I am in a wide open grave and unable to climb its steep and treacherously crumbling walls. Dirt is being piled in atop me by unseen hands and shovels. It's oppressive and stains my very skin. I'm afraid that if I should ever be rescued from this trap that the dirt will forever be stuck beneath my fingernails. Grains forever being sloughed from my hair, my skin dark with its mark.
Worst of all, the dirt being poured onto me is paltry in comparison to the dirt I myself am bringing down. I attack the walls of the grave, not in an attempt to climb free but to bury myself ever deeper in my resting place, which will consume me much sooner than I realize.
My situation is utterly hopeless. My grave is so deep, and yet at the same time so very small, oppressing, and lonely. Oh the grave is so very lonely, that's the worst part. I am being buried in dirt, death, and loneliness.
I look up to the sky above and even though it has no life or consciousness of it's own with which to do so, I feel it mocks me. I would cry, but the soil of the grave would swallow my tears, unrelenting in all that it steals.
I reach up and cry out, "Please, I need help!" Sometimes I know who I'm calling to, other times I am just calling, my soul groaning its strange language of desperation.
And then I see him. His head peeks over the edge of my grave, his face is calm and adorned with a smile like none I've ever seen before.
"You called?" He speaks so casually, I wonder if he knows the desperation of my situation. Does he not know that I am being buried alive?
All I can do is look up at him. I'm speechless.
He sizes up my gave, like one at an auction looking over the prizes to be sold off, deciding whether it is worth the money he will bid. "You seem to be in quite a deep hole." He smiles at his joke.
I smile too in spite of myself. It was a bad joke. "Will you help me?" I find my voice, it seems so weak in comparison to his, which was rich and even musical.
His face becomes serious but still gentle. "It won't be easy. You seem very comfortable in there, digging you out will mean quite a bit of discomfort. You've been in there so long and become acclimated, are you sure you wish to be dug out? You'll be exposed to the elements, the wind is harsh and will try to blow you back in there, and you may want that."
I consider his words. Is it worth being dug out of my safe grave, to be given to the ruthless elements, to face those that were shoveling the dirt upon me? "Please help me." It's a weak plea, one with very little conviction very little follow through.
"Alright then...let's get to work." He stands over my grave, he seems so large, so great and tall. He pushes up sleeves bleached so white they seem more of light than cloth. He reaches down much further than he should be able and begins grabbing arm loads of dirt and taking it out.
He's digging me out of my grave with his bare hands. The dirt, my dirt, my stain, is staining him. This isn't right, no one such as this man should stain himself for my sake. The dirt gets under his fingernails, it stains his arms and garments. This isn't right, but he continues working tirelessly.
Ashamed I find myself digging at his armloads, scattering much of the dirt back into my grave. He was right, I'm afraid.
He continues to dig. I claw at the walls, more dirt falls in.
After a time the man stops. He sits, his legs dangling into the open ceiling of my tomb and brushes off the dirt.
To my amazement it practically leaps off of him at his touch, leaving nothing behind. His fingernails are clean and well manicured. His clothes become as light again, no stain can hold on to him.
Perhaps he's tired, this is why he's stopped. Water swirls around his arms, a strange pure and clean water, washing away any dirt that tries to cling to him. I wish for a water as cleansing as this.
"You wish to be clean...I can see it in your eyes." He looks upon me with sympathy. "You have asked and I have begun, but there is more than me digging you out simply because you ask. I could empty this grave, but tell me, what's to stop you from filling it again?"
I have no answer.
"Do you believe I can get you out?"
"You've done more than anyone else ever could have. If anyone can get me out and wash me clean, it's you." I reach up to him.
"Well done." Water pours down into the hole that is my world. It washes the dirt off me, it packs the walls, the dirt can no longer fall in upon me. Again he reaches down and begins to scoop out the dirt and mud and still I try to take it back. I attack the walls and despite the cleansing water I still am able, by increments, to fill my grave back up. But the stains upon me are fading, the dirt is struggling to hold on to me.
For what seems an eternity we fight and struggle. He digs, I bury. Sometimes I assist, I gather up the dirt and mud and lift it up to him. He takes these arm loads with such a smile on his face.
Push and pull. We fight to either let me remain in my grave or be released.
And then...I am too tired to fight, no longer can I try to bury myself. I am old, I am tired... my life has left and I am in my grave. His hand reaches down and takes hold of mine. I never stopped reaching for him.
"Come on then, let's get you out of that hole."
"It's my grave." I answer.
"A grave is filled with dirt, a tomb keeping you from what is above. There is no dirt within this hole, only you, and it's time to get out of it."
He pulls me out effortlessly, there is no dirt or mud to hinder, only the strange water that pulls off the last remnants of dirt and stain.
I stand before him, and I'm clean. Never in my life have I been so clean.
We stand face to face in an endless grave yard. Some graves are like mine, empty holes filed with water. There are other graves that are filled with mounds of dirt. Stones mark the graves but have no names written upon them. In the grave you have no name.
I see no stones for the empty graves.
"What use would a head stone be for an empty hole?" The man laughs.
I laugh with him, I finally understand. When I reached for him, the grave only became a hole and with his helping hand I could be pulled out as effortlessly as a child being picked up by it's parent.
He then reveals to me the truth:
I see him in a grave. It is deep and wide and it seems much too big for someone so simple, but I know it is not nearly big enough to contain him.
There are innumerable people surrounding the grave. Some have shovels and are desperately trying to fill in the grave. They are afraid. Others simply stand and laugh, believing his burial a joke, mocking the man.
He looks on calmly as they try to bury him alive. Sometimes it appears as if he's crying, I know the tears are not for himself but for those that are trying to hid him away in the earth. They wish for him to disappear.
The earth is rejecting him.
Every shovel full of dirt they throw in shies away from him, being repelled back to the walls of the grave and then back up to the piles the fearful and desperate are taking from.
He remains only for a short time more, shaking his head at their futility. Reaching up he pulls himself out of the hole. The hole that should have been too deep to climb out of seems so shallow to him. He stands before the crowd, larger than life and yet meeting everyone at eye level.
Many flee, throwing mocking curses over their shoulders. They think themselves brave and great as they run in terror. Others fall to their knees and can never cease their apologies. And those with the shovels stand in awe and pure fright, unable to move their shaking hands.
The man reaches out and takes the shovels from their weak grasps and crushes them to splinters with barely an effort.
"Who are you?" They whisper in terror.
"I am the one that you tried to bury, the earth has rejected me. I am the one that you consigned to the grave, it is empty. I am the only one that weeps for you, the one that stands here and can help you out of the graves you stand in." His voice is hard, thundering across the landscape.
"We are in no such graves, it is you..." They begin trembling, but he cuts them off.
"Look where you are."
And it is true, those that sought to bury him are in deep graves and they can not get out.
"What shall we do?" They cried.
In answer he begins to roll up his sleeves.
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