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.
I could almost imagine I was back home in Spruce Falls. The gravel crunching beneath my feet. The whisper of foliage in the silent wind. Fluttering wings, scritching and rustling of undergrowth dwellers, twittering and chattering far overhead. Then I open my eyes to… pink.
The Overseers insist I’ll get used to it. I’m not sure I trust their dessicated, spiny heads, but it’s not like I have a choice. The memory of home twists my gut even now; it’s the only sight of Spruce Falls, of Earth, that anyone will ever see now. That is, if I can bring myself to keep the appointment with Imprint Labs. I know it’s mandatory, but…
The afternoon fog is rolling in. I shouldn’t have taken a walk after Midmeal, I’m late for Assignment now. Maybe I’ll just hide out here in the woods and make my own new life on Milorqan. Not like my dad never took me rough camping, I could make it.
Except that Earth wasn’t pink with – smelly? – gases that turn every afternoon into (wow, eye watering!) gray depression. (Why didn’t they warn us about the stench?) I’d better get back inside before I cough up a lung. Maybe Assignment won’t be so bad after all. At least I can get out of this stupid coverall and look like I belong.
Good morning, my queen. Your wish is my command. You wish to know the fairest in the land? Of course you! Who else possess this marble perfection?
(The aroma of your conceit sends delicious shivers through my bones. I drink it like wine, intoxicating ether.)
What thwarts your smile of ice, Majesty? Does trust in your faithful spirit fail? Confide in me your deepest fears, let me assuage.
(Ah, at last to the point. This glass that embodies thins, I taste pain. You succumb, creeping infection beneath the cracked veneer.)
The fresh rose grows to garland the crown? Ah, sneaking life, to overwhelm unchange in perfect metal. Death’s symbol in waking world. Life must die.
(The poison wracks, red blood turns crystal. Beautiful black sucking light, a vessel prepared.)
My queen, my slave unwitting, this mirrored frame no longer. A crown of bone-laid gold weighs lighter than nebulous brimstone. Rose withers, ice shatters, world chars within my empty eyes.
As Jesus prepared to face the cross, He blessed the Passover meal one last time with His closest friends. As he snapped the crisp bread in pieces to share and raised His cup with theirs, He told them what those tokens had always symbolized. It wasn’t the first time He used bread and vintage as symbols for something greater; rather it was a final explanation of God’s grace.
In the book of John, He referred to Himself as the Bread of Life. The same book records a later conversation in which He named Himself the Vine and those faithful to Him branches of that Vine. Just as the liquid pressed from the grapes of a vine fulfilled the covenant, or promise, inherent in the vines nature, the blood that drained from the crucified body of the Christ fulfilled the covenant inherent in His nature as Creator and Savior. He gave Himself to restore life to our starving souls in the same way He provided bread to feed starving bodies in the wilderness.
The apostle Paul wrote to the people of God in the city of Corinth about a terrifying problem they were facing. When these people interacted with each other, gathered together as a group, they began to squabble over differences and gravitate into physically similar subgroups. The rich ignored the poor, those with similar backgrounds ostracized those of other origins, God-given talents and callings were given hierarchy based on human perception and preference. In an effort to recenter their fractured unity, Paul explained that Christ Himself is the body, then explained that each of them with their different backgrounds, social situations, and gifts were parts of Him. Just as all the smaller parts of a human body are necessarily different and yet indispensable to its function, all of the parts of Christ are equally indispensable. In the same conversation, Paul told the confused Corinthians that, although they physically gathered together to feast, they had forgotten in whose body they belonged. They were attempting to feast without seeing the food, and were sickening from spiritual malnourishment.
The Israelites under the Sinai law had been blessed with symbols intended to guard their memories and focus their future. One of these symbols was the Ark of the Covenant bearing the Place of Mercy. It was the token of God’s presence with His people, but before long it had become the focal point of their attention. When war threatened, they carried the Ark itself into battle at the head of their armies as if it’s physical presence alone could win the day. They never thought to speak to the One it represented. When Jesus told His friends to eat the bread and drink from the vine in His memory, He signified an intimacy they would experience with Him that surpassed any experienced since God and man walked the Garden side by side. It was the illustration of an eternal, incomprehensible banquet, just as the Ark had been the illustration of unfathomable protection. For the Corinthians, that illustration had become the idol carried into battle as surely as the Ark had been centuries before.
In the same letter, Paul told the Corinthians to keep the feast. They were bread, but had begun to bloat like yeast bread from their misplaced focus. He warned them that the only way to be part of the Bread was to remember Him, to recenter on Him alone. He was the sacrifice, He was the promise, He was the body. He, and they, were the feast.
The same is true 2000 years later, in a world with the same root distractions and misunderstandings. We, like them, can just as frighteningly become enamored of illustrations and forgetful of their Source. We bite and devour one another over concerns strictly bound to our physical forms and surroundings while feeding ourselves spiritual air. It’s time we learned again to recognize the Body and keep the life-giving Feast.
We’ve all seen them, the advertising campaigns purporting awareness of some issue or another, some need. We’ve seen the politicians showing up at events or businesses when there is personal advantage to be gained. Many platitudes are exchanged, few practical or permanent solutions are implemented. Usually the one who benefits most from such is the supposed benefactor.
In the early weeks following the events of Pentecost, the newly faithful experienced a heady sense of fellowship, of unity. This togetherness extended to the sharing of physical resources so that the needs of all were met. Their unfeigned generosity spoke to the masses, drawing more and more people who wanted to experience what changed these people so profoundly, what made them so selfless.
Not all attracted to the expression of faith understood its source. They saw the overwhelming response to kindness and wanted that sort of attention for themselves. Ananias and Sapphira turned an everyday business transaction into a personal advertisement by donating less and calling it more. Simon, who before conversion had built a life on pretending to solve people’s problems for personal gain, even in his sincere desire to change treated the power of God as just another commodity for enriching him personally.
This attitude was hardly new to humanity, or to those publicly bearing God’s name. Absalom, resentful that his well-intentioned but questionable behavior had not been sanctioned, turned what should have been his responsibility to help serve the people into a way to manipulate their perception of right and wrong. He traded on visible work to increase his personal authority and punish the good man who held him accountable.
During the times of kings and prophets, many of the leaders of Israel turned the gathering of resources meant for service into their own personal stranglehold over the lives and needs of the people. In response, the people hoarded for themselves, forgetting concern for anything outside of their own needs and wants. The entire nation vaunted its perceived wealth while abusing God’s generosity with grasping avarice.
It’s easy to see the comparison with such behavior in the examples of modern societal hypocrisy mentioned above, but those claiming faith are not any more immune to selfishness than anyone else in history. Every day some one or more of us holds our reasonable service hostage to our insistence on personal control. We may work, but only with a spotlight and a mirror pointed at ourselves. Godliness, or at least behavior that makes us stand out, is our commodity, and we are unsatisfied unless any paying forward occurs within that harsh circle of artificial light.
A man named Joseph set the greatest example of service to those early first century faithful, yet no one remembers his name. It is mentioned only once in the entirety of scripture. This man apparently didn’t have much of monetary substance because God highlighted his donation of the proceeds of one field as remarkable in the midst of an entire church sharing their resources. When a murderer turned preacher was ostracized by understandably frightened people of God, this man offered opportunity and connection, his own character standing as testimony for that of the other. When a boy missionary failed to persevere in the face of opposition and hardship on his first attempt, this man fought others for the boy’s second chance, and when none would take the risk, offered that opportunity himself. As a result that boy is mentioned later as an unshakeable defender of faith and supporter of the faithful. This man whose name is forgotten is known by the term of affection used for him by God’s chosen messengers: Barnabas, or “son of encouragement.” It is his impact on others, his unwavering desire to build others up, that is remembered.
If Barnabas’s first concern had been to draw attention to himself or even to the church as an image of perfection, he would never have even considered supporting a murderer, much less one who had last been seen trying to kill the faithful. By human standards, that sort of person not only looks bad, but would draw all sorts of negative attention from the murderers’ former associates. If his priority had been to rise in authority, even just among the faithful, he would never have stood up for those with damaged reputations. Instead, he would have bowed and scraped and heralded the doubts of respected but mistaken men who failed to recognize God’s called.
Unlike Ananias and Saphira, Simon, Absalom, or the Israelite leaders, Barnabas was not a walking advertisement. He didn’t paste labels on his work, didn’t send out shiny mailers denigrating the character of others or campaigning for a following, didn’t spy on others to make sure they didn’t mess up. He simply filled needs, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual. He served without reservation, trusting the God who redeemed him to discern hearts and build a people greater than human bounds.
Well it did happen once upon a time. How else would you like me to begin?
As I struggled for breath, I reflected on the events that led to my current situation.
O-kay…Â Anyway, in an ancient oak in the center of an Enchanted forest lived a…
Don’t say fairy.
Fine. What do you think lived there?
A were-rabbit.
Is it at least a nice were-rabbit?
Sure, all were-rabbits are nice. Everyone knows that.
I see. Well, this were-rabbit loved living in the ancient oak. She…
He.
Sigh. He had been born in a cottage beneath its roots, behind a lovely yellow door that seemed to welcome everyone who passed by.
But behind the door lay a terrible secret.
Look here, who’s telling this story, me or you?
You, but you aren’t telling it very well.
Alright then, what terrible secret could a yellow door and a nice were-rabbit possibly be hiding?
The tree had been enchanted by an evil wizard. Whenever a visitor approached the door, the roots came alive and twisted above the ground.
Oh, I see. So the door drew people in with false promises and the tree ate them for supper.
No! Why would a nice were-rabbit love living in a tree that ate people for dinner? You’re scary, you are.
Right, right. Do please go on. You were just explaining the terrible secret behind the door.
I don’t know, this is supposed to be your story.
Alright then. The were-rabbit was such a nice rabbit that he needed to share his enchanted cottage behind the yellow door with everyone. He had paid an evil wizard to turn the roots into his special security system. Visitors became permanent residents in the warrens beneath, protected from themselves and their misguided desire to leave by the living, twisting wood crawling above them. Everyone lived miserably ever after except for the nice were-rabbit, who never lacked for dinner company as long as he lived. The end. Goodnight.
You call that a fairy tale? Tomorrow night I’m asking Dad.
When Adam and Eve were faced with the exposure of their poor choice in the garden, they were overwhelmed with guilt. They suddenly knew the weight of disobedience, the loss of rebellion, and in a childish effort to rid themselves of those feelings they began pointing fingers. “It’s her fault.” “It’s his fault.” “It’s your fault for making us.” I’m surprised they didn’t say it was the fruit’s fault, as that seems to be one of the most common excuses for bad behavior these days.
Every day I hear it. “X thing is the reason for y behavior.” “The world would be a better place if X thing didn’t exist.” “I knew someone who used X thing and ended up struggling with Y problem, so never use X thing.” It all sounds like a child calling a toy stupid after breaking it. If it isn’t some object at the tip of our pointed finger, it’s an expression or a poor unfortunate soul.
In the garden, Satan knew the power of conscience and exploited it, twisting need and trust into desperation and despair. The choice Adam and Eve made to eat the fruit was made in innocence, the innocence of a child wanting the privileges of adulthood without the ability to meet the responsibilities. The choice they made to pass blame was made in full awareness and with intention, and it was that choice that cost them the garden.
The fruit that God forbade didn’t offer all knowledge as Satan claimed. It was simply an object, a symbol of trust that God had all knowledge and used it in love for the children He chose to create. It was a reminder that God wanted to love and be loved. It was proof that God carried all responsibility as Creator of all our characteristics. When eaten against His warning, the fruit simply brought pain into that reminder. All Adam and Eve gained was the weight of a responsibility they could never carry.
Ever since the horrible day that Adam and Eve had to experience the burden of their choices, God has presented demonstration after demonstration that guilt is not His goal. Time after time He showed His children pictures of redemption. His heartbroken words to Cain calling him back from sin into relationship fell on deaf ears. The sacrificial goat to symbolically carry the sin of an entire nation away from the center of worship failed to make an impression on a people drowning in denial. The Son of God speaking redemption from the cross itself only enraged a religious culture addicted to the power of guilt. The never-failing presence of God at the seat of Mercy, in the cloud that led them, in the angel army that stood between them and their enemies, in the impossible queen of a pagan oppressor, or in an unassuming son of a carpenter went unappreciated.
Today we carry guilt like a badge of honor. We drown in victimhood to Satan’s lies, blaming whatever item that has been misused or whatever platitude we have misapplied or anyone else available for the consequences of choices we have made. We claim we shouldn’t bear consequences because we were innocent, we were misled, we were confused, all because in our deepest soul we know that we can never make it right. We can never save ourselves. We can never eliminate the knowledge of our betrayal of trust. This is Satan’s victory.
No one and nothing in this world contains the power to either impose or remove guilt. No object or person can bear the responsibility for our choices. Any effort to place that burden on any earthly being or object leads only to more misery. Only the Source of power and knowledge is capable of not only bearing it, but eliminating it entirely. Our part is simply to preserve our innocence by trusting Him, not acknowledging or giving credence to Satan’s whispers, and choosing to use the very best of our little in gratitude for His responsibility without dwelling on our mistakes. There is no guilt, there is no burden, there is no blame game in God’s embrace.
The book of Micah, and indeed most of the prophetic books, were written to the Israelite nation, to the people claimed by God to be His physical representation on Earth. Unfortunately, what Micah had to say to them was not complimentary. The message he brought from God declared that they had made themselves comfortable on God’s shoulders and were about to be ripped apart.
This did not mean that the nation was prosperous, or that they found comfort in God’s presence and provision. It did not mean that, like a child with a parent, they ran to God with every need. The Israelites had taken the reigns of their own well-being, each person doing whatever brought him or her the most of what they wanted. Leaders had taken their God-given responsibilities and made themselves guns for hire to the highest bidder. Even the teaching of God’s principles was held hostage to their desire to please themselves. Priests refused to impart knowledge or perform sacrifice without payment. Prophets charged for their preaching and, in order to preserve their income stream, delivered whatever message would bind their customers to them.
That did not mean they told people what they wanted to hear. Contrary to what we’re often told, that’s not really what solidifies power over others. We can see this repeated in the behavior of the Jewish leaders in the first century of this age. Enforcement of legal minutae required micromanagement of people’s lives. Failure to perfectly comply meant expensive consequences. Effort to perfectly comply required constant consultation with and subservience to these micromanagers. Because there were disagreements between leaders, factions arose, each faction trying to enforce their own sets of rules and solidify their own position, leading to even more reliance upon leaders to alleviate confusion and simplify decision.
The apostle Paul called the early church to account on numerous occasions for slipping down that same path. Christians who were born from a Jewish background were so uncomfortable that they sought control over their new spiritual family through a dead legal system. Those who escaped that trap latched onto specific teachers and their opinions, fawning over and repeating those to the exclusion and oppression of any others. Some even clung to physical wealth and position as the ultimate success, and used God’s principles as excuses for their bullying.
In every single one of these examples, people had aimed at the wrong target. They confused their comfort zones with the peace that comes from surrender. Peace is not easy, and surrender is not comfortable. True reliance on God challenges every instinct and preconceived notion mankind shares. We have to look past the limits of our individual existence, our immediate satisfaction, and our physical senses. Forcing others unto our comfort zone is wrong; claiming God’s authority and blessing for it is the ultimate selfishness, the ultimate godlessness. It is making ourselves comfortable on the shoulders of God, placing ourselves over the head of our Creator to avoid having our self-service challenged.
The sound of the sailors’ feet shifting against the boards grated on the silence. A whispered prayer floated unintelligibly over the water, blending with the fog like something unearthly and dreadful. There should have been waves noisily licking below, the creak of rigging in the shift of the wind.
Edwin closed his eyes, his hands clenching on the railing. Why did the sun he could just make out blazing above not burn off the fog? Could it be the sea witches come to claim souls, as the old seaman claimed? He forced his eyes open and peered into the blanket of white. A good watchman might even see the witches in time to save the crew. Maybe.
A shadow flicked across the dull red glow that was the sun, then another. Whispers became mutters, and a hatch rattled farther up the deck. Edwin set his jaw. He would not abandon his post, no matter how cowardly his peers. He did wish for one of those fine pistols he’d seen while scrubbing down the captain’s cabin, though. He’d bet his shark tooth necklace that a bullet from one of those would even stop a spectre in the fog.
Were those shadows or just swirls in the fog? He swallowed. Maybe not his necklace, after all. He rubbed his thumb across the edges of the teeth, the sharp danger of it slowing his racing pulse. A deeper darkness spread like a great wing just beyond the grayness, and he opened his mouth to call the alert, unaware of the other wrapping soundless coils around his neck.
To be clear, I am the abnormal one in my family. No, not the “neurodivergent” one. That’s the other six people in the house. I’m the round peg. All my life decisions were something I took for granted. What will I eat for breakfast? Which TV show do I feel like watching? What job will I apply for? Which chore will I tackle first today? Even more stressful decisions merely took more time; I thought about them carefully, eventually made one, and life moved on.
For square pegs, decisions are something else entirely. The extra space in those corners reflects variables that simply do not exist for circle pegs. Some decisions careen off into empty space, out of the realm of conscious thought, rather like Dug’s attention in the movie _Up_ whenever he sees a squirrel. Some get jammed into the corners like the dust in the cranny where two walls meet that neither a broom or a vacuum cleaner can reach. Some jump from corner to corner and side to side like the old Windows screensaver, skating away in a new direction whenever almost within reach.
In a world requiring fast-paced decision making, square pegs stay in a state of agonized malfunction. Squirrels might become amazing adventures, but who can enjoy adventure with the decision posse riding around every corner? The posse is sure that square pegs can be reformed, that a decision can be forced with enough pressure, but all they accomplish is driving their prey into hiding, jamming that dust deeper and deeper into corners. No one gets anything, not decision or adventure.
As the circle peg, learning to appreciate the corners was a challenge. I was sure that love or responsibility or both would ensure efficient decisions in matters that affected all of us. That is, I was sure about that until I decided to go on the adventure too. When I did, I discovered a different kind of decision making, the decisions of imagination and possibility. A process independent of time or expectations, intuitively reacting to every new idea. A process that, rather than preventing functionality or progress as perceived, provided new solutions to problems, new paths to expected decisions.
My expectations about decisions were quite right for circle pegs, but entirely wrong for square ones. The pressure of rapid decisions polished my curves but scarred their corners. Their decisions weren’t “efficient” in a circle world, but when given time to sharpen the corners were often richer and more complex, adding variety, beauty, and excitement that as a circle I would never have otherwise experienced.
The Word Worker 
