Tod goes to bed with the same routine he does every night. He brushes his teeth, reads a book for an hour, and goes to bed promptly at 10:30. As always, it takes him a while to fall asleep. He dwells on his worthlessness. It was a heavy cloak, dragging Tod down into the depths of his despair, suffocating him with the weight of all his perceived shortcomings and failures. It enveloped him in a suffocating embrace, whispering cruel doubts and insecurities in his ear, leaving him feeling small and insignificant in a world that seemed to demand perfection.
His anxiety replays every conversation he had that day—even months and years ago—and it feels like dying from second-hand embarrassment from the things he said and should have said, wondering why he ever bothers opening his mouth at all. And like every other night, he finally falls asleep with the hope that he doesn’t wake up.
Tod’s eyes flutter open to a scene of perpetual blackness, a darkness so profound it seems to consume everything, even sound. He doesn’t remember falling into this pit, but here he is, trapped in the abyss. Panic grips him momentarily before a faint, almost imperceptible light appears in the distance. It becomes his beacon—his “north star”—and with a determined breath, he begins his journey toward it.
The darkness isn’t empty, per se. It is thick, viscous, and filled with despair and futility. Each step is slow and heavy, like wading through a pool of molasses while a force causes him to drag, sapping his will. Each step feels like an eternity.
The dim light flickers, sometimes growing brighter, giving him hope, only to dim again, making him question if he’s moving at all. Thoughts of giving up plague his mind, but he forces himself onward, like an addict white knuckling sobriety, step by agonizing step.
Suddenly, Tod stumbles out of the darkness, finding himself in a vast, icy tundra. The tundra stretches out as far as the eye can see, an endless expanse of blinding white snow and ice. The sky above is a constant, bleak overcast, with no signs of sunlight or warmth. The cold bites, clipping his skin away, but it isn’t just physical; it numbs his emotions, leaving him feeling hollow and apathetic. The light is there, teasing him on the horizon, but his numbness makes it difficult to care.
Each moment is a struggle against apathy—a battle to keep moving despite the dearth of feeling. The cold seeps into his bones, but he presses on, driven by the faint hope the light represents.
From the tundra, Tod emerges into an expansive, empty void. The sheer vastness of the space around him induces a paralyzing fear, and with it comes an overwhelming sense of sloth. It was like a thick, suffocating fog that enveloped him, dragging at his limbs and weighing down his every movement. The very thought of exerting himself felt like an impossible feat, and the light of hope seemed impossibly far away.
He cannot move; his body feels like lead, and a crushing desire to give up overwhelms him. The light is there, far off into the distance, but the effort to reach it seems insurmountable.
Using the last reserves of his strength, Tod fights against the inertia, each movement a Herculean effort, until he finally breaks free of the paralyzing grip of the void.
Suddenly, Tod is back in the world he knows… but everything is wrong. He’s on the streets of downtown Mt. Pleasant, but passerby simply walk past him. He calls out to them, but no one acknowledges his existence, because nobody cares.
Todd realizes with a horrifying certainty that nobody sees him. He’s invisible—a ghost among the living. The isolation becomes suffocating. It was as if thick, heavy layers of air were pressing against his chest and throat, squeezing out all space and breath until he felt like he was drowning on dry land. He screams, but his agony does not escape his mouth. He reaches out, but his hands pass through everything and everyone.
He looks northwest and sees the light illuminating Island Park. It’s close! Despite the crushing loneliness, Tod is driven by the need to reach the light.
But as he crosses the bridge over the Chippewa River, without warning, Tod falls back into the bottomless pool of darkness. The abyss is filled with a thicker atmosphere of despair and futility—a humid hopelessness so thick it’s nearly asphyxiating.
The light, once so close, is far away again in the perpetual blackness. Exhausted and broken, Tod feels his strength waning, an invisible force draining his spiritus vitae.
Finally, he gives in to the relentless despair that had been gnawing at his soul. It takes hold of him completely, engulfing him in a suffocating darkness. He is dragged down, deeper and deeper into the endless abyss, his mind succumbing to the weight of hopelessness, leaving nothing but an emptiness that consumes him whole.
Just when he thinks it’s finally over, Tod awakes in a deeper darkness—an oppressive void where even hope seems to die. Before him stands a figure, exuding an aura of malevolence, murder, and deception.
Satan.
He is no red centaur with horns and a pitchfork. He has no body. He is a shapeless void of hatred, suffering his essence—a dark, pestilent shape of wings protruding behind him, dripping with disease, stinking of rotten wormwood and sulfur.
His speech juxtaposes his presence. He speaks in honeyed tones, offering Tod an easy escape: a knife to slit his wrists. The pain would only be momentary, but he promises it will end his pain.
Tod considers it, the temptation irresistible. He stands on the brink, ready to end his suffering, but something stays his hand.
He sinks to his knees, the weight of his emotions too heavy to bear any longer. A guttural cry escapes his lips as he releases all his pain and anguish into the air. His body trembles with the force of it, tears streaming down his face like a raging river. The surrounding silence seems to absorb his cries, creating a haunting echo that lingers in the stillness. He clutches at the ground, fingers digging into the formless earth as if trying to hold on to something. But there is nothing left for him to hold onto except for this moment of raw vulnerability and release.
Looking toward the heavens he cannot see, he shouts, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”
As if struck by lightning, the darkness violently splits in two. The blinding light that Tod had been relentlessly pursuing for what felt like an eternity transforms into a majestic figure before his eyes. The King of kings appears, fierce and radiant with power overflowing from every pore. His robes are a blinding white, adorned with a golden band befitting His divine status. His hair cascades like snow, exuding ancient wisdom and boundless vitality all at once. And His eyes, burning like a thousand flames, hold within them the secrets of the universe. In unparalleled strength He stands, breathing creation and omnipotent force from His mouth, His face shining with a brilliance that even a thousand suns could not match.
Satan recoils from the preponderating majesty of His presence, and his voice turns from its poisoned, honeyed wine to a deep boom of mixed terror and anger, “What have Thee to do with this worthless sinner, O Holy One of Israel?”
When He speaks, His voice is like rushing waters, making Tod think of Niagara Falls. “Begone, Satan.”
Satan immediately flees from the two simple words spoken by the King of kings.
Tod, still in emotional turmoil, was looking away as soon as the King appeared, for the mere sight of His presence made him fear for his life. With a surge of courage, Tod turns back to look. He is met with the sight of Christ on the cross—beaten, bloodied, and bearing a pain that mirrors his own mental anguish. The scene is both devastating and comforting, for in this moment he realizes he is not alone in his suffering. The air around him seems to hum with a sense of divine presence, offering solace and strength in the midst of chaos. Tears stream down his face as he falls to his knees in reverent awe. In that moment, he feels a glimmer of hope, knowing that even in the depths of despair, there is still love and salvation to be found.
With trembling steps, Tod approaches the cross, falls on his knees, and kisses Christ’s bloody feet. The blood, sweet like wine, fills him with warmth and peace.
Gradually, the darkness recedes from the foot of the cross, enveloping Tod in a cocoon of love and redemption.
The Lutheran Column 