#me when the same debilitating injury occurs within less than a year and i have to suffer through the process of recovery all over again

[parlideldiavolo]

have mercy, pt. 03

(CW: Violence and injury.)

lll.

The building was empty. Vic wondered if it had any significance—the Saints tended to be premeditated in what they did and loved their symbolism, as evidenced by the sound of a heavy whip hitting the ground.

Killian--Mercy, he corrected himself--wouldn’t do this just anywhere. Vic wanted to pick the thought apart further and see where it led but his attention was drawn instead to the heavy coils that pooled around the Saint’s feet.

He wanted to laugh. Love, huh?

(It made sense. If the stories were true, his race had been cursed because of love--the love of one being turned into punishment, because devils had love for an imperfect world free of its chains. Something like that.)

Mercy watched him from across the warehouse floor with same unchanging sorrow that had haunted his face since they’d first seen each other. The older man closed his eyes and took a deep breath (and that was an opportunity.) 

(Vic didn’t take it.)

The following exhale was deep and shuddering. When Mercy next looked up his face, from line-worn eyes to graying beard, was tear-stained. Vic wasn’t sure what he felt, seeing that. More anger? Jealousy?

The brightness in his eyes sharpened as Mercy slid his palms across the heft of the whip. What looked to be two or three gold trammel-like items, or spikes, had been seated in his belt. The older man’s shoulders rose and his body swelled to fill the room. With his next breath a serpentine cross was revealed to be seated at his collar. The dress he wore was dark and ashen.

It was about time he looked less like a kind older man, Vic thought. A monster hunter stood in front of him instead and it matched far better with the man Vic had last seen many years ago. The devil’s attention drifted up to the old burn scar on Mercy’s face. He thought of the burnt-out phone lying crumpled in the car and hoped seeing that had opened up an old, old wound.

“When they took you into the Sanctum,” the older man began, and there was the faintest tremor in his voice as he spoke, ”I didn’t know what would happen.”

Vic’s fists tightened. “Didn’t expect me to burn your face, I’ll wager.”

The burn scar that crossed Mercy’s skin tugged as he spoke. “That moment, when you were on the pyre, I was reaching for you. I meant to pull you free.”

That wasn’t how Vic remembered it.

Mercy blinked the tears away. “You can’t help your nature. And I... have learned.”

It didn’t change anything. Not if they were still standing here.

“Nothing left to say?” Vic asked while hooking fingers into his gloves and ripping them off.

“Yes,” Mercy replied. “But I know you won’t listen.”

“Then give me something worthwhile to hear besides ‘I love you.’”

Mercy’s smile faded. “It is like a devil to not understand love.”

Vic sensed the shift before it happened. The floor where he’d been standing shattered as the heavy throng of the whip broke the concrete into slabs. It whipped back with an audible groan but Vic was already blazing across the floor.

<“Try again!”> he snarled.

The rage was easier to direct. It slammed him into the Saint with a flurry of fire and smoke that roared over the heartbeat in his ears or the worries that swept like currents. He struck fast, landing blows across shoulders and bearing the weighted buffet of Mercy slamming the hilt of the whip across his side. It felt like acid.

Vic spun away, dodged the next crackling roar of the whip as it flew and lunged through the spiraling loop it made before the coils could snap shut and crack his spine in half.

A concrete column exploded when Mercy whipped it back. The dust cloud erupted like a sudden storm of ash; Vic sank low, flipped over the next swinging link like a dancer and swooped close to catch Mercy’s forearm and wrench away the punch that might have shattered his jaw. Mercy gasped in pain and spat blood. A quick shp sound was all the warning Vic received before a blade shot out of the Saint’s wrist and glanced off the devil’s rib. Blood steamed as it sprayed and the hallowed blade ripped clean through Vic’s shirt.

Vic had experience with Saints’ weapons. He knew what they were like—how they burned and debilitated, paralyzed, or inflicted unusual agony to the monsters they were unleashed on. He knew what to expect and could feel the sanctified thrum of energy that buzzed off the whip every time it swung.

Being prepared helped to withstand the effects themselves, but the simple reality of their pain remained. Vic felt his next blow land with a sharp crack that had Mercy doubling. The next attempted gutting swung wide.

<“Show your face,”> Mercy roared as they spun and tangled like a flurry.

Vic wanted to roar back this is my face but settled for grabbing Mercy’s head as his eyes went black and then erupted with the same flaming scarlet that poured from his mouth when Vic breathed fire straight at the Saint’s eyes.

Mercy twisted out of the pillar of flame and caught most of it on the side of his head, ear and beard. He swung Vic aside and ripped a hand through the grey-streaked strands to rip the flames out.

Another column exploded. Vic caught the edge of a link on his next series of snarling vaults through the whip’s labyrinth of chains and felt his forearm snap.

None of the hits he received were rewarded with even a murmur of pain. Vic’s tongue stayed behind his teeth as he stumbled to clap a hand over his bloodied arm. His tattoos roared to life as the wound was healed.

Mercy was breathing heavily, bruised and flushed by fire. Vic met his eyes and could feel the light smoke curling from between his sharpening teeth. The storm of grey in his eyes flared ruby when the storm receded to black out the whites of his eyes.

Is this the face that you want?

Vic’s tapered tail whipped out and cracked across Mercy’s wrist when the blade came up and dark wings buffeted them across the room to crash them against iron shelving and send Mercy reeling. The next hilt jab caught Vic across the hip. His hands ripped at the Saint’s neck and the disabling cross that hung there--one made in the likeness of a gilded, crucified serpent. 

Fights rarely last long. Most happen in heartbeats before they’re finished and the dazed dance of fire, smoke, gold and blood comes to a close. Mercy’s chest heaved ragged and he smelled burnt and torn as blood streamed from his nose and brow to smear across the dress he wore. Blood stained Vic’s teeth. The desire filling his mouth tasted like death and ash.

Mercy went to grab his hand, or so it seemed, but Vic felt something pierce it instead.

Ah, the calculating part of Vic thought through the veil of anger. This is new.

In that split second Vic could have killed him. It would have been easy—either with claws, teeth, fire. The tattoos that spanned his body erupted with light.

He hesitated.

(He’s fourteen years old, perched on the arm of a chair holding a box with a wounded kitten in his lap. His uncle is smiling; Killian says, ‘you should be a healer.’ He lights up.)

Vic’s hand went numb. The split second his fingers relaxed a crack of the whip caught the side of his head, snagged a horn and yanked.

He was able to catch himself and rip free but the numbness in his hand remained. When Vic glanced down he could see one of the small, spear-head shaped trammels he’d taken note of earlier embedded in his hand. The arcane light that flared from the tattoos on that hand dimmed and wavered.

Vic could hear his heartbeat again. It pounded in his pinned-back ears when Mercy wrested himself off the floor; the blood that erupted around the sanctified gold steamed.

He had to end it.

The Saint must have had the same thought—he didn’t have the body or endurance that Vic did. 

Vic’s hand still wasn’t responding when the next assault came. By the time he felt the next piercing sensation the whole room was lit with smoke.

This wouldn’t be the end. It couldn’t be--an end for Vic would be much more grand than this.

So, he kept fighting even when feeling drained from his fingertips. He fought because there were people who couldn’t be hurt, not by the Saints, not by this Saint, and not by some fucking god. He fought until Mercy, hedged against a wall, ripped a serpentine cross from his belt.

It was bladed at the end. Vic discovered that when it sank into his chest with the hand of a Saint at its hilt. This was something he could shake off and recover from.

Usually.

Vic stumbled back. The room spun. Mercy released the bladed cross and stepped back with a catch of breath and clutch of his own chest as he doubled over.

Vic stumbled again. That’s when the devil, who had so far been silent except for his anger, heard himself scream.

It was a raw, seething sound. Agony exploded inside his chest. It had pierced something, something vital, more vital than a simple organ and Vic was hemorrhaging power uncontrollably as the room spun.

He couldn’t pull it out—his hands wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t heal—the blazing of his tattoos danced wildly like a candle caught in wind as his power surged inward, deep, deep within to try and heal what the cross had punctured.

Strands of fire and smoke dripped from his mouth like blood. If he’d been aware he would have noticed his body uncontrollably shifting from one form to another as he convulsed. Whatever threads had woven his endemic memory together were snapping at the seams, because Vic was suddenly Falling.

Mercy watched, stricken, through a veil of broken skin and burnt hair.

It occurred to some small, lucid part of Vic that he was afraid--not of Mercy, not of anything, except... dying.

Vic’s vision blurred. He’d spent all this time coming to terms with it—with a horrible end and thinking he could meet it with a grin—but now all he could think about was Ireland. They were supposed to go there.

(Mercy had also stumbled back. Now the older man painfully lifted himself from the wall.)

So many unfulfilled debts and promises. Friendships. Vic couldn’t fail them.

(The Saint braced a hand against it and pushed himself upright.)

He didn’t want to lose them. Or his dad. Meph. His family.

(“I… mercy,” the Saint murmured as he began to walk forward. His voice shook. The first blade shone in his hand. “I'll have mercy.”)

He didn’t want to leave him.

Vic’s unfeeling fingers slid from burning gold, and his legs finally buckled as the world fell away.

[teddy-bear-surprise]

Chapter 4: Filling in The Blanks

|| Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 Part 1 || Chapter 7 Part 2 || Chapter 8 || Almost The End || Chapter 9 ||

WARNING: Mentions of violence, blood, police, alcohol, stalking, car crash (not the main character), and bondage (non-sexual).

Author’s Note: This is an alternate universe situation set around the time of seasons 13 and 14 but I kept Hotch and Prentiss because they're some of my favorite characters. This fic does not follow cannon occurrences so please keep this in mind.

Ophelia sat on her couch moping over Cat's disappearance. It had been two days since Cat left. She wouldn't pick up her phone, which Ophelia did not know was broken, and Ophelia thought she was ignoring her. In reality, however, Cat was trying to reach Ophelia by payphone but could not remember her number. Barely ten minutes had passed since ten in the morning, and Ophelia was already nursing her third beer of the day. Her motivation to do anything, to be anything, had completely disappeared.

She lazily clicked through the channels before settling on the news. Now, Ophelia was not one to regularly check the news, but this station had a particularly handsome reporter that she loved to watch. In her mind, he was the only viable man left in Los Angeles. Her aptitude for stalking and predating did not end with her victims and was a driving force in all aspects of her life. According to her standards, he checked out: a clean digital history, a clean social presence, good financials, no unhappy exes, and most importantly he was single.

Today, however, Ophelia was less than pleased with what he had to say. "The FBI has landed here, in Los Angeles, this morning to investigate the mysterious murders of five young and famous men. They are working in conjunction with the LAPD and are searching for answers. More on this after the break–"

She rolled her eyes and crossed him off of her mental list of "viable LA men" which now held a whopping zero names. Her hand reached for the remote and clicked off onto another channel, hoping for something a bit more light-hearted.

On The Jet Earlier That Day

The BAU's luxurious, white jet had taken off only moments earlier and was flying quickly from Quantico to Los Angeles. Hotch looked at his team, all eagerly waiting for his instruction, before addressing them, "We're dealing with a very experienced killer here and they might even have a partner based on the amount of physical strength that it would take to restrain men of this size. The M.O. has been consistent since the very first case and there were no trials and no errors, meaning that we found no similar attacks in the Los Angeles area that occurred before these. They started attacking right off the bat and we need to find out why. Garcia will fill you in on the details."

The screen above Hotch's head was now occupied by a perky blonde, "Garcia here! Ready to rock and roll? Yeah? No? Okay, tough crowd. So, first up we have Rick Garza, twenty-eight years old and living in Glendale. He's not the most famous actor, but he is definitely on Hollywood's radar... should I say 'was'? Not important... Last year Mr. Garza started working in sideline films like Danika's Delight–a great movie by the way–and worked his way up to major ones like Begum's Trial which was supposed to finish filming next month. He doesn't have many enemies in the industry, a pretty well-liked guy, for the most part. He did have some disputes with the financial department on set, but that happens all the time so I don't think it was a contributing factor. Uhhhh... his wife, Maci Garza, said she was out shopping with friends but when she came home and went to her room to put her new, shiny things away, she found Rick like this–"

A photo of Rick flashed onto everyone's screens. He was hogtied with his legs and hands tied together behind his back, an apple occupying his mouth, and big bloody letters covering his back that read 'suck on this, you bastard'. Rick's body was laid on its stomach, so his hands and feet were in the air, and based on the images, he had been positioned to face the door, almost like he was waiting for someone to walk in.

"Yeesh, if I were to die like that, I don't think I would want to have been born at all," Rossi tried to lighten the mood with his snarky comment and his jokester reputation never disappointed.

Garcia rolled her eyes at Rossi and continued, "Agreed, not the best way to go out. Moving on to vic number two, we have Simon Boyd, thirty-two, and also living in Glendale. He was a very, very popular chef, you all might know his restaurant, 'Boyd & Boyd'. It opened up ten years ago and has gotten an impressive three Micheline stars. According to co-workers, he's a 'nice guy with the worst anger-issues in all of LA', that is a direct quote, by the way. Kind of contradictory, kind of confusing, didn't help me that much."

"So, I did a little deep-dive into his online presence, he seems pretty clean, but looking into his wife's life is where it gets weird. Back in the day, Daniela had a massive online presence, like massive. There was not a day where she did not post about her friends or life updates. But about three years ago she was living in a pretty bad part of town and then she met Simon. After that, she stopped working, stopped going out, stopped posting, all that jazz. She essentially disappeared from the face of the earth and only went out when there were events for Simon's restaurant. Kind of sketchy if you ask me. Also, they got married like two months after meeting and he immediately put all of her assets in his name. Basically, he owned her."

Garcia took a moment to find the rest of her notes, "Daniela was actually on their house property when Simon was killed. She was in their backyard, swimming, and when she went back inside he was dead. So as Hotch said, very experienced killers. Simon also left almost nothing to Daniela so take that as you will. As for the M.O., it looks pretty standard, the same as with Garza."

Garcia pressed a few buttons and some photos of Boyd's crime scene appeared on their tablets. This time, it was Emily who spoke up, "Garcia, you said that Daniela didn't get a lot from Simon in his will, so who got everything?"

"I am so glad you asked, Emily!" Garcia bore a wide smile, "All of Simon's assets went to an Eric Matteo Bowes, but the problem is, there is no Eric Matteo Bowes. He doesn't exist. And the only one that does, lives in Puerto Rico and has never been in the same state as Simon. So basically he left his entire life to a mystery man."

"Why would he do that? Is it possible that it's some kind of pseudonym? Maybe it means something else?" Replied Emily with a confused expression.

"Already there, my love. I called Boyd's lawyer and he said that while he could not give specific details, he did confirm that Bowes does not exist. Yet another mystery to solve, we just have to see if this is related to Boyd's death or not."

They went on like this for the next hour, bouncing around ideas and debating if certain occurrences had any significance in the cases. Once all of the cases had been discussed, Reid raised his hand to speak, still resembling the quiet kid that Ophelia knew, "Guys, I think the unsub is female. Look at the amount of rage," he pointed to the photos of the men's' slit throats, "this is a very up-close kill and it indicates that there may be a personal motive too. That's something we see a lot in female serial killers, it tends to stem from trauma that they feel they cannot let go of. And it's definitely a duo, two of the victims were athletes, indicating that at least two unsubs would be needed to restrain them, especially to get them on top of the bed after. But not more than two, bigger killing teams are more prone to mistakes and disorganization, I'm not seeing any of that here. My guess, is that these two bonded over their hatred of men, as indicated by the message written on the victims' backs, and somewhere along the line they decided to put their message out there through violence. Garcia, we need to start looking into females living in the greater LA area who have filed reports for domestic abuse against males within the past five years, cross-reference that with females whose mothers were either missing, dead, or not involved."

"Give me one second, pretty boy." Garcia's painted nails clacked loudly on her keyboard and they all watched as she typed at an alarming speed with her pen still in her hand.

"Anndddd done! We have seventeen lovely ladies here, one of them passed away a week ago and three have recently moved to other California cities. So we're down to thirteen now. Up first we have Miss Daniella Olson, twenty-three, and worked as a sales clerk for Knight's Knives up until two months ago... hmmm. Possible unsub? Oh wait, she stopped working at Knight's because she sustained debilitating injuries from a car crash. That's unfortunate. Up next is Kiya Driscoll, thirty years old and living in eastern LA. Geographically she doesn't look like a match, but let me see what comes up when I dig a little deeper."

After less than a minute, Garcia had managed to take a deep look into Kiya's life and left no stone unturned. "She's squeaky clean, moving on. Belle Jones, twenty-five and also in the hospital. Hmmm... change of plans, my lovelies, I will get back to you when I have a list of possible unsubs."

They discussed the case while Garcia looked into each of the girls' backgrounds.

Hotch's deep voice suddenly boomed through the jet, "These unsubs are experienced, they have likely experimented in other states, which would explain how their kills were so clean right off the bat. The only problem is that when I looked into it, there were no similar cases except for one case in Las Vegas from nineteen-ninety-nine. There was only one suspect, Darla Sutton, but there was never enough evidence to convict her. Our current case also profiled that we would be dealing with a team of young killers, Darla is already in her late sixties. We could be dealing with copycats or even an apprentice of some kind. Garcia, can you change the search to include anyone who has ever been affiliated with Darla Sutton?"

"Yes, Sir, already ahead of you!" Chirped Garcia. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Ophelia Sutton, Darla's daughter. Thirty-seven years old and she has not worked in four years, but lemme tell you, this girl is rich. Like, buy a house on the moon rich. She graduated from MIT when she was seventeen and went straight into huge engineering companies like Z-Tech and Cormac & Robles, she was able to reach the top by the time she was twenty-one and she's made enough money to sustain several families for at least fifty yea–"

Spencer's eyes widened in shock and he completely zoned out as Garcia droned on. How was it possible that the girl he knew so well as a child was now their prime suspect? She had been his best friend, stuck with him through thick and thin, yet here he was staring at a photo of her and not recognizing her in the slightest. He could see the evil in her eyes, but it had not been there when they were friends. Back then, he saw everything good in the world swimming in her smile, that was all gone now. He blamed himself for this, he did not fight hard enough for Ophelia's friendship, if he had, they might not be in this position.

Of course, it was not Ophelia's fault that Garcia had now found her, but rather Cat's. Cat had gotten a bit lazy while designing their M.O. and copied Darla's almost to the tee because she thought it made the most sense. This was, however, a detail that Cat never disclosed to Ophelia. It was the reason why she had insisted so adamantly that Ophelia had to leave, why she had been so worried that Spencer would catch them both. If anything happened to Ophelia, it would all be because of her mistake. While Cat did modify a few things, it clearly was not enough to keep the BAU from noticing the connection. Maybe prison really had damaged Cat's once perfect abilities, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

Spencer drew his eyes away from the screen and tried to hide his feelings of disappointment, but JJ always seemed to notice. She whispered into Spencer's ear, "Hey, Spence, what's wrong?"

He jumped, frightened by the nickname she used. She was the only one besides Ophelia that ever called him Spence, "Oh, it's nothing JJ, I just got worried for a moment, I thought I had forgotten to call the institution where my mom is staying to ask if I could visit her after the case. Nothing serious."

"Whatever you say, Spence, I'm always here to talk." JJ looked at Spencer worriedly and tried to take his explanation at face value, but she could tell that he was still hiding something, especially since he never forgets anything.

They wrapped up their briefing and Spencer remained quiet, worried about what to do. He was not close with Ophelia anymore, they had not spoken in over two decades, but a part of him wondered if he should excuse himself from the case. Eventually, he decided to stay on the case and not say anything to Hotch because it was just an old friendship. Ophelia did not have an eidetic memory like him and probably would not even remember him. Spencer found solace in this thought, essentially ignoring that he would have to arrest his only childhood friend.

When they landed in Los Angeles, Spencer thought of how ironic his situation was. He hoped that Ophelia's name coming up was just a false alarm, that they had pinned the case on the wrong unsub. But so far, all of the signs were pointing to her and they would definitely need her to cooperate to find her partner.

On their way to LAPD's headquarters, Spencer fidgeted with his hands, still debating telling Hotch about his relationship with Ophelia. He figured that it could go one of two ways: Hotch would kick him off of the case and berate him for not speaking up sooner, or he would be used as bait to extract an emotional response from Ophelia, that is if she remembered him at all. When they got to the station though, Spencer was immediately cut off by the Chief who insisted that he needed to give them a thirty-minute guided tour of the station.

He walked at an excruciatingly slow pace, slowed even further by his co-workers stopping them every few steps to ask about the case. They were shown the kitchen, the bathrooms, his office, the garage, and literally every room except for the one where they were supposed to set up. By the time that the tour was over, there was not even enough time for Reid to have a quick talk with Hotch. They were now twenty minutes behind schedule and had to grab everything from the cars and rush to set up their space. Prentiss and Reid worked together to set up the computers, connecting them to Garcia, while Rossi worked on printing and pinning physical copies of the crime scene reports and photos. Hotch and JJ were running between the cars and the conference room trying to get everyone's belongings inside as quickly as possible since it was beginning to rain and they would be unable to get their stuff out later without wetting it.

As soon as everyone was settled in, they jumped straight into working on their game plan, plotting how they would approach Ophelia. They figured that their best bet was to send one team to search the apartment, and another to search the house. Rossi, JJ, and Reid were being sent to the house, whereas Hotch and Prentiss were going to check the apartment. It was a solid plan and only took a few calls to execute. They had just arrived in LA and they were already on the verge of a breakthrough. It all seemed to be moving so quickly, too easily, and Spencer felt that they were being drawn into a trap of some kind. But since they were employing the help of a S.W.A.T. team, he figured that there was not much to worry about and carried along with the plan. In two hours Ophelia Sutton would no longer be a free woman, and she was not going to go down easily.

[jimmymas]

Avoiding the Trap of Exploitation

Of the many transitions that occur in a ministry leader’s life, handling the changes that come when their function changes over time could perhaps be the most challenging.  At her core, the Church is to be salt and light to the world, which inevitably means that she by nature is a transformation organism. However the Church’s ability gets hampered when she lends herself to model the present culture instead of transform it! If our goal in leadership is to help advancing generations with the mantle of transformational leadership then our standard should be to avoid repeating or even encouraging debilitating cultural weaknesses.  One of the toughest transitions to overcome is in the area of relationships. Relationships change over time and especially in the arena of ministry. How those relationships change is a topic worth addressing because sadly, there are many ministry leaders among us who perhaps languish in relationship transitions that have left their mark.

When it comes to ministerial relationships it would be helpful to strengthen existing relationships by not using the current cycle of self-absorption so prevalent in our culture. That means we need to avoid the trap of exploitation: which is the tendency to only stay connected with people as long as they function “for us” or our need, or stay useful to that end!

Genesis 40:9-15, 20-23 9 So the chief cupbearer told Joseph his dream. He said to him, “In my dream I saw a vine in front of me, 10 and on the vine were three branches. As soon as it budded, it blossomed, and its clusters ripened into grapes. 11 Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand, and I took the grapes, squeezed them into Pharaoh’s cup and put the cup in his hand.” 12 “This is what it means,” Joseph said to him. “The three branches are three days. 13 Within three days Pharaoh will lift up your head and restore you to your position, and you will put Pharaoh’s cup in his hand, just as you used to do when you were his cupbearer. 14 But when all goes well with you, remember me and show me kindness; mention me to Pharaoh and get me out of this prison. 15 I was forcibly carried off from the land of the Hebrews, and even here I have done nothing to deserve being put in a dungeon”…20 Now the third day was Pharaoh’s birthday, and he gave a feast for all his officials. He lifted up the heads of the chief cupbearer and the chief baker in the presence of his officials: 21 He restored the chief cupbearer to his position, so that he once again put the cup into Pharaoh’s hand— 22 but he impaled the chief baker, just as Joseph had said to them in his interpretation. 23 The chief cupbearer, however, did not remember Joseph; he forgot him. (NIV)

                           Exemplifying Value over Self-Service

There are challenges when it comes to maintaining relationships that have changed because of differing functions. There is a virtual wasteland of friendships scarred by forgetfulness but even worse by exploitation. They were used when someone thought they were useful for their own needs and then sadly, forgotten. Ministry relationships transition in life through differing functions that grow with need or simply morph into a new era of usefulness. We can avoid exploiting our friends especially those we once deemed useful, by exemplifying value over self-service. This allows everyone to grow into their new season with grace rather than being forced to maintain a relationship based on a past function. Joseph’s life turned out okay through the grace of God—but not without its share of disappointments and heartaches.

No one would ever argue the point that Joseph’s experience placed him in the perfect situation for the perfect need in the arena of the perfect crisis—and that he was the perfect man for the job!  But unfortunately – we inadvertently take no account of his real humanity!  JOSEPH WAS FORGOTTEN AFTER HE SERVED A FRIEND’S NEED. In fact you could argue that Joseph was simply forgotten by those he served, something that happens all too often in the world of modernistic exploitation or self-service. Help for him was always a carefully placed memory away! He just needed to be important enough in the cupbearer’s heart (gratitude) to stay on top of his mind. Two full years would pass before he would be remembered again. For many, that delay may be a killer of hope.

Genesis 41:1-2, 9-15 When two full years had passed, Pharaoh had a dream: He was standing by the Nile, 2 when out of the river there came up seven cows, sleek and fat…9 Then the chief cupbearer said to Pharaoh, “Today I am reminded of my shortcomings... 14 So Pharaoh sent for Joseph, and he was quickly brought from the dungeon. When he had shaved and changed his clothes, he came before Pharaoh. 15 Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I had a dream, and no one can interpret it. But I have heard it said of you that when you hear a dream you can interpret it.”  (NIV)

 Exemplifying Value over Self-Service Requires Some Understanding

What we pass on to succeeding generations called to pick up the mantle of ministerial leadership requires that we model a better culture of honor and respect. Ministry (no matter what we say to the contrary) is performance–based, which for better or worse opens the door to a range of conflicting feelings.

·       The dueling feelings of great success and even larger defeat

·       The dueling thoughts of inadequacy and giftedness

·       Being highly used and subsequently shelved

To add insult to injury—all of these come more often than not, on the heels of silence – where changes have occurred without announcement from friends. Nothing is ever said but the temperature in the relationship has changed drastically. Silence is the ultimate cancer eating away at whatever feelings of validation still existed for those who previously served in a vital way. To say that we are not validated by our ability to perform is to underestimate the power the lack of validation has as a weapon in Satan’s arsenal! Our enemy uses this lack of validation as a precision scalpel to cut the ministry life out of our “friends!” How can we challenge that mentality? We can start by avoiding the trap that leads to exploiting others. Exploitation is basically a self-centered usefulness paradigm, which speaks, “I can use you for my benefit!”

Adapting to Seasonal Changes really does Require an Openness on ALL Sides!

Your ministry does need to adapt to function in strength as you “age” but it also requires the respect of others who still see the value you bring to the table. I often share the metaphor (bear with me!) about my baseball playing days. I was always a middle infielder by position meaning that my comfort zone was as a shortstop but I could also transition to second base. Those who understand that position understand that you had better have some range since it’s a lot of territory to cover defensively. When I played softball regularly as an adult I usually stayed in the same areas of play. However, a couple of years back when I was playing with a younger and more agile group of players it became evident that my function needed to change. I still could contribute and still had a needed skill to compliment a team but my position or contribution needed to change. I could fake my old position but a grounder to my right would immediately let everyone in on the secret!! That is what happens when Kingdom position players who have been used to contribute for years and years into ministries that blossomed with their wisdom, at times feel trapped to continue in the same role lest they be forgotten. When they cannot deliver at the level of expectation – they are shelved! It’s a culture all too familiar to many in ministry service because sadly, some of those who suffer now had sown the same mentality in the past. We often preach about “anointing breaking the yoke” but so often in our present culture, may be trapped to believe anointing can only come in the new, shiny package that makes the waves. So how can I contribute less to exploitation and create a substantive respect for changes that occur in the function of others and even us?  Here are some things that every principle leader who fully expects to encourage a new generation of leadership should understand.

Recognizing that the Kingdom Mutually Exposes both Seed and Sower to Enormous Potential! That means that while what a ministry gift “sows” as a result of their ministry is valuable, the actual “sower” or minister also gets recompensed in potential because they are valuable. Relationships should mature and strengthen when there is shared value.

If Ministry has Been Fruitful in the past—then the “Tree” Still Exists! Many times the voice of such is a useful tool not only for those in your congregation but also for yourself. Maturity through experience (both suffering and exploits) when enjoyed pays rich dividends. Every leader must model to a new generation, a respect for voices whose gifts still possess value!

Avoid the Disillusionment of a Friend’s Forgotten Assignment or Value. Be diligent to let your yes be yes and no - no. Keep your promises and lean not on frivolous superficial promises. Do not “use” brethren for your own needs. What you ask for – you must be willing to do in return. And—STOP making verbal or written promises you do not intend to fulfill. It’s bad modeling for future generations, it’s bad for the Kingdom and the Church, and it’s bad for relationships!

Relationships Cannot Breathe without the Oxygen of Honesty and Communication. Superficiality though culturally accepted, is cancerous to friendship.

It’s good to remember that our next generation, which is currently being developed, will ultimately follow our example—not our principles.

[knightfury1895]

Holmes Grieves

My apologies for the following gloomy piece. It is a snippet that I found from the time of writing “One Wish”, a “Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century” piece. Apart from a brief mention of Holmes’ present and new friends (namely Beth Lestrade and Watson the Robot), there is not much indication of the universe in which I set the following, however, as Holmes spends most of this narrative looking back.

There is a pain in my chest, squeezing at my heart, making it difficult for me to breathe. I know it now without a doubt - it is possible to die of a broken heart and that is what is happening to me now. I know not for how long it will take a such a thing to overcome a young, healthy body but I know that it will come, for it was to just that that I succumbed at the end of my previous life, having lost Watson.

All that I wish to do is to remain beside the warming fire and to drink tea, because I am so very cold and weary. Cases mean nothing - life is empty without my Boswell and I cannot last long without him beside me. I know not how to tell Beth Lestrade, for I know that such knowledge will hurt her greatly and she has done much to make me comfortable in my 22nd Century existence. Sadly, an existence is all that this is - I do not feel truly alive without my dear Watson beside me and I know that I never shall.

Missing my friend of old is incredibly painful - more so than any physical injury that I have ever endured. I know it well, having endured it from the time of my companion’s death to the moment of my own. I do not remember much, aside from the grief, for I had nobody left behind to put up any appearances for and I do not believe that I lingered for long. I could have been gone within a week of Watson’s funeral or it could have been months, but I was certainly gone within less than a year.

I recall entering my friend’s sickroom, taking his cold hand in mine in a desperate grip - as if I believed that my touch could bring his soul back from the very brink and renew his strength. If only that were possible.

For the duration of the journey from Sussex to London, I had carefully planned and rehearsed just what I would say to my dear friend. I had many regrets and so many apologies to make - I had to tell him how I truly felt while the opportunity still remained. My script fell to pieces, my resolve disintegrating with it, when I beheld my brave companion of old. He was pale, exhausted and clearly in no small amount of pain. And so I held his hand while the fellow apologised for the anguish that his sending for me at such a moment was causing to me and we both wept - he for me and I for the wasted time that I should have spent with him and had not. We should have had more time.

The kind-hearted fellow had then requested that I play for him - I suspect, in hindsight, that it was so that I would not have to watch or hear him leave. When the piece reached its conclusion, it was as if the fellow had fallen asleep, so peaceful and contented he looked. As I took his unresisting hand in mine I realised that I had never once apologised for my treatment of him or for those deplorably wasted years following my meeting with Moriarty at the falls of Reichenbach. There was so much that I had always meant to say and I would never utter a word. My world fell apart at that precise moment and I know not exactly what I thought or did next.

My next memory is distant and confused. I was in a bland little hotel room near a railway line, clearly having somehow had the presence of mind to take myself away and hire a room before breaking down completely. I ensured that the door was locked, drew the curtains and then curled myself tightly upon my bed, no longer able to control my building, debilitating emotions. I know not for how long I wept or whether I remained silent, as I always had, or whether my anguish escaped me in cries, but when the tears finally ran dry I was exhausted and feeling empty and lost.

By the time I attended Watson’s funeral, I had no tears left to shed. I merely felt cold, empty and my chest ached as if my heart had been ripped from it whenever the fellow’s name was mentioned.

I recall choosing the tombstone to match that of his dear wife, beside whom he was buried, and I did visit them once. I left them some flowers, but said nothing - I had felt foolish and sentimental just for choosing to go and I had left soon after. I recall boarding the train for Sussex and staring out at the rain as it drummed at the window beside me with the same, unbearable pain squeezing at my heart and then nothing more. I know not whether these were truly my last moments or if all that occurred thereafter was not worth documenting.

And what now? Well, this time, I am younger and I have friends - good friends - who worry about me when I am not myself. I am presented with cases by Lestrade, encouraged and comforted by ‘Watson’ the compudroid and frequently visited by my Irregulars. However, I can feel myself slowly sinking into depression, with each new bout that little darker and deeper than before; each new attack proving harder to escape from than the last. My first Christmas - my biographer’s favourite time of the year - is looming and I have little doubt that I shall be expected to be chipper and enjoy myself with Lestrade, the robot and my Irregulars while all I truly wish to do is to shut myself away and grieve.

No, I cannot possibly continue as I am - I feel I shall go mad if I should have to try! Some individuals are simply not meant to be separated, it would seem, for I do believe that I have a part of me missing and not a separate human being absent from my life. How can I possibly continue as I am?

[alisemartinez91]

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[sordidnature]

Missin Memories and Melatonin

   Memories...are the most fickle thing I’ve come across in this consciousness. For an individual whom thinks excessively, which I entertain to be most every individual, they must be equitable to something fundamental. Most certainly, the whole wheat and carbs of the cerebral pyramid, without them we’d be destitute and empty. Simultaneously though, they’re a radical detriment when they’re significant. And I can’t help but hear in the excessively fear-inducing discussion that pervades in contemporary dialogue that it is the traumatic images that stick. Volatile tapestries of instances which are singular in their horrid hues. Ones which have instantaneously defined and redefined our perceptions of others, in turn our perceptions of ourselves. But this concentration and focus has created a delineation that isn’t entirely concrete.

Our pleasantries are quite as painful…

   The moments of pleasure regardless of their brevity and longevity are as chronic as those that debilitate us, perhaps moreso. It is these memories that refute any suspension of disbelief, they don’t permit themselves the same realm of suppression. The memories of pleasure that persist, they’re discontent with the notion of trauma, they necessitate interaction rather than stagnation. Like some distinct entity from ourselves, they have demands, natural inclinations necessary to their own continuity. A trauma victim may repress their worries for years, decades, they may never confront such silhouetted monstrosities, but pleasantries we must know their face incessantly.

   It rests predominantly on the distinction of pleasure, a pleasurable memory is one which induces some sentiment of nostalgia, a yearning for the instance that is now past which induced pleasure. Traumatic instances do not provide such fortunes as is self-evident. As much as we may all live in the past, the physiological impact of such a proverb is hollow. The pleasure is displeasurable in its absence. It is a pleasure which can not be experienced in the present and more often than not at any moment in the future, as such it is prone to induce such displeasure upon reflection.

   It manifests a desire for things which in themselves can not be made manifest, a door that perpetually will remained locked. But this door is so much more demoralizing, it provides the most illustrious view through an abstracted lens. Locked from within but an eye-hole utilized from without. And we sort through a plethora of keys, thousands, sifting through them fully aware we’ve lost the key to this particular door years or decades prior. If we could only open it, we could feel that atmosphere once more, if we could only open it, things might be better.

   Thus the proverb reverberates, man lives most of his life in the past. If only we could let go of this door, cease knocking, we may be capable of articulating an existence in the present. But this would be to deny that the room ever existed, I find this disturbingly injurious. To deny myself memories, to deny those experiences that once elicited such joys, I would deny the man these pleasures produced in me. The pain of their presences is as uttered a gain, a gain in my own existence. If I deny what I was, I deny whom I am. If I deny what happened, nothing distinct will occur. No, to deny myself this preceding existence as much as it overwhelms me to permit it, is to lend myself a briefer and sadder experience. What then?

   Perhaps, then, I’m meant to exist in these memories, for without them I’m less than the something I am. On the same contention lay a sincere disparity, these things pain me for I no longer experience them. I no longer hold the love of that woman, I no longer hold the joy I found in that particular inquiry, I no longer hold that friend so dearly. What we were and what I was has decayed, or more courteously, changed.

   This dichotomy must reconcile. What may I yield from this? What may I see in this? It is not that the memories may ever return, such hopes, they’re potential but they’re isolating, they’re debilitating, they’re are unsettling. I need something concrete...that they are memories which induce a reaction I know. But, may I also interpret these reactions? May I make manifest a reaction which would prove more beneficial to my psyche? So that I may not yell into the crisping leaves and lilacs as it begins to pour?

   I may see that these memories in fact did happen, they are in definition the contrast to traumatic repressions. I see their face visibly and consistent, what may I surmise? They have happened, and indeed as the present proceeds to the past there will become more without my own volition. What I may take with leisure, is that they are me entirely as much as they will pain me to be. And it seems though the frequency is distinct within us all, being ourselves is painful, I hold within my soul many memories in which I wasn’t myself. In those same memories the pain is inherent to having not been myself. What I may relish in...is that they affirm my life completely. They tell me I exist and have existed, that whether or not any extrinsic force I exert now permits me any joy, it informs me that I’m capable of the joys I’ve missed.

Pleasantries are just as painful, only because they inform me that I am intimately acquainted with them...

This is a pleasantry in itself.