The Joy of life is God, Family, and Books. And, of course, Dragons.
Author: wordworkerrussell
I'm a homeschool mom of five, three girls and two boys. I'm a daughter of the King who works hard to keep her family living as close to God as we can. God created a world perfectly designed to provide everything we need, and designed us to reflect Him throughout it.
Writing is my happy place. I have always loved stories and words because they express the human spirit so beautifully. A story can speak many messages, each received by the reader as needed or understood by individual experiences. I hope that my stories, both true and fantasy, speak to you in some way.
Photo taken and edited by Becky Strike, Oak Alley Plantation, LA
He stared down the well groomed brick walk, his worn pack slipping from his shoulder to land with a metallic rattle. His torn, mud-stained uniform was a sore thumb against the impossibly manicured lawn and the milling people nearer the big house.
A woman in skintight pants, of all outlandish costumes, skirted around him with a sidelong glance. A little girl in garishly combined colors jumped up and down and pulled a man’s sleeve; he heard her ask as they passed why he was dressed in such weird clothes. He raised an eyebrow, locking eyes with the open-mouthed child until she lost interest and skipped on toothed road.
The road was all wrong, as well, and shining contraptions sat in neat rows near it on what should have been the cane fields. At least savory smells wafted from the big house. Maybe he could fill his empty stomach while he figured out what was going on.
If only his head didn’t feel so muzzy. He must have had fever; he really didn’t remember how he got back to the plantation. What had he been doing? He flushed with shame at the flash of memory. Cannonfire and screaming men, rivulets of blood polluting the rainwater churning under patched boots. A welcoming hollow in an ancient oak, just waiting at the edge of the field. Curling into a fetal ball with head wedged between his knees and hands locked white knuckles behind his head as battle faded into nothing. Then he was standing under the great oaks of home, only it wasn’t home. It was a nightmare.
Most babies and toddlers are given toys involving various shapes that fit in specific holes. The purpose, of course, is to develop the reasoning skills to match like items. Usually young children are fascinated by this physical, concrete challenge and will try and try again until they master the toy.
Unfortunately, we do not often carry that same enthusiasm over to the more abstract challenges of human personalities and traits. We attempt to press all into the same hole, regardless of what shape each individual may take. Any sharp corners, any odd protrusions, are labeled with ominous sounding letters and either bullied or medicated into invisibility.
Our family happens to possess many such inconvenient differences, some shared and some unique to one or another. Those traits have exerted prominent influences on everyday life recently, causing enough difficulty that we have had to call attention to certain differences in efforts to overcome. A few days ago I overheard my children at the lunch table discussing their differences. “I’m OCD.” “I’m ADHD.” I’m Anxiety.”
Although it’s hard to avoid absorbing some of that attitude from society in general, we as a family do not approach differences in that way. We took the time that day to redirect our thinking. These letters are not who we are, they merely describe a small part of ourselves, a part that makes us unique. Because those corners don’t fit in the prescribed hole, others see them as weaknesses to be eliminated. Instead, when we find the correctly fitting hole, those assumed weaknesses become great strengths. The perfect circles can’t fit into our holes anymore than we can fit into the circular hole. We possess something others do not and must learn to use our unique traits for their unique purposes. Only when all the shapes in the puzzle find their matching hole can the puzzle be complete. Only when each individual embraces and directs uniqueness into a fitting pursuit can a society function as a whole.
Thunder rolled, a deep rumble that drew all eyes to the mountain. Clouds gathered to darken the peaks, lightning punctuating the unending noise. The glow of fire began to turn the roiling shadows red, flickering tongues of flame piercing the billowing waves of black. Invisible shofars reverberated in the air as the watchers clapped hands over ears in pain and terror. Men and women fell to their knees as the earth rocked beneath them. Then came the words, the unavoidable voice that held all rapt: I am the Lord your God.
The walls rose white in the sun, reflecting its brilliance over the descending streets of the city. Gold crowns at pinnacle and gate held what seemed to be the pure flame of God Himself, drawing the notice of every citizen as they went about their daily business. Thin trails of smoke rose from the inner courtyard as the priests offered the daily love offerings of individuals seeking God’s presence. The sound of singing echoed from the inner walls of the outer court and drifted to the ears of passersby, drawing them in to join the celebration. The entrance bustled with activity, the lowing of cattle vying with the calls of shepherds as excited citizens prepared for the coming feast. Already pole frames were being erected, with piles of branches and rugs near each, ready for the week’s commemoration of the wilderness years. Levite servers bustled about, children racing through the streets stopped to stare at the gleaming temple in innocent awe, while their parents sang snatches of psalms and chattered about tales of days gone by. All eyes drifted often to the towering brilliance, and whispered prayers of thanksgiving accompanied joyous smiles.
Stone by stone the great pillars rose overhead, soaring to the vaulting arches and crystal panes of the impossible ceiling. Light filled the space, reflecting from the polished buttresses as if they held the light of God within themselves. Standing on seamless stone tiles far beneath that glow one could imagine oneself within the walls of Heaven, breathing the breath of God. The voices lifted in song echoed from above, mimicking the heavenly choirs unheard by mortal ears. Eyes could not remain earthbound, but soared upward seeking communion with God Himself.
The colors blended together, casting shadows from painted lanterns that seemed to hold light unbound by physics. The bowed head of a woman, cradling the linen ready for the coming of the child, carried the anticipation in the pains that already cramped her womb. The man, almost formless in her shadow, holds the pent-up breath of every passerby gazing on the image. The great empty road in front of her, lit by the lantern yet somehow sliding the eye back to her waiting figure, gleams of possibility. When will the Savior arrive? Will the couple, chosen to provide the simple human life He will lead, find shelter in time? Like the figures frozen in the painting, breath stops in every throat watching, waiting with them.
Color washed across the sky, particles of light playing a silent symphony against the atmosphere. A ridge of white marked the edge of darkness as the last rays peeked above the banks of clouds. Below, a haze of yellow fire blazed like the glory of Heaven itself. Eyes and hands lifted in awed worship.
Over and over God has focused His people. His inspired writers told how over and over He drew their minds and hearts back to Him using grand architecture, beautiful music, inspired artisanship, captivating stories, and shocking displays of power. Over and over those writers spoke of His intention for worship being an offering of man’s entire self, a connection with all that God is in order to lift mankind out of the physical realm into the spiritual one. Over and over He has entertained the souls of His people within Himself.
Voices rise in stirring melody, singing words of praise to God. Sounds of music tremble in the air, quickening the heartbeat and wakening souls to touch the Father. Hands lift and heads bow as the weight of the Savior’s love crushes resistance.
Stories are told of hopelessness banished, lovelessness redeemed, helplessness relieved, or evil vanquished. Beautiful things, films about simple joyous themes, and music reflecting love and life wake souls to God’s presence and draw their eyes from the sorrow of darkness to the joy of His light. They entertain toward faithfulness.
It was unique among the dwarf cities, his window. None of the nether people could understand why he had insisted upon its installation when he inherited the throne of Dor. It had cost him more deepsilver than the coffers could well support, and if Olor ever let leak his methods of obtaining the required amount he would be deposed by a unanimous council vote.
He didn’t regret it. If there was no other benefit, the advantage of throwing every dwarf ambassador off guard the moment they entered the throne room would have been worth it. Dwarves hated the open spaces of Above without the comfort of stone protecting their heads. Even the illusion of exposure made them nervous, and they could barely present their petitions and platitudes between glances at the moon rising behind them in the great glass arch.
He had come to Dor as an orphan and fought his way from nameless tunneler to respected aristocrat with his wits and ore fragments hidden in his beard during his shifts in the mines. He’d always been good at secrets, even bigger ones than the black market, and no one had ever caught him sneaking up the airshafts for a glimpse of the sky. And although many commented on his unusual height, no one ever guessed his deepest secret.
Born on the surface to a human mother, he had lived a strange life halfway Nether and Above. Torn between the comfort of the caves and the glory of the sky, he had never truly belonged with human children who swiftly outstripped him in height but remained children long after he gained full strength. When his mother died, he embraced his dwarf heritage and joined his father’s people. Only then did he realize that he would never belong. Power alone would allow him excuse to be different, and so power he took.
Frog and Toad are best friends. When one gets into trouble, the other is always there to rescue him. When one has a problem, the other is always there to help him solve it. Whether planting a garden, cleaning a house, or trying not to eat all the cookies, neither does anything without the other. Everything becomes an adventure when they are together.
This book is a timeless classic portraying childhood, innocence, and friendship. My seven year old learned to read with Frog and Toad, and they are still his favorite book friends. What child hasn’t impatiently waited for seeds to grow or pretended not to be afraid of something scary? Your children will laugh, learn, and grow right along with their new amphibian friends.
Genesis 2:7 (CSB): Then the Lord God formed the man out of the dust from the ground and breathed the breath of life into his nostrils, and the man became a living being.
Since the garden, humanity has continually rejected our origin. We seek to exalt ourselves, worshipping our own ideas and creations in twisted self-absorption. Isaiah condemned physical Israel for this very thing.
Isaiah 2:7–9 (CSB): Their land is full of silver and gold,
and there is no limit to their treasures;
their land is full of horses,
and there is no limit to their chariots.
8 Their land is full of worthless idols;
they worship the work of their hands,
what their fingers have made.
9 So humanity is brought low,
and each person is humbled.
Did you notice that he said Israel was brought down through being full of their physical lives? By worshipping what they perceived as their own accomplishments? They were God’s nation, they wore His name for the world to see. They were chosen to be full of God Himself, but they had forgotten Him. Oh, they carried out the temple rituals, never missed a festival, and knew the law well enough to weaponize it against each other, but they had forgotten Him. They were full of themselves instead.
We live in a time when human propensity for self-worship is on blatant display. Humans arrogantly hold patents on God-created organisms and promote their own derivitive and inferior work as the answer to all problems. We divide into parties and subparties based on opinions we uphold as fact, and bash our fellow humans about the head with principles we refuse to actually embody.
Self-worship is to be expected from those who reject God openly, and God spent time in scripture rebuking them, but most often His scathing words were directed at His own chosen nation. Unfortunately, though His nation is no longer physical, those who claim His name haven’t really changed. We say we trust Him, we say we’re devoted to Him, but when it comes down to a choice we choose humanity’s creation and ideals over God’s.
Isaiah’s words to Israel about this behavior were poignent. Isaiah 2:22 (CSB): Put no more trust in a mere human, who has only the breath in his nostrils. What is he really worth?
Remember Genesis 2? All we have really is the breath in our nostrils, and that is His as well. His breath is the sole reason for our existence. We accomplish nothing. He created everything. Without Him, we are worthless piles of dust. With Him, we are simply the breath in His nostrils.
No one would ever have known it was there, in that tiny retreat from the bustle and concrete tucked in a cluster of apartments. No one remembered that before the garden, before the apartments, before the city, it was there. The city rose around it from apocalyptic waste, slowly but determinedly reclaiming the destruction.
Once walls had surrounded the artifact, high impenetrable walls guarded by marines armed and armored with the pinnacle of military technology. Then budgets and memories failed. First guards then walls disappeared, redirected to new pursuits and construction as civilization marched onward to cover the past. Still it remained, an unimposing but immoveable relic of forgotten death.
Eventually the city overtook it, and a developer born into Upper End luxury fancied it to be an old broken fountain. It became the centerpiece of nostalgia, a hodge-podge tribute to the geometric tranquility of the ancient English garden incongruous between siding and palmettos of The Southern Age as discovered by archaeologists. Birds and lovers alike twittered about its intricately molded layers and cooling sprays, pretending to know of times far before memory.
Until the day the topmost fountain ground to life and the birds flew away. Iron screamed against iron and gears long unused turned layer after layer, settling each within the other until all rested in the base with a click. And they came to repeat history, the hordes of destruction, pouring from the lock to scour the Earth clean for another beginning.
The Star-Belly Sneetches hate the Plain-Belly Sneetches and enforce strict segregation. The Plain-Bellies are understandably unhappy until a stranger shows up with a very special machine and promises to fix their problem by giving them stars. Unfortunately, the real problem proves to be deeper than marks on bellies, and the stranger’s machine wreaks havoc on Sneetch society as they race each other to preserve the status quo.
This classic by Dr. Seuss is a great way to teach kids the destructive nature of hate, as well as how superficial our differences really are. In this particular volume it is accompanied by stories like “What Was I Scared Of?” and “The Zax,” highlighting the silliness of being ruled by selfishness and fear. Kids will giggle with delight at the goofy rhymes and zany characters, all the while absorbing principles that will make them compassionate, empathetic individuals.
There’s a running joke that the day after Christmas all the moms blow their stacks. Let’s face it, we all know the feeling of waking up to the piles of empty boxes, wrapping paper, and new toys that don’t fit anywhere. That’s why this year I can’t wait for Trash Day.
I don’t mean the day the trash can gets picked up, although that’s pretty important. Actual Trash Day requires an empty can ready to be filled. Before all the empty boxes get thrown out, the house gets purged of all the old clutter. The kids will sort through their rooms for unappreciated or broken toys and “treasures” that no longer hold value to them. Mom and Dad will declutter closets and corners that hold unnecessary collections.
This year the clutter seems worse than ever. Perhaps less space is available as the kids grow; clothes do take up more and more room. Perhaps we’ve simply hit several developmental leaps at once as we leave preschool for good, discover hidden talents, and surge inexorably toward adolescence. I’m leaning toward the latter, as most of the piles seem to be supplies for various growing interests.
As much attention as I am paying to physically cleaning out old things, the things represent something much more to me. The last few years have delivered many struggles along with the lessons to be learned from each. As a result our lives seem to be cramped and overflowing inside trappings and constructs that we have outgrown. As we physically fill our trash can with discarded things, we mentally shed our old selves in order to make room in our lives for new ideas and new beginnings.
Many people make New Year Resolutions in an effort to set their lives on track. Most find themselves unable to keep such contextless promises to themselves because they have no room. We make no special resolutions here; instead, in Trash Day we experience a completely fresh start.
The Word Worker 
