The gift of slow Friday dawns.

The sun touching unstudied beauties like

“my finger isn’t alive”

the four-years-young says.

The new dewy skin graced with

a small cut on her tiny pinky.

Her desperate reality, her hand unperfect

but no, this healing hand is a Rembrandt to me.

Radiance generates through clanging dishes,

Magenta play-doh pancakes,

Crossed-paw retriever naps,

Messy piles of evergreen yarn,

Residual coffee grinds and dough crumbs.

I saw radiance through my strands of hair.

I saw it in the concentrating tongue, bit down by chicklet baby teeth.

Ides of concentration cultivating doughy imaginations.

They said Moses was radiant, too—

but a different sort.

A terrifyingly wonderful brilliance

upon an average Joe’s skin.

A veil covered him, because that level of glimmer

didn’t belong in the filthy wilderness.

The glow on my own skin—a shard of a glimpse.

One puzzle piece amongst one billion more.

Like Moses, that promised land may only be seen from a distance.

His last breath, surveying milk and honey.

A foretaste of the kingdom.

Our last breaths

like May mornings, song birds,

an opaque moon and a brilliant sun.

A joy unmatched lay far beyond

We foretaste it

a small show of radiance

by the slow Friday dawn.

I vow not to wish the days away,
Azaela afternoons, pin-straight lilies
strong as giants, new as days-old infants.

I vow not to wish the days away,
Push-pop crinkles, ruddy brown heels, barefoot beauties.

I vow not to wish the days away,
The anticipatory lilac blooms, trimmed last autumn,
spanning fragrance above me.
The trunk’s bark, its foundation grateful.

I vow not to wish the days away,
Long naps and no-nap toddlers.
Blonde mop heads, sticky rose cheeks.
Families like ours in burgundy brick houses.
Families of worms in fingertip-made moss houses.

I vow not to wish the days away,
And yet, they pass away just the same.
One prayer—I vow not speak.
Time is not my own, how dare I ask?
The Time keeper. The Time maker.
Winding and commanding earth’s clock. And my clock.
We are bound to its hands with our ordinary hands.

Beyond the jubilant whistles of lovebirds and
beyond coffee’s airborne steam.
Beyond the muddied walkways of forgotten footpaths,
branches overhead holding hands, clenching each other as the sun interrupts their moment.
Beyond risen hairs o’er goosebumps and
beyond soot dressing bricks of ageless hearths.
Beyond the whisper of stirred gravel as bicycle tires skid by, insects scurrying to grass or racing to slimy rock underbellies.
Beyond the swish of a donkey’s tail as the incessant fly pricks and prods, and
beyond the creamy white mold, concealed under moist compost.

And beyond to the deep intensities of the seas, the oceanic chaos a mystical threat, the bottomless danger inherently understood and ill-explored.
Beyond the manchineel, the cyprus, the crabapples.
Trunks proudly claiming their territory.
Beyond the rear gap between you and your jeans, the lack of gap in the thighs, the placid release of the spine as you stretch.
Beyond the imprint of fingers, making paths along a dog’s mane, the stern raven’s talon grip, the abdomen of the chocolate-grey toad in your palm.
Beyond the small spaces between a newborn’s toes, the soft fingernails, the dewy pores.

Beyond all these we find the quiet declarations of an Author.
From snowy mountain peaks to wispy baby hair.
From salted seas to salted eggs.
Voiceless dances of particles.
The quiet suggestion—something came from somewhere, something, Someone.
One silent shrapnel to the next.
Our existence scripted in between the tight-lipped beauties of our small lives.
Our Father, everywhere and beyond.
Silent until perceived. Waiting for you and seeking you. And me.
Silence!—a moment of reverence for the Creator.
Listen as He loudly proclaims His authority through the whispering miracle of the world we breathe in.

“I bloody hate it!” Calvin jerked his shoulder from under his father’s hand. His 15-year-old mannerisms under pubescent jurisdiction.

“Come now. Heigh-ho. Heigh-ho. Good boys have quiet haircuts. No foolish rock-and-roll fashion keeps you respected,” his father clapped back. “I must be off, son. Heigh-ho. Heigh-ho.”

But Calvin’s entire existence marched under orders of rock and roll. “Mick Jagger won’t ever know me with this haircut,” he worried.

He “by-joved” his father’s back with a compulsory tall finger and stormed off into the alleyway, aggressively humming Paint It, Black.

“I’ll show that fool! Yes, I will! Agh!” Calvin kicked a brick wall and cried in pain. He fell to the ground against a rope pile in anguish.

“I’ll show him what this haircut has done!” He tied a noose knot in the rope, tossed the rope around a wooden beam across the alleyway windows and searched for an inevitable crate.

Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts.
His toes braced the crate.

“Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?!” a filthy-faced child yelled from the window above. Calvin glanced up in anguish. “Go away!”

The child scaled the beam and began to saw at the rope with a rusty knife like a British wild monkey.

Calvin protested, “Leave me in agony!”

But the diabolical child, feet black as coal, black as night, peered down at pitiful Calvin as the rope dropped in disgust and said, “If you look for hell, it will find you. What I wouldn’t give for a proper haircut.”

Calvin stared at that child’s face, the matted hair swiping soot cheeks. A nauseous disgust panged his stomach as he sat on the alleyway floor, noose still adorning him.

“Cut that damn thing off and go home you bloody loser! And may God have mercy on ya!” the child squabbled.

Calvin disgracefully picked himself up and removed the rope. He was about to take it. His own life. Over hair. Over hair he relied on for a Mick Jagger he’d never know. Hair the mucky child would have loved to have chopped. How humiliating, that child had more sense. More reason.

He took one last glance at the child over his shoulder, daring to look as if he’d be turned to salt.

“By jove,” he whispered under his tongue. The sun shone over this child’s shoulders, rays of fluorescent splendor and stillness. The mange barely visible through the striking beams. The sun lingered upon his forearms, his shirt and the bits of exposed hairline on his short-haired head. The calming warmth enveloped him. An infant smile leaked from the nook between his dimpled cheek and parched lip. Calvin thought not of his short hair or Jagger’s painted lyrics, but rather the mercy that washed his troubled soul.

Behind the Writing:

In 1966, a young boy aged 15 took his own life because his parents forced him to get a haircut. His dream to have long hair like the other Rolling Stones groupies lost. I fell upon this story while researching for an in-progress novel and the tragedy of it stayed in my soul. “By Jove” presents a fictional, revised, and merciful ending to a life lost in the midst of youthful expectations.

The news article: https://www.nytimes.com/1966/02/12/archives/english-lad-15-a-suicide-coroner-says-after-haircut.html

We did not recognize him
when the soldiers cats-o’-nine-tailed his body.
Shreds of bone, swung upon ragged tendons.
Holy tendons, seeping flawless blood.
Hades’ original flagrum.

We did not recognize him
when perpetual sacrifices stopped.
Did the spotless lambs rejoice?
It took an eternal earthquake to stop them.
Human hands could not
under pressure of generations-old tradition,
the fitful oppression of religion.
The slaughter rituals cease, there need not be any, anymore.
For the work finished, three hours passed noon.
The work began at creation.
It began with flogs. It began with nails
lodged into veins. Lodged into secretions.
A beautiful perfect body, decimated.
Sin’s hellish consequence, decimated.
Shoulders separated, agonized, dislocated,
bearing our separation, our chosen separation.
The fruit we chose over the A & O.
Our ruthless, fruitless, rotten, divorce from God.
And still, the Sabbath came.

We did not recognize him
all on our own account.
Dice bounced beneath holy feet.
Sins pranced the wind, swept across rocky terrain.
The prince of the power of the air
dancing in vile entropy, laughing in
the propulsion of fists, cheering on the
disembodiment of purity.
We cheered it on in pride.
The pride of companionship with the despicable roots of Sodom,
Lot’s daughter-wives, Ham’s desolate impulse,
Esau’s dunced trade for a meal, David’s duplicity to Uriah.
Nebuchadnezzar, that prodigious name, almost forgotten, easily misspelled.
“May the king live forever.”
Whispered as soil caked under his finger-talons,
a wild beast enraged inside him.
But we chose the wild path, too, didn’t we?

We did not recognize him
even when the globe shook.
The darkness preyed upon the sun,
The crouching taste of hell on our lips.
Like the taste of the hyssop-branched sponge of Christ’s last drink.
We wanted this, didn’t we?

We didn’t want to recognize him
because then we’d recognize ourselves.
Our own reflections unrecognizable
from the grand-opening bodies of the sixth day.
O Lord, O Lord.
We are not very good.
We are but blasphemous second-faces.
Sallow bodies, oiled pores.
Wicked machines.
Leaching canals of bloody evils.
We wanted this—remember?

We didn’t recognize him
because he had gone—the angels
confidently at their post, waiting for the women.
More Marys, perhaps 33 years since the last correspondence.
Ethereal junctures and shared proclamations of joy.
Did the angels raise their hands in disbelief?
They still don’t believe? Even after Isaiah, Zechariah and Christ himself?
Words spoken. Words written. The pinnacle lost.
Give us more miracles! We demanded.
Whilst the greatest miracle had happened.
The iris, the cornea did not record.

We did not recognize him
even when he walked amongst us.
Woeful tales of everlasting redemption retold.
Meals shared. Weeps. Despondency. Eyes Downcast.
Cleopas, how silly,
asking the risen Lord if he heard about the story of himself.

We did not recognize him
until we touched the pierced hands and
shared a humble meal of broiled fish.
“This is what I told you..”
His gentle voice verbalizing the loving reminder that
we did not recognize him.
Yet, he still embraced our ignorant bodies.
The crucial sacrifice complete.
The settlement of sin.

We did not recognize him
but his hands grazed the hairs on our head—the blessing.
Raised arms, scaling heaven’s ladder.
A soft benediction sprinkled on foreheads of those
who did not recognize him.
Great joy. Great Joy. Great surmountable joy.

They told me to have faith amongst the small heaps of ashes that littered the border of the hospital bed. Ashes of lost moments, the fleeting last breaths of human existence, particles of memories dusting the tiles. They told me to pray harder, to ask for more forgiveness, and to re-evaluate my existence as a whole, because certainly, there must be an explanation—bad things could never happen to good Christians.

Certainly there is an error, a thorn in the finger, pricking the lives around me on account of my sin. Certainly a stone must be unturned.

“What is lurking in your past, dear?”

“Find it. Unearth it. Or else.”

And so I searched. I asked my aunts, uncles, cousins, anyone still alive. Where had Satan wrapped his fingers? Surely there must be a concrete catalyst of redemption, ready for release. A connection to a cult? Ancestors with enemy friends? Centuries old deals with the devil? A reason must spring forward. Generational sin! Who is it? Who did it? Who can I blame?

I’ll renounce the evil. Exorcise it out. If I’m not careful, my desperation could turn into a deal of its own.

A miserable wife, on the cusp of widow, wrought in anguish. Give me a way to bring him back, I’ll do it.

Because they told me, all of them, that if I have enough faith, bad things won’t happen. If I pray correctly, worship enough, do everything right and expected of me, I’ll be free from trouble.

I want that fake jurisdiction back.

But like a smack in the face, a thunder clap, a daunting realization succumbs: my relentless babble, my punching of the wind, it’s no use. I am not in control.

Even Jesus—upon baptism, his next scene in the desert, the devil provoking. Take the kingdom, change the stones, use your power for evil—but nothing could change his love for the Father, and the yield of his will.

I cannot earn this. I have no power. Let me worship in the ashes.

With lifted hands I feel how small I am amidst the great plans of my Creator.

Johnny felt the tears well up as he watched his seven siblings take a right off the porch steps, leaving their red brick home and Johnny, too.

“I can’t stay here all day again! I just can’t!” he cried to himself as he wiped the hot drops off his cheeks. “Why can’t I go? It’s not fair. I’ve been ready for kindergarten since last year! I even made my bed this morning, ate my whole dinner for a month straight and mother still said no!”

Johnny shrugged to an arm’s cross and sat on the porch steps in despair. His mother washed dishes inside, her answer firm. He didn’t want to stay home alone all day with no one to play with—it considered it the youngest brother’s worst nightmare to feel utterly left out.

A lightbulb fluttered in Johnny’s head.

“I’ll follow them to school and force my way in. That’ll show them this four-year-old means business!”

Now back in those days, children went to school when they were deemed ready. Mere age had nothing to do with it. Maturity and enthusiasm ruled the law. Local governments trusted parental instincts back then.

Johnny, being the youngest of eight children, had less of a baby complex and more that of a lion, as his strong will often prevailed amongst family arguments. He didn’t have tantrums, just assertions of expectations, confidently boasted and widely accepted as reasonable. As a perceptive little guy, Johnny watched and learned from all of his siblings. He could tie his own shoes, cut his own chicken and helped with all the heavy chores. If there was something the older siblings did, he’d find a way to insert himself—catching on fast to prove his place.

Johnny picked himself up from the cement steps in desperation. He dressed himself politely that morning, khakis and a button-up shirt, he shined his own shoes the night before. He draped a bag over his shoulder and ran after his siblings.

Larry, one of the middles heard footsteps behind him and turned to inspect. Upon seeing little Johnny, he shook his head. His young brother, that little guy, so determined to follow his older siblings.

“Wait up, Larry! I’m coming to school and you know it!” Johnny yelled.

Larry stopped and turned around. “Johnny you can’t come with us and you know it. You’re only four. You gotta stay home this year—next year is your year, kid.” Larry patted an unwavering Johnny on the shoulder and turned away.

Johnny would not have it. “Larry, I’m coming! I promise I’ll listen, I won’t cry and I won’t pee my pants!”

The firm look on Johnny’s incorrigible face couldn’t help but make Larry smile. He loved the parts of Johnny that made him so incredibly bull-headed. He knew that Johnny would do okay, his determination was unmatched amongst all of the siblings. The kid had moxie.

The other siblings stopped and turned to see watch the interaction, a few annoyed, but a few smiling, too.

Larry dramatized the moment, looking at the sky, his shoes, and his siblings, pretending to deeply assess his decision. All the while, little Johnny resolutely stood his ground.

“Alright, kid.”

And so, Johnny walked to school with the biggest chip on his shoulder. And for the record, he never did pee his pants.

Jesus is offset.
The cowboy hats aligned.
One. Two.
Three pair of cowboy boots underneath.
No matter the skin they are made of—
that’s for another poem.

Colorful Jesus.
The art of first grade.
Slightly crinkled. Slightly scribbled.
The youthful marks of my offspring. The crayons know him well.

I hung the picture in a hurry.
An old frame. A scotch tape set. Two nails. Eyed up.
It was meant to stay, the picture. Good intentions I had.
But much mischief comes from good intentions.
It was meant to be prized, the art.
But I didn’t measure. I didn’t consider.
Nails pierced the walls.
Nails. How fitting.

Jesus is off-centered, the allegorical mammoth of two inches.
I am often in a hurry. Hanging pictures. Hanging with Jesus.
But he sits and waits for me.
I am often eyeing up my arguments
instead of extracting them from scripture.
His word sits by, ready for me.

An off-centered Jesus off-centers eternity.
It’s unfortunately that simple.
The whisper. Do you hear it?
Spend time with me.
Keep me at the center.
How noisy the world is—
always on the verge of drowning out the gentle whispers of an off-centered Jesus.
And yet, he still sits and waits for me.

Unseen virtue is a rarity in an age of internet social proclamation. Each algorithm tailors to our interests—each feed showing the best picture, the best purchase, the best product, the best “look at me” moment, or even the best “look at my kids” memory. Very often influencers and everyday people do things specifically for the opportunity to post on the internet. It may be for financial gain, but it also could be for plain “likes.” While not everyone’s intention is to boast, we can likely all admit that posting the worst photo doesn’t happen often. Consider biblical times, ancient peoples did not have access to the world, but scripture tells us that public boasting happened consistently in ways relevant to the times. Jesus called out vanity dressed as piety, or what our age calls “virtue signaling.”

Beginning in Matthew 6:16, Jesus explains the downfalls of religious practices in public view: “And when you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces that their fasting may be seen by others. Truly, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.” Vanity reveals its disagreeable head in many sneaky ways. In this passage, Jesus condemns the Pharisaical behavior of swaggering their fast. Instead of fasting in prayerful seclusion, priests made sure everyone knew about their religious deeds. This isn’t the only area Pharisees struggled with self-righteousness.

Idolatry of body image comes in many forms: over-dieting, over-eating, obsession with beauty, perfectionism of the body, and even pride in modesty. Jesus rebuked the Pharisees for many sins, but several sins were rooted in the obsession with outward appearance. We see another side of vanity in the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. The Pharisee’s prayer condemned other sinners and boosted his own standing, a back-handed prayer that glorified himself instead of the Lord. In contrast, the tax collector’s prayer mourned his own sin, beating his breast, unable to even glance toward the heavens. Luke 18:14 reads, “I tell you, [the tax collector] went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” This parable proves our intention matters. To the public eye we may appear devout, but God knows the deep objectives of our heart. This serves as a warning: Christian piety remains virtuous until sin transforms it into arrogance. We serve a loving God who demands our worship. He demands our worship for His glory, not our own. Our worship falls in the crosshairs of self-righteous public performance and divine attention. In this story we uncover another area in which we see our need for a Savior, for we cannot even simply pray without the tarnish of sin.

The good news is Christ died for this very reason—we could not save ourselves. With him, we can jump hurdles. “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20). Just the same: it is no longer I who have humility, but Christ in me makes me humble. Our body and our actions cannot be an instrument to condemn others.

Let’s consider a life built on body image. We must expose the lie that our flesh can be perfected on our own. In middle school (or perhaps earlier or later), many children move into adulthood in physicality. No longer is each individual the child that grows in height and weight, but an exclusive hormonal change happens. Do you remember this time feeling like a competition? One year your body doesn’t matter as much, and suddenly those ahead in their hormonal timeline are winning (like they have any control over it)! I remember this time and wondering what my body would look like after the shift was over. Body image suddenly became a very big deal and a sweep of comparison permeated social groups and standards. During my own hormonal shifts, I did not call in the name of the Lord for assurance. I lived in my flesh, mentally and physically, wondering why I did not form the perfect body I saw in magazines. Tragically, we live in an age where both genders feel this social pressure so acutely. Tragically for some, livelihood-altering surgery or hormone treatment seems like the only option. And yet, God’s word waits patiently nearby, awaiting our calling for an advocate, a helper, confirming our worth and setting fire to the lies of the enemy. As stated in the previous chapter, God created us in His image. He does not make mistakes, and we have the holy opportunity to live sanctified lives in a fleshly body. Our lampstand, our savior, burns bright in a world bent on telling us we’re not good enough.

In Romans 8:7-9, Paul contrasts life in the spirit verses the flesh, “For the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God’s law; indeed, it cannot. Those who are in the flesh cannot please God. You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him.” A middle school me did not know this truth. I imagine myself drowning in the expectations of the flesh, bodily goals I could never accomplish. An obsession with flesh, even as an immature middle schooler, forms a vanity much like that of Pharisees. Are we devoted to our body so much that we cannot recognize God’s handiwork in how we are created? Idolatry of the body sneaks in, just like the sin crouching at Cain’s door. “[Sin] desires to have you, but you must rule over it” (Gen. 4:7).

We cannot idolize our bodies while also idolize our Savior. In Matthew 6:24, Jesus explains that our earthly treasures will fade away: ““No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.” We cannot be obsessed with our bodies and obsessed with our Creator. Idols demand sacrifice. God provided the sacrifice already. Who is more worthy to receive our worship? The void god of earthly vanity or the eternal God who can number the hairs on our head?

In studying the book of Romans, my pastor explained that the consequence of sin is more sin. If we focus too much on our bodies, our attention will be away from God, the path of destruction grows wider. If we focus too little, we do not take care of the body that God gave us. Ask God to take reign over your body image, lest you find yourself in this balancing act. Let’s dive into the truths Paul shares in Romans about our identity in the Lord. Verses 12-15, read: “So then, brothers, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh. For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” A beautiful hope explained, that God calls us his children. Our Father loves us in the beautiful bodies he created, not that we would worship our bodies, but that we would worship the creator of them, our Abba, our Father. We do not need to be slaves to body image, because we are sons and daughters of the Most High.

Have you heard the expression “YOLO,” meaning “you only live once”? This is a cultural aphorism with agnostic undertones. As I grow in my faith, I hear phrases for a second time in new light. For professing Christians, we live for the truth that our eternal life with Jesus is next, or rather it already started. Born again in the spirit, we have confidence that we do not live just once, we live forever with our Lord and Savior. And our bodies, fleshly and earthly now, will live in heaven permanently perfected for God’s glory. C.S. Lewis wrote in his book, The Screwtape Letters, “The present is the point at which time touches eternity.” Eternity with the Lord starts now. That means we are stepping down from being the center of our own lives, and allowing our beloved Father to be the focus. Our vanity can only rule our fleshly bodies so long. No surgery can hold up gravitational pulls of our 80s and 90s. We need to remember that swimsuit-ready bodies do not equate happiness. Nor does the shortness of a mini skirt indicate boldness. If we are God’s creations, let’s act like it and find rest and peace in God’s image, not our own.

I shared earlier about pre-teen experiences in puberty and the like. But I regret to share the dark ages of my eating disorders followed because I did not have confidence that my body belonged to the Lord, a precious possession that skirted the lines of earth and the heavens. My body, a sinful construction, is also the vessel in which I seek, find, and develop a relationship with my Abba. A beautiful aspect of Christianity shows through God’s opportunity for believers to look now and find present repentance and find dated opportunities for repentance as well. My pre-teen years gave just that opportunity when I think of the sharp focus I placed on my own body. If only I had that focus on the Lord instead of myself. The crank continues to turn, my refinement as well as your refinement progresses, Jesus moves the wheel, revealing himself more in past, present day, and future.

And with that, I consider focus on body image as a teenager a frivolous pursuit, punching the wind. The limitations of my outward appearance felt like barriers instead of God’s finishing touches, making me the person God had intended from the beginning. In college, I exercised, tanned, wore revealing outfits, all in an effort to gain attention from men I did not care about and to compete with women in my social circles. That sharp confession creates a grey sheen in my heart that saddens me, for in that chase of vanity I washed up empty on the shore, alone on my own island, the treadmill belt beneath my feet, watching the miles and calories rise. Fake numbers, fake confidence, and empty vanity. The workout completed, its own sort of embossment in the definition of my muscles and my empty stomach. Did I really believe I’d reach the end of the race? I don’t believe I knew the end of the race, because the enemy lies and I listened. One more drunken weekend to fulfillment, one more workout to burn off a meal, one more new outfit to impress everyone on campus would not bring the happiness my soul searched for.

In 1 Corinthians 9:24-27, Paul surrenders himself to the race for heaven, “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.” Paul does not run aimlessly, his ministry and purpose had precise focus. In these verses, Paul does not judge the runner for training, but compares their goal to the ultimate goal of eternity. Both races require self-control and discipline, standards that earthly pursuits so often mar with personal gain. In my own case, working out for the sake of revelry equates to the punching of air, a self-discipline wrongly focused.

In contrast to the empty race of egotism and outward beauty, Jesus’s race to the cross shows love and humility. “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” Our Father hates our bodily shame, not so much that He wants us to find a surgery, workout relentlessly, or stop eating, but He hates our shame so he sent His Son, to become a lowly sacrifice for the world’s deficit of love. The ultimate propitiation and the final embossment, our Lord sacrificing His own body image for our sake. We do not owe Him, this is a gift we all have access to, if only we’d gracefully accept it and share the joy of loosed chains of pride and insecurity, we’d count it all joy.

What could keep me out of heaven? That gruesome ugly fear pits in my stomach. Could there be some lost repentance I haven’t come to grips with? When I read The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis for the first time, the allegorical stories of each character blanketed by their personal sin worried me. Where did I fit into this? Could there be an earthly something that would divide me from the eternal presence of God?

As an English major in college, I had a difficult time finding an advisor. It seemed as though my peers in the same academic trek had no problem choosing a professor, based on personality, field of expertise or mentor-like connection. I wandered from office to office, meeting to meeting, feeling disconnected from the professors I seemingly should trust. Unbeknownst to me, my faith began its brew. God had planted seeds long before, and the seedling roots began their growth. Despite my love for literature and writing, I could not function in this space of literary giants. The reason was not that I did not share the same interests, or that I did not possess the drive, but that I felt profoundly unlike them. Only now do I realize the root of my ostracization, not in an oppressive sense—quite the opposite. My roots could not be moved from where God placed them. And those roots, so securely fastened, could not be pulled from the fertile soils of God’s grace no matter how hard I tried to fit in to the secular halls in which I walked to class. At the time, this grace camouflaged as division made me feel ousted and unworthy. And yet, that divisional grace saved me from a multitude of sins. God placed barriers where I need not have gone, redirecting my path toward His righteousness.

In several Christian fictional pieces of literature, a warning echoes: the pursuit of earthly knowledge cannot sustain. Not only can it not sustain, it blinds.

Consider the Intelligent Man in The Great Divorce. He decides not to move on to heaven for these reasons: “Of course I can’t come with you, I have to be back next Friday to read a paper. We have a little Theological Society down there. Oh yes! There is plenty of intellectual life.”¹ We see the pursuit of knowledge muddled with the pursuit of wisdom. In the case of the Intelligent Man, it was not wrong to be intelligent, he likely was created with that academic fervor. And yet, his life’s work ended in misdirected dedication to things that do not matter in eternal focus.

In Dante Aligheri’s poem, Inferno, the first of nine circles in his allegorical hell is named “Limbo”. ² And who does Dante describe as living there? Philosophers, academics, poets and the like. How could such great minds find themselves on the cusp of damnation?

We meet the similar worrisome characters in The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. Mr. Worldly Wiseman, Mr. Legality and Mr. Civility all believe their grown knowledge of expertise trumps any call to repentance, temporarily leading the main character Christian away from his destined journey.³

These classical authors understood that walking alongside great academics created friction. That is, as professing Christian, walking alongside them can only persist for so long until the road inevitably splits. At some point, maturing faith will groom branches, trim vines, and cut off dead parts of academic pursuits that cannot serve God because they exist only to self-serve. Earthly academic circles tell us that knowledge sets us apart. The infallible Word of God tells us that faith sets us apart. And who can have faith? Anyone—from a small child to an elderly scholar. IQ, accolades and academic degrees do not determine eligibility. The gospel, simple by God’s design, can reach any unhardened heart and can penetrate any willing soul.

In Proverbs 9:10 we read, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight.” Some of the most learned Pharisees and Sanhedrin sent Jesus to the cross. While present-day education does not look the same as biblical times, Pharisees studied rigorously to earn and keep their elevated status through dedicated study to the Torah, law, oral traditions, and Jewish customs. They studied the prophets and stories we know today as the Old Testament and yet they could not recognize the Messiah lived amongst them. How interesting, that the most scholarly individuals missed the fulfillment of their own study because their pursuit of knowledge and power blinded them. Paul speaks of this at length in 1 Corinthians: “None of the rulers of this age understood this, for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.” Jesus Christ, the ultimate wisdom in the flesh, lived amongst them, but they could not recognize him.

Paul expands on this throughout his first letter to the Corinthians. In verses 12-13 we read, “Now we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, that we might understand the things freely given us by God. And we impart this in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit, interpreting spiritual truths to those who are spiritual.” Human wisdom dwells in the shadow of the spiritual wisdom of God. This is not to say that obtaining an education is not important, of course we should educate ourselves and our children. But quickly do the golden calves form out of the fire, calves devouring books and cloaked in academic hoods. We cannot forget the promises of God far outweigh any accomplishment we earn on earth. We so easily forget the manna, the quail, the rescue from the Red Sea—the elementary truths and miracles that form the attributes we know of God. We forget that every breath we breathe and the provisions we enjoy come straight from the Almighty.

Many barriers challenged my faith in my English academic trek. My senior thesis edified my journey in faith. I showed my professor my hopeful outline: a biblical contrast to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. My professor’s answer: a blatant no. My road inevitably split. Knowledge clashed with wisdom—each side vying for its own definition of each term. On the cusp of my degree completion, my academic pursuits intersected with my infant faith. I did complete a thesis, still on The Handmaid’s Tale, but nothing like the one I had intended. A fake fervor rang out as I presented to a table lined with professors, none of which ever became a loved advisor.

In my gains of intelligence over those four years, I learned much of writing, editing and reading. I prepared many essays, deconstructed poetry and literature and expanded my knowledge in various genres of writing. But those accomplishments, while good in their own way, reside in a crevice of my growing shadow of faith, like trifling streams engulfed in the silhouette of immense mountains.

Envision the bigger picture, one bible amongst an entire library of temporal voices. That one bible is the cornerstone and catalyst of a bold faith. What could keep us out of heaven? A lost bible amidst the many books competing for the throne. Knowledge gained and wisdom lacked. Feel the panic in mistaking the terms: knowledge being from the tree that damned us to begin with; wisdom from a healthy, beautiful fear of God, drawing us toward eternal promises rather than earthly hypotheses.

Lord Almighty, in the pursuit of knowledge, let wisdom lead the way—your wisdom, not that of this world. If earthly knowledge and spiritual wisdom collide, let it be so that you can be glorified. Let them complement each other instead of compete. The more we know, the more we trust you and love you, Lord. Reveal yourself to us. Amen

Scripture to sit with:
Proverbs 1-4
1 Corinthians 2

1. C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce (New York, HarperCollins, 1973), 43.

2. Dante Alighieri, Inferno (New York, Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., 2012), 19.

3. John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress (Uhrichsville, Ohio, Barbour and Company, Inc.) 11-19.

A pillage—almost. The murkiness of an estate sale. Only weeks ago, perhaps only days, the residents of this dreary home breathed their last here. If the buyers weren’t so distracted, they could still smell the cologne, the perfume, the spare bathroom’s rose hand soap. The previous owners rustled through kitchen cabinets and opened their refrigerators in search of half-and-half. Doing human things, the mundane bits of life, walking through the halls, vacuuming behind the sitting chair. They pieced their way through drawer inhabitants in search of favorite socks and opened accordion doors to mothball closets, fur coats in plastic in the back. They lived out their ordinary day unaware that days from now their grandfather clock would be stickered at $30 and their beloved romance novels a dollar a dozen.

An expired lifespan hovers among the wreckage, suddenly wiped from existence as if no one ever lived there at all, as if someone moved all these items in without their owner and plopped them down, tagged to sell.

Who wore these clothes? Who darned that cap? And who kept the guns clean in the cabinet? Who wreathed that door and wiped the counters? That lady buyer walks off with decades-old hand towels and a wicker tissue box holder. Another took a few wooden frames, only days ago holding glassy pictures of great-them and great-those.

The pillagers remained unfazed, the race for treasure engulfs, bartering cents off the dollar for possessions decades old, memories lost in the transaction.

Sure enough, much of the junk lining shelves had no business being in the hands of another. Chipped Santa coffee cups and expired oil change coupons. But they, the pillagers, line up like sheep, waiting and searching to find more for less with little contemplation about how these items will finds themselves at another estate sale soon enough.

“And the spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters” (Gen. 1:2). The mystical immensity of this verse will never cease to shock and awe followers of the Lord Almighty. Imagine our God, hovering over the surface of the deep; the world we know on the cusp of creation and humankind to follow. The majesty of this moment, followed by the light and darkness, the vaulting of waters for the sky, positioning the sun and moon with His hand, filling the waters brimmed with species we still have not discovered today. The birds, wings spanned for the first time, eagles, sparrows, parrots, and the land animals taking their first step upon the dewy grass—the world becoming more colorful with every breath of our Creator. And then suddenly, a great gift bestowed unto us, the first of human life: “Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness” (Gen. 1:26). God and spirit, two in one, masterminding a dance of “good” creations. And yet after humans take their first breath, God calls us not just “good” but “very good” (Gen. 1:31).

If we needed the reminder, and we always do in scripture, we’re retold that God made us in His likeness: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen. 1:27). Adam forms to life not in the image of a raven or a lion, but in the image of God, embossed with the Creator’s likeness and imprinted with His love. God decided to make us after he created the majestic mountains, bountiful gardens and burning stars in the sky. Chronologically, humans enter on the sixth day and in perfect placement in His timeline.

And then we see the purpose for Adam in action, “The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it” (Gen. 2:15). Notice Adam’s first instructions: work in the garden, make it beautiful, grow, plant, and tend to the animals. Considering most outdoor work requires exertion, we can imagine this would be yes, actual hard work. But in paradise, work is wholesome, joyful and with contentment. It would not be like our work in the garden today, weeds that do not pull, insects eating crops, lack of water, and other troubles. No, this would be good work, that Adam would need to use his strong body for and would be happy to do so.

And then enters Eve, Adam’s suitable helper. Imagine Adam waking from his deep sleep and perceiving Eve for the first time, his wife, friend and partner. What a beautiful gift from the Lord, a companion to live life alongside, to enjoy the Lord’s presence together. We hear Adam’s wonder in verse 23, “This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.” Envision their elation, we can think of them enjoying the garden together, hand-in-hand, naming animals, beautifying what is already the most breath-taking landscape to ever exist. This happy momentous time ends with a beautiful representation of the satisfied minds of the first man and woman: “And the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed” (Gen 2:25). Rest. Peace. Righteous confidence. Spiritual fulfillment. Living in the presence of their beloved Father.

So often we find Satan entering the scene after a moment of beauty. For example, Job earns all goods, respect and righteousness from the Lord, and then Satan appears. The baptism of Jesus by John the Baptist precedes Jesus’s testing in the wilderness. And we see in Genesis, in what was once a perfect scene, transformed into an existential tragedy as the serpent arrives. How long had the serpent watched Adam and Eve before his plan finalized? We do not know. Satan’s deceit present-day has not changed, he continues to attempt destruction on God’s very good creation. He turns rest to fitfulness. Peace to chaos. Righteous confidence to physical and mental shame. Spiritual fulfillment to sorrowful lack. He connives anything to wound the God that he deserted. Directly after God deems Adam and Eve naked and unashamed, the ruinous fall begins.

In striking unhindered bodies, the snake deceives Eve on account of the tempting consumption of a forbidden fruit. Think of the heart-wrenching moment Adam and Eve’s eyes open, and they recall God’s loving voice saying, “but of the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die” (Gen. 2:17). The death God spoke of meant separation from Him. We hear the lie now; we feel it after it’s sting. Satan prodded, “’You will not certainly die’” (Gen 3:4). No longer could their bodies live in paradise when they chose a life apart from God.

This departure from God meant many sad things for the newlyweds, and the demise of serene body image would be one of the first things to go. Consider a play on Satan’s words: “Did God really say you were made in His image? You aren’t certainly made that way” (adapted from Gen. 3:3). Can you hear it? The temptation to think we are made apart from God, as if He had nothing to do with us. Do you think it is any coincidence that the fall’s catalyst was a bite of forbidden food? Likely not. From here on out, sins against the body permeate scripture in many aspects. The fall is just the beginning.

Independence from God meant separation from body confidence. The next verse after the bite reveals all, “Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked. And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths” (Gen. 3:7). God walked in the cool of the day, perhaps something He did alongside Adam and Eve before, but they hid because of their nakedness. Adam responds to God’s call, ““I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself” (Gen. 3:10). Notice that Adam claims the reason behind hiding is nakedness—their physical state suddenly was the most pressing matter. Only next does Adam confess eating the fruit, disobeying God, but he identifies the shame first and the disobedience second. How often do we still see humans mistaking identity crises as more important than our own sin? Parents see this often when disciplining their children, or in at least my own case, the punishment is harder to swallow than the committal of sin. Our sin is the most pressing matter—God requires our obedience and repentance.

The world does not want us to remember our creation story because if we do, we realize that the image of the creator on our face is a mark of dignity. Satan would prefer we think like this: those who sin against us cannot have dignity; those who are inconvenient to us cannot have dignity; my body is not perfect and therefore does not have dignity. These markers of self-deprecation and lack of respect for human life create stumbling blocks for us. However, we can do all things through Christ. “We love because he first loved us” (1 John 4:19). If we do not rest in God’s love, how can we love others and ourselves? If we operate as dignities of God’s creation, we cannot abide with culture’s nuances and trends. 1 John 4:1 challenges us to test influences and ourselves, “Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world.” Surely, if we know our Creator well, we will know the false spirits. We will know false ads, false medication, false diets, or any false bullies of the body. God’s initial design for us is that we would have strong, beautiful bodies, and yes, live happily in His image. We would not have to toil, sweat while we work, or feel anxious about our body insecurities. We chose this path for ourselves when we desired knowledge over God’s loving embrace.

Did Satan consider himself triumphant in this creation story? Tricking Adam and Eve? We know that sinful triumph was only momentary, because we know who will win in the end. The Lord had started his redemption plan in the words of Genesis 3. The judgment in Genesis is freckled with hope that the serpent will be crushed.

Let’s consider this from a world-view perspective. In the name of “thinsporation”, the body positivity movement, or fitness obsessions, the gate is wide. In Matthew 7:13-14 we read, “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.” If you become bored of one fad or diet, don’t worry, another waits patiently behind it. This isn’t an attack on taking care of our bodies, we should take care of our bodies as image-bearers. But we should consequently identify distractions and ploys that choose the wide gate. We are never promised to have an easy time taking care of ourselves because of the fall. Eve is promised pains in childbearing; Adam is promised painful toil in working the land. We already see how a fleshly body in the fallen world will feel.

If we dwell in scripture, we will find much encouragement about our bodies. Currently, we live in a culture that does not respect human life, because the world does not recognize it as God’s creation. We see this in pro-choice advocates claiming babies are just clumps of cells. We see this in loose sexual culture, sleeping around as a norm for both genders. We see the rise in pornography which demoralizes the soul. Like Eve, we are fed lies about what will make us happy. That is why when we sit in the Lord’s word, we hear scripture calling us to be set apart, confirming that yes, believers should feel distant from the world. John 15:18 reads, “If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before it hated you.” Alignment should stay with the Lord.

Although I had a poster Christian upbringing, I did not grasp the gospel until I was in my 20s. I experienced Christian private education, Sunday school, and nurturing from my mother who displayed Jesus’s grace amidst the brokenness of a fractured homelife. I was in denial about my lack of control, evidenced through rebellious years of deviance, eating disorders and revelry. I recall having severe anxiety in my teen years and a Christian counselor asking me to consider God’s power over fear. In my typical teenage snarky voice I replied, “This isn’t about God!” But I remember the quiet drive home, sulking in my pride, because I knew deep-down the counselor was right.

As a child of the 1990s and 2000s, thin was in. Celebrity models posted pictures of bone-thin bodies on the red carpet. I remember watching them and wondering if I could look like those celebrities with the right diet and exercise agenda. I developed a distorted view of my body, eating less and less but considering myself bigger than everyone around me. I could not see biological truths about my body, or spiritual for that matter. And I certainly did not consider my body to be part of God’s beautiful creation. James 1:2-3 explains my journey so well, “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” My years-long journey with body image came with twists and turns, new insecurities and old creeping in. And yet I see the Lord working through me, molding me and creating a landscape that would bolster me through my adult years.

After middle- and high- school years of battling my mental distractions about weight and appearance, these insecurities bled into my collegiate years. Suddenly rigorous diets paired with strict workouts, burning the calories I consumed, my fetal attempt to zero out the unwanted parts of myself. I felt exhausted trying to look the way I thought I should. It is hard to see beauty in this story, and yet God continued to turn the crank and refine me, moving me closer in each setback to realizing my body image must be laid down at the foot of the cross.

I recall one party, we all sat down for dessert, that of which I declined. One of the girls said in front of a huge crowd, “Do you have an eating disorder?” And there the feeling was again, the same reaction that sent Adam and Eve hiding in the bushes: shame. My insecurity stripped naked in front of people who did not love me, who did not care for my dignity. I returned home and cried, isolating myself while pretending in public that I didn’t care what people thought. I imagine Jesus watching this moment, a quiet hand on my shoulder as I wept. Jesus was with me; he came to this earth in the same sort of lowly human body to destroy the exact feeling that consumed me. Satan told me I was fat. Jesus told me I was worthy. Satan told me I was ugly. Jesus told me I was made in God’s image. I cannot say I turned to God in that moment, I did not. But as a wife, mother, and friend, my experience will one day give solace to another, the truth that even in our hard moments, God remains. I imagine the beautiful body that will be God’s eternal gift in heaven. It will be exactly what he intended for me, still in my likeness, but less of me and more of Him.

What we consume and our choices will affect not only our minds but also our body. Eve consumed the lie that something other than God’s daily bread would fulfill her. God created Adam and Eve to be fruitful, to work the garden. He did not create us to hate our body, pick apart our insecurities, or compare ourselves to the latest beauty standard. We are made in glory, with good plans, strengths and weaknesses, all of which can bring us closer to God. Our shame must take the backseat while God’s infinite love takes the wheel. He did in fact send his own Son to die for us in the same sort of body that we march forward in. The question is, are we ready to come forward from the bushes, naked and shamed? Naked in our sin, ready to repent. Shamed in our sin, ready and willing to be made new.

It’s a white couch, or at least it used to be white, so maybe more ivory and cream. Lift up a seat and you’ll find some crumbly pretzels and months-old cheerios. It’s cradled hundreds of cups of coffee, some with cream and some without. It’s seen first-trimester nausea and type-A influenza. It’s been the basin for conversation—easy and hard. It’s a child’s fort, storage for clean laundry, and home to thinktanks and daydreams. Our dog loves it because he’s the same color and it keeps his secrets. One cushion is not favored over another, but the left side does have the side table and the lamp.

Thought was put into this room and the style of my innermost adorations permeates the walls surrounding the couch. Old things, refurbished china cabinets, photographs of old patents and a rocking chair close by. Landscape paintings line the top of the cabinet and a Shakespearean sonnet cascades in the center. If you like books, don’t mind some dog hair and moderately priced furniture, we’ve got you covered.

When a moment of quiet drifts upon our roof and my mind can fully integrate into the words sitting on my heart, I choose this spot. But it’s also a spot where I nursed babies and petted dogs. It’s where I’ve cuddled with my husband (when he lets me). There are no screens in this room and the coffee pot is nearby.

Prayers are said here, petitions of the heart are created here, and conviction has settled here. And when I think of how many astronomically cherished moments happen here, I settle and think, it’s all what we make of it.

It’s rare.

To see a young person willingly asking about the past of an elderly person. I’m not old myself, but I imagine when I am older I’d like someone to show interest in my life, my past, who I used to be and who I always was. But to the youthful it’s like a burden to sit through war stores and old sports talk. The stories of way back when or when I was your age. But if we stop and listen, I am convinced we will learn something if not undoubtedly that history repeats itself. Yes you, who believe yourself as your own unique person—you don’t think generations have shaped your inherent ticks and tocks that make you you. Your body language. The way you rub your face in the morning after a restless sleep—you don’t know it, but you and your great grandfather have that in common. Or the way you tend to eat with your elbow on the table or your ability to wiggle the tops of your ears on command. It’s all there written in the DNA of your soul. The innate truth that you are indeed your uncle’s nephew by the inflection of your laugh or your grandmother’s granddaughter by your immense heart for stray animals. But still, even if you notice these things, these similarities—you still don’t want to sit and hear from the ancients of your bloodline. They are not as out of touch as you think, for you will be them one day. And this is the story of how I know that to be true.

Mother asked me to sit with my great aunt, as she needed to run to the store to get a few things, and Aunt Martha could not be left alone at this stage. It had been a whirlwind of a few weeks, but when Aunt Martha arrived in our home, Mother slid over the extra furniture in the spare room and put a vase full of fresh flowers beside the bed. She bought new pillows to prop her up, which to me was strange. Why would we buy new pillows for someone to die on? But nonetheless she bought them. I watched her rummage through the old cedar chest we kept in the closet, searching for the old quilt we had. “Aunt Martha made this quilt, I think she would be tickled to see it on the bed when she arrives. Do help me, dear. There are so many blankets in here. I really should go through this soon.”

But helping with this task felt like the burden that it was—I tried to stay positive, but having a dying woman in our home for the next month or however long it took didn’t suit my schedule. I had places to be and things to do, and I didn’t want to feel like I needed to come home because Aunt Martha was in the spare room. But I obliged to my mother’s requests and helped her shake out the old quilt and fluff the new pillows. I watered the floral vase and made sure there were enticing books and a functioning remote to the old box television.

My stomach hurt leading to her arrival. I didn’t know her that well other than saying quick hellos at family events and Thanksgiving. I avoided sitting with the old folks at dinners. But don’t get me wrong here because I sound like an awful person trying to dodge the greats. I’m a kid, even if I’m 16, I had and still have a lot to learn.

Aunt Martha arrived on the porch in a wheel chair, chaperoned by a nurse. When we opened the door to her, I couldn’t help but see how much she had changed since last Thanksgiving. Her face had a ghostly hue that showed through her makeup. She was still dressed as Aunt Martha always is—smart and conservative. But her body seemed to give off an uncontrollable shake and she looked incredibly tired. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that she looked upset to be at our home. She could hardly make eye contact with us. I wondered to myself if she understood what sort of favor we were showing her in inviting her to stay with us. And although everyone exchanged courteous hellos and thank yous, her body language and curt responses seemed gracious but distant, as if she didn’t want to be in our home at all.

When we showed her the room we prepared for her, she nodded and mouthed a quiet thank you. I watched Mother wait patiently for her to notice the quilt and the flowers or really anything that we added to the room to make it homey, but the quietness of Aunt Martha left no room for additions of gratitude. But Mother couldn’t help herself, “What do you think of the quilt, Aunt Martha? We’ve had it all these years—you remember that you gifted it to Lee and I on our wedding day, right?” Aunt Martha sat at the foot of the bed and ran her fingers across the stitching of the quilt. “Yes, I do remember. This quilt will last longer than I will, I’m sure. I remember making these stitches in my sewing room Lawrence renovated for me.” She met mother’s eyes for the first time since stepping in the door, “Thank you for this beautiful room dear. I’ll be quite comfortable. I don’t want anyone to be worrying over me or waiting on me. I know my time is coming and it won’t be long now. Please go on with your life and keep living it. I’ll be just fine right here.” She looked out the window now into the boughs of the oak tree.

“Oh, Aunt Martha, it’s a joy that you are here with us. I wish I would have been able to do this for my own mother, rest her soul. But it’s a blessing I can take care of you,”

Mother smoothed the throw blanket on the bed frame. “Now, the remote is right here if you’d like to watch some television—”

“I won’t have need for that, but thank you dear. If you don’t mind, I would rather it not be in the room. I like the serenity of the room without it. It’ll be my only request I swear.”

Mother nodded and agreed to tell Lee later on to move it out of the bedroom. “There is a writing desk over here and a nice place to sit and read by the window. The bathroom is right through that door, and it’s completely private. I always said this room has the best view of the garden.” Mother walked toward the window and lifted a curtain bang to look out.

“I’m thankful for you both for helping me. Now go on and get about your business. I plan to take care of myself and stay out of the way,” Aunt Martha grabbed her cane and headed to the bathroom.

Miss Nancy, Aunt Martha’s nurse, explained to Mother her schedule and instructions if anything would be needed outside of the normal care while Aunt Martha was in the bathroom. “Now Martha is an independent woman, but she is quite sick. It’s hard to get her to take her medicine sometimes and to not skip meals. She likes to be on her own schedule and sometimes she has days when she just doesn’t want to comply. We usually settle it quickly and she complies, but it can be a little bit of a struggle. She is okay to take care of herself around the house, but don’t let her do too much, or you’ll see her declining during the day and looking tired. Then it’s time to rest for the sake of the cancer.” Mother nodded as she took all of the information and learned the explanations of the pill schedules. I had never seen so many pills in my life—almost 15 pills a day she had to take and at specific times. I gulped at the thought of taking pills myself, I hated the taste of even a pill that needed to be swallowed. It seemed to stick in my throat all day.

Aunt Martha walked out of the bathroom and looked a bit bewildered to see Mother, Miss Nancy and I standing in her room still. “What are you all still doing in my room? I don’t need babysat. Run along now ladies and get back to your lives.” Aunt Martha stumbled on her cane toward them, and like lightning all of us scattered from the room like naughty toddlers.

The eye gets weaker without exposure to the light.

We hide. We shade. We cannot look the sun in the eye.

We do these things to not squint in the reflection of such a greatness.

And yet, without light, we diminish.

Our survival is hidden in the illumination.

Without it, our skin thins, our moods depress, our crops will not grow. We become weaker and dismal. Gollum, or at least a shadow of him, looks like us.

So instead, rejoice in the squint.

The light. The exposure.

Rocks unturned grow homes for ghastly things that scurry from the brightness.

But we can grow stronger, the smell of sunshine on our skin and the unveiling of every rock we left unturned.

Limbs exposed, hearts drawn to the beautiful capacity of the dawn. Mercies new every morning within the crevices of the clouds.

“Oh, my goodness I need to do that. Yes, I totally forgot I need to do that right now. I do hope there will be space for the children,” Jamie said as she ushered her children toward the church.

Millie nodded in agreeance but felt unsure how to respond. She hadn’t seen Jamie in over six months, as Jamie was concerned about sick season and the effects it could have on her family. She locked her children up in the house and ran shouting toward anyone who tried to enter her yard, whether it be the postman or a neighborhood friend.

“We are staying distanced right now, Mary Jane. Keep your distance! That reminds me, I need to order the milkman to leave the milk by the road next time. He can’t be so close to the house…” Mary Jane watched Jamie intently as she strode back to her home talking to herself.

“She must be driving herself mad in that house with all those children on top of one another all day. And no socializing!” Miss Mary Jane, the unofficial grandmother of their neighborhood, thought this to herself as she waddled back to her own abode with a basket of fresh cookies.

But day after day and week after week, Jamie Ryder kept her family at close quarters. She snatched every moment she had to bark in her husband’s ear about the risk he brought to their family by going to work.

As she sliced the lettuce she’d go on and on, “Really, John, in a viral climate like this they should be letting you stay at home,” she’d say as she moved onto the tomatoes.

“Jamie, dear, if no one went to work, how on earth would folks feel safe in the town? We need police officers. How in the world could I do my job at home? You need to let the sick season go. We can’t control everything for goodness sake,” John passively fought back, totally exhausted by his wife’s antics and anxiety.

“Rubbish! They should be sending home pay and keeping you safe at home. That reminds me, I need to call the bank and make sure they are dropping off our checks in the mailbox. You by no means should be setting foot in that building and talking to the tellers. It is outrageous to think we are the only family doing our share. Are we the only social warriors in this town? Are we the only ones who care?” she stammered on, adding to her long list of to-dos.

“Honey, you know I love you, but you are talking crazy talk now. Police need to be where the crime is. And bank tellers need to do their job too. And there isn’t a risk here. You can’t keep the kids inside this whole time. Sick season comes back every year, and I know Jane had it bad last year, but you can’t live life in fear and I won’t stand by and let you instill fear in our children,” with that John slammed his hand on the table and walked out the kitchen back door.

Jamie stood at the sink for what felt like a long while, looking inward, searching inward, focusing solely on her own personalized damnation—her anxieties—her need for control—her entire focus being on her own misgivings. And yet, no. The problem lie somewhere else, she thought. Virtue lives here.

But that day at the church when Millie walked in with Jamie, she listened yet again to Jamie taking any conversation and making it about herself. Millie couldn’t help but think how miserable it is to talk to someone who makes everything about themselves. It’s annoying to start a conversation with someone just to find that the tidbits of your conversation are just building their laundry list of things to do. Millie watched Jamie walk through the church doors. “I must let her go and forgive her, as there is something eating at her which must make her and her family’s life quite miserable,” she said under her breath. With that, Millie took a seat in her normal pew and nodded her head in prayer until the service started.

Just the next morning, Jamie ran across her lawn in a startled state.

“Millie! Millie! Did you hear about the injustice happening in our town right now? We must do something—we must protest. I’m taking the kids to protest this morning—we will not let this go, no no. That reminds me, I need to make posters and get markers for them..”

As fast as it happened it ended. Millie stared after her neighbor, watching her raise and lower her hands in an agitated state. She realized that she had been wrong. Jamie did not suffer from anxiety, but rather the requirement of being needed. The next catastrophe readied up to lure Jamie, her kids dragged behind her.

It’s easy to be filled when you are empty. Void longs to be satisfied. If you are already filled with the treasures of the world, you’ll stop searching for clarity. It’s foolish to be stuffed to the brim with things that don’t matter.

John’s emptiness tortured him for years—it was his ultimate resentment. He never understood why he could always be hungry, how work was always hard to find, and how friends counted few when your pockets were hollow. To hope would be to disappoint himself—there hadn’t been any opportunities on his horizon for many years.

But on a late summer evening, all felt normal in the incorrigible sea town John roamed except for the scurrying story about the mysterious opportunity spread by a group of sailors. The townspeople showed much enthusiasm toward the cryptic voyage. Depending on who you talked to, it was either scandalous, dangerous, hilarious, or ridiculous. To the sailors, it was an opportunity of a lifetime.

John wandered through the marketplace and found himself near the fruit seller. He glanced at the bountiful cartons of apples and pears and examined the marketplace floor for any rotten rejects. Any food was food for a beggar. A rough-looking patron leaned against the seller’s stand, eating an apple while the seller tidied his collection.

“Did you hear about the men sailing off? They said they had an opportunity of a lifetime. ‘Everlasting treasure for all who join them.’ What does it even mean? Who in the world would follow a group of lowly sailors into the sea’s abyss with such an offer? Did you see their ship? A ship—hardly… tied together like a measly bundle of kindling. The only hope they have of finding treasure is when they are at the bottom of the sea. Ha! They said they guaranteed treasure but they could not guarantee an easy ride. What sort of advertisement is that? And to sum it all up, they said there would be stipulations for boarding—like some sort of payment. Ha! Ha! Who in their right mind would give up just one of their coins to follow a group of poor imbeciles? Hilarious!” The fruit seller nodded in agreement and went on rearranging his products.

“I did hear about it, yes. I really don’t understand it at all, but if someone decides to go, who is to stop them?” the fruit seller made his way around his stand and the man eating the apple turned to face him.

“Is it possible that a person exists in this city with so little to lose that they would board that shoddy contraption? Is anyone really that oblivious to a scam? The world promises us nothing. It owes us nothing. Whatever treasure they have beyond the horizon is really beyond me. Someone should alert the authorities,” the core of the apple was dwindling down but the man continued to gnaw at it.

Neither man noticed the dirty beggar boy lurking a few feet away, eyeing the apples and moving closer as the conversation intensified.

John approached the stand, looking at the apples intently and waiting for his moment. Each Tuesday around noon, the supreme judge walked through the town square in his caravan. Shoppers gawked as they passed through. John took these moments to gather his bounty. While everyone looked at the convoy of wealth, he stole his food for the day. The fruit seller and apple eater looked on towards the caravan as it approached, continuing their conversation.

“Every Tuesday they arrive, and all revel in their splendor. Are we not bored by their wealth at this point? We all know it’s to show off. Must be nice to be rich from the taxes paid by the penniless,” the man said, throwing his apple into an empty barrel.

“That may be true, but if they buy some apples today, I’ll forget their vanity just this once,” the fruit seller laughed.

As all attention was on the caravan, John snatched two apples from the crate and slowly began to walk away. But across the path, a wine seller witnessed the theft and betrayed him.

“David! Your apples. He took them!” The fruit seller turned to see the dirty scoundrel running away. He hurtled over his stand and chased the boy through the marketplace. John raced his scrawny legs through the twists and turns, bumping into people and jumping over flour sacks and garbage. He ran fast—too fast for the seller. The fruit seller stopped his pursuit in a panting fit, “You better run, boy! If I see your face in the marketplace again, you’ll be sorry!”

John found an empty alleyway and ducked behind a pile of crates, gobbling his apples as fast as he could to hide the evidence. But two apples hardly cured days of starvation. Empty stomach. Empty heart. He thought he’d head to the coast, it would be the last place the fruit seller would be—as the mysterious sailors were about to set off.

He was surprised to find a fairly large group of spectators on the shore. He observed several men tying down rickety boards that made up the makeshift boat. The man with the apple was right; it was hardly a ship. It could hardly fit ten men, let alone whatever treasure they had in mind.

The sailors stopped prepping and moved toward the crowd, smiling and welcoming all who ventured to see them.

One of the seafarers stepped forward. He was hardly dressed as a respected sailor; his clothes were almost as dirty as John’s, but his smile made up for his drab.

“Greetings to you all! My name is Marcus. I expect you are all here to inquire about our journey ahead. As you have heard, we are going on a journey to find everlasting treasure. But please do not mistake us. Our treasure is not what you think. It’s not something you can store; it’s not something that can buy you tangible things; it’s something more than that. It can buy you freedom and love,” he held his hands up as if signifying the impact of his plea.

The crowd whispered among each other in confusion. A woman in the front spoke up, “We heard that you had to pay to board. How much?”

“Well, the compensation is different for every person. None of us are the same, why should we pay the same?” A confused snarl appeared on many a face. “What are you getting at? Stop talking in circles and get to the point!” a man hollered from the back.

“Anyone earnestly considering this trip, please come forward and we will explain compensation,” the sailors watched the crowd for movement.

A man approached the boat from the back of the crowd. “My name is Simian. I am a singer and an artist.”

Marcus approached and shook his hand. “Simian, nice to meet you. I’m sure your voice and artistry are much applauded in this town. Let’s say that to enter the boat, your songs and artistry must remain pure.”

Simian stepped back, adequately offended. “Sir, I am not sure what you are referring to, but I believe that my songs and paintings are always of good nature.”

“Ah, friend. I am sorry, it is my mistake then. However, that is easy payment, yes? If you already remain pure and plan to continue that way, it’s quite simple, eh?”

Simian looked intently into Marcus’ eyes and realized that all the crowd’s eyes were on him. He thought back to all of the money he received from singing at brothels and carousing there. No purity in that. His work at those establishments accounted for most of his finances.

“Ah… yes. You’re right. Quite simple. But who is to say I’d be comfortable sailing into the unknown? Where is this boat going to?” Simian tried to change the subject matter.

“Our journey will be long and we don’t have it all planned out yet, but we are visiting the next island we touch. I promise you’ll be well looked after. My friends and I are always in good hands.”

Simian nodded but stepped back to the crowd, unsure. He ushered the next potential candidate.

A woman stepped forward and kindly asked, “My name is Maria. Are women allowed on the boat?”

“Ah, yes. You would be the only woman right now, but there are more to come. We need brave women like you. I promise you would be safe. But as for your compensation, you would not be allowed to bring more than one piece from your wardrobe. As you can see, we do not have room for large bags on our boat. And all of us men travel light. Would you be able to give up all of your belongings and take to the sea with us?” he asked.

Maria thought back to all of the beautiful dresses she stored in her wardrobe. Fine linens of many colors, embroidered and fashionable. Her clothes gave her status, and she enjoyed the power. She couldn’t imagine giving them up.

“I… I would need to think about that. There are some things that ladies need to live adequately, you know,” Maria argued.

“Well of course! But we believe all things will be provided for us on our journey. Everything we could ever need. What do you say? Be our first woman to board?” Marcus waited for her reaction.

“I need to think about it more,” she said and stepped back into the crowd.

No others stepped forward for a few minutes and the crowd began to dwindle. John lingered, watching the sailors make final preparations.

He felt the heat in the sand between his toes and thought of the coolness of the sea water. He walked toward the sailors and held his hand to greet Marcus.

“My name is John. I have nothing to offer you. I have no talents and I own nothing but what I’m wearing. I don’t quite understand all this, but sir, I’m in such a dire need of another life. Is there a place for me where you are going?” John looked into the joyful eyes of the sailor.

“John, I’m so glad you’ve come. You are welcome to join our crew. It is better to have little, John. For then you can be filled with much more. We’re going on an adventure. And I’ll tell you the truth, it won’t be easy all the time, but by choosing this path, we find truth and purpose in the struggle. Treasure awaits us if we are humble and kind. And as for your compensation, I see you don’t have much to offer, but I’ll ask this: if you come aboard, you must never steal food in the cities we visit. Is that clear?”

John’s eyes grew wide as he realized his folly exposed. How could he possibly have known? Strangely, John trusted this man, his welcoming crew and their loving spirit.

John nodded and hopped aboard, helping the crew with their last tasks before setting sail. Marcus looked on shore to see if anyone else felt drawn to the boat, but the crowd was gone. He could barely make out the figures of the Simian and Maria, walking back toward their homes. They pushed off the shore and moved toward the sea.

The sea was hardly a void—a mix of raging and calm waters with so much life in its midst. John felt the breeze in his hair as they moved off into the horizon.

Marcus gazed at the skyline, “John, you will never be empty again after today. There is fullness of joy ahead. Let us bask in the light that is to come and all the good there is in giving up everything you have to gain freedom from everything that ties you down.”

Such wonderfully peculiar things can happen when the mind is unrestrained—daydreams, anticipations, and great expectations.

Instead of securely wandering amongst the dreamy unknowns in the safety of her four-corner bedframe, she caught herself creating conversations inside her head as she applied lotion to her freshly shaved legs. She made contorted faces at candid discussions (they didn’t yet have) while she tore through her closet searching for the perfect outfit. Before she put on her makeup, she had already played the entire evening through her brain like an audition. The anxiety evidently worn in the creases of the elevens plastered in between her eyebrows.

What good did it do to prepare like this? Things are almost never the same in real life.

She placed her head in her hands as she thought about the questions he might ask: what’s your family like or tell me something about your childhood? The truth was, the entire ordeal made her nervous and worrisome. The thought of explaining her broken life made her want to crawl out of her skin. To this day, no one knew her past, because she’d never let anyone ask.

This evening felt expected but unexpected. It started with a couple of small pleasantries exchanged about the weather or a similar complaint. It rounded off by a few hellos in the hallway and a glance across the parking lot. Then suddenly, she was aware that he was aware, and vice versa, and then he asked the million-dollar question: “so, what are you doing Friday night?”

They’d hardly talked much before that. He didn’t know her apart from shallow conversations. And she really knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was a nice person who seemed to come from a nice family. He looked nice, too. Tall, handsome, and strikingly mature for his early 20s. The sort of guy that hung with the popular crowd but didn’t act like them. He was sought after, but not overly desired as he wasn’t the head of the pack.

She watched him pull up in a freshly washed car, her stomach turned as she glanced in the mirror once more. With one last pucker, she finished hours of anguish with an, “oh, hell with it” and grabbed her coat and ran out the door before he could reach the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he said. He seemed jumpy and nervous in his visibly new outfit. “Hey,” she replied. “You look really nice,” she added. And he smiled and sincerely replied, “You, too.”

Could that be it? The beginning of it all?

Don’t be daft. He’d never actually like someone like you.

They sat down in the car and he started driving. They exchanged small tidbits about their day until they reached the restaurant parking lot. It wasn’t just a normal restaurant, but one of the most expensive and exclusive spots in the area. She looked at him in astonishment, and she glanced down at her jeans and felt underdressed.

“We are eating here? Are you sure?” she replied in wonder as she watched the valet team addressing vehicles at the entrance.

“I got us a reservation on the patio. It’s supposed to be really nice,” he stared up at the restaurant sign with a smile and looked back at her, proud of this moment.

The hostess took them back to a brightly lit patio filled with cascading lanterns and ornate iron tables. Greenery covered every inch of the walls. The glistening fountain gently waterfalled into a stately stone pond. She observed it all in awe and perplexity. It seemed almost too much for a first date. She felt overwhelmed but grateful as they sat down at a romantically decorated table near the fountain ornate with a low bouquet of ivy.

“This is incredibly nice. Are you sure it’s okay?” she draped her purse on the arm of the chair as he pushed her seat in. “Of course. I’m excited to be here...” he trailed off—it was too soon to say anything more.

She scanned the wine list, vowing to find the cheapest merlot on the menu. She could only imagine what each entrée cost.

The waiter approached the table, “Good evening, my name is Clara and I’ll be serving you tonight, may I get you something to drink?”

“Ah yes, can we have a bottle of your best merlot?” he glanced from the wine list to the waiter. “Of course, sir, I recommend the Hourglass. It’s quite popular,” the waiter replied. “Sounds lovely,” he handed off his menu and placed his napkin in his lap. He glanced up at his date, “Merlot is okay, right? I heard you liked it,” worry fell over his face as he glanced up at her startled expression. “Oh, yes. But how did you know I liked it? I’m not sure we’ve ever talked about it,” she replied, placing her napkin on her lap, too, dashing through all of their conversations in her mind—no mention of merlot. “Oh, I just do my research,” he said with a smile.

Research? What else did he know?

The waiter brought the wine glasses and the bottle of Hourglass. They drank their glasses of smooth merlot and ordered their entrees. As the hourglass drained, she waited reluctantly for the conversation to steer in the direction she wasn’t ready for.

He’s about to ask. You should have never come.

Her doubt burned the back of her neck as she went in for more pasta. But between bites, he opened the floodgates, “So, tell me about your childhood.”

She finished chewing and brought the napkin to her lips to clean any debris. His voice was affectionate, exposing he was ill-prepared for her response. It finally came—the moment.

He can’t handle it.

But he seems sweet, perhaps it’ll be okay. Look at this restaurant… the whole night… he really seems to care.

He doesn’t want your baggage.

But he seems to have good intentions.

You’ll ruin it all.

The good and bad voices were chewing away at her as she innocently met his gaze. He had prepared a beautiful night. She wanted to be honest with him but was there such a thing as too honest? She wasn’t sure whether to coat herself in armor, or remove it all and bring out her double-edged sword, telling him everything so he understood what it meant to be with someone like her. He might be happy to hear it all, or he may be pushed away because it’s too soon. Spilling her guts could help or hinder.

What is there to lose?

And so, she told him everything, without limitation. As the words left her lips, she realized immediately that it was too much for the first date. That’s the trouble with a double-edged sword. She shared, but did she overshare?

At least he can walk away now.

But what good does it do to pretend?

He nodded earnestly, unsure of how to respond. Her words were sad and severe but truthful and honorable. She couldn’t change her past, she didn’t ask for her past, and now she couldn’t go back from her decision to share it.

He watched her with difficulty as she opened up, but he strangely felt like he had pushed her into a place where she wasn’t ready.

The rest of dinner was a wash of obstinate silences, dusty responses, and shame radiating through her coarse body language. He pulled up to her house and looked over at her.

A kiss?

Though her stomach was full, her body felt empty. “Thank you for tonight. It was really nice, almost too nice. I’m not used to being treated like that. I’m sorry if I made things awkward. It wasn’t my intention. I just thought you should know about me before… well I would never expect anything else. I guess I just…” she trailed off, unsure.

“It’s fine, it really is. Don’t feel regretful. You shouldn’t. I’m happy we got to go out tonight,” he assured her.

What’s next?

But before he could decide, she opened the door and walked out, placing her hand on the window frame and genuinely mouthing a, “thank you.” Tears filled her eyes as she walked to her front door.

That is the trouble with a double-edged sword. If you use it, don’t be surprised if it comes back to hurt you.

She had suited herself in an armor of hope, trusting in the power of honesty. But in other ways she had taken off her armor and left herself vulnerable. She leaned against her front door, happy that it was over, but amiss in her judgment of it all.

You might have hurt yourself, but you didn’t necessarily hurt him. You offered him an invitation. It’s his choice to accept or reject it.

---

“How was it, honey?” his mother took off her reading glasses. He closed the door and leaned against it. “I’m not sure,” he said, breathing in a deep sigh.

It took him weeks to muster up the courage to ask her out and weeks to set aside enough money to take her on a proper date—new outfit and elaborate restaurant. It was more than he could afford, but he had his heart set on making it perfect.

“Well, what happened?” she inquired. He could hardly explain. “She brought it all to the table. She was incredibly transparent and authentic. But I’m not sure if it was all good because she seemed upset that she was telling me so much about herself. I didn’t pry. I just asked her simple questions that anyone would ask,” he thought back to the afternoon, he planned every question he would ask and dreamily marveled in the thought of her responses. All day he had envisioned them connecting fully and incredibly, almost like they had known each other for years.

“Oh honey, perhaps she was just nervous. You’ve been nervous, too. Maybe you’re thinking too much into things. Are you going to ask her out again?” his mother asked. He shrugged his shoulders. His mother hugged him tightly, “Sometimes we dress up preparations and expectations so much that we’re let down in the end. Being too prepared can be unfavorable. It takes away from the authenticity of life. You dressed up tonight and you look so handsome, but the most important thing is to dress yourself in truth, peace and faith. Sounds like she had faith in you. Maybe you should try to have some faith in her, too.”

---

In separate parts of the city, they took the weekend to muse upon Friday night. They ran through conversations again, investigating the things that happened, exploring modified circumstances, responses and outcomes.

Monday arrived as it always does. She sat down and he was there, too, and they realized this was the moment. They both prepared for relational combat. She prepared for rejection, and he did, too.

He leaned over and whispered, “Hey, do you have time to talk after class?”

“Oh, sure. Of course,” her heart raced as she went back to her notes.

Here we go.

They met on the benches outside, a flowerbed faced them as they sat on the bench. She felt herself beginning to sweat as she waited for him to talk, preparing her armor.

But he, armored in strength and willingness, smiled at her and asked, “So, what are you doing Friday night?”

Let’s try this again.

“I realize that Friday was a bit much. Maybe too much. I really wanted to make it perfect, but I think I made everything overwhelming. I realize that and I want to try again. If you’re up for it?”

Could that be it? The beginning of it all?

“Let’s just grab take out and take a bottle of merlot and sit by the vineyards. We can just hang out and talk,” he looked at her willingly.

That’s it.

“I’d love to,” she replied with a smile. Her worries washed away, a new armor established, one of freedom in her fears and confidence in honesty. She sheathed her sword and dreamt of Friday.

The forest swallowed her up like a gulp of lemonade. It was a summer day, and her mouth felt the parch, but the taste of the day ahead filled her to the brim with dreams of reckless adventure and dauntless imagination that only exist for a mere season known as the age of eleven. Ambition drove her to the hills, crunching through fallen leaves and feeling whimsical next to the hidden gems in the babbling wooded brook. Anything could happen here if she wanted it to, and anything could not happen here, too. She followed her normal dirt path and put her childish dreams on play as she passed the third line of trees and followed her heart into the wilderness’ abyss.

The normal fancies overtook her as she met her typical fortress of daydreams, an organized semi-circle of fallen branches that covered a few stumpy logs like a woodsy rainbow. She took her normal seat at the center of the mound upon her favorite tree stump and let out a sigh of contentment as she gazed upward to the treetops.

“What do we have in store today, friends?” she asked the forest. “Shall we journey to the tree farm and offer pinecone gifts under the trees for the woodland creatures, or perhaps we visit the haunted barn and muster up the courage to pick its lock? Or maybe we venture to the edge of the forest, dreaming of the limitless beyond?” She listened closely for a response. With no answer to be heard, she invited the forest spirits to accompany her on a normal day’s adventure.

She strolled toward a fallen sycamore that straddled a watershed. She pulled herself up on the trunk, her steps decorated with moss and mushrooms. She held her arms out to brace the air and teetered as she moved forward. Almost at the end of the tree, she readied her dismount, but as her weight pressed the bark cracked open. The trunk guzzled her red tennis shoe as it cracked open and swallowed her calf. She sat there stunned for a moment, staring at her lost leg in the hollowness. She pulled her limb out, finding scrapes adorning her leg. She peered inside the trunk to find a few piles of acorns and to her amazement an ebony book sitting inconspicuously upon the forest floor.

Shocked by the sight, butterflies danced in her stomach as she reached for the book. A metallic beetle scuttled across the cover, and she pulled her hand back. She was startled but curiosity tempted her again. She picked up the book and inspected it. It was fairly weathered, and the binding felt worn as if it had known much life. The pages were the color of ginger and the back cover was covered in a moist residue of soil.

She glanced around, but only the trees stood as her companions as she held the ebony treasure. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered endlessly, and the voice in her head cautioned that she should not open the book. She felt a pang of awareness that this could be someone else’s prized property. She could be barging in on secrets she had no invitation to share. She gingerly placed the book down inside the hollow trunk and placed her hands on her knees to think. Who else ventured in these woods? The quiet trees, the crinkling leaves, and the chatty creek were indeed her good friends, but were they also the friends of another? She thought these woods were hers alone. Perhaps this journal was a gift, an offering of adventure for the day? And besides, if it did belong to someone, how could she return it without knowing its contents?

She picked the book up again and opened the first page. It read, “To him whom all blessings flow.” The writing she could not decipher, a man’s or a woman’s she could not figure. There was no name or date, only those lyrical words.

She turned to the second page. It read, “No one can serve two masters.” She turned again to the third page, and the fourth, reading respectively, “if it causes you to err,” then, “part from it.” Perplexed and astounded by the cryptic messages, feelings of regret and depravity overtook her. What was once a carefree morning felt very heavy indeed. Morality tickled her spine, but she kept turning. The rest of the pages were blank, until she discovered the back pages of the book. Within a choppy rectangular cutout, she found a band of $100 bills taped up.

She brushed her hand against the money and carefully removed the tape, removing it from its cut-out coffin. She beheld another message at the base of the money’s tomb: “Better is the poor who walks in his integrity, than one perverse in his ways, though he be rich.”

She inspected the money and counted it: $20,000. Why on earth was this in a hidden journal in the middle of the woods? And the narrative of the journal was cumbersome on the soul. Was this money left for another person in the forest, for “him whom all blessings flow”? Regardless of her apprehension, peace overcame her. These woodlands always welcomed her with open arms. Perhaps this black journal and its contents welcomed her as well. She ran back home with the book under her arm.

---

Later that evening, the moonlight illuminated two souls venturing among the sycamore trees.

The first youthful soul pranced through her familiar path with a small book under her arm. She placed the book back in its hiding place and returned home--a happy scheme danced in her thoughts.

The second decrepit soul lurked among the trees, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He stumbled upon the place of his desire but stopped to see a small figure placing an object in a tree trunk. Stunned with regret, he hid behind a tree and watched her walk back toward the tree line with a happy countenance.

Like a dog returning to its vomit, he approached the trunk to find the ebony book. He picked it up and brought it into the moonlight. He turned the pages to where the fortune previously lived. Was it a feeling of disappointment or relief that the money was gone? All that was left was a post-it note embellished with a rainbow.

---

Over the next days, a young girl walked along the sidewalks of her neighborhood with a notebook in hand. What she was writing down was known to her and to her alone, but she smiled confidently as she took each stride.

On Friday morning, neighbors glanced around in surprise like the girl at the hollow trunk as they opened their daily mail. An unmarked envelope arrived in the mailboxes of every neighbor on the street.

At 101 Smith Street, Mrs. Talley, old and grey, approached her mailbox like she did every morning at 10:00. Retired, lonely, and widowed, she found a blank envelope among advertisements. She opened it, discovering $500 and a post-it note reading, “For your oxigen tanks,” signed with a rainbow. She looked up and down the street. “Who could have possibly…” she murmured to herself.

At 103 Smith Street, Davey Hamilton, eight years young approached his mailbox. He tore through the mail looking for toy magazines, but to no avail he set the mail on the kitchen countertop and returned to his Legos. Between the overdue water bill and the electricity bill a blank envelope fell onto the floor as Daisy Hamilton pieced through their family’s debts. She opened the blank envelope to find $500 and a note that read “Maybe this will help,” signed with a crayon rainbow. Tears filled her eyes as she glanced around at her bare cabinets.

That day on Smith street, folks from every household found $500 in their mailboxes with a child’s handwriting and a rainbow. A neighborhood meeting was called as the news spread and mail was checked. Neighbors gathered in the cul-de-sac, congregating in elation about the mysterious giver.

Mr. Thomas Jacoby looked out his window to observe the crowd, had he checked his mail that day he would have known, but self-pity and shame kept him inside. But curiosity drew him to his front porch, where he observed Mr. Hamilton with a megaphone, standing on a fold-out chair.

“Good evening, folks! We all know why we are gathered, as we’ve been blessed by a mysterious giver with the autograph of a rainbow. All of us neighbors have seen better times. You all know I’ve been out of work for months now, and my family is blessed by this contribution. We want to thank our benefactor. Please step forward if you are present.” Neighbors glanced around, anticipating the donor, but no one moved. Mr. Hamilton glanced around as all the faces in the crowd searched each other. “I’m confident the donor would be someone who lived here, who else would know all the mishaps and secrets of this street?” Mr. Hamilton brought the megaphone to his hip and watched the crowd.

“You’re sure right, Mr. Hamilton! Who could have possibly known that our car needed new tires? We were so worried about how I’d get to work,” said Mr. Purvey.

“My mom just passed away. We got a note that said it was for the funeral. But funeral was spelled wrong. A child must have done all this. Also, the rainbow—it has to be a kid. Should we really use this money? It could be stolen,” Mrs. James explained her stance to the crowd and others nodded in agreement.

“Has everyone checked their accounts and stashes? Does anyone have any missing money?” Mr. Hamilton scanned the crowd, silence equated that everyone’s account remained untouched. “I’ve alerted the police station and they are looking into this, but since the money was distributed so evenly and with purpose, they won’t confiscate it. So, I guess if you need this money now, use it. But be ready to pay it back in days to come if we find it’s been stolen.” The neighbors nodded in agreement.

They talked amongst each other for an hour to come about the mysterious donor, but as the sky grew dark everyone went back home. All but one person moved into their homes for the night, all but Mr. Thomas Jacoby.

He looked out on the street in silence, as he knew that he and one other soul on the street knew the origin of the money. Thomas Jacoby rocked in his chair and reflected upon his last few days. He’d had an awful time of it, pouring his pill bottles down the toilet and watching the withdrawal of his life’s choices take its toll. His face was grim; he looked aged and tired. Days ago, he had gone to the bank and withdrew all the money he had left in his account and hid it away in the woods. He knew it was the only way to fight his temptations and choose the right path—the clean and righteous path.

He felt horrible from days without drugs or alcohol, but a smile appeared on his face. He gazed at his mailbox, realizing that if indeed every family received something on the street his house was included. He walked to his mailbox and opened the lid. A blank envelope sat lonely in the box, he took it hastily and opened it. His eyes grew wide as he removed $500 and the picture of a crayon rainbow and the words “for peace.”

Primped like a prickly pear—a natural green shirt and matching pants, both pilling with little bits of life. In fits of boredom, she plucked the balls off, but K-Mart clothes only last so long. Like a rejected piece of fruit, she naturally repelled people as if she’d prick them by proximity. But things aren’t always as they seem. She lacked adornment but overflowed in other endeavors. She had a green thumb and a servant’s heart tied like a bow around her bobbling bodice. Only she didn’t often have the opportunity to show off her garden beds to anyone. Pavlina’s servant’s heart buried in the abyss of unforgiving adolescence, a seed among infertile soil.

Each day, Pavlina arrived at Middle Eastern High School in her olive-green Oldsmobile, shuttled herself into class and spoke only when called upon. She waited each day for someone to approach her or for someone to ask her a question. Something as simple as, “do you know which way the bathroom is?” would do just fine. With that small request at least she could utilize her voice box, which often felt like a void compartment tucked away in the back of her throat.

Like any other day, she shut the door of the Oldsmobile and made her way into class. She made a pitstop in the bathroom before American History, but heard a muffled cry in the bathroom stall next to her.

Pavlina listened as the sobs continued a couple feet away from her. Statistically, no one in that stall called her friend. But her heart pulled to assist, even in case of rejection.

“Are you okay in there? Do you need help?”
More sobs.

“Do you need me to get you anything? I’m sorry you sound upset. I can also leave if you’d like privacy.”
Still. More sobs.

Unsurprised, Pavlina received no response. She washed her hands and began her abandonment.

“Wait. Yes. I… I need help. But I’m not sure how you can help me. I’m sorry I’m crying so hard, I can’t pull myself together,” the voice cracked.

Pavlina turned to the stall, startled by the response. “I’m happy to help you, what can I do?” Pavlina replied.

“I need a pair of new clothes. And new underwear. And is there a pad dispenser out there? I’m so sorry, I don’t even know who I’m talking to. But I’m asking desperately, because I can’t leave this bathroom without them,” she replied.

“Okay, I have some in my car. Let me go get them. I’m not sure what size you are, but I’ll see what I have.” Pavlina left in haste for her car. She found a pair of baggy gardening overalls and an extra pair of underwear and a t-shirt for gym days.

Pavlina returned to the bathroom with the requested items in hand and dispensed a pad from the wall unit. She handed them under the stall door.

“Thank you. I am not sure how I can give them back. I’m not sure if you’ll want them back,” the girl replied.

Pavlina nodded although the girl could not see her. “It’s fine. I don’t need them back. As you can see, they aren’t very nice anyway. I wear the overalls for gardening. Do you need anything else?”

“I don’t think so. I just am really thankful that you’re helping me. It’s not a good morning for me,” the girl explained as she changed.

Pavlina thought through reasons why this girl wouldn’t leave the bathroom and why she needed a change of clothes. Perhaps her time of the month came and she bled on herself? But why would she be crying so hard? It didn’t seem to add up.

“What is your name?” the girl in the stall asked.

“Pavlina. What is yours?” she replied.

“Josie. I’m not sure we’ve met. I haven’t heard your name before,” the girl in the stall rustled around getting into her new set of clothes. Pavlina knew Josie—one of the popular girls in school and one of the prettiest. She felt insecure that Josie didn’t know her, but then again, she understood her invisibility.

“Nice to meet you, Josie,” Pavlina replied.

Josie came out of the stall decked out in overalls and the t-shirt. Apart from her blotchy red eyes, she look effortlessly stylish. Pavlina smiled and moved out of her way so she could reach the sink. But as Josie moved passed, she saw the clothes blood-stained. Josie peered into the mirror and splashed water on her face. She tucked the old clothes under her arm.

“I’m not sure what to do with these clothes,” she looked around and threw them in the trash can, placing layers of brown paper towels on top of them. “I guess that will hide them.”

Josie washed her hands and splashed more water on her face. She had no more makeup on after all of the crying, but she still looked beautiful regardless. She leaned on the sink and looked at Pavlina through the mirror.

“Have you ever done something you’ve regretted?” she asked.

Pavlina nodded.

Josie wiped her eyes again. “Have you ever regretted something but wouldn’t want to take it back if you had the choice again—even knowing the horrible outcome?” she peered at Pavlina, looking for answers.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Pavlina leaned against the tiled wall.

“I’ve done things I completely regret. But then there was hope in the midst of it all. But the outcome—I’m just sad. So sad. You probably think I am crazy. But you’ve just helped me so much, I feel like I can talk to you. My life just changed in that bathroom stall. Everything has changed.”

Pavlina didn’t know what she meant, after all, her and Josie weren’t friends and didn’t have anything in common. But she decided that even if they didn’t have anything in common, Josie needed a good listener.

“We will make mistakes for the rest of our lives. Not everything that seems like a mistake will feel like a mistake forever. We learn from experiences.”

Josie nodded, taking in Pavlina’s words.

“I have few regrets because I don’t have opportunities to make mistakes,” Pavlina confessed. The two girls met eyes.

“I wonder, is it better to make mistakes and learn from them, or to never make mistakes at all?” Pavlina asked.

The girls stood in silence. But the ringing of the first period bell put them on the move out the door to continue their day.

Pavlina understood what had happened that morning. Or at least she put the puzzle pieces together. She observed Josie in her gardening overalls talk to her boyfriend in the hallway, raising her arms in the midst of an animated explanation. Pure fear and relief appeared on his face. Josie looked relieved too, but also incredibly grieved. Pavlina understood the loss in the bathroom stall.

Josie’s situation, like a blotted blossom. A blessing meant for marriage, the collision of new life and death, growth and loss, regret and wisdom, mistakes and life change. Her body blossomed a baby, her journey blotted in the stall. The beauty of what she thought she did with her boyfriend stained like her clothes in the bathroom.

Josie was right, her life had changed. Would her and her boyfriend make the same mistake again? Was it a mistake to begin with—to create a life? And for Pavlina, by never stepping out and never making mistakes at all, was she behind in wisdom? Behind in tasting grace, mercy, and gratitude? The gardening overalls were hers, but they felt different on the body of someone who had experienced more. She considered the pit Josie must feel she is in, to gain something, to lose something, and lose a version of yourself or at least who she thought she was in the midst of it all.

Pavlina realized her life forever changed in the bathroom, too. She helped someone, and she learned from another’s experience because she stayed, present and open. Pavlina: the giver of grace, the bestower of mercy and the receiver of gratitude. Would she ever make the same mistake Josie made? No. Because she knew. She experienced, all because she moved closer to a stranger and made herself available for alteration.

Months went by and the end of the school year approached. Pavlina often saw Josie in the hallway. The two girls smiled bleakly at each other, gatekeeping each other’s secrets.

On the last day of school, Pavlina heard her name across the school parking lot. She turned to see Josie running to her with a gift bag in hand.

“Pavlina, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to give you this,” Josie held out a purple gift bag with decorative tissue paper flowing out of it.

“Look inside!” Josie said with a huge smile.

Pavlina took out the tissue paper to find her pair of overalls, her t-shirt, a new pack of underwear, and a burlap jewelry bag.

Pavlina held the jewelry bag in her hand with a smile on her face. “You really didn’t need to give me back this stuff, but I appreciate it anyway. And you really didn’t need to get me a gift,” Pavlina felt like rays of sunshine lifted from her palm as she held the delicate parcel.

“I just wanted to say thank you. No one ever found out about what happened, and I have you to thank for that. Things have really changed for me. And I just appreciate your kindness and open heart that morning. Go ahead and open it!” Josie urged with excitement.

Pavlina pulled the strings open, uncovering an olive-green leather bracelet. She moved the bracelet around and read aloud, “The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.”

Pavlina couldn’t help but smile. Josie reached forward and helped her snap it on. “I thought you’d like the green. It’s beautiful, right? I love this verse. We’re new creations if we choose to be.”

“Thank you, Josie,” Pavlina said, a smile sewn across her lips.

“Also, a couple friends and I started meeting every Tuesday at Hope Christian church. If you ever want to come, I put all of the info on a card in the bag. We’d love to have you. I’ll see you around!”

Pavlina watched Josie walk to her car, admiring the bracelet on her wrist. She laughed at the thought of her knowing she liked green, and she laughed at the old overalls. She picked up the information card and studied it. An invitation. A door open. Pavlina, a new creation.