MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: PART 4: Ezekiel — Arc 2
Dry Bones Told to Live and Breathe?
Breathing life into the Spirit of a people destroyed.
WWE Heavenly Starbucks Style!
Eiri Waters
The first thing we notice after claiming our corporeal coffee and sliding into our pre-warmed seat is the sun blaring full-force from the wall of windows to our right. Then comes the heady cocktail of glares, brighter than anything the baristas serve. Metal clinks, milk hisses into steam, the familiar symphony of café life.
It’s midday at our usual haunt. We tap a rhythm on the keys, thinking slowly, watching the women around us.
The one with the tan Coach bag and white cashmere sweater bites her nails while lounging.
The blonde nearest the window types furiously, engrossed in some task we intuit because she rarely lifts her head—she only nods, as if reading a book whose words exist solely for her.
We are so engrossed in waiting and watching that we barely notice the smell wafting in—cinnamon, spices, and something unmistakably Zeke. Then the bench seat creaks under unfamiliar weight. Before we can even turn, arms envelop us, and we’re suddenly wrapped in a hairy, heaven-scented, Harley-flavored hug.
We allow it. Sinking into his Santa-vibes. Marveling at leather soft enough to tickle rather than scrape.
It rises in our chest first—the hot sorrow, the molten loneliness erupting through us like a hiatal hernia blooming into a heart attack. The tears break the fourth retaining wall of our eyelids, and we openly weep in Zeke’s arms. No words at first. Just nearness. Just comfort in Fayettevillian sunlight.
“Zeke,” we finally manage, backing out of the hug just enough that our thighs still touch. “How did you know I was feeling so lonely? So broken?”
He tilts his head, fingers combing through his beard as he gathers thoughts both intelligent and delightfully mad.
“Dust, it was obvious the moment we locked eyes. You’re fading — a star burning at the edge of outer darkness. Near your end.”
His head dips.
“You are Star as well as Dust. Who you will be is not yet visible, but it will be revealed in its time. Internalize your worth. Bind it like ironwork upon the lintels of your being. Pour the oil of His Presence upon your inner temple. Don’t let sorrow cloud the beauty hidden—soon revealed.”
We don’t get a chance to answer. Both our heads snap up as Star-Dust enters by the front door — not corporeally, but overlapping frequencies with us. Zeke flicks us a glance. Mischief. Shared conspiracy. We wink.
Star orders via heavenly manifestation.
“Zeke!” Star beams.
“Star!” Zeke barks, trying to sound angry and failing spectacularly. “Decided to show your face after that sad attempt at a grapple last time?”
He stands, chest puffed, hands rubbing together. “Ready for round two?”
Star hands her blonde roast to us. We nod like: Go ahead. Entertain us.
Smack.
They rush each other in some bizarre heavenly-endurance-sumo-wrestling display.
Zeke grabs Star by her anime belt and lifts her — all nearly 300 pounds of us — straight off the concrete floor.
Star, ever the feisty one, whips her absurdly flexible neck around for a reverse noggin-bonk. Zeke yelps, grabs his nose, then flicks us a look that clearly says: Watch this.
Golden fluid spurts from his hands.
Star’s face drains in horror. Mortified she hurt him. She rushes forward, hands out, ready for prayer or triage — we’re not sure. WWE meets Heaven meets Bodybuilding? We’re entirely here for it, especially after Zeke’s pep talk.
“Zeke! Hun! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—”
Her apology stops midway. She flicks a look our way, winks, and immediately locks Zeke into a headlock. Then proceeds to give him the most earnest, creation-defining, motherly noogie the cosmos has ever seen. We are speechless. Our solidarity with our future self shattered by awe at who we might become.
A heavenly jokey smurf?
Sign us up.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice the winks? The looks? The conspiracies?” Star scolds while grinding her knuckles into his Harley scalp.
We chuckle at the spectacle playing out in our mind. Phantasms of narrative, characters tumbling over each other while our mind attempts backflips just to keep pace. Half the center table phases through Star’s thigh. Details. Whatever.
We clear our throat. Loudly. “Ahem.”
They freeze. Like toddlers caught mid-mischief. Breathless. Joyful. Tears in their eyes.
“OH! Huh!” they say together.
“We have topics. We have an audience. We have questions,” we declare, sternly eyeing both heavenly goofs. “We have a schedule.” We tap our Apple Watch for emphasis.
They shrug, help each other up, and sit across from us — presumably because Star, being who we will one day become, makes communication easier.
“Also because we like the way you smell in that Tahari perfume, girl,” Zeke adds unapologetically.
We shrug. Fair.
“So, Zeke,” we begin, “when the Father told you to prophesy to dry bones… that’s heavy. Mad, even. Anyone watching would call it insanity. How did you do it?”
Zeke tilts his head, accessing the long, storied history of his incarnation.
“I thought it was the last straw. That I’d finally gone too far. I looked everywhere for others who had been asked to do the same. Found none. I embraced madness as wisdom. That’s the truth, Dust — and Star.”
“We know,” we say softly. “We too were called to prophesy over dry bones. Devotion mixed with adoration toward an unseen Source always looks like insanity before it looks like genius.”
Zeke points at us.
“Star — you forget yourself too often. Dust still remembers how to talk to people.”
He shoots Star a look implying she uses too many metaphors.
“Yes,” he continues, “the Father is where I poured my brokenness, my madness, my stubbornness. And you may think that means I was strong. No.”
He shakes his head.
“Right to the end, I questioned whether it was madness or glory. Just like you do, Dust.”
“So we all feel it then,” Star murmurs. “We can’t tell the difference between a spiritual experience and madness. Even medicated, little me?”
We shrug. A small, sad eye-flick.
Zeke interrupts before sorrow can bloom.
“Faith, ladies. We walk by faith, not by sight.”
He wraps his meaty arms around both our present and future selves, pulling us into a triangle of heavenly family in a Starbucks corner — muscle, hair, glory, and love fading into memory like morning fog.