It wasn’t there before. I was sure of it. The tumbledown cottage was just barely visible over the creekbank, granted, and the trees were only recently bare. I might have missed it if I wasn’t paying attention. Still, that roof had to have been falling in for years to reach its current state, and I walked this creek every week.
Well, usually. I’d had to babysit my little brother all month while my parents volunteered all the fall functions the town council insisted on hosting in October. I was pretty sure only homework got us kids out of that; not that it saved me at all. Instead I got talked to death about costumes, jumped out at from corners every five minutes, and regaled with every free Halloween soundtrack available on the internet.
Now that I could finally visit the creek again, it didn’t offer the respite I expected. Something had been off since I started walking. It wasn’t just the bare branches; even the water felt dark, as if something malevolent hung over it. And now that cottage had me looking wound to see if I had somehow lost my way, even though I had followed the creek like always.
Something bright in the tangle on the bank ahead caught my eye. I took a step closer, peering to make out a tiny bonnet and what looked like corn husks wound tight. For a second I thought it must be one of the town decorations and started to reach for it before the panic set in. My hand froze in midair and against my will my gaze jerked to the almost hidden roof. As I turned to run I heard the water cackle, and leafless talons scored my back as the creek closed over my head.
My five year old and I butt heads. Frequently. As in, all day every day. She has extremely strong ideas of her own, and the determination to pursue them against all odds. If she doesn’t want to do something, it isn’t happening without some serious and repeated consequences.
Yesterday it was her turn to run errands with me, her first time to experience a day out with mom like the older kids. She was so excited that she did almost everything I required of her beforehand without lip (let’s face it, perfection would be a little much to ask of anyone), and the whole time we were out she was the model of an obedient child.
We had philosophical conversations, experienced our first lesson in the Dewey Decimal System at the library, picked out books for the whole family, discussed ingredients we needed for freezer lunches, and bought a water spigot for the yard. She asked a million pertinent questions, and volunteered her services for several helping jobs. We have never had such a pleasant time together, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the reasons.
You see, at home there are five. Five voices clamoring for attention. Five bodies filling up my immediate space. Five minds to be filled and trained. Five hearts to be molded and fulfilled. (And that’s just the kids.) A lot for a mama to process and accomplish. A lot for one small girl to feel in competition with for recognition and approval.
Yesterday she had no competition. She could say anything she wanted, help with whatever she wanted, express whatever she felt without delay, etc. I could focus on her every word and action and provide positive feedback rather than the rushed and stressed responses so often prevalent in the mayhem of home.
I was reminded of a principle that I know, but often fail to apply when it comes to my children. Although we as humans do need correction when appropriate, what we crave more than anything is approval. When we receive positive attention, we will do just about anything to keep it. If positive attention is rare, we will demand attention in whatever way produces it, even if the result is negative. In turn, the negative response feeds the need for approval which translates into more negative behaviors.
I sat down with all my kids this morning and apologized. We started over. It was very hard for me to hold my tongue when a math lesson consisting of three problems took an hour and a half. It was hard for me not to express frustration when someone’s undone chore interfered with my own task. It was hard not to complain when for the third day in a row all the kids played in the mud, this time in a pouring rainstorm, creating more laundry on the already heaping pile needing to be addressed.
But I made sure to praise for the understood math lesson at the end of the time. I did the dishes myself. I laughed at their antics in the rain. I tried to give full attention one at a time. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was productive, and it was a beginning.
Three teachers scheduled back to back have no contact before the date, but all deliver the same message from three unique perspectives.
A child prays for another person for no apparent reason, and shortly afterward his parents find out the person was sick or injured.
An unexpected medical bill empties the bank account, but the next day a friend hands you a check just because they thought about you and wanted to bless you. They had no idea you were broke.
A barren woman approaching old age becomes pregnant and gives birth to a healthy child.
A broken man, drowning in sin and pain, is offered hope and love instead of condemnation by his victim.
A teenage girl faces imprisonment and abuse because she was caught reading the Bible. She teaches her fellow prisoners the scriptures from memory.
A child steps between a bully and his victim.
A dog, old and infirm, lives years longer than expected during a time when his family endured great pain and confusion.
A family’s old house doesn’t sell for years, preventing the family from becoming homeless when the new home is lost.
A lonely couple ask permission to play Santa to your children. The only stipulation is that no one ever knows who they are, especially the kids.
A little girl, enslaved by the enemy, saves her captor’s life.
You turn the radio on and the first song you hear brings your tears because it says exactly what you feel.
You make a spur of the moment shopping trip and run into a friend, only to find out that at the moment you realized you had to shop your friend was praying desperately for a comforter to be sent to them.
When the city was surrounded by an enemy army and the prophet’s servant lost all hope, the prophet prayed only that the servant’s eyes be opened. When the servant looked up, he saw an army of fire filling the city and covering the mountain on which it stood. The enemy was not only outnumbered, but outmatched. The servant just hadn’t been able to see God working.
God’s hand is everywhere. We only need to open our eyes.
I was living the dream. Traveling the world, seeing all the wonders, all while never leaving my house… it was my whole bucket list. Of course, I hadn’t actually meant never literally.
It was three years to the day since I woke up to find my cabin floating on its tiny plot of land high above the forest. Three years since I had set foot below. Three years since I had encountered another human being.
I had no idea why it had happened. All I knew for sure was that every morning after I had woken up hovering over a new location. Until this morning. Two days in a row over the same lonely lake. I frowned, pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders and clutching my steaming cocoa mug closer.
The surface of the cocoa rippled, then sloshed over my hand as the ground beneath me lurched like an elevator preparing to descend. I stared as the mountain peaks began to rise above my head.
When Lale walked beneath the lie that dressed the gates of Auschwitz-Birkenau, he intended to keep his head down and do whatever he was told, whatever he had to do to avoid being killed. He hadn’t counted on two impossible events: being chosen as the tattooist’s assistant, and falling in love in the death camps.
The day he was forced to tattoo Gita’s arm as she entered the camp is the day everything changed. Lale would do anything to keep her alive, even if it meant risking everything. In the shadow of smoke from the furnaces of Hell, Lale and Gita run an unofficial black market of food and medicine, paid for with the spoils of war stolen from beneath the noses of their captors, and bought from secret sympathizers hired by the enemy to build the tools of destruction. All they had to do was protect each other long enough to survive the nightmare, however long it lasted.
I usually review books that make great family read alouds, but this is an exception. It does have some language, and due to the setting there are very adult themes that run through the book. Because it is the true story of a survivor, an unlikely hero in the midst of a darkness the world would love to forget, I feel this book deserves a place here. Lyle and Gita’s ability to produce joy in the deepest darkness and willingness to risk everything to save each other as well as their fellow prisoners will inspire any reader.
Galatians 3:21–26 (CSB): “Is the law therefore contrary to God’s promises? Absolutely not! For if the law had been granted with the ability to give life, then righteousness would certainly be on the basis of the law. But the Scripture imprisoned everything under sin’s power, so that the promise might be given on the basis of faith in Jesus Christ to those who believe. Before this faith came, we were confined under the law, imprisoned until the coming faith was revealed. The law, then, was our guardian until Christ, so that we could be justified by faith. But since that faith has come, we are no longer under a guardian, for through faith you are all sons of God in Christ Jesus.”
In past centuries, those who found themselves unable to pay money owed were confined in debtor’s prison. This usually meant a life sentence of poverty and humiliation. There was menial work available in the prison, but it paid a pittance, and inmates were required to pay rent and necessities for themselves. Unless family on the outside was able to work for higher wages, or someone took pity and paid off the debt for them, they died in prison more deeply in debt than before.
The laws that required people to pay their debts were not bad laws. They were necessary to show right versus wrong, and to uphold right behavior. The problem lay with a society that could not live up to the standards upon which the laws were built.
Similarly, God’s laws given to the Israelite nation on Mt. Sinai were perfect because they codified the character of God. They showed God’s people the difference in good and evil, something they had lost sight of surrounded by idolatrous nations. However, because laws by their very nature focus on consequences for violations, they tend to be negative in nature, holding our attention on what we should not do rather than on how we should live.
Physical nations create systems of laws by which we earn reward or punishment. As citizens of a nation we are justified, or declared lawful, by how obedient we are to that country’s system of laws. However, man’s laws are as flawed and changeable as man himself. God’s laws are built on the unchangeable standard of His own character, a perfect standard that imperfect humanity cannot meet. The Israelites could not “pay what was owed” and were therefore imprisoned for life as debtors under the laws.
Then Christ came, living the perfect life according to the law because He was the law. He paid the price that humanity could not, showing once and for all that only He could declare us lawful. No longer imprisoned by laws that highlight our sin, we are freed by His loving grace to live as His mirrors. No longer are we trapped by human weakness that keeps us imperfect. We no longer need laws to show us how or why to avoid evil, because Good made Himself a beacon that cannot be missed. God’s debtor’s prison is abolished forever, no debt remains to be paid.
Some of the unfortunate souls who landed in debtor’s prison did so due to failure of honest efforts to live lawfully, and did work very hard to pay what little they could. They lived in hope that despite everything they would one day be free. Some of those who lived under the Israelite laws tried with all their might to obey, and their failures made them hold to the hope of mercy all the more faithfully. Others under both systems decided there was no hope, or sought hope from sources that only deepened their imprisonment. Some who were rescued failed to learn from the mercy given, throwing it away to re-imprison themselves. Many today fail to recognize that Hope has become Reality, and bind themselves again into debt that will never be paid with twisted words of fear and control. Relatively few grasp freedom with both hands and work with the grateful confidence of the saved to prove that the prison doors are wide open and the only force keeping anyone inside is their own choice.
She was there every day the sun shone, sitting against the big oak in the park with her guitar. No one ever saw her come or go, but when she played anyone nearby stopped what they were doing. They gravitated to her, faces suddenly pensive, often tearful as if their deepest longings surfaced.
She always played the same three songs, soft and sweet, and sang more to herself than to anyone else. I often wondered if she even noticed her audience. Newcomers to the park would fumble in pockets or bags for loose cash and try to donate, but found no place to leave money. It was only a girl and her guitar.
I don’t know why none of us ever tried to talk to her. We would hover, entranced until the music ended, then wander on still half under the music’s spell. I never even learned her name, although her face remained with me long after the song was done and I had moved on.
One year the big oak was struck by lightning. The city council voted to remove the tree, stump and all, due to the safety hazards of a huge dead tree in a public area. When they pulled up the roots, they found a skeleton of a girl with a few rusty wires coiled near the fingers. The girl never played again.
“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.
The bomb hit at sunrise. Shards of glass melted into the asphalt, like black ice waiting to land me on the flat of my back. Twisted metal beams hung overhead, barely visible in the greenish haze that should have been sky. I couldn’t breathe.
Debris filled my vision, the emptiness overwhelming. The whining creak of frayed steel grated on my awareness as the beams cast weird, indistinct, swaying shadows into the ash. I shuddered, unable to step over them as if they were as tangible and insurmountable as their counterparts above.
The clatter of falling brick jerked my gaze painfully to the side, and I gasped into the wind. Smoke threaded into my lungs and I clutched my throat, coughing desperately for what oxygen remained in the thick air. The bomb would kill me yet.
I tripped over the layers of blackened sheet metal littering the street as I stumbled back the way I had come. I had forgotten to put on boots when the bomb woke me, and the metal sliced through my toes, blood drenching my sock. I clutched at the wounds in fetal position, wailing like an infant. My cries mingled with the creaks and rattles and drifting smoke until no other thoughts penetrated. I slept, utterly spent, alone in the silence.
The mandarin needs a dragon to lead the emperor’s New Year’s parade. Mrs. Ming has seven dragons, but the only Silk Peony is able to parade. She has beautiful scales and many virtuous qualities, but she is a lady dragon and doesn’t have a beard to impress the emperor with her wisdom. The mandarin is mortified, and behaves quite rudely, but eventually agrees to hire Silk Peony.
Everyone, including the emperor, loves Silk Peony, and the parade is very successful. The mandarin doesn’t want to admit he was wrong and tries to cheat Mrs. Ming. Fortunately, she and Silk Peony have a plan.
This is a delightful book with eye catching illustrations for children to por over for hours. They, like the children in the story, will love Silk Peony for who she is. This is a fun way to introduce ancient Chinese culture and mythology to young readers and listeners, and could be used to spark interest in further study of Chinese dragons and new year’s traditions.
The Word Worker 
