“That’s my blood. That’s a lot of my blood.”
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jacob’s told him about this one. joseph makes regular stops to jacob’s camps, to monitor the progress of God’s army, and while he may look upon some of his work with— distaste, he is patient. he is forgiving. all things by the grace of God, all things according to His plan. there was not a single prophet alive or dead that did not face opposition, and in the face of opposition— in the face of the collapse— they must be strong. and sometimes, strong means sacrifice.
staci pratt is blood-soaked, shell-shocked, and his eyes seem to look not at but through the father. joseph winds his hands around the bars of the cage that separate them, rosary tapping out a tuneless hymn against the metal. this one is new. this one shows promise. this one is strong.
“jacob has done well to show you your true strength,” he offers. the praise in his tone and the way the sun glints off his glasses are like the radiance of God. it’s ninety-five degrees today, hotter in the sun, and the air grows more humid and pungent with the blood drying beneath their boots. somewhere behind him, a dog snarls.
“we are all strong so long as God is with us. you have doubts, my child. I see that. you don’t believe that you are strong— but you can. this,” he presses a hand gently into staci’s cheek, and pulls away with a blood-stained streak upon his palm. “is proof. it is a badge of honour. there is no salvation without sacrifice, no strength without pain. it is in pain, at our most broken, that the voice of God rings the loudest.”