“Boris, dorogoy, please come away from the window! The hall will not come to you, no matter how hard you stare. We must go to it, and soon or we will be late and the Chinovnik will mark against us.”
Boris sighed and twisted his cap in gnarled fingers, his eyes not leaving the hall. “Remember the day we wed there, Anushka? It was still the village chapel then, and as lovely as any cathedral that morning!”
She leaned her wrinkled cheek against his arm and smiled at the memory. “I can still smell the flowers the children picked to cover the floor. The chapel was full; no one in the village would miss a wedding!”
“Nor a christening,” he chuckled. “Who would turn down a half day’s holiday from the fields, especially when feast was involved? I remember on Sergei’s day all the women baked for a full day before, and we still ran out of food!”
“Ah, the greedy boys!” Anushka exclaimed with a laugh. “They would have eaten themselves sick if there had been any more syrniki! Ah well.” Her smile faded. “To speak of such memories in the village now is dangerous. We will earn a mark from the Chinovnik if overheard, or worse.”
“Let him mark,” Boris sniffed. “Love may be out of fashion with these oh-so-serious youngsters, but we will walk to the chapel like newlyweds.” He gently took her arm in his and they left the house, shuffling feet leaving two flattened paths side by side through the grassy commons.
Harry and Leah have a problem. There’s a fish in their bathtub, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is that the fish is dinner.
Mama’s special Passover dish is gefilte fish, special fish balls made from a carp. The best fish always sell out early, and dead fish spoil quickly, so the carp has to live in the bathtub for a week waiting to be cooked. Harry and Leah love to feed the carp, and especially appreciate that as long as the fish is there they can’t take a bath.
But Harry and Leah cannot bring themselves to eat gefilte fish. Who could eat a friend? And thus year’s carp is extra special; he is smart and friendly, and his name is Joe. They have to think of a way to rescue Joe before Mama turns him into the Passover meal!
The Carp in the bathtub is a delightful story about understanding and responsibility. For my children it was also an introduction to a time and traditions different from ours while demonstrating that children everywhere and in every age are all the same. By the way, Harry and Leah still don’t eat gefilte fish.
In the Sinai law system, God provided specific celebrations that would remind the Israelites of important concepts they needed to hold onto. The first celebration of each year was of course Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread. This eight day long celebration was intended to remind the people that God had delivered them from a life of servitude and poverty and demonstrated His undefeatable power. The last celebration of the year was the Festival of Shelters. During this celebration the people gathered palm fronds and other greenery traditionally used to greet and honor royalty and used them to build temporary shelters in which they would live for a week. The Festival was an opportunity to remember the years of homelessness and helplessness in the wilderness when every necessity came from the King of Kings. These memories were intended to create the awareness of need for God, of need for a Provider and a Deliverer. They, along with the other sacrifices and celebrations, promised an ultimate deliverance and a final reconciliation with the Anointed One, the Priest-King.
After three years of wandering and willing dependence, Christ sent word ahead and made preparations for entering Jerusalem for the Passover feast. Based on what we are told in scripture, this was unusual behavior for Him. Like all other Jews, he had travelled to Jerusalem without fanfare three times every year for the festivals. This time He made sure His coming would be known. As it was Friday afternoon, the people would have been gathered near the temple preparing for the sacrifices of the following day, or scurrying to their homes to eat the Passover lamb with their families. The temple itself would have been filled with frantic activity as the priests and Levitical workers contained thousands of animals and prepared to lead the people in song and sacrifice.
The moment Jesus approached the city, however, everything changed. Forgotten were the Passover sacrifices, forgotten were the humble meals set on family tables. The palm fronds and greenery of the Festival of Shelters filled the streets as the people hailed the Anointed One and His deliverance. They knew. They had watched and listened for three years. They understood that the moment for which the Sinai law had prepared them had arrived.
The Jewish leaders also understood, and knew that the system upon which they had built power and wealth was ending. Already the people abandoned them for the true King. They were left with only one last-ditch effort to convince the people that He was a fraud. So they killed God.
In their worldly wisdom it was an effective move. In the aftermath even Christ’s closest followers and friends were confused. Had they been wrong? How could man dispose so easily of God? For fifty days the Jewish people lost conviction completely, convinced by a mock trial and a lot of frenzied shouting that they could not believe the evidence of their own senses. The leaders, knowing full well the gravity of what they had done, spent that fifty days looking over their shoulders, exceeding their legal boundaries in order to control any activity that might expose their betrayal. To their horror they could not win. The living God would collect His harvest and their fields would be left to languish.
How often do men fear losing what this world can give them so much that they are willing to kill God to keep it? How often do we as humans allow dramatic lies and frantic noise to convince us that the Anointed One is anything less than the King of Kings? The Jewish leaders knew they hadn’t succeeded, and the knowledge made them paranoid and controlling. For a century they continued to attempt to kill God, knowing already that they could not win. The lamb had sacrificed himself, the Passover had occurred, the Day of Atonement had arrived, and the world had received its King. Will we continue such a worthless fight, or will we abandon our tents for the shelter of the Throne?
She stretched her nearly thawed wings to brush the trees on either side. How much fun dancing among the branches had been, their bare bones crackling beneath the ice of her feathers. How delighted she had been by the cooling that had silenced the world and dressed her in crystal lace. The touch of her dancing feet had adorned every surface with a shining imitation of her, and the flakes that fell from her fluttering wings left white drifts into which she plunged again and again in gleeful abandon.
How strange when warmth began to creep upon her, first little more than an odd spark within her belly but quickly growing to melt her lacy garment thread by thread. The warm drops that fell from her exploded with color where they landed, transforming her playground into an artist’s palette. Silence slowly filled with song and chatter. The wind that had played with her became drunk on her increasing warmth and ripped the melting ice from her wings to fling it to the ground where it sprouted green in soggy puddles.
Soon enough she understood. The warmth had tired her, left her sitting or walking quietly among the blossoms, until her body could no longer contain it. Her child, this flame that had transformed her, hovered near her with the uncertainty of infancy. Wings still unformed, she blinked at the world from the familiarity of her mother’s palms. Her mother fed the last of her strength into the child, who sprouted wings of flame and hurtled skyward with all the enthusiasm of youth. Her fire would grow until the world reflected it’s brilliance, then cool in the last fling of youth before the birth of her own spring.
On the Day of Atonement the High Priest carried the blood of the sacrificial bull and goat behind the veil and sprinkle it on the mercy seat. This was a symbol of God’s cleansing and sealing the people for His own holy purpose. It was also a solemn moment, as on the Day of Atonement the Lord Himself hovered behind the veil in the form of the cloud by which He guided His people to their promised home.
For the Israelites this was something to be longed for, a connection that only the divinely chosen representative was allowed to make with God. It was a moment for which the entire nation made solemn preparation, a moment of purification for every individual within the nation. It was the day that the death of sin was covered, overwhelmed, with the life of blood.
The word that is translated “mercy seat” literally means atonement, or reconciliation. This ceremony of blood, the solemn entrance to the separated presence, symbolized the restoration of a broken relationship. Because death brought by sin had broken the relationship between God and His children, only life offered could restore it.
The blood of the bull and the goat only symbolized the life, however. In order to offer the blood, the life of the bull and goat had to be ended. Only one could truly offer an unendable life, and that was God Himself.
Because He is Life, Christ is not only the blood spattered on the mercy seat, but the atonement the blood represented. Without the blood, even the High Priest could not approach God or make connection with Him. Without God’s gift of His own unendable life, none of us could approach Him either. The Israelites could not earn reconciliation by perfect law-keeping; in fact, keeping the law was an act of love for a protective father rather than an act of appeal to a vengeful lord. We cannot earn atonement either; our faith is not in our own goodness, but in His loving grace, His offered life. Our obedience is not an attempt to win an argument with a prosecuting lawyer; it is the adoration of a child with his arms around the father’s neck as he is held on the mercy seat itself.
At first glance the figures gliding down through the trees seemed non-threatening, almost human. They wore leather jackets that hung low and had ragged holes worn in elbows and tail. As their feet touched the ground, my skin began to crawl. Three pairs of red eyes stared out of bloodless faces. One of them focused its gaze upon me, a smile snaking across its face to reveal the tips of sharp yellow teeth. His head slowly tilted to one side then the other as he moved with sinuous grace in a semi-circle around me. A finger tipped with a long, cracked nail traced a line up my arm, setting my hairs on end and sending a shudder through my entire frame. The finger traced its way around the back of my neck, and I could feel its breath in my hair, its scent oddly metallic, but I could not will my feet to move away.
“Enough!” Dagda’s voice cut through the fog beginning to fill my mind, carrying a sharp anger I would never have associated with the gentle Dagda of Earth legend. The creature sucked in a breath and stepped away, turning attention to him.
“Your Majesty,” he hissed, making the words an insult rather than an honor. He bowed low, sweeping an arm wide as greasy tendrils of hair trailed across the grass. I shrank in disgust to the protection of Balhon’s great side as I realized that everywhere a part of the creature’s body touched the grass turned brown and yellow, as if the land itself sickened upon contact with him.
“What brings you to Tylwyth, Grigore?” Dagda demanded, his voice icy. “This valley is far from Upir, and I don’t recall granting you safe passage.”
“Dracul rages against your enforced borders,” the creature sneered. “We starve in the dead lands; we need blood.”
“You are provided with blood in plenty,” Dagda responded coldly. “Live game is driven through your borders daily upon which your people sate themselves with disgusting abandon.”
“Animal blood!” Grigore spat. He eyed me with his tongue caressing the fangs revealed in his sudden feral grin. “What kind of life can be eked from blood with so little power? Dracul craves the blood of intelligent beings.”
There he was, in all his lacy glory. I’d heard of the viscount, of course, from every local in every cafe and bistro between Paris and Calais. Quite the legend, apparently, that no one outside of France had ever heard.
No one remembered his full title, or even his family name, only that he was a viscount. A fact that had only fueled my dismissal of the story as a joke on gullible tourists, until now. Who could scoff with semi-transparent but gloomy dark eyes boring into one’s soul over the longest cascade of a collar ever seen in 18th century portraits?
“Je vous maudis, traitre!” The voice was bitter, but the lips set and motionless beneath the oddly unstyled black hair that streamed down both sides of a gray face. I glanced around, a shiver uncalled for in the warm summer night air setting my teeth chattering. Even my abominable French understood the word traitor.
“Th-the revolution is over,” I quavered in English. “I’m just a tourist.” Not that there was any point in speaking English to a dead French aristocrat, I thought. Even one that had managed to escape the guillotine only to be thrown from his horse into that widely spreading tree I could see through his face.
“Je vois maudis!” he shrieked, suddenly inches from me with his fist blending with my throat. My breath turned to ice in my chest and for a moment the world became as transparent as the viscount. Then it was over. I smiled with grim satisfaction, quickly twitched the lace on my cuffs back into shape, and turned back toward Paris. The traitors must die under their own cursed blade.
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.
How long had it been? One hundred years? Two? Locked deep within the castle vaults, skin burned black and then white by the silver of his sarcophagus, thirst that would not be assuaged by his own blood turning his mind to enraged madness. How long since his screams of pain had turned to bitter silence, how long since the silence had been broken by his own maniacal cackling?
He remembered companions. Barely. What companions had they been. Women whose blood slaked his thirst and woke already fading emotions. Sycophants who pleased him for what he could offer – wealth, the illusion of power, eternity. Dust all of them. Worth less than that in life. No matter, he no longer cared for companionship.
He remembered children. Children of blood who hunted with him in the night, children who had filled the earth with their fascination and their hunger. Children who had fallen to the mobs who would not bow to their new gods. No matter. There would be more.
This one who had freed him would be the first. She stood before him, unbending, unyielding, unworshiping, unafraid. She would turn, oh yes, and she would be a queen such as had never been. They would rule a world of their own remaking. The crumbling throne before him waited for the liege lord, and all others would soon bow before it or die.
Parenting often feels like walking a tightrope. Without a balance pole. Meeting physical needs of growing bodies can alone feel like an insurmountable challenge. That pair of shoes you just bought last month that already don’t fit. The three hundred dollars worth of food that didn’t last a week. Then there are the emotional needs, theirs and yours. Because in the middle of all the midnight wake-up calls you might lose your sanity. One of the most difficult juggling acts of 21st century parenting is the seeming war between the digital world and the physical world.
With digital technology at the center of almost every occupation, and surrounding every aspect of our lives, we have an urgent need to teach our children how to use it, to wire the areas of the brain stimulated by its use to employ the digital world without becoming sucked into it. At the same time, all the skills previous generations possessed to interact with the physical world must also be preserved. Not just the skills of interpersonal communication without the aid of a keyboard, but basic skills and knowledge of the earth’s practical workings. Its a lot of information to cope with, and often the two worlds seem so opposite that they cannot be reconciled.
So, like everything else, these become family affairs. Minecraft wars with Dad become the preferred recess activity. Old phones get wiped and become tablets filled with games, music, approved video content, and books. Always books. Screen limits don’t apply to reading. Imagination runs wild and ingenuity is trained in the midst of shouts of laughter and good-natured competition. Technology usage becomes irrevocably connected to memories of family and lessons learned gently.
When school is over, with the sun at its warmest and responsibilities fulfilled, the outdoors calls. Those creative connections teased by the digital world are tested against the physical one. The flotsam of the passing winter becomes the building material of childhood games. Sprouting plants will be examined, tested in mud pies, and transplanted into fairy gardens. Fallen branches will become the tools of the trainee woodsman, deadwood and rocks a boy’s rickety fort which will fall down and be rebuilt more securely from the mistakes of the first. Emerging insects and amphibians find temporary homes where they are studied and cared for until the dusk brings release.
Tomorrow it will rain and there will be no outdoor afternoon play. Perhaps they will be lost in the digital world longer than today; perhaps they will transfer their creative energy to dolls, legos, or art. Maybe we will use the extra time for a more thorough cleaning day. Another day will be too beautiful for concentration, and not only the digital world but physical responsibilities will be discarded, forgotten for the joys of dirty hands and outdoor adventures. The acrobat teeters from one side to the other, almost plunging to the ground below with every step, yet using the swing back and forth to stay balanced on that tiny wire that connects us to platform from which our children will be able to stabilize themselves and begin on their own tightrope walk.
The Word Worker 