Wanderlost Prologue

The sound started so resonant, so low, that she felt the music before she knew she was listening to it. Gradually, over the stillness of an hour, the tune rose. Founded down the hill through the deep forest, the song was unlike any in the glittering cities. A weight burned in her chest, a portent of choice that she tried to ignore, heeding rather the gathering of the tale-telling notes. Now she could tell they were beating, like a heart, like a march of an army through the night, anticipating blood or fire. Was that what caught a warrior’s breath? Or did he feel the expectation of victory, of being carried on passion and duty into the ecstasy of fulfillment? A thick note sounded, perhaps a horn, then a slow staccato series of horn-calls casting an alternate rhythm that she knew was seeking to be joined with the elder drum-beat. She found her body almost rising and falling with the waves of rhythm. She wanted to spin but didn’t know where, and the impulse built in her. Desire was all pent up in her, and she longed to burst with it.  

Three hours of listening, then she stood. The horns were urgent, and their tempo had increased. She stood, and turned her face to the sounds. Percussion, strengthening and quickening as well, drew the more melodic horns into what seemed an orbit, circling nearer and nearer, descending the scale towards the thudding, stomping welcome of the drums. She stepped towards it, and felt inside a flutter of baby-feet like the singing bells of her home, a flurry like snowfall in the shining dawn. Hesitation gripped her, and she placed her hand on her womb, which was quietly growing the heir of the king.

Down the hill the climax came: songs converged and melded and swirled, released the dammed desire, and the noise was like a frenzy. Suddenly there were more sounds: strings and hollower notes like tapping, all running and jumping and clapping as though order had been left for forgotten. Yearning to share the rupture, she followed the hill’s slope downward. Her long strides halted at the edge of a cave. The song of the shadow-band finished with stifling silence, and Queen Marie Elantre joined them around their red fire, and was never seen at home again."

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White Shirt and Blue Jeans

At first glance the photograph in my hand could be the epitome of American women the past few decades.  Undeclared as a career woman or a housewife, the woman in her mid twenties stands with her back to the camera.  She is in her stocking feet, doing dishes at the kitchen sink.  Her untucked white blouse and blue jeans could belong to almost any woman in America.  Even the cluttered kitchen, lightly decorated, is average. 

But on closer examination some things stand out.  How many women have you seen do the dishes with perfectly erect posture?  And her hair, unlike the common ponytail, is long, though wound up into an intricate bun.  Still, wisps fly free of their bonds, testifying of the active day she has had. 

Even from the back I recognize her.  My mom probably engaged in the dish-washing ritual 85% of the nights I spent growing up in her house.  I shuffle the first photograph aside to smile at the next. 

Another familiar sight, my dad, handsome as ever, though younger then as evidenced only be the flecks of white absent from his hair; he wraps his arms around Mom’s waist and breathes in the fragrance of her hair.  Though I can’t see his face, his posture says he’s smiling.  Closing my eyes, I can picture his eyes dancing as they often do when he’s close to Mom. 

Remembering, I set the photo album aside for a moment.  Mom looks beautiful: doing dishes, waking from a nap, ready for church.  Dad sits on the couch watching her with intensity.  I’ve seen movies where a man caresses his girlfriend’s check.  Dad did that and so much more with his eyes.  Until I got well into my teens, I didn’t understand the way his mouth twitched and his breath came in quiet pants.  At last he would move, so that I thought we were ready to go to church or something; but he would spring from the couch to her side, sometimes wrapping his arms around her like the picture, other times brushing her elbow until she turned to kiss him, still other times just standing there like an awe-struck schoolboy content with her nearness.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, releasing the heart-aching memories.  Those days can never come again.  I mean, Mom and Dad still treat each other that way.  It’s I who have grown out of the little boy looking up at things he doesn't even understand enough to notice.

In the next photograph my dad has convinced Mom to face the unidentified photographer.  She’s laughing in his arms, but they don’t reach around her.  Mom leans back against his chest, but her abdomen bulges.  I know by the date on the back of the picture that the baby is me.  Mom is glowing with the thrill of new life inside her. 

The last picture, perhaps as a fabricated punch line, shows Dad standing at the sink doing the dishes… which reminds me of the precarious tower of plates and cups in my own sink.

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Sand Timer

I'm a sand timer afraid to tip herself over again:

Afraid that again all her sand will pour through

And I'll be left standing on my head.

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Family Reunion

Once upon a time there was a little girl in a blue dress with a white collar and three pearl buttons.  Her name was Emily.  She went as a wondering child to a family reunion full of strangers more marvelous and varied than any she had read in storybooks.  Familiar characters had no appeal for her in this vast room, dressed up by tablecloths and her imagination into a party room equaling the dance floor on which the Prince had first swept Cinderella off her feet.  This little heroine could have been anywhere in the world, but she was in a community building in a little town in Oklahoma.  The attendants could have been royalty or fairies, but they were peasants, who are far less ordinary and certainly not plain. 

A certain man with dark hair and tall boots walked across the room.  From her perch amid silk flowers and lace-packaged soap favors, Emily watched his legs bend madly at the knees, cutting his height by a third whenever he took a step.  If this distant relative had been all in black, he would look just like the man on the cover of her book.  She looked longingly across the rows of round tables to one long, cloth-covered rectangle piled high with wrapped books of all shapes and sizes, waiting for the book exchange amusement scheduled after lunch.  There was one large book in familiar paper which Emily’s sister Jana had discovered.  Mom had wrapped up their nursery rhyme collection to give away, the one with the endless pages of strange pictures and dim poems!

Emily took another bite of the last butterfly cracker on her plate, savoring the crisp buttery flavor.  She and Jana were determined to retrieve their beloved book, more desired now than ever before.  They longed to turn the pages again, to laugh at the funny man with the knobby knees who looked like a cousin of the man laughing across the room.  Except his cousin might actually be her.  What an odd world! 

For lunch Emily had punch, carefully sipped to avoid staining her new dress, and a pickle, and more crackers.  Mom was there for the important moments of filling her plate.  Whether at other times Mom was distracted with all the people or it was Emily who was paying no attention to her family is hard to say.  An aunt belonging to her father’s mother said something to Emily’s parents, then turned awkwardly to the little girls, to whom she felt obligated to condescend.  Somehow she knew they were from Texas, and grasping for anything to say, reported first that her son’s girlfriend was from Texas, and said, “Bah, bah.” “Do you say ‘bah bah’?” she asked the confused sisters.  Jana, the younger, played with her food and ignored the aunt.  Emily, unsure how to explain that she was not a sheep though from Texas, politely shook her head and let out only the inkling of a shy smile. 

Focus on her lunch resumed, Emily bit into the bright green pickle and puckered.  This was not what she expected!  What tortuous vegetable disguised as a pickle had found its way onto her plate?  The bite-sized wrinkled thing with a stem tasted nothing like the hamburger pickles she ate nearly every week and at Wendy’s on the way to Oklahoma.  Seeing her disgust, Grandma realized that Emily did not favor sweet pickles, and quietly reassured her she didn’t have to eat it.  The wide woman on the other side of Grandma offered to consume the rest of the unwanted food, and Emily watched her curiously, surprised that anyone could relish the experience. 

With more good conversation and less attention to the ages of her audience, the same woman continued to talk to the two little girls, admiring the lace trimming the skirts of their matching dresses and discussing pickles, carrots, and broccoli, proceeding to a discussion of other foods that didn’t agree with her and their results.  Disinterested, Emily focused instead on the rosebuds carved into the frame of the loud woman’s glasses. 

When she had finished her lunch, Emily got permission to color, just like she did while sitting quietly in church.  Up on her knees to lean over the table, Emily tilted her head to concentrate on drawing a self-portrait to which she added glasses.  The likeness was so strained that no one would guess the identity of the girl on the paper.  For one thing, her hair stretched to the sky: the only way Emily had conceived to portray her long brown locks.  A young cousin passed by and cruelly teased the art on this point before sharing a secret to three-dimensional-drawing.  “Draw the hair down like this,” she explained. 

Before the recovering and grateful Emily could practice, the game began.  Each child in the family had a ticket, and in order they each chose a book and tore off the paper to exclaim over the secret contents.  Emily sat on the edge of her seat.  She eyed a prettily wrapped book on the edge of the pile.  Should she give up their book, and get something new?  Jana’s gaze was fastened on the book of rhymes, lest she forget which one was their coveted prize.  No; if Emily was called first, she would choose that one, and ensure that it returned safely to their home.  Each time another little boy or girl chose, the sisters leaned forward and held their breath.  “Don’t choose that one,” they thought, and trembled with relief as the others picked the smaller books.  Emily breathed deeply when she was summoned to pick a book.  Confidently choosing the largest one there, she brought it back to her lap. 

Though selected next, Jana could not be coerced into choosing a book.  She was angry with Emily for picking her book, and didn’t understand that it was theirs to share.  Emily had secured the book for their family.  Jana could share.  But Jana, who was too young to be consoled with logic and assurance, remained ungrateful.  Emily tried to ignore her.  When she turned away, Grandma and Mom were both asking why she had chosen the book they brought from home.  Didn’t they understand?  They thought she was silly, that maybe she hadn’t realized she could choose any book.  She had the prize she wanted, and hugged it tightly against her dress. 

While grown-ups retrieved purses and hats and finished making plans for the afternoon, Emily and Jana, who had given up naps the past spring, sat quietly enjoying the pages of their beloved book.  Jana, won by the patience of her sister in offering to share the book, was considerably appeased.  They laughed at the cow shown mid-jump above the moon, and asked each other questions about the three round-faced men sailing in a wooden shoe among the stars. 

After an hour at a park in the sunshine in which wiggles were released and solitude embraced, Mom and Dad and Emily and Jana visited the reunion reprise, in a dark noisy parlor belonging to a busy but happy woman and her equally funny husband.  He told jokes that must have been funny, since all the parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles laughed.  There were less children at this party, and Emily was tired of company.  She felt very unimportant, and sat accordingly in a corner, where she met the lady. 

The lady had white hair, by which Emily knew she was very old, because even Grandma only had a little bit of white in her hair.  She was slender because she had never been married and never had babies.  But she was kind to children, and laughed like one not yet worn out by the rambunctious children in the world.  Her lips curved in a pleasant smile, and her long hands held a plate full of olives.  What childhood obsession had made the little black fruits a favorite, she couldn’t recall. 

At first the woman just smiled her pity at the lonely child.  Then she got an idea.  The lady taught Emily a game.  Glancing to ensure she had the girl’s attention, she stuck one olive onto her little finger, looked back at Emily, and then took a satisfied bite.  Using the remaining olives as bait, she coaxed Emily to stand by her knees.  Offered an olive herself, the little girl wrinkled up her nose.  Two lonely girls, one old and one young, took turns in a corner: the child putting olives on fingers and the woman plucking them off with juice-darkened lips. 

When the fruit was gone, Emily moved to the floor, where she saw a collection of bells on a shelf.  She wanted to touch the fragile crystal and ceramic.  But bells make noise, and she didn’t want to get in trouble.  Jana, joining her, was easily persuaded to be the one to test the bells.  For their first choice they found a cow bell.  The deep brass instrument was heavy, and made noise like dropping a plate on the floor.  All the grown-ups noticed.  Then the sisters got to sit in their grandparents’ laps. 

Jana played with Grandma’s bead necklace and listened to her talking about cakes and pies and ovens that made the house too hot in the summer.  Emily cuddled against Grandpa’s strong chest.  Her mind was not much improved by discussions of market reports on grain.  Gradually she began to wonder instead how he had lost his hair. 

Mom and Dad’s voices combined with the aunts’ and uncles’ to form a quiet hum.  A blend of sunset light and the rumble of the air conditioner made the room seem fuzzy.  Emily’s head bounced once, and her eyelids lifted, fell, and rose again.  Across the room Grandma shifted Jana so she was lying across her lap.  The clock above the mantel ticked like footsteps on a sidewalk, like car doors opening and closing, like breathing when fast asleep. 

To God be all glory. 

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Coral Wedding

Amie traded her soft white t-shirt for a long white dress: capped sleeves, layers of fabric the texture of seafoam for the skirt, and a sash tied round her in an elaborate knot people called a bow. She was about to do the most disrespectful thing of her life, upsetting the small town world that had been her home all her days. In her mind there had never been any question about the marriage. And if it took until the actual ceremony for her parents to understand how serious she was, Amie’s will was enough to go through with it.

Bekah piled ringlets of Amie’s soft brown hair onto the crown of her head, letting a few representative rebel-curls take their independence down the side of her friend’s cheek. Maid of honor, Bekah was already dressed in the rich coral counterpart to Amie’s gown. The dresses were identical except for the length of their skirts and the color. A surreal scene met them in the mirror, neither girl excited or nervous, just going through the next step in the act that was set for them.

As down payment on the agreement they had made, Amie had possession of the groom’s keys, and they clinked in her hands. She criticized the reflection’s posture, and dared it to make eye contact with the world – a world that didn’t know what was coming, but ought, if it would only look anyone in the eye. Marriages in their little community were arranged. Nobody questioned it, and few worried about it. Theirs was not one of the customs of gross abuse, of marrying children to old men, or of beating wives who were unsatisfactory. Some cultures chose partners for their children from among the strangers in the wide world, but this town’s choices were mostly limited to the miniature metropolis of the few nearby villages and farms. Generally the couple had grown up together, and some had connived to be matched with their favorites.

Today was Amie’s wedding: the 13th of August. The groom was a good man, with strong attractive features, and a respected job sufficient to provide for a family. Named for his grandfather, Nicolas had been friends with Amie as long as he could remember. She went her own way, picking wild flowers in the morning and changing the oil in the family car during the afternoon. Her hair darted in curls behind her ears and over her shoulders. He’d grown enough in the last two years to be taller than her by two inches, and teased her about his new-gained height incessantly, repayment for years when she called him ‘shrimp’ and ‘dwarf.’ Once he had been ashamed to know that she disdained him. Today he was glad, and smiled to himself in the mirror.

Nick’s part of the arrangement was to book a hotel for after the wedding, a fact the whole town would have discussed by the commencement of the ceremony: which room, how expensive, how many nights. Only at that thought did a sigh escape him. Was it from the dent the terms put in his wallet, or from just a bit of wistfulness? Amie owed him. Even if all their childhood scores were erased, she would owe him for playing his part today. What a culture of obligation they lived in!

A church sanctuary filled with the couple’s neighbors, and Nick’s closest friends stood along one side of him, watching as each bridesmaid paced the aisle to the front. Finally Nick caught sight of Bekah, and his heart betrayed him. Amie was just behind her, a fairy likely to disappear with any sudden breath. Music Amie had picked for the occasion sang through the room. Bekah moved more quickly than normal, but Nick had expected that. He didn’t know exactly how Amie had planned the next part. “Line!” he yelled in a panic to his guys, who wore dress shirts a lighter peach counterpart to the bridesmaids. Nick pointed at the door behind the bride. The runaway turned her head to see them moving as one pale orange wall to bar the exit. Another door opened at the side of the chapel, one of the caterers there for the event holding it at the ready. Amie was much nearer the door than Nick, and Bekah had all her wits about her, leading her friend – who seemed almost to be holding the bridesmaid’s sash – to the door.

Those assembled gasped and began to cry out for something to be done, but it was too late. Nick ran out through the kitchen, after the girls, who were in his car, exactly as planned. He thought he saw Bekah wink from behind the wheel. As soon as they were gone, Amie’s father arrived at Nick’s back, a heavy balding man whose panting gave the younger man some concern. Offering his arm, the two turned back inside and sat at one of the tables clothed in apricot linen for the reception.

“Sorry,” Nick said first, and the patriarch eyed the boy with suspicion.

“She took your car.”

Nick nodded, realizing how obvious his guilt would be. The getaway was only possible because the girl had his keys. Still, no one would take better care of his car, he reassured himself.

Closer relatives handled the dismissal of the guests and helped with the clean-up. Untying bows wound about the aisle seats gave Nick time to think. Madness had overtaken him. Even if he’d changed his mind, there was no way locking Amie in the sanctuary would change hers. He should have pulled her aside and told her he really wanted to go through with the wedding, that he liked her well enough to spend an exciting lifetime together. Exciting. It would have been. He shook his head. The bigger madness was considering asking her back. Nick didn’t want to marry Amie any more than she was ready to marry him, and he was ashamed that he had almost cowed under the pressure of expectations.

Groomsmen and bridesmaids alike gave him pitying farewell glances. Hours after most of the guests had gone home, Nick set the box of haphazardly piled decorations in a chair and sat down beside them. People must have though he needed to be alone, because the room was empty.

Soft jingling came from his right, from the door by the kitchen. Had she jingled on the way out, too? Amie was back in her jeans and white T-shirt, hair still piled on her head, but drooping into the secondary style that told a story of adventure. Her head tilted as she extended the keys arm’s length towards him, still a bit out of reach. “Thanks,” Nick said, and sat up to grab them.

“Filled her up,” she replied. They looked at each other for a while, not needing any words to ascertain that the ordeal hadn’t been too bad yet, and that neither one had any lasting regrets.

Nick nodded. “You want to come over tonight?” he asked in his old friendly way. The question was symbolic. Nothing had changed, and there were no hard feelings.

In a step Amie was at his knees, tracing his arm towards the keys at his fingertips. Her mesmerizing eyes held his. “To your hotel?”

Nick arched his back to pull his face away from hers, and blushed. “That’s not what I…”

Amie laughed, standing erect. “After today, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

The main doors into the foyer pushed open to let Amie escape. Every part of the plan was finished. Bekah had been dropped off at home, where Amie had changed back into street clothes. Nick had his keys, and the place was pretty much cleaned up. Next came the step Amie was still unsure about: facing her parents. When she found them at their car out front, Mom was still shocked – an entirely unreasonable response given the numerous times Amie had warned she would not go through with the wedding. Dad was angry, red-faced and huffing. Their family would have to drop out of society, maybe move away, for the shame of it. No other daughter in memory had run away from her own wedding.

It had been disrespectful, and desperate. Amie liked to add that the escape had been daring, right there in front of everyone. All it took was that one time; now she was free. No one would try to match their son with her again. Quite honestly, Nick was the most likely to succeed with her. When even he didn’t match up to Amie’s ideals, the line of suitors was down to none.

Dad told her to get in the car, and they drove home in silence. After unloading the car, still no words were offered to scold or to question. Mom closed herself in her room, and Dad sat on the couch, watching his daughter. Amie would have to begin the conversation. He would force her to start her explanation on her own.

Fishing for the shortest path to the end of the lecture, Amie began with reassurance, “Nick knew.”

“There’s plenty of blame to share.”

“He wanted to. He agreed.”

Eyebrows arched.

“This way isn’t for us…” Answers were harder to come by when the interrogator already knew them and still wasn’t satisfied. Several minutes more of quiet passed.

“You looked beautiful today,” the man choked. No anger could stem his sentimentality. Perhaps he, too, was relieved that custom had been breached.

Amie moved towards him, and sat, back to the couch. She leaned her head on his knee. “I’m sorry this is hard for you,” her words whispered against his slacks.

“Nick’s not a bad young man. I thought you might even have chosen him yourself, if that was our way.” Dad pulled his glasses by the bridge and wiped them on his tie. “You could have been happy.”

Breathing deeply against his knee was all she dared. Who could know better whether they would be happy? Nick had agreed with her, all along. Only for a moment at the peak of the excitement had he doubted, and afterwards he knew again that they’d both been right.

Had running been ignoble? Should she have slammed him with her bouquet at the altar, stood facing the crowd to tell all what she thought of their tradition? The option had been considered, and Nick had been rather against it. Bekah argued that was more confrontational than required, and would only make matters worse when facing her parents.

What now? Could she go back to life as normal, pretending there had been no wedding? Amie’s hometown was otherwise a beloved place. Leaving wouldn’t be her first choice. She had friends here, and though she wasn’t willing to marry him, she was reluctant to lose Nick’s friendship. A threat of destiny chilled through her heart, and a sob pulled itself from her chest. In the choices given her, Amie stood by the direction she’d gone. Lately the limited options had seemed to carry her. This, her most defiant move ever, was also the most constrained. Life was going where she would rather not.

Mom came into the living room and sat down beside Amie. She rested her hand on the young woman’s curls. Dad shifted his leg to bear the weight, and Amie realized she was still crying. No one said anything.

Days went by and still no one said anything. Mom and Dad were reconciled to what had happened. Not that they understood. Amie was bothered that they seemed content to not comprehend her choice. How would they help her move on? Were they punishing her? Was coping truly as difficult for them as it was for her?

Bekah met Amie for lunch, which turned out to be dessert only. When there’s no way out, chocolate makes the truth go down better. A few months younger, Bekah hadn’t been paired off yet, but she was ready. Her sweet temper and skill as a listener nearly guaranteed her happiness. Additionally, wearing the chiffon bridesmaid sash as a headband today set off the faintly freckled skin of her dimpled cheeks: a sight that was turning a few eyes for a second look. Amie fought against crying again when she realized that her best and dearest friend would in a few months be less accessible to her, even if Amie stayed in town. The married club tended toward exclusivity, being that everyone of a certain age for miles around was a member.

The girls watched each other, Bekah concerned for where Amie would go next and whether she would be happy there; Amie imagining Bekah as a housewife and momma. Moms were good around here. So were husbands. With a few exceptions, even the kids were pretty easy. Amie was always an exception.

Nick entered the small café, not the slightest hesitation in his step or expression before he was at their booth, chatting as the friend he’d always been. Already dreamy, it was a short leap for Amie to picture her two friends together. The idea startled her in its obvious positives. A moment more had her convinced such was the secret wish of each. Finally a few contemplative bites more of her pie allowed Amie to conclude that there was no conspiracy, no understanding or verbal confession. Nick was a good man, and would not have betrayed faith even on an engagement so temporary as his had been with Amie. Now?

Nick and Bekah sat side by side across from Amie, the guaranteed seed of a new way of doing things. The collaborators in Amie’s rebellion could be the first to reap the benefits. Love unfolded before her eyes. A man charming a woman was a rare sight in those parts, but Amie knew it. Nick stroked the soft tail of the scarf Bekah wore, and her fingers trembled against his on the table.

She ought to say something witty, a taunt to – to what? To bring herself back to the center of attention? To make less awkward the most natural thing in the world? To interrupt the developing happiness of two of her favorite people? Amie ate the rest of her pie in silence, seeing the world with new eyes. The sounds from the café stove and cars on the street harmonized with the reflections off forks casting shadows through the salt shaker.
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Spring is My Lady's Domain

Spring is my lady’s domain
Autumn the field of her brother
Winter waits on yarning old women
Summer sweeps in young children’s laughter.

Time is the tale of seasons
Space present in jumbles of ways
My friends dance in the streets of lifetime
God catches men home full by joy-worn days.

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A Glimpse of Hope

by Melian

She stood at the shoreline, the water lapping at her bare feet, the loose ends of her hair whipped around her face by the wind that had come up in the last half-hour; it's breath on her cheeks the only thing keeping her believing that this was reality and not just a muddled dream she'd somehow wandered into.


Her eyes were fixed unseeingly on the clouds that settled thickly over the gray waters. A familiar burning ache grew in her throat and her heart stood in her eyes, though no one was around to look in them.

Everyone was gone. Parents had packed up their children when the breeze had begun to pick up and the increasing cold of the once balmy air had finally chased everyone else away.

Rain began to fall from the heavens, cool and fresh. She loved rain. She loved it when she was happy and perhaps even more when she felt as she did at that moment, for it seemed to shed tears for her and the moan of the wind gave voice to the cry that was in her heart.

A sand castle stood near her feet, the by-product of someone's earlier visit at the beach. It's thick walls were beginning to flatten as the foam crested waves dashed against it and the rain beat down on top of it--like so much of her life, she thought. So many dreams and plans and relationships had come tumbling down around her as the life-rains poured down and before she could even catch her breath the pieces were carried off like sand castles by the sea.

Rain drops mingled with tears on her cheeks memories wakened new pain in her numb heart. Conflicting thoughts and emotions struggled inside her but the only ones that formed themselves into words escaped her lips in a breathy whisper "You know God. You know."

She took a deep breath that threatened to break into a sob and lifted her eyes from the clouded horizon. She caught sight of a hole in the storm clouds high over her head--a small patch of blue sky beyond the storm. A small ray of sunlight escaped through the opening and sparkled on the water, making it dance and speaking peace to her heart. Another deep breath of ocean air felt like balm on the shattered pieces of her heart and she squared her shoulders. There was blue sky beyond the storm clouds, warmth beyond the cold. And even if the rest of her life was as stormy as that day, she would always have her bit of blue sky to hold onto--there was always the promise that one day the whole of her existence would open up in a bright expanse of clear blue; perfect, peaceful and perpetual. There was always hope.
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Accident into Reality

I wrote this because I was inspired; it might be a little violent...

She checked her speedometer and wondered the tenth time that morning why she was going so fast. Mindlessly tapping her brakes to bring her down to the speed limit, she stared ahead. Just at this point of her morning commute, the road pointed straight at a vista of some of the most spectacular mountains in the Colorado front range. Some days they took her breath away. Other days, like this one, she barely saw them. Instead she had a mental image of herself in her dirty gold 4-door.

Life had been a series of previous commitments the last few weeks. So much of her day was either routine or dictated that she hadn’t been thinking about how she ought to spend her time, or why she was doing any of these things. Being busy made life something to look forward to; it kept her going. But a hectic schedule was also distracting.


Ahead to her right a lone man dressed in baggy pants, and a white hat matching his long white shirt stepped off the curb towards her. The nearest cars were a block ahead, but she knew no one was behind her either. He would make a casual crossing right after she passed. He advanced slowly, but came so close she thought her mirror might brush him as she passed. At the last minute he lunged ahead of her car onto the pavement and was crushed beneath her wheels.

She slammed on her brakes, maybe making matters worse, and checked her rear-view mirror to see whether the stoplight behind her had released its traffic. All in a moment she had her flashers on and her cell phone out to dial 911. As she talked she got out of the car, grateful the lane was wide enough to leave space for her to kneel beside the man, not flat like you would think, but crumpled in an odd way, behind her car. No medical or emergency training had prepared her, but instinct and good sense took over. She didn’t move his head or neck, instead checking his abdomen for heavy bleeding. The phone held to her ear, she got out the most important information in short pants that startled her. Was she hyperventilating? “Accident, pedestrian.” She gave the cross streets.

The cell phone beeped a warning that its newly charged battery was dying. She really should get that replaced. The first car carefully went past her, and another pulled slowly to a stop about a car-length behind her: a larger SUV driven by a level-headed man in a suit. Jumping down from the higher interior of the vehicle, he left his suit jacket behind on the seat. A 911 operator was telling her to stay calm and to make sure she was not in danger from traffic when her phone alerted her to its death with a cheery chime. Frustrated and with a sore neck, she let the phone drop, freeing her to do more for the man who, she thanked God, was still alive.

It seemed like five trains of thought moved at once. What had happened? She replayed the scene over and over. What should she have done? Could she have known? She saw his face again and again, unbroken unlike the one on the ground at her knees.

She prayed. Mostly it came in an unbroken series of God’s names, or just the repeated cry, “God, God, God!”

Her hands continued to work, assessing her patient even though she didn’t know how to treat him. She looked around for the ambulance that wouldn’t come for several more minutes. That’s when she finally realized someone was helping her. He was asking what had happened.

She was talking, too, trying to share the jumble of facts in her head, and sounding coherent in spite of herself. Concerned for the shock she must be going through as well, the stranger put his hand on her shoulder. He moved to the injured man’s head to do a little first aid she remembered vaguely being taught in swimming lessons more than ten years ago. He checked to make sure his windpipe wasn’t blocked and there was nothing in his mouth on which he might choke. “Do you have any water, cloths, paper towels?” he asked.

She leapt to her feet and back to her car, hands sticky with blood. The door was still ajar, and the car was still running. She turned the key back towards herself and left it in the ignition. Reaching behind the passenger seat, she pulled a mini roll of paper towels off the floor. Then she retrieved her water bottle and hurried back.

“Good,” he said, and began to gently rinse the man’s mouth of his blood. He soaked a paper towel in the fresh water and told her to clean the more minor wounds on his arms and apply pressure if any larger wounds were still releasing blood. She willed him to breathe as she moved, and kept talking to the patient, telling him what she was doing and why, and praying aloud for him.

At last the sound of sirens grew and drew near. The road filled with lights as the barricade of police cruisers arrived. Officers emerged from the car and gently coaxed the good Samaritans back from the scene. An ambulance squealed and honked its way through the intersection, and EMT’s had swung open the doors, lugging bags of gear, before the vehicle even stopped.

A couple officers with notepads interviewed the witnesses for the report. Her hands began to shake first, and then her knees felt like they would give out. She tried to answer their questions. “I was going about 41 miles per hour. I’d just checked, and slowed down. Excuse me.” She sat on the pavement, blood on her skirt, blood on her hands, and her stomach beginning to get queasy at the smell. She stared at the EMT’s lifting the man onto a stretcher. “I saw him, thought he looked like an irresponsible kid who was going to make a break for the crossing right after I passed. He got a head start towards me and then literally… he… dove…” She tried to look at the boy’s face to focus. His eyes were shut, and now that the medical team had cleaned him up, she could see ragged lines of scrapes and dark patches of swollen bruises. And then she cried, the sound pouring out of her like vomit, as though all the ache in her insides could be purged in tears and groaning.

The SUV man’s reassuring hand touched her back. She opened her eyes and realized her hands were too gross to wipe away the tears or cover her stained face. Blinking, she could see the stone in her ring spark through the stains of blood. “Can we get some water,” the officer called. He knelt in front of her. She turned her hand in the sun to see the glitter. As of yet he hadn’t seen her license, didn’t know how old she was, only knew her name. Maybe he should try to call her family. But she hadn’t requested it. Was she telling the truth?

“My name’s Drew,” said the man whose suit was ruined after his rescue attempt. He sat behind her now, and she felt both of his strong hands on her sleeves. His hands were stained from the triage as well. The officer who had interviewed him stood by, noting that the man hadn’t seen the accident, only the aftermath. He said the girl had spunk, and was doing a good job trying to help when he pulled up. “They need to know what happened.”

She nodded. She knew. But hearing the facts, simple, repetitive, helped.

“Here, wash your hands. He took the water bottle the EMT brought over and began pouring it beside her, while he reached for her hands to move them under the slow stream. Her fingers stretched apart, then closed. She felt them stick, and opened them apart again. Eventually the water carried the mess away. Immediately her hands went to her face to brush away the slower tears. While her eyes were covered, she focused on other senses. She heard cars, chirping brakes, engines, the air blowing across her hair as the cars passed. Against her legs the pavement was rough and hard. Behind her she was aware of something softer to lean against, and she realized, gradually, as she opened her eyes and turned her head, that Drew was holding her. Perhaps he thought she might faint.

“I put on my brakes as soon as I saw him dive,” she managed to say, followed by one long, slow breath. “I don’t know if that was good, but it was reflex. I got right out of the car, and dialed 911. He was behind the car a few feet, and curled up in odd angles. Why would he do that?” She turned with her question to her companion. “If he wanted to commit suicide, why not a bigger car? Why not a lot of cars? Why mine? I was just on my way to work.”

Her mind made note that she was late for work and should probably call them. But she didn’t want to. Should she call her mom? What did people do before 911? Were the mountains still there? She looked up to check. Wouldn’t someone just lead her away? Tell her what to do? She was mentally exhausted, making enough life and decisions in five minutes to last her for years.

Exchanging a glance with the officer as he said it, Drew offered to check her car. “Let’s see if there’s much damage.” He stood and lifted her to her feet, then guided her towards her car. The ambulance was just pulling away. Her cell phone remained, lifeless, behind her car. She was vaguely aware that traffic was backed up, being reduced from three lanes to one. “Not too bad,” Drew pointed at the bumper and distracted her from watching the retreating ambulance. Coming around to the front he noticed more dents, and blood. He stooped to look under the car. The officer shone his flashlight. “Maybe need a little more work here. Check the alignment and shocks, and this axel. Do you think it needs towed?” he asked.

The policeman shook his head. No. Both men agreed without a word that she didn’t need to be driving. “Can I see your license?” the officer asked, filling in the date and time, recording her license plate, on his form. She pulled it out of her purse. Her calves still burned like they might stop working, so she sat down on the seat once she handed it to him. Drew walked away, and she leaned towards his leaving, ready to say something if he wasn’t coming back. She hoped the words that would come would be more honest than a thank you. She didn’t want him to go yet, and wasn’t willing to admit that he had the right to get on with his day.

He came back soon with her cell phone. “Battery?” he asked, and tried a smile. She nodded. “Did you say you were on your way to work?” he hinted.

“Yes. I guess I should call in.”

He took off to his SUV. “I’ll get my phone,” he said.

“Hey, you know, we should really move this to the side road up there, stop blocking traffic now,” the policeman took a moment from his report to say.

“Can you drive to just up there?” Drew pointed to the first turn. “I’ll follow you.” Answering the proffered cell phone, he said, “Hang on to it.” She clung to it like a deposit on his promise to follow her. A little after the light behind them turned red, the line of cars thinned enough to let each of them in and back out at the turn. She pulled up beside a peaceful residence with a tree out front and a mailbox. Every house had a mailbox. The mountains were still visible over the roofs of the houses on her left.

To her relief, the recently washed navy blue SUV parked behind her, and she opened the door while she borrowed his phone to call her office. “Everything ok?” he asked once she had scanned the number pad for the off button.

The black and white sedan of the police fleet turned onto their road and did a U-turn to park across the street. “I feel bad leaving them hanging.”

“Where do you work?” he made small talk, trying to set her at ease.

She kept running her hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face. He tried not to stare at the darkening blood stains on her skirt. “At an eye doctor’s office. Should you call in?”

“No,” he waved at the phone still in her possession and wondered when to suggest that she call a friend. She might break down all over again. “I don’t have to report. My schedule isn’t that fixed. If they want me, they’ll call.”

A few more minutes saw the completion of all the police had to do on the scene. He confirmed her home phone and asked if she’d be all right.

“I’m ok. Thanks.”

Drew watched her steadily. He didn’t know her, but he had studied people, and he doubted her. She would be ok. Right now she was ok, depending on what you wanted her to do. She wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t driving. So far she wasn’t calling any friends or family.

Her mind reviewed the scene after the accident. What happened and when. What did she say? What did he say? Was he praying, too, or just her? Did she pray out loud? She remembered him saying “amen” to her prayers. When the ambulance finally arrived, after the police, he’d said “Thank You, God.” She remembered. Things were sharper now than even when they happened. Her world was recovering sense and order. All she wanted was a shower and new clothes, then maybe a good long Jane Austen movie – no explanations, no cries of concern. But maybe she should try to go to work. She’d call after a shower.

“I think I’ll go into shock soon,” she said absently.

“No you don’t,” Drew moved a step closer and interrupted his silent consideration of what should be done to distract her with more conversation. “You live close?”

“What?” her face lifted up like the break of the morning, refreshed and eager. “Yes.” She pointed and told him the nearest major intersection to her home. He noted it was a residential neighborhood with trees and parks, a few apartments between rows of 30 year old homes.

“You can come back for your car later, and I could give you a ride.” He saw her shrink back at the offer, but continued. “Is there someone at home you could call?”

So he had to go. He didn’t even have to stop to help at all. God had allowed the situation to come to her. She couldn’t have very well left. But this man was staying long past the call of duty. His hand prints were on her sleeves. Maybe he was an angel. Though it seemed unfair comparing her need to that of the suicidal young man now at an ER somewhere, she needed an angel. If he was an angel, he wouldn’t mind her asking. If he wasn’t, he’d be flattered or amused. She decided to go for it.

“Me?!” He showed the first real smile since she met him. “No such luck. But I can still give you a ride, or don’t you take lifts from human beings?”

“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ve done so much you didn’t have to. This isn’t your problem. I can call someone.”

“If you want to. But would you take a ride from an angel?” Drew pressed. He wanted to help. Even if she called someone else, he wouldn’t leave her alone until they were here. She would most likely break down again. He might break down. He prayed more urgently.

“Maybe. I mean, I’d feel bad if God sent me an angel to help and I said no. But you have other things to do.”

“What if God sent me? What if this is what God wants me to do?”

Her eyes brightened. “That’s possible.”

“Or you could call whoever ‘someone’ is, and we could drive to the ER to see if we can check our patient’s status.”

“I’m curious, but I think it might be fruitless. All the privacy laws now.” Her voice had changed. It was stronger, and slower. She was less nervous now.

“Do you want to try?”

“I don’t think so.”

Drew accepted her answer and took a few steps toward her car on the sidewalk. “Get your purse, and your keys. Is it locked?”

She checked the door. “Good.”

Once snugly inside his superior-sized SUV, she leaned against her window. He watched the road intently, stealing glances to check on his charge whenever he could. The radio played the Christian CD he had in, and she hummed the tune quietly. She was trying to decide what to do when she went home. Her mom would be borderline hysterical. And someone would have to take care of her and explain everything. They’d probably have to call her dad at work. Or maybe she should call him first.

Still worried she would go into shock, Drew asked some more questions. “After we get close, you’ll have to tell me where to turn. Is someone going to be there? I don’t think you should be alone.”

“It might be harder dealing with the people who are there,” she admitted, “than an empty house. I’m the oldest of six kids, and at least two will be at home. My mom should be there, and she’ll be a – upset.”

“Your dad?” Six kids! Was this a blended family, or was she Mormon?

“At work.”

“Do you need to call him?”

“I thought about it.”

“You can borrow my cell phone again.” He pointed to where it was charging, but went on before she could reach for it. “So where do you go to church?”

“The Baptist church up the road from the accident. South.” Drew could almost imagine her turning a compass to figure out the direction, just like a girl.

“I work at a Christian ministry in DTC,” he volunteered. “We interview, survey, and describe speakers, and help coordinate getting them in for an event. Most churches could do it on their own, but we cut down on the work. And we do reviews and classification of Christian books, too.”

“Turn here,” she pointed. “You’re a match-making service for Christians and ministries, then. What spiritual gifts does that apply?”

Drew did a double take. From prayers that consisted of calling on the generic “God” to asking him whether and which spiritual gifts he used in his job? He took another turn per her direction, and pulled to a stop in between houses. “Here?”

“Until I call my dad.”

“Well, I guess we use administration and discernment. We pray a lot, and study the Bible so that we can be alert if we come across something that might not be orthodox or biblical.”

“Which happens a lot.” It was a statement. She used the rear view mirror to scout her house. “Can I use your phone?”

“Go ahead.” Drew listened to her lead into telling her dad what happened. Twenty-three. Lives at home. Baptist. God-empowered, if what I saw today is an indication. She’d been amazingly calm when in the middle of the emergency. He meant to ask her if she had first aid training.

She used her free hand to massage her neck. “I’m fine. Just a little shaken up. I called work. They’ll be ok for a while. Yes. I need to change. Where? I’m right outside home, but wanted to call you before I went in. Do you know if Mom’s home?”

To God be all glory. Read more!

His Treasure

Last night Abigail didn’t get enough sleep. In fact she was sleep-deprived for the week, for various reasons. And she was tired of trying to excel in life, tired of paying attention. The spiritual weight of decisions was wearying her. Without proper expression for spiritual exhaustion, she manifest the feeling by sitting down in a chair, alone in the church foyer, and telling herself that she really needed to cry. No tears came.

A swarm of hungry people were filling Styrofoam plates with little smokies, deviled eggs, cookies, and various unrelated potluck dishes in the church’s fellowship hall. Abigail had just received a bit of news that needed processing before she joined the crowd. When she walked down there one of two things would happen: she would either feel immensely lonely, surrounded by dozens of people ignoring her, or she would pretend to be alright when someone noticed her. She could pretend, but she hated to.

So until she composed herself, sufficiently surrendering this new weight to God through rapid, almost unintelligible thought-prayers, she would stay here in the still hall. No one would miss her; no one could help; and it didn’t matter.

But that was the old reality. Now there was someone who would sit by her if she were at the fellowship meal, someone who didn’t need her to pretend to be alright, and someone who noticed she was gone. Matt came looking. The walk was short, and unhurried. After all, the meal wasn’t mandatory, and he wasn’t really worried that anything horrible had happened to her. Glancing first towards the closed and dark sanctuary, and then round the perimeter, he soon saw her. She sat in one of those pretty, deceptive chairs that promise overstuffed comfort, but whose cushions refuse to yield when you sit in one. The backs are stiff, affixed at the wrong angle, and cheaply made. Yet they give a room a decorator-defined atrium look, so churches buy them.

His treasure sat wedged into a corner, sitting straight, but with her head tipped back against the winged headrest. Her mouth was open a bit, and her eyes were closed. This morning had been crazily busy, between Sunday school and friends and the various errands that occupy church in the mornings distracting men from God and His people. So this was the first time he observed her. How had he stopped mentally photographing Abigail’s every image? Now she sat, her long, full skirt exhibiting a natural grace that belonged both to it and its treasured owner. Unbidden, his mind called her “his treasure.” Each time he rationalized it. They were only courting. Nothing was certain. That was the whole point. But he knew he loved her, and didn’t Proverbs say that a good wife was worth more that rubies? The blouse she wore, even askew, was modest, and drew his attentive eyes up to her face. Her open mouth made him laugh quietly to himself again.

Sleep was so peaceful. She must be worn out. Part of that was his fault. He was stressing her out. Unable to help himself, he’d been in a pattern of assured future alternating with self-doubt and second-guessing. She refused to let him pretend everything was normal. “I don’t want to do anything that doesn’t mean something,” she’d told him. “Well, I’ll play games and do things that don’t mean a lot, but I don’t want to do anything that means the opposite of reality. If things aren’t ok, and we need to be praying, I don’t want to just hang out and watch a movie.” Matt thought that meant she loved him – the real way.

Sliding into the equally uncomfortable seat on the other side of a potted plant and ministry flyer coffee table, he reflected that he knew what Abigail meant. They were courting now because he had realized that no matter what, he wanted to be there for her. He’d wanted to help her, to cheer her up, and… just be there. He wouldn’t take distractions for a substitute. And after he had started, Matt realized that exercising real love, like a brother in Christ should, had opened an entirely different and unexpected door. As he shifted, half of his brain wondering who manufactures foyer chairs, and the other half continuing his philosophical musings, he realized that once again, he was where he was because he wanted to push through and get to the real her.

Abigail wasn’t deeply asleep. When his foot slipped from the leverage that was keeping him comfortable in his chair, and hit the leg of the table, she opened her eyes. Raising her head and sitting up straighter, she finally got the message that her mouth was open and deliberately closed it into a smile. Seeing the change that had arisen between them since being fellow church members to trusted friends was a mystery. Being awakened from less-than-elegant posture didn’t leave her self conscious. She wasn’t even shy.

“What’s up?” he asked, dragging his reluctant eyes from the pattern in the carpet that half-matched, half-clashed with the colors in the upholstery. He cued a piercing gaze that told her he was masking seriousness in casual.

Peace dropped off of her face like a disguise at a masquerade. “Oh, everything. I don’t know what we’re going to do with Sunday school. Joan’s not going to teach. But I don’t want her to feel badly. It isn’t her. It’s everyone. Nobody is to blame. God is just bringing my need-to-be-made decisions all together, and I’m overwhelmed. He hasn’t told me what to do yet. I’m glad he told some people what they should do, you know?”

She wished he’d wrap her in his arms. If he asked her to marry him, she thought for the thousandth time, she’d say, “Tomorrow.” But as long as the longing to be held was the driving force behind her enthusiasm, she was deep down glad that he hadn’t asked. Anyway, if he held her, she wouldn’t be able to see that tender glance: the one she hoped was part of his character and not just a romantic side effect. Someday she’d see him offer it to their children. Her cheeks flushed, and her distracted eyes slipped a cautious look back at him. Caught! He’d noticed she wasn’t paying attention.

In fact he’d caught a bit more than that. God blessed him with insight into the spiritual struggles of those he loved and prayed for. The extra copper tinting on the tips of her ears, which made her look a bit elven, told him she hadn’t been taking her thoughts captive. Not that it was wrong to think of things like being a parent. There were just safer times emotionally to do such things. When he got embarrassed his temples burned, and he wondered absently if her ear tips were warmer now. Someday, if he remembered, he’d brush his finger against it when she blushed, and find out.

Now he was doing it! They had to get out of there. There wasn’t much more he could say to answer her dilemma. Usually she already knew every side to the story. “It’s just hard,” she’d explain, warding off further lectures or fix-it suggestions. Instead, he directed her towards food. “You’re grumpy when you’re hungry,” he said.

To God be all glory.
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I Saw Below Me Stars Above

The wind was barely blowing,
As I woke from sleep, mid-night.
The starlit darkness calling
My heart, my soul to take flight.

I rolled and slid
From under tent
Beneath the trees
My bare feet went.

The night was warm,
The clouds asleep.
The voice of starlight
Continued to speak.

My soul, it willingly listened,
My feet grace-fully obeyed.
My eyes beheld the wonders, this
Blessed night displayed.

The trees were tall,
Thick overhead,
I looked for stars;
Saw pines instead.

My feet meandered as a river,
Lazily bound for sea.
Until a sight, off bow from quiver,
Shot through my eyes –pierced me.

The sight, a sparkle of crystal flame,
Reflecting off the lake,
My eyes now heard, along with my heart,
The voice that urged me to take

This journey out of sleep,
Toward my rendezvous
To see a sky, so heavy-thick,
It denied a definite hue,

Specked with bits of heaven’s fire
Reflecting in my eye.
My feet continued carrying my heart,
To, in the lake, see sky.

My meanderance led me to a rock,
A fortress against gentle waves
Hewn by time’s catastrophe,
Yet, within its skin, held minute’s graves.

I stepped from dirt
To cold, damp stone.
The lake with the voice
Of night-stars shone.

As I advanced toward the edge,
Their reflection sang a song to me,
“Jump. Forsake your forest-dwelling feet;
Let warm, night-air carry ye.”

Again, my soul, it listened,
And again, it, I obeyed.
The water, deep, with reflection, sweet,
A symphony in my soul played.

I ran up the ancient grave of time
Threw myself to the night before me.
The warm air smiled, and so did I,
Thanking God that I was free.

For one moment, I, surrounded by air,
Saw with heart and eye.
I saw below me stars above,
And fell peacefully toward the sky.

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Turkey

You know if you've been reading since I started, or if you've known me even longer than that, that this post is not new material. But I know my readers don't click on links, especially inter-Lady of Longbourn links, so I am making this very easy for you and reposting my inimitable Thanksgiving delight:


Turk - Middle English, from French Turc, from Middle Latin Turcus, from Byzantine Greek Tourkos, Persian turk, a national name, of unknown origin. Said to mean "strength" in Turkish. Young Turk was a member of an early 20c. political group in the Ottoman Empire that sought rejuvenation of the Turkish nation.

turkey - 1541, "guinea fowl" (numida meleagris), imported from Madacascar via Turkey, by Near East traders known as turkey merchants. The larger North American bird (meleagris gallopavo) was domesticated by the Aztecs, introduced to Spain by conquistadors (1523) and thence to wider Europe, by way of Africa and Turkey (Indian corn was originally turkey corn or turkey wheat in Eng. for the same reason). The word turkey was first applied to it in Eng. 1555 because it was identified with or treated as a species of the guinea fowl. The New World bird itself reputedly reached England by 1524 (when Henry VIII dined on it at court). Turkeys raised by the Pilgrims were probably stock brought from England. By 1575, turkey was becoming the usual main course at an English Christmas. Meaning "inferior show, failure," is 1927 in show business slang, probably from the image of the turkey as a stupid bird.

"My dad was asking, so I looked it up. The reason we have a bird and a country with the same name (and the slang use for a stupid or goofy person), Turkey, is as follows:

1. Turkey is named, obviously, for the Turks, and Turk is a Persian word that referred to a nation somewhere when Persia was still a big thing. In Turkish, the word "turk" came to mean strength.

2. Turkeys are native to two parts of the world: Madagascar and the Americas. Way before America was discovered by Columbus, merchants imported turkeys from Madagascar to Europe, by way of Turkey (which wasn't called Turkey then). Since the Turks were the salesmen in the middle of the trade route, the birds came to be named after them. Aztecs in America also bred turkeys.

3. Once America began to be colonized, esp. by the Spanish in the south, conquistadors sent turkeys over to Europe. The name "turkey" wasn't applied to them until after this, and the name originated in Europe, where people figured out the two species were similar.

4. One website I encountered suggested three other ideas for where turkeys got their names, but I found them unscientific. Since they were still entertaining, I'll give them to you.

• You have probably heard that American Indians were called that because Columbus landed here and thought he'd reached India. Thinking this, and seeing the plumage of native wild turkeys, Columbus may have named them the word for peacock in the tongue of India (where peacocks were found), which is "tuka". Sounds similar, almost, but it doesn't convince me.
• Native Americans (before they knew they were supposed to be Indians) called the birds "firkee" which, as I'm sure you can hear in your head, sounds a whole lot like "turkey" basically, just change one letter, and that has happened converting English to English, let alone foreign languages. Actually, if you go to Africa, our translations of the words we hear there can be quite different from others who visited. It depends on the ear gene you inherited or something. = )
• When turkeys are afraid, they make a sound as they run, not a gobble, but "turk, turk, turk." This does not mean that the Ottomans are chasing them. That's just what they say. Hmm. Maybe that's where the Turks got their name, though? I won't go there, at least not yet. Ok, I'll make up a story that will be found in #5.

5. There once was a man from the region east of Anatolia, which was east of Greece. I think it was also west of Persia and south of Russian and north of Africa and southwest of... never mind. He liked to travel, so he sold all he had, took his three sons, and sailed to a little island SOUTH, called Madagascar (actually, I don't know if that was it's name then, but since you probably don't know what its name was then, it would be useless for me to waste time finding out and using it, since you wouldn't know what I'm talking about. On a similar note, Anatolia is the region known in the Bible as Asia Minor and on your most modern map as Turkey). While he was vacationing there on the beach, he feasted on a native bird similar to the pheasant. It was so delicious, that he wanted to take some home. So when he finally got tired of all the sun and cannibals, he and his two sons (guess where the other one went) packed up along with some of the birds and sailed home. He threw a coming home party, and all of his neighbors loved the poultry he fed them. They wanted to know what it was and how to get some. This man from the region east of Anatolia was poor after being gone so long without working, so he decided this would make a good business. A sign was soon seen in front of his house reading (in what language, I've no idea; it probably doesn't exist anymore) "Poultry for sail. Taking orders." (ok, so he couldn't spell sale, but he wasn't in the sign making business, so it didn't matter.) All of his neighbors signed up for at least a week's worth, and prepaid him. His sons went with him to brave the cannibals and collect a supply of birds to bring home. The first trip was successful, and eventually they made friends with the natives, who agreed to breed the birds for him in recompense for the loss of his third son. It became quite a thriving business, and a few of the enterprising neighbors also got involved. They built boats and began shipping the birds also. The delicacy became famous all over the known world, even Persia. To get the birds up to Persia, the men from the region east of Anatolia herded them north and east. Birds are frightened easily, and herders scared them into running the direction (hopefully) they wanted them to go. Coming into Persia, they always had a big welcome, because the noise of the birds could be heard miles or at least yards, meters, cubits or whatever they used back then away. People who were especially fond of the meat would chant as the herders entered the city, "Turk, turk, turk!" Later when these men no longer herded birds, but men instead, the Persians ran in fear, screaming, "turk, turk..." The men took up the name, and it came to be a chant of their strength. Back home, they reminded themselves of their strength (for pride accompanies power) by calling themselves Turks. The birds they kept and sold couldn't keep their name of turk, since it meant strength now and the birds were stupid, not strong. They were called turkey. This term was also used as a nickname for those among the Turks whose behavior resembled the turkey's. In Europe the names caught on, and they passed it to America, where a bigger version of the bird was bred by scalpers, not cannibals.

*I must inform you that although some parts of this story are factual, a whole lot is fictional. Please do not include any of the information found in #5 for a scientific report or to attempt to astound your friends with your incredible knowledge. = )”


To God be all glory.

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Witness from Ephesus

Note: This was written in answer to "How can we know the Bible was true?" The answer the story illustrates is that if when the New Testament was written and circulated, it had not been true, there would have been witnesses around who would utterly discredit the testimony of Paul and the other authors.

This was not the case. Still living witnesses of Jesus' life and the early ministry of the Church rather supported the words of Paul and Peter. These apostles even appealed to this argument as proof of their authority. God chose certain men to deliver to us the specific words He wanted in the Bible. Many at the time were witnesses to the same events, and believed the same theology.

“There,” said Paul. “All done.” He reached for the manuscripts his secretary handed him. “Lord Jesus,” they prayed, “use these simple words to speak truth to the people of Corinth. Help them to be impresssed by your love for them. Cleanse them from the sins they keep doing. I pray, Lord, for my messenger. Help him to reach Corinth safely. Let him minister to Your saints there.”

The messenger left early the next morning with the blessings of the church at Ephesus. The letter to the Corinthians remained unsealed. He opened it and began to read to pass the weary hours of his journey.

“Paul, called to be an apostle…” he read. Once, he had visited Ananias in Damascus. The man who witnessed the transformation of Saur from Tarsus, Ananias held Paul (who had changed his name from Saul) as a specially called apostle of Christ. The messenger read on.

Later in the day, he again stopped to remember. “For I determined not to know anything among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified…” Jesus the Messiah, in Greek translated “Christ,” had been crucified. The messenger was one of over 500 witnesses who had seen the marks from the nails in Jesus’ hands. Truly the sight had been moving. His own life had been changed forever.

The further the messenger went from Ephesus, the faster he read. “For you have been bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body.” Paul didn’t take a breath most days without the purpose of glorifying God. In the devastating moments when he did reveal pride or impatience, Paul was in tears over the price his Lord paid. The eternal image of Christ’s wounded hands always returned to break his heart.

“And that He was buried, and that He rose again the third day, according to the Scriptures.” Joseph of Arimathea died two weeks before the messenger set out. A great memorial had been made for him. The Pharisees remembered what he had done for God. Christians remembered what God did for him. Then he was buried in his tomb.

The prophet, Isaiah, spoke of Messiah being buried with the rich at His death. Joseph’s tomb had been Jesus’ resting place. Yet now Joseph himself resided there – alone. He became an eternal witness to the truth of the prophet and of the resurrection.

Only four days from Ephesus, with most of his trip still to go, the messenger finished reading Paul’s letter. The greetings at the end were like a list of beloved friends. He remembered the party they had thrown when Stephanus, Fortunatus, and Achaicus came to them. Their news excited Paul. Nights were spent in fellowship and study of the Scriptures for weeks afterward. Would such a party be given for him?

As the trip progressed, the messenger read the letter over and over until some parts were burned into his mind and written on his heart. Sometimes he would read passages out loud to those who traveled with him. “Paul writes truth,” reported an elderly woman. “My son in Corinth mentioned many of those things.”

“Ma’am, do you think people will still believe him in a hundred years?”

“Why not,” she chuckled. “I believe it – and I would know. If we who know accept it, so should our children and grandchildren. Paul is a messenger of God. He wrote the truth. How else will they know the truth?”

To God be all glory. Read more!

The Fingerpaint Life

The boy he had a cross-shaped stamp
Filled with ink inside.
He used his cross-stamp everyday,
And cared for it with pride.



He would stamp everything he did,
With the symbol his stamp produced.
Until one day his precious stamp,
His precious stamp, it…
Broke.

The ink, ran over the paper,
The stamp was useless now.
He had to send his message still,
But with all this mess, well, how?

The boy sat still, and staring.
At the problem before him.
And slowly his hand moved forward,
With a deep-joy, kind of grin.

His fingers touched the spilt blue ink
And began to swirl around.
Before he knew it, what lay there?
On the page he found…

A cross, a cross, so beautiful,
With swirls springing from the mess.
It was the same, but meant so much more,
Than what he’d called before, “success.”

And what- near the end of each swirl of blue,
What was that he now saw?
His very own fine fingerprints,
He then sat back in awe

With hands held up he saw his fingerTIPS,
Blue from the art he had made.
This gift he was about to give,
Was on himself displayed.

He’d never done something like this before,
The note he wrote that day,
Was the first note he ever wrote to God,
It said, “God, I just wanted to say…”

“To say, ‘Thank You.’” Yes.
That’s all it really said,
And where he’d usually stamp his stamp,
Was a fingerprint cross instead.

He sent the note to Jesus,
He sent it that same day,
And when he washed his hands that night,
The blue began to fade.

He decided then that, to remember,
He would paint frequently.
Not with brushes, or with stamps,
But with his fingers, personally.

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Cool Day in Capernaum

It was a cool day in Capernaum. The wind blew from the south over the Sea of Galilee. The fishermen were ashore now, nearly done selling their day’s catch. Peter made his way along the familiar harbor, watching the sunset reflected in the waves of the lake.


Memories of the old days: fishing on the sea and living a simple, stable life flooded his thoughts. It had been a day like any other when he and Andrew had first met Jesus, but in that instant, his life had been turned up-side-down. Now they were all going up to Jerusalem in a few days and his hopes were high. Rumors, like the summer flies on the plains, were multiplying across the land that Jesus was the Messiah who would free their people and set up His kingdom on earth. Romans authorities were very unsettled over this Jewish sentiment.

Maybe that was why Peter tried to blend in with those tending their nets when he saw several Roman tax collectors heading for him. Before, he would have fit perfectly among the tackle and boats. Now he stood out, apparently, because the tax collectors continued directly towards him. Peter believed Jesus was the Christ and was eager to see Him set up His kingdom. With all Jesus had been saying these last few days about betrayal and death, though, Peter wasn’t sure Jesus shared his expectations. A haughty voice, tainted with the aristocratic accent of the empire's capital, interrupted his thoughts: “Doesn’t your Teacher pay the temple tax?” they asked, implying He should pay.

“Yes, He does,” answered Peter, wondering where on earth Jesus would get the two drachmas to pay it. When Jesus said he didn't have any place to lay his head, the empty purse went without saying. Judas kept poor collections that Jesus wouldn't think of using for Himself. They camped outside, and some wealthy friends made sure they had enough food. Some days there was barely enough. Peter hurried back to the house where Jesus and His disciples were staying. Before he could even report the bad news, Jesus was asking Peter about it in His simple, profound way. “What do you think, Simon? From whom do the kings of earth collect duty and taxes – from their own sons or from others?”

When Peter calmed himself enough to consider the well-paced question, he replied, “From others,” and wondered where Jesus was going with the simple question. Jesus said, “Then the sons are exempt,” and a smile played on His lips and love danced in His eyes at the familiar, confused expression on Peter’s face.

“...but so that we may not offend them, go to the lake and throw out your line,” Jesus continued, His expression changing to sadness. “Take the first fish you catch; open its mouth and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and give it to them for My tax and yours.” Peter put his coat back on, grabbed his line, and resumed his scrambled mood, bumping the doorframe on his way out.

As he passed the staring people and sat down beside the lake, Peter began to wonder if this, like almost everything else Jesus said, meant something more. On the surface, it appeared to be directives for paying a tax, and his tax with it (which was nice), but Peter liked to try to find the meaning of the rest of Jesus’ riddling words when he had the time. Was He saying that He was a prince? And if so, was He paying the tax because His kingdom on earth wasn’t coming yet? Or was He saying His kingdom was already here?

A fish bit and Peter left his questions unanswered to catch the tax fish.

Peter returned after delivering the payment to find Jesus teaching in the house. Jesus spoke of ‘your brother’s sins,’ and it aroused an old question in Peter’s mind. When Jesus was done with His lesson, Peter asked Him, “Lord,” and Jesus turned His gentle eyes on Peter; how he loved students with questions! “How many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?”

Jesus glanced at Andrew, who was glaring at his brother, and smiled. His own half-brothers were not nearly so bold. These men, whose brotherhood was baked by nights on the trying sea, had no concept of restraint. “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” Andrew looked relieved; the Teacher was on his side. Then Jesus told them a story to illustrate. Peter listened eagerly, hoping for the zinger that would stop Andrew from smirking. It never came. “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from your heart,” Jesus closed.

The next morning, early, Jesus, His disciples, and large crowds went from Galilee to Judea across the Jordan. After a few days’ teaching there, the group continued on their way through Jericho towards Jerusalem. With each passing day, hopes rose, thinking the promised kingdom had come.

Everyone was expecting Jesus to declare himself. James and John’s mother even asked for her sons to hold high office in Jesus’ coming kingdom. Jesus handled all the questions, requests, and hopes in His loving way, but no matter how many times He rebuked them or tried to calm their hopes with the truth, they refused to listen. They were convinced.

When the group was near Jerusalem, at Bethphage on the Mount of Olives, they halted and Jesus sent two disciples ahead to find Him a donkey’s colt on which to ride in. The disciples went away quickly and accomplished their secret mission. In the mean time, most of the crowds made their way into Jerusalem and cut down branches as they went to spread on the road.

People stopped what they were doing and looked up to see a man, riding on a donkey so small and slow that it would hardly be thought worthy of a passenger, coming down the road amid the excited shouts of thousands. Jesus rode quietly, troubled by the knowledge that very soon He would be alone and these cheering crowds would no longer cheer. The rest of the city, filled with more and less informed people who had come for Passover, wondered who He really was and what He would do at the feast.

To God be all glory. Read more!

Low Low Price

Characters: Salesman, Skater, Car-Buyer, Disneyland Vacationer, Hockey Fan, Christian

Props: Skateboard, Picture of a Corvette, Disneyland Brochure, 3 Sports big rivalry Tickets, Bible, $5, $300, $50, $2, Super Low Low Price Store Sign, Kool-aid cup w/ straw, Hawaiian shirt, Sports Jersey

The salesman waits in the “Super Low,Low Price Bargain Closeout Store.” The skater walks in, almost with a slide in his step, as though he were skateboarding – minus the board.

Salesman: What super low, low price bargain can I get for you today?

Skater: Man, I’m looking for a new board. Mine’s broken.

Salesman: I’ve just the thing for you. We have a top of the line skateboard brand new from Brother’s Boards. Only $5.

Skater: $5?! Dude. Those boards run like twenty times that price. What a great deal! But, you know, $5 would make my wallet feel a little lighter, and I could be putting it towards a board more on my budget. But, I can just see me doing all the stunts on the new board. (Skater spins one of the wheels with his finger, longingly.) Ok, I’ll take it.
Skater hands over the $5 bill and skates out looking complete. The car-buyer passes him, on his way in.

Salesman: What super low, low price bargain can I get for you today?

Car-buyer: I really wanted to see what new cars you had. Anything in red?

Salesman: You’ve come to the right place. In our garage right now we have a 2003 Corvette – in red!

Car-buyer: That sounds fabulous, but I’m sure I don’t have that kind of money.

Salesman: Nonsense. This bargain is only $300 dollars.

Car-buyer: $300! Does it work?

Salesman: Perfect working order, with stereo and leather seats. Are you interested?
Car-buyer: Well, I am used to driving my grey and brown (brown from the rust) Volkswagon. It would be a big change to drive a red corvette. What would people say? I mean, giving up the car I’ve had for over a year… I just don’t know.

Salesman: This is a great deal. Don’t let it slip away. Maybe people will say that you’re awesome, that you made a change for the better.

Car-buyer: Ok, I’ll take it. Let me get my checkbook.
The vacationer comes in wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt and sipping Kool-aid. She heads straight to the salesman.

Vacationer: I’d like to go to Disneyland. Do you have any good deals?

Salesman: As a matter of fact, we were just notified of a special low, low price package to Disneyland. It includes a week at the park with airfare and hotels. Food and Mickey Mouse ears not included.

Vacationer: Sounds good. How much?

Salesman: $50.

Vacationer: That’s just too good to be true. This has got to be a scam.

Salesman: No, this is our bargain low, low price. Call Disneyland. Ask them. Talk to Donald Duck, or Cinderella. They can tell you. This is for real.

Vacationer: Alright, it’s a deal too good to pass up. $50.
They finish the vacation transaction and the vacationer skips out singing “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, to Disneyland I go…” In comes a serious Avalanche fan, with a jersey and hat and everything.

Salesman: Sir, may I direct you to the sports section? Looking for a low, low priced souvenir?

Fan: No, I need tickets. I promised my sons tickets to the game tonight, but they’re sold out at Ticketmaster.

Salesman: No problem. I have a couple tickets here at $2 a seat, and these aren’t just any seats, they’re close!

Fan: $200 per seat…

Salesman: No, TWO DOLLARS.

Fan: That’s a ridiculous price. What are you trying to do, let just anyone into these games? They’re for serious fans. Are you trying to devalue our team?

Salesman: No sir. We’re just trying to give you a bargain, closeout price. And you’re the lucky customer.

Fan: This isn’t the way tickets are sold. It’s not traditional. It goes against my principle to pay such a small price.

Salesman (Waving the three available tickets in front of the fan’s nose): But these are Avalanche versus Redwing tickets!

Fan: O-o-oh. Ok. I’ll take them – for my sons. If it were just me, I wouldn’t.
As soon as the fan has the tickets, he looks very pleased with himself.

Salesman (muttering under his breath): I bet he doesn’t even have sons. (turning towards the door) Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?

Christian: I’m willing to pay anything, but, well, my request is kind of specific, and I’m afraid that it will cause too much change, or that my friends won’t understand, or that it won’t last or be real – or that my traditions will have to be broken.

Salesman: I understand, but I’ll try to help. What are you looking for?

Christian: I’m a Christian, so I want to be a good witness, but I need someone who will be with me to help me when I am tempted, and – and someone to listen to all my problems, any time. I need someone to teach me what decisions I should make. Have anything?

Salesman: We might have something. Let me check the back room here. Ah, yes. Here. Jesus Christ. Available as a package deal with a Bible. It’s kind of part of the price.

Christian (flinching): And what is the price?

Salesman: To spend time each day reading this Bible, and time each day praying to Jesus. All He asks is that you spend time with Him.

Christian: That’s all? This is a steal! How can you afford to give me all that just for my time each day?

Salesman: I can’t. But it’s pre-paid by a generous contributor. Jesus Christ paid for it in advance.

Christian (whispering): What did it cost Him?

Salesman: Everything.

To God be all glory.

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