Reluctant Storyteller

A stranger approached me as I sat at the foot of the steps of the library one day. The weird man slowly stumbled his way towards me, every step bringing muffled groans of agony. His disfigured face was unrecognizable and his tattered peasant cloak smells like something salvaged from a dead criminal. This unfamiliar person seems to be out of place in this marbled place of learning.

He looked at me for a while and, sensing my disinterest, sat a meter away from me.
We just sat there in silence, I was really tired from reading and I did not want to move from my spot - as long as he keeps his distance.

I was beginning to doze up when he began to shift move. The man dusted off his cloak and produced a bundle of yellowed paper. They seem to be more like thin slices of weathered wood. He gently tapped the package, causing a battered pen slipped out. The black pen looked more like a spike rather than a writing instrument. The tools looked beyond repair but they piqued my curiosity.

“Sir, are you a writer?” I asked.

He turned to me and smiled “Yes I am”

“Would you write my story then?” I asked, hoping to get some entertainment out of this stranger.

“Yes, but you have to tell mine first.”

“Fair enough” I said as I fished for my own writing set.

Well it is not what I wanted but some literary exercise won’t hurt.

“Okay tell me who you are” I said after I finished my preparation.

I readied my pen and turned my ear towards him, partly, because I need to listen to him carefully and partly because he’s hideous to look at.

“I am the Beginning and the End” he said

“Stories begin and end with the subject” I said as I recorded his words “What else?”

“I created the heavens and the earth”

“Writers do create their own worlds. But few live in them” I said with a smile. “But I’m interrupting, Go on”

“I am the Author and Finisher of your faith”

I put my pen down.

“And just who are you?” I said as I turned my head towards my quite imaginative friend.

I believe he have just crossed the line between creativity and civility.

However, I saw someone else.

In place of the ragged stranger sat a glowing figure clothed in the purest of white. His eyes glowed like fire yet I felt forgiveness and grace flow from them. I looked at His lap and found a new set of scrolls. A detailed script was written in them. The letters were carefully penned with blood dripping from His hands. It was a story – my story. Though beautifully crafted, the pages are still far from complete.

“Lord, finish it. Finish my story” I said.

I was unable to move, I wouldn’t want to. I don’t know how to react, no feelings seems to suffice. I just sat there, looking at Him.

He stood up and moved closer. He slowly put His nail-pierced hand at my back and leaned close to me.

“It’s not yet time for that, My son.” He whispered. “Now is the time for you to tell My story.”