Bryan Davis: Eye of the Oracle

“I do not know for sure.” Enoch rubbed his hands across the weathered cover of the book. “Time is not like a story. You cannot turn to the back and discover the end of the tale. You have to suffer through life one page at a time.”

“But aren’t you a prophet? Can’t the Eye of the Oracle see the future?”

Enoch shook his head. “I speak only what Jehovah commands me to speak. Whether he writes the final page, reads every page from front to end at the same time, or perfectly predicts what we will write there ourselves, I do not know. It is a mystery far too great for me to comprehend.” He lifted the book’s cover and flipped to the back. “But this much I do know. No matter what happens, Jehovah-Jireh will provide for all your needs, Jehovah-Shammah will be there from the first to the last, and Jehovah-Yasha will deliver you to safety, whether at home with Sapphira or at home with him. You will never be forsaken.”

Paili slid closer and clutched Acacia’s arm. Acacia smiled and laid her hand on the book’s final page. “Then the Eye of the Oracle has spoken?”

Enoch laid his hand over Acacia’s. “Yes, my child. The Eye of the Oracle has spoken.”

I am now a daughter of light, and the path set before me is blazed by the glow of Jehovah-Yasha bloody footprints imbedded in a trail of tears, yet leading to a glorious kingdom set on a shining hill. Though trials stand in the way a search for lost friends, the awakening of sleeping giants, and the uncertainty of Mardon’s looming specter I know the path will never lead to a place of desolation. The shining city will always guide me home.

I now look forward to what lies ahead. New friends will mingle with those familiar. Ashley, the daughter of dragons, and Walter, the descendant of a king, will grace the path with their presence, riding on the wind atop the great warrior Thigocia.

My story continues. The joy of discovery awaits. And I hope that my path somehow, someday, crosses the path of another ageless seeker, the receiver of the only blessing I had to offer so many years ago a handful of stew that quelled a boiling hunger. Yet, it was more than simply a pottage of sustenance; it was my compassion, my humility, my submission. When I gave him the fruit of my hands, I also surrendered my heart.

When I see him again, I will tell him so.