Not on the A Team Anymore

"And they say
She's in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since 18
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
Crumbling like pastries
And they scream
The worst things in life come free to us
Cos we're just under the upperhand
Go mad for a couple grams
And she don't want to go outside tonight
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland
Or sells love to another man
It's too cold outside
For angels to fly
Angels to fly." -A Team, Ed Sheeran

This song is probably one of the saddest I've heard in a while, because it's true. Girls like the one described in this song can be found in any corner of the world, on any continent, on any street; girls who, although fallen and sinful, were created as the crowning glories of creation. As John and Stacy Eldredge point out in their book Captivating, creation was not complete, not perfect, until woman was made. These girls, who were made to be loved and treasured, believe themselves to be of so little worth that they allow themselves to be bought, used, and thrown away like dirty dishrags. These beautiful creatures, who were made to love God with all their being and live a full, vibrant, and joy-filled life, instead live for the next high that will make them feel better for two seconds and then leave them again with the God-shaped hole that epitomizes their lives. They sell their souls and their bodies, believing that there is no other option, that they deserve no more than a life of misery and heartache, little daring to believe that as close as a leap of faith, God is waiting for them with arms wide open. He is ready and willing to fill their God-shaped emptiness, to clothe them in all the worth of His Son, and to love them with all the infinite, self-sacrificing love He feels for them. They do not have to live such degrading, menial lives, but they do not know that they have another option. And what do we do most of the time? We judge them. We let them live in their lies and their shame and do not tell them of who they could be, of who they are meant to be, or of the great value that God places on them. If we did, then maybe, just maybe, these girls who rely on pipes and fleeting love to get them through life, would be fewer and more far between.

A Sword for a Walking-Stick

Today, I want to go on an adventure. I want to ride a flying bison. I want to meet new, interesting people, and learn new things. I want to join a noble, important, world-and-life-changing quest. I want to travel through strange terrain, over towering mountains, through exotic forests, and across shimmering rivers. I want danger and excitement. I want to learn how to fight (when the need is called for) - preferably with a bow and arrow or a magic staff. I want to walk with fauns and elves, learn spells from a good wizard, ride dragons, and study the art of bending. I want to learn how to fly, to be weightless, to soar high above the earth and feel the fresh wind in my face.
I've heard that life is a grand adventure, but it really doesn't feel like it. Most of my courageous acts do not involve conquering giants or evil masterminds, but simply opening up to people or trying new things. Instead of a pirate ship, I have a falling-apart truck. Instead of an exciting adventure involving time travel, spies, and awesome ninja skills, I have college, work, and piles upon piles of paperwork and stress in my future. Instead of going through harrowing, life-changing, exciting adventures with somebody and falling in love because you've work, bled, cried, laughed, and saved the world together, I have to... well, date. Y'know, dinner, chit-chat, texting, sitting next to each other, holding hands.
Now, I know part of me is being a little stubborn and that adventure can be found in life's most mundane things, whether it's teaching or dating or driving a truck. Heck, just look at the Disney-Pixar movie Up! There's this girl who long for adventure, to go to Paradise Falls and explore the world like her hero, Charles Muntz. She even has a "Adventure Book" to record all the adventures she knows she's going to have one day. But Ellie never gets to go. She settles down with Carl, spends her days working at a zoo and sitting next to her husband in their armchairs, experiencing life's little blessings and sorrows. She eventually dies without fulfilling her dream of visiting South America. But when her husband eventually opens her "Adventure Book," he is shocked. He sees pictures of their wedding, pictures of their life together. Ellie learned that life - ordinary, mundane life, is the greatest adventure of all. And that's something that's always stuck with me. But, I suppose I'm just feeling rather Tookish. Like J.R.R. Tolkein wrote about Bilbo in The Hobbit, "Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking stick." I want to run off to Narnia, Neverland, Middle Earth, Space, and the Avatar world. Unfortunately, I can't really do that, because most of those places don't exist, and I'm pretty sure that space is pretty inaccessible. The closest I can get to such places is through words and imagination, which, I suspect, I'll have to settle for for now. And I know, without a doubt, that the life God has planned for me will be perfect, filled with everyday magic and adventure, if I just take the time to look.

~"Pursue a righteous life - a life of wonder, faith, love, steadiness, courtesy. Run hard and fast in the faith. Sieze the eternal life, the life you were called to, the life you so fervently embraced in the presence of so many witnesses." -I Timothy 6:11-12~

The Wayward Child (Part 1)

The sudden words “Want coffee?” made Todd jump. He tore his eyes away from his computer screen and looked up at the waitress standing before him. Her arms were folded across her aproned waist, and in one hand she held an almost-empty coffee pot. One of her eyebrows was raised, and her mouth was stretched in a thin line. Todd chose to ignore her typical annoyed-waitress attitude and nodded towards his cup. “At least say yes, asshole,” she murmured as the hot coffee poured into the cup. Todd glanced up and calmly said, “If you have something to say, the least you can do is say it to my face.” The waitress said nothing, but her face was stone as she walked away. He watched her go, and in spite of his annoyance with her, he enjoyed the view quite a bit. When she disappeared into the back room, he shook his head slightly, as if throwing off the weight of a memory, gave a low chuckle, and turned his attention back to his work. He only paused when the waitress passed by again and dropped the bill on his table. He packed up his work soon afterwards, dropped a ten on the table, and left the coffee shop; but not before he caught the waitress’s eye while he was paying. She glared at him, but a faint blush colored her cheeks and she glanced down sharply. He smiled faintly and left for home.

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Alyssa felt her cheeks burning as she poured yet another cup of coffee. She was glad that the man had finally left. She hated his cocky attitude. Just because he was handsome and rich didn’t give him the right to talk to her that way, the bastard. Her being a waitress didn’t mean that she was somebody who could be treated like trash. She gave a tight smile to an elderly couple and gave them their check, then moved on to the next table. Over the past few weeks, Alyssa had gotten into the groove of waitressing. She had finally gotten to the point where she could move from table to table with ease, taking care of customers in a way that made them feel important. Except for the drunk ones. She mostly tried to ignore them and deal with them as little as possible. And except for days like today, when she couldn't hide the feelings behind a fake smile.

It was all because of the song that had come on the radio last night. It was the one that she and Brian had sung so many times together on their drives through town. She had tried to turn it down, or change the station, but her fingers wouldn't obey, and deep down she knew that she wanted to remember his face, his voice, the way his eyes looked at her when they were alone together. She wanted to feel the pain, to remind herself that she hadn't forgotten, and would never forget him. She couldn't sleep after that, and spent the whole night awake, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning around and around in never-ending circles. It made her think of the days before she had met Diana and Brian and Jesus, the days when she would sit in her small trailer room and stare out the window, wondering if there was anybody out there who loved her. It was strange how easily the bitterness had come back.

Alyssa hung her apron up on the hook. "Hey, Deb, I'm heading out!" "Alright, sweetie, you be careful getting home now," called Deb, the head waitress, as she pushed her way through the swinging door with an armful of trays. "I will!" Alyssa shouted back with a faint smile. She shrugged on her coat, grabbed her purse, and headed out towards the Green Lantern. A light breeze tugged on her ponytail. She glanced up at the sky and saw not a cloud, so she walked across the street to the only grocery store in town and picked up a large loaf of white bread. On her way back to the motel, Alyssa stopped by the duck pond and spent a couple of hours in her favorite place, a bench right on the edge of the lake. As she tossed the small pieces of bread into the water, more and more geese gathered around her, like some kind of hungry mob. She laughed as some of the fat geese attacked each other for a morsel of bread. However, her eye sometimes strayed to the tall, white, cross-topped steeple that could be seen above the tops of the trees. She hated to admit it, hated to even think herself worth of the feeling, but she missed God. Sometimes she felt so alone that she was sure her heart was going to break into a million pieces. And yet, He was so close, as close as the nearest blade of grass or beat of her heart. And that made her afriad. She had screamed such awful things at Him, at this Person who had saved her from herself and shown her love as no one else ever had before. She had spit in His face and she had hated Him for taking away the person who had meant the most to her. Brian, her Brian, with his shy, goofy smile, his sparking green eyes, his heart full of love, wisdom and courage. He had followed God. It had been so hard for him to leave home, to leave his family, to leave her with no promise of ever returning. But he had gone. He had proven his love to God. What more did He want? As these thoughts raced through Alyssa's mind, she clenched the bread bag tighter and tighter, and slow and steady tears began to fall down her face. Why? Why? her soul screamed out. Haven't you taken enough from me?

_____________________________________ 

Brian sat in the corner of the hovel, his dirty knees pulled up under his chin. Slowly, subtly, he rocked back and forth, trying to ease the searing pain coming from a thousand different places in his body. His eyes were squeezed shut, blocking out the sights of his dimly-illuminated comrades. If only he could block out the moans and stench as well. Brian could hear the faint murmur of two soldiers speaking to one another, and moved his shaking hands to cover his ears. Why were they still trying? Why were they doing this to themselves? They were all going to die, just like Greggs had died, in this God-forsken place. It would be easier if they kept apart, didn't let anyone close. Then they wouldn't have to hurt so much. A faint image played across the screen of his closed eyelids, one that made his heart ache even more. It was the image of a brown-haired girl, laughing as she crooned along to the radio. She flashed him a smile, and the joy, the surprising and beautiful joy, that raidiated from her made his heart skip a beat. Alyssa. Alyssa. His dry, cracked lips parted slowly, and tears somehow managed to flow from his dry eyes as he whispered, so low that no one else could hear, the name that meant so much to him: "Alyssa."

Dust and Memory

I sometimes wonder what lies around the corner; what my future will hold. My life thus far, though it feels long and exciting, has been rather short and dull. I have done no great feats of nobility; I have written no majestic works of art; I have formed no worthy causes. I have simply lived as best I can, right where God has placed me. The most exciting thing of which I can boast is a trip to the Dominican Republic, where I did missions work in a small village.
I sit on my bed or on my couch and watch movies about people who lived such beautiful, heartbreaking lives; who broke the chains of poverty or prejudice and did great feats in the world and inspired multitudes of people; and who were chosen to go on life-changing quests that called for great strength and courage. I look at my life compared to those stories and think, “Wow. How boring is this?”
But, I suppose if you look close enough, my life is the complete opposite of boring. True, it does not have the elements of excitement, danger and adventure that are the crowd-drawing elements of epic movies; but, truthfully, that does not matter to me. I dream of a quiet life filled with love and meaning. I don’t hope to win the title of a PGA tour, or save the world, or feed a nation, but I do hope to do what good I can to those God has placed around me. I don’t plan to be swept off my feet by a charming English man in Italy, or fall in love with an “unsuitable” young man on a doomed boat, or be the inspiration driving a conquering king, but I do hope to meet a man who loves God and then me with all his heart, who I can spend the rest of my life with. I do, however, hold out a small hope to be a mother like I read about in books; you know, the wise, kind mothers who always know what to do and say.
I think I’m rather like Sam Gamgee, if I was like anyone in Lord of the Rings. Not in my bravery or loyalty, goodness no, but in my dreams. I would be completely happy to settle down in a small town, marry the person I love, and raise a bunch of wonderful children (including Joshua and Caleb and Chloe). Oh, and as a side-note, I’m kind of like Bilbo too… “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf! Mountains! And then find a quiet place where I can finish my book.”
So yes, we’ll see what the future holds! And then, at the end of it all, I’ll be at my Savior’s feet… and then all that happened in this life won’t matter, but will be the stuff of dust and memory, to be scattered to the wind and forgotten in the glorious presence of True Life.

Deborah, the Woman-Judge of Israel

My name is Deborah. If it is of any interest to you, my name means “bee” in Hebrew, my own language. Hebrew is my tongue, for I am an Israelite, a daughter of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, a worshipper of the One True God, YHWH. My life, my story, occurs during the time that the judges ruled over the children of Israel. It was the divine appointment of the judges of Israel to shepherd the people, deliver them from the oppression of enemy countries, and guide them in the way of justice and truth.
It just so happens that I myself am a judge of Israel. I am the only woman to ever hold such a position over my people. I do not say this in pride, for I am only a tool in the hand of YHWH, as were Moses the son of Amram, Joshua the son of Nun, Othniel the son of Kenaz the younger brother of Caleb, Elud the son of Gera and Shamgar the son of Anath before me. Furthermore, I do not compare the feats of my time with feats such as Israel’s deliverance from Egypt or the conquering of the Promised Land. However, I do believe that my story is one worth telling.
I will begin by speaking a little about myself and the world in which I live. I am, first of all, a daughter of the tribe of Ephraim. The place where my family pitched their tent in my childhood was near the town on Ai, where Joshua and his warriors were once defeated because of the sin of Achan. When I became of age, I was married to Lapidoth, also a man of the tribe of Ephraim. I will forever be grateful for the mercy of God for giving me a husband such as Lapidoth. He does not seek to undermine the authority which YHWH has given to me. He is not filled with jealousy or wrath, as some men would be. He is truly a man who seeks after the heart of the YHWH.
My husband and I now dwell in the place between Ramah and Bethel in Mount Ephraim. Our tent lies beneath the very same tree where another Deborah, the nurse of Rebekah wife of Isaac is buried. It is here that I dwell, and it is here that the children of Israel first began coming to me to enquire after wisdom and judgment. For YHWH has blessed me with such gifts as those of Miriam of old: the ability to guide govern others, to share with them the wisdom of YHWH, and to communicate to them the divine will of the LORD.
At first it was only a handful of friends who came to me to find out the will of YHWH. Then, as word of my gifts spread, children of Israel came from far and wide to enquire after the wisdom of YHWH. Some came to seek wisdom about small problems, such as how to deal with an annoying neighbor, or how to settle a certain conflict, or how to deal with the loss of a loved one. Many of the people who came to me, however, came to ask about the Canaanites who were holding captive my people; for such was the state of Israel in my days. The Canaanites who inhabited the Northern realm of the Promised Land, led by their ruthless leader King Jabin of Hazor and his cruel and heartless captain, Sisera, were holding the children of Israel in subjection, forcing the people into their pagan Baal worship, destroying their cities, and selling their children into slavery. The days were indeed dark in the land of God’s chosen people, but at first, the people fought back against their oppressors. Many a strong young man would come to ask me how to wage a war against the Canaanites, and I would give them what help I could. However, none of the brave attempts of these young men were fruitful. The Canaanite armies were much too strong for the disorganized armies of Northern Israel. After a time, the people lost heart. Most stopped coming for advice on how to fight the Canaanites and began coming to me to pour out the sorrow they held in their hearts for their tired, ruined people and land.
The cries of my oppressed people tore at my very heart. What made my sorrow the greater was the fact that I knew that the sin of my people was the cause for so much terror in Israel. Each man did only what was right in his own eyes, whether it was committing adultery, murdering his neighbor, worshipping an idol, or marrying a foreign wife. Only a few who came to seek my counsel truly believed and worshipped YHWH. More often than not, when people came to unload their burden of grief or to ask how to deal with the Canaanites, I exhorted them to seek the face of YHWH and follow His commandments. I often rebuked the people for their sin and told them that YHWH would do nothing to stop the oppression of Jabin until the people learned once more to fear Him.
Slowly but surely, I saw a change in the heart of the people. The cruel domination of the Canaanites was driving the people back to the G-d of their fathers. As I watched from under the shade of my palm tree, the nation of Israel began putting away their idols and foreign wives, and began seeking the true counsel of YHWH. The people dusted off the Law and followed each jot and tittle once more, doing that which was right in the sigh of YHWH and not in their own eyes. As I prayed to YHWH, I sensed that the time to throw off the tyrant Canaanites was drawing nigh. I began to ask YHWH to send one who could lead the people in a war against Jabin and his ruthless army.
YHWH answered my petition with the coming of Barak, the son of Abinoam, who dwelt in the city of Kedesh. The first time I saw Barak was the day he walked into the crowd that had gathered around my tent. He was dirty from travelling, as were most of the people who had gathered in the crowd; that was not what caught my attention. What drew my eye towards Barak was the call of YHWH. I knew in my heart that this was the leader that YHWH had prepared to lead the Israelites to victory over the Canaanites. But I held my peace and waited to see what the young man had come for. I did not want to rush the LORD’s timing; so I listened in patience as person after person gave me news about the new terrors of the Canaanites. I instructed the people in the same way I always did, and urged them anew to seek the face of YHWH. Always I kept my eye on the young man, who was listening intently, a grim look set upon his dark features. After a time, I called Lapidoth to my side and pointed out the young man to him. Lapidoth looked Barak over with wise, discerning eyes and nodded. He too felt that this young man would be the one to lead Israel to overthrow their foreign oppressors. My heart rejoiced within me, but still I held my silence, waiting for the young man to approach me. He never did. He left without a word around mid-day. My heart faltered, but I called over an older man to whom the young man had spoken to and enquired after the young man’s name. “He is Barak, son of Abinoam from the city of Kedesh-Naphtali. He has travelled far to hear your wisdom, and he pitched his tent now on the perimeter of your land,” the old man replied. I hid the name in my heart, and the next day, before I took my place beneath the palm of Deborah, I sent one of my servants to fetch this Barak son of Abinoam.
When I had Barak seated in front of me, I knew in my heart what to do. YHWH gave me the words: “Has not the LORD God of Israel commanded, saying, Go and draw towards mount Tabor, and take with you ten thousand men of the children of Naphtali and of the children of Zebulun? And I will draw unto you to the river Kishon Sisera, the captain of Jabin’s army, with his chariots and his multitude, and I will deliver him into your hand.”
Barak, when he heard my words, turned white. “Do you mean that YHWH has called me to lead his armies?” he asked. I saw the fear behind his eyes.
“You are afraid.”
He sighed, a long, heavy sigh. “Yes.” Then, after a pause, he said, “I am no great man. I have done nothing with my life for the cause of YHWH. I have wasted my life with idols and women, and have only just now turned back to the LORD G-d. I am not worthy to do anything for YHWH, and I only fear that you have requested this thing of the wrong man.” He hung his head and began to weep.
I walked to his couch and laid my hand on his shoulder. I prayed, and YHWH spoke through me. “My son, YHWH does not make mistakes. He calls no man in vain. YHWH knows all you have done, and he knows all you now do for Him. You have given up your sins, and that is why YHWH calls you to this. He sees the courage that is in your heart, though you may not see it yourself.”
After a time, Barak’s weeping subsided. He was silent for a long interval, and then spoke. “If you will go with me, then I will go: but if you will not go with me, then I will not go.”
I lifted my eyes heaven-ward. His response was not at all what I had expected. Then I answered “I will surely go with you: notwithstanding the journey that thou takest shall not be for thine honour; for the LORD shall sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.”
Barak delighted in this news and seemed to find some courage in his heart, for his eyes glittered and he said, “I rejoice that YHWH has given me this task, even if I receive no glory from this; for too long my people have suffered under the cruel scourge of Jabin and Sisera. Too long have our women been raped, our homes burned, our lives ruined by these cruel pagans. Too long have I been without the bravery to act. I rejoice now that YHWH has granted me the courage I need through your counsel, O most wise Deborah, prophetess of God, prudent judge of Israel.”
So without delay, I traveled northward with Barak and Lapidoth my husband to Kedesh, into the heart of the land of the Canaanites. We spread word throughout the tribes of Naphtali and Zebulun that we were in need of men to fight against the armies of Jabin. When all was ready, and we had all of our supplies, our numbers were over ten thousand. We moved our troops to Mount Tabor, where after a short time King Jabin confronted us with his might army, which consisted of over nine hundred iron chariots and a host of Gentile warriors. When the army came in sight, Barak came to me, trembling in fear. I could sense the fear of the warriors of Zebulun and Naphtali as well. Before Barak could say, anything, I said “Up; for this is the day in which the LORD hath delivered Sisera into your hand: has not the LORD gone out before you?” Without a word, Barak left the tent and began to assemble the troops with a charisma that was not recognizable at first glance. As I overlooked the battle from the mountaintop, my heart rejoiced greatly to see the discomfiting of the army of the Canaanites. Later I would hear of the fate of Sisera, captain of the host of the Canaanite; how he had fled the battle field and come to the tent of Heber the Kenite, and how Jael the wife of Heber had killed the cruel captain with the spike of a tent, ending the battle for good. It wasn’t long before the cry of victory was heard from the lips of the children of Israel. When I heard the shout I danced upon the mountaintop for joy. YHWH had kept His promise to the people. Twenty years of oppression under the hand of the king of the Canaanites was finally at its end. No more would my people suffer under the yoke of cruelty. YHWH was truly amazing and faithful, even to a thousand generations. Barak and I later sang and danced before the people, saying “So let all thine enemies perish, O LORD: but let them that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might.”
So the land of Israel had peace for forty years more, and I judged under the tree of Deborah until I was too weak and feeble to guide the children of Israel. I slowly watched my people fall back into ruin and sin, and felt the grip of the Midianties grow ever tighter around the throat of Israel. Yet I kept always in my heart the picture of the love and grace of YHWH that I witnessed upon the mount of Tabor, knowing in my heart that one day YHWH would send someone to deliver my people out of bondage. And for the rest of my days I served YHWH, the God of my Fathers.

Who Needs Courtly Love, Anyway?

I am a huge fan of Medieval literature. I love to read works from the Dark Ages, such as Edmund Spenser's The Fairy Queene and Chaucer's Canterbury Tales; but what I especially love are the Arthurian legends written down at this time by authors such as Thomas Malory and Chretien de Troyes. They may be historically inaccurate, but they're so cool! Who doesn't love stories full of swordfights, chivalry, magic, and the "Once and Future King" of England (props to T.H. White!!!)? The Legend of King Arthur has grown over the centuries from simple stories about a Germanic tribal leader (well, supposedly), to epic tales about the greatest King of England ruling in the most glorious time that small island has ever seen. These tales are the basis for a huge chunk of fantasy literature out there today and hold much influence over the canon of English literature. However, there is one major qualm I have concerning them: this idea of courtly love, the idea of two forbidden lovers sharing a secret, passionate affair that marks the pinnacle of love and beauty. Blech. It irks me even more because almost every other girl I talk to just loves this idea. "Oh, I would love it if I were married but this other handsome guy came and told me he loved me so that I could have an affair with him, and our love would transcend all of time and space and I could fill him with such passion that bards would sing of it for centuries, and I don't care if it was the ruin and undoing of me, my husband, and my lover, because our love is more important than the lives of everybody involved!" What? How does that even make sense? How is that in any way even remotely romantic? I have to stand with Gerald Morris of The Squire's Tales fame on this one: courtly love is utterly stupid. I mean, look for a second at Lancelot and Guinevere. They're probably the most famous example of this idea in medieval literature. There have been songs written, movies made, and books published that idealize these two lovers. But just examine it closely. Guinevere is the King's wife. She is the Queen of England, the example for all of the women of the land. But along comes Lancelot du Lac, this guy from France, and whoosh, she is swept off of her feet and starts sleeping with the dude. She is betraying her husband, the King mind you, with her husband's best friend. Now, if this was happening nowadays, it would be completely, utterly unacceptable. Sure, we understand that maybe she was forced into marriage with King Arthur (who, by the way, seems like a pretty decent man), and sure, maybe she felt way more for Lancelot than she did for her husband, but is that really a legitimate excuse? Not by today's standards, and not by any real cultural standards that I can think of at the moment.Well, maybe except the Italians, but I don't agree with that either!!!                                                                                     
                                                                                                       
And then Tristram and Iseult. What's up with that? These two crazy kids accidentally drink a love potion together, and BAM! they're head-over-heels in love. Iseult then marries King Mark of Cornwall, but she and Tristram go behind the king's back and have a love affair, even though, just like in the Arthur-Guinevere-Lancelot story, Tristram is King Mark's closest advisor and friend. Betrayal just abounds in these stories! In the end, though, Tristram is killed (by some kind of poisoned dart, apparently - it varies with the telling), and Iseult mourns herself into oblivion for her lost, adulterous lover. Wow, great story, guys! Just brilliant! It makes my feminie heart melt just thinking about it! Not. These "courtly love" affairs end in disaster every time, whether it is a death, further deceit, or the downfall of an entire kingdom. Courtly love is just not okay!
So, basically, there's my rant in its entirety. Let me end this like I started it, by saying that I really, really love the Arthurian legends and almost everything that has come of them. I love how you can take them and reshape and reform them to become almost entirely new legends every time, but they still feel the same at their core. And for anyone who loves them as much as I do, I would very much recommend The Squire's Tales by Gerald Morris, because he approaches the stories in an entirely new way and makes them work extremely well, especially for people who enjoy a bit of British, a.k.a. sarcastic, wit and humor. If you're more of the watching-TV type, then BBC's Merlin would be the show for you! It's a very different take on the legends, but again, it's the same at its core. Also, it's BBC, so it's bound to be awesome.

Thoughts on Fear

Fear. That tingling sensation that travels up your spine and makes your hair stand on end. The icy hands that grasp you unexpectedly and chill your very soul. The oppressive weight that settles deep in the pit of your stomach. Fear hides itself in the darkest corners of your mind and reality, ready to spring out at any second and overtake you. It is the great paralyzer, the overcomer of all other emotions. It leaves no room for love, or happiness, or sorrow, or even anger. It comes in many forms: a dark room, a painful memory, a vague figure from your nightmares. For all men, whether they are weak or strong, fear is inevitable. All men fear something; thus, Fear is the master of men. It holds them in subjection and manipulates them according to its dark will. You cannot escape its grasp.
We all know this. And yet we want - no, need - somebody to rescue us from our fears. Whether it is our own self-determination, a higher power, or a madman with a blue box, we need to believe that there is hope of deliverance from the things that haunt and scare us most. We need to believe that there is somebody out there who is brave enough, smart enough, and strong enough to overcome the very thing that is able to overcome us.
In the book of Isaiah, God has said, "Fear not, for I am with you." Fear may be the master of men, but God is the Lord over Fear. And while we may never completely throw off the shackles of the stuff of your nightmares while you walk this dark earth, we who trust God can have something that only He supplies: Courage. With Courage, we can feel the icy grip, the tingle in our spines, and the weight on our souls; but with the help of the Rock of Ages, we can face it knowing that there is Someone out there who is a better rescuer than any Time Lord or security blanket, and that He is always there, ready to pull us out of the darkness of our nightmares and bring us into His glorious peace and rest.

The Battle of the Cockroach and the Brave(-ish) Maiden

It was turning out to be just another evening in the dorm. I was in the middle of writing a paper on the (utterly exciting) connections between the American Revolution and the American Baptist mindset when I realized that I hadn't eaten dinner yet and was beginning to get a little hungry. So I got myself a bowl and a can of spagettios, tracked down a can opener, and prepared to cook my meager rations in the laundry room microwave. The timer had just beeped, and I was beginning to take my dinner out of the microwave, when suddenly I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. It was a huge cockroach, at least 3 inches long, running like the wind straight towards me. With a scream of terror I abandoned my food and leaped up on top of the washing machine. I made sure it was nowhere on me, and then scanned the surrounding area. The cockroach was nowhere in sight. Fearful for my life, I grabbed the only weapon within reach: the broom. I banged it around for a few minutes, hoping to scare the cockroach from its hiding place so that I would at least know its location, but nothing happened. I figured that I would just have to sit on the washer wait for help. Before long, however, the cockroach appeared on its own, out of nowhere. Like a flash of brown, gross-looking lightning, it sped towards my laudry basket, which was sitting on the floor, and climbed up. I squealed and hit it with my broom, praying with all of my might that it wasn't a flying cockroach. It didn't fly, but it did scuttle over to a position on the wall. I hit it again, shrieking as I did so, and sent it back towards the door, where it again disappeared. So, I was back to square one, trapped on a washing machine by a cockroach with an unknown location. I grasped the broom handle even harder and looked around to make sure it hadn't ingeniously snuck up behind me through the little crack between the machine and the wall. I prayed and prayed that somebody would come and rescue me. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my friend Clarissa walked by. I called her name from my perch on the machine, and she looked a little startled to see where I was sitting, but then I asked her if there was a cockroach hiding around the corner. She shook her head and said, "There's one on the wall out here, though. It's huge!" "Oh, thank goodness!" I said, as I climbed down off of the washing machine. I still clutched the broom, just in case it wasn't the same cockroach and he had laid a trap for me in the doorway. But nothing happened, and I made it out safely, with my bowl of spaghettios. Sure enough, there he was, my arch-nemesis of the moment, sitting on the wall looking as innocent as a butterfly. Clarissa and I - well, mostly Clarissa - then proceeded to try and kill the villainous bug with a dustpan, but he managed to crawl up on to the ceiling and out of our reach. So we called in the last resort: Clarissa's boyfriend, Josh. We handed him the dustpan, and with one blow he smote down the cockroach, and with another he ended the conniving creature's life. Clarissa and I cheered, and as I dragged my dinner and my laundry basket down the hallway back to my room, I thanked them both profusely for rescuing me from the most nightmarish monster that I had ever faced; that is, until I met the wood roaches. But that's another story.

Walk Through a Cemetery

I walk through the cemetery alone. My feet tread lightly along the broken path that winds its way through the tombstones. Tree roots have broken through the old concrete in some places, making it dangerous to walk without looking down. Above me, in my peripheral vision, the sky is cloudy and gray, promising rain. I shiver at the chill in the air, and try my hardest not to imagine the bodies buried just beneath the surface on either side of my path, even though I can still see the mounds in front of some of the headstones. The crows constantly cawing from the surrounding trees do not help my feelings of unease; nor do the various statues, staring down at me with stony, mournful eyes. To get my mind off of Alfred Hitchcock, I focus my attention not on the mounds beneath the stones, but on the words carved into the stones. Hundreds of names and dates flash before my eyes and weave their way in and out of my consciousness. I am amazed at the dates on some of them, which go all the way back to the 18^th century. I wonder what their lives were like. Who were they? What dreams did they have? What goals did they pursue? What disappointment, sorrow, love and joy did they experience before death brought them to this place, to be buried in the ground and forgotten? I read some of their epitaphs and try to imagine what these words say about the person whose name that takes up half of the stone. "No shadows yonder, all light and song." "He touched many lives, and left with each of them a small part of himself." "Swing open the golden gate, and let the victor in." "Resting." Truth be told, I am not sure what to make of most of them; they just seem like hasty words printed in stone, and many of them are repeats of one another. Some of them are beautiful, though, and tug lightly at my heart.

 A cemetery is a place of death. It is the sacred ground where the shells of those who were once living are put away and buried, out of sight, under the ground. Those who dwell there will never think another thought. They will never feel another emotion. Their cold hands will never again move to smooth a fevered brow, chop firewood, or write a story. Their pale lips will never again part in song or discussion or confession of love. Their still feet will never again tread the paths of this earth. They are dead. There is no life in them, in these humanoid shells.

 And yet, in the midst of this death, there is life. There is the grass, strong and sturdy and refusing to die, even in the cold weather. There are the trees, tall and intimidating, speaking sorrowful stories of all that they have seen in their sad realm, and yet blooming and coming vibrantly alive each new spring. There are the crows, which, harbingers of death though they are, still live. And there is me, a young woman just starting out in life, winding my way among the tombstones. I seem awfully out of place, as the light of life burns brightly in me. I think thoughts and feel emotions. My hands swing freely by my sides. A song slips through my pink lips. My feet move along the path with ease. I am alive.

 Death, robed and hooded, stalks through the fields of this world; he reaps as he goes and takes from the earth those who were once living. Death is strong and all-consuming. There is no living thing which cannot be touched by it. And yet even death must yield to Life;.

 "Jesus said to her, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die…’" John 11:25

Unnamed Story Part 1

There once was a girl who could not cook. Really. I mean, she was physically incapable of cooking. Of course, she could throw some eggs and milk and flour and chocolate chips into a bowl and mix them up and put them in the oven; but her creations always came out tasting terrible like sandpaper or horse dung or some other awful and unedible thing. This non-talent was quite a detriment, since she happened to be the current cook-in-residence of the only inn in Pick-Axe Town, a small mining town populated only by men running from their past. However, none of the men could cook any better than she, so none of them complained; at least, not so anybody could hear them.

What they did complain about were her crazy mood swings. She had this knack for being the most expressive person in the room, but what she was expressing was the complete opposite of what everyone else was feeling. For instance, if someone had died in a terrible mining accident, had just gotten his head crushed and his body mangled by some cave-in and had died a slow, horrible, painful death where nobody could extract him in time, the rest of the town would be mourning for weeks. None of the men would speak much, nobody would eat, they would drink themselves into comas. But this girl, Janine, oh she would just sing and smile and glide about like a happy little elf attempting to spread her joy to the rest of the world. It was God-awful annoying. Then, if say the mining town struck gold, found out that their mine was the biggest and riches in the country and they would all be billionaires before they could blink an eye and would never have to work again another day in their lives, the men would all be rejoicing, eating up all the food in the Pick-Ax Inn, laughing rowdily and probably breaking into fights, and drinking themselves into comas, while she would complain and mope and break into random fits of sobbing. It was ridiculous. But, I can't say too many bad things about her, considering that she is my wife, and she WILL kill me - at least, she will if everyone else is in a good mood. You can't hear it, but I'm heaving an exasperated sigh at the moment. Somebody help me.

Anyways, that's actually not really part of my story, and it's probably a really crappy introduction. So, here is the real introduction. This is a story about me. My name is Nathaniel Benson Waternewski XXIII. I come from a long, proud line of Nathaniel Benson Waternewskis, all of which have owned successful inns across the country, and even across other countries. Waternewski Inns have always been some of the best in the country. In fact, during the time of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Nathaniel Benson Waternewskey XII, our inns monopolized the whole country. It was a proud time in the family history. On top of this, all of our men have served at least one term in the military, proving themselves as men and the hard workers that they are expected to be, and always have been. Our family trophy shelf has countless awards for bravery and courage, which all of my forefathers have won on the battlefield for their sterling character, hard work, and extreme manhood.

And then, somewhere down the line, something tragic happened to the family. I was born.

The Best Piece of Writing EVER Written (in my humble opinon)

In my opinion, the best piece of writing I have ever read is J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy. In his books, Tolkien creates an entirely new world from imagination, which he populates with creatures and lands never before heard of. Middle-earth and its inhabitants are not just flat things on a page; they have unspoken histories, secrets hidden deep in dark woods, and wild stories as old as the hills themselves. All of these elements make Middle-earth seem as real a place as the earth I live in.

            Tolkien is a master of word pictures. Although he, like Dickens, takes a long time to explain something, in the end I am able to see characters like Samwise Gamgee and places such as the Passage into Mordor as clearly as if they were right in front of me. I can feel the dirt coating my skin, see the distant fires of Mount Doom, hear the screams of battle, and feel the fear as Frodo fights with the sinister spider Shelob. Every detail is so vivid, and the words are so beautiful, that the feelings of what I read stay with me long after I put the book down.

            The themes of Lord of the Rings are also part of what makes this my favorite piece of literature. Courage in the face of ultimate evil, the shining of a light in dark places, and hope in the midst of despair are clearly portrayed in Tolkien’s trilogy. Almost every character in the books makes tough decisions, and many of them end up doing what is right, even if they know that in the end it will cost them their lives. At the end of the trilogy, though, it is clear that the good side, through determination and sacrifice, soundly defeats the evil side.

            Fantasy is my favorite genre of all time, so it is probably no surprise that the Lord of the Rings is my favorite piece of literature. It can be argued that Tolkien’s books about Middle-earth are the basis for every other piece of fantasy that has come after it, and I would not disagree. Perhaps that is why I enjoy them so much. However, I would be more prone to say that I enjoy them because they give me courage to follow God even into the pit of Mount Doom, remind me that even if I am not in the foreground I can still make a world of difference, and show me that I can still have hope in the midst of darkness.