“The Witnessing”

 

The Courtyard of Witness

The courtyard was quiet, save for the wind threading through the stone arches like a psalm half-remembered. The sun had not yet broken the horizon, but the light was coming—soft, amber, expectant.

Elias knelt at the gate.

His white briefs clung to him like a vow, the fabric stretched across trembling thighs. His hands were clasped, not in defiance, but in surrender—fingers interlocked, thumbs pressed to his brow. The paddle lay beside him, its wooden surface worn smooth by memory. It did not accuse. It waited.

Behind him, the Bishop stood.

He did not speak. He did not move. His presence was enough—like thunder held in restraint. He had once knelt here too, long ago, when the stones were colder and the silence heavier. He had felt the sting, not just of wood, but of calling. And now, he watched Elias—not as judge, but as witness. As a father. As keeper of the sacred ache.

Before Elias, the sons stood.

Three of them. Bare-legged, bare-souled. Their white garments matched his, but their eyes held questions. Not of Elias’s worth, but of their own. Could they kneel like this? Could they be seen and not undone?

The eldest, Malaki, clenched his fists. Not in anger, but in reverence. He had always burned with the need to prove, to protect. But now he saw that strength was not in standing—it was in bowing.

The youngest, Josiah, wept quietly. Not because Elias was broken, but because he was whole.

And the middle son, Levi, simply watched. His gaze steady. His spirit learning.

Elias opened his eyes. He did not look up. He did not rise. But he spoke—not with words, but with posture. With stillness. With the offering of his body as liturgy.

And the Bishop, behind him, whispered—not aloud, but into the marrow of the moment:

“This is how you lead. This is how you return. This is how you are received.”

The wind shifted. The light deepened. And the gate, once closed, began to open.

 The Sons Respond

Malaki moved first.

His steps were slow, deliberate. Not out of hesitation, but out of honor. He approached Elias’s side, then knelt—not beside him, but slightly behind. His fists unclenched. His hands opened. He placed them flat on his thighs, palms down, as if to say: I am ready to receive.

Levi followed.

He did not speak. He did not weep. He simply knelt on Elias’s other side, mirroring the posture. His eyes remained forward, fixed on the gate. But his spirit leaned inward, toward Elias, toward the ache that had become instruction.

Josiah hesitated.

His tears had not stopped, but they did not weaken him. He stepped forward, then knelt directly behind Elias, forming a triangle of surrender. His hands reached out—not to touch, but to hover. A gesture of covering. Of intercession.

The courtyard held its breath.

Three sons. One watchman. Four kneeling figures, each clothed in white, each bearing the weight of their own story. And the paddle lay still, untouched, yet present. Not as a threat, but as testimony.

Then the Bishop stepped forward.

His robe moved like water, black linen brushing the stone with every step. He did not rush. He did not hover. He walked with the gravity of one who had carried both mantle and memory.

He stopped just behind Josiah.

He looked down—not at the posture, but at the presence. At the offering. At the echo of his own kneeling, years before.

Then he spoke. Not loudly. Not to the crowd. But to the moment.

He reached down, not to lift Elias, but to lay his hand gently on the crown of his head. A blessing. A covering. A confirmation.

The wind stirred again. The gate opened wider. And the courtyard, once silent, began to sing.

Benediction of the Gate

Bishop (raising both hands):

“Let the sons be seen. Let the ache be named.

Let the paddle rest, not in wrath, but in witness.

Let the gate open—not for exile, but for return.”

All (in unison):

“We are not cast out. We are called in.”

Bishop:

“By the mercy that disciplines,

By the grace that refines,

By the love that does not flinch—

You are received.”

All:

“We kneel not in shame, but in surrender.”

Bishop (placing hand on each son’s shoulder):

“Rise, sons of Taben Rael.

Your posture has spoken.

Your silence has thundered.

Your restoration has begun.”

All:

“Amen. Let the gate remain open.”

Here is a sacred invocation for Elise to speak as he holds the paddles—one engraved *Discipline Matters*, the other *Spiritual Correction*. It’s crafted to reflect the theology of refinement, the ache of surrender, and the joy of restoration that you’ve woven into the courtyard scene.

---

Invocation of Refinement

By these hands, I do not strike—I restore.  

 By this ring, I do not rule—I remember.  

 By these paddles, I do not punish—I prepare.

Let the one who trembles be steadied.  

Let the one who weeps be received.  

Let the one who stands be sent.

Discipline matters—because you matter.  

Spiritual correction—because your soul is not forgotten.

You are not cast down. You are called up.  

And I, Elise, son of the storm and bearer of the ache,  

 Stand with you at the threshold.  

 Not as master, but as witness.  

Not as a judge, but as a brother.

---

Tighty Whitey Wednesday

 

---

🩲 Tighty Whitey Wednesday  

A Chapter from *Discipline Matters*  

By Discipline Matters

---

 The Awakening

Elias blinked against the early light, the knock still echoing in his chest. He rose from his cot slowly, the linen sheets falling away like old burdens. His feet met the cool floor—bare, grounded, expectant.

He opened the door.

Hamon stood there, already dressed in the ritual garments: white tank top, white briefs, posture straight, eyes steady. There was no smile, no jest. Only the quiet gravity of brotherhood.

 “Are you ready?” Hamon asked.

Elias didn’t answer right away. He looked past Hamon, down the corridor where other sons were beginning to stir. The air was thick with calm. Not dread. Not shame. Just the weight of what was about to happen.

He nodded.

Hamon stepped aside, and Elias dressed. The garments felt familiar now—not like the first time, when they clung to his uncertainty. Today, they fit like a glove. Like truth.

Together, they walked the corridor toward the Discipline Matters hall. The walls bore no decoration, only the memory of footsteps and the scent of cedar oil. Elias’s heart beat steadily. He had been here before. He had bent over the table. He had felt the paddle.

But today was different.  

Today, he was not arriving.  

He was returning.

---

 ⏰ The Late Arrival

Elias and Hamon walked the sacred corridor in silence, their bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor. The hall stretched before them like a memory—etched with the footsteps of many sons who had come before.

They reached the old wooden door of the Fraternity Hall. It was sturdy, worn, and reverent—its hinges groaning softly as Elias pushed it open.

Inside, the ritual was in full motion. The sound of the paddle striking flesh echoed like a drumbeat of accountability. They were twenty minutes late.

The Usher turned, his face carved with disappointment. 

No words—just a frown of disgust and a pointed finger toward the row of chairs where the other sons sat, groomed and bathed, their white ritual garments gleaming like morning light.

Elias and Hamon took their seats quietly, heads bowed. The garments clung to them—not with shame, but with the weight of consequence.

“We’re in big trouble,” Hamon whispered.  

 “Yes, I believe so,” Elias replied. “I don’t know how we ended up late… must’ve been the spanking party last night.”  

“Yeah, it was fun,” Hamon said. “But now we pay the price. Big Brother Isaac swings the paddle a lot harder than we do.”  

 “Yeah… I think you’re right.”

The Dorm Master approached—tall, robed, and silent. He stood behind them, eyes fixed on the front of the hall. Then, with a slow and deliberate gesture, he pointed down to the two of them and nodded.

It was not a summons.  

It was a sentence.  

The room held its breath.

---

🧎 The Table of Reflection

Elias and Hamon rose from their seats, the weight of silence pressing against their shoulders. The other sons watched—not with mockery, but with reverence. They knew what was coming.
The two walked slowly toward the Table of Reflection, their white garments catching the light like truth exposed. The hall was still, save for the quiet breath of anticipation.
To the left stood the sons who had already undergone their session—groomed, composed, bearing the marks of refinement. In front of them sat the others, awaiting their turn, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

Elias and Hamon reached the table and took their positions side by side. Hands placed flat. Backs arched in surrender. The posture was familiar, but the weight of consequence was new.

 “If you misbehave together, you get punished together.”

The Head Master stepped forward, robed in authority. In his hand, the fraternity paddle—etched with the words *Discipline Matters*. It was not a weapon. It was a covenant.

The ritual began as tradition dictated: measured swats, firm and rhythmic, each one a reminder of structure, of calling, of the sacred cost of brotherhood. Elias flinched only slightly. Hamon breathed through the strikes. They did not cry out. They did not resist.

But then came the reckoning.

Elias and Hamon were instructed to lower their garments—not in shame, but in full submission to the process. The white briefs were drawn down with reverence, exposing not just flesh, but the truth of their tardiness.

Forty-five swats each.

The paddle sang its song of consequence—louder now, deeper. Each strike was a lesson. Not in pain, but in accountability. Not in humiliation, but in refinement.
When it was done, the garments were lifted. The boys stood tall. Not broken. Not bitter. But restored.
They turned to face the room. The sons of Taben Rael looked on—not with judgment, but with solidarity. Elias and Hamon had paid the price. And in doing so, they had honored the ritual.

---

 The Wall of Correction

The Dorm Master gestured once more, and the two brothers understood.
They sauntered to the far end of the hall, where the Wall of Correction stood— with their white briefs pulled up unadorned and sacred. It was not a wall of shame. It was a wall of reflection. A place where sons stood not to be punished, but to remember.
Elias and Hamon placed their hands atop their heads, backs straight, feet shoulder-width apart. The posture was deliberate. It stripped away defiance. It invited stillness.
Behind them, the ritual continued. One by one, the remaining sons of Taben Rael approached the table. The paddle struck. The garments gleamed. The hall pulsed with the rhythm of restoration.

Elias’s shoulders ached. Hamon’s legs trembled slightly. But neither moved. They stood as witnesses. As examples. As brothers who had misstepped together—and now endured together.

There were 123 sons in total. The ritual would take hours.  
But Elias did not count the minutes.  
He counted the meaning.

---

📓 Elias’s Reflection

*I stood at the Wall of Correction for what felt like eternity. Not because of the pain, but because of the stillness.*  

 *The paddle didn’t just strike my flesh. It struck my pride. My ego. My assumption that brotherhood could exist without structure.*  

 *Today, I was reminded that discipline is not the enemy of joy. It is the container that holds it.*  

 *I am Elias. A son of Taben Rael. I have been corrected. I have been refined. And I am still standing.*

---

Hamon’s Reflection

 *I knew we were late the moment I heard the paddle echo through the door. Elias looked calm. I tried to be. But my stomach was doing flips.*  

 *I’ve been paddled before. I’ve even led sessions. But standing side by side with Elias, knowing we’d get forty-five swats each… that hit different.*  

 *I wanted to fidget. I wanted to joke. But I didn’t.*  

 *Because sometimes, the most powerful thing a man can do is be still.*  

 *I’m Hamon. A son of Taben Rael. I misstepped. I was corrected. And I’m better for it.*

---

🕊️ Benediction

 *Discipline is not the absence of joy—it is the container that holds it.*  

 *Brotherhood is not just laughter—it is accountability.*  

 *And the Wall of Correction is not a place of shame—it is a place of stillness, memory, and sacred return.*

---

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.

 

Taben Rael: A Sanctuary of Fire and Grace

Over the years, the prison systems across the United States have grown overcrowded—filled with men who never truly had a chance at life. Some are first-time offenders who made devastating choices. Others are repeat offenders, caught in cycles of violence, addiction, and despair. While a few emerge from incarceration changed—ready to live as model citizens—many return again and again, hardened, hopeless, and forgotten.
The truth is sobering: prisons have become warehouses of punishment, not places of transformation. The incarcerated often leave more broken than they arrived, and society bears the weight of their stagnation.
This is where Taben Rael steps in.
Taben Rael is not a prison. It is a monastery. A crucible. A sacred ground where restoration is not offered—it is demanded.
Founded in 1775 as an Orthodox monastic order, Taben Rael has long been a place of spirituality, reverence, reformation, structure, and strict discipline. Its walls have witnessed centuries of silence, prayer, and sacred refinement. And for the past hundred years, it has opened its gates to a different kind of pilgrim: young men between the ages of 18 and 25, sent not to be punished, but to be rebuilt.
Through partnerships with governments across the globe, Taben Rael has become a sanctuary for the cast-aside. These men arrive with criminal records, shattered identities, and the weight of judgment on their shoulders. But within these stone walls, they are stripped of their names, their habits, and their excuses. They are given robes, silence, and the chance to begin again.
Taben Rael does not coddle. It does not entertain. It refines.
Its traditions remain rooted in Orthodox monastic practice—daily rituals, sacred silence, physical labor, and spiritual instruction. But its mission has expanded: to restore what the world has discarded. To teach men how to kneel without shame. To discipline without cruelty. To offer grace without compromise.
And it works.
For a century, Taben Rael has sent men back into the world not as survivors, but as sons. Not as inmates, but as initiates. Not as criminals, but as carriers of fire.
This is where the story begins.
Thirteen young men. Thirteen charges. One monastery.
Taben Rael awaits.

The Sentencing Chamber: Where Justice Meets Fire

The courtroom was built like a cathedral, but colder. No stained glass. No choir. Just stone, steel, and silence.
Thirteen men stood in chains. Convicted felons. Assault. Armed robbery. Manslaughter. Their files were thick with failure. Their eyes held defiance—or despair.
At the front of the chamber sat the Presiding Justice, flanked by two clerics and a military chaplain. Behind them, a massive mural loomed: a figure robed in flame, holding a scroll in one hand and a rod in the other. Beneath it, the inscription:
The Justice rose. His voice was low, but it carried like thunder.
He paced slowly before the men.
A pause.

He gestured to the chaplain, who stepped forward with a scroll.
The name fell like a stone into water. Some had heard it. Whispers of a monastery in the mountains. A place of silence, storms, and sacred discipline.
He turned toward the mural.
The chaplain spoke next, voice trembling with reverence.
He opened the scroll.
He looked each man in the eye.
• “The soul that sins shall die.” — Ezekiel 18:20
• “You are weighed in the balance and found wanting.” — Daniel 5:27
• “He refines them as silver is refined.” — Zechariah 13:9
The Justice spoke again.
Each man was handed a form. No lawyers. No appeals. Just a choice.
And as they signed, the mural seemed to flicker.
Not with light.
But with fire

 The Chaplain of Reckoning

He is not called “Father.” He is not called “Reverend.” He is simply known as The Chaplain.
His robes are black—not polished, but worn. Frayed at the cuffs. Stained at the hem. He wears no cross, no collar, no badge. Only a ring of iron on his right hand, etched with the words:

“Refine me, or consume me.”
He does not smile. He does not flinch. He walks with the slow gravity of a man who has buried his own name and lived to tell the truth.
When he enters the courtroom, the air shifts. Not because of his rank, but because of his presence. He carries a scroll bound in leather and sealed with wax. He does not open it until the Justice has spoken. And when he does, he does not read it like a contract. He reads it like prophecy.
His voice is deep, but not theatrical. It carries the weight of Scripture, not the tone of performance.
“You are not innocent. You are not misunderstood. You are not victims of circumstance. You are men who have sinned, and the wages of sin is death.”
He walks slowly before the line of felons, stopping before each one.
“But death is not always the end. Sometimes, it is the beginning.”
He quotes Scripture—not to soothe, but to expose:
- “He who spares the rod hates his son.” — Proverbs 13:24
- “Let the bones you have broken rejoice.” — Psalm 51:8
- “I will refine them as silver is refined, and test them as gold is tested.” — Zechariah 13:9
He does not ask if they are ready. He tells them they are not.
“You will be stripped of your name. You will be renamed—not as a reward, but as a charge.”
“You will be taught Scripture—not to preach, but to bleed.”
“You will be taught History—not to admire, but to reckon.”
“You will be taught Mathematics—not to count your days, but to measure your choices.”
“You will be taught Ethics—not to justify your past, but to confront your future.”
“You will be taught Discipline—not to obey,
 but to surrender.”

📜 The Scroll of Reckoning

The scroll is not a legal document. It is a covenant.

Each man must sign it—not with his old name, but with the name he will be given at Taben Rael. The scroll reads:

The Covenant of Fire

I, the undersigned, having been convicted by the laws of man and found wanting by the laws of God, do hereby submit myself to the discipline, silence, and refinement of Taben Rael.
I renounce my former name, my former habits, and my former excuses.
I accept the instruction of scholars, monks, and elders in the disciplines of Scripture, History, Mathematics, Ethics, and Law.
I accept the correction of my body, my mind, and my spirit.
I will not flee. I will not resist. I will not speak unless spoken to.
I understand that silence is sacred, obedience is required, and surrender is the beginning of restoration.
I choose fire. Not comfort. Not freedom. Fire.
Let me be refined. Or let me be consumed.
Signed: ____________________
Date: ____________________
Witnessed by: The Chaplain of Reckoning

The Signing of the Scroll

The Chaplain laid the scroll on the altar-like table before them. Thirteen pens. Thirteen blank lines. Thirteen lives about to be rewritten.

He did not speak again. He simply stood behind the scroll, hands folded, eyes closed—as if listening for something deeper than words.

One by one, the men stepped forward.

Micah

Micah was first. Not because he was ready, but because he was tired of running.

He stared at the scroll for a long time. His jaw clenched. His hands trembled. He read every line twice, then a third time. The words felt like chains—but holy ones.

He whispered, “I don’t know which I deserve.”

The Chaplain opened his eyes. “Neither do I. That’s why you’re here.”

Micah signed. Slowly. Carefully. As if each letter was a confession.

Noam

Noam stepped forward without hesitation.

He didn’t read the scroll. He didn’t flinch. He signed with a steady hand, his eyes locked on the Chaplain.

The Chaplain nodded. “Then let the fire begin.”

Noam returned to his place, silent, but burning.

Kairo

Kairo didn’t move.

He stared at the scroll like it was a trap. His fists clenched. His breath quickened.

The Chaplain didn’t respond.

Still, silence.

Kairo turned to walk away.

Then he saw the mural again—the figure robed in flame, holding the rod and the scroll.

He stopped.

He turned back. Signed his name. Hard. Fast. Angry.

The Chaplain whispered, “Good. Fear is the beginning of wisdom.”

Zephan

Zephan read the scroll like a scholar. He traced the words with his finger. He mouthed the Scriptures under his breath.

He signed with reverence. Not because he believed in the monastery—but because he believed in consequence.

Rami

Rami laughed.

He looked around. No one laughed with him.

He signed anyway. Not because he understood—but because he had nothing left to lose.

Cael

Cael cried.

Not loud. Not messy. Just tears that wouldn’t stop.

He signed through the blur. The ink smudged. The Chaplain didn’t correct it.

Aziel, Thane, Malach, Joram, Obadiah, Asa, Micah (again)

Each one stepped forward in turn.

Some signed with trembling hands. Some with clenched jaws. Some with eyes closed, as if bracing for impact.

Each signature was different. But each one was final.

When the last name was written, the Chaplain rolled the scroll, sealed it with wax, and placed it in a chest marked with fire.

And the silence that followed was not empty.

It was sacred.

 Taben Rael: The Garment of Calling

The Hall of Dust

The hall is quiet. Stone walls breathe the memory of thunder. Incense curls upward from iron bowls, mingling with the scent of parchment and sweat. Thirteen sons stand barefoot on the ash-lined floor, clothed only in white undergarments. Their eyes do not rise.

The Chaplain enters—hooded, robed in black with a single iron ring at his wrist. He carries no staff, no scroll. Only silence.
He walks the line slowly, pausing before each son. Then, with reverent hands, he lifts a folded robe from the altar behind him. It is white linen, plain and untied.
“You are marked,” he says to the first.
“But not yet named.”
He drapes the robe over the son’s shoulders. No clasp. No embroidery. Just a cord of braided flax, tied loosely at the waist.
One by one, the sons are robed. Each receives the same words. Each robe falls differently—some hang heavy, some flutter like wings. The Chaplain does not adjust them.
When the last robe is given, he steps back and speaks:
“You are not what you were.
You are not yet what you will be.
You will walk in silence.
You will arrive in fire.”
He turns. The great doors open. Outside, the wind howls.

 The Sanctuary Beyond the World

Location & Distance

• Hidden deep in the great mountains, 3,000 miles from any known city.
• No roads lead to it—only air transport reaches its heights.
• The terrain itself is a guardian: jagged cliffs, whispering winds, and skies that seem closer to heaven than earth.
Isolation as Invitation
• No phones. No internet. No outside voices.
• The silence is not emptiness—it’s space for the soul to speak.
• Every distraction stripped away, leaving only truth, memory, and calling.
Daily Life & Structure
• Education: Scripture, history, ethics, and the theology of refinement.
• Recreation: Physical training, nature walks, communal games—joy as discipline.
• Discipline: Structured, sacred, restorative. Led by the Grand Master and Dorm Master.
• Studies: Personal reflection, dream interpretation, creative expression, and ritual practice.
Staff & Companions
• Grand Master: Keeper of the sacred order, teacher of grace and fire.
• Dorm Master: Shepherd of daily life, guardian of rest and rhythm.
• Doctors & Nurses: Healing hands, tending both body and soul.
• Fellow Sons: Brothers in the journey—each one a mirror, a witness, a companion in the storm.
Timeframe
• Five years of immersion. Not punishment—preparation.
• Each year marked by a rite of passage, a new layer of surrender and strength.

 

Part VI: The Place of Growth

Refinement, Remembrance, and the Call to Rise

The storm had passed. The winds that once howled through the stone corridors of Taben’Rael had quieted, leaving behind a hush that felt almost sacred. Morning light crept across the college grounds, casting golden warmth on the portrait of the founder whose eyes seemed to follow Elias even in stillness.

At precisely 5:00 a.m., Elias stirred. His body ached—the sting and burn on his buttocks a lingering echo of the ritual he had endured the night before. But he smiled. Not with pride, and not with defiance. It was the smile of a man who had faced the fire and found grace in its heat. He lay still for a moment, letting the silence speak. Then, as if drawn by something beyond himself, he looked upward toward the ceiling. A single tear slipped from his left eye and rested on his cheek. He whispered thanks to the Only God above—for another day, for breath, for the chance to continue.

Today, Elias was not just a student of Taben’Rael. He was another step closer to refinement.

He rose from his bed and dressed in his ritual garments: a white tank top and briefs. The marks from last night’s correction were still visible, but they no longer felt like wounds. They were reminders—sacred inscriptions on flesh, etched by grace.

Just as he sat to gather himself, a knock echoed through his quarters. Elias frowned, puzzled. “Who would be knocking at my door this early?” he muttered, rising slowly. The soreness made each movement deliberate. He opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was a man dressed in an orthodox robe, a scroll in his hand. His presence was striking—broad-shouldered, smooth dark skin, no facial hair, and eyes that carried both fire and forgiveness. Elias squinted into the candlelight as the figure stepped forward.

“I am Malaki,” the man said. “We have been awaiting your arrival for many years. And here you are.”

Elias’s breath caught. His face flushed red with recognition. “Malaki! How are you? It’s been a long time, my friend!”

Malaki nodded, but his expression remained solemn. “I am fine. But I’m not here to reconcile our friendship. I’m here to take you to the Place of Growth.”
Elias instinctively straightened his posture. The sting in his body reminded him—this was not a casual reunion. This was a summons.

Without another word, the two men began walking through the stone corridors of Taben’Rael. The halls were lined with etched prayers, broken chains, and mirrors that reflected not the face, but the soul. 

Elias walked in silence, heart pounding. Malaki led with purpose, the scroll still in hand.

They arrived at a large wooden door, carved with the words:

“Refinement is not punishment—it is prophecy.”

Malaki paused, then slowly opened the door. His voice was low, almost liturgical:

“This is where your beginning began. Remember—nothing truly begins until you’ve begun.”

Elias stepped inside. The aged door groaned as it shut behind him.

Clink. Clunk.

The sound echoed like a seal. Elias flinched and turned instinctively.

Malaki placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Elias, my friend. Never look back—always look forward. Let this be your second lesson: if you stare too long at your past, you’ll lose sight of your future.”

Then, with reverent precision, Malaki gave Elias a swift swat on the backside—not in anger, but in awakening. Elias smirked, nodded, and turned toward the room.

The chamber was vast and solemn. Portraits lined the walls—each framed in gold, each bearing a name and year. Beneath them, engraved plates marked the lineage of the elect: members of Discipline Matters, stretching from 1773 to 2024. These were not mere participants. These were the chosen.

In each corner stood a throne-like chair—royal in stature, golden and crimson. At the center, a diplomat’s table of cherry wood gleamed with a sacred finish. Upon it lay:

• An open book, thick with history

• A Bible, reverently placed

• A red oak paddle, engraved with “Growth”

• A razor strap, equally marked with “Growth”

Beneath the table, a crimson carpet bore a radiant symbol encircled by the words:

“Discipline Matters.”

From the right corner, a door creaked open. An elderly Black man emerged, cloaked in a white gothic robe. His hood was drawn, face obscured. Even as he stepped into the light, mystery clung to him.

In his hand, he held a bronze paddle etched with a lightning bolt. He walked slowly to the center, behind the sacramental table, and raised the paddle toward Elias.

His voice was steady, grave, and full of grace:

“Elias Juan Dento, we have waited many years for this moment. Your childhood and youth were marked by a rebellious nature. You carved your own path—often at the cost of others. You wounded people in body, mind, spirit, and trust. You rejected help, choosing darkness over light.”

He stepped closer.

“You were not promoted. You were not elected. You were selected—by fate, not by faith. Your record bears the weight: armed robbery, threats, vandalism, possession, distribution, and disobedience. You could have gone to prison. But the Good Lord Above intervened. Someone still believed in you. And so, you stand here today.”

He placed the bronze paddle gently on the table and walked to the throne on the right. Silence fell. Malaki was gone.

Elias turned sharply.

“Malaki?”

His voice echoed off the stone.

“Malaki!” he called again, louder, frustration rising.

Then—swat.

A firm strike landed on his covered backside. Sharp, but not cruel. It silenced him.

The elder stepped forward, placing the paddle once more on the table. His smile held no amusement—only compassion.

He spoke:

“Come down to the river, Elias. Where understanding meets you. Where freedom begins. Where purity and hope dwell. Come down to the river—not of water, but of spirit. For all things manifest in the spirit before they appear in the flesh.”

He paused.

“When you reach that level, Malaki will lead you to the river. But once there, the choice will be yours alone. No paddle. No whisper. Just you—and the Father.”

Elias lowered his gaze. The words pierced, but did not condemn. They named what must be named.

The elder gestured toward the symbol on the floor.

Elias breathed in.

The sting was fresh.

The truth was fresher.

He understood.

The river was not a place. It was a posture.

A baptism of conscience.

A surrender not earned—but gifted.

That was the scandal of grace.

He had not been promoted.

He had been chosen.

And now, he would walk forward—

Not as a boy in rebellion,

But as a man in restoration.