The Picture: A Dream Remembered

I wrote this story one morning while sitting in chapel at Teen Challenge. The previous night I had a dream, which was the real inspiration for what follows.

First, I must provide you with a little background, so this will all make sense:

The day before (while in a class), the instructor had (rather dramatically, I might add) passed out the photo (face-down). He then asked us all to turn it over and study it. The photo had the following caption:

"Pulitzer Prize" winnning photo taken in 1994 during the Sudan famine."

"The picture depicts a famine stricken child crawling toward an United Nations food camp, located a kilometer away."

"The vulture is waiting for the child to die so that it can eat it. This picture shocked the whole world. No one knows what happened to the child, including the photographer Kevin Carter who left the place as soon as the photograph was taken."

"Three months later he committed suicide due to depression."

Many of you may have already viewed this sad, sad scene. If you can refrain from scrolling down right now, then please wait. The picture is placed within the story, as it would manifest itself, chronologically.

After studying the picture as the instructor had requested, I became very upset. I even had to leave the classroom. An overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame had overcome me. Here we were, a room full of former addicts and we were (for the most part) healthy, wealthy (by world standards) and most any afflictions we suffered were self-imposed.

Still yet, we felt sorry for ourselves. We had been so very self-centered with out addictions. It was shameful, our behaviors, in the face of this world truth. Only by the dream (chronicled in this story), which I had later that night did I finally understand and receive absolution from God from these feelings from Satan.

You see, as you read you'll understand that demons are real. Very real. Not in a metaphorical sense, nor in some idealist's imaginings. Demons are not just a Christian way of explaining things that we find wrong in ourselves (though many Christian Counselors will automatically explain them as such). No, demons are very real. The often manifest themselves with certain subtlety, but not always.

Sometimes they are as bold as a lion, a vulture or even a baby.

The Picture: A Dream Remembered by Edward T. Yaekle

Part 1

It is very hot. I find myself in a room in an impoverished village. There is another person in this room. He is a photographer, a white man. He is sweating, somewhat unkempt, preoccupied and unaware that I am in his room. Nervously, he lights his cigarette (which he quickly throws away, after lighting). The air here is very stale. He loads the pockets of his vest with film, lenses and then hangs a camera about his neck, heading out the door.

As he enters the street, he fails to notice the little one sitting on a stool near his doorway. Purposefully, the man walks to the edge of town and continues into a savannah. The little one follows the man's movements with desperate eyes. Passing through the savannah, many dangerous beasts look on hungrily at this man, but none dare approach him. His trek continues and his footsteps seem to fall on an unerring path to an unknown destination. Finally, he comes to a dry riverbed. It is very rocky.

The heat is now very oppressive and dry. The man is sweating profusely, his shirt soaked.

Trudgingly he enters the rocky basin and stumbles, trying to keep his balance. The world seems to be uncannily silent; nothing makes a sound except for the man's footsteps and labored breathing.

After some time, he rounds a corner and faces a disturbing scene. There, in the riverbed is a little one (I recognize it as the same little one from the village, though I do not understand how it came to this place so quickly, by itself). As we look on, a large vulture lands behind the little one, staring quite menacingly.

The man reaches for his camera, only to find it already in his hand. His hand trembles mightily, trying to steady for the picture. The shutter opens and closes, forever searing the image into the sands of time.

Part 2

Time has passed. I find myself in an apartment in an old city. This flat belongs to the photographer and it is a mess. There are empty Scotch Whiskey bottles everywhere, as well as piles of garbage. Even though right in front of me, he is still unaware of my presence. He looks terrible and the stench is overwhelming (it appears that he has not bathed nor shaved in days, maybe weeks). Anger, fear, shame and depression seem to flash across his face, boiling just below the skin.

He has a pistol in his hand.

Now I find myself on the street in front of the apartment building, looking up at the open window. Looking around, I see the little one from the village sitting on a step, nearby. It stares at me, balefully then gives me an eerie smile that makes my skin crawl and my spine to shiver.

Suddenly, my attention is commandeered by a loud, single gunshot coming from the window.
When I finally look back towards the little one, it is gone without a trace.

Part 3

An office in another city, a big city, is where I now find myself. I stand behind a desk where a woman sits. There is something amiss. This woman is unclean. As recent as last night this woman participated in unspeakable acts; Debasing, immoral, illegal and even cruel acts. Yes, she is unclean.

On her desk lies a photo, "the picture". She stares at it hungrily, lustfully. Her hand reaches for the phone and she dials a number. After a few moments, she seems pleased with the answer her collaborator provides, and she gently replaces the receiver in its cradle. She is full of a negative energy that lingers heavy in the air. I am sickened. I must leave this place.

Outside of the office building, I see the little one, though now noticeably larger. It sees me, too and gives me an eerie grin once again. I become violently ill.

Part 4

This is a meeting room. There are three large, expensive tables set up in a "U" formation and a single chair in the middle. It faces the center of the head table.

In this chair sits the woman from the office. She holds a large envelope in her hand. In front of her is a man who seems to be in charge of this assembly. He is fat. Though he dresses well, it is a fa9ade.

There is nothing clean about this man. He reminds me of the pigs in Orwell's "Animal Farm". In fact, the woman is one of the dogs and the others surrounding them in their places at the tables are the sheep.

Pig man says something and reaches out with his fat, sausage fingers while dog woman hands him the envelope. Almost prematurely, crocodile tears well in his eyes, but the sheep do not notice as he opens the envelope and the picture comes out. He passes the picture right and when it makes full circle, all seem in one accord.

Pig man and dog woman share a knowing glance.

There is a sign on the wall behind them that reads "Pulitzer Committee".

Part 5

The demon has grown exponentially. I find myself in a room or an apartment, but maybe it's an office. I cannot tell. I know that it smells of death and fear, and it is very, very filthy. It's here, the demon. It is so full of itself and it's accomplishments that it hardly realizes my presence or if it does, I no longer matter as I am insignificant to it.

Suddenly, I am bombarded with images in my head. These are not images of love. I see printing presses and they are rolling out millions of copies of The Picture for newspapers and magazine.

Copy machines across the world shed their eerie light as they duplicate the demons child. I swoon and almost fall as the millions of electronic blips on computer networks send a countless number of bytes across eons of time and space, each one bearing the demons personal mark.

He is pleased with himself, the demon.

Part 6

Suddenly, I find myself near the beginning of this strange odyssey. I am standing in the riverbed, near the vulture and the child. I do not see the photographer, but I am not looking for him, either. What is happening in front of me has my attention, once again.

The vulture takes an ungainly step toward the child and breaks into flight. I notice that the demon, which has occupied this innocent child now appears to be in a panic. I can sense that it wants to flee, but it is no longer the confident and proud entity I saw in the last scene. It is experiencing fear; true fear.

The vulture, as it starts it's lethargic flight begins to polymorph into something. The light is so bright from this image that I find the need to squint and partially cover my eyes, that I do not go blind. It has changed into a snow white dove.

The demon screams and cries, but it has no power. A light opens from the heavens and I hear a voice that says, "This is My Son, with whom I am well pleased". The demon tries in desperation to give me one last evil grin, but he has lost his power. The dove lights upon the shoulder of the demon and immediately the screaming ceases. There is a tangible feeling of peace and hope in and for the world.

The child no longer suffers and I see it sitting on the lap of a kind, old and white bearded grandfather, laughing and playing without a care.

I will sleep well this night.

The End

Here is what I feel was revealed to me:

1) That I should appreciate what I have.

2) That the way I was, was very selfish, but also that I do not have to live under condemnation for what I did. It is not the way I am, now.

3) Though the real child in this picture was of course not a demon, the photo itself was hijacked and a demon attached itself to the image. This demon began by first possessing the photographer. This photographer was especially susceptible as when I researched him I found that he had addiction and depression issues, already. After the demon starting feeding on the negativity, he grew and hungered for more. This image was its way of spreading despair and sadness.

4) That Christ the Redeemer saves and saves unconditionally. That there is real and true power in nothing more or less than the name of Christ. Demons flee and tremble at the sound of His name. His blood sealed the deal. None of us need to suffer the fate of the photographer, thanks to this life giving blood.

5) Finally, that there truly is no condemnation in those who are in Christ Jesus. As for myself, I could wallow in the quagmire of shame and guilt for many lifetimes. I have hurt my children and many who love(d) me. While I do not feel good about any of the poor decisions I have made, at the same time I do not find it necessary to punish and beat myself for them. On the contrary, as long as I do not repeat those mistakes and continue on as before, then I must not live in condemnation or it will lead me directly back to that very place.

Please remember all of the above, should the picture and the demon attached to it try and attack you with feelings of guilt, shame or excessive sorrow.

Finally, yes I know that the Pulitzer Prize is not awarded or decided in the fashion described in this story or more precisely, in the dream. The dream took a metaphorical license and used a "parable" if you will, to illustrate its point.

Ed Yaekle
www.myspace.com/ed_y