The In-dwelling Advocate

“Do you trust me?”

Mark shifted, his toes curled under his sky-blue bedcover that was absorbing his sweat. He swung his arms in the air as though he was fending off arrows. The question was an echo that came and went, about ten seconds between one and the other. He could hear it clearly yet there was much noise around him, competing for his attention.

To his right there appeared his office, a human figure who resembled his assistant, and a bunch of people waiting on the other side of his office door. His office building faded into another; the coffee shop he liked to dine at during his lunch hour. The one he also frequented because one of the baristas was his high school and current crush, whom he hoped to take on a date for the past eight years.

The coffee shop building also blurred into a small room with an old school typewriter. Pieces of paper floated around the ancient machine and each had one of the many titles of movies he’d written and never presented to his boss. Some papers were scattered on the ground, with portions of scripts and casting lists.

Mark jerked in his bed and tears touched the tips of his ears before falling onto his pillow. He was still asleep.

The room with the typewriter had a brick wall, and Mark looked closely at it, recognizing it. He felt a light tap on his shoulder from behind and turned, jerking in his bed again. His hands still swinging aimlessly in the air.

The brick wall resembled the one in the prison where his brother was serving time. He hadn’t visited nor spoken to Bryce in a while, and wasn’t planning to any time soon. But that memory caused the appearance of many other buildings, memories, desires, etc. Mark’s bedsheet was soaked with sweat now and he was breathing too fast. At the sight of all the rooms and visions, he dropped to his knees and placed one of his hands over his chest. Taking a long, slow breath, he began to pray.

“Do you…”

Mark tried to follow the voice but its echo was failing against the noise surrounding him. In his bed, Mark was swinging his hands back and forth, left and right, but amidst the different rooms and scenes that kept appearing in a cycle, he was on his knees praying. He folded his hand into his t-shirt and continued to pray.

‘Lord, can You hear me? There’s too much noise, I can’t hear you?!”

Mark began to weep. His heart raced aggressively while he prayed. Fear, his familiar companion, was now toying with him differently. This was unfamiliar territory, unfolding like a horror film.

The noise began to feel like a sack of large potatoes had just landed on his shoulders. He tried to toss it off him and failed. Its echoes sounded like a resounding gong right beside his ear, banging violently. He placed both his hands over his ears and screamed.

A stillness fell around him, suddenly. He could hear the echo of his scream fading away. He’d shouted ‘HELP!’. The weight on his shoulders lifted and he dropped his face onto the ground, still weeping.

“Do you trust Me?” he heard the voice clearly.

Mark’s hands fell to his sides, as he lay on his soaked bed. He looked up slowly and a brightness shot into his face. He placed his hand over his eyes and waited on them to adjust.

“I…I…I”, Mark felt his tongue roll back and stick onto his hard palate. He tried to speak but only sounded mmhs.

Mark’s eyes opened completely and he saw nothing but a bright steady light before him. He stayed on his knees.

“Do you trust Me?”

Mark still couldn’t speak, so he nodded instead.

“Many times, I have called you, many times I have told you what to do. Those things you have not done, because you are afraid. If it is yourself you trust, then why are you not fulfilled? How come your heart is bitter? Where is your prosperity, Mark?”

Mark simply wept, feeling smaller than he appeared against the sound of this voice. He had all the answers to the questions he was being asked, and felt grateful that he couldn’t answer them verbally. He felt shame and guilt wearing him down as it did each time he finished a script or jotted down ideas for casting.

“Do you trust Me?”

Mark felt his tongue loosen in his mouth.

“No, Lord. I don’t. I…I haven’t for some time”, Mark admitted.

“Now, you hear from Me again. What have you to say to Me?”

Mark held his breath and recalled the brick wall he’d seen.

“Bryce. Lord, I miss him. I want to see him and talk to him, but I’m guilty. I haven’t seen him in a while and I stopped writing to him. I felt angry because he got in all that criminal stuff and lost everything. He left me alone here and I don’t have anyone anymore. I don’t trust people. I don’t know how. That’s why I haven’t submitted any of my work to my boss or other production companies. I’m scared I’ll fail and wind up in jail like Bryce. I’m scared my scripts suck. I’m scared I won’t make it and…”, Mark sniffled and looked down at his open palms.

Mark closed his eyes in that moment and allowed himself to settle in that stillness. On his bed, Mark no longer jerked or moved. He was as still as furniture. Still on his knees, Mark looked at his hands and the Word of God began to appear, word by word, along his palms.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.

Mark smiled and watched his tears smear the writing on his hands. He looked up.

“I’m – sorry - Lord. I’m – sorry - Father. I – trust - You”, Mark’s voice broke between his words.

As he kept the same posture, he felt a warmth rising from beneath his knees and then saw himself floating amidst the light. He felt it covering his entire body so he closed his eyes. It was something he would describe as a hug; an embrace.

“Forgive your brother, as I forgive you. That is my word to you. This is my command. There is nothing too hard for me, Mark. Cast your burdens unto Me. Abide in Me, and I will abide in you. Draw nearer to Me and I will draw nearer to you. This is my word to you.”

Mark stretched out his legs then and popped his eyes open.

He felt the coldness of his wet sheet on his skin. His toes were still curled and they hurt as he loosened them. His bedroom was pitch black and he looked at his side table clock. It was just after 02:00am.

Mark sat up on his bed, moved his hands along the wet sheet and then turned them over to look at his palms. He laughed at himself then began to weep, consciously this time.

“Thank You. I trust You. Thank You. Thank You. Thank you, Abba…”