THE TRAVELER

The road is less traveled; only the occasional sound made by the cuckoo bird and the rustling of dried leaves. It is winter and the traveler is covered with dust; his lips broken and dry. The few passersby took little or no notice of him as he approaches the little town that lies at the edge of the road to the east. I have heard stories of such relentless travelers who damn excruciating challenges and endless distances for some solemn venture. I am pretty sure this traveler was no different. His satchel was running empty; he wearily took every step with purpose.

            The town of Kazma was bracing for the season again. Its inhabitants are predominantly black. They lived and feed from the river that lies beside the village square to the North. The cool breeze from the river was taking a walk along the street ways and corners as the sun hides his radiance for the night. There is evidence of celebration everywhere; Kazma was adorned like a bride ready to meet her prince charming with lovely historic sculptures and paintings. They sure were celebrating a notable hero; Kazma danced gleefully in her strides. The season is here!

            As the town basks in such merriment, the lone traveler walks into this town in amazement at such ingenuity: skillfully adorned Kazma. He once lived here, no, He always was here. He never left. His heart is tied to Kazma. She is His love, and today He is walking right through her. He walked unnoticed through the path leading to residence of the town head adjacent the market; his heart bled as to the emptiness of their celebration. He longed to dwell in their hearts first and then their celebration. This tradition is adhered to with such fervency but that is where it ends. The traveler looked here and there at the houses, the deserted corners, the busy people engrossed in whatever they were doing. The ground is still dry, his footprints stained the path leading to the next town.

             He is heavy but must move on, the sky is twinkling as silver buttons on black gown as there is no ‘room’ for this weary traveler. As he reaches the end of the path, he turned west towards the road leading to the next town. Looking back, he gave a nod as his countenance fell; He continues with his back turned. But he is always close by.

          

Yes! A man for all seasons. He lives in the present; through dryness and rain, through thick and thin, through sickness and health, through sorrow and gladness. Passing through every street corner, never without a smile to a passerby, lending a shoulder to the tear-soiled face. A specialty. Who else could dispense such relief but Christ? He still is present in all and through all things. And this time, we remember when He walked in existence as a suckling.