Sword

I am ten. My weapon is plastic, but I attack again and again even as it bends and breaks from the blows. My Father has another blade, shorter and fatter than mine but not by much, he alternates with my little brother as together they take me on. I always attack with fury. It doesn't hurt, I get smacked a few times sure, but I am in a comfortable living room jumping on couches and off the arms of furniture. My dad tells me not to, I'll break them. But this is battle. I am ten.

The sword divides. "One who does not have a sword should sell his cloak and buy one." In the Bible a sharp two-edged sword separates bone from marrow and soul from flesh. It pierces to the heart. What is a sword? It is an extension of the arm, a partner in a dance of death against an opponent and his partner. It is hardened by fire and made of steel, sometimes it is quenched in blood and sharpened and otherwise used to kill. It sings when swung, whistling through the air. The sword divides.

I am sixteen. Six years later. I am in high school, and I have made for myself more dangerous weapons. The swords are now forged of PVC pipe and foam, but when swung like baseball bats they leave bruises welts and sometimes they draw blood. I beat many, but when I fight an ex-military guy I find myself flat on my back on the pavement, sword knocked from my hand. I grow tough, cracking my neck and knuckles I jump back in to take it. Often my glasses are knocked from my face and skid across the black tar and gravel, but I learn to swing the great swords single handed. With either the left or the right I windmill the power back at my foes, inventing anew an ancient sport. Six years later. I am sixteen.

The sword unites. Common groups of people with common ideas take action together. They form alliances, patrols, divisions and companies. A community, international, called the Sword of the Spirit. They started right here in Ann Arbor, now they are tens of thousands strong, with communities in every continent and dozens of countries. More countries than I can keep track of, and still their unity grows. I was born into this community, we pray for each other and for the world. We go on mission trips to foreign lands and local slums. We fight our foes together, as one. The sword unites.

I am twenty-two. Six years later. I no longer am hit by the swords, unless I want to teach a skittish new beginner that it's ok to hit the other person. You can't win if you only go for their sword, a sword can be held out as a distraction while moving in for the kill. The focus is on the other person, or persons when you fight a whole contingent of swordsmen together. I train my boys to be tough, and when they can take it I hit them back. They learn to move quickly, their reflexes sharpen and their footwork becomes light and agile. They make their own weapons now, and fight even when I'm not around. I still can take them when I fight with a sword in each hand, and I have the advantage of stronger arms than they have, but fighting is a young man's sport. Maybe my heart will stay young forever. I hope so. Six years later. I am twenty-two.