Two Symbols

After reading tomorrow's tip you are going to call me hypocritical for posting this without editing it.My excuse is admittedly a lame one--I  haven't had time.

Stefania threaded her way through the numerous tents thrown up here and there in Gable City’s large park. Up a head a huge willow tree was sheltering her best friend from the chilling spring wind and Stefania hurried her steps.

“Stefania, I thought you would never get here!” She heard the familiar voice of Irena.

Parting the drooping branches she stepped into the natural tent and froze.

Irena put a hand up, “I know what you are thinking and I didn’t want to do it either but Stefania, I am going to get to live inside now! No more shivering in the useless blankets that were issued after the crash; no more getting rained on, or snowed on or sleeted on. I’ll actually have a roof over my head. Can’t you understand?”

Stefania hadn’t moved. She starred at her friend’s white jacket, the letters “Y.S.U.” mocking her in bright blue and red. Thoughts were ripping through her mind, angry, hurt words but she was still so shocked none made it off her tongue.

“Irena, I—I don’t know what to say.” She finally spluttered, her legs trembled as she walked over the tree trunk and sat down on the damp dirt amid her friends few belongings.

“I know you don’t like them but I have to survive some way. I’m already working at the bakery and the GOV’s say I’ll get housing soon but it’s been six months already Stef. Since I joined the Y.S.U. I can get protection from the weather now. And, if I earn my eagle pin I can get extra rations!”

Stefania bit her lip and looked away. She was a strong girl and hated for anyone to see her cry. These last six months after the economy’s bottom dropped out had been the hardest in her life but this was the last straw.

Taking a deep breath she tried to answer calmly, “Irena, can’t you see it!” She wiped the tears viciously away and her voice creaked. “They are ruining us on purpose!”

Irena pulled her shoulders back. “I don’t think so. We are working more efficiently than ever. Everyone actually has a job now which is more than we had before this blow up happened.”

“Yes a job.” Stefania raised her hand in sarcastic praise and glared and the dark haired girl opposite. “And what do you get from it? Money? Bread? Anything to help you survive?”

“At least I am actually doing something for the good of everyone. You are the only one I know who doesn’t wear a working uniform like the rest of us and what are you doing to help? Nothing!”

Stefania’s anger jerked her to her feet and the blood rushed to her head making it hard for her to find the words she wanted. “Hunting and gardening. I actually am surviving. Unlike so many others. I hunt, and—and—“ she stuttered and gasped for breath, “ I share my food with others who might have died with out it.”

“You what!” Irena staggered back and a long strand of curly brown hair slipped over her shoulder. Her brown eyes looked wide with terror.  “Stefania, you know those are against the rules.”

Stefania stood, her hands clinched tightly and her blue eyes shinny with angry tears. “Irena. I am sorry that it has come to this. We obviously are seeing things different ways. I still love you but we need to part ways or we will only get each other in to worse trouble.” She struck the willow leaves out of her way and ran blindly.

Stefania

Her black moccasins were burning up here feet and her lungs were bursting before she finally stopped. She was outside town at a small creek and slipping off her shoes she stepped into the ice cold water.

 “Youth for Uncle Sam.” She told the minnows who were tasting her toes. “How could she. Young Unescapable Spies is more like it.”

The little fish flashed their silvery backs and continued their hunt for food.

“And her eagle pin. I wonder what sort of nasty trick she has to do to earn that.” She picked up a rock from the bottom of the stream and tossed it far away watching the small splash. “Those eagle pins are fitting. Cold bronze, the symbol of something that prey’s on weaker creatures. How could she want to become one of those?”

Stefania waded a few more feet, the March breeze chilling her through her sweat soaked black sweater.  Up a head she saw a tree; a heart rudely hacked into the bark and a short, four letter word scratched in the middle.

Love.

Was that a word people even understood any more? Love, true love, and hearts were thrown around but in an age of survival of the fittest, the real thing was forgotten.

She climbed up the slippery bank and pulling her shoes back on tromped to the tree. Her hand fingered the groves and she wondered who had carved this. Was it before everything went bad? Before uniforms were issued, jobs assigned and all the produce of the labor shipped to the GOV’s? Or was it after people had been thrown out of their houses in mid October, and forced to set up any sort of shelter they could make on public land?

“Like it?”

Stefania whisked around, her back to the tree and her hand already going to the knife tied on a string underneath the woolen sweater. These were not the days to be trusting of anyone.

A burly man stood in front of her. His beard and long hair hid most of his face but he was simply leaning against a near by tree his hands languidly in his pocket. She noticed he was not wearing a uniform. This was the first fellow “non-worker” she had met.

“Did you carve it?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“Yes.”

He looked her up and down carefully but to her surprise she did not feel that he was a threat. There was no doubt he could be but at this moment he seemed perfectly docile.

“What do you do?” the beard moved but she could not find a mouth.

She shrugged her small shoulders, “Live.”

“That’s better than most these days.”

 She shrugged again unsure what he wanted.

“Come with me.” Suddenly he turned towards her and held out a hand.

She jerked up her shirt and grabbed the knife handle.

Strong hands grasped her arms and forced them to let go. “Ah, a knife. You will be a wonderful asset.”

                                               

                                                            Irena

After Stefania and made her emotional exit Irena broke down too. She had hoped her best friend would be more understanding but instead Stefania had been so sure that what Irena was doing was terribly wrong.

Irena knew it had driven a wedge in their friendship that would never be repaired but she was determined they would not become complete strangers.

She stroked the fake white leather and appreciated the warmth or this new layer. Why couldn’t Stefania see how much good it would do her?

Wiping the tears away she lifted her chin and began wrapping her brush, extra shirt and spare socks in her GOV issued blanket. When she was done she parted the weeping willow and began picking her way through the tents.

The Y.U.S. dorm rooms were tiny and she shared hers with another girl. There was no running water in the building and the small beds were lumpy but at least it was a respectable wind block.  Spreading her belongings out on the bed she stepped back out into the hallway and glanced at the large steel clock across the walkway.

9:30 A.M. Time for her to go to work. She straightened her uniform and looked to make sure her identification patch was in place. The words: Irena, Baker #256 stared back at her. Good, she was ready.

“Irena!” She was nearly to the stair well when she heard her name called. Turning around she saw the headmistress clipping towards her. Unconsciously Irena read her patch: Effy, Y.U.S. Headmistress # 3.

So she was not the only headmistress. Irena idly wondered why she had never seen any of the others.

“Yes Headmistress?”

“I can see you are new!” She frowned. “Salute.”

“Salute?”

“Remember, you are now one of the elite Youth for Uncle Sam. You are expected to bear yourself uprightly, salute your superiors, and be ready to obey orders at a moments notice. Come, it is time for your first debriefing.”

“But it is time for me to go to work.” Irena was thoroughly confused.

“No “but’s”! Obey orders without questioning.” She turned on her GOV issued shoe heel and walked away. Irena had no choice but to follow.

“Now,” they were seated at a cold steel desk residing in a concrete room on the bottom floor of the building. The white concrete walls stared bleakly down on her and she shivered. “You have read the rules for the Y.U.S.?”

“Yes Ma’m.” Irena twisted her fingers together.

“Speak up!”

“Yes Ma’m!” Irena straightened her back and knit her brows in frustration.

“Then you must know that this is your first debriefing?”

“I guess so Ma’m.”

The headmistress gave her another frown.

“Yes Ma’m.”

“Alright. We’ll start easily. Who are your friends?” She pulled some official looking papers from a disk drawer and opened a pen.

“I only have one Ma’m.”

“Name?” she barked.

“Stefania.”

“Place of residence?”

“Under the bridge on 5^th street by Bear Creek.”

“Occupation?”

Irena’s heart skipped a beat. “Why does it matter Ma’m?” she laid her hands pleadingly on the desk.

The headmistress made a lightening move from her hip to Irena’s hands. Irena yelled in pain as a flash of electricity burnt the backs of her petite hands. Tears of anger and confusion stung her eyes as  she pulled them close to her body.

The woman coolly put away her electric baton.

“Occupation?”

Irena gulped. “I don’t know really.”

She saw the meaty hand move towards her hip again.

Not again!  Her mind panicked. She couldn’t face that pain again!

“Hunter! And Gardener!” Irena clapped a hand over her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes.

What had she done? What had she done to Stefania? She dropped her head, shame covering her face in a deep red blanket.

“Ah!” the lady leaned back in her leather chair and smiled broadly. “You are friends with a criminal. Isn’t that interesting?”

Question time!

1.Do you want more?

2.Is the fact that I have two main characters confusing?

3.Do you feel as if Stefania and Irena have differing (and well portrayed) personalities?

4. What has this first part left you wondering/ what are your biggest questions?

5.Which girl do you like better personality wise.

6.Which girl do you sympathize with? 

7.Which girl do  you agree with?

8.Do I have too much dialog? 

9.Any corrections, tip, changes to make?

Don't feel like you have to answer all these questions. Any answers would be a help. Currently I personally don't like the story. I  like the idea, but not the way I have executed it. I see many, many things to edit and probably would have tossed the whole thing out if it hadn't been that I had nothing else to post this week!

Thanks for your help! 

Newsletter and Late Who Am I

This week we will be expecting:

- Story (by Hope)

- Tip Tuesday (Hope)

- Word Wednesday (Hope)

- Who Am I (Hope)

- I would like to sometime this week add something to add a little spring to our blog. If you have any ideas, let me know.



And now for my belated, Who Am I?

1. I am in the most influential book in the world...
2. but my name is only mentioned once.
3. My wife is more famous than I.
4. She is perhaps best known for sitting under a Palm tree.

"Teach me your way, O Lord, 

that I may walk in your truth; 

unite my heart to fear your name."

Psalm 86:11 (ESV)

The Invisible Bonds

Well, Josie, here is the story a verse in your post reminded me of. It's a bit old, but it's close to my heart because it is true.

The hidden floor boards creak as I plod down the carpeted hallway. Grimy hand prints are smeared across the wall, consequences of the continual traffic of seven kids through the halls. The walls are soft and dented, that old compressed sawdust stuff they used in houses a century ago. Paint chips off the trim here and there, revealing hints of beautiful wood work. My house is old, but not abandoned. It may be falling apart and patched in places, but well-loved. It has a story whispering for attention amid the the rattling of the windows, the groaning of the floor boards, and the shouts of the adolescents. The story has nothing to do with the gurney carts and embalming fluids once stored in the basement. Neither does it speak of the pews that once crowded the game room or the wealthy family that once lived here ages ago. This story is of laughter, tears, and triumph. It is of a strong, invisible bond fastened by the invisible God. Since the house has no lips to speak the story that grew within its walls, I gladly embrace the opportunity to speak for my beloved home.

When I was barely a year old, my family moved into the “big, white house,” as it has often been referred to. At the time, a good portion of the place served as a Church building. My Dad was to be the next preacher there, thus he was given the opportunity to live in the other portion of the house which served as a parsonage. The kitchen was green, one bathroom was pink, the carpet was beautiful shades of green and orange...Obviously the place needed some serious help; but it doesn't take updated carpet or stylish décor to create a beautiful home. All it takes is a little bit of love, and trust me, I received an overabundance! I had loving parents, a loving brother, and a loving Church family. Fast forward one year later and then came along brother number two. Skip another couple years, and I had a total of 3 brothers who were my 3 best friends...Well, most of the time. Mom home-schooled every one of us, and both my parents seized the opportunity to teach us God's Word and to pray. Little did they realize what a dangerous thing they were doing. Although they by no means regret the action, I wonder if they would have had any second thoughts if the results had been revealed to them beforehand.

Every night before bed, I lifted up my prayer. It went something like this, “Dear God, please give me a little sister.” It would seem that my prayer evaporated into empty air and that my secret would never go beyond the listening ears of my parents and the drafty walls; yet, somehow my prayer seeped through through the window and drifted upward toward the ever listening ears of our Heavenly Father. My prayer wasn't alone either. Amid the flood of prayers ever drifting toward heaven, He took three very different prayers and joined them in a common plan.

As my mom was driving down the road one day, listening to gospel music, she began to pour her heart out to God, expressing her desire to do more for Him. It was in that moment, that a vivid vision of a crying girl, entered her mind. Although the image of a blond-haired, blue-eyed little girl was not the clearest of answers, it was all my parents needed.  They began to look into possibly doing foster care. Before long they were taking foster care classes and hoping to adopt a little girl.

My brothers and I were super excited. I was going to have a little sister! At the time we were blind to all the hardships that could occur. We just knew we were going to be giving a home to someone who desperately needed it, and the warnings didn't do much to hinder our excitement.

As my parents learned more about foster care, the plan for one little girl didn't last long. We all decided we could handle taking in a sibling group. That's why in May of 2006, we received a call for a sibling group of three: two boys and a little girl. The number of kids in our house almost doubled. Eugene was 7, Thomas was 5, and little Dawn was 3. Her hair was blond, and her eyes were sky blue; and she was ours, along with the two of the cutest boys in the world.


I would be lying if I said everything was hunky-dorey and we lived happily ever after. At 12 and 10, Michael and I were still the eldest siblings, but Eugene was also used to being an eldest child. We had many clashes of the wills and still do at times. On top of it, his personality was the extreme opposite of anyone in our family. His fearless, outgoing, athletic personality caused our heads to spin. It didn't take us long to figure out why he had so many bruises up and down his shins. Everywhere he went it was, “Thumpity-thump! Crash! Bang!” We have since then concluded he has numerous guardian angels that work overtime.

Thomas was so cute and quiet everyone else thought he was an angel. They were so wrong. He was the orneriest bundle of cuteness to ever walk the face of the earth. If there was anything that could be said or done to push your buttons, he'd do it. For some reason, he also seemed to think he could fly. At least one of Eugene's guardian angels was always around.

Dawn was also cute and sweet, but she still had her struggles. At times she would wake up in the middle of the night, crying and croaking out “Jesus Loves Me.” Having been in foster care most her life, she didn't know what it was like to have a permanent family, yet she seemed to know that the big white house was to be her permanent home. One day she took Mom's face in her little hands and asked, “Mommy, will you pray to Jesus that I can stay here porever and ever?” And another time, “I looked for you and looked for you but I couldn't find you.” God had instilled in her heart that this was where she belonged, and we believed it too.

Many hardships we all faced during the next couple of years and continuing. It passed in a blur and I barely remember it. If anything is hard, it's extending those invisible bonds of love to those you know will not always return it. They may fight those bonds, in fear that if they love you back, someone will tear them away as before. God's grace was abundant during that time. He was our strength when our weary souls wanted to give up.

One unexpected encouragement was revealed to us through the form of the three siblings' great-grandmother. To our amazement, we discovered the third prayer that had been a part of God's plan. On one normal day of one average week, we received an unexpected card from “Grandma Bob.” Soon we discovered that she had been praying that her great-grandkids would find a good, Christian home. It wasn't long before we got to meet this wonderful lady, who showered us with gifts and love, as if we all were her great-grandchildren. As I write, I can see two gifts she gave to Amber and I. Both are little glass angels, sitting on our shelves, reminding us of her love and God's love. Though she has passed on now, our memory of her will never fully fade.

As my 10 turned to 15, and 15 to 17, I grew and stretched, both physically and spiritually. The whole family is not who they were, and the big white house has witnessed it all. With the Church moved to another building, it too, has undergone some serious remodeling, giving us room to spread out a little bit and invite our grandparents to come join the crazy family. Dawn and I are especially close. When we were younger, we would playfully call each other “Sissy” or “Goofball.” We still love to play “dress up” and create all sorts of goofy costumes. My brothers and I tease each other back and forth and often play board or card games together. Dinner time is always the best time of the day. Together our family laughs and jokes. Often conversations will lead to something about God or reflections on the past. By no means is our life perfect, but we enjoy the invisible bond of love that now tightly wraps around us all.

It may seem crazy to some, but our hearts are returning to thoughts of foster care again. Dawn and I would very much like to have another sister. Again we have started this foster care adventure with thoughts of taking in one girl, but who knows what God will bring our way? As I will be joining Michael at college in about another year, I only pray that it happens soon. The big white house still creaks and groans with our every move, but it still has empty spaces to be filled. Why not share them with someone in need of love?

Update:

I am pleased to announce that my family is in the process of adopting two more new siblings! Little Girl and Baby Boy will be officially a part of our family in about a week and a half. Yes, I said two. You would think that after our previous experience we would have learned never to go into the adoption process saying we want one little girl...because little girls always come with a brother or two :) This is where Ephesians 3:20-21 comes in. I asked for a sister, and what do I get? Two sisters and three more brothers!

Word Wednesday - Sandwiches and Snow Angels

Forgive my cheesy title, but this is something I've been thinking about posting for a long time. Last year sometime, my great aunt and uncle came for a visit, and after Church on Sunday we all went over to my grandparents house to eat. Whether or not we were eating sandwiches, I can't remember, but somehow we got into talking about sandwiches...which somehow or another led to talking about snow angels. Anyway, the main question flying around the table was, "How did the sandwich get its name?" Some humorous speculation went on for awhile, but someone finally said something about how there was a town called sandwich over in Europe somewhere. That got me curious, so I looked it up online soon after. Here is what I discovered:

Once upon a time there lived an Englishman named John Montagu, also known as the Earl of Sandwich. He had a bad habit of gambling, and, consequently one day, as he was doing so, he wanted a bite to eat. However, this man did not want to interrupt his game, so he asked the cook for something he could eat easily while playing. This led to the cook bringing a slice of meat wedged between two pieces of bread.

Additional readings:
http://www.open-sandwich.co.uk/town_history/sandwich_origin.htm
http://www.foodtimeline.org/foodsandwiches.html


As for the origin of snow angels,  I personally prefer this view point (which is pure speculation...)...

Two angels lay on their bellies in the clouds, peeking down at human life below. The first angel, Mike, was thick and broad shouldered. He had a very serious look upon his face. His golden eyes pierced the cloud cover below, searching. The second angel, Gabe, was smaller but shared the same twinkling eyes. A yawn escaped his mouth; and he stood, stretching his arms and wings. His gaze turned to a sleeping cherub, her golden head resting on a pillow of cloud. Chuckling to himself, Gabe grasped his own pillow and tiptoed toward the dozing Goldilocks.  He raised it high before launching it at the mound of curls. The cherub let out a yelp and withdrew a tiny sword. Upon seeing Gabe, she let her flashing sword slide back into it's sheath and grasped her own pillow, a determined grin on her face. Gabe's eyes widened, and he let out a whoop, starting heaven's pillow war. Unfurling his wings, he leaped into the air, the cherub at his heels. Other angels, cherubs, and seraphs joined the fray. Giggles and laughter echoed off the clouds. Someone's pillow burst, releasing a puff of white. More giggles erupted, and soon all heaven lay beneath a powdered mess.

Mike lay motionless, ignoring the play around him. Not a single feather on his wing twitched. His eyes were fixed on the life below the clouds. Temporarily dropping out of the game, Gabe hovered to his friend's side. “Why don't you come play, Mike?”

Mike barely turned his head to look up at his friend. “We have all eternity to do things like that” He motioned towards the pillow fight. “But this...” he said, pointing towards the earth. “...is temporary. Besides, see what damage you have caused below?”

Gabe peeked through the cloud cover, eyes colliding with a world of white. The tiny flakes from their pillows frosted the ground. More flakes tumbled from the clouds, dusting the trees. “It's not so bad,” Gabe insisted. “I think it's kind of pretty!”

“Yeah, but what will they think?” This time Mike pointed towards white-covered tents where tiny faces peeked out. One bold human stepped from the safety of his home to examine. He gathered a bit of the stuff in his hands and watched it shrink in size, a pool of water in its place. His eyes widened, and he frantically waved his arms, motioning for the others to join him. Laughing, the children burst from their tents, leaving a trail of footprints wherever they went.

“See, Mike, they like -” Gabe's words were cut short when something smacked him from the clouds. Pillow in hand, Mike chuckled, watching his friend's hollering form tumble toward the earth. White flakes flew back into the air when Gabe's flailing form plopped into a snowdrift. Laughing, he shook the flakes from his wings and leaped into the air.

Meanwhile, a young girl spotted a blur of white drop from the clouds and bounce back into the sky. Curious, she plodded over to investigate. Stumbling across an oddly shaped canyon in the snow, she shrieked for her father to come see. “Papa, Papa!” she giggled. “Come see what I have found!” Her father dashed to his daughter's side. “Look,” she said, grasping his hand. “A snow angel!”

Tip Tuesday - Alliteration Preparation

Sometime after suggesting to Hope that she should write a story about spring, the sky here started spitting ginormous snowflakes... Oh, well... it did remind me of this poem:

Wintry waters wake the world,

With hardly e'er a sound.
They whisper words of peaceful hope,
Descending, hushing, down.

Flutter, flip and softly spin,
They spiral toward the earth.
Gaze outside your frosted panes,
For sky has given birth.

This leads me to our topic for Tip Tuesday - Alliteration! I know most of you are probably familiar with this word and despise it because it goes right along with poetry....but...I didn't have any other ideas for Tip Tuesday, and I thought it would be fun to have an alliteration contest. Just in case you don't remember, alliteration is the repetition of the same consonant sound within a word group. For example, "Wintry waters wake the world, with hardly e'er a sound." or you might remember the famous tongue twister, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers." As you can see, alliteration adds a fun little spice to your words. 

So...let's practice! Here are your guidelines: Choose a consonant sound. Construct a sentence using as many words as you can with that consonant sound. Put in the comments. The sentence must make sense, and points will not be received for simply a repetition of letters. It must be the sound. For example, "jelly giant" counts, but "climate change" does not. The sentence with the most alliteration wins! This is just meant to be fun, so don't stress about it :) I'll try to do it, too, since there are only four of us.

Belief that Saves (Josie's Testimony)

    Like Grace and Hope, I was blessed to be brought up in a God fearing family.  I made a profession of faith at the age of three.  I had a deep fear of going to hell and one night I asked my Pa what I could do to go to heaven.  He led me through several scriptures and helped me pray that night.  I think, though, like so many who make professions when so young, I did not fully understand what it meant to be saved.
    One of the first times I had doubts, so to speak, was one fall when my sisters were heading off to college again.  In a note my sister had left me, she said something to the effect that she always enjoyed being around me, knowing that my cheerfulness came from knowing Jesus.  That made me stop and think.  Was it really because of Jesus that I was happy most of the time?  Was He the source of my joy?  The question simmered in the back of my mind for several years.
    Then came the year when my oldest two sisters got married and my other two sisters left for college, all within the space of three months.  I went from being surrounded by four sisters to being the only child at home.  It was an awful time of adjusting to loneliness, and I realized that my source of joy was not Jesus, but my family.  Without my sisters, I became gloomy and despondent, and nothing was fun anymore.  I struggled with my attitude and longed to be close to Jesus, but I didn't know how to start.  Finally, in February of the next year, I broke down and had a long, serious talk with my parents.  I came away with a fresh understanding of the gospel, and recommitted my life to Jesus that night.  One of the verses that especially helped me through this time of doubting was James 2:19, "You believe that God is one.  You do well; the demons also believe, and shudder."  Salvation isn't just believing that God exists.  For so long, I had thought, "I believe in God; that's means I'm saved and will go to heaven."  No, it is not enough just to believe that God exists!  Instead, saving faith is believing that God sent His Son to die for YOU, and putting your faith and trust in Him; believing that He will save you, and nothing else!  I really like that verse, because it finally cleared up for me the difference between mere belief and saving belief, if that makes sense.
    Since that time, I have been growing in my faith, and am constantly amazed by God's amazing provision and lovingkindness, and how He answers my prayers in ways that I would have never imagined!  Ephesians 3:20-21, "Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever.  Amen."

Weekly Newsletter

Well, here we are again, Larkwriters, and I just realized today in Church that it is my turn to post this week... I'm not sure what I'll be posting, but it's destined to be interesting considering I don't have anything finished yet. Good motivation, I guess. Anyways, here's a tentative list of what to look forward to this week:

- Story, A Typical Dream (if I get it finished, Grace) Basically I'm trying to capture the essence of being in a dream. So far it's really weird, but hey, it's been kind of fun.

- Tip Tuesday, Alliteration Preparation (Grace)

- Word Wednesday (Grace)

- Who Am I? (Grace)

- Cont. Sharing of Testimonies (Josie & Faith hopefully)

He has made everything beautiful in its time. 

Also, he has put eternity into man's heart,

 yet so that he cannot find out what God has done

 from the beginning to the end.

- Ecclesiastes 3:11 (ESV)

God's Abundant Grace - (Grace's Testimony)

I've never felt like I had much of a story. Like Hope, I was a BUICK (brought up in Church kid), and on top of that, I was also a PK (preacher's kid). Never do I remember doubting or questioning how I had been brought up. I was content. It was my life, I knew nothing else. Around the age of 9 I began to recognize the burden of guilt. Miserable, sticky, sickening guilt that sits in the stomach like a dead weight. I knew what I needed to do with it, but I was afraid. Anything new, any sort of change, scared me half to death with worry. It wasn't that I didn't believe in Jesus. I already knew I wanted to live my whole life for Him. That wasn't what scared me at the time. No, it was the idea of baptism.

It sounds silly now, but you have to understand that all baptisms I had seen were done in front of a fairly large crowd of church family, and I hated, absolutely feared being "up front." Hope can probably tell you a story or two to prove my point. This fear, silly though it was, I dragged around for quite a while. It never faded, not in the least. Instead it grew, becoming heavier along with my guilt. My knowledge of what I needed to do also grew, until it practically drove me crazy every time there was an invitation at Church.

Finally, in early December one year, we had a guest speaker at Church. Of course, as guest speakers love to do, he gave an invitation at the end of his service each night. No, I did not move from my spot in the pew. I was frozen with fear, but that night at home in the kitchen, I remember breaking down into tears. My parents talked with me for a while, as they have done with all my siblings to make sure that we truly understood and were ready. I don't remember exactly what was said, but the next morning I was baptized. A few friends/Church family did come, but it was a small crowd. I can still vividly remember the purple shirt and blue pants I wore, Daddy asking me if I believed that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the Living God, and the warm water lapping at my legs, but most clearly of all, I remember skipping down the isle afterwards. There aren't words that can describe the joy I felt, the feeling that my dirty insides had been scraped clean. My burden was gone. I was free!

But like Hope, it wasn't all uphill from there. I was only ten when I made my decision and had a lot of growing to do. As I grew out of my childlike faith and hit my teen years, I began to realize that God was calling me to do things I'd never done before. In other words, I recognized that if I was going to serve Jesus the rest of my life, I was going to have to step out of my comfort zone and do things I was afraid of. A mini war raged within my stubborn soul, leaving me longing for the peace. Thank God for His grace because time and time again I've fallen into this little war. Still there are days when I fight, but I'm learning. He's teaching me that He will always be there with me and give me the strength to do what must be done. And all those things I was afraid of? Well, I'm discovering they are not so scary after all.

The devil works hard. Fear is one of his sharpest tools, and doubt can slice just as deep. Perhaps it has something to do with my perfectionist nature, but there was also a time when I especially struggled with doubting my salvation. Did I miss a step? Was there something else I needed to do to give myself completely? I was confused. Extremely confused, and I didn't tell anyone for the longest time. This is still hard for me to write. Of course, I knew deep down that you can never earn your way to heaven, and that salvation is a pure gift of God's abundant grace, but it didn't stop my doubts. I wanted to base my faith on feelings.

Reflecting on this I'm reminded of Jeremiah 17:9: "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?" (ESV) Sometimes I feel so hopeless. If the heart is deceitful, what other lies will I lead myself to believe? How many times will I fall down and have to be picked up only to fall down again? I have many favorite verses, but recently I have found great comfort in Psalm 73:26: "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." (ESV) I'm going to mess up, time and time again, but God, He is perfect. Through faith in His Son, I am healed. My sins are washed away and I have the hope of eternal life in heaven. This hope in God is the strength that will keep me going. "but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

Who Am I?

I tried to make this a bit harder this time. Not sure I succeeded :)

1) Many children know me, though we've never met.

2) Me and my little friends tend to make big messes, but I always clean up.

3)  I'm not known by my name, but by the hat on my head.

What Greater Calling? (Hope's testimony)

Alright since this whole idea of sharing our testimonies was my idea, I suppose I will start: (sorry it turned out rather long.)

Here is my testimony, as well as I can remember it. Some of it was long enough ago that I am sad to say my memory of it is a little hazy.

As my fellow authors know, I grew up in a Christian family.  The Bible was considered our standard for living and I do not remember a time that I did not believe every word it said. I had not, however, given my soul to it’s Author.

When I was ten my family and I moved to another state. Those first two or three years were the hardest I had ever known. I was lonely, I was confused why God would take me away from everything I loved but through it all there was one big plus. We got involved with the local college students and began a family tradition of sharing testimonies around the dinner table. I would hear these students stories, and be terrified someone would ask me if I was saved. (I had myself convinced I was but I never dared try to convince my parents). Then, once I got over the terror I began listening to their stories.  They were all so sure, while I, on the other hand, often wondered how I knew I was saved.

Eventually I got so worried I began to pray, “God, if I don’t know you, if I am not saved, please show me how to be!”

Then, one night, my Mom made me madder than I had ever been. She prayed, in my hearing, that if I wasn’t saved, that I would trust Jesus. I was unreasoningly furious. How could she doubt? But of course, why wouldn’t she? I had never claimed to know Jesus!

When my 11^th birthday came I was in a scared state of limbo. It passed, and life kept going on. Then one night, about a month later, I walked out of the bathroom and into the room I shared with my older sister. Now, my older sister has an unnerving way of staring into outer space…often at someone! Tonight I was that someone and it upset me.

“Stop staring at me like that!! I feel like you can see right through me.” I flopped down on our bed in disgust.

“Oh, I can!” She raised a teasing eye brow. “I can see right through you. I can see the wall on the other side!”

“No.” I sternly stopped her. “I meant my heart.”

Then I nearly fell off the bed. What had I just said? I just opened up a conversation,  of my own accord, about something that I view as my most private and secret possession—my heart!

My sister seemed surprise to but she kept a cool head. “What’s in there? Jesus?”

“Yes.” I choked and began to hurriedly fall into my pajamas.

I have a blurred memory of her asking me question, something about how someone could be saved. And she told me later I answered reasonably.

After a silent and uncomfortable moment I whispered, “Joy, I don’t think I am saved.”

She was by me in a moment and held me tight as I started crying. “Do you want to be?”

“Yes.” I  answered miserably.

“Do you want to pray and tell him that?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then I will.”

And she prayed, asking God to open my heart and teach me to trust him. I too prayed, but silently. And I knew, then, I had finally had the courage to give everything over to him, a God I couldn’t see, and trust that he would work things out for my good.

I was baptized the next night in our hot tub because that was the only warm water we could find. (It was early March and there was several inches of snow on the ground.)

Life did not get easy for me and I was still not learning my lesson in trust. When I was about thirteen I hit the rocks.

Faith asked me once, what caused my depression. I was never really sure what started it but I think it was mostly my loneliness. My brother had just moved out, I still had no friends to speak of, and life did not feel worth living. I didn’t know the nasty road depression would take me down so I didn’t fight it. I sat back and simply nursed my wounds.

I began to doubt God’s goodness and one question in particular looped through my brain.

Why did God put us on earth? We simply live, have hard sad lives and then die. What is the point? What does anything really matter?

I tucked up in side myself, pulled away from the cruel world and awaited my turn to die. Though I never considered suicide I remember crying and begging God to take me home.

Then my Grandma got cancer. I thought, so what? She’ll go through treatment, lose her hair and come out fine, just like she always has. Life moved on, and I sank further.

I turned fourteen that year. There was nothing about my birthday to remember. It went by in a black, unhappy blur.

During this time, I began to sleep a lot. Pretty much anytime I didn’t have to do something else. It was my way of removing the pain for a while. My family thought I was anemic (which is still possible though for other reasons). I was so closed, and always had been that they had no idea my ailments were simply mental/spiritual.  (It wasn’t actually until a few months ago that I finally told some of them). 

Then May came and I heard my Grandma had been life lighted to a big hospital because she had (I think) perforated bowels.

At that news I came partly back to life in a sort of panic. What if she died? What would life be like then? How would I feel? No one I new very closely had ever died before but this Grandma, was one of only two grandparents still living. What if she died?

My family made a scurried trip some eight hours to her bedside where my older brother and his family already were. She surprised us by being nearly as chipper as normal. After several days she seemed to be on the mend and we were going to go home. Then, about midnight while we were all sleeping at a hotel we received a call.

I’ll not go into details about what caused the call; I simply will say that she was dying.

The next morning was spent by her bedside or in whispered conferences in the waiting room. The ICU nurses were wonderful. They actually allowed my brother to bring in his not quite two year old son to say good bye. And they said nothing when we way exceeded the room limit of number of people they allowed.

During this time I kept myself well together and stayed by her as much as possible. She could not speak because she had a tube down her throat to keep her from suffocating but sometimes she would tap on the bed side and when I brought an empty notebook she would take a pen and write notes.

I lost it then (and just now) when she wrote what she wanted done at her funeral. Her hand writing was bad because I was shaking the notepad.

Finally, when all the family was there her throat tube was removed.

All my life my family has sung together. Not as a performance but just for fun. There were many scripture songs that we all had memorized and I don’t know why but then, as we were all standing around and waiting for her to die we started singing. She asked for the notebook and when someone held it up she wrote, “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand”. So we sang that.  Then “It is Well”. And another which I no longer remember. When we paused she took the notebook and wrote again, “I want the S--- family (mine) to sing these songs at my funeral.”

Then she wrote one more thing, “I’ll see you all in heaven.”

We sang “It is Well” as she passed into heaven. I cried more then, than I have in all my other cries put together.

I saw, in her death, that she gave glory to God for everything. Everything! And I cried out all my bitterness, all my doubts and that afternoon I learned why God had put us here, on earth.

To bring Him glory.

What greater calling could I ask for?

Of course there have been other bumps and humps since then but my Savior is good. He has never let me down though I have broken His heart more times than I can count.

Word Wednesday - Can You Be Exceedingly Exorbitant?

Today I'm going to continue with the "ex" prefix. Last week Faith was excruciatingly happy, and this week I am going to be exorbitantly excited, as spring break has come, my brother is visiting, and my family will also be taking a trip to see my Dad's side of the family. I do believe it is going to be an extremely excellent week. Hopefully it will exceed my expectations. Sorry, I'm getting a little excessive with the "ex's," but I can't seem to help it. I'm extra exuberant. Okay, that probably wasn't proper English...


Exorbitant:

adjective
exceeding the bounds of custom, propriety, or reason, especially in amount or extent; highly excessive: to charge an exorbitant price; exorbitant luxury.

Tip Tuesday

Here are some general tips for writing:

1. Use concrete, specific nouns when possible.
2. Strong, vivid verbs will add "zing" as well as emotional impact to your writing.
3. Adverbs, especially "-ly" adverbs, should be used with discretion.
4. Adjectives should be specific and clear and not too numorous.
5. Prepositional phrases can often be moved to add variety to your sentences, but a phrase should usually be placed near the word it modifies.
6. When pronouns are used, the antecedents must always be understood.
7. Make every word count!!

Sorry for the grammar lesson there--hope you find these helpful!

The majestic strains of a cello and piano drifted through the small auditorium, sweeping the audience into rapt attention.  The soloist stood to the left of the cellist and pianist, poised elegantly as she waited for her cue to come in.  The flowing melody changed keys suddenly and the pace picked up in anticipation of what was to come.  Just as the tension was reaching its highest point, the soloist began to sing and the cellist and pianist resolved the tension in low undertones. 

    “Araya, you sang so well this morning!  It was beautiful!  I mean, you should sing like that all the time.”  Klaire exclaimed as they wandered out to the pasture after dinner.
    “Oh, thank you, Klaire.  But you know how we prayed before the performance;  God was the One who gave me the ability to sing so well this morning.”
    “Mmm, yes.”  Araya nodded in agreement.  “I’m just so excited; we’re playing in Carnegie Hall this winter!”
    “Lord willing, yes.  Now let’s enjoy this beautiful weather before we have to go inside and practice our fingers off again.”  Klaire and Araya shared a laugh and picked up their pace as they neared the gate that led into the pasture.  A sleek brown mare whinnied at the sight of the two girls and galloped towards them from the far side of the pasture.
    “Molasses, ol’ girl, you ready to be ridden?”  Klaire called out as the horse drew nearer.  The mare snorted in response and pranced impatiently as Klaire slipped the bridle she was carrying into place. 
    “You sure you don’t want me to run back to the barn and get your saddle?”  Araya asked.
    “Nah, thanks though.  Bareback’s fine with me this afternoon.”  Klaire threaded her fingers into Molasses’ thick mane and swung abroad with graceful agility.  “Unless of course you’d rather ride with a saddle?”
    “No, it’s fine.”
    “You want to ride double?”
    “That’s okay; I’ll wait my turn.  Might even just walk for a while...  You go ahead and get your riding in!”  Araya smiled and stepped back.  Just as she did, she saw Klaire’s face go pale. 
    “Klaire, wh--”
    “Don’t move, ‘Raya!”  Klaire whispered fiercely.  Molasses felt Klaire’s tension and sidestepped nervously.  The snake hissed loudly, angered at the disruption of it’s sunbathing.  Molasses reacted immediately, striking out with her hooves and bucking wildly.  The last thing Araya remembered seeing was Klaire, flying through the air, arms flailing.

    Viola sat on the porch, enjoying the warm summer afternoon sun after a delicious meal prepared for the three sisters by their aunt.  Before she knew it, drowsiness took over and she was lost in a world of dreams.
    Viola woke to the sound of the screen door opening.  Aunt Leina stepped out onto the porch, a pitcher of lemonade in hand. 
    “Oh, I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep!  What time has it gotten to be?”  Viola asked as Aunt Leina came over and sat down beside her on the porch swing.
    “It’s nearly six o’ clock...  You must have been exhausted!  Either that or just enjoying the down time.  Apparently Araya and Klaire lost track of time as well; they said they’d be back by around four.  Your uncle left about fifteen minutes ago to go check on them.  Just to make sure, you know.  We’ve been having rattlesnake problems more than usual this year and you just don’t want to take any chances.”
    “Oh, no.  You don’t think--”
    “Oh, don’t worry, Viola, I’m sure Klaire and Araya just lost track of time; Jeremiah will be back with them in no time.” Aunt Leina tried to reassure Viola.  As if to mock Aunt Leina’s words, Viola’s cell phone suddenly began to jangle loudly. 
    “It’s Uncle Jeremiah,” Viola said as she picked up the cell phone from it’s resting place.  Her heart dropped as thoughts of the worst swirled through her head. 

    Twenty minutes later, Aunt Leina and Viola were rushing through the hospital’s corridors, hearts pounding.  Uncle Jeremiah met them as they rounded a corner.
    “How are they?”  Viola asked anxiously.
    “Klaire’s gonna be okay; broken arm, but the doctors think that’s all.  They’re still doing x-rays to make sure everything else is all right.” 
    “And Araya?”  Viola dreaded the answer, seeing Uncle Jeremiah’s grim face.  Please, Lord Jesus, please let her be okay.  She pleaded silently. 
    “She’s in emergency surgery.  Horse must’ve caught her face with a hoof; I can’t say for sure; Klaire doesn’t remember.  She’s in good hands though; we’ve got some of the best doctors in the state here.”  Uncle Jeremiah responded.

    A week later, Viola and Klaire sat by Araya’s hospital bedside as the mid-afternoon rays of sunshine swept lazily through the room.  Klaire had been released from the hospital the day after the accident, her right arm bound tightly in a cast.  Araya had come through surgery well, but the recovery process would be long.  A broken jaw was the prognosis.
    The day had been creeping by; there wasn’t much to do sitting in a hospital room.  Klaire flipped through the channels on the TV in a futile search for something to watch.  Just as she was about to turn it off, the commercials switched to a string trio performance.  The three girls stilled and watched the screen until the piece was over.  They all looked at each other, bitter tears of disappointment glittering in their eyes.
    “We won’t be playing in Carnegie.”  Klaire finally voiced what they were all thinking.  “All that practice; all those years playing together ... All for naught.”  Klaire sighed in disgusted despair as she looked over to see what Araya was scrawling across the notepad that had become their only means of communication.  At least we had all those years together; we should be thankful for the times we were able to spend playing together.  God has blessed us and we can always enjoy those memories. 
    “Mmm... Yes, Araya.  Leave it to you to bring up the bright side of the situation!  Living up to your name; Araya Sunshine.”  The three girls shared a smile, remembering their parents’ clever way of putting into name how they felt their daugher was a ray of sunshine.
    The silence stretched as all three girls became lost in thought again.
    “Wait, guys, wait!  Don’t despair yet!”  Viola suddenly jumped up, hands clasped in front of her mouth in thought. 
    “What?”  Klaire asked, absentmindedly picking at a thread on her cast.
    “Araya, you still have your arms; and Klaire, you still have your voice.”  Viola cast a meaningful look in their direction, hoping they’d catch her drift.
    “Viola, you can’t mean--”  Klaire frowned in doubt and Araya shook her head violently, then grimaced as the pain set in.
    “Yes!  I do mean it!”  Viola argued.  “I think we can do it!  Araya, you played violin for a few years before you gave it up to focus on singing... I’m sure with the right help, you could pick up the cello.” 
    “And what about me?  I can’t sing!”
    “Yes you can, Klaire.”
    “Not like Araya.”  Klaire protested. 
    “That’s where training will come in.  We still have a few months; that’ll give us time to work.”  Viola declared matter-of-factly.
    “A few months.  That won’t be enough time!”  Klaire wailed, wringing her hands in frustration.  Viola gave an exasperated sigh and put her finger to her ear, cocking her head to the left in her standard “thinking position”.
    “Maybe they’ll give us an extension; let us postpone playing until next year.  Surely they can change their concert schedule if we tell them right now while there is still quite a bit of time.”  Viola remarked, looking to her sisters to gauge how they were taking in her idea.  Araya’s eyes lit up, and she frantically started scribbling on her pad of paper again.
    ‘If they’ll give us an extension, say another year, that would give Klaire and I enough time to heal and go on with our plans as normal!’  
    “Yes; exactly!  That’s what we must do; see about an extension!”  Klaire responded enthusiastically. 
    “Right on it!”  Viola quickly packed up her needlework and dashed for the door.  “I’ll run to Uncle Jeremiah’s and telephone the director of events at Carnegie!”
    Klaire and Araya clasped their hands in hope and waited anxiously for the next thirty minutes.
    After what seemed like forever, the sounds of heavy footsteps interrupted the sisters’ hopeful musings.  Viola appeared in the hospital room doorway, her face downcast.  One look told Klaire and Araya all they needed to know.
    “No changes in the schedule are allowed; it’s set in advance for a year.”  Viola informed them, her voice cracking from the emotions of the last hour.  “We have only two choices; cancel the concert or perform in December as planned.”  Viola flopped down on the spare hospital chair, disregarding ladylike propriety in her distress.
    “Then we’ll have to do the switch as you’ve suggested, Viola.”  Klaire announced resolutely, then proceeded to sing a phrase from one of their favorite pieces, ending with a dramatic crescendo and taking an exaggerated bow.  Her antics brought a twinkle to Araya’s eyes and a weak chuckle from Viola.
    “Very well then.  Araya, are you in agreement?”  Araya nodded her head slowly, then more firmly as she realized the movement didn’t cause a sharp stab of pain anymore.
    With the decision in hand, the voice lessons began that very moment, with Viola offering verbal hints along with Araya’s written instructions. 
   
    A week later, Araya had been released from the hospital to convalesce at Uncle Jeremiah and Aunt Leina’s.  The three sisters worked hard hour after hour, day after day, intent on Carnegie Hall. 
    “No, no, no!”  Klaire wailed as Araya finished a measure of Beethoven with an awkward screech of the bow as the girls were in the middle of a practice session one late afternoon.  “Don’t be so forceful when you’re playing at the frog; it’ll only result in wretched scratching.  Try again; with a lighter hand this time!  It’s not rock and roll, after all!”  Klaire instructed.  Araya resolutely began again, her left hand rocking in a slow, wide vibrato.  As she finished the phrase, Klaire smiled broadly.
    “Better; much better.”
    “All right; let’s try it all together at measure 56.”  Viola instructed, turning back to the piano. 
    Close to an hour later, the girls called it quits and packed up for the day. 
    “Four months.  We can do it.”  Klaire stated confidently, giving both of her sisters a firm pat on the back.  

--And that's all I have so far.  Let me know if you think I should finish it! =P  And any ideas for a title?

Lucky?--An Essay

Here is a miniature essay I wrote recently in honor of today. (If you are not wearing green, give yourself a pinch for me! ;) )

“Lucky” is a word you often hear on Saint Patrick’s Day but I doubt that Patrick himself would have appreciated it. Kidnapped from his home in Great Britain and taken to Ireland to serve as a slave is not my definition of “lucky”. I think the 16 year old Patrick would agree. He had grown up in a religious family but until he was left alone in the Celtic country side to herd sheep he did not have his own love for God. Not much is really know about Ireland’s patron saint except that sometime, during these hard six years he met the Lord. After escaping and returning to England the young man became an ordained bishop and returned to the land of his slavery as a missionary. His life there was still not comfortable. The superstitious Irish, he was beaten, robbed, put in prison. Reportedly Patrick used the three leaved shamrock to illustrate the Trinity. He did eventually make some converts but when he died his memory was soon forgotten. Years after his death he was made a “saint” and began to be honored in many ways. One of these was in dedicating a holiday to him which is celebrated on March 17 in remembrance of the traditional day of his death. I think, if Patrick were alive today, he would be disappointed to find us celebrating magic, leprechauns, three leaved clovers and all the other things so commonly associated with the holiday. He would wish the true story to be put forth; the story of what he was beaten, robbed, and imprisoned for: the story of the One, fully God and fully man, who came to earth and died so that we might go to heaven and live.  Lucky? I don’t think so. Blessed with infinite and unfathomable grace? Now that is more like it.

Weekly Newsletter

Happy hopefully spring, Larkwriters! I wish the weather would make up its mind...

Anyways, here is this week's schedule:

- Story (Josie)

- Tip Tuesday (Hope)

- Word Wednesday (Grace)

- Who am I? (Grace)

Also, don't forget about posting your testimonies!

"for behold, the winter is past;

    the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth,

    the time of singing has come,

and the voice of the turtledove

    is heard in our land."

- Song of Solomon 2:11-12 (ESV)

Who Am I?

Here is this week's "Who Am I."  Hopefully it won't be too easy or too hard.  :) 


1.  I live in a small town.

2.  There are many rumors about me.

3.  Many children view me as a frightful person.

4.  I am quiet and reclusive.


Who Am I?

Word Wednesday

Here is your word for the day!  Hopefully you won't find it too strange . . .

Excruciating [ik-skroo-shee-ey-ting]:  1. Extremely painful; causing intense suffering; unbearably distressing; torturing.  2. Exceedingly elaborate or intense; extreme.

There is a reason as to why I picked this word.  For awhile, I was in the habit of using this word quite often.  However, I used it in ways that other people wouldn't (i.e. excruciatingly happy).  People would pause and give me a strange look.  So, I don't know if that is really the correct use of it or not.  Nevertheless, I will more than likely use it to describe things other than pain.  :)

Tip Tuesday

    Recently I was sitting around doing nothing when something occurred to me:  the people in our stories (especially the main character(s)) should have something their life revolves around.  In other words, what do your character's lives revolve around?  What is most precious to them?  Is it something honorable such as Jesus Christ or family?  Or something less than honorable such as money or drugs?  I thought this was an interesting point because in real life all of our lives revolve around something.  Why shouldn't our character's lives revolve around something as well?  Not only does this make them more realistic (at least I think so), it can bring in good conflict if their life is centered on something unethical or worthless.  Anyway, hopefully this will give you something to think about this week. 

Where Purpose Lies (Temporary Title) - Guest Post by the Hermit Crab

Alrighty all, I'd like you to meet my younger brother, the Hermit Crab (or at least that is his name on here). He is a lover of Christian fiction and a Lego fanatic. Recently he has become interested in writing, and is presently writing a fantasy book called Where Purpose Lies. I immediately saw talent and encouraged him to do a guest post on here, so here it is! This is just a small clip from his awesome story, but he would love some feedback. Enjoy!



Ezra stood beside the king’s throne thinking of his family. He really did desire to spend more time with them. Unfortunately, to do that, he must give up his job and only source of money. His family would be forced to move into the village and he would have to find a less time consuming job. If only being a body guard didn’t require so much time. As of late, his work hours had doubled due to the king’s erratic behavior. The queen needed people she could trust to keep an eye on him.

King Abdon sat on his throne, once again tossing and turning due to his troublesome dreams. Many were beginning to give up hope of the king’s recovery. No one, not even the queen, bothered to wake him from his troublesome slumbers. It seemed that in wakefulness and in sleep, the king would see some dark shadow that no one else could. The queen no longer bothered to have him brought into his bedchamber. He was heavy, and refused to budge from where he sat.

“The shadow is growing. It is nearly upon me,” a low trembling voice spoke from the throne. Startled, Ezra turned to see the king’s pale face staring past him toward a vacant corner of the room. Abdon spoke once more, his voice rising in agitation, “The shadow will overtake you all. Flee, lest you become one with the terror!” The king sprung from his chair and raced for the door opposite the throne. Shocked at the king’s sudden movements, Ezra had no time to grab the king. The other guard, standing on the opposite side of the throne, seemed just as stunned. Ezra made eye contact with him, and they both took off after the king.
   
The king reached the door far ahead of them but did not make it any farther. Two more guards opened the door from outside and blocked the king’s path. Abdon didn’t notice them and ran straight into their arms, nearly knocking both guards of their feet. The guards, struggling to keep him in check, dragged him back toward the throne.

Ezra and his fellow guard hurried over to assist the other two. Even with four, king Abdon was hard to restrain. As they brought him forward a door behind the throne opened and the queen stepped out, still in her nightgown.

Shouting in order to be heard over the king’s shrieking, the queen spoke, “What has happened? Will this torturous sickness never quit plaguing my husband?” The queen hurried forward and spoke again, attempting to calm her husband, “Abdon, try and concentrate on my voice. You are in your throne room; you simply had a nightmare, no darkness dwell within these walls.”

“No! You lie, the darkness is here, and it is upon us!” The king one again began to thrash about and nearly threw off all four guards. His screaming became so loud, that Ezra was sure the whole village would wake.

The queen, looking very tired, once again attempted to calm him, “If the darkness is here then why can we not see it?” The king unexpectedly fell quiet and still. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and pointed toward a corner in the room.

Ezra groaned inwardly, “Great, another one of the king’s hallucinations, how much longer can this night possibly last.” The queen let out a gasp. Ezra looked up to see here face turning ghostly white. Beginning to feel slightly nervous, he turned to face the corner that the king had pointed out with his trembling hand.

A black mist rose out of the cracks between the stones in the floor. Metal scraped on wood. One of the guards had drawn his sword. Ezra watched him with wide eyes. What could he be thinking? Could a sword put an end to the strange happenings of this night?

King Abdon grabbed the guard’s sword arm. “You mustn’t play games with the darkness.” The king spoke in a mysterious tone that filled Ezra with a newfound terror. The guard ignored the king’s command and made his way to the corner of the room. He knelt down and plunged his sword into the gap that spewed forth the mist. Prying with one arm and groping for a loose stone with the other the guard removed one stone from the floor. Dropping his sword, the guard reached into the empty cavity from which the stone came, he brought forth a black orb that seemed to radiate the mist.

By now the room had fallen deathly still. The mist radiating out of the black orb seemed to flow into the guard holding it. For a moment it seemed that all was back to normal. The guard stood up and turned toward them, still holding the orb. Ezra made eye contact and was horrified by what he saw. Two more black orbs replaced what once had been perfectly normal eyes. They had become pits of darkness that defied all light. The mist once again appeared, this time radiating from the guard’s eyes. It drifted through the air heading for a single man. The king stood transfixed just like everyone else in the room, and did not move as the mist drifted closer.

Some urging from a place deep within Ezra urged him to do something. With great effort, he broke from his stupor and took his stand in front of the king. He noticed for the first time, that many other guards had poured into the room. All stood transfixed. Yet one among these seemed out of place. A brown haired lad of about sixteen years of age stood in the center, it was Othniel. Knowing that this may very well be his last chance to love his son, Ezra locked eyes and opened his mouth to speak. No words came. His world faded to black and he knew no more.