It had been a week since Grims and I had sealed ourselves into the storm shelter. Fortunately for us Grims was a bit of a prepper. There had been enough food stored in there that we didn’t starve, although the composting toilet left much to be desired. In fact, as soon as Grims said we could check the surface I carried that thing out and dumped it. I didn’t even care what was waiting out there.
Now that essential task was complete, we had to figure out what to do next. If I didn’t know for a fact that we had been stuck in a hole for the past seven days, I wouldn’t have known where we were. The house was gone, not even charcoal left to mark where it had stood. The air was thick and gray with stale smoke, gusts of wind lifting dust devils of choking ash from the unrecognizable ground. Grims’ orchards were nothing but twisted stumps, stark against the smudged sunlight weakly fading through the smoky cover.
I coughed and covered my nose with my now smelly t-shirt. Grims grunted in displeasure at my exposed midriff, but I didn’t see the point. From the looks of things no one was going to be around to see it. I wondered how many of the neighboring farmers had made it to shelter in time. Maybe they were better off if they hadn’t. On the bright side, there wasn’t anything left for the beasts to come back for. We’d die from starvation instead of fire. Or maybe from suffocation; the inside of my shirt was as bad as the air outside.
Homeschooling is such a fluid undertaking. Unlike in a traditional classroom, where teachers repeat roughly the same lesson plans and teach the same skills year after year, homeschooling goalposts shift constantly as children develop and learn. Although some families maintain special “schoolrooms,” most of us don’t have the space in our homes for such a thing, and with the deeper understanding of our children’s learning styles that comes from the time we are able to spend with them, many families like mine would find that confining learning to a single room would be difficult.
Instead, our homes fill up with random collections of paper, art tools, science kits, memory tools, and of course books. Where others cover their walls with carefully chosen decor, ours are hidden behind bookshelves and child-made art. The household linens share space in the hall closet with school supplies.
The bookshelf situation will be a project for another day, but today our school closet got a makeover. With middle school approaching and STEAM taking over the house, the supplies needed to be updated and reorganized. Paper needs are hovering in a weird transition between construction paper and graph paper. Crayons and markers grudgingly yield space to colored pencils and paintbrushes. Coloring books were purged to make way for an entirely new category of supplies, a box full of microscope, chemistry, and magnets.
And yes, we count board games as school. Don’t you?
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
Marinus and his companion turned and dove into the ocean, waves having piled up around us against the sloping sand. Our bubbles kept pace with them, seemingly drawn by invisible tethers emanating from the merman’s outstretched hands. I tried to look around as we were drawn into the deep water, but the rushing water flowing past me around the edge of the bubble so disoriented my senses that I had to close my eyes to conquer the bile rising in my throat.
We slowed and excited voices reached me through the liquid shell surrounding me. I opened my eyes to find myself in the midst of a crowd of staring swimmers. Eyes the color of the depths of the sea in scaled faces sharing the bright hues of a coral reef examined every part of us. The voices spoke in a strange language, reminding me strongly of whale song I had heard on Earth. I listened, fascinated, as Marinus responded in the same language, his own voice no longer the roaring of surf, but overpowering the others the way a lion’s roar would drown out the mews of his cubs. The crowd quieted and drew back but continued to follow, attracting more swimmers the farther we went.
With our speed slowed I was finally able to look around me. Mer was one of the most mesmerizing places I had ever seen. Houses seemingly grew from living coral, pockets across their surfaces filled with small fish and sea creatures that darted about with abandon. Wide thoroughfares of deep sand ran between them. Here and there floated odd water sleds of what appeared to be some exotic leather stiffened with whalebone, harnessed behind huge fish that despite fins and gills reminded me incongruously of cattle.
The merpeople themselves were nothing like Earth stories had painted them. The men were large and fierce, heavy fins protruding from their forearms and upper backs. Many of them bore scars that broke the sleek lines of their bodies. All carried spears strapped to their shoulders, connected to leather cords wrapped multiple times around their waists. The women were smaller, slimmer, and their fins streamed behind them like rippling trains, but their teeth were as sharp as those of the men and their fingers were tipped with sharp spikes. I was surrounded by colors brighter than I had imagined possible enhanced by the rippling sunlight making its way below the waves.
She closed the door slowly, keys slipping from her fingers to the entryway table with an absurdly loud clatter in the silent house. A light showed dimly under the kitchen door and her feet moved automatically in that direction.
Her hand slid across the door as she pushed it open and a broad swath of light broke the endless night of the hallway. The overhead lamp blazed above the breakfast table, showing off the place settings for two ready for the next morning’s date. She touched the edge of one plate, fiddling with the paper napkin hanging slightly over.
She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed heavily before looking to the center of the table. Pink roses lay in no particular arrangement around a tiny cardboard box tied with brown cord. Her hand shook as she reached for the box, and nerveless fingers bent the edge of the note stuck beneath the knot.
He should have been the one to open it. He should have been waiting for her as they had planned. It should have been the beginning of the rest of their lives. It wasn’t fair. A panicked urge to flee backed her into the door that had swung shut behind her, and she slid to the floor with the box crushed against face, dissolving slowly in unheeded tears.
Hattie loves to make pictures. While her brother and sister play cards with the maids and torment the nannies, Hattie draws. While the family mixes with society at the seashore, Hattie walks the beaches alone and paints. While her sister gets married and her brother becomes a businessman, Hattie paints.
Hattie can’t play beautiful music on the piano like Mama. She can’t sew beautiful needlework like her sister. Even her hair won’t curl properly. But she can draw barges that Papa says are seaworthy, and she can paint the wild waves.
Hattie is every child with a dream. As readers walk Hattie’s journey with her and her family, they will unconsciously learn lessons of self-awareness, hard work, and never giving up. Although set in the early twentieth century, the appeal of this story is timeless and it’s message always relevant.
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.
The Word Worker 