The Gate - Head Down

 

The Gate (Head Down)

by L.A.J 

I woke early. Twice.

First to move money—because the world doesn’t pause for weariness.

Then again at 4:00am,

an hour before duty calls,

but right on time for the ache.

Coffee steadied me.

Bills were paid. Arrangements made.

I did what I was supposed to do.

But the air felt off—like something sacred had been disturbed.

Then came the conversation.

My name, spoken in whispers.

Not for praise, but for suspicion.

I had tried to clear the air,

to guard truth before rumor took root.

But trust is a fragile thing.

A verbal warning.

A suggestion to separate.

Not mandated, but marked.

“Please don’t make me go further,” she said.

And I understood.

I wasn’t angry. Just… pierced.

Nine years.

Nine years of ministry, of friendship, of sacred labor.

Now I’m told to pull back.

To smoke alone.

To speak less.

To be less.

But here I stand.

Head down.

Not in shame, but in surrender.

Not defeated, but discerning.

Maybe I do need a paddling.

Not to punish, but to reset.

To feel the rod and staff again.

To remember who I am—not just to them, but to Him.

So I write.

Because writing is how I bleed without bitterness.

How I bow without breaking.

How I stay at the gate,

even when the gate feels heavy.

Elias at the Gate

Elias stood beneath the archway, stripped of his robe. The white tank clung to his chest, damp with morning sweat. His briefs, plain and clean, marked him not as priest or elder—but as son. As subject. As one who had wandered and returned.

The elders watched in silence. Not with scorn, but with sorrow. They had seen this posture before—head bowed, staff absent, hands empty. It was the posture of surrender. Of longing. Of one who had tasted the bitterness of trust betrayed and still chose to come home.

“I am no better than the others,” Elias said, voice low. “I spoke when I should have waited. I trusted the wrong ears. I tried to guard truth, but I forgot the weight of silence.”

One elder stepped forward, placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “You did not come to be punished,” he said. “You came to be restored.”

Elias nodded, tears tracing the curve of his cheek. “Then let the rod fall. Not in anger. But in love.”

And so it did. Not harsh. Not cruel. But firm. Rhythmic. Sacred. Each strike a reminder: you are still a son. You are still called. You are still loved.

When it was done, Elias stood taller. Not because the pain had passed, but because the shame had not stayed.