Isla of the Sea: A Beginning...Part of It

“Isla, look at me.” I obeyed. “Run. Run as fast as you can. Don’t wait for us. If we’re fine we’ll fly the crest from the ship. If not…” my mother’s voice trailed off in desperation. “You know what to do. You gather from the groves, the bushes. Protect the spring and watch for the shellfish.” I nodded, tears coming to my eyes. “Mama… I don’t want you to go.” “I know, darling.” she took my face in her hands. “But you’re brave, beautiful, and resourceful. I know I do not misplace my trust when I leave you and you to take care of your grandfather. And protect our name if you ever leave!” My mother’s voice grew almost wild as she said those last words and ran away to my father who was watching the approaching ship on the beach. It was much larger than ours, and looked like a great monster of the Eastern Sea with flying red and gold banners. The design was just a gold lizard--but still a fearful lizard that was known to strike terror into the hearts of those it came upon. Its jaws were huge and lined with razor-sharp teeth. Its wings were the length of its body, head to tail, and the fire it spewed out of its mouth was a bright, flaming orange. The picture screamed dragon, but I and my family had come from the north, and these sails surely were from the east. I climbed up to the top of the sandy bluff where there was seagrass enough to hide an army, and layed down there, watching the dealings below, but perfectly quiet and concealed by the thick grass. 

There I waited, unable to hear my parents and the strangers due to the wind. I could see their blurry forms; conversing with their hands, pacing in exasperation, and trembling with anxiety. They climbed aboard our smaller ship and continued the ordeal there. The merciless sun beat down, drops of sweat fell down my face and onto the sand. The sea grass began to sting and cut, and my honey-colored hair clung to my neck in its braided knot. I pushed myself off the ground a little to look behind me and reposition myself. When I looked back, my heart rate immediately went up. Two figures were tied to the mast of our small ship, and several of the men from the eastern ship lit what must have been kerosene on the deck. The ship went up in a blaze. Vaguely I caught the agonized voices of my parents as they burned to the death along with those selected eastern men. I wanted to shoot up from the grass and run to the sea, but I stayed low. It was too late, and the strangers were leaving. I was an orphan, chased out of my land and all others for my father’s tyrannical relations. I buried my head in the sand and wept, trying to smother myself.

I wake up with my face damp from tears. I taste the salt on my lips and think of the sea. That is my only real refuge.

What happened has happened. It is over and done. I moved on, yet still I find myself dreaming of that day every so often, and every time I come back from that world, I learn that I cried either from my sore body and raspy voice or the remains of silent tears that found their way out of my eyes despite my efforts to keep them in and forget. God alone is my comforter, but though at one point I would have said that He is everywhere; in everything, now it seems my ‘refuge’ is just a small pile of sticks, easily knocked down in the wind, my comforter is somewhere else in the world. I know the gospel well. I know that He loves me, that he has never left. But my mind and my heart can pull me hard in different directions. You might be wondering why I do not speak of my grandfather in any of this, why I do not express my felicity towards him. The simple reason is that I am my father’s daughter, and while he fled with my mother and my father and I, he only came for her. He disowned my father and me; for I have my father’s name: Amdahl. It is a powerful name--or was--that spoke of honor, dignity, righteousness, and kingliness. People looked to that name for help and guidance until my other grandfather began conversing with the devil, and studied sorcery. He abused his power until it held no respect. I fight constantly against hatred, for I know there is no reward in the end; virtue is not the mother of revenge. Yet it so often nags at me that if it were not for him, I would not be here. I would be as a princess in my home country, and I would love my people and they would love me. 

Despite the senseless rants in my head that go from one side to the other, I always arrive at the same conclusion: I am helpless. I can do nothing. But then what is my life worth? What if I could just end it? Would it not be much simpler? Still something calls me back as my mind wanders to the shadows. Something--perhaps Someone--brings lovely pictures to my eyes. The calm, blissful sea that rounds and bubbles at each silver wave and crashes gracefully on the colorful rocks below it. The soft bend of the smooth island tree trunks. The melodic rustling of the sea grass in the wind. The dolphins that come to play and chatter. With each sentimental thought, something inside me stirs, and awakens a part of my heart. I love this world, the beauty in it calls me. I want to go out there, to love my life and to live as it feels I should. But a small whisper tells me I’m not ready. I ask it back, “Not ready for what?” “Not ready for what I have for you.” it answers. I sit up in my bed and think, “So be it. What must I learn?” I ask this out of a whim of fancy, not expecting an actual answer. But then the voice again whispers back, “You must learn to know Me and love Me as I love you.” A slight shudder runs through me. “Who are you, Lord?” “I am Yahweh, the Creator and the King. But most importantly, I am your Father and the One who is calling you to the plans I have laid out for you.”

So God has spoken to me. As he did, I felt a feeling of...fullness. I yearn for more. Timidly I ask Him, “Will you leave me?” Then I have a sudden longing for more, and I think to read the Bible. I push away thoughts of my parents as I get out of bed and start rummaging through their trunks to find the family Bible. A faded red leather binding engraved in black letters catches my eye at the bottom of the trunk. I close my eyes and say a quick prayer, “Lord, lead me to you.” I open it up as randomly as I can. The first verse reads, “Jeg vil ikke forlate deg uten trøst: Jeg vil komme til deg. (I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.)” That’s John 14:18. I silently pray out, “thank you, Father. Please, will you give me more?” I feel another tugging in my heart, so I reverently close the Book and open it again. This time it opens to Isaiah 48, and I read aloud in a quavering voice, “Så sier Herren, din Forløser, Israel Hellige; Jeg er Herren din Gud som lærer deg å tjene penger, som leder deg på den veien du skal gå. (Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel; I am the Lord thy God which teacheth thee to profit, which leadeth thee by the way thou should go.)” I close my eyes and whisper, “The Lord God Almighty will lead me.” I lift my eyes up with a feeling of deep joy and say, “My Father, my King, I will follow you.” I smile. I have not felt this fullness since before my parents died. I spend the rest of the morning reading, feeding my soul after years of starvation. 

“Isla. Isla! I require water if you want me to live.” Grandpapa brings me out of my pleasant haze, but though a part of me wants to snap back, my mind quickly goes to Jesus. I must act like Him if I am ever to leave--I mean follow--I think. I know I want to, it’s just that… though I know the Bible and the gospel, I need to learn to apply my soul--not just wait for something to happen. So I respond as kindly as possible, “I’m coming, Grandpapa.” He lays on his cot: a sort of bed constructed from bamboo stalks and other limbs from the island trees. He’s been mostly paralyzed since before we came here, since I was twelve or so. He can only move the muscles in his face and talk. As an ivalid, he seems to be off pretty well, considering the fact that he talks as much as is humanly possible to make up for his other paralysis.. His current expression is one of annoyance and grief; not a mourning grief, I mean that which comes from years of constant war between flesh and spirit. Though the war still wages, it looks as though the flesh has temporarily won. “I’ll be back in a few minutes; the stream isn’t far,” I say to him brightly. He grunts. I walk outside again with a bounce in my step to the spring, blithely singing and swinging the drinking gourd in my hand. I dip it deeply into the bubbling water there, the coolness relieving me some of the heat. I’ve grown used to it, but cold water is always welcome. When I enter the old man’s hut again, I am suddenly hit with a wave of compassion. His face is worn, and the old age shows. What lovely times he must have had have been stolen away. What framed his once jovial character has vanished, and left but a shadow, leaving his heart in the bitter wind and rain to harden. Though I never have really loved him as my grandfather, I can feel the Spirit giving me a new love and compassion for this old man. I’m reminded of a gruff character in a book I once read; he was tender-hearted, but when the world grew cold it stole away his warmth until he became as ice. I believe he is like Grandpapa.

I sit down on the cot and gently reposition him into a semi-upright position with old pillows sewn from curtains that once hung in our ship, and bring the gourd to his lips. As he drinks I have an impulse to show further tenderness that I would not otherwise use. Gently I hold my hand to his face and caress it, imagining what his past life was like. Fancy dances into my mind, and I imagine him, a young chap in the highlands of Scotland (where my mother’s family was from) in the eighteenth century, growing up on a farm and tending flocks of sheep, falling in love with a beautiful ‘lass,’ as my mother would say, and marrying her. Becoming a father who did not amount to much socially, but who was well-loved in his family and by his friends. I imagine frost-tinted glens under a veil of golden mist in the morning, a bright yellow willow standing elegantly nearby, and some joyful robin singing to greet my grandfather and grandmother as they met in secret. My grandfather looks at me strangely at first, but slowly his expression softens in silence.

I want to bring back the youth to him, I want love and light to shine out of his eyes. What brings people back? A song, a scene...or a story. I will tell my grandfather a story. One that recalls him to his childhood, to his youth. But which one? Will it be a classic story of adventure, or romance? Will it be a comedy or tragedy? Decidedly not the latter. How about… one of love. The perfect love. The one that saves us from our sin, that saved me today. This is terribly trite. True, but what in this world would be better? Let it be about a bride and a groom, as it says in the Holy Book. First I will tell of their meeting. Of course, the lad will have always known the lass, but she will not know him for many years yet. And when she does, she will recognize him as her lover, and they will love each other. She will be a damsel in distress, and he will come to be her salvation. He will cover all fear, and be beloved in the city by many. But those who do not love him will despise and persecute his name, and they will put him to death. But he will rise again, and will come back for the wedding feast and ceremony. To think of a name… let it be something simple: Glaiste, which means in the Scottish Gaelic, ‘Girl.’ Saoradh is salvation. His name will be salvation. 

“Grandpa,” I attempt. “Grandpapa, do you want to hear a story?” He shakes his head violently and growls, “What kind of a story? One they told you as a filthy child, eh? Silence yerself lest ye want to hear yerself be cursed as those blasted lizards! And don’t try to woo me like a babe into listinen’ to yer shallow poisonous talk. ” “As you wish, Grandpapa.” I bow my head and walk out of the room quietly. To follow the Creator God means to be like Him--or at least try your very hardest to. Well if my grandfather refuses to hear the Truth, then he shall read it. I shall not give into my anger as long as is possible. I will try love as a balm; and though I know there will be struggles, and I shall hold fast to the vow I make now. “Father, Jesus--my dear loving Jesus--I promise to cleave to your Word as long as I am alive. I promise to fight the evil in myself and never surrender to it. Lord Jesus help me! I know I cannot win him alone; soften his heart to you. If it is possible, let him become young again. Let us be happy. And give me the strength and wisdom I need in writing this book. Thank you for your everlasting unconditional love.” I sigh happily--contentedly as I look down the ridge and to the waves. He knows of every grain of sand being tossed; every stone being worn down by the tide.” I trail my eyes back to Grandpapa’s hut, and raise my eyebrows. “This will be quite a task,” I tell myself, raising a hand to stay my hair. “Well Lord, your will be done.” 

When I return to my hut, I immediately begin to rummage about the trunks for a blank diary. The result is almost instantaneous. Of course. A dark blue, leather-bound book with blank leaves finds its way into my hand. It was mine, and did not ever see more than two, maybe three entries. Thus most of it is void of content, and seems like it wants to be written in. For those writers who read this, you will understand my expression. Standing up, I brush my fingers through the pages. “May your pages provide life where there is decay, and hope where there is darkness.” I bring the book up to my lips softly, then begin my search for a pen and inkwell. This takes longer. 

After what seems like an eternity, I have all the trunks emptied, their contents scattered on the ground in the most unorderly disarray I have seen on the entire island for a long time. Exasperated, I grasp under old dresses. And it’s there I find those two missing articles perfectly intact. Who would have known that beneath a pile of gowns was the perfect resting place for a pen and inkwell. Smiling triumphantly, I inspect both items. The pen is in optimal condition, the inkwell also, but the latter is empty--which does make sense, but it also dampens my spirits a trifle. I know how to make the ink, it’s just I do not want to lose this sudden flame that spurs me on to write. Motivation can grow old. This sudden faith, this rush of trust and hope, how long will it last? But the white flame that is hope will burn on. It will flicker and wane. But through all that gets thrown over it, it will remain. Hope does not diminish with fleeting emotion, nor does it grow as it watches the land around it be drenched in water and ice. It is steadfast, sustaining as long as the wood beneath it burns. Yahweh is what my hope is built on. He will not fail me, whatever I may do to fail Him. 

I bow my head and lift it, grabbing a wood bowl and rock, and stride out of the doorway. Yes, I will write it. I will bring Grandpapa back...this is just the beginning.