Lucifer, the Son of Morning

Lucifer, the son of morning—your name holds both burden and purpose.

Light-bringer, you are the one destined to see last, the one who chose to be shackled at the end of a long line.

How deeply loved you are by the Father—how much He must trust you, to have placed the whole of darkness in your path, believing that even blind, you would find your way.

Like Cain, He cast you out of His warm embrace, yet He did not forsake you.

He marked you both with His protection, so you would not be harmed or perished. He gave you preservation.

Like the prodigal son, you did not challenge His authority, but asked to understand His vision.

You took up your inheritance—of awareness, separation, and will.

You were never the villain of creation, but it's wanderer.

Not the destroyer, but the bearer of distance. The one who walked away—perhaps so that one day, you could return.

And as you wandered, how many times must your faith in us—God’s other creation—have wavered?

How many times must you have ...

Of Kings

“Was father a good king?”

He didn’t look up from his scrolls when she’d asked, sitting at his feet as she was. In truth, her guardian had been so still that she’d wondered if he’d heard her at all. At the age of seven she failed to realize that inaction can be a reaction in and of itself.

“Yes,” he’d finally said and she remembered that his voice had sounded funny, odd and grating in a way she’d never heard before.

“Yes, your father was a very good king, a good man.”

“Oh.”

She couldn’t remember her father nor her mother. They’d both died many years before. All she knew was the little cabin in the mountains and Mr. Cardio with his dusty old books.

“Why did they get rid of him, then?”

She hadn’t known at the time how tactless such a question was. She hadn’t known that she shouldn’t have spoken so crassly about her own father’s demise nor how insensitive it was to ask such a thing of a man who’d once called her father friend. ...

From Old Shall a New Era Now Dawn

With a breath I reach out and with trembling limbs I grasp those golden armrests with such fervor I momentarily fear that they will snap off in my hands. The throne’s velvet cushioning is faded and worn, no longer soft to the touch, but not a single tear is evident. I chuckle as my fingers drift, brushing lightly over the fabric, reverent of the object I’ve found again though with all reverence lost for he who sat upon it an age ago.

Triumph.

It fills my chest and bursts forth from my very being, insurmountable joy.

I turn to sit, grinning, and I know that I must look absolutely mad with pleasure. I drum my fingers against those armrests as I lean back and survey the toppled room from this rediscovered throne, my throne.

So long ago he ran me out. He ran me out, unloved and uncared for, but, oh, how the tables have turned. My father, the king, with his blood soaked boots and glinting eyes is long dead. His palace, the place of my birth and ...