The gremlin.

My gremlin is approximately 300 pounds, which wouldn't seem quite so overwhelming if he weren't my height. He spits when he snarls, which is all the time. He's perpetually ill-tempered and he survives strictly on the briny tears and pungent fragrance of fear. Sometimes he lies in wait for the moments when I muster them. And then...

there are sometimes when my gremlin has tired of waiting.

I know when he's waking, deep in the bowels of me. An uneasiness that without name, begins to search my mind for thoughts on which to nurse. He stirs so that I struggle to complete any thought or do anything else but prepare for his impending arrival. I check the lock on the dungeon door. He smiles just behind it with teeth glinting ominously by the last rays of moonlight reflecting from my doubtful eyes. We both know my efforts are in vain. We both know he is coming. It is a matter of time, nothing less.

I move around my home, anxiously trying to ensure all things are in their proper place. I wonder if there are items I might bribe him with. He will accept nothing but my total and complete forfeiture of belief. 

Faith. Hope. Trust. I lock them away in a heavy trunk beneath my bed. In all my foolishness, I think I should put them there to keep them safe. I have not yet mastered the heart of the warrior to know that they are the only weapons I can use in defense of me. They are not for safe keeping. They are for spiritual warfare. They are the keepers of the moonlight. But they are buried in a place just out of my reach, as I hear him burst through the dungeon door.

In a heartbeats time, he is moving through the still quiet of my home, turning over lamps, knocking bookcases clean, dragging his razor sharp claws through all of the things that personalize this space I live in. He is the bully from 2nd grade. From 3rd and 4th too. He is the wildly angry and restrictive battle guard, telling me what to think, what to say and what to do. He chastizes me for my choices. He tells me I am unlovable, and worthless and forgettable and that's why I am battling him here, alone. And then he reminds me of everything that's ever hurt, and he makes it out to be just more proof of how deeply unlovable and undesirable I am. He works to destroy every flower I have ever tried to tend to blooming. He paces and snorts about me, throwing his facts and failures in my face until I have no choice but to choke down his words crafted with jagged stone. He persists until my eyes fill. I curl tightly into a ball, as if to protect myself in the wake of his fury. It is only then that he relents, for now I am obedient. Standing over me, ever victorious, I feel his hot breath sticking to my skin. He waits.

I offer no defense.

Sensing that I am finally broken, he turns his back to me so that he may survey the spray of disorder he has wrought. He tastes my bitter tears on his tongue with approval. He wishes me to stay in this position. Curled tightly, subserviently behind him as he looks over the bleak horizon. This is his safety. This is the space he owns. There is no hope. No light. There is no promise of anything, which then means no work to be done. There is only his will and my despair.

Beneath my bed lies my trunk. It whispers to me, a tone only I can hear. The trunk calls to me so that I cannot miss it. As my gremlin retires, fat and complacent from the fruits of his labor, I slide my fingers through cool linen, down the side of my mattress, curling my torso until I am touching the clasp of the trunk beneath.

"Open me."

I wonder if I have to wield these treasures like weapons. I am not sure of my own strength. I hesitate. I am told that all I have to do is open...the rest will be done for me. There is no time to doubt. No time to plan. There is only this moment to act. To choose when I think I have no choice.

All the gremlin hears, is the soft grating of metal scraping metal. He turns only to be blinded with light. Blinding, light. I hear his cries of anguish as I bring my forearm to my eyes. Then there is the sound of my own breathing. Fast. Short gasps that gradually become long and languid. My bedroom curtail rises and falls to the rhythm of my chest. There is quiet.

My gremlin is silenced. Made reverent by a power stronger even than him, he is made powerless.

Faith, Hope and Trust prove victorious always....

but not without the power of Choice.

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. - Philipians 4:8 (thank you, Barry)