Images by Lilla Frerichs and Vera Kratochvil Thankyou

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=42428&picture=stand-of-trees 

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=15450&picture=listening-ear 

 

 

“Kee-ow,” came the piercing shrill from above.

The giant eucalypt looked up just in time to see an enormous flock of cockatoos drop from the sky and clamber across the top of his lofty canopy. One minute the old eucalypti’s fleece was green, the next it was black.

Arriving from the other side of the ridge, the feathered troop numbered more than one hundred and made no bones about how hot under the collar they were all feeling.

Resting their spent flappers, the distraught tree top dwellers were not happy at all!

Now, the old tree wasn’t one for leaves dropping and certainly didn’t want to appear meddlesome but the boisterous banter bouncing from branch to branch was hard to ignore.

Unfortunately, theirs was a common story, a tale of trouble which the old timer had heard many times before from other flocks which had sought refuge in the old growth forest.

In truth, hearing it again at this very moment was probably the last thing he really needed, given his own growing trepidation.

But then again, the laws of nature were very specific when it came to the treatment of others. Written before time itself, they were crystal clear to all who inhabited the forest and to no one more so than its towering patriarch.

Older than anyone could remember, the grandfather of all trees knew that when it came to lending a sympathetic ear and a helping hand, it was never merely a case of maybe; it was always simply a matter of must.

With ruffled feathers and troubled eyes, the cockatoos were obviously in desperate need of some help and the wise old eucalypt knew exactly what he needed to do.

Summoning his long time companion, the mighty wind, he asked if she would mind crooning a few tunes to calm the cockatoos down.

More than happy to go along with her friend’s request, the obliging wind blew forth a gentle breeze. Leaves became flute reeds as one by one the squawking squatters ceased their incessant chatter.

The whistling wind’s song was mesmerising. Held under her spell, the birds sat quietly and listened whilst the head of the forest meditated upon finding some kind of solution to the imminent predicament facing them all.

Not only was the ancient eucalypt the oldest tree in the valley, he was also by far the tallest. Soaring almost sixty metres towards the clouds, he stood head and shoulders above the rest and could easily see beyond the ridge into the neighbouring lowlands.

What met his eyes made him wince.

No longer did the vibrant leafy crown of the adjacent forest grace the clear blue skies. In recent months, he had looked on in sheer horror, helpless to do anything as slowly but surely members of his extended family had fallen victim to the indiscriminate teeth of hand held chainsaws.

Once strong, healthy and brimming with life, the onetime spirited woodland had all but vanished before his very eyes. In its place, acrid fumes from bulldozers now competed for air space with billowing smoke from never ending bon fires. Charred by the torch of her tormentor, the land now lay stripped of all dignity and devoid of movement.

Subjected to such an extended display of desolation, the bewildered eucalypt had become lost somewhere between despair and disbelief.

This was the carnage of which the yellow tailed black cockatoos had spoken; the very thing which had driven them from their home and sent them into a frenzy.

In the past, the old eucalypt had always welcomed every opportunity to hear the wind sing. Of late however her soothing breath had become more important than ever, helping not only to focus his own troubled thoughts but also in retaining an air of peace to those who resided in the old growth valley.

It was a peace treasured by all.

Theirs was a close knit community. Without exception, everybody took care of each other. Respect, compassion and unity were the order of the day. No one living in the forest knew any other way to exist, nor did they want to. It was their home, an abode where no one ever needed to ask for help. Help was something given automatically to anyone in need.

Older eucalypts lead by example, teaching the others through deed rather than instruction. Established trees selflessly shaded the young until they were strong enough to savour the sweet taste of direct sunlight upon their own leaves.

Industrious earthworms went about their business in the nursery below, tunnelling through the reddened loam to spread nourishment from donated debris lying in generous layers upon the nurturing earth.

Nobody looked for praise. Everyone participated with two things in mind; ongoing health and harmony. Theirs was a family like no other but theirs was also a family under threat.

On this, the most unthinkable of all days, the wind’s dulcet tones did little to quell the old tree’s apprehension as he watched rolling clouds of red dust trail a convoy of approaching trucks.

These were trucks he had seen before, their drivers adorned in bright orange hard hats; the same hats observed in the once lush neighbouring lowland.

Motor vehicles themselves were nothing new to the old timer. Up until recently, they had been common in the valley. Every weekend the visitors used to come. It had been that way for years; people from all walks of life rolling up in four wheeled chariots to take a look around.

Grandparents holding hands with children and laughing as husbands and wives rediscovered themselves amid the forest’s fascination; these were the reasons they came.

Some would walk among the ferns, some along the many bush tracks which meandered through the secluded woodlands. Others brought picnic blankets to spread over the ground, breaking out bottles of chardonnay and platters of gourmet cheese.

Some came as families to congregate – others came alone seeking solitude.

Most times the giant eucalypt recognised an obvious affection held for one another. Other times however he couldn’t help but detect a strong sense of division, a hidden feeling of pain, a deep longing for something unknown.

‘Sanctuary’, a word the old tree had overheard the humans use repeatedly on thousands of separate occasions. Why was it then that they wanted to tear it down?

Despite many long hours of deep deliberation, he had never quite been able to fathom the logic of the two legged creatures. He knew of no other species that knowingly went about destroying the very thing which sustained its own life.

What of the generations to follow?

Mankind was a strange breed alright but in keeping with tradition, the humans had always been made to feel at home whenever they visited. They too were given respect and compassion. It was a sanctuary to all who entered; a refuge offering bowlfuls of goodness for the soul. It was a place where men and women of any age could harness healing, a place where the body’s aches were forgotten and the minds aches were put into perspective.

Yes, the old eucalypt knew of buses and cars but these were no ordinary vehicles he spied coming over the ridge. These were trucks of industry, hardwood hunters hungry for timber; timber urgently needed to spoke the wheels of progress.

Considered the most enlightened of all living beings in the forest, even the accrued wisdom of centuries held no answer for the mystified eucalypt.

How he wished he could speak with these misguided beings. They had obviously forgotten the universal language of Love.

If only he could converse in their language. If only the voice of reason could be understood. Didn’t they realise that the forest and all its creatures were as much a part of their family as they were of his?

The sound of truck doors slamming sent a sudden shiver through his aged roots.

It was a shiver which stopped the entire forest dead in its tracks.

Two small possums hesitated before scurrying along the pale, smooth bark of a heavily laden branch to huddle closely within their grandfather’s bosom.

In an instant, all the music stopped. The mighty wind remained motionless, leaving air once brimming with purpose and vitality to take on the stale stench of fear.

Everyone, including the cockatoos, knew what was about to happen, only this time their yellow tipped tails stayed put.

This was the last forest in the region.

These were the last trees.

There was nowhere else to go!

With one final sweep of his eyes along the forest floor, the old eucalypt found himself smiling. There amid the fallen leaves and nesting hollows stood a newborn sapling. At barely a metre high, the young tree may well have been only a fraction of his grandfather’s size but to the proud old eucalypt, this youngster stood taller than anyone before him.

Drawing strength from his sibling, the giant tree commanded all around him to invoke the power of stillness.

An extended hush swept through the valley heralding the arrival of Silence.

This was all seeing Silence whose eyes had witnessed empty headed behaviour since the beginning of time; pure Silence to which men and women throughout the ages had turned for restoration, yet from which others had shied away for fear of hearing that which their hearts knew to be true.

 

Knowing full well that at some point, all mankind would realise that they had no option but to listen, Silence stood steadfast hoping that time was now!

 

Copyright © W.L.Sorrell 2007                    

mentalflush.com

 

 

 

[417 words] Image by Charles Rondeau Thankyou

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=73075&picture=stone 

 

WHEN LEFT ALONE, all on its own, a stream will flow downhill.

As long as I have ever known, it has and always will.

When left to be, a newborn tree, will grow towards the sun.

A fact that’s plain for all to see, that’s clear to anyone.

It seems to me that what flows down, provides for what grows up.

That every seed within the ground drinks from One teeming cup.

It seems to me that life and growth are two peas in one pod.

With all the bonds between them both designed instep by God.

But when I look at life and man, the only growth I see,

Is in his indecision and his inconsistency.

Take a stone, a simple stone and place it in his palm.

See his fingers play with it before he lifts his arm.

When left aside, no force applied, the stone will never roll.

Will never spin, will never slide – will never lose control.

But now the stone belongs to him, the choice is his to make.

To toss the stone into the sea, or skim it on the lake?

To throw the stone in judgement, or lay the stone in shame?

To carve from it an idol, or carve in it a name?

To add the stone to others, to build from them a tower?

To build a temple to the clouds, obsessed with his own power?

Is this what’s meant by life and growth?

Is this what’s meant to be?

To stand upon a pile of stones, pretending we are free?

Or should we take our stone and sling and slay the giant within.

The self-obsession strutting through the veins beneath our skin!

Yes, God provides the streams which flow, and God sustains the seeds.

And God provides the very things which every person needs.

But somehow, we all look for more and build the tower higher.

Somehow, we all take the flame and cause a raging fire.

So, take your sling and take your stone – 

Let both be well applied.

Renew your mind, begin to grow, restore the flame inside.

But choose the flame – be wise, beware.

And never lose concern.

For sometimes fires we light for warmth,

Will turn around and burn.

Life we have and life is growth, and how we grow – we choose.

In Christ we stand, mature and rest.

Without Him – rest we lose!

Don’t be alone, all on your own.

Just stop, look up – be still.

God will make Himself well known.

 

He has and always will.

 

Copyright © W.L.Sorrell 2015 

www.mentalflush.com 

 

 

 

[1333 words]   Image by Виталий Смолыгин Thank you

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=31526&picture=two-hearts

 

One hand holds his steering wheel while the other dangles from an open window. He peers into the rear vision mirror. Two weary workmates sit in silence. Three faces now share the same look of discontent.

Something is wrong!

Everyone seems dispirited. Eyes lack enthusiasm. A sense of hollowness pervades.

Laughter has vanished.

An hour later and at last the day is done. The front door opens and once more his mask is hung upon the coat hook.

Jettisoned steel cap boots fly across a polished tiled floor. The day has been long; the list of problems longer.

Hot chicken soup wafts down the hallway to greet him. Clinking keys bring the dog scooting from the kitchen. He is home!

Fully fed and freshly showered, bedtime arrives in a blink.

Where did the time go?

He sits on the mattress. Beside him, his wife reads whilst leaning back against two white lace pillows. The cats, one black one white, both worry free and playful, tumble on the padded blue bed spread.

It is dark outside; pitch black. Stars have vanished. The neighbourhood sleeps.

No telephone rings and no television plays.

Peace has returned.

Solitude filters in through an open window on the back of a cool breeze. A sense of awareness arises. Where it comes from, he knows not but come it does.

A journal’s empty page returns his bewildered stare; a pen sits idle in his hand. The blank canvas waits.

What to write?

Why to write?

Somewhere within a need is present. A restless yearning struggles to set the ink free. Thoughts of existence and questions of logic meander through his mind.

Is this the way it is meant to be? Congested highways choking whilst playgrounds sit empty? Sighs of resignation echoing through suburban streets? What burdens do people carry? What poison has driven joy into hiding?

Still the bare page beckons.

Words are pondered. Written or spoken, every story begins with one; every question and answer as well. An obvious observation to make, he muses, yet one he has overlooked until now.

He thinks of the toddler struggling to string two words together and the cajoling, silver tongued sales executive. What of the poet pouring out her heart, the actor learning his lines or the stonemason engraving a tombstone?

Words are life!

What of his own words?

What of his own life?

If every word he’d ever spoken was a colour, what would the portrait of his life look like?

Where do words come from anyway? Are they merely curious vibrations of the throat transcribed into meaningless scribble? What of silent words encased within the mind?

Who decided which word would be used to represent what? Who was the first to utter it? At what point in history was the first word spoken? At what point was the first word unspoken?

Which came first?

Still the cats frolic, pausing only to groom one another with unconditional affection.

How sad, he broods, his mind recalling the faces in his rear vision mirror. Is good will among men such an outlandish idea?

What prevents it?

Perhaps words of understanding?  

Perhaps words of forgiveness?

Easy to say – but should he forgive those who undermine him? Should he forgive those who belittle him? Should he forgive those who revel in his misery; those who conspire and manipulate at his expense?

Does he forgive those who harm his loved ones; those who test his will and break his spirit?

Can they change?

Will they change?

Is it his place to change them?

Is it his right to try?

How can he possibly forgive?

What is at stake?

Still no words find ink. The night lamp casts a shadow of his hand onto the barren page. Five fingers cradle the pen. One thumb and four, the teachers told him. They told him many things. Why then the feeling? What is missing?

What did they forget to tell?

The school years have long passed, so too the first four decades of his life. Much blood has run through his veins. Many tears have been shed. Something needs to be said.

Words need to be written.

Sleep takes hold of his wife right before him. Removing one pillow, the man cradles the head of his loved one and kisses her softly before whispering goodnight. Even in sleep, he knows she hears him.

His attention is drawn to her book.

Picking it up he flicks open a page at random.

A well-known and much-loved verse appears amid the numbered text.

“In the beginning was the Word...”

A new found fascination takes hold of his thinking.

Fresh questions make their way to the front of the queue.

Is his own life a story?

Is his own life a book, beginning as all others with a single word?

Is each experience a sentence, each inner conflict a page, each triumph of the soul a chapter?

Are all the words to his own life already written?

“In the beginning was the Word...”

Are these words composed by human hand or are they truly inspired?

The man becomes inquisitive.

Are they words of truth or merely pieces of manmade fiction; feel good fairy tales perpetuated by the figment of mankind’s fertile imagination?

Why is the word of history’s most famous book maligned so much by some – yet treasured so much by others?

Is freedom of speech and personal expression a good thing or a not so good thing?

What is true freedom anyway – autonomy to say or do whatever one pleases, or deliverance enabling all to do that which is right?

The man wrestles with the contention.

Still the blank canvas returns his gaze. Still nothing volunteers itself.

Why ten fingers? He glances once more at the silhouette of his hand on the empty page. Why not nine? Why not eleven? Why any?

His pen suddenly springs to life. Words like how and when appear. Words like why and where.

Words like creation, words like design, words like order, words like sovereignty and salvation – words like the Son of God.

Answers hide behind the fog of fatigue.

Twelve chimes on the grandfather clock signal the end of contemplation. He places his pen and paper on his cluttered bedside table and reaches for the lamp.

The cats are asleep on the quilt. Curled in a ball, they blend into one. His wife too sleeps soundly, their unborn child in her rounded tummy. For five months he has watched their son grow inside her.

Not once has she stopped smiling.

Stillness now beckons.

With his head immersed in a soft pillow, he recalls the night their child was conceived through pure love.

Beneath the blankets he reaches for his wife’s hand. It is a slender hand, soft to the touch yet strong with purpose. He remembers the first time he held it.

Two wedding bands unite.

Two bodies merge.

Coherence fades as serenity entices slumber.

One last stretch, one last sigh.

As layers of logic evaporate into the still night air, the man slides his hand down to rest upon his wife’s belly.

For the first time he feels the patter of tiny feet against his palm.

He cannot help but be overwhelmed.

Tears glisten from the corners of both eyes.

How can any one word describe the miracle of creation?

How can any one word describe the love he feels for his son at this very moment?

An unheralded wave of immeasurable contentment washes him onto the shores of truth.

All need for reason becomes redundant.

No more thoughts are necessary.

Suddenly, the One Word is knowable.

Everything a man could possibly want lies beside him.

Everything he will ever need lies within.

 

It is enough to breathe, enough to find faith – enough to find hope in the lady with two hearts.

 

 

Copyright © W.L.Sorrell 2015    

mentalflush.com 

 

  

 

[759 words] Image by George Hodan Thankyou   

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=95931&picture=animal

 

 

As despondent dung beetles searched in vain for elephant droppings, the earth’s brittle crust volunteered sustenance only to those prepared to dig. Antelopes drove their spade-like hooves into the lifeless scab of the water hole leaving behind a series of sinister quagmires.

One such pit flanking a mother’s corpse had ensnared a young zebra; her black and white pelt now caked with thick layers of sodden soil as she wrestled to escape the mire’s clutches.

Oblivious to her plight, the zebra pack were caught up elsewhere in their own frenzied hunt for water, leaving only one lone elephant and a circling flock of ravenous vultures aware of the frantic foal’s unfolding dilemma.

Ambling towards the edge of the sludge to take a closer look, the elephant appeared unmoved. From beneath the foal’s mud strewn mask, two fearful eyes emerged; eyes painted with desperation, eyes pleading for help.

Convinced the elephant would lend a hand, she couldn’t understand why he just stood there and did nothing. Uncaring and unhelpful, the insensitive beast simply gawked in silence before turning his back and walking away.

Disillusioned and distraught, the reality of being left alone to perish was more than the newborn could bear.

Spurred on by pure instinct, the tiny animal drew upon all her remaining resolve and inch by inch clawed her way forward. With one last almighty lurch, she found a firm foothold and finally dragged herself free.

Standing upon solid land once more, the grimacing foal trembled; her chest heaving as she searched for love.

Almost as if he sensed the small zebra’s stare, the blasé elephant pivoted and returned her gaze. But this was no look of love. No, the giant’s beaming glare was fierce and threatening. Who was this unsightly creature who dared to frown upon him?

Uncertain of what was unfolding and too weak to retreat, the quivering victim prepared for the worst.

And then it happened!

As if from nowhere, a sudden barrage of lightning lit up the sky above. Dark clouds rolled in amid deafening claps of thunder. Flamingos appeared on the horizon, having travelled thousands of kilometres in search of nourishing nesting grounds. And there from a distance, the well-known sound of stampeding hooves grew louder.

Rain was imminent in the valley and all the desert creatures knew it.

Aware of the pending downpour, the zebra pack charged over the ridge and raised their heads towards the heavens. Filled with new hope, the foal’s spirit sang with joy. Her family had come back. At last she was safe!

But suspicion looms in the nature of all beasts.

Still encrusted from head to toe in the menacing mud which once held her captive, the foal was perceived as a troublemaker.

Unrecognisable, uninvited and unwelcomed, it appeared that not even the foal’s own kind could see past the different complexion of her sullied coat.

In anxious need of affection, the bewildered infant sprinted to be reunited with her kin, only to be met by hostility.

Confused yet compelled, she found herself repeatedly ostracised and tormented before finally being brutally trampled and left for dead.

Surrounded by desolation, the heartbroken eyes of this lonely outcast now closed. No longer did she struggle to break free from the quicksand.  No longer did she tremble, no longer did she fear. She simply lay in complete surrender and awaited her fate.

Rain fell upon the thirsty earth.

Elephants, antelopes and zebras all frolicked as their pelts were drenched and their thirsts appeased.

There in the background, the foal lay motionless; her stripes now clearly visible from the cleansing downpour yet still hidden from others by descending vultures preparing to dine upon her flesh.

But the vultures were to go hungry!

Fleeing to escape the one who now charged over the ridge towards them, feathers flew in all directions.

The foal’s father had returned and wasted no time in rushing to his offspring’s side.

Licking the bloodied wounds, he whispered into her ear and as their eyes met, a sense of truth was restored to the wilderness.

Yes, truth had been defiled and faith forsaken.

But new beginnings had rained down upon the earth; fresh water sent from Heaven.

And from a father’s undying love, the washed stripes of innocence shone forth showing the way to all.

 

Observing the entire event from beginning to end, the freelance photographer lowered his camera and knelt to pray; realising that the story of his own hope and salvation had just played out before his very eyes. 

 

Copyright © W.L.Sorrell 2013

mentalflush.com 

 

 

 

Image by George Hodan Thank you 

 

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=192510&picture=bench 

 

 

The 5.00 am alarm sounds.

Hitting the snooze button, you take another ten minutes before facing the day ahead.

You are exhausted. 

Somewhere between sleep and emergence, you see yourself seated on a timber bench.

A stranger sits by your right side?

You see neither his face nor hands, yet clearly he is there.

Your eyes fix upon his robe.

It is white but not ostentatious.

This robe is simple, pure, and clean.

As you gaze into the weave of the cloth, you get the unmistakeable impression that this robe is woven with threads of humility.

“This is no dream!” you say to yourself, feeling the fabric of his robe brush against your right forearm.

Awkwardness surges through your soul as you find yourself so ‘uncomfortably’ close to him.

Without explanation, a gentle force applied to the back of your left shoulder sees you drawn together even closer.

For the first time you speak aloud.

Embarrassed by what's happening, you protest to the stranger.

“Something is pushing me!” 

The stranger remains immoveable.

Nothing pushes him!

Still you inch closer.

Still you wonder why?

With your side and his now inseparable, the continued press from behind curls your left shoulder around, sending your head to nestle gently against the stranger’s chest.

You find the welcome of the fabric pressing against your cheek.

You hear the stranger’s heart.

You are now locked in an embrace with this man whose face you have still not seen.

For the first time, He speaks – “Give all your burdens to Me.”

Reality sticks in your throat, making it impossible for you to answer.

A sudden tidal wave of emotion breaks through the walls of your silence.

Weeping uncontrollably, you reach down with your left hand. As your arm extends, it shakes with spasms of resistance.

You peer through tears at your trembling cupped palm, your fingers wrapped around something? Nothing is visible but you ‘know’ that in your quivering hand you hold ‘everything’. 

Laying it all at his feet, you now grasp onto the stranger’s calf muscle to stop your hand from shaking. For the first time you feel his skin.

He is flesh and blood, just like you.

As you weep without restraint, you feel his empathy.

You now know that all along, it was His hand on your shoulder which drew you into his arms.

The only thing pushing you was your need for forgiveness.

Filled with darkness, one by one the distorted pixels of your mind vanish, revealing a way, a truth, a life you’ve never known.

An image of this man’s robe etches itself forever in your soul.

With no more tears to shed, you sit up freely.

Unrehearsed words spill forth from your tongue. 

“I’m sorry Father.” 

And as you speak these three words, your eyes are once again drawn back to the robe.

No longer white, no longer clean, the robe now bears the stain of your wretched tears – the smear of your ungodliness.

“I’m sorry Father!” – your heartfelt words now repeated with full awareness of what has just transpired.

This man beside you is no stranger. 

This man beside you is no pretender. 

This man beside you is no ordinary man. 

This is God’s Son, the Son of man who carried your sins (past, present, and future) to the cross, and willingly laid down his life for you.

“Now you are truly born again,” smiles Jesus, His voice abounding in strength and joy – the depth of His piercing eyes beyond description.

Finally, there’s no more need to try and get your head around things.

There’s no more need to try and fathom the what’s, why’s and when’s.

There’s no more need to try and rely wholly and solely on your own strength.

Without warning, you just know that you know what you know.

As a man, when Jesus prayed (and He prayed consistently), He never asked His Father to give Him strength.

His Father was His strength.

What you now know as true is life changing.

For the strength Jesus relied upon, is the very same strength you now have access to through Him.

You know in your heart that Jesus is with you always, regardless of the circumstance.

You’ve just heard Him tell you so Himself.

A dream?

A vision?

As you open your eyes, you are left without a shred of doubt that you have just shared a personal encounter with God and life can never be the same again.

Adversity will remain, but your ability to discern it, to cope with it, and to grow from it has just been transformed in a way you never knew possible.

 

 

Copyright © W.L.Sorrell 2017 

mentalflush.com