. "Why don't you come out and say hello?"
Just then, the rustling
stopped. The man kept his stick stiffly in his hand as a pale white swan
waddled out between the shoots of ivory. It could hardly be seen except for its
tiny, hard eyes, which it kept fixed on the man. He could feel it scanning his
spirit, looking for signs of aggression and buried sins. His blood started
rushing, and for the first time in years he felt his life burning in his chest.
All from the appearance of the Swan.
"What are you?"
he asked.
"A swan, my friend. A swan, and the Son of
God."
~
The Man In The Garden was
not too religious. His faith was built out of the blocks he stacked as a child. As a child, his mother used to take him to an
evangelical service, but the prophetic boom of the pastor bounced off the
rafters and scared him. He found Sunday School even worse. He loved being
read to by the women with kind voices, but the other kids would whoop and throw
fits, and he could hardly hear the lessons over the wreck. He took an intense
disliking to Sunday School, and began to throw fits of his own over his cereal
every Sunday morning. His mother stopped bringing him. "If you don't want
Jesus," she said, "Jesus doesn't want you."
~
"Don't joke with me."
"I wouldn't joke with you, my friend."
"Swans don't talk."
"I talk."
The man shifted
uncomfortably, loosening his grip on the stick. He knew he was in the
presence of something both small and mighty. The adrenaline had worn off from before, replaced by a calm cluelessness. However
the Swan could talk, it only mattered to the man that it kept talking.
"I've come to talk
with you about some things. I know you've gone far, and that you are probably
tired, and you are feeling at the end of your days. For this reason, I have made
my way to you. I bring only my company. Would you care if I came closer?"
The Swan took a few padded steps forward, then stopped to await an answer.
"I would like us to speak closely: if you talk soft enough, you can slip
past the ear of God. Especially in places like this, conversations sound to him like butterflies rubbing their wings. Then again, he likes to listen for those. May I come closer?"
He began to cry. No one had been kinder to him than the Swan in a long time. The voice
was so calm and warm, and sincere in its tone, that the man could not properly interpret it. He tasted warm salt, and
felt a spasm of hunger in his stomach. It had been two days since he had found
a few mustard seeds, and he ate them so quickly, he forgot he had eaten at all.
"Let’s work on getting you something to eat.” The Swan wandered over to the base
of the willow and opened up his wings. With a few strong thrusts, he was
suddenly at the top of the tree, where the long, sad stems of the willow grew
down and outwards. Gently he snapped a few strands from their base, and they
fell to the ground like air. Returning to where the man sat facing the water,
the Swan went to work on the fallen branches. “This kind of thing was easier
when I had hands, but it should work. I only hope that the fish feel your
plight, and will come willingly once I finish this net. There. Now, I could use
someone to tie these knots. ”
Still shaken, the man
swallowed and crawled in the grass toward where the branches were laid out in a
grid. While he struggled to fasten the knots, the Swan drew close to him and
resumed talking. “I know this overwhelms. Long you have suffered an avoidable
misery, and with no one to blame, your heart has hardened to venom. Your eyes gather
shadow yet reflect the light. Even your feet suffer without reason. So much
water around you, and yet you do not bathe? The earth has stuck to your skin
like worries after a bad dream. They do not need to weigh you down.” The man
bit his lip again, listening to the words as they chipped away at his solitude. He could
hardly stop his hands from trembling as he picked up the net, proud he had done
something useful.
“That’s excellent! A net
worthy of the disciples, even. Peter would be proud. Let’s test it out, shall
we?” The Swan flapped his wings out of excitement, and hobbled over into the
water, trusting that the man would be behind him. The Swan floated on the lake,
preening his feathers and watching the man slowly roll up his trousers. He
walked up to the edge of the water, with the flimsy net in his hands, unsure
what to do next.
“Into the water, yes, that’s right.”
Obeying the Swan with child-like trust, The
Man In The Garden jumped into the lake, leaving his stick on the bed of grass.
~
The
man’s face was covered in soot. For a few difficult months he had been working
as a coal miner, laboring in the belly of the earth for almost no pay. The
foreman had refused to hire him at first, but he pleaded that he had a wife
with a child on the way, and that no one else would give him work. Only the
latter was true. But the foreman felt pity, and agreed to let the man
work as long as he didn’t get in the way. So the man always went furthest into the
mine, where he could hear no other sounds but his pickaxe working at the rock.
That’s
where he was, caked with grime and sweat, when the ground began to tremor and a
splitting sound echoed off the walls. He stumbled back towards the mouth of
the cave. There wasn’t a trace of light. Horrified, he realized that there was
no getting out— the ceiling of stone had fallen in and trapped him.
He could see nothing.
~
Stooped
in the tall grass, the Swan was doing as any other swan would—making deposits. The
man was sitting beneath the willow, digging his fingers into the silvery guts
of a limp fish. Juices slid down his chin and neck. The water had renewed his
sense that he was human, encouraging his hunger. He bit into scales, organs,
eyes— it didn’t matter. The Swan rose and made his way over to
the tree, leaving a small pile of pellets near the reeds. “I see you don’t
waste any of the fish,” he observed. “That’s good.”
“Well, it’s the least I owe it,” said the man. His jump into the lake had not only
refreshed his spirit, it had loosened his tongue as well. The Swan already had
done more for him than he ever thought to do for himself. No longer did he feel
useless: he was grateful. Still, he doubted his sanity, but as long
as he had good meat to eat, it only mattered that he was alive. The Swan was
back to preening his feathers, waiting with patience for the man to finish his
meal. “Why’d you become a swan?”
“It
was an easy decision. Swans know how to love. Their rude manners and plainness can’t hide that swans love all too well. They mate for life.
And they accept God without knowing it, which is the best manner of acceptance.
I have been a swan for a very long time. Back when I was much more like you, I
could never have lasted this long. I was too easily noticed, then. But I
suppose that was the idea.”
“I
thought you wanted to be noticed?” he asked as he pulled a thin bone from
between his lips, placing it in a neat pile with the others.
“You
mean my Father told me to get noticed. He arranged the stars to announce my arrival. They noticed me the minute I was born. My mission began with my first breath.”
“What mission was that?” The man wasn't sure whether or not the answer was obvious. The Swan did not give away any signs, but only preened his feathers and let out a soft honk.
“As a baby, I would not have been able to tell you. I only cried and cried. Until I grew up and death met me at the rendezvous. If I were to ever come back, I would skip all that crying, and pick up right where I left off.”
The man stopped eating
and wiped his mouth. “Back?”
The
Swan nodded. “To try again.”
As the first time they had
met, the man was too stunned to say anything. A choir of crickets started again somewhere. The magnitude of the night in the garden had not extended beyond his world. He had not thought of anyone
beside himself since he had met the Son of God. The Swan had not given him a
single opportunity.
“But
I would rather not. I was misunderstood. You must know, spilled water
cannot be poured back. My voice would drown and be buried beneath controversy. Those
that would have me will not expect me. They will expect me as I was. I realize
they cannot know just how quickly the world has changed. I have stayed a part
of it, as I was born to be. My father will not have me in Heaven— I was right. When I died, my Father ignored me."
For the first time, there was sadness in the Swan's voice.
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? Because he
wanted a son on Earth. I thought I had achieved something, when I was here. My
heart was pure and I died for what I believed in, hurting no one in the
process. I had died for the world. I only wish I had the same opportunity to
join my father in the Kingdom of Heaven. I have watched many pass, and I weep when I
watch, because I know that they are blessed. Not by my actions or my father’s
actions, but by their actions. Miracles are small and fortunate things. But
that miracle, being allowed into Heaven— that is the miracle everyone was born
with, except me.”
For the first time, there was sadness in the Swan’s
voice. “This is one of my favorite places to be. God knows it. He knows
it because I know it. And I know that now, he is watching us.” Hearing this,
the man couldn’t help but feel incredibly small.
“How
do you know?”
“Because
he sent me here for you.”
Thoughts
of being dead were resurfacing in the man’s mind. His life kept
getting bigger and bigger than him; he was sure somewhere along the way it
popped and took him with it. Then he remembered the lake, and jumping straight
in, even though the Swan only meant for him to toss the net. He made that
choice because he was alive. Sure of that, he still held on to the possibility
of it all being a dream.
“To
give you comfort, and ask a question of you. I hope that it isn’t too hard. The
only required answer is one that you are sure of, that you mean to the fullest,
and that you add up every moment of your life to arrive at the precise answer.
Nothing will happen to you either way, I promise on Creation itself. You will
have your house in Heaven, which no one can take from you. You may take as long
as you want to answer, but don’t let the question bring any more questions.
Take it, and think firmly of your answer.”
The
man’s heart was racing. He trusted the Swan, but still had fear in his quaking
hands. The vastness of the sky was making him dizzy. He breathed deep through his nose. He had to know.
“What’s the question?”
“Can
you believe in me?”
~
The
Man In The Garden was very lucky.
Stuck
in the stomach of a mountain, he could see nothing. His candle snuffed out the
moment the mine fell in. He tripped and hobbled through the mine, and wondered how
his mother would take the news that her son has gone missing. She would know he
was dead. And as these thoughts started eating away at him, with not much left
of him but a skeleton with the will to be free, he found the exit that saved his life. A forgotten
mine shaft, far on the other side of the mountain. He emerged from the mine and
fell to the ground laughing.
His
laughter did not hold for very long. Regardless of where he thought he was, or
how long he walked for, he could not find his way. He decided that he would
give up on his mother as she had given up on him. He wasn’t so good on his own,
but he adjusted. No one made any remark to him. He passed, often they gave, and
he gave his thanks in return—not wanting anyone’s pity, he usually passed
quickly. Though in some places he did stop longer than others.
For
two years, he stayed with a family that owned a farm. He helped with the
animals in exchange for food, and slept behind the barn, until the eldest son
put a gun on him, after his girlfriend claimed the man had groped her.
For
seven years, he worked at a sewing machine. Every day the sweat from his
forehead would drip onto his hands, and his hands often slipped.
For
eleven years, he was sent to jail for the murder of a banker. He hardly defended
himself and was sentenced thirty years. He was let out when they discovered
they had the wrong man.
Then,
for twenty years, he looked for his mother. That’s what brought him to the
garden. That tiny, crescent-shaped garden in the center of a lake, invisible to
the indifferent. That was where he had met Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God.
~
The white of the garden was beginning to wash away. Only
the Swan kept its color as the streaks of the sun spilled over the distant ridge.
“I
will ask until you answer. Can you believe in me?”
The
man could not say yes. He did not want to say no, but the longer he sat with
the Swan, and the more he ruminated, the more he was sure that his mind had
deteriorated, and that the events of the night were either a dirty trick of his
mind, or that he was asleep in a world more beautiful than his own. Though when
he thought about it more, he decided it did not matter whether it was real or
not. It did not even matter if he was dying, and that he would have to tell no
one about the Swan In The Garden. He knew that he would have kept it secret all
his life. He would have been able to tell no one that he loved Jesus, and that
Jesus loved him. It would have twisted him inside like a fever, and snapped his
spirit in half to know that he would never meet Christ in Heaven. It would have
been better to have not met him at all. His cheeks felt warm again from tears.
“I
cannot believe in you, oh Lord. I cannot be your witness, for I have sinned.”
The
Swan dropped his head, then brought it up to itch his right wing.
“I knew it. That's what I said to him, ‘Father, they are not ready for me.’ And he told me
that if I came to the garden, I would find a man who could truly believe in me,
and if he did, it would mean that they are ready for me to return as a man. The thought of it.” The Swan honked in relief. “Sorry to put you through all that, and that I can’t
stay any longer. But I do have a mate, you know. If I get back before the sun’s
fully up, she won’t even notice I’ve been gone.” The Swan wandered over to a
bush, and plucked a leaf with his beak. He approached the Man, who seemed finally ready for sleep. Jesus handed him the leaf.
The
man wiped his face. “Thank you.”
“I thank you more,” the Swan said, pressing the top of
his head into the flesh of his cheek. “I gave you shelter for a night. In return, you have kept me hidden. I hope one day we will be seated together in my Father's house.”
With
that, he turned around, opened his wings, and briefly thought of taking off.
But remembering a man from his past, who was in darkness until Jesus brought
the world to light, the Swan folded his wings up and wheeled around. "Why
do you carry that stick with you?"
This
caught the Man off guard. "I need it.”
The
Swan wagged its head. "My son. Ask, and it shall be given to you. Seek,
and you shall find. Knock, and it shall be opened to you."
As
Jesus turned around to walk towards the water, the milky blue of the man’s
broken eyes began swirling, and he knew he was not in a dream. He had wanted
for so long to see, he had almost forgotten that life had anything to see at
all. He remembered his mother’s face, and how often she had let him touch it,
feeling the bags of skin under her eyes and the lobes of her ears. How he
wanted to see her, and hold her before it was his turn to die. A few leftover
memories ran their final course down his face. The darkness that hung over his
eyes started to soften, and small patches of light began appearing, like the
first few notes of the first concerto ever played. All at once life was music,
and all its stunning pictures created a radically different sound: the sky was
filled with strings, the grass was a trilling piccolo, the reeds blew a loud
horn, mountains all around were crashing and beating, and the deep, sad organ
of the earth held everything together so tremulously. The clouds, when he could
stop squinting and look up at them, looked like no Heaven he had seen in his heart.
And the Swan was out on the lake, paddling away from the garden, straight into
the rise of the sun, leaving not a single ripple behind him.
~
