I close my eyes, and I see it again as if it were yesterday.

In a time before.  The rain fell that night, crashing to the ground as if the heavens themselves opened up and the angels wept, their tears blanketing my entire world in cold november rain.  Stepping out of the door of my car, and letting it swing open.  She sat there, on the patio in front of the door, her head buried in her lap.  Her long black hair, wet with rain, flowing down from her head and down her knees as she sat, illuminated by the white light of my headlights.

In the stillness of that moment, I knew.  All was clear.  I loved her.

I stood behind my door in that moment, my hand resting on its firm leather trim.  The rain fell on me and struck my face, running off of my jaw; and washing down the soft hand-cut wool of my tailored suit.   I didn't flinch.  The sky lit up in that moment, as lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the world around me in a burst of pure, white light.  My breath stopped, and I felt no ache in my heart.  Above the chatter of the rain, I could hear the powerful German twin-turbochargers whistling in the cold night air, cooling off after a one-hundred and fifty mile per hour blitz down the dark interstate to here where I stood in that moment, in the falling rain.

She had called me as I left work to come home that night.  Something was wrong.  She wouldn't tell me over the phone.

"Are you okay?"  I asked her.   I bent down in front of her, and put my hands on her forearms.  She shook her head, and sobbed.  I kneeled close to her, and took her in my arms.  "What's wrong?"  I asked, pressing my chest against her, and wrapping my arms around her tightly.  I could smell her perfume, and the scent of her wet hair matted against my face.  She sat in my arms, trembling... shaking, sobbing.

"I love you."  I whispered to her.

"I'm pregnant."  She cried, trembling.

"It's okay."  I told her.

"It's..."  She stopped.  "It's not yours."  I felt her exhale and shudder in my arms.

I paused for a moment, feeling as if a flaming spike had been driven straight through my head and straight into my heart.  I knew what she was about to tell me, from the moment I arrived, but hearing her say it still tore through me.  The sickening feeling spread from my chest and stomach, making me feel hollow.  I took a deep breath and decided to abandon all logic and instead...

...to Love.

"It's okay,"  I comforted her, kissing her on the top of her head and holding her tight against my chest.  "It's okay,"  I pulled her close, and let the pain in my heart ease, as it filled with Love.  "I love you."

She cried, and she cried.  And I held her.  For what seemed like hours.  After the porch light had gone out.  After the engine turned off and the headlights blinked out.  As we sat there in the dark night, with rain falling all around us, the night sky exploding with thunder and lightning, I held her.  I held her hand, and gripped it firmly and as surely as the first night I swore my love and devotion to her.  And she cried.

And the rain continued to fall.

*****

Diamonds are not forever.  But the Love of God is.

I have been praying for my friend Jacob recently.  My heart feels pain for him, for though my experience was painful, his is magnitudes worse.  He is a godly man, a man of faith.  And he struggles with forgiveness.  His wife had maintained a long-time affair with another man for years, before their marriage and for many years afterwards to this day continuing after Jacob's divorce from her.  That other man even fathered his children, and he had lived thinking his children were his own for all those years.  It was within recent years that this was all revealed to him.  And he struggles with it.

I told her that I would remain with her and help her raise their child, but that was my choice.  I made that choice out of Love, the kind of Love that our Lord God loves us with -- with full knowledge of what it involved.  And I would have stayed true to my word had she not made the decision to leave me and be with him, the man I once called my friend.

Jacob, however, did not get the chance to make that choice.  He trusted his wife, completely, as love should be -- the kind of love that our Lord God gives to us, so that we can give it to each other -- and she took that trust and used it against him; and it wasn't until his daughters were self-sufficient that his wife revealed her treachery and betrayal to him as she divorced him to be with the other man she had been having an affair with all these years, who fathered his children.  Jacob didn't get the chance to make the choice like I did, but instead, he got left with the knowledge that two decades of his life, given to his wife and family in love, were two decades of life lost to deceit.

How he endures, and how he remains in Faith to our Lord God is a testament to the kind of Faith that we should all have.  Yet, understandably, he finds it difficult to forgive his ex-wife and the other man.

I struggle with this. 

A deep part of me is angered on Jacob's behalf.  How could somebody do that to such kind and gentle a man as he?  How could somebody take advantage of somebody like him, knowing that he would never suspect it?  How could somebody take on the guise of a good Christian man and woman and yet hide such deep, despicable sin for so many years?

In my anger, I want to pray and call down the angels of the LORD to strike these two down in righteous, holy fury.  I want to pray for the vengeance and wrath of the LORD to come down from the sky and destroy them in pillars of fire.  I want to pray that the LORD send His mighty waters and sweep them away into a watery grave.

But I cannot.  He is my brother.  She is my sister.  And my Lord Christ commands me to love them.  And He convicts me in knowledge.  In the eyes of our Lord God, I was no more righteous than they; and it is only my salvation and faith by which I am justified.  The burden of our sins were equal in the eyes of the Lord; and He died for us while we were sinners out of His love for us.

It is here, where we find truth.  How can we forgive? 

Because our Lord God forgave us. 

For all that we have sinned against Him, He forgave us.  The Lord reminds me of my past, and reminds me that I was far, far, far from being anywhere near a righteous man; that I was an evil, wicked man that committed heinously just about every single sin in the book; so much that the devil smiled on me as being one of his own.  And in that, knowing that we ourselves have been redeemed and forgiven, how can we not forgive others just the same?

These are things that are difficult.  I do not expect Jacob to be able to suddenly forgive his ex-wife and her lover.  But in my prayers for him, I do expect him to be able to begin to forgive, that our Lord God would fill him with the Holy Spirit so that the process of healing would accelerate, and that he would be protected in Him from despair and grief and misery.

All I can do is pray for him.

And that, friends, is the best thing we can do for him.  For who are we as men?  What power do we have on our own?  What can we do, but offer words of condolence and physical comfort in hugs?  What beyond this can we do?  And then we ask, what can our Lord God do?

Everything.

And the Lord our God listens to the prayers of the faithful.  For if faith the size of a mustard seed can move a mountain; how amazing is the power of faithful prayer?  He who created the universe, laid the foundations of the earth, and made us out of dust and breathed life into us -- has infinite power; and the power to heal and reconcile beyond the comprehension of human understanding. 

All that is required is that we believe -- that we have Faith.  And with our Faith, the Holy Spirit comes into our lives and fills us beyond our human capacity to love.  We stop loving as human beings, but through Christ in us, we love as Christ loves us.  With Christ in us, we learn Agape -- true, pure, unconditional love.  Un-Conditional Love.  Christ does not say "I will love you if you don't hurt me," nor does He say "I will love you if you repent," -- no, Christ says "I love you."  Period.  And that is the way we need to love each other, if we are to be able to overcome these kinds of trials and tribulations of the heart.

Sometimes, the greatest blessings from God come in the form of suffering.

I look back on this year, and see a year of complete destruction.  Losing my wife. Losing my home. Losing my mind because of that.  And then losing my friendships and losing a successful business I had built with my own hands over the last ten years.  Finally, losing my physical health too.  Everything I was and everything I had, the Lord destroyed piece by piece until I had nothing left.

Yet, I look back on this year; and know that this year was the best year of my life.  Many verses come to mind here to explain why; but I will share only three and then share a parable that I like to use to explain myself:

"We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Romans 8:28),

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11),

"Surely it was for my benefit that I suffered such anguish.  In your love you kept me from the pit of destruction; you have put all my sins behind your back." (Isaiah 38:17).

And now, the parable of the sword and the swordsmith:

There are three ways to make a sword.  All three ways can produce a sword that is cosmetically beautiful, and worthy of display on a wall plaque.  The first way, is to cast a sword shape by pouring hot metal into a mold and removing it when it cools to polish up and sharpen.  The second way is to stamp a sword shape out of a flat sheet of metal before going through the same finishing.  Both of these swords appear to be swords of quality by the way they appear, but both of these swords would bend, break or shatter if used as a sword is intended to be used and cannot hold a permanent edge.

The third way to make a sword, is by forging.  A sword made by forging starts out as an individual block of iron.  That block of iron is taken by a swordsmith, thrown into a fire until red-hot, and then removed and beaten with hammer against anvil.  The sword is put through trials and tribulations, over and over, to assure that it is of the finest quality.  The swordsmith repeats this process over and over, adding carbon to strengthen the iron into steel; and then flattening and folding the sword over onto itself, doubling the layers of steel in ths sword with every folding.  Some of the finest Tamahagane Katana produced by master swordsmiths in Japan have over 10,000 layers, take an entire year to craft, and are regarded as the strongest, most beautiful, and most valuable swords ever produced.

These Katana are so well made that in the hands of a skilled swordsman, they can cut a man in half in one stroke through armor, flesh and bone all at once; unlike the first two types of swords, which would break, bend or shatter when used to strike with.  To the naked eye, these swords are all the same.  The truth is, they are vastly different.

Now, imagine the process of forging from the point of view of the sword being forged. 

That sword being forged would be in constant suffering.  It would see itself being thrown into the fire, only to be removed and beaten with hammer against anvil.  And if that wasn't bad enough, it would be smashed flat, and then almost at the point of breaking, it would be folded in half and thrown into the fire again before being hammered flat again, for months and months, over and over, while it looked at the first two types of swords -- wondering why it couldn't be one of the first two types, whose creation and refining were so simple before they became swords.  Instead, this sword being forged sees itself suffering the wrath of this swordsmith, who seems to have nothing better to do than throw this sword into the fire and beat on it all day long.

This sword does not understand why it is being subjected to such difficult trials and harsh tribulations.

What this sword does not realize is that this swordsmith is not subjecting this sword to suffering and wrath, but is instead forging this sword from a simple block of iron into something far stronger, and far more beautiful, and far better crafted, than any of the other swords; and it is only through this refining fire, and by hammer against anvil, with the Love and care and precise timing and knowledge of this master swordsmith that this sword is forged into a sword destined to be held in the hand of a King.

Too often we forget that blessings not only come in the form in which we recognize as good, but also in the form of suffering.  As we suffer, we can know that God works for the good of those who love Him; that He has a plan for us, to prosper us and not to harm us; and that it was for our benefit that we suffer such anguish.

Do we not liken ourselves to these swords being forged? 

We look around us as we suffer, and we wish we could not suffer like those around us -- as the sword being forged looks at the first two types of sword, and wonders why it cannot be as they are.  What the sword does not realize, and what WE do not realize, is that by the process of forging, we are strengthened and refined, and when our Swordsmith is done with us, we become such beautiful swords that when we are used for His purpose, we bring glory to our Swordsmith, who is our God.

I lost everything this past year.

But I thank God endlessly, every single day, because in truth... I have gained Everything.  I thought I was suffering, but I was being Loved.  I thought I was being broken, but instead, I was being forged.  I thought I was being destroyed, but in fact -- I was being made.

I close with this -- with a word that we use often when we talk about our relationship with God as being "on-fire":  Passion.

When we use the word "passion" to describe our relationship with God, we often use it without knowing what it means, and what it entails.  The word "passion" comes from Latin passus -- "to suffer"; and is used properly in context of the Passion of the Christ, to mean "the 'suffering' of the Christ" -- to have passion for God is to suffer for God.  When we are passionate for God, we suffer for Him, because that is what it takes -- as humans who are naturally depraved and shun God, to have passion for Him is to suffer in His Love.  We just need to realize that what we perceive to be suffering is in fact His Love.

When we suffer, rejoice.  For our Lord God is forging us.  Rejoice, because He has plans to prosper us and not to harm us.  Rejoice, because He has a plan for us.  Rejoice, because He works good for we who love Him as we have been called to be forged according to His purpose.  Rejoice, friends -- for as Hezekiah says, surely it is for our benefit that we suffer such anguish.

I stand here today in the ashes of my life; with all that I had known before gone and washed away by His mighty waters -- and as I stand upon this Rock, I can only cry out to God in joy and sing praises of thanks-giving to the Lord for what He has done.

Rejoice, I say... rejoice.  For this has been the most difficult year of my life.

I woke up this morning in the darkness.  The sun had not yet risen, and my bed was cold.  A chilling wind blew in through the window to my right as I lay naked, my skin damp with the sweat of a nightmare that still gripped me, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.

It was a nightmare of my old life years ago.  My life before Christ.

I close my eyes again, and I can hear Mozart's Requiem in my head as the visions spin in my mind and come to life.  The cold steel of my gun against my skin.  The fine Italian fabric of a Brioni suit tailored against my body.  Diamonds and platinum; a Rolex stained in blood that would not wash away, on a wrist connected to a hand that reached under the table in that place of dark intimacy, holding the foot of a woman that drowned me in the lust of the flesh.  Her black satin, lace and leather against her pale skin, her hair the color of dried straw falling over dead eyes, icy blue set in dark circles on her pretty face.  I had returned to that life again, drunk on cognac, watching their eyes fluttering in cocaine bliss and laughing in slow, reckless silence.

The taste of lipstick, sweat and saccharine numbness on my tongue.  The sickly, yellowed stench of death hanging in the air, permeating everywhere in the shadow, in the cold and dark.  The horror of filth and lies in my head, masked and corrupted and loved, with evil whispering and playing its seductive lyre pleasantly into ears long deaf to the light.

Images flash through my mind.  I sit in my chair, her leg on my lap under the table, my hands feeling the power of her flesh under my fingertips, hearing her intoxicating breaths of pleasure.  She fades, and I run through the night, jumping down flights of stairs, through the industrial wasteyards.  I stand alone, my gun raised deliberately, my finger on the trigger.  The muzzle flashes explode like thunder and lightning in the quiet night.  I lie on the ground in the darkness, looking up at the light of the full moon casting brilliant red, blue and yellow through the stained glass windows of the cathedral above me.

Blood everywhere.  The blood of man on my clothes.  On my hands.

And the requiem played on. 

Kyrie, eleison.  Lord have mercy on us.