A fine mist fell, illuminated by the lights surrounding the football field. It was the beginning of the fourth quarter and the game had been one of those contests that was a battle from the very start. The stands were packed, faces tense, as the teams hustled back onto the field from a timeout. The tight end ignored his pulled muscle, the halfback rolled his right shoulder and the quarterback breathed slowly and deliberately, anticipating the snap. From the sidelines their coach called to them a phrase they repeated to themselves at every practice and every game. “All In!”

The student stood looking over the faces of her philosophy class. The professor was a persuasive fellow, likeable, handsome, and hateful of Christianity. First she had made an effort to gently question a few of his barbs. He was not one to back down, though, and the class had continued day after stressful day until it had reached the week of their final presentations. She didn’t know what made him think and feel so strongly, but he did. A few times she had asked herself if it was worth it to refute someone who appeared to be as immoveable as a boulder. Then she asked herself how she could sit and watch the face of Jesus be spit on one more time. As she took the podium, she whispered to herself, “All In”.

The mortar fire had been relentless. Company C had been reduced by a third, but the little town must be protected at all costs. They would keep defending while ten men drove out of the opposite side of the town and looped around to approach the aggressors from behind. They pushed every thought from their minds but one: All In.

They asked her one more time. Refute your faith in Christ or be whipped and hanged. Leave your children motherless, your husband a widower. Such a simple thing. Merely words. She looked back at her captors and said, “I will not”. The prayer she had prayed over the brutal weeks and months echoed in her mind. All In.

He laid on the bed, his breathing difficult and rough. He’d known this was coming as had his family. He’d known, but all the knowing didn’t make it easier, didn’t make it better. He’d lived his life as a Christian. He was by no means even close to perfect, but he was redeemed and that counted for everything. One other thing kept him calm and determined and curious. What was it really like on the other side of the curtain called mortality? He looked at the faces around him. Then he smiled and with his final breath said, “All In”.

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The painting in front of which the two children stood was awash in colors of black and rust, with splashes of red, and was a montage of well-drawn images. In the center stood a man, his foot on a copy of the Constitution of the United States of America. He was dressed in a shirt embroidered with many words, among them, “women’s rights”. He was smiling and waving to five happy men with turbans on their heads as they flew away to freedom. His back was to a woman being lashed one hundred times by a man resembling the ones flying to freedom. A noose hung slightly ahead of the woman. Her small child and newborn baby, held back by others, watched the scene. Over two hundred school girls sitting silently and guarded by soldiers with guns also watched.

In the upper left side was a scene of an embassy, lying in charred ruins. Four skeletons lay at its base. Slightly below that scene were guns, many guns with legs, running fast and furious toward a Mexican sombrero. One dead man in uniform lay between the guns and the sombrero.

Giant forms and tax records had been molded into iron gates to restrict some citizens from moving freely. A pregnant woman with hair the color of snow, each strand banded with jewelry that spelled ‘fear’ was giving birth to cameras and listening devices so numerous that they spilled out of the birthing room, down the hallway, and out the doors of the hospital where she lay. A picture of the hospital she had wanted to use instead hung from her limp hand. A giant eye in the corner of the frame seemed to follow onlookers, in this case, the two children, regardless of the angle from which they observed the painting.

A school building was marred by graffiti, with CC in bulging, garish letters. Tests were stacked neatly on each desk, while textbooks lay scattered on the school rooms’ floors. The school’s entryway held a picture of a gun with a line through it. Two dots on the top and a half-circle on the bottom made it into a happy face.

Reporters in a busy newsroom stood against a wall while a few important looking people looked through their phone records and emails, patiently crossing out whatever did not suit them.

Throughout the painting in small, nearly imperceptible drawings, was something else. Sprinkled all throughout the scenes was something like golden dust. Tiny images though they were, they drew the children’s eyes to them. A soldier stood stick straight, talking to the few who would listen. A woman bent down to help some fearful children and gave them sweet pieces of fruit with wrappers labeled ‘truth’. Some people were on their knees, their hands lifted in prayer. There were many, many images of many small, good things. It seemed, almost, that the painting pulsated with the golden dust; the tiny pictures growing more numerous and larger at times, then fading again to their infinitesimal size.

And the two children watched while the museum visitors around them toasted the great building’s success.

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