Where Doubt Breaks

I was given a writing prompt of just one word—“Threshold”—recently in a veteran writing class. Instead of writing about the obvious threshold I crossed to become a soldier, I chose another route. I crossed the threshold written about below almost fifteen years ago. It was the result of a providential pairing of an atheist and a Southern Baptist stuck together in a combat zone. I hope you enjoy it.

The mountain grew taller as I ambled my way past house-sized boulders. This trail was leading me somewhere eternal. I wasn’t seeking a cliffside vista, although a respite from the valley’s humidity sounded nice. I was after something everlasting. Never missing a chance to commune with nature, I flipped flat rocks in pursuit of snakes and newts, using any excuse I could to prolong the inevitable. The incline was steeper than steep—it was damn near vertical. I slogged on and on; I had to make good on a promise.

I wasn’t alone on my journey. My best friend was at my side. He picked the place because he knew it would be memorable. This was a moment of reverence. The journey up the trail had been rocky and unstable—like most of my life before that point—but there were cool breezes and long panoramic views where I was heading. I needed that clarity of vision. The trail was more than a trail; it was a pilgrimage from one life to another.

I’d spent a lifetime arguing the semantics and fallacies of scripture to anyone who’d listen. Now, I stood at a threshold I was afraid to cross. I knew I could never go back once I crossed that line in the sand. I couldn’t feign ignorance, and there would be severe consequences from those I’d previously chastised if this thing didn’t stick.

Finally, I let the atmosphere surround me at the top of the mountain. My shirt was stuck to my body like a wetsuit. Tears streamed down my face as I confessed my iniquity to a God I’d always believed in but never admitted out loud. Now, I admitted it. I asked to be forgiven for my trespasses, my arrogance, my doubt, and all matters of disbelief. I learned what awe truly was. The reverence humbled me. I couldn’t stop weeping. There was no going back now.

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker currently living in Bethania, North Carolina with his wife Jess and their house full of animals. He split his time growing up between chasing wildlife and screaming on stages in hardcore bands you’ve never heard of. He has been published by Dead Reckoning Collective, The Havok Journal, Reptiles Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, and many others. He filmed and directed a documentary called “Hammer Down” about his 2005 deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in with Alpha Battery 5-113^th of the NC Army National Guard. You can find his books, collected works, and social media accounts at www.stanlakecreates.com

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.