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By Joy Axelson I fled majestic mansions filled with ceaseless splendor and cloaked myself in flesh, condensed, to be a baby, tender, a hated homeless exile – disregarded, outcast, wailing, waiting, wanting and assigned the lowest caste. Why should I sojourn, suffering, sweating in sand and heat? Should you not be bowing low to kiss my dusty feet? I’m ever vexed by phantom force, fixing feet to ground, compressed into time and space and to this body bound. The sun, whose orb I set alight, beats down, burning skin. Souls of stone betray me, charging me with sordid sins. Humans, inhumane to all, whom vilest things enchant; Though their lips spew lies, their every breath is mine to grant. Outraged at injustice, I fling tables far and wide for in His holy house, their weak consciences have died extorting the helpless, worshipping the gods of greed. My zeal for this sacred space my hungry anger feeds. East of Eden, now you stand, thick darkness spreads like plague. I see a hateful hand drifting o’er the earth I made, to capture those I prize, bringing spirits tainting blight. Demons know I’m Satan’s foe; they must admit my might. The Garden finds me sleepless, pondering my dreadful task. I know this is my mission, and suffering won’t last. Suspended grace, I'm lifted up – this my cross to bear; the fate of sinful man will fall upon me there. If you cut me, I now bleed, o wretched Adam’s seed. I know no other means in the universe to free the foulest of offenders who scorn our lavish love. As the only Path, I take this boiling cup of blood. Striking me with wood I formed, piercing flesh with nails, whips, this crude creature meant for boundless bliss and fellowship, tortures and torments me, flogging his Holy Maker. I sculpted you in love; you spit on your Creator. Though I trained your heart to beat, you earned what I endure. I feel compassion for your frame – this I can assure. The sky was pitch, the curtain rent – death had won it seemed. Soon, repenting, you’ll awaken from this wicked dream. You will be released; you’ll cross that river, peaceful, wide. Fretful fears will be eclipsed – with God you will abide. Your journey done, vict’ry won – in Zion, truly freed And forever cherished by the Highest God who chose to bleed. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. She’s the translation coordinator for GlobalFingerprints, the Evangelical Free Church of America’s child sponsorship branch. Her translations of training materials are used at 14 international sites. She enjoys travelling with her husband and two older children.
Joy's other work on Foreshadow: Sacred Gift (Poetry, January 2024) Wilderness Theophany (Poetry, October 2024)
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By Desi Ana Sartini Dear Enoch, The time has come. The scent of the earth grows strong. It calls me home. Soon, very soon, I shall return to it. But before I go, there is something I must do. I look about the earth, to all my children. I search for hope, the hope of mankind, and my eyes rest upon you. Though you have never seen the fullness of God’s unveiled splendor nor experienced the glory of a life lived fully in His presence, still here under the shroud, in the midst of the brokenness, you choose each day to defy the Serpent and follow the Maker. Well done, my child. Know beyond a doubt that you have chosen rightly. And now, I am choosing you. With all the countless hours you’ve spent in the glow of our hearth, drinking in every word we have to say about the time before the Separation, by now you know as much about the Garden as anyone, save Eve and myself. If only more people were so eager to hear. All too often they are not. To some it rings true right down through their bones; to others it seems no more than a fanciful delusion. To most it is something in between. But all must be told, regardless of how they respond. That is why I write to you today. Eve and I are nearing the end of our days, and you and others like you must be the keepers of the story now. Soon, we will come to the final bitterness of our choice, and when at last the breath of glory departs from the dust of our flesh, the last living memory of the Garden will pass from the earth. I ask you, Enoch. Look around you. If you do not tell the story, what then will become of my children? What then will become of the world? Everywhere I look, I see my children, called to be the image-bearing stewards of God’s rule, choosing instead to build their own little kingdoms on the earth. They live for their own desires, slaves to their bellies. The world has fallen under the Serpent’s spell and forgotten its Creator. They do not even know that they are stewards in rebellion against their King. I weep as I watch my children sitting in brokenness and accepting it as the way things are, the way the world works. Their eyes are on the toil of their hands, the thorns of the field, the hostility of their brothers, everywhere but the Source of their being. They must be told. The truth must break through. Sometimes there are shards that do break through. Every once in a while, I see a spark in the eyes of a man. It happens most at the death of a child, when for one wild moment we know, we remember. The truth jumps up and shouts in our face, “This is not right!” In that moment of clarity, we see beyond the shroud and know that the world is broken, that this is not what life should be, that the Serpent must be destroyed and his hold on the earth released, that death should have no claim. But all too soon the moment passes and we slip back into our fallen stupor, left only with our grief and slow endurance of days. Arise, children of mine! Shake off your stupor and reclaim the truth! Climb the hilltops and scream it out! Don’t let your soul be silent! Fight! Shout! Be indignant! Tell the Serpent to go back to the pit where he belongs, and to take it all with him: the death, the struggles, the sickness, the brokenness, the war, the injustice, the hate! But alas, we are intertwined with it. The ropes of death, with all its snares, are wound about us. If the Serpent takes them down, he will drag us all with him. The curse must be broken before the evil can depart. When, O Lord?! When?! When shall the Serpent be defeated and the curse be lifted? How long must we endure this evil which we have brought upon ourselves? Will we ever see the beauty of Your face again? Will You ever again look upon us in friendship? You must forgive my outburst, my son. There are days when I am haunted by such thoughts, fearful for the future of the world. But then I remember His face and all the unshakable goodness, power, and truth I have beheld in Him, the lovingkindness He holds at the core of His being. I may have brought this doom upon the world, but it is He, not I, who will redeem it. For He holds humanity in the palm of His hand. It is He who formed us, He who breathed us into being, He who let us stumble, and He who will lead us home. In the early years after the Separation, as I watched the first few generations grow and find their way in the world, I used to think that things would be different if only everyone could have a taste of the Garden, life in the presence of God, even if just for a moment. I used to think it would change the way they lived. And perhaps it would. If Cain had once beheld the Eternal One, would he still have offered so unworthy a gift? If he had once stood in the presence of the Life Giver, would he still have lifted a hand against his brother? Once, I was sure he would have done no such thing. But in the years since, that conviction has wavered. I have seen the spell the lies of the Serpent have cast upon mankind; I have seen how deeply it grips their souls; and I have come to believe that under its influence many a man would question his own sanity rather than accept a vision of truth as he sits under the shroud. Heaven forgive me, I must confess that there was a time after I realized this that I fell into despair. Serpentine whispers resurrected old shames, and every taste of sweet fruit turned to bitter memory in my mouth. I began to envy my children, those who had never seen. If indeed we must live in exile, would it not be easier if we were not haunted by memories of a paradise we can never know again? Would it not be better to come to accept the world as it now is and make the most of what we can, rather than pine for that which is lost? For a long while I shut my heart, tried to cut off all memory of the Garden. For a time, I managed to make a tolerable life for myself in this way. After all, for all the glory that was, there is still much goodness left to be found in its broken pieces. By filling my days and focusing only on what was right in front of me, I guarded my heart from memories of the truth, and pretended to be other than I was. I told myself that the Garden was only a golden dream I had once had, and my failure at the tree and its ensuing consequences was but a nightmare. After all, who ever heard of a talking snake? Thus I became for a while as the shrouded man who tells himself that his Garden vision is but a reverie. My self-induced delusions were not to last, however. The earth and all that is in it bears the immutable markings of its Maker. There are some things which no created power can ever unmake. No matter how much havoc we wreak upon the earth, no matter how much power the Serpent claims over the world, still the sun will ever echo the Creator’s face, the rushing waters His voice, the storms His power, and the flames His throne, just as we, fallen though we be, bear still His image on the earth. I who have stood full in His presence and beheld His unveiled glory could never unsee, could never unknow. Even with my eyes down, every ray of sunshine, every trickling stream, every gust of wind, every tongue of flame, and every face of a child stirred in my heart the memories and called me back to Him. For the human soul was made for glory, and not just any glory, but a glorious union with its Maker. Without this glory, I could find no rest. Nor will I, this side of the chasm. Thus I have come again to wish that all mankind could taste the Garden, but not so that it would solve all our problems, but rather so that the longings within all our souls could find their meaning, and the truth give light to our hope. For no rebellion in heaven or earth could ever outdo His goodness. The day of the Serpent Slayer will come, and the Creator will redeem His own. Let us not lose our way in the waiting. In the light of all these things, it is therefore of utmost importance, Enoch, that you remember all that we have taught you, and pass it on to others. The memory of the Garden must be kept alive on the earth. Do not let yourself forget once we have gone, and do not become so absorbed in your own journey that you overlook the needs of your brothers. You must preserve the story and share it with all who will hear. And if at last you, too, come to the end of your days before the Serpent Slayer comes, then pass our letters and writings down to other worthy men, that the truth about God, humanity, the earth, and the Serpent will never be lost from the world. In defiant hope by knowledge of the Holy One, Adam Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
By Matthew Beringer “There were many who were appalled at him—his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any man and his form marred beyond human likeness.” – Isaiah 52:14 In America, people do not notice my scar like they do in Jamaica. “What’s that?” asks Asia, touching the purple discoloration on my elbow. Asia is a rail-thin orphan with kinked hair. She carries around a Bible she cannot read, swatting away the prying hands of other children and scowling, “Don’t trouble my Bible.” She knows all the words to 'Bless the Lord (Oh My Soul)' and can sing in perfect pitch, which surprises me. I am quick to doubt the talents God has given the children at the orphanage. “I got it from a bike accident,” I say, looking down at the scar. Last year, I was biking on a trail in Atlanta when I dropped my water bottle and ran off the path and crashed. I was fine except for the bloody gash on my elbow, a minor wound that likely would not have scarred had I gotten stitches at the time. Asia studies my scar. Then she says, “I think it will heal.” I almost laugh at her prophecy. It’s not that I doubt God’s power to heal. He’s the same God who told the paralytic to take up his mat and walk, cast out demons, called Lazarus from the tomb, mounted the cross and rose again three days later. But my scar is hardly his concern. I do not need to be healed. Yet apparently Asia thinks differently. She notices an aberration of nature, a defect, and assumes that a perfect God would want to heal any and all my imperfections. God employs the foolish things of this world to shame the wise, Paul writes, and he uses Asia to remind me of my own need for healing. My scar is an outward sign of something deeper, just as the paralytic’s disability points to the more profound illness in every human heart. That you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins…I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home… Jesus heals our bodies so that we might believe he has the power to heal our souls. Yet how easily I delude myself into thinking I have no need for God to heal me. If I do not become more like Asia, I will never enter the kingdom of God; if I do not recognize the reality of my neediness, I will never experience the troves of grace God desires to give me. * * * Asia is not the only one in Jamaica to notice my scar. So does Sheronette, an older girl at the home run by the Missionaries of the Poor sisters, who stares fixedly at the discoloration on my elbow. When she points at it, I explain the details of my bike accident, though I doubt she follows the story. There is an irony in her calling attention to my scar when she has a more obvious deformity of her own—a colony of black moles spread across her brown, wide-flared nostrils that reminds me of a rough piece of tree bark. I feel vaguely ashamed to notice her in this way, and yet my discomfort speaks to the question undergirding this essay: is it demeaning to notice the deformities in our fellow humans, their scars, the physical traits that society regards as ugly? I mean really notice, not just a passing glance, such that you could shut your eyes and trace the way the tumor in their cheek presses against their nose bridge and pushes out a bulging eye, or picture the colony of moles that oddly resembles the bark of a tree? Noticing physical characteristics, on its own, is not a virtue. The Klansman certainly paid attention to the color of a black man’s skin and the Nazi recognized the physical characteristics common among Jews, but the kind of noticing I speak of is just the opposite. It seeks to identify the irreplicable nature of each human; to capture the mosaic of characteristics that make an individual an individual; to testify to the Glory of God reflected in them. So yes, I pay attention to Sheronette’s deformed nose, but I also notice other things, like her slow smile that builds and then breaks like a languid wave, or that she draws portraits (one of which now hangs in my bedroom in Atlanta) and spells her name in large block-ish letters. Prejudice paints with a broad brush the same humanity that Love created with infinite nuance; it flattens people with a quick glance to the shallow depths of skin color or the size of their nose or the dirt on their clothes; it tries to reduce one into many by glossing over the particular in favor of the general. Hate trades in the currency of generalities, but love can only succeed in loving the particular. * * * Why did Christ rise with his wounds? Why did he still bear his marred form that had so appalled humanity while He hung on the cross when he could have greeted his apostles with a pure, unadulterated body? And why do so many cathedrals, beautiful in their own secular right, uphold such ugliness as the cornerstone of their beauty by placing a crucifix above the altar? Eternal beauty is found on the ugly rock of Calvary. So we must notice each other’s deformities, and in them, the markings of the same Christ who rose from the dead with holes in his hands and feet. We must strain to see a greater reality hidden in our scars and deformities. Where the modern ethos of the world tries to reduce humans to stock characteristics that can be used for demographic studies, we must take our cue from the One who was not afraid to look squarely at the lame and crippled and recognize their individual needs. * * * Sheronette stares at my scar for a long time before I break the silence. “Would you like to touch it?” I ask, something I would never dream of suggesting if I were in America. She smiles and nods, then reaches out and runs her thick fingers against the raised purple skin. She does not flinch or seem embarrassed, but if anything, mildly amused, and I hang onto this memory long after I return from Jamaica, feeling as if I have glimpsed an imperfect picture of Christ setting His hands on my scarred soul. Matthew Beringer is an essayist and fiction writer from Atlanta, Georgia. He writes a bi-weekly Substack on faith matters called 'Orthodox Fiction: Either/Or'. His fiction is forthcoming in Image magazine.
From the author: Last August, I traveled to Kingston, Jamaica, and spent ten days with the Missionaries of the Poor (MOP), a Catholic order that runs apostolates in the slums of Kingston and elsewhere in the world. This work is from a collection of essays based on my experience. By R. M. Francis Oblique, delicate prayer. Wild, blind prayer -- spare space this week’s rosary. Sapphira says there’s a decade knotted around the noose for my sin. Skip Monday’s joyful mystery, skip Tuesday’s sorrow -- Mother knows we need your fumble-fingering through beads. Caress in private grace, like times spent on the side of the hill, hooked, shut and ascending. I’m still scaling, sanctity scarce, set with scars, sights on sainthood. Oblique, delicate prayer. Wild, blind prayer -- simple -- spare space this week’s rosary for my prey. I cannot utter yet, but I’ll think about it, from the perch, crouching over the side of almost sleep. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
Francis' other work on Foreshadow: Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024) By L.M. Shearer The sun caught each fiber, sparkling clean curled wool, white as clouds, translucent as a drift of snow that covered everything, that forgave every imperfection in the landscape. The fire was hot, and it drew the eyes to it, blackened the sand beneath it, turned the skin red who came near it, to be warmed by it. The roar of the ocean was a heartbeat in the ears, was breath leaving the lungs, was a waterfall consuming every sound. Seven flaming stars spread like cards on a velvet table, strewn like seven bright diamonds on a jeweler’s bench. The sun bright in summer, and the body craved it, but the eyes could not look at it, highest and hottest summer sun, it left no shadows, no shade under it. John saw this, he saw all of it within one man, and in that sight lest he die, fell down before his feet as one already dead. And the Son-of-Man like-snow like-fire like-stars like-ocean like-burning-sun said “Fear not” L.M. Shearer is a high school and Sunday school teacher from the beautiful Pacific Northwest, USA. She volunteers as a Court Appointed Special Advocate, studies theology in her spare time and has occasionally written poems on post-it notes at work.
By David Athey Daniel loves to be alone with just enough people in a dark dive deep abode of light with windows facing most directions of soul, the door belled and chimed so no one arrives alone. That poet Daniel reclines near the piano, his notebook wild with dreams of grace and fury like a lion’s jaws, the jaws of many lions, all teeth and ink-blood purring. David Athey’s poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Christianity & Literature, Iowa Review, Dappled Things, Berkeley Fiction Review, Windhover, Relief, Time of Singing, and Harvard Review. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including Art is for The Artist, are available at Amazon.
By Joy Axelson The apex of my calling reached, eased should have been all my fears. Prayers rained down lightning’s scorching heat; melted rocks and silenced jeers. High on the winds of my success, buoyed by true miracles, proud but drifting, I must confess, I wallowed, miserable. I faltered, flew to reason’s edge, and dove down to despair, up on depression’s lonely ledge – an undying real nightmare. So many signs through me were done – so zealous for my good God. A desperate threat had me undone, melting down my frail façade. Terrified, to the wild I fled, racing just to keep my life. Amplified, deep distress and dread intensified fiery strife. In angst, I shouted to my Lord – “I’ve not an ounce left to give”! No energy – I fight no more – I’ve lost my resolve to live. I wish to die and be set free – with my ancestors to rest. And sleep in Sheol’s dark embrace to finally finish stress. I feel no force to soldier on; my body begs for a break. No joy in the awaited dawn, my soul – silent – softly aches. I hibernate perchance to dream pretending that I’m ok. Long hours, in the desert, stream. Care is what I need today. This gleaming Man for me has made fresh baked bread my body craves. And therefore, humbly, I lay down all my self-sufficient ways. “Relax, my friend”, the man implores. Again, I can’t help but sleep. I’m fed until I want no more – my mindset no longer bleak. From strength to strength I journey on. Inspired purpose fills my heart. Seeking the wilderness, Paran – my new ministry to start. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. She’s the translation coordinator for GlobalFingerprints, the Evangelical Free Church of America’s child sponsorship branch. Her translations of training materials are used at 14 international sites. She enjoys travelling with her husband and two older children.
By John Watts Where are you, Love, that I shall want no more? ‘Near You are,’ says my heaven-thirsting heart, and only love shall be its happy store, O only love shall be its proper part, for He is leading you, my wanderer deep, to pleasant streams aflow in softest hush; I watch the quiet water’s courteous rush, the angels cruise in vessels slow, asleep to harp strings of another playing near, a melody bliss-mated, scattering fear. I lie in greenest growth of pasture’s joy, each delicate grass blade glad space for song, seat and safe love. Your love does never cloy, my Only One. O, Love, how I do long, like guitar strings need the genius strum, like ocean waves that need to burst forth leaping, like eyes that need succumb to healing weeping, for You, my Portion Blessed! The day you come! But lead me now to rivers, meadows, peace-- I’m burning for your love that cannot cease! And though death’s grim rule reckons for this flesh, I fear not scythe come sweeping, for you’re here, by Sacred Grace in grace’s whole enmesh-- I’ve reason only for good righteous cheer, You pour the oil upon my dreaming head! I see the banquet ready of Your love, the days are over for my lonesome rove, You are my guide forever, One who bled! O love! The love of Christ be for my treasure! Beloved all my life you’ll be my pleasure. John S A Watts studied English Literature at Kingston University, and he lives in sunny West Sussex. He has had work published by Westward Quarterly, Sparks of Calliope, Down in the Dirt (scarstv), Word of Lamb Magazine, Spirit Fire Review, and is due to be published by the Journal of Undiscovered Poets.
By Paul Hughes See the pregnant seahorse: Over cobbles he leaps and glides, What others throw away so cheaply, He cherishes and stows inside, The Holy Spirit surges through him, Flowing out freely out onto the page, The once empty vessel is now reborn, The bluebird flies uncaged, Unplagued by fear and doubt, Powered by spirit and zest, The Kingdom of Heaven is Within You, To renounce is to be blessed Paul Hughes is an English poet. He found God in 2021 after he started to work the 12 steps of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous and soon after returned to Church for the first time since his childhood, having wandered dangerously far away from God up until that point.
By R. M. Francis Naked, punctured five times: Hands, feet, side – crimsoned raw. He who is willing to suffer, stripped, staring across strata across time, across seed he who is willing to suffer, seeking. Grace filled in my gaze back, a quiet clicking sound of beads slipping between fingers. Surveyed. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
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