something ordinary. Sometimes the littlest details can give clarity. The only light this dark room allows is the red glow of the alarm clock. Maybe something as simple as the time will give me a foundation to build from.
I lift the alarm clock from the nightstand: 01 D 08 H 12 M 3 S
2
The countdown continues. And it brings me my first moment of clarity. I am in someone else’s counterfeit. One little detail was able to jar something loose. And as one thing comes, a landslide follows behind it. Everything that was foggy has begun to clear. I am here to try to lead the owner of this counterfeit to the Truth.
But, what scares me about the atmosphere in this place is the fact that I nearly forgot my Lord. I nearly forgot my purpose. If it wasn’t for the countdown to bring me back to something familiar, I would still be lost in this dark room.
Now that I know where I am, it dawns on me how little time I actually have. Just over a day. I had three. And whereas my counterfeit had patches of light and warmth, this counterfeit is freezing. And everything I’ve seen so far tells me that I’m in a very dark place. I can only assume that each counterfeit is an expression of someone’s spiritual walk. Mine was the picture of self centeredness, focusing on the pursuit of power. But, underneath the surface, it was clear that I was still searching for something more. Here, light itself is suffocated and snuffed out by the darkness. Whoever owns this place has very little light left in them, if any at all.
And yet, I can’t help but feel that it’s easier to bring light into darkness than to bring it into a place where the light has been manufactured, where the empty pulls of life convince us that we have everything we need. I can’t help but feel that this darkness is only setting a contrast. And once this person is exposed to The Light, he/she will never be able to live without Him.
That’s my hope. But, I don’t know if it’s realistic. In the end it all comes down to what the person chooses. How close I came to never receiving my Lord—
What if the man who brought me with him to Heaven hadn’t let me come across the rope bridge to his cabin? What if he had turned me away? I would have died and gone to Hell. My salvation came down to what he decided to do. What if the same is true of me? What if I am this person’s final exposure?
That has to mean more than the fear keeping me from leaving this bed. That has to mean more…
I slide one leg out from under the blanket and then the other. The quiet is strange. A woman’s desperate scream for help followed by absolute silence tells me that help didn’t come for her. And even though I understand the way the counterfeit works, and that this woman was most likely nothing more than part of this world, it still means that killing is common. And even if the woman was nothing more than Angie was to me in my counterfeit, the act is still very real.
Hopelessness is sitting next to me. The more I look at everything around me, the signs point to someone lost beyond saving. Is it even worth trying? Won’t mentioning Jesus to this person be equivalent to me trying to turn on the light only to watch the darkness consume it?
Your mission is exposure, Andrew. I hear Jesus’ voice as clear as when I was standing before Him. Many thought you were a hopeless case.
The cold doesn’t seem to affect me like it did. There is a warmth pulsing through me. Hearing the Lord’s voice, even for a moment, brings hope into the hopelessness. And suddenly 01 D 08 H 08 M 45 S doesn’t seem like a short amount of time.
I am now standing. The atmosphere is heavy, constantly weighing down. And strangely, the closest thing I can compare it to are the waves of The Father’s presence. And yet, it is nothing like the waves. The only similarity is found in its effect: the immediate feeling of weakness. But, whereas The Father’s presence is full this is void of all things. It’s an eternal depression, blocking out all light and leaving a thick and relentless darkness.
The atmosphere is affecting me, more than I want to think it is. Trying to walk forward is like trying to wade through ice cold water. My bare legs are covered in goose bumps and every part of me aches. The more I try to walk against it, the more it affects me. Now my stomach is passing a sick stir from side to side, like I’m a teetering bottle filled with liquid.
Are the principles the same here as they were in Heaven? Do I have to adapt to this environment? Does my body have to acclimate? I am not only weak; I am physically sick. The few steps I have taken forward have been stumbles. And now the sudden, violent shivers kicking in, leaves me hardly able to move. I’m freezing and I’m burning up.
If the presence of God was too much for my body to handle, what does it mean that this reaction is happening to me here? Am I incapable of operating within the darkness? Can a poisonous atmosphere poison me?
Suddenly, light spills through a crack in the ceiling, just bright enough to display what else is in this room. A white dress shirt, white pants and a gold tie are neatly draped over the chair right of the door.
3
The little bit of light spilling from the crack is different from what the lamp gave off. Nothing here is light. Even the lamps are props. Even the light is darkness. But, what’s coming from the ceiling is from Heaven, because the darkness won’t come near it.
And even though it’s nothing more than a crack, the longer it pours in the easier it is to walk. The symptoms haven’t left. In fact, they are persistent. It seems that the light is only here to lead me to the clothes that have been laid out for me.
Despite being in a different counterfeit, the same rules apply as before. The clothing is nothing more than a contrast, a representation of sides. So much of the counterfeit is bizarre enough that it could only happen in a dream world, but it’s rooted in reality and logic to a point where it’s believable. Just as a dream feels real when you’re experiencing it no matter what you’re seeing, the counterfeit carries the same delusion.
The longer it’s experienced, the easier it is to embrace its rules of operation. So, if this person has had prolonged exposure to this counterfeit, there will be nothing out of the ordinary about my clothing. He/she will simply explain it away as the one of the rules of the world. I am at a constant disadvantage. And I’m trying to prepare myself, because failing has eternal consequences.
And what’s hardest is knowing that I probably will fail. Trying to lead someone to salvation that doesn’t believe is like trying to convince someone that a burning building is going to kill them, but they can’t see the flames. I know. I never saw or cared to see the flames, until my very last chance.
Even though the symptoms persist and continue to weigh down my body, I have stopped walking toward the clothing. My hesitance is no longer fear from what I’ll encounter but fear that I’ll witness this person die and go to Hell. And I’ll be the only one who could’ve prevented it…
Except, I know that I can’t prevent it. It all comes down to a choice. One I can’t make. And that’s the hardest part. Free will means I am nothing more than a gamble. I am nothing more than another voice that may fall on deaf ears. How do I prepare for that?
It seems selfish to turn my eyes toward the light to help me think about home, but it’s all I can do. My mission is exposure. Everything else comes down to what he/she decides. I have to separate myself from it somehow. I have to be willing to fail. In many ways I have to be like Jesus: I can love the person but I can’t force him/her to do anything.
“Help me detach, Lord.” I whisper. “Help me detach.”
Maybe it’s a selfish thing to pray. Maybe I am still a very selfish man. But, I know that the weight of this situation has the potential to crush me. This is not the counterfeit. This is Hell merging; this is realms blending together and I am nearing the overlap. I haven’t met this person and yet I care for him/her more than I can explain. After knowing what Heaven feels like, after experiencing the presence of God, I no longer feel like I am simply Andrew Jeffery Stephenson Jr. I feel like a representation of the Kingdom I come from. I feel like the heart of Christ now beats within me and I am feeling the weig
ht of this situation fully.
This is a sadness I can’t explain. It’s somehow heavier than the emotions that followed when my dad died. I’ve never met this person but I love him/her without condition. How is this possible?
The need to detach is one I must carry with me. To fully feel the weight of the situation is to care about the outcome. No matter how much I want this to be easier than it is, I willingly carry it. No matter what the outcome is, this mission is about service to my King. The very fact that I lived my entire life in mockery of Him has to be enough motivation to carry whatever weight He has placed on me now.
I take another step forward. Though my steps aren’t as heavy, the remaining symptoms are only worsening. I close my eyes and take a series of short steps forward. I feel the warmth from the light on me for only a moment and then the familiar cold returns. The sudden dash forward nearly drained me of all my strength, but it put me where I need to be.
I grab the white dress pants from the chair first and slip them on over my boxers. Immediately, my lower half is cured. But, like excess liquid forced out of one container into another, the symptoms have all pushed into my top half and increased by tenfold. Trying to grab the dress shirt is like trying to thread a moving needle. I see several now that the room