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

Life is Deeper than Fiction

What shapes our ideals about what life ought to be like? Frighteningly, I think many persons are shaped by various forms of banal media more than by their families and mentors, or by historical figures and enriching arts. One's ideas of high school and college are formed by teen fiction a la Twilight and a host of other semi-pornographic novels marketed towards pre-teens and high schoolers.

One's ideas of dating and marriage are formed even earlier, through Disney films or grown ups asking toddlers if so-and-so is their girlfriend or boyfriend. A steady diet of 'young adult' fiction, films, and various genres of music are shaping the minds of children and teens, perhaps more than any other influence. No wonder girls struggle with self-image—not being willowy and graceful, or worse, sassy and sexy—like the ‘heroines’ they admire. No wonder boys and young men are apathetic or aggressive—they have no one in the public square to set an example of good character and hard work for them. They think they have to prove themselves by their wit, sarcasm, or skills. For many, it is much easier not to try and not to care.

Thankfully, for me, my parents made sure we had access to good books, along with other forms of media and art. They were generous during my youth, not policing my library stacks or telling me I could only read things by Christian authors. I read as many horse-centric books as I could find, hoping to avoid 'stupid romance novels.' Yet even horse stories had their share of 'boy drama' and vocabulary I knew wasn't acceptable in our family. Enter the availability of good books on the shelves at home. 

My mom would often get us new books when she attended conventions or workshops. Many of those books were missionary biographies that I read for pleasure or for school. My dad read books out loud to the family on an almost nightly basis; from To Kill a Mockingbird and The Prince and the Pauper, to The Chronicles of Narnia, Carry On Mr Bowditch, Hinds' Feet on High Places, and a failed attempt at 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. We also read our share of Tom Swift and Trixie Beldon books, as well as some Louis L'Amor westerns. So it wasn't all classic, well-written literature, but it wasn't anything we couldn't all read together. (Even though Dad read To Kill a Mockingbird to us before I was eight or nine, I think he edited a bit, and many of the words and references went over my head.)

Mysteriously, my family were unaware of Lord of the Rings and its precursor, The Hobbit, but I discovered them my senior year of high school and remedied the deficit. Some of the most influential books in my life I discovered well out of high school: A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, The Giver, The Phantom Tollbooth, The Princess and the Goblin, The Princess and Curdie, and others. I found depth in these  so-called 'children's books'—depth I never would have discovered had I read the books as a child. My brain was set in motion by these books to engage life on historical, ethical, microscopic, and macrocosmic levels. I was challenged to ask myself what I believed about time and words or family and love—thus expanding my perception of God and man.

Children's books, I have discovered, deal with weighty philosophical questions in ways that help the reader wrap their mind and life around both the questions and the answers. Who am I? Who is God? What is a good death? How do we process loss? Why do we crave life? What is love? These books also show what perseverance, self-sacrifice, loyalty, and love look like in action.

Confessedly, I had a moderately skewed idea of high school and college life, of romance and marriage, and what it meant to be an adult—most of which stemmed from the small amount of television and films (and sadly, from many so-called 'Christian' fiction books) consumed in our household. The elusive 'grown up' world was one that was both scary and intriguing from these portrayals. I was afraid of various things before I attempted them—physics, college classes and papers, driving on the interstate, etc.—thinking that one had to feel grown up in order to accomplish those things.

Feeling grown up and being grown up are two different things. I still don't feel like a grown up, but I am somehow comforted by the fact that many adults share that feeling. I didn't procure a traditional education, get married in my early twenties, have children, or own a house before I turned thirty. In short, I have not lived the American Dream. For many—who think persons are entitled to romance, intelligence, and affluence—my life's path might appear bitterly disappointing. Yet I am not disappointed nor bitter. I have learned that I am not entitled to the American Dream, even if I work hard. I am not entitled to my next breath of oxygen or my next steady heartbeat. Provisions, relationships, and life are all gifts.

Simply living life—for the glory of God, one day at a time, enjoying what I have—is a great gift. I have learned this lesson through various family members, professors, and friends; through opportunities, experiences, and jobs; and, not surprisingly, through art and literature. I have learned that being faithful in the daily matters of life—from rising on time or doing housework, to interacting with people and listening to God—is what prepares one to be entrusted with larger responsibilities and adventures.

I have been given some unbelievable gifts and experiences that I have striven to use well, both to challenge myself and to encourage others. These experiences have been well beyond my ability to earn, leading me to humbly give thanks to God. They have shaped my character and mind—my very living and being.

Let us come back to the question I asked earlier, what shapes our ideals about what life ought to be like? For me, it has been a mixture of the solid truth and the chintzy glamour of the world’s lies. The more truth I learn to live, the more hollow and false the world’s story rings. Living well takes hard work, faithfulness in the mundane, integrity, and the maturity to know when to play and when to be serious. It takes being teachable, learning to forgive and be forgiven, to give love and to receive love, and to be thankful in all things—even when life does not go as planned or as shown in the movies.

Real life might be stranger than fiction—even though it is full of daily responsibilities—but it is also more wonder-filled and satisfying. Real life, the good life, is deeper and richer than fiction. It is ours to pursue—and ours to receive with humility and thanksgiving.

Betrayer

Hushed conversation is weaving itself all around me, yet I am nothing but a loose thread in the tapestry, cut off while still in the picture. A battle is waging within me, to go or stay. Do I keep my promise to the religious leaders, or keep faith with the master? If I break either faith or promise I will break into pieces. My palm craves the silver I have been offered, yet I recoil at the repercussions of my foolish pledge. I waver like the flame on the table. What will they do to the teacher if I tell them where he is? Oh, I know—I know what they have tried to do at least twice before. I've seen the stones in their hands, in their glances, in their very hearts. My own heart is mostly stone, so I should know. 

A movement interrupts my indecision; the master is handing me a bite of bread dipped in the bitter herbs. Confusedly, I receive the bread and eat. He does not now say to do this to remember him. He only looks at me and tells me to act quickly. He knows! In that split second I quiver, then recklessly plunge into my choice. Swallowing the bread, I rise to slip into my sandals, feeling something evil slip into my soul as I melt into the night. The darkness is not around me, but in me. My choice was brief, the consequences are about to reverberate into history. I walk in a do-or-die fashion to the house where the shepherds of my people are feasting on a slaughtered lamb. I rap upon the door quickly, decisively. Flickering light shines out along with a man's peering eyes. I tell him what I know, offer to lead these men where they want to go, to find another lamb to slaughter. Sooner than I planned, a throng of men have gathered with various weapons and various reasons to find the master. 

I hold out my hand, boldly saying I will not set foot toward the final destination without the bounty price. There is some grumbling—greed is always slow to let go its treasure, but hatred and envy will cow even greed to give up its store when power is within grasp. Silver rushes into my hand, satisfaction washes over me as I pocket the pieces. I turn on my heel, ready to walk the dusty, covert path to the half-hidden garden. I have given the men with me the sign they need—I will greet the master with a kiss. Then my work will be done and I can slip away from the madness.

Time is doing something I can't comprehend. It warps and swivels in and out, quick then slow. How have we come so far so fast? My heart thuds and breath is hard to slide into my lungs, we are here—any minute now I will see the master. I must remember to greet him as planned. There! That rag-tag band of bumblers I have spent the last three years wandering with are up ahead. Ah, there is the master, steely-eyed, hard, always seeing through me. I walk toward him, thinking of all those times I was supposed to give money to the poor and had pocketed it instead. I suddenly knew clearly that all along the master knew that the money was ending up in my account. He always knew. Even now his knowing eyes fell upon me, and he told me—unflinchingly—to do what I had come to do. Through dry lips I greeted him, kissed his cheek, and kissed my sham-life goodbye. 

There was an exchange of words between the guards with us and the teacher. Suddenly, all the Jews around me fell facedown. What had he said? I heard the guard repeat the question, clearly hearing the reply this time: "I have already said that I am he." Even the darkness inside of me trembled at the power and authority in this claim, in that voice. The teacher was calling himself God Most High. The man was crazy! A scuffle—some words—the teacher touching a servant's ear—and then he was being dragged away. I blinked in the darkness as the torchlight disappeared around the bend and bushes. The others were gone, pelting in every direction but toward their master. Darkness settled upon me like a cloak. With a start, I realised I was free to go where I pleased. I had my time to myself, a pocket full of silver, and I no longer needed to pretend about who I was.

Just who am I? I wondered, as I walked toward the city. And what will I do now? I shrugged—it didn't matter. I was my own master with my own money. And my own conscience, I added. But who was I to worry about that? Had I even allowed my conscience one twinge since the time I began to look for a way to hand the teacher over to those religious men? Nope. If my conscience had ever even so much as twitched over anything, it was so long ago it was forgotten. 

Exhaustion caught up with me, laying me down in a quiet spot until the sun had winked open its eye and the noise of confusion dragged me awake. How had I ended up so close to the home of the priest and the temple? The further away I could get from that place, the better. Curiosity welled up inside me, however, and I nervously walked closer to the knot of men arguing and jeering. There was the teacher, haggard and bruised, being taken somewhere else. But what caught my eye was that impetuous jughead, Peter. He looked horrible. He was grubby, his eyes were bloodshot, and the tell-tale tracks down his face said he had been weeping, not merely sniffling. 


Almost before I knew what I was about, I slid next to Peter and demanded what was wrong with him. He turned toward me with a strange look of disdain, consternation, and pity co-mingled. Without any preliminaries he whispered something to me. I leaned in to catch his words, "I know," he said in a broken voice. "I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer." He turned away to follow his master, leaving me reeling and alone. I began to pace to and fro for quite some time. All I could hear were those words, echoing: I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer. That's what I was, a betrayer. Betraying the teacher. Betraying Peter and all the rest, too. A betrayer. All you are is a bastard betrayer! I shook away the accusation, turning my attention to anything but my roiling thoughts. I surfaced into the last half of a comment being made, something about the blasphemer getting his own. Wasn't it just like the people to betray their king? Last week they were shouting Hosanna, save us—today they were screaming to crucify their so-called saviour. The speaker slapped his companion on the back as if it were a good joke, then the pair sauntered away to hear the next round of gossip. 

I stood rooted to the earth, one phrase ringing in my ears, Isn't it just like the people to betray their king? Betray. Betray....Betray. The word haunted me, jarred on all my senses. Then, like a thunderbolt, another word swooped into my brain—crucify. How long had I been pacing? In that amount of time the teacher had been brought before some Roman who had the power to crucify him. I knew that news and rumours ran rampant, intertwining, making it hard to tell fact from fiction. Crucify. The word clawed at me, eating away all the grand lies I had fed myself. I had known all along about the stones those religious ragbags had held once-upon-a-time. What did I think they were going to do once they had the teacher in their grasp? But crucifixion...? Crucifixion was barbaric. I felt sick all the way to the pit of my stomach. I felt hot and cold and rash. Betrayer, my thoughts mocked as I stalked toward the temple.

Heads swung up from prayers, eyes opened wide when my wrathful gaze scoured anyone in my path. Where were those deplorable holy men? There! Before the eyes and ears of bewildered onlookers I spat out words I never dreamed of saying, "I have sinned." I what? Those grey-beards were startled, too. "I have—" I faltered at the word, "...betrayed an innocent man." Their eyes narrowed into little slits, like snake's eyes. "That's your problem—you deal with it," one retorted. I clenched my fist around a heavy burden—slivers of silver. I screamed a curse and threw a handful of those wretched coins at the feet of the rattled men in front of me. Again, and a third time, I pulled those bits of metal from my pocket and slammed them into the ground. Deliberately, I turned my back on them and walked away. Betrayer. I heard the word ripple through the men interrupted from their prayers. I walked outside, shattered. I had chosen to break faith—and now I had been broken by empty promises and deceitful men. The betrayer had been betrayed...

...Then he threw down the pieces of silver in the temple and departed, and went and hanged himself.  —Matthew 27:5

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.

Vane's Glory

Vane stood before a dark oaken door with iron bolts. The heavy beams were obviously as ancient as they were imposing. Yet she felt compelled to step forward and knock on the door. Knock she did, for the better part of an hour. She heard the sounds of many feet going to and fro, of cheerful chatter, and of the clinking of glasses. There must be a feast inside, thought Vane. Her continual knocking was left unheeded, however, whether drowned out by the revelry within, or mercilessly snubbed—she could not tell which. After exhausting both arms and bruising her knuckles, Vane sat upon the cobblestone steps and wept, the bitterness of loneliness and rejection overwhelming her.

Vane woke with a start. She was lying in her own bed in Barton Manor, early morning sun making dust motes dance before her clear grey eyes. A dream, it was only a dream, she thought. But it was the same dream that had haunted her from childhood. Every now and then it would return, the pain of rejection piercing as deeply as if it were the first time she had dreamt the dream.

Rising from her soft couch, Vane splashed the rosewater in the basin on her face, drying it with a supple linen towel. The English countryside beckoned alluringly, its hills swathed in fresh green grass. Wisteria purpled the walls of neighbouring cottages, and pink flowerets graced many bushes along the path leading to the golden fields of ripe winter wheat. A sigh escaped Vane's lips. There were other things calling her name more loudly than the meadowlarks; things she must attend to first, before escaping to those fields and hedges.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, spent with a book of poetry. The thick door of her dream did not vanish like a morning mist, however. One poem was about a garden door, another about the ache of loneliness. It seemed she could not escape the oppressive hand of denial. She gave a shiver of relief as two little heads peered 'round the corner to see if her repast had yet ended. Vane rose to greet the boy and girl, leading them to the nook prepared for lessons.

At last, the final declension had been repeated, the last sum calculated, the history lesson was itself history, and the children were working on their compositions. Vane left them to their work and slid out a side door to walk in the wild of the early Spring. She thought only of the beauty of the world around her, carefully pushing every other thought from her mind. Dusk began to creep along the eastern edges of the world. Vane turned her face to the fiery sinking orb of the sun. Everything around her was washed in a golden glow. Almost before she really saw the beauty of this light, it was gone and the evening fell like dew. "And so day's glory is illusory after all," Vane sighed out, turning toward home.

Why could you never hold beauty in your hands? How is it that just at the moment you glimpse the first firebrand of the rising sun, it rushes over the horizon blinding the eye? It is almost as if you only know beauty once it has gone, a thing to be looked back on and wondered at, but never to be entered into at the moment you see it. Vane wondered at this realisation. How if beauty were but an echo of a conversation? What if it were a whisper overheard, not meant for us? With these thoughts smoothing away the cares of her day, softening the sting of last night's dream, Vane's step quickened.

She continued thinking about beauty, and the passing glory of each day and season, as she wrote letters after the evening meal. Though other women might find her thoughts inscrutable, one, at least, would not. Vane composed a letter to this dear friend, hoping for her response to deepen and strengthen her own musings. She then undressed, settled under her duvet, and blew out the candle. Sleep quickly claimed her for its own, fast followed by dreams.

All that Vane could recall the next morning, as a thrush called her out of bed, was that she had not dreamt about the formidable door. But what had she dreamt? Hazy recollections attended her to the basin of scented water. Upon looking at the green hills outside, a sharp image leapt up in her mind's eye. A gate. There had been a wooden gate in a green garden wall. Though it was shut, she was sure that if she tried the latch it would open. Yes, now she recalled the gate opening at her gentle push to reveal a meadow filled with rich purple heather. There had been snowdrops, gilded crocuses, and meandering sheep, too—as if the clouds in the heavens were reflected in those fluffy fleeces there below. At the bottom of the hill was a wide lake, silver with morning sunlight.

How could I forget a dream like that? It was peaceful and beautiful. When the gate opened, I felt like I had been welcomed home. Vane decided then and there that she would hold this dream like balm to her heart whenever the stab of rejection from the other dream tried to grieve her.

Days flitted into weeks, the sun shone its face that Summer as it rarely does in England. One evening, Vane was watching the westering sun and she felt the nip of Autumn and smelled not a Summer smell, but one of sweet hay and dying grass. She thought again about beauty and how she had not fully known the warmth and loveliness of Summer until she had smelled the sweetness of the withering grasses and felt the chill of Autumn. Will it always be so in this life? She mused. Will I never catch the moment as it comes, knowing then and there that I am inside beauty?

That night, Vane fell asleep with her window open to let in the fresh night air. The smell of warmth and ploughed dirt mingled with the feel of a dirt road beneath her feet and the smell of a kitchen fire. She travelled on, not knowing where her path would take her, but simply enjoying the going. As if her feet knew the way, she found herself leaving the dirt road and threading her way through the cobblestone streets of a small village. Each house had either a neat garden or window boxes brimming with flowers; stables scented with sweet hay or the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen. Vane was filled with delight at just being there—amidst the sights, sounds, and smells of life.

Soon, she found that she was coming to the end of the village; there a great stone manor stood. Vane walked right up to the door of the manor—a great oaken door with iron nails and bolts. She could hear laughter and music behind that door. A rich golden light streamed out into the deepening evening shade. More than anything Vane wanted to be on the other side of the heavy door. Fearlessly she raised her hand to knock, but she stayed it a moment, knowing she had knocked on this door since she was a wee girl. Never once had it opened. Her hand did not waver. She would knock anyway. Even if she knocked on that door until she were still older and grey, she would knock in the hope of one day being let in.

Vane knocked. The sounds of steady footfalls and more music greeted her. Those inside were dancing. This door is like all of those moments I realise I have been surrounded by beauty, but it has just passed away. Vane thought as she continued to beat the wood. I know that something beautiful was just there, I have the vision of it, but it is already gone. I could not pass into it any more than I can pass through this door into the light. I want to be inside, accepted, part of the beauty itself. She beat the door will all her energy, but at last her arms grew weary and her knuckles were bloody. She sat down on the cobblestone steps in the darkness, tears streaming down her face, like the light streaming out the crack under the door. She was so close she could taste it, but no one would open the door. "Please, let me in," she whispered as she put her head down on her knees.

Behind her the door slowly opened. A kind-looking man with a weather-beaten face and crinkles at his eyes stood before her. He stepped out and sat beside Vane, putting his hand upon her shoulder. "My dear, why are you crying?"

She looked up into his eyes, deep green eyes that turned blue and sparkled when they caught the light. She knew he was the Laird of the manor by his stately appearance, yet there he was, sitting on a dirty step with her. "I... I have always wanted to get in, beyond that door," she said haltingly. "For years and years I have knocked, have heard the laughter and feasting, but no one ever opens the door." Here she began to weep violently, and the master took her face in his hands. "Vane." She opened her grey eyes in complete surprise—he knew her name. "Vane, your name means gladness, and here you are in tears of sorrow and dejection. Why did you never before call out to be let in? I know your voice, I would have opened the door."

Vane looked bewildered, "I never thought to call out to you," she whispered. "I did not know that you would hear me. No one ever heard my knocking." He smiled down at her, "No, no one ever heard the noise you tried to make with your own hands. But I heard you when you only whispered your desire to be let in... And here I am. Now then," he stood and held out his hands to her, "Let us go inside where the feasting and dancing are in full tilt." Vane put both her hands in his and he pulled her to her feet. They walked in—to the very heart of beauty and acceptance, shutting out the darkness behind them. And inside was only joy and light and praise from the Laird.

Dawn crept in the Barton Manor window, dressed in velvety pink and orange. The lark rang out his final Summer song of the year. Light shone in delicate shafts through the chequered panes onto the form lying in her downy bed. A joyful smile played about her mouth. But Vane did not rise to wash her face in rosewater, or dry her hands and rosy cheeks on the linen towel. She was carefully raised and gently laid in a bed of earth. When Spring arrived, ripples of purple and honey-coloured crocuses pushed their way out of her grave. Snowdrops graced her headstone. It was carved with an arched gate and read, "She has gone in gladness into the good adventure of God's glory."

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“The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire.

For glory means good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory