Via Dolorosa and the wills of many

The shadows of night slumped across the streets and walls of the City on the Hill. In an upstairs room, the teacher had knelt before each of his closest students and washed their feet. They shared the bread and wine. The celebration turned somber.

Then he walked up the familiar slopes of the Mount of Olives and into a garden. The trees were blue in the moonlight. He trembled and sweated as if he were bleeding. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup away. But not what I want – what you want.”
The will of the Father.

In the courtyard near where a crowd gathered, the fisherman-turned-follower-turned-Rock kept to his story. Three times. “I tell you I don’t know him! When he realized what he had done, he cried bitter tears and ran away.
The will of the Rock.

The men in tall hats and flowing robes questioned him harshly and judged him falsely. The guards slapped and punched him around, and they spit on him. Then they sent him to the governor, who largely view the prisoner, perhaps at worst, a misguided madman. But the governor heard what the unruly spectators were demanding.
The will of the mob.

Pilate washed his hands and walked away.
The will of the politician.

Slow ride into the City on the Hill

The traveling preacher was in the suburbs of Jerusalem, two little nondescript towns called Bethpage and Bethany. That’s when he told the so-called "Sons of Thunder" to go fetch a donkey which they would find tied up near the road. Bring it back and if anyone gives you any grief, tell them the Lord needs it. 

And so they did. Even Judas had his thoughts about what was about to happen – the teacher was going to lead his pupils and followers into Jerusalem. We’ll show those smug know-it-alls who’s the king!” he thought.

As he made his way up toward the city, folks began to line the rocky roadway. Some threw their robes and shawls down along the path. The crowds grew and the rider nodded and waved at them and continued along his way atop the little beast. He seemed happy. He looked in the direction of faraway Bethlehem, smiling and remembering the story his parents had told him about the donkey his mother rode so long ago to the place where he was born.

Then he looked straight ahead shaking his head a bit, maybe recalling the time when he was 12 and ditched his parents in Jerusalem to discuss the ancient writings with the scholars. Kids and their parents don't always understand one another. But then again, nothing, after all, ever had been ordinary in all of his 33 years.

What dreams may come must mean something

As long as I can remember, even back to my toddling days, I have had this strange ability to have an instant and somewhat clear recall of dreams from those mystic snapshots of time. Especially those which recur in one fashion or another such as flying in planes and zeppelins and other craft and sometimes spreading my arms and zooming over landscapes on my own. Sometimes crashing horribly.

Dreams of giant, menacing creatures – one I still remember named “Big Jim” – who occasionally played cameo roles in my preadolescence. Rare misadventures where I am unexplainably walking around in my underwear and trying to hide like Adam camouflaging himself in Eden. Cecil B. DeMille Technicolor productions of biblical proportions of every ilk and kind, leaving me gasping, laughing, screaming, questioning, doubting, believing, crying and in utter awe after awakening.

I had an epic dream and it was a vivid travelogue. Some folks sail in slumber to Tahiti, claw their way to Mount Everest's summit or voyage to undiscovered and unimagined worlds. Last night I traveled throughout much of Hoosierland.

IT ALL BEGAN with anxiety at an innocuous hotel in downtown Indy. I was trying to find my current jalopy, compounded only with the angst of not even having its keys. I wandered through parking garages and worried knowing fully aware I had to make a road trip. All but ready to give up, I sauntered into a last garage and a seedy fat guy with a beard greasier than a White Castle “slider” listened to my sorrowful story.