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.
It was the worst excuse for a map I had ever seen. Trust Lin to come up with something like this. Too much imagination, not enough sense, that girl.
That square might be the airport, I thought. Or if I was holding it upside down, maybe it was the fairgrounds. Given the giant question mark in the middle, I wasn’t holding it upside down.
What was that question mark about anyway? Who uses punctuation on a map? Lin would probably call it a challenge, but seriously. I just want to get where I’m going, not waste half an hour and twenty bucks worth of gas playing guessing games.
Next time I should probably just ask for written directions. Although, knowing Lun, she’d find a way to make that just as pointless. Could a map be written in poetry? If not, she’d probably try.
I wadded the fake parchment with unnecessary vigor and tossed it into the back seat. Time to ask for directions. “Excuse me, could you direct me to Knight’s Row? It must be, I’m supposed to look for the fourth gate west of the Great Hall. No, I’m not trying to be funny. Wait, come back! Hey, I just need directions!”
The address, Lin. Next time, just tell me the address.
My youngest turned five this week. It’s an odd feeling to realize my last baby is now officially school-age. I thought about trying to throw a big bash to mark such a momentous occasion, but with all the fullness of life we have going on right now that just wasn’t gong to happen. Fortunately she had other ideas.
Birthday traditions in our family are pretty simple. At first it was a matter of being newly married and poor, then having small children and poor. But then it became something so powerful and precious that we could not change it. At first it was a box mix cake decorated the best this unartistic mama could manage in the birthday kid’s favorite theme of the year. Five dollars worth of tablecloth and paper plates to match the cake. Family only. As the kids got older they started wanting to help with the cake, and the tradition evolved into me doing the baking and providing materials for a cake topper while they decorated the way they wanted. However the cakes might have looked to outsiders, to the kids they were birthday masterpieces.
This past December our tradition underwent a new evolution, one that is proving to be the most precious of all. My oldest learned to bake, and with that knowledge begged to make her younger sister’s cake from scratch. She baked, the birthday girl decorated. Today we had the third birthday since this new development. Our days of boxed cakes are over for good. My days of creating the magic are over; I’ve been relegated to the rank of supplier. Instead, I watch my children excitedly creating their own magic, working together to produce a vision of their own imagination. I get to watch them make unforgettable memories.
A man owed billions of dollars to his employer. As a minimum wage earner, his chances of paying off such an astronomical debt were nonexistent. His employer, in an attempt to recover at least some of his money under the laws of his country, decided to sell the man and his family as slaves and sell off the man’s property. The man begged for time, promising to pay the debt despite insurmountable odds. The employer, knowing the situation and having deep sympathy for the man’s plight, decided that even that great sum of money was not as important as the man’s life and decided to wipe that great debt from the books as if it had never happened.
The man’s future had been saved, and he should have recognized the enormous opportunity he had been given to start fresh with a new outlook on life. Instead, he assumed an overimportant, entitled attitude, physically assaulted a fellow minimum-wage employee who owed him a few thousand dollars, demanded that every penny be paid immediately. When the other employee could not and begged for time to pay the debt, this man furiously and unreasonably had the other jailed until he would agree to pay the full amount.
When the employer heard what had happened, he was furious. He had given this man a chance for a future that he could never have under the weight of his crushing debt, and instead of taking that chance, the man had taken it as a sign that he was better than others and entitled to whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. The employer reinstated the debt, called the police, and had the man arrested for embezzlement. Instead of having a future, the man would now spend the rest of his life in jail, without the opportunity of repaying even the smallest portion of what he owed.
In the beginning God created a perfect world, setting humans born of his own breath as its crowning glory. Instead of appreciating this incredible gift, humans decided they needed more and destroyed God’s perfect creation. Much like a financial loan that accrues interest the more time goes by without full payment, humanity continued to pile sin upon sin on a debt far greater than any financial obligation we could ever accrue. Two thousand years ago, on a wooden cross covered in His own blood, God wiped that debt from the books as if it had never been.
What do we do with this incomprehensible gift? I fear that most of the world behaves like the employee in the story. Rather than recognizing what an opportunity has been given them to rise above the petty desires of this world, rather than gratefully passing on the relief from this crushing weight of spiritual embezzlement, they waste their liberty in abusing humanity and demanding what they feel entitled to have. No obligation in this world, no imaginable slight on earth, could possibly come close to the spiritual obligation cleared by the gift offered on that cross, yet we become petty tyrants rather than relinquish any claims on our fellow humans.
Selfishness did not produce the result the employee in the story desired. Rather than getting everything he wanted and thought he deserved, he lost the opportunity to have anything for the rest of his life, and died with the insurmountable debt marking his name. Selfishness will not serve us either. Our jail will not be a physical one, and will not end with the death of our bodies. We will be tortured for eternity, with our debt to our creator burned into our consciousness as a constant reminder of what we threw away. Why would we choose such a fate for the sake of temporary and unfulfilling gratification, when we have been gifted a future worth more than the entire universe, a future we could never achieve on our own? Why would we waste the gift of our forgiven debt?
“Look there,” Dagda pointed out suddenly in a hushed voice. “Be quiet and move slowly; try not to draw eyes to us. With any luck we’ll slip by unnoticed.” I followed his gaze to see a pair of dwarves supervising a small group of what I could only assume were elves. Another pang of disappointment rewarded my observation. These elves were slender with the pointed ears I expected, but they were far from beautiful. Barely taller than the dwarves, they were unkempt, with tangled hair flying wildly around their ears. They fawned at the feet of the dwarves, who appeared to be giving orders with the aid of blunt spears used to poke and prod any unfortunate elf who did not please them. The elves were sullen as they tended the trees in the orchard under the scowls of their masters.
As we passed uncomfortably close to a small group working near the road, one elf who was heavily laden with what appeared to be a bucket of dung tripped over a root and landed hard on his belly with his face in the bucket. The dwarves roared with laughter, insults indistinctly heard even at our distance, and prodded the poor fellow mercilessly until he rose to his feet. One even thumped the unfortunate creature over the head with a spear point, producing a yelp of outraged pain. A scowl covered the elf’s face along with globs of manure and a trickle of blood from his mouth where he apparently had bitten his tongue, and without warning he dumped the entire contents of the bucket over the head of the closest dwarf. The dwarf, stumbling about yanking on the bucket now stuck on his head, howled with rage, and other elves ran to the support of their fellow laborer, gabbling angrily. We tiptoed by, slowly moving from tree to tree just off the road to try to escape notice.
Lise’s eyes darted back and forth in the dim light under the trees. Jole was always following her around, but she didn’t want to share her find with her loudmouth little brother. Sure she was alone, she ducked under the hanging moss hiding the strange pod and its contents.
The bones were merely a curiosity; scraps of material that crumbled at a touch held no meaning, though she did run her antenna over the hands. What possible use could require the use of five fingers? No matter, she had seen stranger creatures.
It was the box that she came for. The lock was simple and old; nothing a quick finger circuit couldn’t shock open. Inside was a roll of some thin stiff substance, cracking with age despite being protected in the box, and covered with what could only be a map. Lise had seen one when she snuck inside the council bore; a whole cycle of silence had been the price of that indiscretion. This one didn’t look right, though; the outlines were far bigger and more wiggly than on the other.
Beside the map was the strangest device, like a small box except covered with gadgets that spun and clicked under her fingers. She dropped it with a alarmed purl when one side flew open and whatever had been inside scattered as dust over the square objects beneath it. Carefully she pulled them out, wondering at the images on their smooth faces. Nothing like them grew anywhere near her home; surely such things were nothing but fever dreams of a creative. Still, her eyes drifted to the five-fingered creature’s remains and the odd looking map. What if they weren’t?
ecclesia – translated “church” in English language Bibles – a summoned assembly, a gathering of people for a purpose
“And I also say unto you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not over power it.” Matthew 16:18
“He will lift up a banner for the nations and gather the dispersed of Israel; he will collect the scattered of Judah from the four corners of the earth.” Is. 11:12
“Knowing their works and their thoughts, I have come to gather all nations and languages; they will come and see my glory.” Is. 66:18
“As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” Jn. 12:32
“…you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God (the heavenly Jerusalem) to myriads of angels, a festive gathering, to the assembly of the firstborn whose names have been written in Heaven, to a Judge, who is God of all, to the spirits of righteous people made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood, which says better things than the blood of Abel.” Heb. 12:22-24
“Be on guard for yourselves and for all the flock of which the Holy Spirit has appointed you as overseers, to shepherd the church of God which he purchased with his own blood.” Acts 20:28
“Greet one another with a holy kiss. The churches of Christ salute you.” Rom. 16:16
“…all the churches of the saints…” 1 Cor. 14:33
“We want you to know, brothers and sisters, about the grace of God that was given to the churches of Macedonia…” 2 Cor. 8:1
“And he subjected everything under his feet and appointed him as head over everything for the church…” Eph. 1:22
The spiritual gathering that belongs to God is never named or given a title. It is simply described as being individuals in any place who are drawn into the common purpose of belonging to and serving God. In scripture, it is most often not even qualified, but simply referred to as the gathered (the church).
What image comes to mind when you imagine a person who likes origami (the art of paper folding, in case someone doesn’t know)? I can tell you I did not envision my nine year old son’s face. I was wrong. I’m not even sure how he was exposed to the idea, but for about two weeks now he has been rapidly draining our supply of construction paper.
His usual approach to tasks is wildly haphazard. Impulsive is an understatement for his personality. This new interest in origami has shown me a side of him I have been desperately trying and failing to find. He used the search engine on the old phone our kids use as a tablet to find instructions for folding ideas he dreamed up, read them carefully, and followed each step with painstaking care and accuracy. On his own he realized that construction paper isn’t square like origami paper and carefully measured and cut to create his own squares. Our house is filling with paper dinosaurs and weapons.
As parents and teachers, often we have a tendency to pre-judge our children. Daydreamy, wild, stubborn, unfocused, the list of paper boxes we create continues. We wrap our own ideas and expectations around our children like bubble wrap in preparation to ship them off into the world we recognize, ensuring they can’t move or bounce around as if their value might go down for a few scuffs and bruises.
The truth is our children are not commodities to be packed into paper boxes and shipped in whatever direction we choose. They are beautiful, unique, and surprising souls, folding their own lives into the image they choose. Sometimes they will fold incorrectly and leave marks on the surface of their lives. Sometimes they will cut or fasten in the wrong place, leaving nicks and scrapes. Sometimes their delicate constructions will be dropped and stepped on and have to be reinflated and smoothed. Sometimes they will fashion themselves into many different forms before discovering the exact set of folds required for the structure they are meant to have. The finished product will have been wrinkled, folded, torn, stapled, taped, glued, and crushed, but without all of that, it could not be the unique masterpiece of a human soul.
My breath caught in my chest. Was it possible he had heard my silent scream? My fear hadn’t lessened, but somehow my need directed it outward. Dagda had said to use my feelings rather than letting them control me. I kept my eyes on the Eimlach and begged wordlessly. He didn’t move, but shreds of music began to separate the gray.
I turned my attention inward, listening with every fiber of my being. The Eimlach’s eyes bored into mine, the sneering laughter of the vampyr fading under the swelling, unifying song in my mind. I didn’t realize I had begun to sing, words that I did not understand, until my hands began to tingle. I lifted them in front of me and watched as the notes shaped a great sword, unsheathed and deadly sharp. Movement around the room pulled at the periphery of my vision. The giants moved, slowly stirred by the battle song.
My eyes returned to the Eimlach, whose lips moved with the words of the song though little sound accompanied them. I turned slowly to find Dagda and Balhon watching. Balhon lowered his head and a whirl of red light streamed from his horn, wrapping itself around me and the Eimlach, seeking the Eimlach’s warriors. I could feel the heat of its intent; fight, it said, fight for your lives! Dagda stood, sword drawn and ready, seemingly as tall and mighty as the Eimlach himself. His smile to me glittered through the retreating gray and the swirling notes in my mind.
I whirled back as the Eimlach’s voice boomed suddenly behind me, his deep bass joining my girlish tones as he heaved himself to his feet, face still gray but with color quickly returning. A sword twice the size of mine formed in his hands, and the other giants in the hall stood and joined the song. Dagda shouted the windows open and both the song and Balhon’s red-hot light flowed into the city.
The sun crept over the hills, its deep shadows still heavy on the path to the tomb. The women bringing oils to preserve the body of their teacher halted transfixed by the sight of the seal rolled to the side and bright rays breeching the darkness within the cave. The broken body taken in grief from the cross and gently laid to rest behind that seal only two night before was gone, and as they turned in confusion the One who made use of that body stood before them, very much alive.
The ground around the temple still stank with the blood of the many Passover lambs blessed and slaughtered there only days before. The Levites still worked frantically to mend the great curtain dividing the seat of God’s mercy from the nation who awaited it. Two disciples struggled to quiet breath ragged from their headlong rush to see the empty tomb for themselves, only beginning to understand that they had stood beneath the shower of blood on the true seat of mercy as God offered Himself as the final Passover lamb.
As crowds flooded the city for the great festival of harvest, the friends of Jesus went home to Galilee. There the Living Sacrifice met them on the shore where they worked and waited for something they did not fully understand, and brought them back to the site of His Altar. There, in the garden where His first drops of blood spilled, He allowed them to see Him ascend like the smoke of the offering to His rightful place as the Receiver of the Offering.
As the sun rose on another festival morning, worshippers ascending the temple mount were drawn away from their dead sacrifices by the expression of God’s presence over a humble house within the city, where the friends of Jesus received the gift of His life. For the first time since Mt Sinai, God showed himself to His people in a new Holiest Place, the hearts of those who loved Him. For the first time since Mt Sinai, the temple stood empty as the Living Sacrifice blessed the beginning of a new harvest.
The tomb remains empty. The temple has long since been destroyed. The harvest continues. The undying Lamb still shows Himself every day to those willing to see the power of His presence and walk in the light of an eternal festival morning.
Dagda led us to an inn near the edge of town. The door, large enough to accommodate the tallest of giants, was made of solid oak planks, heavy and impenetrable. Fortunately for us, a smaller door was set into it, still solid and heavy, but with a latch that was accessible to smaller beings like humans or Tuatha De. Dagda lifted the latch and opened the door to a huge room filled with light and people.
A centaur, his human torso wearing a linen shirt and an apron that hung to his knees, approached us as we entered. “Welcome, Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, rubbing his palms on his apron before extending his hand. Dagda grasped it with a warm smile, and the centaur pulled him in to slap his back with the other hand, towering head and shoulders over him. “It’s good to see you again, my friend!” They turned to us. “Balhon you know, of course. Kizi is the one sticking her tongue out at you from beneath his mane. And this is Selene. Selene, meet Khirrafi, the best innkeeper in all Fae.”
“Nice to meet you, Khirrafi,” I acknowledged, examining the centaur with interest. In all the fairy tales and legends, creatures like centaurs and giants were spoken of as fierce, terrifying warriors. I had never considered them as people, with families, homes, and occupations. Yet there was Khirrafi, his dark skin and long straight hair looking not at all incongruously civilized. A leather thong tied his hair into a braid down his back, and grease stains adorned his apron.
He smiled broadly at me and bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine, Chosen,” he responded. “Whatever you need is at your disposal with my compliments.” He turned to Dagda and Balhon with a similar bow. “You as well, my friends.” Kizi twittered, an indignant note in her voice as she propped tiny hands on her hips in midair. Khirrafi laughed suddenly, a guffaw that startled me and drew momentary attention from half the occupants of the room. “As for you, mischievous sprite, mind your manners and refrain from annoying my cooks and there will be a sweet treat for you!”
The Word Worker 