Inexorable

He had lived his entire life in its shadow. Gazing up its sides with jaws agape like the tourists he ferried. Losing himself in the whispering roar of its invisible flow.

His boat had been a favorite; no one knew the glacier like he did. Every pop, every boom, was a message. His passengers returned again and again for the thrill of watching the birth of icebergs, the formation of bridges, and the crumbling of secret worlds.

When not on the boat he had walked the white expanse of its surface. He could walk the same path every week for a year and never become bored. Crevasses opened and sealed. Turquoise pools formed and drained and left intricate honeycombed tunnels that summoned impotent longing. Caves appeared and just as magically vanished again as snow became ice and slid to its eventual doom.

Ten years ago he had ferried his last load of gasping, camera happy tourists. His body, like the ice, cracked and moaned under the weight of time passing, and at eighty-two, the crevasses in his memory formed honeycomb of their own. But he remembered the glacier. She had been the love of his life. He had pored over her ever-changing yet changeless face every day for sixty years, extolled her unpredictable beauty to hundreds of thousands who marveled with him. He remembered the glacier.

Mama’s Terrible, Horrible, No-good, Very Bad Day

We all have them. The days that you know you should have just stayed in bed. Instead you dragged yourself out of the comfy covers and made your sleepy, grumpy kids follow suit.

The day that your morning prayer with the kids is an exercise in desperation because in the ten minutes you’ve been awake you’ve already fielded ten fights. The day that not even prayer lifts anyone’s mood. The day that the simplest of breakfasts takes half an hour to prepare because mood.

The day that someone didn’t turn the dryer on bit washed another load so wet laundry sat in both washer and dryer all night. The day that you used every pot and pan in the house to make last night’s dinner but you don’t own a dishwasher so you have to wash them all by hand. The day that you have to remind the kids a hundred times to do the most basic of chores.

The day that it’s ninety by mid-morning and the kids, who begged to go outside, won’t stop running in and out because they’re hot. The day that ocd rules and adhd rages. The day that someone pulls a dozen books at once out of your freshly straightened bookshelf.

The day that you decide to paint your kids’ bedroom because you spent two days making sure it was spotless, only to find that you might as well have saved yourself the two days. The day that you realize you can’t paint a straight line after committing to stripe the room in three different colors. The day that an inexplicable puncture appears in the bottom of your paint can while you are standing on a chair holding it several feet off the ground painting the top of a wall.

The day you finally give up and plop on the couch to watch people on TV have bad days. The day you decide to wait for a new day to clean up after this one. The day you decide to blog about your troubles because really what else was there to talk about? Yep, we all have those days.

Book Teaser: The Confrontation

Despite the distance, I approached Dracul far too quickly and my heart pounded at sight of him. His skin was bloodless and translucent, revealing blackened veins beneath. His head, with only a few greasy tendrils of hair clinging to it, was topped with what appeared to be a rough leather turban, the fur worn patchy and nondescript. His body, lean and bony, seemed swallowed in a ragged cloak of the same material, tossed back over one shoulder in the warmth of the sun. His nails were longer than those of the other vampyr I had seen, less broken but filthy, and his eyes gleamed yellow like a wolf’s eyes. He had turned from the battle and watched my approach, lips parting in a feral glee that revealed yellowed but terrifyingly sharp fangs. Around him a circle of dead foliage that reached into the tree line and dimmed the sparkle of the crystals at the cliff’s edge testified of his nature.

“Ah yes, the little human,” he hissed, his voice slithering into my ears like a snake. His nails clicked against each other as he waggled his fingers in obvious satisfaction. “At last you have come to me. They always come, don’t they?”

I glanced around, startled, thinking to see another vampyr, but could see only the three of us. Confused, I faltered and hesitated, just at the edge of the dead circle. “Who always comes?” I asked. “And why should they?”

He cackled, an unnerving sound of dry leaves and branches shaken by the wind. “Who can resist my charms?” he hissed, stepping toward me. “My power! Who could defy me?”

“I know many who have not succumbed to you,” I argued, setting my chin. “And some who have broken free from your influence. Where is your power now?”

His lip curled and his oily brows knit together. “A pitiful satyr so unfortunate and witless to find himself caught? So young as to be swayed by the manipulations of a girl?” he sneered. “A giant king of a dwindling kingdom, unable even to hold his own daughter’s loyalty? What are they to me? Dead and buried in their own weakness.”

“They are not so insignificant,” I insisted, silently willing my heart to stop pounding so loudly. “They are the beginning of the web unraveling. You are stretched too thin.”

He sniffed. “Overconfidence is unbecoming in one so young,” he snarled. “What do you know of power, girl?”

Glitch

“Hey, Job, you’re glitching again.” Mara’s voice came through the neural transmitter. “What’s up?”

“This uniform doesn’t fit,” Job’s voice sounded tinny. “The collar has restricted blood flow and the shoulder seams are in the wrong place.” His shoulders twitched repeatedly, and one finger ran first left, then right, then left again under the thin collar, pulling it out of shape.

“The uniform is one solid piece, specially made to form fit,” Mara reminded him. “And you don’t have blood.”

“I cannot perform properly.” Job’s voice thinned farther. “My sensors are certain this uniform is wrong. I must have a new uniform.”

“Job, the uniform is not the problem.” Mara checked her feed. “Run a self-diagnostic immediately. These readings are out of balance; you need to find the source.”

“Uniform is sh-sh-shutting down central p-p-processing.” Job’s voice broke and stuttered, and he ripped at the collar of the uniform. “M-m-m-must cha-cha-“

“Manual override, freeze program,” Mara sighed. “Run full diagnostic on all Job circuits. Not just sensors this time! All circuits! This is the fifteenth test run; clearly the central processor is affected because he’s had a different glitch every time.”

“Unfreeze program.” Mara watched the robot press its cheeks until the face clicked open. “Job, put your face back on. Disconnecting your main sensors is not going to fix your processor. Oh good grief, you’ve done it anyway.”

Going to the Circus

Let’s go to the circus, Leo! I want to see the elephants dance, don’t you? And the pretty ladies on the big swings! Those are my favorite. I ‘m gonna be one of those pretty ladies when I’m big. Cause I like to swing, too! Don’t you like to swing, Leo? Maybe tomorrow you can swing with me.

Maybe they’ll let you be in the circus. I bet you’d be the best lion they ever had. Don’t be scared of the guy with the big black rope that makes loud noises. He won’t hurt you. He just has to make everybody think he will. You just roar and wave and we’ll all clap real hard.

Do you think there’ll be clowns? I’m kinda scared of those. They smile weird. They do make fun balloons, though, and I like those. Maybe, if you hold my hand really tight, I won’t be scared when a clown gives me one.

Can you see the big tent yet, Leo? We’ve been walking a long time and I’m tired. I thought we’d get there faster, didn’t you? I’m hungry, too. I bet Mommy has some animal crackers. Let’s go home and have some. Then all the animals can be in our own circus! Won’t that be fun, Leo? Come on, let’s run!

Ruts

My husband and I love to go fourwheeler riding. Anyone who does any kind of off-road riding knows that trails develop because they have been driven over. Someone found a way through the woods or whatever terrain and others followed the tracks because the first person proved that path was passable. Enough vehicles pass that way and the dirt packs too hard for plants to grow, leaving an obvious dirt road. Dirt turns into mud, tires plow through it and dig channels, more tires follow the same channels because obviously the first guy didn’t sink there, and the ruts get deeper and deeper.

At first it seems so much safer and easier to follow the same path that everyone did before you, but eventually something else happens. The ruts get deeper while the ground between them stays the original height. The tires going through the ruts carry vehicles, and eventually while the tires could go through the ruts the vehicle frame can’t make it over that middle hump. It’s stuck. The tires keep spinning but the vehicle doesn’t move.

The only way a stuck vehicle is going anywhere is being pulled out by another vehicle. Sometimes the process of being pulled out breaks important parts on the bottom so the vehicle doesn’t run anymore. Suddenly using those established ruts became very expensive and caused a whole lot of trouble for more than one person. The problem is usually fixable, but going the easy established way isn’t easy anymore.

Sometimes life can be like that. It’s so much easier to just follow established paths without really paying attention. It’s what everyone else is doing, so why change anything? We don’t even notice we’re in the ruts until we’ve sunk ourselves so deep we can’t go forward or backward. When we finally manage to get out of the roubles we caused, often we are so broken we still can’t go anywhere and the need to heal consumes the time we could have used to reach our goals.

Don’t follow the ruts.

Follower of Jesus

Have you ever thought about the disciples of Christ as human beings? People just like you? Can you recognize the following descriptions based on what we know about them from scripture? Do you recognize yourself? Might Jesus have called you if you lived in first century Palestine?

  • A blue-collar worker, impulsive and outspoken, trying to support a family, never quite staying ahead of expenses, fed up with oppression and ready to fight for king and freedom
  • A blue-collar worker, lives with his brother, searching for more of God than religious leadership offered, ready to trust, focused on political freedom from oppression
  • A blue-collar worker, co-owner of a family business, hot-headed, loyal, ambitious, honest, deep thinker, likes things simple
  • Seeking more of God than religious leadership offered, a good friend, excited to follow God, eager to bring more people with him, focused on physical solutions to problems
  • A slow listener, loyal, skeptical, unshakeable once convinced
  • Ambitious, materialistic, black sheep of the family, considers God expendable compared to comfort and success, unsatisfied
  • Proud of ethnic heritage, fierce proponent of independence from oppressive political system, militant political activist, trained fighter, rigidly adherent to the religious system passed down from previous generations
  • Ambitious, selfish, lacking conviction, dishonest, disloyal, belatedly regretful of decisions, convinced of hopelessness
  • Naïve teenager, committed to future of poverty and hard work, rule follower, trusting, condemned by society
  • Possessed by multiple demons, outcast from society, unable to function, desperate
  • Housewife, hospitable, focused on making a good impression, respected in the community, constantly busy
  • Leader, teacher, rigidly adherent to religious structure, secretly conflicted, sincere, afraid of society, cautiously hopeful
  • Soldier, leader, loyal to the ruling political system, unaware of God, desperate for help
  • Classically educated, financially well off, militantly religious, respected by religious leadership, committed to serving God, murderer, hateful

Something about each of the above was changed by contact with Jesus, but not everything. Often what seems the worst traits became great strengths; other times, the worst traits became the catalyst for great service. What will you let Jesus do with you?

Book Teaser: The Dragon

When I did see it, I would have screamed if I could have breathed. I no longer heard the waves or felt the wind, and the sunset faded into nothing. Dark red scales and black horns filled my vision. The scrape of a leather belly against stone drowned out every other sound. I watched, frozen, as the creature I had seen in the map crawled yard by yard out of the spire.

The head was massive, with arm-length black spikes rising above nostrils and eyes, fangs as long as I was tall showing through snarling jaws. More spikes, longer than my arm and wickedly curved, fanned out from the back of its head to protect a thick, sinewy neck. The neck rose high above the spire then snaked down as a razor sharp set of claws scarred the stone. The intense chalkboard sound set my teeth on edge and stabbed my eardrums; I choked down a scream of pain. Another set of claws joined the first, and two muscular legs heaved the creature’s body into full view. The thing spread leathery wings, extending them so wide to blot out what remained of the sun. It reared up, a black shadow against the darkening sky. The wind from the movement of its wings nearly knocked me from my perch and I knew my time was up. I stabilized myself one last time as the creature threw its head back and roared.

The bellow was like nothing I had ever heard. It was as if all the stones in all the mountains in all the world fell in one great living avalanche, grinding and cracking against each other with a sentient voice. Flame spewed from its gaping jaws, a raging volcano spitting and splashing its molten death into the air. I could see very little in the deepening dusk, but answering roars and sparks lit up other crystal columns with a horrifying frequency. I had not yet been seen, but my strength was gone and there was no time to waste.

Book Review: There Was an Old Monkey Who Swallowed a Frog

Remember that old woman who swallowed a fly? This zany monkey takes her appetite to a whole new level with a slew of odd decisions, starting with a frog. A host of jungle animals (and a dancing mango) parade in silly formation into the old monkey’s stomach.

This book is a delightful new twist to an old favorite. Kids cackle at every new meal choice. The repetitive verses make a hilarious read-aloud. The wacky illustrations add another level of fun as each animal eaten is given its own unique personality, and they all seem to have a party inside the monkey’s expanding stomach. Wouldn’t that give you a belly ache?

The Square

It was an odd place, cobblestone streets and medieval plaster houses confusingly paired with modern storefronts and colorful canvas awnings. Agatha loved it. Every birthday and anniversary, she insisted we have lunch at the little bistro on the tiny mishmash of a square.

The city had long since turned the houses into a retirement village, which meant that the crowds tended decidedly toward the downward side of the hill, if you know what I mean. I asked Agatha on one birthday somewhere in her early thirties why she preferred the square to any of the popular and romantic downtown spots. She said she couldn’t think of anything more romantic than the square.

Agatha loved watching people, and I loved watching her, so I rarely saw what she saw. But that day she made me pull my chair next to hers and look out over the square. She showed me the couple at the next table whose wrinkled fingers entwined as they sipped black coffee from plain mugs. She showed me the elderly man pushing his wife around in her chair while she chattered excitedly about the window displays in the little shops. She showed me the three sisters with bobbed hair and oversized handbags who made the same round of the square every day, just for the chance to be together.

For thirty years she made me promise we would retire to the square. She never saw her wish come true. Today would have been her 65th birthday, and for thirteen years I have ridden the elevator from my fourth floor plaster-walled apartment to sit under the green umbrella in front of the bistro. Now I watch the young people who occasionally visit, wondering what they are thinking, what Agatha would have made of them. They are different these days, yet the same. I wonder if one day that boy with eyes for only one person will sit here fifty years from now, and hope that bright-eyed girl he adores will be holding his hand over a mug of coffee.