The boy sits in the dark corner,
rocking back and forth,
his pudgy cheeks red
and wet with tears.
“I can’t do it,” he whispers to himself,
since there is no one else there.
“It’s too much. How does anyone bear it?
The pain, the pain just won’t go away!”
This is what comes of being fully God and fully man,
a creature about to split apart at the seams,
and utterly, utterly out of its mind.
It isn’t a boy, you see. That’s just a mask he likes to wear,
when he feels ashamed of his horns and his snout.
He’s old, older than you can imagine,
and he defeated all of his enemies long, long ago,
yet frequently he can be found in the vast empty room
at the heart of the maze,
alone and afraid,
unable to go on.
And that’s when the puppet rises up from the pile of discarded playthings,
walks, even though his strings dangle, and puts his wooden hand
upon the boy’s shoulder.
In a gentle and fatherly voice the puppet says,
“It’s alright. Just some stagefright. You can face this.
You’ve endured much worse before, and this, too, shall pass.
One way or another, you’ll get through. I believe in you.”
And it helps.
Even knowing he’s the one pulling the strings
and throwing his voice, and there is no other,
it helps.
