The Orchard and the Enchantress

Painting by Daniel Gerhartz

Long ago, in a far off land, there lived a noble king. The king and his wife had an extensive orchard full of every fruit one could imagine: pears, plums, apples, peaches, apricots, cherries, and the like. This fruit was picked by the king's servants and made into jellies, jams, and preserves. In accordance to the proportion of this orchard, nearly everyone in the kingdom would enjoy the jellies, jams, or preserves at some point. Everyone but the prince, that is. 

The prince had decided from an early age that he would not eat of the fruit of the orchard. He detested anything but meat and potatoes at meals. The prince also detested people, especially his tutor, who tried diligently to teach the lad his history, geography, affairs of state, geometry, and plain logic. But the prince would only scoff at his tutor as if the learned man knew nothing—when in fact, it was the prince who knew very little, yet believed in his heart that he was too intelligent to bother with studies and learning.

Now the prince had a sister, a rather ordinary girl with an extraordinarily kind heart. She felt so ashamed of her foolish brother that she often sat for the tutor, learning her brother's lessons, as if to make up for his rudeness. So it happened that the princess grew in knowledge and wisdom, as well as in diligence and kindness, while the prince grew petulant, indifferent, and unbearable. 

Many seasons came and went in this way, when one Autumn, a bedraggled old woman came to the castle gate. In her gnarled hands was a large, empty basket. She asked the servant who tended the gate if the king could spare a poor soul some of the tantalising fruit hanging over the orchard walls. The servant took pity on her and led her into the orchard. He said the woman might pick as much fruit as her basket would hold. She did pick as much as her basket could hold, but she did something more. For this woman was an enchantress who held the power to bless and the power to curse. When the gatekeeper had gone back to his post, the wrinkled woman held out her hands and set a blessing over the orchard, whoever ate of its fruit would be wise and kind. Then, she hobbled out of the orchard, her basket well-laden, and went along her way.

The years spun on and the kingdom was more calm and contented than ever. The king and queen, princess and tutor, servants and subjects grew wiser and kinder the more they ate of the fruit of the orchard. But the prince seemed to rot and grow rank. He was the same selfish, indifferent, greedy prince he had always been—in spite of his parents' best efforts to direct him otherwise. 

It happened that the old king died one night, at the prodigious age of one hundred and one. So there was great mourning throughout the land. Men came from far and wide to pay their respects to the wise and gentle king. But the crafty prince took advantage of this outpouring of grief, charging high prices to travellers staying at any lodging on royal land. The king was not even decently entombed before the prince's iron rule was felt. Taxes were raised outrageously. Farmers had to give the new king a half share of their crops, as most of them used royal fields to cultivate their produce. 

During this unhappy time, the princess eloped with the tutor, seeking refuge in another kingdom. In a few years the old queen also died, and the kingdom continued to be hard-pressed by the tyrant king. On the eve of the Great Harvest, a stooped woman, wizened by years, came to the castle gate. In her hands was a large, empty basket. She begged the gatekeeper for some of the aromatic fruit from the castle orchard, for she had given the king every last bit of her small garden's potatoes in tribute. The gatekeeper's expression was sorrowful as he said he could not allow anyone into the royal orchard. Though the king himself never ate the fruit of the trees, neither would he share it, even with his many servants and subjects. He would rather the beautiful fruit rot on the ground or be eaten by birds, than give his treasure to anyone besides himself. 

And so at last, the evil king's doom came. The knobbly old woman went on her way, passing by the orchard as she left. She was indeed the enchantress who had blessed the fruit-trees long, long ago. Now she raised her swaying old arms and spoke a curse over the orchard—that the owner of the trees would die by their fruit. This punishment seemed unlikely to take ever place, given that the king never ate of the orchard. The kingdom began to dwindle over the ensuing years, as many of the tenants sought refuge in other lands. 

After a long while, not even the servants of the castle remained, deeming poverty and exile better than being governed by brutality and foolishness. So the king was left alone. Having never learnt any of his lessons, and rashly thinking he knew everything, the king knew not how to prepare even a simple meal. Though he loathed the fruit of the orchard, he became so hungry once his larder was empty, that he wandered the rows of trees in the garden, seeking the least wretched fruit he could find. He espied a withered plum hanging within easy reach. Perhaps its being dried out would make the flavour more bearable, he thought. He popped the plum into his mouth, chewed once and began to swallow the fruit. But having always refused the fruit and his lessons, he did not know that plums have a pit in their centre. The pit lodged in the king's throat, choking him so that he fell to the ground, gasping for air. He died alone in the middle of his orchard, in the heart of his empty kingdom.

And what became of the gnarled enchantress? They say that she went on to the neighbouring kingdom where the princess and tutor lived. There she blessed the couple's cottage garden, that they might live out their days in satisfying labour and generosity.

Otherwhere

At eventide, when the pink light fades,
come the faerie-folk from the deeper shades
to dance upon a flower face,
and ride the fireflies shimmering fair
in the silvery realm of Otherwhere

The red-tailed fox might stop and stare
whilst he is running errands there
then on his way he goes again
whilst the faerie-folk rise into the air
in the silvery realm of Otherwhere

As night glides on tóward the day
the frolicsome faeries work and play
harvesting in a merry dance
nectar for their golden mead, a kingly fare
in the silvery realm of Otherwhere

When misty streaks of dawn's first song
whisper through the glimmering throng
the faerie-folk scamper on their way
longing to tread again the air,
in the silvery realm of Otherwhere.

___________

Photo Credit: http://www.ceraunavoltaunapiada.it/sites/default/files/fireflies_in_the_forest.jpg

Tosha-the-Brave and the Flying Vampires

(Photo courtesy of Tosha Payne, aka Tosha-the-Brave)

There was once a time that Tosha-the-Brave decided to go on an adventure, high above the fruited plains. As a matter of course, Tosha thrived upon daring deeds, witty comments, and hiking through remote, wild tundra. She was also wise enough to seek a companion in her wanderlust. Or perhaps I should say, kind enough, as she allowed Jody-the-Tenacious to join her in adventuring. 

On this occasion, many were invited, but only two emerged through the haze of July days to pack a little white car with sleeping bags, a tent, water, and foodstuffs. Three hours, two mountain passes, and one stop later, the two young women found themselves slowly bumping up a gravel road that looked much like an alpine mogul course. The end of this road was the beginning of the trail to Willow Lake. Having meant to go straight to the campground, the girls were momentarily puzzled, but decided to take a look around the trailhead to prepare for the next days' trek.

Upon walking up the river, a small cloud of wingéd terrors sprang up, and Tosha-the-Brave warned her fair-skinned friend to retreat from the thirsty mosquitoes. Both girls headed off to scout out a camping spot in the area, away from the pesky bloodsuckers. But however fast they walked, ever and anon, a haze of needle-nosed critters swarmed their arms and legs, plunging through their skin. Welts, heat, and frustration sent the girls back to the car, determined to rid themselves of the awful bugs. 

After procuring bug spray and mosquito repellent buttons (and applying both), they continued their journey toward the campground. It was full—not a spot to be had. After eating dinner at a cluster of picnic tables, Tosha and Jody took a stroll through camp to see what they could see. Two different groups of campers willingly offered to share campsites, much to the relief of both girls. Profusely thanking both parties, they pulled in and set up the tent at one of the spots. Preparing to settle in for the evening, both girls snagged their toothbrushes from their packs, whereupon, Tosha-the-Brave cried out jubilantly, "I'm going to brush my teeth on a stage!" and jumped up on a large rock. Indeed, she did brush her teeth on a platform, dancing a jig and performing Pilates all the while. The girls then climbed into the tent, sharing camping stories and laughter over the neighbour who dressed up like a bear to scare his friends. 

Morning broke and so did camp. Soon, the two companions were bouncing over mogul-ruts and past a large trailer labelled 'USDA Forest Service Pack String.' It was soon evident that the pack string was going to be one of the most interesting and enjoyable parts of their venture. There at the trailhead stood nearly a dozen horses and mules, patiently being packed with coolers, large tent poles, and sundry other baggage. The pack was broken into two segments of mules with a horse-mounted rider leading each section. The hikers felt they had stepped back in time in this magical place, as they watched those equine beauties start up the trail.

But magic can be black as well as white, and the two friends soon found themselves in a pitched battle with bloodthirsty, flying vampires as they began the ascent to Willow Lake. The vampires had disguised themselves as those winged creatures commonly called mosquitoes. Their ruse was soon penetrated by the astute girls, however, as the mosquito clouds were thick and seemed to follow their every step. In spite of showering in bug repellent before leaving camp, small hypodermic needles pricked the girls again and again. The vampires would swarm close, land, choke on the repellent, and be forced to fly away—but some would count the cost of repellent low, those cavalier creatures bit. 

Stopping for breath or to rest one's muscles was impossible in the the black swarm of flying vampires. Tosha-the-Brave boldly tromped on, in spite of hard breathing causing her to inhale more than one mosquito. Jody-the-Tenacious, though determined to reach the end, began to question her sanity; began, in fact, to doubt the vile creatures could be vanquished, and secretly thought of turning 'round and hiding in the car. But always, always Tosha-the-Brave forged ahead through the vampire clouds, slowing her pace to help her friend have the strength to go forward. 

Morale was at its lowest when the intrepid hikers ascended a switchback that brought them out of the close, humid forest and into open air above a vibrant green meadow. Still their enemies would not give them peace, but the air was good, and directly ahead of them they had caught up to the pack string. Talking with the folks in the string distracted the girls from feeling discouraged. Hope began slowly to leak into their hearts and minds. Tosha applied a dose of bug spray to Jody's head and the crowding pack of vampire-mosquitoes veered away from her nose and eyes. Courage! Jody-the-Tenacious said in her heart. On they trekked, ever upward, over stones and streams, until they reached a windy height where an immense valley opened on their right, sheer cliffs towered ahead, and the vampires were scattered (true to form) by the strong sunlight. There the girls stood—panting—drinking in the verdure, the blue haze of a distant mountain range, and a much needed break from the vicious blood slurping mosquitoes.

Onward, ever onward, climbed the hikers, though they encountered thick, black mud and the path became a stream of snowmelt. Tosha-the-Brave managed to keep her feet dry, and thus was very pleased. After much effort, the girls clambered over some large rocks and came to the edge of a high mountain lake, aquamarine and sparkling in the noontide sunshine. Close at hand, a mountain goat looked up and skittered away, jumping the outlet of the lake in his hurry to gain the safety of the cliffs. 

After a rejuvenating lunch, Tosha and Jody were tired, but determined to climb further up to reach the top of the cliffs, from which poured a thin curtain of rain-like water drops and a tremendous, foaming waterfall. The path was fairly easy to climb, wending constantly toward a bowl of mountains, a flower-sprinkled greensward, and the rocky cliff-tops dropping tons of icy water into the rippling lake far below. It was here that Jody-the-Tenacious managed to soak one shoe in a chilly river-crossing. Not long after, however, she met a curious little marmot who seemed happy enough to make her acquaintance, whereupon, she forgot her wet foot entirely in the pleasure of their chat. 

Meanwhile, Tosha-the-Brave scaled several large boulders in her [successful] efforts to catch the waterfall on film from various angles. Jody sat upon a large rock, propping her feet on another to watch the clouds race o'erhead in the rich azure sky. She felt the breeze tickle her ears and caught the shimmer of the fairy-footed wind dancing its way across Willow Lake. All too soon, dark clouds gathered over Kit Carson mountain and the two adventurers knew they should return to the low lands in order to drive home. Reluctant feet bore them away from the high alpine valley; their lungs breathing in sweet air and their eyes trying to drink in the vistas chiselled out and softened by the Great Maker of all things. 

Lower and lower they went, meeting fewer mosquito hoards on their downward journey. The final mile was clouded by flying vampires, still full of blood-lust and stinging bites... But the wonder of the lake and mountain-meadow-bowl was still so fragrant and deep that the girls were more prepared to battled the dark host. Besides, after rumbling down the rutted dirt road, they stopped for ice cream bars, a great delight to the happily worn-out hikers. But far sweeter than the ice cream was the triumph of making their way out of the land of the flying vampires, of seeing the beauty hidden in the mountains, and not giving up in the face of deterring enemies. Thus, Tosha-the-Brave and Jody-the-Tenacious drove off into the sunset, accomplished and happy to be headed home.

 —The End

Tosha-the-Brave and the Peanut Butter Socks

Once, there was a grown-up girl named Tosha-the-Brave. She was daring and adventurous, willing to take risks to find beauty and wildness. But there was one thing that Tosha did not like—did not like decidedly—and that was having wet feet.

Tosha often sallied forth on a quest by herself, or with a friend or two in tow. She would come home armed with pictures and tales of her treks. Her photos were exquisite, layered with vibrant colour in the contours of mountains or in shape-shifting clouds. 

One such journey began like any other, up with the honey-coloured sunlight to get to a hiking trail in time to miss afternoon tempests. But though the story began like any other, it ended up being the tale of Tosha-the-Brave and the peanut butter socks.

Upon arriving in the wilderness of a majestic park, Tosha and Jody were anxious to stretch their legs on a long summer's hike. Rounding a bend not far into their trek, floods of people were pouring down the path, calling the warning of there being far too much snow to pass. Undaunted, the girls went forth to see what white beast met their eyes and feet. They laughed to one another at the lowlanders, unused to higher elevations and snow in summer. 

On they went, until the path shifted and seemed lost at the crossing of a stream. Perseverance and prayer brought them to the small footpath the trail had become. After meeting two groups of people who said the trail was impassible or impossible to find, Tosha-the-Brave and Jody-the-Tenacious decided to see what lay ahead. On and on they went, over rocks and snow, past glassy-clear mountain pools.

Knowing the trail from a previous hike, Tosha showed Jody where to scale a slope of snow, climb a rock face, and end up with a stunning view of mountains, alpine lakes, and a narrow canyon. Both adventurers stared, wonderstruck at the beauty all around them. 

After timeless minutes, Jody, being hungry and very concerned about eating lunch, left Tosha to take photos, and fished out a peanut butter and honey sammich for snacking purposes. Tosha was soon lured into lunching on her own peanut butter and jelly sammich. As they chewed and looked, Tosha heard a great cracking noise and the two friends were in time to watch rushing snow pour like a cataract over the face of the mighty Notchtop. An avalanche! An avalanche like a monster of noise and snow for their very own eyes to see!

There was not enough light in the day for Jody and Tosha to stay and drink in all the bold beauty of the shimmering, rugged world around them. Reluctantly, they shouldered their packs (wherein Jody almost packed a chipmunk by mistake), tromped through melting snow up to their thighs, and re-joined the path below. 

Some wandering tracks and then snow clear of prints—with no trail to be seen—were all that lay ahead. But Tosha-the-Brave had seen this trail in deep summer; she was not afraid of losing her way or not being able to pass. She lead the duo fearlessly, forging a path across snow fields (in shorts no less!), always steering the pair straight for the path.

Snow, snow, and more snow! It stung their hands and legs, making them bleed as if small shards of glass had cut them. Still, Tosha-the-Brave pressed forward and Jody-the-Tenacious followed. The lust of adventure and the thrill of the quest was upon them, they would not turn back now! For a mile or more they broke through untrammelled snow, then came to a gushing river. There! Many tacks dented the snow. A group of hikers had come through that far at least, making the downward way easier to find and traverse.

By this time, Jody and Tosha had wrinkly-wet feet and socks from falling through the deep snow so often. At times, when the trail wasn't a steep mound of snow, it was a shallow stream itself, running ever down to meet the snow-melt river below. Surely, surely the path would be dry soon, the girls would say. But it wasn't. Then, upon dropping under a great canopy of pines and winding down to another lake, the trail became dirt—not snow, stream, or mud. 

Tosha rejoiced, immediately proposing a break to change her socks and dry her feet. She did so, but Jody (the foolhardy, now) chose to wear her wet socks, as not only her socks but also her shoes were soaked through and through. Now what does one do with muddy-wet socks from crossing the great Western snow-fields? They put those smelly, soaked socks in their PB&J lunch bag, of course! 

Tosha-the-brave knew this, immediately carrying out the plan. She was soon the possessor of peanut butter socks. While many thought it was these peanut butter socks that made her able to walk through walls of snow and take all kinds of daring treks, Tosha knew that really, they only smelled funny when she took them out of the bag to wash them. She was bold and brave without them.

—The End

Unexpected Gifts from Saint Nicholas

ONCE upon a time, in a village across the sea, there lived a boy called Johann. He ran through the back alleys with several other urchins, stirring up trouble like dust. When there was enough food for his mother to make dinner, Johann would invariably arrive at that meal with dirt wiped across his face and holes ripped in his threadbare trousers. Very rarely was he in school, because he often got into fights there. So, perhaps it is not surprising that on Christmas morning, Johann did not find bundles of presents in his thin stocking. 

There were two hard lumps in the grey rag Johann had hung by the fire the night before. Saint Nicholas had left him something, at least! Plunging his hand down the sock, Johann's fingers enclosed upon a hard object. He pulled out a block of wood with no special markings, or purpose, it seemed. Disappointed, Johann felt carefully in the toe of his stocking and pulled out a hard, dusty stump of coal. Nothing else dropped out of the shabby sock when he turned it upside down, though a tear dropped out of the corner of his eye. He had not been good enough for Saint Nicholas to give him any gifts. Blocks of wood and chunks of coal were hardly gifts after all. Nevertheless, Johann put the items in his capacious pockets and ran out to play.

After wandering streets filled with puddles and deep ruts, Johann's stomach gave a grunt, then a rumble. He sighed, having nothing to put in that hollow place. Longingly, he eyed the various workmen eating their midday meals. The blacksmith, the candlemaker, the shoemaker, and the carpenter were all supping, at the very least, on bread and cheese. Without realising it, Johann had shuffled closer to these men, if only to fill his nose with the smell of the pottage the carpenter was drinking slowly from his earthen mug.  The man noticed the waif-like boy edging closer and called out in a gruff voice, "Boy! What are ye doing 'round here?"

Johann looked at his feet, not knowing what to say. The rough hand of the woodworker came down, none-too-gently, on his collar; a grey-grizzled face appeared before his downcast eyes. "I asked ye a question; I expect an answer." Johann shifted from one filthy foot to the other and mumbled, "Nothin'," hoping to be let go. "Not sufficient, mischief-maker," the carpenter hissed. "Here!" The big man thrust a broom into Johann's hand and pointed to a pile of shavings and dust. "Sweep that floor until every curl of wood is gone and I'll give ye your own bowl of stew." Johann started at this offer. Cautiously he looked at the bearded man to see if he was serious. The old man looked hard at him, then glanced at the wood chips. Johann began to sweep with more goodwill than he had ever had before. In a quarter of an hour the floor was swept smooth and clean. In a few minutes more, Johann's legs were dangling from a tall bench and he hungrily swallowed the bowl of promised stew.

"How would ye like to sweep my floor every evening after work?" the carpenter asked. Johann thought a moment. "Would I get a cup of soup every night?" The shadow of a smile brushed the woodworker's face. "Well, no. I can't promise tha'. But if I've a bit o' cheese, or bread, mayhap I could give ye that as wage." Johann needed no further convincing. "I'll come," he said. So, every evening before dark, Johann swept clean the carpenter's floor. He liked watching the man's big arms shave long curls of wood off of sleigh runners, cabinets, chairs, and tables. He became curious to know how the corners of cupboards were fitted so exactly together, or how a piece of wood could transform into the arm of a chair, with grooves and scroll work. But the magic Johann liked best of all was when the woodworker took a block of wood and turned it into a ladle, or a candle stick, or a figure of some sort. The animals and men spun from a single chunk of wood held captive Johann's thoughts before he drifted to sleep. He wanted to learn how to make such things, dreamed often that he had the tools and talents to do so.

One day, Johann screwed up his courage and asked the woodcarver, "Could you teach me to find the figure in the wood?" He hadn't meant to ask quite that way, but the very wording made the carver sit back and look at the boy. Yes, he would do. That scruffy, ragged boy knew that the figure was already inside the thick slices of pine and maple and ash. The wood had to speak to one's fingers about what lay inside; the carver couldn't just make the wood turn into a horse, or a man, or a bear. The bearded face slowly moved up and down in a nod. "I will loan ye my tools and answer your questions, but ye must find what lies inside the wood." Johann was delighted—and eager to begin. From his pocket he pulled out a chunk of wood, much-fingered and a bit rounded at the corners. "I have this block of maple that Saint Nicholas gave me at Christmas. Should I use that?" The carpenter nodded thoughtfully, and work began that very day.

In the weeks that followed, whenever Johann wasn't working around the shop—for he now helped the woodworker most of the day by handing him tools, sweeping, oiling tabletops, and polishing finished goods—he watched the woodcarver with rapt attention, or worked on his carving. The block had taken the rough shape of a four-footed animal with a big patch of wood still obscuring the head. Johann felt the edges of the wood and followed the contour of the knots. After much honing and careful whittling, a rough elk or reindeer could be discerned. It was carefully shaved and shaped by Johann's hand, by the strokes taught by the master carver, and by the words used to direct the boy. Near the autumn of the year, Johann sanded his reindeer, rounding off all the sharp, hard edges. Hours and days and weeks'-worth of work had been poured into the small figure. The woodworker nodded his approval, saying little when Johann showed him the finished piece.  

"Do ye have anything else ye can bring to life like tha'?" the older man queried. The boy thought a moment and pulled out his piece of coal, still in one of his enormous pockets. "This?" he offered. "No, tha' will not do. But I will tell ye what you can do with that..." He showed Johann how to gather the right sorts of scraps to make soap, then they broke the coal into smaller pieces and made a little fire. Over that small fire swung the kettle and soap ingredients, needing to be boiled before it could fully become soap. When it was completed, Johann sold the soap to earn a few pence for a Christmas dinner for his family. It was not much money, but he could buy bread, cheese, and a bit of fruit to share. One would have thought Johann had provided a kingly feast the way his family exclaimed and enjoyed that meal.

Before bed, Johann pulled out his treasured reindeer. He knew what he wanted to do with it. Saint Nicholas always gave gifts, but he never seemed to receive any. Carefully, Johann put the deer near his stocking with a crudely lettered tag: For Saint Nicholas. He crawled into bed feeling glad and tired from his day's work and celebrating. 

Early in the morning, Johann slipped out of bed and hurried to his stocking. It lay on the floor, filled with chocolate bits, a coin or two, a pear, some sweet rolls, and a block of wood. A neatly lettered note sat in the place of the reindeer: Dear Johann, it said, thank you for the gift you left me, it is beautiful. I see that you used my gifts from last year very well. If you will continue to work with your hands, use your gifts wisely, and share out of your small profits, you will prosper. Johann carefully stored the chocolate and coins, shared his sweet rolls with his two brothers, and saved the pear for his woodcarving friend. He fingered the block of wood, wondering what lived inside this one. Soon he would know. He set off for the workshop, eager to watch the carpenter work, to smell the fresh wood shavings, and to put his hands and head to the tasks before him. So, Johann grew and prospered, all because Saint Nicholas had given him a block of wood and a lump of coal.

—The End.

From "The End" to "Once Upon a Time..."

Advent: Week 2

Toward the end of each year I become eager for the next. Perhaps the new year's freshness wafts into my soul, breathing life inside. Maybe I think the current year has been quite long enough—I am ready for new dreams, people, and places. Deeper than than that, though, is the reality that the new church year has already begun. Advent is the new beginning amidst the end. The steps of the Great Dance have come full circle, to be made new in this familiar theme.

For me, Advent, Christmas, and New Year's are the season of both looking back and peering to see ahead. Hindsight is not always as clear as people say it is. Upon reviewing this year, I see a lot of messy, painful life situations for my friends, family, and myself. These things do not wrap up neatly at the end of the year. There is still much question-asking and inability to see God's plan unfolding. In some cases all I can see are the tossing heads of hoary waves, no land in sight. How can anyone survive the turbulence, the repeated buffets, of such conditions with no respite in view? Only by Hope. Hope is the anchor for our souls, to keep us from drifting out to sea and being lost among the crashing, crushing waves. 

Hope. Anchor. Abandonment. Ashes. Fearlessness. Bitterness. Forgiveness. These words have twisted into a thick cord, the thread woven through the tapestry of this year. They have haunted the rising and falling melody of the Great Dance with their dissonance, assonance, and resonance. What words will step into their places this new year? What themes will emerge in the music always over our lives, in the weaving of God's seen-story? 

I do not have answers yet. The above words have been whirling through my thoughts, writing, and reading so much that I had to again spill them upon the page. With these words I go from "The End" toward the unknown "Once upon a time." This next story may be full of ogres, sorrow, and sore loss—but it may be filled with valiant warriors for what is right, with wisdom sought and found. I suspect that it, too, will end with Hope.  

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. 

~ Saint John  1:1-5 (ESVUK) 

Childlike. . .Wonder

Chill air makes me pull my covers closer just as my alarm buzzes. I roll over, swat my phone, and snuggle back under the blankets. Then I slit open one eye to see what the morning has brought. Suddenly I am all awake: the sky is grey, but the evergreens are shadowy jade, frosted with feather-flakes of snow. Snow! It is early this year, and cold, and...delightful. I can hear sleigh bells in my dreams, and though I am quick, I can never quite catch a glimpse of Jack Frost as he paints my windowpanes—which is a stunning feat, as I have a dozen panes before my desk.

My blood quickens at the thought of wandering out in those downy flakes, listening to the strange hush that snow always brings with it. My body is slower to answer the fairy calls—after all, covers are warm, the air in my house is decidedly not. After a good amount of standing by the heater, I am layered enough to sally forth into a world drenched in cold and quiet. There is wonder in the wintry wind. Magic laces the limbs of Old Man Cottonwood.

I stop on the bridge to watch the morning. Great puffs of snow shake off branches and glide into the stream. They are gone, liquid water once again, what moments before were airy snow-castles. The aching chill in my legs prods me to walk again. Still I watch the morning—the dancing snow, the plump little birds along my path—and I wonder about things. Do other people wonder about "things?" I wonder. I walk on, thinking of how the brown hedge next to me was teeming with living colour this Summer. How I clipped a lavender flower from it to wear in my hair. Do people my age wear flowers in their hair?

I question more and more whether I am an adult, or just a child inside an adult's body. Certainly I have learned some tact since childhood. Wait, is that tact, or have I learned to lie? Have I learned to gloss over something that I obviously see and am curious about? When does snow lose its magic and become merely an obstacle on the road? Do you become a grown-up when you step around a puddle rather than jumping in it? Does progress in years mean regress in seeing details like feathery finch bellies, pale peach against the snow? Does paying bills mean you stop chasing the rainbow's end? Does reality awaken us from our dreams?

The lenses of child-eyes have been mine for quite a long time. I think folks snicker at me sometimes after I walk by, wreathed in flowers or Autumn leaves. People often try to tell me that reality will burst my bubble; outlining various horrors, as if they are reality's servants, sent with sword in hand. One of my neighbours thinks I only appreciate happy endings, that I just pretend the Fall didn't happen, and that I need a dose of darkness to snap me out of fairy tales. Yet I realise that fairy stories have plenty of dark and morbid moments; many end unhappily-ever-after. I know the darkness of the Fall in my own heart and brain; in bitterness, betrayal, and broken bodies. I know Sorrow's shears, clipping off friendships that should have grown; snipping life out of loved ones, far too soon. It is always too soon, too young, too much...The Fall is too much with us.

The Fall is too much with us—should we shrink away in fear? Do we pretend it isn't real? No, that is a childish response, like hiding under the blankets from invisible night-fears. Thin quilts won't turn the blade of the Black Riders. What then is our defence? A heap of philosophy books to explain away the evil in the hearts of men? That is a cheap grown-up trick. Let us then be childlike—not childish—and revel in the fairy snows, walk so that we may see Beauty—rather than to burn calories. Let us know that the Fall happened, but not allow it to be the end of our stories. As Chesterton asserts, "Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey."1 Indeed, I need childlike faith that Smaug can be defeated—I already know that he exists. So for the Fall, I need to know it will one day finally and fully come untrue, because it daily threatens to undo me.

Yes, there is roadkill by the sidewalk, graffiti on the dumpster, and scraggly undergrowth along the river path where I walk. I do not deny these things. But there are majestic trees, glimpses of a snow-capped peak between branches, delightful bridges, and cheery little birds piercing the morning with sweet songs. It is Beauty that leads us to worship. Beauty, that restores sanity to our weathered souls. It is Beauty that turns our focus toward the One who made all things Beautiful in their time.2 That One is trustworthy and true, and He will make everything sad come undone one day...Interweaving myth into a Man and fairy stories into facts. 

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1. Chesterton, G. K., “The Red Angel” in Tremendous Trifles (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1920) 130
   
2. Ecclesiastes 3:11 (ESVUK)

Life!

I found cheerfulness to be like life itself—not to be created by any argument. Afterwards I learned, that the best way to manage some kinds of painful thoughts, is to dare them to do their worst; to let them lie and gnaw at your heart till they are tired; and you find you still have a residue of life they cannot kill.

~ George MacDonald, Phantastes (Chapter VIII)

The Wind in the Willows

Cold rain falls from a dark and misty sky tonight. In fact, the whole day has been the sort in need of a mug of tea and a good book. Thankfully, I have had much of both. While I cannot share mugs of tea via my blog, I can share the story to which  I have been listening. It is none other than the belovéd The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. 

The above is Mr Grahame's gravestone at Holywell Cemetery, Oxford, England. When I was in England it had been some 15+ years since I read Grahame's delightful book. Listening to it now I can see why it is so well-loved by many persons in various times, and at all ages. Some of my favourite persons, Sheldon and Davy Vanauken, read this classic along the banks of the Thames during their Oxford years. I love them even more for it.

The story is one of friendship (friendship when it hurts, or is hard and trying to be a friend), the ache of Beauty, adventures, and having a home to call one's own. Typing that out fails miserably in conveying the depth, scope, and joy of the book... Thus, I encourage you to click on the title above and listen to the book in full - or pick up a copy from the library. You may find yourself at a loss for words, yet completely understanding, the sweet pain described in the meeting of "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn"; or laughing at the all-too-true-of-ourselves antics of the four friends. 

Enjoy!

~ Johanna

'It's gone!' sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. `So beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!' he cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound.

 `Now it passes on and I begin to lose it,' he said presently. `O Mole! the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on, Mole, row! For the music and the call must be for us.'...

...`Rat!' he found breath to whisper, shaking. `Are you afraid?'

`Afraid?' murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. `Afraid! Of HIM? O, never, never! And yet--and yet-- O, Mole, I am afraid!'

~ The Wind in the Willows: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, by Kenneth Grahame

Sword, Arrow, Warrior

'War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend...'

~ Faramir in The Two Towers, by J. R. R. Tolkien

Recently I discussed pacifism with one of my dear friends. We skirted the issue a good bit due to our diametrically opposite views on the matter. When I heard the above lines spoken by one of my favourite Lord of the Rings characters, it gave me pause. Tolkien said eloquently and briefly the heart of why I am thankful for our military warriors. It is what they defend that I love, not the warfare that is used. Yet without the weapons of warfare our country, our freedom, and our lives would belong not to us, but to someone else.

My deepest thanks and appreciation to our military - past and present... and those to come. And my gratitude to Tolkien for penning this gem.

~ Johanna

An Arrow in Flight

When was the last time you sat down to read a good novel? For me it was last night. I picked up Pride and Prejudice to read for 'a little bit' and found myself still reading it two hours later. When was the last time you sat down to read Scripture like a novel? When was the last time you were astonished to find an hour or two had elapsed when you were reading the Bible?

A story draws us in, brings the reader in to the character's thoughts and observations, and often teaches by delighting*. Many Christians tend to think of the Bible as an instruction manual, a textbook, or a collection of sayings, stories, parables, and rules. The Bible becomes bits and pieces 'suitable' for reading in 10 or 15 minutes before dashing out the door for our busy and 'important' lives. However, the Bible is actually a story.

Now, I'm not Dawkins or some emergent church advocate calling the Bible a sham; but what if I told you the Bible is a myth, a fairytale, a metanarrative, and the like? You see, the Bible is a myth, a tale, a metanarrative (overarching story). It just happens to be a true myth, a real tale, and THE big story. (If you have heard metanarratives slandered and dismissed, or if you think they are bad, see Goheen's very readable explanation.)

If you are like me, you secretly harbour the desire to walk through a wardrobe and find yourself in a snowy land of always winter and never Christmas. Deep down you wish that dwarves, elves, talking beasts, and Hobbits really lived in a land you could sail to. We want myths and fairytales to be true. We want to step into the world of Jane Austin's or Charles Dickens' novels. We want a story-line, a hero, a victorious, happy, or peaceful ending.

Though the Bible contains various genres of writing (poetry, parables, prophecy, principles, proverbs, and past events) it is all one story. When you aim an arrow, you know from the beginning where you want it to go. If someone else sees the arrow in flight he can tell by the trajectory (at least generally) where the arrow came from and where it is going. The same is true of Scripture, we see where everything began and the track of the story. We can also see that it isn't over yet, but we have been told that the ending is victorious, joyful, and beyond restorative.

How can we see this big picture in Scripture if we only read a few verses, maybe a chapter at a time? We need to begin reading Scripture as holistically as possible. Read a complete gospel in one sitting. Read a few of Paul's letters all together. Read through all of Genesis, or Isaiah, or Jeremiah, etc. Yes, it takes time. Just remember that it is a story; it is supposed to be read as such. Remember, too, that it is a true story. Not all of it is "applicable" to life, but it does show the character of God and sets the stage for the New Testament, or the chapter of the story in which we find ourselves here and now.

* As Philip Sidney says in his Defence of Poetry: "Poesy therefore is an art of imitation...that is to say, a representing, counterfeiting, or figuring forth - to speak metaphorically, a speaking picture - with this end, to teach and delight."  (A Defence of Poetry Oxford University Press ©1966 - page 25)

On Fairy Stories and Innocence

We live in a world where fairy stories are thought to be for children only. We exist in a culture that thinks innocence in adults is impossible, unusual, or even detrimental. To be a 'grown up' one must be concerned with the weather, with bills, career, keeping up the yard, and the list goes on interminably.

It is thought to be quite childish to read fairy stories, to delight in rainy days (or sunny days), to find cheer in smelling the flowers blooming along the path of one's morning walk, to stop and watch a funny little animal in its daily habits, or some other equally small pleasure. Folks call you 'Pollyanna' if you are too cheery about how nice the day is, what lovely flowers grace the out-of-doors, how magnificent a tree or mountain are, how enchanting the stars are, and so on. They believe you to be insincere or out of touch with reality.

What if all of those so-called 'adults' are wrong? Perhaps you possess innocence and they have been lured away by the sensuality of worldly cares. It would seem that becoming an 'adult' is a dull and dreary affair filled with woes and cares. A 'grown up' does not remember how to imagine, or how to really play with children, nor do they know how to appreciate fairy stories.

Our culture takes fairy tales and flips them upon their heads, making the female character the heroine and emasculating the male rôle. Innocent stories are supplanted with sexual undertones, and in many cases, sexual overtones, too. Heroes of tales today are rebellious, belligerent, arrogant, and haughty; replacing the valour, nobility, maturity, and selflessness of past heroes.

The worlds of Narnia and Middle Earth are stories about men of valour, obedience, sacrifice for the greater good, ordinary and extraordinary men, and every day responsibilities and duties - all without even a rumour of sensuality. In these stories no one is even fighting for a girl, but for the good of the world. Not that fighting for a girl is bad, but it is not the end goal.

Yet it is these types of classic stories that awaken the warrior within us. These tales birth the desire to serve humbly alongside dwarves, elves, talking beasts, ancient kings, worthy rangers, and Gandalf or Aslan himself. When we close the book we are inspired to be better than we were when we opened it. We are ready to accept life's adventures and its daily happenings; to discover how big the world truly is; to do right even though it is costly; to be a true and loyal friend; to seek peace at our own expense and to fight when it is necessary.

For these reasons fairy stories ought to be read and re-read by adults to remind them of the things that are more real, more glorious or weighty than the airy matters of offices, bills, and parties. Real fairy stories (not the sort dispensed by Disney) have protagonists who are real, fallen men who are stretched to become better than they were.

True adults know that they are not the most important person in their sphere or the world. They take time to enjoy small pleasures, they seek innocence and self-sacrifice over sensuality and arrogance. They know the reality of hardship, sorrow, and loss, yet they do not focus on those things. They remember their armchair and kettle just beginning to sing on the hearth, as Bilbo did in The Hobbit; and it is the simple joys of life that give them the courage and strength to pursue right at any cost. These are the true grown ups, everyone else is just play acting.

~ Johanna

Post Script: This entry has been a few years in the processing. I have been labelled Pollyanna for being too optimistic and cheerful. I have been called immature for being more innocent than my peers. At first I was offended and felt somewhat immature and unrealistic... Perhaps I am. However, I have come to the conclusion that greatness must be tempered by humility; hustle and work must be balanced with enjoyment of small pleasures; and the stress of hard things in life must be brought hope through fairy stories. Stories show us reality better than 'real life' does sometimes.

Post, Post Script: You may notice that, unlike my usual entries, I said nothing of God by name in this one. Surely heroism, valour, self-sacrifice, and every good, true, excellent, and beautiful thing stems from God Himself. Of course, but I figured my readers already knew that to be true and knew that to be my belief. I think the character of God is very latent in this whole piece.