It’s early afternoon. It’s the middle of winter. Sipping from the tall can he just sits and watches. London is a funny place, he thinks. It is awe-inspiring. It is full of history and potential. It is dangerous but adventurous. It is the frontline for ideas, styles, community-shaping movements, art scenes, fashions and trends. He sits there in the midst of it all at Euston Station and he loves it. Commuters, families, couples, business people, Railway workers, Taxi drivers, florists, dodgy dealers and the homeless. They’ve all passed him in the last quarter of hour. If he didn’t have somewhere to be he could have sat and watched them go by all day long. He takes another mouthful. He feels a compassion for each individual that walks by. Some look flustered. Some look sad. Some look calm. Some greet each other warmly, others look at him like they want to knock him out. He ponders for a moment. How many of these people know what he knows? How many have met their creator and know His voice? And almost as importantly, how many of them know their enemy?
How would he describe this monster to them? Are there eye-opening words powerful enough to convey the damage that this fallen thing can cause? Words don’t do justice when characterising his Saviour, but they probably will do for the Evil One. Maybe one day he’ll have the courage to stand before such people and proclaim these facts more openly, but for now, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tattered grey notebook that holds his thoughts for him.
He’s the uncomfortable chill on the back of your neck.
He’s the white noise that pierces your ears.
He’s the stranger who stares at you menacingly.
He’s the heart-thudding, cold sweat you wake up to in the middle of night.
He’s the alcohol-nicotine breath that stings the crowded air.
He’s a burnt out flame. The crushed flowers in the gutter.
He’s cold on cold and heat upon heat.
He’s jaw dropping, heart wrenching, stomach-in-mouth reality.
He can be defeated and absent from your future’s future.
But from time to time, he’s still life’s calamity.
His train isn’t due for another five minutes. So he goes back to slurping cider and the daydreaming.
If only they all knew.
