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.
Read more!

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.

permalink Read more!

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.
Read more!

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.
Read more!

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.

Read more!

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.

Read more!

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.

Read more!

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.

Read more!

Autumn

Adventure stirs withing the soul
People go crunching by
Once green leaves turn to bright gold
Migrating geese southward fly.


Sweaters pulled close against the wind
Beneath a thin grey sky
Soft, drenching rain soaks to the skin
Bleared sunlight seems to lie.

For warmth and green are passing quick
Pale brown the grass is now
Scent of smoke outside drifts thick
Leaves are on the ground.

Just after harvest first snow falls
Evenings are spent inside
Bright leaves carpet tree-pillared halls
Where autumn fairies hide.

To God be all glory.

Read more!

Diana in Philosophy Class

“It’s been ten years since mainstream science accepted the theory that space is finite,” said Professor Beamon to his class. “In those ten years we have only begun to grasp the implications. If the universe is limited, it has a center. It can be measured. It has an edge.” He emphasized this last corollary because of its mystery.

“I thought this was philosophy class,” Diana thought. She rolled her eyes and began to scribble an intricate celtic pattern on her notebook. She was officially tuned out. Science was not her thing. I mean, she loved observation and analysis and all that scientific method stuff, but what science has become: a theoretical jungle o mathematics, microscopic assumptions, and universe-encompassing equations – was not even remotely relevant to her major, her roommate troubles, or her existence.

Next to her a male student was tapping his pen, putting random dots on his paper. Or maybe they weren’t random. They blurred out of focus. Who was he? Why was he tapping? Why did he use that pen? Was he moving in time to his thoughts? The professor’s speech cadence? What did that seemingly meaningless collection of dots indicate? Dreams have had interpretations since prehistoric times. So dots can mean something, too. “Everything means something,” she reassured herself. “God shows His glory in the details.”

“…details,” said the professor. Diana’s attention snapped back. After all, even a word in an insignificant lecture is a detail. It means something as well.

Her teacher continued while Diana tried to gather what led up to this. You know how sometimes your memory stores things you heard, even though you weren’t listening? He had been talking about how space was limited… and time! Time is limited too. “He’s way too into math,” Diana thought. She jotted down the mathematical term Professor Beamon had used so she could look it up later.

“The point is, there are only so many combinations of variables in an isolated universe. Eventually everything will be tried: every bar of music, every sentence. You may have read C.S. Lewis. In one of his children’s novels, there is a ‘deplorable word’ that ends the world. What if the last possible association has been made? Will the world end then? Or will we gradually see the world in bigger and bigger ‘sentences’? Have we already reached that point? Is the great philosopher of Ecclesiastes right when he says ‘there is nothing new under the sun’?”

Diana was thinking now. Her mind was racing and her heart was pounding. Scarcely sparing the energy from her thoughts to raise her hand, it yet went up slowly. Immediately the teacher stopped and pointed at her. She had hoped for a moment more to organize the thought forming in her heart more than her mind. When she began, she stuttered. Professor Beamon leaned forward, but he wasn’t impatient or intimidating; he was eager, and he sought to draw all his students into the lesson.

“What if creativity isn’t constant? I mean,” Diana took a deep breath to slow down, “E equals m c squared and all that, but what if we keep going on even after everythinghas been tried? Does that mean we’re getting input from outside the universe?” Philosophy always made her think of God. C.S. Leis argued that rational thinking can only be explained by the existence of a supernatural God.

The teacher repeated her question loud enough for the whole class to hear. Then he nodded at Diana. Before he could respond further, a boy across the room spoke up, “So like we’re not in a closed system?”

Another student posed another perspective, “Or we are closed, but we have a door, or better yet not a door, but like a balloon, someone with a sharp enough pin can puncture us.”

“So you’re arguing God? God is in control? God gives creativity? God holds that needle?” Professor Beamon picked up again.

But Diana was excited. This train of thought was going somewhere, for her at least. Each new thought second-guessed the previous until she moved deeper and deeper. She couldn’t tell if she was zooming out or zooming in as the map websites say it. She just knew that things got clearer the more she thought. And that is why she was here.

“Professor,” she interrupted again, “maybe it wasn’t a matter of reaching the end of possibilities. Maybe a long time ago there were no possibilities until God injected them. After all, where does thinking, and talking, and all creative expression come from originally?”

He didn’t look like he had never considered that. Nor did he act like she had stolen one of his points. He merely smiled, sweeping his eyes across a room full of thoughtful faces. And he went on, shepherding the discussion until it reached the point at which he was aiming all along.

“What is a world where every melody has already been sung? Where every love story has been lived? Is that a world people can live in? Is repetition bad? Or beautiful? If the world does have edges, must it also have walls?”

After class, Diana went to meet the professor personally. This was the first class of the semester, and despite the rough, science-oriented start, she was excited.

“You’ve discovered my favorite word: ‘maybe’, Miss Connor. I appreciate your participation.”

“I like your class. You aren’t like a lot of teachers. When you ask a question, you don’t have an answer in mind. I mean, you let us be right, too.”

“Well, if you’re ever obviously wrong, I will let you know. For instance, on tests, there are right and wrong answers. I do believe in absolutes.”

Diana laughed at the reference to the shaky worldview that went out of fashion after the scientific enlightenment of 2015. That was an unstable time, when most standard scientific laws and theories were thrown out and reinterpreted. Naturalism, which had bound science under almost a spell for over a century, slowly fell apart as scientists first trickled, then flocked to a philosophy of order and information once again. During those unstable years in the rebuilding of science, one could not afford not to believe in absolutes.

“Yet this class is not about discovering the world’s secrets or getting perfect test scores. I see the student; you, Miss Connor, or you, Mr. Stapler, “ he addressed another student who had come up and was listening, “as my primary focus. I care that each of you learn to think critically and rationally and frequently. Meditate on Scripture. Ponder God’s creation. Some students, of course, have to be taught to think in the first place.”

“I know,” said Diana. “But, sir, you nearly lost me with all the science at the beginning. I checked to make sure I was in the right class.”

“Philosophy isn’t science, or knowledge like the Greek word means. It’s guessing,” Matt Stapler agreed.

“But it’s all connected. God’s creation is interwoven. I like to emphasize different aspects of this in my lectures. You have to know that philosophy has a practical side.

“Besides, I find science fascinating, and I like to keep up with the newest advances. You’ll find I speak about whatever is on my mind, and it all comes together for two reasons. The first is that I am thinking about things myself, and always making the connections. The second is that sometimes, when we surrender, when I surrender to God’s service, He takes over and gets the results.”

“I say whatever is on my mind and it gets me into trouble,” Matt said.

“That’s where the input issue comes in,” Diana said. “Out of the overflow of our hearts the mouth speaks. And nothing can be in our hearts unless we put it there. So praying and memorizing Scripture and reading good books…”

“Or even science articles,” put in Professor Beamon playfully.

“Yes, or whatever ingredients you need to make your cake – that’s what produces good, orderly things coming out of your mouth.”

“Only a girl would have mentioned cake there. But I see what you’re saying. I need to get so saturated with truth and good things that nothing else could possibly come out when I open my mouth,” Matt summarized.

“And as I encourage open mouths both to speak, and like baby birds, to be fed, I highly recommend you prepare to speak,” Professor Beamon said good-naturedly. “Good to have you in my class.”

Only once they both turned away did he start gathering papers, none of which he seemed to have used during the class. All the while they had been talking, he had been completely focused on them.

“So what are you here for?” Matt asked Diana.

“Like my major? Or how God brought me to this school and what I expect Him to teach me?”

“Both if you like. But I meant your major.”

“I like psychology. Why people do what they do. In fact I can’t control myself; I analyze everything.”

“But if an infinite God is continually adding ideas and guiding, how can you ever make sense of that?”

Diana answered, “God is not a God of chaos, but of order. He made laws to govern the universe. He set us with limits. He tells us, also, about human nature.”

“So what about the other things?” Matt seemed to accept her answer. “Why this college, and what’s God going to teach you?”

It is cool to be in a Bible college. Most of the people there share your values and theology. And they’re striving to live lives of Christ-likeness, centered on love and building others up. With this confidence, Diana expected that when anyone asked a question, they were ready to listen to the answer.

“As to how I got here, it’s all God’s work. I heard about the school through a friend, and when I looked up info about the college, I just knew. Their mission statement, the majors they offered, and the classes each major included just fit my interests so well. A lot of schools might be good for one subject or another, but this, this was like a gourmet meal…”

“Are you hungry?” Matt asked. “Literally, I mean?”

“A little,” Diana answered. But she wondered how he knew.

“Cake. Gourmet. How about a candy bar?” He went to a vending machine so ancient it could have been in a museum. He swiped his currency card and asked her what she wanted. “Chocolate?” he suggested.

Diana took a bite and thanked him. Then she continued her tale. “So I really wanted to come here, but it was a miracle I got accepted. I’m still not sure how it happened.”

“A lot of people say that. Maybe it’s a conspiracy.”

Diana studied Matt out of the corner of her eye to make sure he was just teasing. “As for what God will teach me, I hope to be a better communicator, and to understand people better. And once you understand why people are who they are, and how they work, then you can help them become better people. But to do that, you have to know the standard you’re aiming for. That’s why I picked a Bible college.”

“That was a mouthful. You’re a good communicator, though.”

“I could be better,” Diana said humbly. “What are you here for?”

“My parents taught me to put God first, and everything else would fall into place. Kind of like Proverbs 3:5-6. He makes paths straight. So I set out on a quest to put God first in everything. I don’t think my parents expected my obedience to be so radical. It’s been an adventure.

“The first year after high school I spent doing foreign missions. With all the technological advances, especially in communications, it’s hard to remember there are pockets of the world where people are starving, and they’ve never heard the gospel. I went to a few of those places, for months at a time, and I’ll never forget.”

“Wow; I can’t imagine spending a whole year and then – what was it like to come back?”

“Rough, so far. Some things seem so petty. Like worship in church. In those countries if people were going to praise God, it was because they had something to sing about. I witnessed people praising God with their last breath, literally. Coming home was such a huge contrast. Some days I can’t bear the stifling formality.

“Personally I was used to needing God and relying on Him. It’s amazing how soon we forget, and get out of the habit. Now I’m like Israel, sitting in a land flowing with milk and honey. I have to remind myself that all this is from God, too.”

“Now who’s talking about food?” Diana teased.

“Anyway,” Matt smiled to acknowledge her joke, “a guy on my team had come to this college, and it was all he talked about. So here I am. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure where God’s going to take me.”

“I wish I knew the future – just pieces.”

“Not me. I don’t envy those who know. God has His reasons for letting them know that they’re going to be a doctor, or marry their childhood sweetheart. It’s my adventure to follow God by faith. Faith is important. It’s survival. And we grow it by not knowing.”

I always find it interesting how well people get along when they barely know each other. Everything is new, so no quirks annoy. If the meeting is only casual, there is no need to go deep, to please, or to guard yourself, for that matter. And when a girl realizes she got along well with a boy that first meeting, the inevitable happens. Jane Austen, the classic novelist, pointed it out: her thoughts jump quickly from friendship to attachment to love and from there it is a small matter to jump to matrimony. All this can take place in a few seconds.

Since Diana was a great thinker, she thoroughly thought out all the implications of each step and analyzed every word that she and Matt had shared. Therefore it was more like minutes before she thought of marriage.

Unless a boy has either read Jane Austen’s excellent novels and taken their truths to heart; or been around girls long enough to know from experience that is what they are thinking, he cannot realize the danger he is in. He also certainly doesn’t consider matrimony himself. In fact, wishing most urgently that boys not be offended, boys usually leave such a conversation as Matt’s and Diana’s thinking of themselves. I don’t think this is bad, since many boys need to critique themselves so they well improve.

What did Matt think about after Diana walked away? First he noted, as near sub-consciously as possible while still able to suppress the idea, how bright her eyes were. Then he returned to the vending machine to indulge the craving that had brought on the use of the ‘milk and honey’ metaphor.

To God be all glory.

Read more!

A Poet's Work

A poet’s work must be very hard
Be he Shakespeare or only a bard.
Forcing each line to somehow fit
The rhyme, meter, and topic of it.

Pity the man that tries to rhyme
Without inspiration or right clime.
Pity the eraser or backspace key
Of the man who tries to write poetry

Strive not to think of the process, friend.
It will but ruin it in the end.
When you read a poem artfully wrought
Treasure the piece; despise poet not.
And here is the rest of it.

To God be all glory.

Read more!

Touching His Hem

She pushed through the crowd, bent almost double. So many strangers! Only a few familiar faces turned to glare at her, saying she had no right to be here. The faces were older than she remembered. It had been a long time since she ventured out into her village. Ahead she could see one of her doctors, but he wasn’t looking this way. The money purse at his hip taunted her. It might be weighted with the money she had paid him, without getting any relief in return. Now he was here to see Messiah. So was she, and nothing else mattered.

Closer to the road people were pressed tighter together. As far as she could see, they were even choking the road. She pushed against the relentless people for five minutes before she heard them begin to cheer. “Teacher! Master!” – some were more direct in their questions. “Are You the one?” A Pharisee? The man was young, so she didn’t recognize him. There had been a time when she was the friend (or enemy) of every leader in Israel. That was over thirty years ago, before.

As the crowd grew louder, she desperately dropped to her knees and made her way between legs and around purses. Nothing else mattered. If she could just see Him, touch Him, she knew everything would be better.

But all the people, jostling in the way! It was hopeless. The Master would be here and gone before she could get close. She crawled forward anyway.

Cheers deafened her. No time to cover her ears. Just crawl. At last she tumbled onto the road. There He was! That must be Him just ahead, with all the people reaching out to Him. He would pass her by. Just then He stumbled backward from the weight of the people. She blessed the crowds she hated. He was just within reach. Her fingertips stretched to touch His hem, trying to snag it and draw herself closer. Immediately she felt it; she was healed. In awe, in bliss – pure bliss – she remained, crouched on the ground.

Jesus turned to look at the woman, bowed now in reverence. He spoke tender words, but ones that silenced those near. “Who touched Me?” One of his followers began to point out what everyone else was thinking: how silly a question that was. But the woman raised her head to meet His eyes. He already knew it was her; He looked at her as though He had always known it would be her.

At first whispering, then raising her voice so the people around them could hear, she told her Lord the whole truth. She told of her illness for 30 years, of using all her money to pay doctors until now, when she had nothing. A few days ago she had heard of the Teacher. A few hours ago word had come that He would be coming this way. So she had determined to see Him. She pointed at the crowd as she told how she had been forced to crawl to Him. A smile spread across her pain-free face.

“Then I touched Your robe, Lord, and I am healed.” A few people murmured; a few cheered. He took her hand and raised her up. A man ran up, quietly pressing through the people, but with the demeanor of a servant, he dared not interrupt. Jesus saw him. Sadness flitted across His face before He turned back to her.

“Daughter,” He used a word she had not heard in decades, “your faith has made you well. Go in peace.” As though the very words He spoke carried power, peace filled her. She walked tall and straight away from Him through the crowd. At the edge of the crowd, she turned to see all the people leaving. Jesus and a few of His followers went on down the road with the servant.

To God be all glory. Read more!

Nathanael's Dark Night

Nathanael sat in a lonely room, bending over his parchment to make out the tiny characters written there. How many times the last three years had he sent messages to Yacob about these very texts? Now his host, an old friend, was snoring from the shadows of the small house. After what happened today, how could one sleep? Indeed, each time his own eyes closed with the heaviness of his grief and exhaustion the darkness came alive, revealing itself in the memorized faces of evil incarnate. “Crucify him!” they yelled.

He drew his hand across his brow, finding there beads of sweat. Wiping his hand on his sash, the young scribe tried to return to studying. Some faces were too familiar. Old friends. Men who were in training to be scribes as he had been… before. Some had been his teachers. After hearing Yeshua teach, how could one apply that title to anyone else? He had the words of life. Yeshua had become Nathanael’s life. Now He was dead.

As young Israelites hoping to distinguish themselves as scribes, Yacob and Nathanael had apprenticed themselves to those religious leaders who were willing to teach. They studied Scripture, carefully copying out entire passages in their notes. Poor students made the most of their parchment by writing in very small print. The two friends had found early in their course of study that the Messianic passages were their favorites. With politics as they were in Israel, who wasn’t thinking about the Messiah? Each verse was studied and puzzled over. They consulted the rabbinical commentaries.

Still there were anomalies. Rabbis debated whether some passages were truly about the awaited Messiah. One would read along, get caught up in the glorious conquering mission of God’s Anointed Prophet, in whom His Name dwells. Next would be a verse about suffering, or being despised of the people. The wave-like emotions of the text brought to mind the ups and downs of the walk with Yeshua the past months.

From Galilee to Jerusalem, Yeshua and His growing company of followers had steadily made their way to the city for the feast. As in the beginning, nearly three years prior, still Yeshua performed miracles. He healed the sick, multiplied food, commanded storms to cease, and cast out demons. Some whispered rumor said He could raise the dead.

“Raise the dead? All of Israel had heard of Lazarus. Dead four days. Then Yeshua tells him to come out of the tomb, so he does. We ate with him in Bethany this week,” pondered Nathanael. “No wonder the people thronged to worship Him when He entered the city for Passover. So how could one with such power let Himself be led, like a lamb to the slaughter?”

This made him mindful of a prophecy of Isaiah. He searched the sheaf of papers. Rabbis said it was about Messiah, but how could that be? Words like wounded, cut off, smitten by God were only painful reminders of the death of his hope. How firmly they had all believed!

Pharisees fast. Saducees tithe. Scribes study. Rabbis teach. The people of the land pray. Yes, they ask for their needs. And the Eternal provides. At the beginning of his journey, Nathanael too was praying. He had been studying, but there was so much he didn’t understand. Following Solomon’s example, he went to pray for wisdom. Like Daniel, he confessed his sins and the sins of his people. Then he sighed beneath the fig tree in the morning. How he yearned for the kingdom of God to come! Turning with his thoughts, he prayed for Messiah to come quickly.

For the first decade in hundreds of years, this had become a prayer the educated could truly hope to see answered. Daniel’s prophecy of weeks should be fulfilled soon. Scholars debated over the decree which set the calendar in motion. Either way, time was running short.

Some eager fools ran to the wilderness, chasing any rumors of a Messiah. Most were rebels, hoping for power or glory like Judas Maccabee had won. Others were good teachers, who denied they were the Promised One. Hopeful peasants would not be deterred.

The priests and Sanhedrin took a different view. When Messiah descended on the Temple Mount to establish His dominion, they would not be caught following some dusty peasant rebel. No, they would be dressed their finest, talking the loudest, presenting the largest sacrifice.

Nathanael would probably be doing what he was today: praying. More and more the burden of knowing the law and the prophets drove him to pray. Then he read the Psalms for expression and comfort.

“I looked for comforters, but found none.” A Psalm brought him away from his memories. He knew it wasn’t written on any of the papers in Yacob’s collection. No one thought that was a Messianic prophecy. Most of his thoughts drew from Scripture in one way or another. His mind was saturated with it. That was one thing that drew him to Yeshua: though He didn’t commentate on the Law, He constantly alluded to Moses, David, Isaiah, and the others.

In a time when most teachers were trying to separate themselves by saying something new, Yeshua drew crowds by making practical sense of what was written before. Sometimes Nathanael could almost finish His sentences. Other times the things Yeshua said were so shocking that only days later, in the contemplative silence of walking the countryside, would he recognize that the Teacher had been drawing a truth from some overlooked passage of an oft-ignored prophet.

The day they met was still a puzzle. Nathanael was praying. His friend Phillip found him in a place where they had often debated the meaning of prophecy. That was long ago. Phillip had fallen in love, gotten serious about working to provide for a family. Nathanael had continued his own work.

As kids they were part of a sect that was discreetly referred to as “those waiting for the kingdom of God.” Their parents paid careful attention to news that might give them clues as to when Messiah was coming. They were on the watch. Nathanael couldn’t count how many times he had heard the story of Widow Anna, the prophetess, who before he was born brought news to them of a baby Messiah dedicated at the Temple. And this coincided a few years later with Herod’s decree to murder all infant boys in Bethlehem, whence Messiah would come. What Herod had heard (if anything), no one dared ask. The king had been notoriously suspicious and half mad.

That day three years ago was reminiscent of the old stories. Phillip ran to the tree, and held his knees to catch his breath. “We have found Him,” he didn’t wait to pant out. Adding details his friend would understand, he continued, “of whom Moses in the Law, and also the prophets wrote.” Phillips eyes were bright from running, but something else also seemed to light them.

Nathanael had long known Phillip’s enthusiasm about John the Baptizer. Surely he wouldn’t run all this way just to remind him? “Jesus of Nazareth,” Phillip finished.

Nathanael’s heart stirred. The branches above his head rustled. There was something in the way Phillip spoke. His words were honest and sober. Nathanael knew his friend, and trusted him. But he frantically ran over verses in his mind searching for some reference to Nazareth. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he wondered aloud.

“Come and see.”

“You mean He’s close?” he thought. The two men left the fig tree standing alone in the deserted field.

Yeshua saw Nathanael approach. His greeting excited curiosity in Nathanael to this day, unless… “Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no deceit!”

Unable to think of anything else to say, and rather stunned at the recognition in the Rabbi’s voice, Nathanael said, “How do you know me?” Phillip would have asked if his friend had not. Though he was beaming, though he said he believed Yeshua was Messiah, he didn’t yet know what that meant. None of them did. Would they ever?

“Before Phillip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.” Yeshua looked at him with a piercing glance now dearly missed, and a familiar hint of a smile.

Who hears the prayers of the heart but God? No one had been near the fig tree. Nathanael liked to pray in private so no one would see his tears or hear his confessions. Yeshua’s eyes glistened, almost weeping for the passion of this Israelite. In the years that followed, Nathanael had seen others’ emotional outbursts affect Him the same way.

In that moment of beginning everything had come together. Years of waiting. Pages of text. John the Baptizer. Phillip’s testimony. And this. By words whose significance was lost on all others, Yeshua confessed his identity.

“Rabbi, You are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!”

That day Nathanael left his watching and his parchments. He observed the Word come alive. His confession settled once for all his faith and his willingness to follow. But something else happened that Nathanael did not expect. He would have served his Master in any way, gone into battle for Him. But his Master became his friend, one he loved to follow not only because He was worthy, but because He was beloved. Many of His followers felt it. They dared not discuss it lest they be thought impertinent.

Nathanael shaped some warm wax between his thumb and finger. Only a few days ago Yeshua had made his heart rejoice by calling them friends. He felt that way, too! “Greater love has no man than this: that he lay down his life for a friend,” Yeshua once said. Perhaps they were not His friends. Not one stood by Him when He was on trial. All had fled.

In the darkness Nathanael had stumbled and tripped through the outskirts of Jerusalem, following phantom lights his eyes thought he saw. Finally he got his bearings and came to Yacob’s house. There he had remained, frightened, until a servant brought the news: Yeshua had been sentenced to crucifixion and was already dead. The sky was dark the first time Nathanael looked out, though the sun had not set. All mourned for Yeshua.

For hours Nathanael sobbed, ignoring the customs of the holy feast he should have been observing. Occasional reports increased his understanding of how the impossible had happened. Yeshua was often associated with the impossible. The thought was bitter. Yacob delivered the news and left him alone.

At last Nathanael arose. An idea had struck him. Three years he had not been forced to search the Scriptures himself for comfort. Yet that is what he had done before. It might help again. Understanding and answers might give him peace.

Yacob obligingly brought his notes out of storage. When it grew too dark to read, he brought candles. As of yet Nathanael could not speak. No, he could not even pray. How does one pray when the Son of God is dead? “Son of God” is what he had said, right? And for three years he lived proof. But now everything was in doubt. Who else could Yeshua have been?

Over and over again Nathanael read the verses. Many words and prophecies he’d never associated with the Messiah perfectly described what he was going through. If he could just put them all together, maybe they would make sense.

The sun rose, a bright Sabbath morning. Yacob the bachelor scribe invited Nathanael to worship with him. Finding comfort in ritual, in stubbornly affirming things which seemed senseless to believe, Nathanael went through the day. If it weren’t Sabbath, he would have taken a long walk. He thought that the sons of Zebedee, sons of thunder, would have hammered something (or someone) to release their frustration. It sounded tempting.

Instead he spoke. He poured out his heart to Yacob. They sat under the broad open window at the front of the house. Nathanael was silent when anyone drew near, for fear of the Jews. Yacob urged him to go on, getting excited about the details, the fulfilled prophecy his friend reported. “But it can’t be! He’s dead. He isn’t the one,” Nathanael reminded.

With a more patient heart Yacob answered, “How could so many things be right – and nothing wrong – except this?” His eyes hesitated, showing by their vibration his debate between two options. He spoke again. “Almost I would ask if our Enemy has not cast some mighty unforeseen stroke. If the Evil One cut off the Messiah… But that would be blasphemy.”

“Messiah is not just a man. He is the Son of God. If… if Yeshua is Messiah, this is a heavy stroke indeed. It is not possible – is it – that the Adversary could win?”

“If so we are the most miserable of all souls.”

Nathanael sighed. “The last meal, Thursday night, we all said we would die for Him.” The weight of his failure buried him again. After a few moments he looked up, resolved. His eyes were grey, miserable, and without hope; but they were fierce. “He was my King and my Friend and my Rabbi. The Sanhedrin, if reports be true, has claimed Caesar as their king. They have befriended the god of this world. Whether He wins or loses, I will stand with the God of Israel. I don’t understand. All I can do is what I know is right.”

“Don’t do anything rash,” Yacob hoped to sit this fey mood out. “What about the others? What do they think?”

“I haven’t seen them. John would be with his brother, Yacob. Phillip is probably with Andrew, and Simon with them. We all scattered from Gethsemane.” Thinking of his friends reminded him that three years of itinerant ministry had yielded him more than just one friendship. He and Phillip were closer than ever. “I should find them, see if I can help: I don’t know, comfort or make plans.”

“Tomorrow, my friend.”

To God be all glory.

Thanks to Snapshots of Joy for the graphics!

Read more!