Tag: Destiny

Kingdom

Throughout history, people have defined themselves by physical boundaries. We have the God-given need to draw together for support, companionship, and productivity. Nations form based on common location, following leaders who either appeal to a common goal or claim power to exert their own desires on others. As goals change and leaders die, these boundaries change to create new nations, and new leaders rise along with them.

This is the nature of the nations of the earth. Like castles made of sand, the physical bonds chosen by humanity can be molded or erased at will. The waves of time, selfishness, and fear are capricious, and even the most elaborate of structures are not immune to their destructive power.

As humans we tend to cling to our castles in the sand. We work hard to build them, we put much of ourselves into them, we identify ourselves by them. This is not a bad thing, it is part of our nature. But because we do this, often we place far too much importance on human leaders and human systems. We begin to see humans as saviors, as gods to rescue us from ourselves. We insist that our systems of government are divinely favored, and that any opposition must be from the devil.

Only one physical nation ever had that distinction, and it’s time was divinely limited. When its purpose had been served, God Himself saw to its downfall. He spoke of its demise hundreds of times for hundreds of years before the fall, calling attention to the greater kingdom of which it was a part and which would only be clearly seen when it had dissolved.

The true kingdom, the only castle that can never be washed away, is not defined by boundaries on a map or by physical systems of government. The Law that governs it is not defined by laws encoded by humans. Its King will never die or be overthrown; He rules both life and death, and directs the footsteps of humans whether they will or no. The true kingdom is not and will never be a place; it is a bond between the heart of God and the hearts of those who recognize His eternal sovereignty.

The greatest of earthly leaders may possess that bond as well as the poorest citizen. The true kingdom is unique in that only within it will equality ever exist, yet it possesses greater diversity than any human system could ever achieve. Its citizens reside in every nation, it claims individuals from every culture and with every physical trait within human dna.

Unlike physical nations, its borders are immovable and unbreachable. The only way in is on the King’s Highway, and the road signs are planted in bedrock. Unlike earthly leaders, the King cannot be bribed or threatened. He simply IS. Unlike systems created by humans, its goals will never shift and no laws need ever be encoded. The King and the citizens are so closely bound that the citizens naturally embody the character of the King.

Because this kingdom is in the hearts of humans rather than defined by physical boundaries, every nation and every society is inevitably influenced by it. Nations and societies that seek that influence naturally encode systems that reflect its Law, and because the Law is the nature of the world God created those societies prosper. Nations and societies that seek to destroy that influence defy the Law of creation and inevitably fall. Sometimes, the former become the latter and fall; other times, the latter become the former and rise.

Whatever the sandcastle or the wave, the citizens of the kingdom have one responsibility. We must root ourselves in the bedrock and stand while sand and foam beat upon us and scour the beaches clean around us. We must become the foundation upon which the next castle may be built, the bulwark against the waves.

“All flesh is like grass, and all its glory like a flower of the grass. The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord endures forever.” I Peter 1:24-25 CSB

Dark Star

Her sisters already framed the night sky, swirling gently into the place reserved for them by Zeus. Only she remained, already touched with the stardust of the light she would become. The light she had not chosen.

The grasses crushed softly under her bare feet as she walked slowly across her mother’s pasture, their scent drawing agonized tears to her eyes. If she joined the others in the globe of the heavens as commanded, would she ever smell the sweet scent of life again? How could this be protection? Why could not Orion be cursed to travel the heavens, far from his beloved forests and the game he sought?

Her sons were so young, only millennia yet gifted to them. Especially Lycus, so impetuous and headstrong. He was his mother’s son, she thought, a quick smile chasing stardust from her face. He would take what he wanted, she knew, but without her guidance he would never escape the consequences. After all, had she not learned from her father’s fate? Some battles could not be won by force, only by wit and cunning.

Yet even she seemed unable to win this one. Celaeno, the daughter of the mightiest Titan ever to walk the earth, would be banished forever, while her tormenter remained free to choose his own fate. The stardust thickened and she clenched transforming fists around the folds of her now radiant gown. “I will never be a star!” hung voiceless in the windless night as a seventh light joined the circle above.

Book Review: The Trumpeter of Krakow

A legend of quiet courage becomes the centerpiece of a tale of adventure and intrigue in this lovely classic. The Hejnal, still played to the broken note in St. Mary’s today, plays only a minor role in Kelly’s story, but is a symbol for the goodness and innocent courage in the hearts of Joseph and Elzbietka. Two children on the brink of adulthood, they are plunged into a private battle begun hundreds of years before they were born.

Joseph’s ancestors have for centuries guarded a secret, a crystal to which the ancient scholars attributed mystical powers and whose beauty rivals that of the purest gemstone. Now their secret has been discovered, and danger threatens their precious charge on the eve of its fulfillment. But the children have a secret of their own, one created as a childish joke but that may prove the salvation of both the crystal and Joseph’s family.

Although written nearly a century ago about an age long past even then, this book is a timeless example of the human story. I love The Trumpeter as a read-aloud, even for young children. While the more formal writing can be difficult for younger readers to decipher on their own, when read aloud it breathes life into the characters of a time long gone, transporting listeners into lives they could not otherwise understand.

Doorman

The floor undulated beneath me, its checkered waves lifting me although I could not feel a surface under my feet. I wasn’t sure I even had feet; I couldn’t seem to find myself. The door hung from nothing, stood on nothing, with light streaming through it from some unidentifiable source. A Fedora sat on top of it, incongruous and yet belonging.

“From where have you come?” The light flickered with every word that hung heavy in the blackness like a star.

“What are you?” I would have gasped, but could not find my lungs.

“I am the Doorman. From where have you come?” The stars increased and yet lit nothing.

“Um, Earth?” I would have swallowed, but could not feel my tongue. “Small town USA?”

“What is your purpose here?” The stars began to coalesce into nebula, filming the blackness with cloudy light that could not obscure the Doorman.

“I don’t know.” I would have shaken my head but the muscles had vanished. “You tell me, I don’t even know what here is.”

“Where are you going?” The light behind the Doorman intensified, searing into my unprotected soul.

I would have covered my eyes with my hands if I had possessed either. “I wish I could tell you. Where do you lead?”

“You have asked correctly.” The checkered waves froze, the fedora vanished, and the door opened.

The Healer’s Daughter

FB_IMG_1592766229369It was her favorite spot, a tiny gem hidden at the base of a cliff where almost no one went. No one except herself. Her mother had shown it to her when she was just a little girl, barely old enough to be trusted on the narrow path down. It was the secret of her mother’s success as a healer; the herbs and fungi that grew down here were especially potent.

Now her mother could no longer safely walk the path, and the task of harvesting was hers alone. It was the one time a week that she could be completely alone, far away from expectations and women’s chatter. The only sound was the soft fall of the water into the pool, and the light which filtered through the heavy canopy turned leaves luminescent and created glittering jewels in the spray.

That she would be a healer was unquestioned. Thanks to her mother she knew every remedy and could find the best and rarest. Her mother’s secret recipes had long been committed to memory. She had no quarrel with her destiny; it was, after all, a much freer life than that of the girls sent to the matchmaker by the time they were of age. And as village healer she was by law protected from a fate far worse, the fate of those who caught the eye of the nobility. She had seen them, their white painted faces devoid of expression above their opulent robes. No feeling or identity could remain in that life; such would destroy a girl more surely than the demands made of her.

No, fortune smiled upon her, and not even the basket heavy with living treasure against her shoulders could make her sorry. She must put other wishes from her mind and thank the ancestors for smiling upon her. But she could not prevent his face from appearing in her mind one more time.

The Lamplighter

FB_IMG_1591483602188He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.

The Fountain

FB_IMG_1590514269688The river was placid and cold, wide against the narrow horizon.  The deepening autumn chill had turned the trees a bright orange that lit up the river brighter than a forest fire. He set his boots against the rough rocks that formed the bank, the crunch of stone against stone amplified by the surface of the water.

He felt as if he had followed this river for a lifetime, at the same time as if he had been born two weeks ago when he left Alakinuk. The silence of the place held a peace that not even the howling of wolves could disturb. The only intrusion of men visible in the entire landscape was his two canoes.

He glanced instinctively toward the section of bank where he had landed, reassured by the sight of both resting half on the rocks. The river could change quickly, he had learned the hard way that first night. A sudden rainstorm had quickened the current and almost swept his poorly secured belongings back where he had come from. He had spent the night feeding a roaring fire trying to warm his soaked body after nearly drowning tying the canoes higher.

He scanned the sky, noting the heavy cloud cover but affirming that he had time to pitch camp before the freezing rain came again. He whistled and the dogs left the canoe with a bound, trotting at his heels as he trudged to the edge of the woods to cut thin timbers for a shelter. They wore their leather harnesses so that he could use them for any necessary hauling and could easily tether them for the night. He had already seen the value of keeping them at arm’s length, especially at mealtimes.

He laughed to himself, reveling in the thought of himself as the sole human in this wealth of wilderness. Soon he would be farther than any map charted; if not for the native tribes that he had heard passed through Alakinuk twice a year, he could almost imagine himself the first eyes to see this country, to uncover its secrets and claim its rewards. Another glance at the sky reminded him that it could also claim him if he was not prepared for its harsh reality.

As he hastily took his hatchet to some spindly pines that stood out green against the orange, he remembered the stories of explorers that had filled his imagination as a boy. The stories of open lands and rich discoveries that fired his soul to seek something other than the tired trappings of civilization. His favorite had always been the far-fetched claim of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the fountain of youth.

Old Juan may not have literally been searching for the waters of eternal life, he thought as he finished constructing his temporary shelter, but he had truly understood what the real treasure was. He straightened and propped himself on the lean-to poles. The dogs sat beside him, tongues lolling out, waiting for their nightly meal of dried fish. This land was the true fountain of youth, the challenge and the wealth that put life into a man’s soul. And he had found it.

The Memorial

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There they hung, the uniforms, lining the hallway where they had hung all my life. It would be the last time he walked past them for many months, probably years. He took it slowly, pausing before each one to remember.

First the cuffed olive green of his great-great-grandfather’s, the pockets fraying away and the seams worn with age. Although it had been well laundered, he could almost see the bloodstains that must have covered it as it had carried the wounded back behind the lines amid the spatter of gunfire. He rubbed his fingers together, slick with the imagined mud that soaked the fabric in the shallow trenches as rain and explosives pelted the ground. He smiled at the thought of the wrinkles crushed into it by his great-great-grandmother when she welcomed her husband home safely.

He wondered what she had felt when she saw his great-uncle march away wearing the next uniform on the wall. The green had once been the same, but time had faded it less than its predecessor. This one had been mended, the holes where shrapnel had ripped through it still visible despite the stitching. He imagined his great-grandmother’s hands shaking as she arranged the pieces, the only thing returned to her from the trenches of France. Her son’s body had long since returned to dust in the very fields where he died, his cross tended by grateful strangers.

Next hung his grandfather’s tiger stripes. His grandfather had never been able to talk about what had happened in the jungles on the other side of the world. He had watched his grandsons grow and play with distant, haunted eyes. Loud noises had always agitated Granddad, and Grandmother had quietly sent the boys home whenever Granddad lost his temper and started yelling about cowards. His heart had been broken, she had explained, first by the horrors of the jungle war and then by the resentment and ingratitude when he returned safe but changed.

The last uniform was the most important to him, and he placed his hand on the glass case as if by doing so he could touch its owner. Dad had put on the sand colored uniform with its rusty splashes of color as a way to honor the father whose sacrifices had been forgotten. He had worn it proudly for five years, seeing his tiny son only a handful of times before hitting a land mine in a faraway desert. His picture and this last uniform were the reason for this last walk today.

By this time tomorrow, a fifth uniform would begin its own journey to the wall. He placed his forehead against the glass in the closest thing he remembered to a hug from Dad. “I’ll make you proud, Dad,” he whispered before continuing his last walk out of the front door, the promise hanging in the air as the final memorial.

The Mirror World

FB_IMG_1590121467061All his life he had watched the world overhead. All his life he had wondered what it felt like to be surrounded by trees and green things. His own world was barren, a world of ice and rock. The two mirrored each other only in position.

There had been tales of adventurers who tried to climb the ice cliffs to cross the mirror. The few who returned had done so cruelly maimed or altered. None had reached the mirror and lived to tell the tale. None of the missing had ever been found.

Those attempts had been driven by curiosity, by restless individuals unsatisfied to observe from below. He identified with the feeling, but his uncle had kept him on a tight sinew. Adventuring didn’t pull fish from the ice or render whale blubber. So he had gazed at the green sky with its teeming life in longing.

Now the whales were growing scarce. Several years of bitter storms had thickened the ice and even the seals struggled to reach food through its layers. In recent cycles half of his village had sickened from starvation and exposure, and many had died. The Ice Elders had convened an emergency council and called for volunteers for an expedition to breach the mirror.

Not even his uncle could stop him this time. This attempt would be successful; he could feel it. He raised his hand as if to touch the trees. Soon enough, he thought, he would know. Soon enough he would have the answers he had always longed for.

His supplies lay at his feet, arranged carefully on a blanket of whale leather and tied with cords of sealskin through slits in the leather. He made a last check of picks, heavy leather ropes, leather repair kit, dried fish, and seal jerky. He lacked nothing, and rolled the blanket tightly before sealing the ends with more cord.

He looked around to find his uncle glaring at him from under the thick fur of his hood. The old man would never understand. He was angry with the Elders for their decision, refusing to believe the truth that the world was dying. Most of all he was angry with the boy. This was an act of defiance, an unforgivable offense. The boy could only hope that when he returned with wealth from a new world his uncle would see things differently.

He hefted his pack, fastening it securely to his shoulders. There would be no luxury of polar bear sleds on this journey. Most of it would be straight up where the bears could not follow. The Elders would be waiting at the village center. The time for goodbyes had passed. The new world called.