In a Concentration Camp there was a Prisoner who, even though he was under the sentence of execution, was fearless and free.
On a day where he was making his own Sunshine for others to squint, he was seen in the middle of the prison yard playing his makeshift guitar. A large crowd gathered to listen, for under that magical spell of his music, they all became as fearless as he. When the prison guards saw this, they forbade him to play.
But the very next day, there he was again, strumming tunes on his guitar and singing with a larger crowd around him. The guards angrily dragged him away and had his fingers chopped off.
The next day. . .yes, there’s always A NEXT DAY. . .
There he was–BACK–singing and making what music he could with his bleeding stubs.
The crowds not only gathered, they cheered loudly and D A N C E D.
The guards grabbed him and dragged him away as they beat him with his guitar until it was splintered stringless.
The next day. . .yes, the very next twenty-four hours. . .
He was standing in the prison yard singing a song that would make Pavarotti jealous.
What a song.
Pure.
Uplifting.
The crowd joined in, and while the singing lasted, their hearts became just as PURE as his and they felt
I N V I N C I B L E
in an UN-invincible place.
So very angry were the guards this time that they had his tongue torn out.
A sickening silence hovered over the camp like a heavy dark fog.
If DEATHLESS had a sound. . .
they all heard just THAT!
No. . .NO. . .N O
No one could believe it when he was back in the Prison yard the next morning.
He was swaying. . .
He was dancing. . .
To a Music that was so Silent it screamed loud enough. . .
EVERYONE seemed to hear.
And soon, without any hesitation or invitation,
there they were, the other prisoners holding hands and dancing around this bleeding, UN
broken figure in the center
while the guards just stood there, rooted to the ground in utter wonder. . .disbelief.
What?
How?
Why?
are some of the questions that come to Soul when we hear. . .become such stories.
It didn’t take me some twenty years of Hospice work, and thousands of patients later, to figure out that
not ONE OF THEM have ever showed me how to die. . .
EVERYONE ONE OF THEM HAVE VIVIDLY DEMONSTRATED HOW TO LIVE.
Some call it Spiritual.
Some call it Religion.
Some call it Common Sense.
Some call it Sixth Sense.
I’m still not so sure what to label it and have come to accept that maybe it needs
No Name.
But when I see it exhibited, hear it spoken, taste it’s sweetness, touch it’s sacredness, or smell it’s aroma. . .
I take another step up the Ladder.
Haven’t I seen you on those Rungs?
I’m sure I have. . . .
Without naming it or putting it into shape or form, you too, know.
Like me, you too have
C O M P A N I O N E D
What a perch to look out from, huh?
You know the very best RUNG to see it all from?
THE NEXT ONE. . .
U P