This Cross was Meant for You and Me

It’s Awfully Heavy, Isn’t It?

Dear Mother,

Since my recent woes continue to compile, one atop the other like a never-ending stack of misplaced bricks, I have decided to alleviate myself of these stressors. I have taken a trip out to the country. The sea of fresh faces and unexplored surroundings should put my thoughts in better places; hopefully allowing me to see how small my problems really are when compared to the vastness of the world. I locked up the shop about a week ago, then I chewed on what I was to do for a while, and, after another day of worry, I began my travels. I am not entirely sure when you will receive this letter, so it would be best to assume I am still adventuring from one town to another. I am not certain where I will end up. My neighbor will receive whatever letters are addressed to me, so please continue to send me your updates.

I wrote this letter to tell you something curious, that foolish fellow, I think he, too, has taken a holiday. Two days ago, I bumped into him. He had found himself amongst a group of soldiers marching. The captain, a man in a silvery breast plate and tall plumed helm, was laughing at the jester. All of the men seemed to find him astonishingly humorous, and all he did was tumbled around and trip over himself repeatedly. Some of the passing travelers offered a condescending sneer at his rambunctiousness. You know how us civilians, when displeased, will shun a man rather than tell him off. Besides, I think the troopers’ enjoyment trumped the people’s ire. However, like the soldiers, some of the farmers and labors also found refuge in the fool’s absurdity.

I, myself, am still undecided what to think of him. I did my best not to be noticed, and I simply passed along to the next town over.

Today, I stopped by a cafe during a pleasant day. I stopped in a charming little hamlet to cool off after a long day of walking and riding. I wasn’t too worn, the wind was lovely, and not a single cloud marred the iridescent blue sky. The owner of the shop was kind enough to let me take the coffee and walk the town, provided I bring the cup back or pay for it if it were to break. I agreed and thanked her.

On my walk, I watched the village bustle: wagons packed with hay and feed, parents and children tailed by their hounds as they went about their business, and the workers. I also happened to see the soldiers from before. They were sharply dressed in their bright uniforms and trimmed mustaches. They endlessly smoked cigars, pipes, and whatever piece of tobacco they could get. I noticed, along with their stench of sweat and smoke, the scars they bore. A long, thin downwards scar traced the cheek and chin of the cavalry officer who was talking with one of the women, while the infantry relaxed. When I saw his injury, I despaired and quietly accounted a great many thing I never pay attention to: the calloused knuckles of a worker, the burned scars of the blacksmiths, the tired eyes of the wives, and the general…how do I say, beaten up yet defiant spirit of those who toil.

And I wallow further into my sadness. Here I am, soft-handed and unscarred. I have gotten into my scraps and earned a few notches on my flesh, but nothing compared to the leathery hides of the soldier and worker. I wonder, if I were a man like them, would Jessabelle have answered the door when I knocked? Would she have heard how the door would have bruised if my knuckles were more worn? Would a soldier’s uniform and their changed eyes have stricken her with a greater sense of duty towards me? Would my life have been different or better if I had ignored you and enlisted?

Here I am, a man who fails to feel like a man. I am envious of those men. Their voice carries a toner that demands a listener. Even if they are not speaking to anyone directly, they speak in such a manner that a listener will come. I wonder, if I was injured by life in some other way than I am now, could I ever be like those men? I wish for so much more. Surely their lives are more exciting and fulfilling.

I paused and stood afar from the gathered troops. I studied them.

And then, the fool cartwheeled into the infantry men! Singing and dancing. The soldiers howled in glee like children! The mock kicked and lightly pushed the ragged fellow around, and he splayed and tumbled into the dirt! The fool bawled at the supposed mightiness of the army. One of the regulars was passing his bayonet between his palms, and the fool popped right over and pricked his finger on it. That mad man raised his hand to the sky, bellowing and shedding a flurry of tears as a single drop of blood beaded down his forefinger.

The service men laugh so hard they joined the fool in tears. The fool, between his falling and shouting, sang something like this:

“I bleed! I bleed torrents! Too greatly and too much!

A grave lash, alas, my life flashes before my eyes!

I lay in death’s cold clutch for this is no mere brush!

All of life remained, and now against she, I must cut ties

Why dear Lord, did I wish for more?

The truth of this cross was laid bare, yet I still choose lies!

I believed how my world was rotten without a core,

How I wish I had known what weight was there!

Had I seen its fullness, I’d have denied envy with a roar!

Jealousy and want, I die in your cruel lair.

Had I understood, I’d have carried this thorn.

God crafted a path, and I fell in Satan’s cruel snare,

This cross and deep wound, I weep and mourn,

But my blood and toil shall lead me to that eternal dawn!”