Child – The Word Worker

Blog Thursday Prompt: The Kettle

“It’s not my fault! The kettle began it!”

“Please, do go on. How exactly did the kettle begin it?”

“Weelll… it just sat there so… so… sitty!”

“I see. It was ‘sitty.’ And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

“Sitting is just so boring! How could it just not do anything?”

“So, you decided to make it do something.”

“Everything needs a little nudge now and then. All I did was fill it up with water.”

“Mm-hmm. And the kettle appreciated that, did it? Got up and danced a jig, I’m sure.”

“No! It just sat there drooling out its spout! Disgusting! I turned the stove on to dry it out.”

“- – -“

“What?! It started grumbling at me, and it just kept getting louder and louder. I told it to calm down but then it started screaming at me and smoke came out of the spout!”

“Imagine that. So you thought…”

“Obviously it needed some private time to adjust its attitude so I covered it with a towel.”

“Naturally it reacted well.”

“I guess it was dryer than I thought. You do always say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

“I wish I could deny that.”

“Well, obviously I couldn’t let the kettle burn the house down, so I blew on it as hard as I could. Candles have much better attitudes, by the way.”

“I see. And that’s when you finally called me?”

“Yeah! That kettle needs to go to jail for arson! That’ll teach it what happens when it’s boring and stubborn.”

“I have a better idea.”

“What?”

“Stay away from the kettle.”

A Child’s Mite

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Once when Jesus was teaching in the temple courtyard he watched people coming to leave their tithes in the treasury boxes. Apparently that had become something of a show, with large amounts being brought. I imagine that, considering Pharisaical policing of detail, a great deal of arguing and haggling over correct calculations occurred around the temple gates where the boxes stood. While all that display was going on, a beggar woman entered the courtyard. A widow with no family to care for her, she belonged to the ranks of the needy for whom those treasury funds were supposed to provide. She quietly moved to the boxes and dropped in two mites, tiny copper coins that equalled a fraction of today’s penny. When Jesus praised her faith as an example to his followers, He pointed out that those tiny coins were all she owned yet she offered them for others.

This morning my eight year old son dug into his wallet for money to give. He brought out a handful of wadded cash, including a ten dollar bill that I knew was a treasured possession. I asked him if he was sure, if he knew what was in his hand and really wanted to give it. His response was immediate. “Oh yes, I want to put my ten dollar bill in!” When the basket was passed, that ten and a few ones besides went in accompanied by a delighted grin. The almost empty wallet went back in his pocket and occasioned no further thought from its owner.

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Like the widow, my little son depends entirely on others for his needs. The money in his wallet is carefully hoarded from birthday gifts or “pay” for helping family members. Opportunities to increase that little stash are few and far between, but that never even entered his mind. In his mind, the money placed in that basket is a gift to God, and he wanted God to have all of it.

Both the widow and my son understood that something much greater than their mite covered their needs. They knew that God’s love holds far more power than a handful of cash or any physical wealth. In the simplicity of that trust, no room existed for questions or calculations. All that they thought of was what they could offer in love. What they truly offered was not two tiny coins or a ten dollar bill, and their gift filled more than a single moment. They offered a faithful heart and filled eternity with it.

Kizi

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A ray of sunshine peeked into her nest, softened into a pink glow by the delicate petals beginning to unfurl over her head. She blinked in wonder, and yellow dust clung to the green tufts of her hair as she raised her head from her flowery pillow. Gossamer wings fluttered from her back, unexpectedly bouncing her into a curving petal.

The flower wobbled on its stem, and lavender eyes blocked the light. A giggle followed, then the bud was pulled open by two pairs of hands and a gentle breeze from a dozen sets of wings blew the pollen away. She reached up to touch them in delight, but her own wings waggled, lifting her unsteadily from her soft bed. She spun in jerky circles trying to see them move until, dizzy, she clung to the tip of the bud and panted.

One of the watching sprites flipped headlong through the air and blew a raspberry in her direction. Another zipped after him, yanking a lock of hair and folding its own arms with a frown. Kizi giggled and covered her mouth in glee at the mocker’s predicament. She narrowed her own eyes and focused on making her wings do her will. With a wobble, she rose into the ranks of the sprites, who welcomed their tiny new sister with dizzying acrobatics and a chorus of chuckles that set every bird in the grove singing.

Visit https://books2read.com/u/baDgr6 or https://www.amazon.com/Chosen-Heather-N-Russell/dp/B09BF7W792/ to see more of Kizi in _Chosen_, the first installment in the Magicborn series.

The Corner

It wasn’t beautiful, the corner of Cedar and Walnut. In fact, whatever planner decided to name the streets after trees must of have had some twisted sense of humor. No forest could have less to do with the dirty, dingy gray of metal and concrete.

Despite uninviting appearances, the bench at the corner was always full. Pedestrians couldn’t seem to resist its invitation. Sometimes they paused there with coffee and sandwiches from the warmly lit shop on the other side of the concrete wall. Mostly they just sat and read, chatted with strangers who joined them, or smiled with thoughtful eyes that saw anything but the noisy bustle of city streets.

They called it Le’s Corner in the neighborhood. Most didn’t know why, but the old man who ran the shop spoke the name with moist eyes. He ran trembling fingers over a faded black and white photograph of a tiny girl. Even in the aging exposure her eyes lit up the room, and her smile seemed just for me.

He had made the bench for her when he was just thirteen. She had loved people and spent more time talking with passersby than playing with the toys neatly arranged upstairs. Baba had even said that she kept the shop open because no one could resist stopping to visit with the sunny child and often passed the time sharing a cold snack or the warmth of a hot drink.

Everyone knew her name, and she knew theirs. Visitors would be brought to her corner as if to a temple or a great attraction. No one noticed surroundings when she sat on her bench; light and color seemed to emanate from her and soak into everything.

When she was gone, people came for the memory. They brought their children for quiet chats, who came out of habit and comfort as they became adults. Le’s brother fed them all, and her picture hovered like a shining star over the corner.

Mr. Meanie

“I was yelling at Mr. Meanie! He just WON’T! LEAVE! ME! ALONE! I can’t do anything right anymore!”

The above came from my tearful, sobbing seven year old son. He had thrown his playthings and rushed to his room growling like a cornered tiger. To an outsider it might have looked like a temper tantrum, but tantrums are intentional and controlled. In that moment my son was helpless, trapped by his own mind and desperately screaming for help. This is the face of OCD.

My son is bright and beautiful. He can build anything he can imagine with Legos. He knows more than I ever realized existed about dinosaurs. He loves Godzilla and could probably provide sound effects for the movies with his imitation skills. He has a gift for finding the lonely and offering love. He adores his little sister and, though they fight like cats and dogs, will demolish anyone else who dares to offend her.

One tiny part of that beautiful little brain malformed. A section of neurological wiring has a short. Thoughts that feel like his but are not, unbidden and unwelcome feelings, and unwilled behaviors originate in that shorted out, alien knot. Chemical help can mute them to a whisper. Therapy can provide strategies for working around the shirt in the wiring. Nothing will ever make them go away. His whole life will be a battle with Mr. Meanie, the alien inside.

For now, we turn off the lights and snuggle on the bed, his head on my chest and his hand clutching my arm. Worship music plays from my phone, his choice, soft and soothing in its reminder of a love that bears his pain. He doesn’t fully understand it yet, but he can feel it, and his tension fades. We have quieted Mr. Meanie. For now.

Book Review: Princess Scargo and the Birthday Pumpkin

Princess Scargo loves all living creatures, especially those that live in the water. One day, a neighboring chief sends her an amazing gift, a huge pumpkin decorated with carvings of all the land animals, and filled with a miniature lake stocked with fish. Princess Scargo spends many hours caring for and talking to her new pets.

Not long after, a terrible drought begins to destroy her tribe’s food source, drying up all the ponds and streams. Though the tribe does everything they can to preserve their land, only Princess Scargo and her pets hold the secret that can avert disaster.

This book is an adaptation of a well-known Native American legend. Many versions of the tale can be found, but none as delightfully innocent and childlike as this. Children will exclaim over colorful illustrations, and their imaginations will join Scargo in a culture long forgotten.

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!

Book Review: On Mother’s Lap

My babies may be just a little too big for Mommy’s lap these days, but that doesn’t stop them from enjoying the magic of this book. On Mother’s Lap is about a little boy who wants all of his favorite things to share his favorite place.

Michael and Mother rock and rock on a cold Alaskan afternoon. One by one Michael adds his favorite toys and his snuggly fur blanket. Mother’s lap is cozy and perfect, but when baby sister wakes up will there be room for her too?

This is such a simple little story but one that sweetly captures the relationship between mother and child. The beautiful full page illustrations submerge the reader (and the listener) into Michael’s world and let us feel what Michael feels. As a side note, I love how the little details in the story place us inside a world that is very different from our own while demonstrating something that makes all people everywhere the same. In a world that seems determined to divide and hate, this type of subtle connection is so important for our children to experience and absorb.

The Worldkeeper

FB_IMG_1589547926891 She was so small, a child really. The oversized case she lugged in her thin hand looked as if it could have pulled her to the ground like an anchor. Her hair draggled down her back, unbrushed dirty blonde, the remains of braids tangled at the base of her skull. Unlike other children, she stared at me rather than my balloons. “I am Lila,” she said, owl eyes boring into me, searching my depths for who knew what.

“What is in your case, Lila?” It was a strange question to ask a stray child, but she was strange. There was no air of the waif about her, despite the ancient undersized sundress that barely hid her frail body. And yet she didn’t seem to belong to any of the families playing on the sand below.

She blinked at me, head cocked to one side. “Oh, that’s my treasure,” she said, not a trace of a smile on her ghost of a face. “I carry them with me to keep them safe.”

My forehead creased between my eyes. “Them?” I asked. “What exactly do you have in there? Will you show me?” She seemed so innocent, but so disproportionately old. Prickles rose under my hairline when I looked at her, but I could not call my unease fear.

Lila laughed and shook her head, more strands of hair stringing from the leftover braids. “You wouldn’t be able to see anything!” she exclaimed, as if that should have been obvious. “Only I can see, because I am the keeper.”

“Does that mean someone gave you something to take care of?” I wondered. This unearthly girl was hardly a likely candidate for that, I thought. “Your mom or dad? Or maybe a grandparent?”

“Oh no,” she answered, her tone matter of fact. “I collected them.”

“From where?” I was beginning to feel suspicious, but I could not drag myself away. Her eyes, still fixed on me, held a fascination that I could neither explain or resist.

“Oh, wherever I find them,” she said thoughtfully. “I found one in a dandelion once.” She continued to stare at me.

“What exactly do you look for?” I stammered, fidgeting. I clenched and unclenched my empty hand behind my back, the other clutching sweat-slippery balloon strings.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just know when I see them that I have to keep them.” Her gaze finally shifted to the balloons, but unlike other children, she kept her solemn expression.

“Would you like a balloon?” I asked, feeling like it was my day for lame questions. Without hesitation she pointed to an entwined bunch of yellow, blue, and striped spheres. “Yes, I need those three,” she announced.

I carefully extricated them from my hand and gave them to her. Without a word she hefted her case and set off down the road away from the beach. “Wait!” I called after her. “What treasures do you keep? I have to know!”

She turned and smiled for the first time and glanced up at her bunch of balloons, then back at me. “Why, worlds, of course!” And as she walked away, the balloons aloft over her head, for a moment I actually saw them.

The Frost Bubble

FB_IMG_1577495577958 Nevaeh blew through the wand, her breath white in the crisp air. I shivered, wishing I had taken the time to grab my coat before following Nevaeh out here. Despite skin the color of chalk and deep hollows in her cheeks she seemed unbothered by the cold.

Moving ever so slowly, she touched her bubble to the icy railing. The tiny feathers of ice that crept around it’s circumference seemed to be drawn from the chunk of ice filling my chest. They mirrored the blue lace of veins marking my daughter’s bare skull, the chill reminder of a fragile life.

Nevaeh laughed with innocent delight, for the moment forgetful of weakness. She clapped her hands and I wondered at the normal sound. I could almost have expected the clacking of bone, but not yet.

She stretched one finger to gently touch the feathery surface, only to see it crumble beneath her hand. Her sigh seemed to deflate her like the bubble, her strength gone like that of a frost fairy in spring. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuffled back inside as a single frost feather brushed my cheek.