The Warrior...Part 4

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

Part 4 - Uninvited Guest

Dillon was discouraged.

In the weeks following his encounter with Caleb at the church, he became very vigilant.  He dutifully prayed daily, attended church, journaled and read the Bible.  When nothing happened for two weeks he took a day off to fast and pray on his rock in the hills.  He half expected Caleb to appear again and tell him what was going on or instruct him in some spiritual discipline that he was neglecting.

That day was very disappointing.  After being drenched in an afternoon thunderstorm, he got truly lost trying to find his way back to the trail and ended up dragging himself back to his car after dark again; and this time, he had to make the walk alone.

He had returned to the church downtown, this time during the day, and secured permission from the parish priest before spending several hours in the baptistery praying for clarity or some sign.

Three weeks passed with nothing of any significance to report.

He concluded finally that somehow he had blown it.  Whether by some omission or lustful thought or moment of personal weakness, he had lost his grip on the work that God was doing and it was over.  He tried desperately to identify his sin and managed to confess to a myriad of imagined transgressions, hoping to appeal to God’s mercy to forgive and continue his journey.

Four weeks.

Encouraging words from Mark had begun to sound hollow, as if even Mark had stopped believing them.  Ever the supportive friend, he continued to call every evening to offer his ear or shoulder or both.

When the phone rang, Dillon ignored it.  He was slouched on the sofa watching TV for the first time since the night he met Caleb downtown a month ago.  In his pursuit of another sign from God, he had cut himself off from every type of unnecessary media.  “Tonight,” he thought, “I’m going to make up for that month.”  He had thick crust pizza lying on the coffee table and a six-pack of imported beer chilling in the refrigerator.  The phone rang again.

Dillon looked at his watch: 9 o’clock.  That would be Mark calling.  “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore, Mark,” he shouted in the general direction of the phone.  He heard a click and a beep and then the sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“Or not,” he said, casually throwing back the last of his beer.  “One down, five remaining.”  He got up and walked around the counter-height bar into the kitchen.

Another beep.  “Hey, buddy.”  Mark always called him “buddy” when things were going badly.  “Hope you had a better day.  Call me if you want.  I’ll be up late.  I love you, man.”

Another click and then another beep and Mark was gone.

Dillon poked his head up from behind the refrigerator door and yelled casually at the phone, “Love you too, man.”  He opened the second bottle.  He could not remember the last time he had consumed more than one beer.  “You’re a lightweight, Dill.  Don’t spoil your evening of debauchery by passing out after two beers.”

“Hey, throw me one of those while you’re in the kitchen.”  Dillon was startled.  He looked at the beer in his hand as if it had spoken the words and then peeked around the corner to see himself seated on the couch, jockeying the remote control.  “Seriously,” his doppelganger continued, “I need a drink.”

“No more than I do,” Dillon muttered, returning to the refrigerator and extracting beer number three.  He lobbed it over the bar and joined his new companion on the couch.  By the time he got there, the newcomer had opened the beer in a foaming mess and drained the bottle.  Dillon sat down beside himself and gave his attention to the television, occasionally stealing a glance at the mirror image seated alongside him.

To say that the new arrival was identical to him was inaccurate, as Dillon realized upon further inspection.  His double was in better shape, had sloppier hair and seemed a lot more comfortable with a beer in his hand.  “Hello, Pamela,” he said wolfishly, cocking his head and affecting a smitten grin.  “She’s a hottie.  I don’t understand why you don’t watch this more often.”

“It’s all reruns and I’m normally in bed by now,” Dillon answered. 

“But not tonight?”

“No, I guess you could say that I feel like blowing off some steam tonight,” Dillon figured that there was no reason to lie to himself and no reason to be inhospitable.  “Pizza?” he offered.

“Sure,” his double said, reaching for the flat box on the table.  He helped himself and continued talking to Dillon with his mouth full.  “So, beer and Baywatch and porn.  Must be bad.”

“What must be bad?  And who said anything about porn?” 

“No one ‘said’ anything about porn.  But you and I both know it was on your mind.”  This time, his wolfish grin was directed at Dillon.  The lookalike tossed the remnants of his pizza crust on the table and, in a blur of motion, threw one leg over Dillon’s feet and sat in his lap, facing him.  “I know everything that’s on your mind.  It’s on my mind too.”

“Then you are probably aware of how uncomfortable I am with you sitting on me like this,” Dillon said, pressing back against the sofa in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and this alter ego as possible.

“Relax, Dill,” he said, patting Dillon on the head and flashing a cheeky smile.  “It’s not like that at all.”

“Ok,” Dillon was getting more confused by the minute, “So, what is it like?”

“I’m you,” Dillon looked at him dubiously, “Well, not ‘you’ exactly.  I’m a better you.”

“Better me?”

“Yeah, don’t play dumb, buddy.”  He stood up and looked down at Dillon.  “You’re the boy; I’m the man.  You’re the awkward side of us and I’m here to help you break loose, grow up.  I’m you after one drink ‘too many.’  I’m the part of you that tells jokes, laughs out loud and has the nerve to talk to the ladies.”

Dillon was stunned.  He realized that “awkward” was exactly how he felt, almost all the time but certainly in social situations.  He could use a little loosening up, maybe that was the answer he had been looking for.  But, as soon as that thought occurred to him, he felt something inside saying that it was a lie.

“I’m awkward, huh?”  He said nonchalantly.  “I guess that’s true enough.  But exactly how do you propose to help me get over that.  It’s probably not a good idea for me to go to the office after one too many drinks.”

“You’d be surprised how much more interesting the inside of that cubical would be after a few beers.  I’d love to tutor you in the finer points of mojo,” the twin quipped, flopping down on the sofa and sidling up to Dillon.  Placing his arm across Dillon’s shoulder he spoke softly into his ear, “It’s all very simple.  Just let me run the show.”

“Show?”

“Yeah, the show…your show…our show,” he twisted himself around so that he and Dillon were squared-off again.  “You let me guide you through these…um… awkward situations.  We’ll both be better off for it.”

There was a smooth urgency in his alter ego as he spoke.  Dillon looked at him; there was a familiarity between them that went beyond their appearance.  The personal chemistry was undeniable.  This was no stand-in or imposter; this was a part of him.  This person was Dillon too.  A whisper sounded in his other ear, a familiar accented voice spoke a single word.  Flesh.

Dillon practically jumped off the couch.  “I’m not convinced that your guidance is the key that I’m looking for.”

“I suppose you think you’ll get better advice from your imaginary god, or that chappie of his that appears on his whim.  Forget about them and go with your feelings for once,” the eyes of his double seemed to flare with a dim fire.  “It will be a lot more fun than fasting and praying and waiting.”

Something in Dillon remembered that Jesus quoted scripture when he was tempted, so Dillon began, “They that wait on the Lord –“

His Flesh cut him off with an accusation, “Get depressed and drown their sorrows in cheap beer and Baywatch reruns, Dillon.”  It was obvious that he was prepared for the conversation to take this turn.  He became more menacing, “You don’t have what it takes to follow Jesus.”  Dillon recoiled, the Flesh continued, “The standard is too high and you can see where all of your best efforts got you: pouting on your couch with no one but me for company.”  He grabbed the front of Dillon’s shirt, “It’s you and me and no one else, Dillon.  Think about the last time you saw your comrade, Mark.”  With that, he pressed his index finger against Dillon’s temple and spoke almost sub audibly, “Remember.”

Dillon wanted to object, but he found his memory suddenly and forcibly fixed on an image of Mark’s face during their last conversation.  He wore and expression of mild concern and something else that Dillon could not quite put his finger on.

“Impatience, Dillon.”  Again he was forced to look at the mirror image of his face.  Again the dim fire glowed in its eyes.  “Mark is already sick of your incontinence, your weakness.  He will forsake you.  Just like your angel-friend and your absent god.  Your best attempt at holiness isn’t enough to buy their approval.  You let them down so they lose interest.  But I won’t.  I’ll always be with you.”

Dillon’s memory of Mark seemed to come under duress and he wondered just how much control he had lost to this thing with his face.  He tried to frame an argument, recall some encouraging words from the Bible, from Mark, from anyone.  He was left with nothing, again. 

“Stop trying to deny me,” his Flesh said, his voice tinged with anger.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying,” Dillon replied, trying to wrench himself from the grip of his visitor.

The grip tightened and his Flesh spoke more menacingly than before.  “These are your own thoughts, Dillon.  I’m not making any of this up.  That’s why you can’t frame an argument, because deep inside you’ve already thought about everything I’m saying to you.  Deep-down, that’s what you really think.”

Dillon was desperate to find and escape, but his resolve was slipping.  He felt like all that he believed was true was being swept from under him.  Half-heartedly, he objected, “That’s a lie.”

“I never lie.”  The double pulled him closer so that their noses almost touched, “In this case, the truth is a lot more fun.”

Discouragement turned to despair in that moment and Dillon slumped to the floor.  He sat exhausted and began to weep. 

The voice of the Flesh came softly again as he patted Dillon’s hair, “I didn’t want to be so hard on you, but you have to see that you need me.  All you have to do is say ‘you’re right’ and I’ll take it from there.”

Dillon could not find any reason to deny the truth of what his twin was telling him but he could not stop crying long enough to say so.  For some reason that he did not understand, it seemed very important that he withhold the affirmation. 

The telephone rang.  There was a click and a beep and then the mockingly pleasant sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Another beep and then he heard Mark, “Dude, the weirdest thing:  Jill and I were praying for you just now and we both felt like we needed to call you and say, ‘Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted’…Does that make any sense to you?”

A sudden warmth started to glow in Dillon’s chest, radiating a healing to his heart.  The words that the double had spoken to him seemed far away and irrelevant.  He felt nothing but comfort and peace in that moment.  He stood up, looked his tormentor in the eye and said, “You’re wrong.  You should go now.”

Dillon was aware of Mark’s voice, still rambling from the answering machine as the image of his flesh vanished.  “…and I told her that you were frustrated and kinda bummed but ‘mourning’ was sort of over the top…”  Dillon picked up the phone and spoke softly, “Hi, Mark.”

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Can I call you tomorrow?  I’m a little beat.”

“Sure, buddy.  Whenever.”

“Thanks for calling, Mark.  You saved my butt again.”

Mark sounded confused.  “Ok.  I mean…you’re welcome?”

“I love you, man.  Goodnight.”  Dillon hung up the phone and turned off the TV.  He turned to go to bed and stopped short.

Caleb, dressed head-to-toe in white armor, leaned casually in the bedroom doorway.  “Sorry I’m late.”   He had the distinct look of someone who had been working hard.  For lack of a better term, he looked “winded.”  It crossed Dillon’s mind to ask about this but he thought better of it.  “I was detained.” 

~ Continue to Part 5 ~