Ladies' Literary Society

Strangers

2008-09-22T00:03:00.001-04:00

Sara looked worriedly down inter her tightly clasped hands. This move would certainly present some challenges. Though it wasn’t as if the last move had been easy. It never was easy just to pack up and go, not since the first big move two years ago. But resettling was what people did in the desert. Sara had lived with her husband and nephew in the desert for years and she herself had grown up in a similar climate and has known something of the nomadic life. But every time they stayed put for more than a week she managed to become attached to her surroundings. She enjoyed a locale, she thrived on community. But the only stable community she was allowed was that of her husband and nephew. Ever since the big split from the family clan, they never seemed able to settle.

A year and a half ago Sara thought surely they had found a place. Surely her husband was content with the land if he was building an altar there. After all, what would be the point of erecting an altar if you weren’t planning on living nearby so you could offer the appropriate sacrifices on it regularly and beseech the god for whom you built it? Who in their right mind would build such a monument only to leave it days later? But this is what her husband did. And when once again they pitched their tents after another week’s journey, he built another altar. But Sara was wary this time and didn’t try too hard to meet any of the locals. Sure enough the sign was soon given and away they went. Only this time their departure was attributed to a divinely received message. Sara wasn’t sure what to think about these messages anymore. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe and respect her husband. On the contrary, she held him in the highest regard. But it was hard to hold on to a dream. It was nice to think that they were special and part of some “grand plan”, but in reality what were they really doing? Pitching tents, tending the herds, making cheese, mending clothes, fixing food. Sara was having a hard time seeing what all those things had to do with El, the God of her husband. Sometimes Sara thought about how much easier it was to serve her father’s god. All Baal required was the performance of certain rituals once a month and then one knew the rain would come. What El seemed to require was unremitting obedience and who knows if the rains would come? It seemed to Sara that the current drought would never be broken. Perhaps Baal hasn’t forgotten the daughter of Haran, and he is awaiting the proper rituals. But there was no question of going back to that. Once you marry you take on a new culture of sorts, complete with a new god and ritualistic practices. And if the rains don’t come… Sara was unable to complete the thought, for her nephew had just entered the tend where she was sitting.

“Aunt Sara, I’ve just returned from my visit to our neighboring flock-herder. He’s already made plans to move on. The land simply won’t support him, the drought is too fierce.”

“Yes, nephew, but that does not mean we also have to go. If the rains come soon,”

“It is too late for the rains! Even if they started tonight it would do us no good. We will be out of pastureland in a week’s time. There is no way we can stay. Surely you and Uncle Abram know this.”

“We discuss it every evening.” Sara paused, continuing only reluctantly, “And your uncle is almost in complete accord with you.”

A look of triumph and elation crossed his face and Sara attempted to head it off, “But he is still awaiting confirmation of the decision.”

Her nephew looked grim and opened his mouth as if to reply, thought better of it, and slowly backed out of the tent, bidding his aunt farewell as he did so.

Sara sighed after he had gone. The pressure was mounting and it was difficult even for her to see any compelling reason why they shouldn’t pick up and move to a place where food was more plentiful. But Abram thought this was too big of a move to do so without the content of his god. If they didn’t leave, how could they continue to carry out the will of El? Their flocks needed vegetation to live and Abram needed his flocks to survive. Especially without the support of either of our families, thought Sara somewhat ruefully. But what could she do? Sara felt that her only hope lay in convincing her husband to move before it was too late. Sara wanted to prevent disaster, not act in the midst of it.

The tent flap waved in a gust of wind and Sara rose from her musings. Time was previous while water was wanting and it would be better for her to be encouraging the servants and helping them with their hard tasks than to stay sequestered in the troubles of her own mind.

Part II

Step, step. Step, step. Every step made her nervous. Every step heightened the fear. Every step brought her closer to a place to foreign and so unknown to her it was difficult to imagine. The natives were said to have no respect for women. The men had a reputation for getting what they wanted. Sara shuddered. Not only was her sex against her but she was also considered by many to be beautiful. What would happen when they entered this land? What would happen if she was noticed?

The sand was hot and the sun beat down upon them. The mid-day break was always a relief to the travel weary nomads. Sara rested for a moment in the shade of her husband’s tent. She wasn’t sure why he wanted to see her, but she was hoping for an explanation for their hasty and unannounced departure that morning. Despite her own support for the move the suddenness of it had unnerved her. Sara also didn’t understand the choice of destination. Egypt wasn’t the only country around that was being spared this gruesome famine.

A voice called from within, “Sara? Is that you there lingering at the tent flap?”

“It is I,” she replied as she entered and greeted her husband, “I come as you called.”

Abram’s look turned solemn as she removed her head covering. “You are very beautiful, my wife.”

“I thank you, my husband.”

“I am afraid for what will happen once we are free from famine.” Abram stared at the ground. “I fear they shall take you from me and have me killed.”

Sara waited in respectful silence. Abram never mentioned a problem without already having a course of action in mind.

“But if you say you are my sister,” here his eyes met hers, “I shall be safe.”

Sara remained silent as she considered this course of action. Would the Egyptians believe such a tale? It was quite probable that if they did, Abram would not be treated badly. But what of herself? What would happen to Sara? Well, it wouldn’t be worse than if they took me by force. She looked at her husband thoughtfully. “I am willing to do this for you, my brother. But what of your god? Is this in accord with his will?”

Abram did not answer for a long time. He seemed to be in deep conversation with himself and although she greatly feared to interrupt him, Sara was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten she was there. Finally he stirred and said in a low voice, “I have heard nothing about this. But some say where there is no guidance there is freedom.” He looked at Sara with a troubled expression, “Why do I feel more enslaved then ever?”

Sara did not have an answer to that. She merely reached over and embraced him solemnly. “We will act according to what we know is best.”

The journey to Egypt was a difficult one, especially for the servants. They did not know the details of every journey they made, but they had an idea that some special plan of the gods concerned their master and land as an inheritance. And based on the altars they had seen Abram build, that inheritance was being left behind them the further south they traveled. Yes, there was a famine and everyone recognized the need for action, but the closer they marches to Egypt the more concerned they became for their welfare once they arrived. How would they be received? Would the Egyptians recognize Abram for the influential and important person he had been becoming in his own lands before the droughts forced him south to seek the help of strangers? Would the master be killed and the slaves and women be kept as spoil for Egypt? It was a gamble, and everyone knew it.

----------------------------------------------

“Have you seen the new refugees, Ameres? They look like a sorry lot, soon to be a stink in the Pharaoh’s nose.”

“Indeed, Chebron. But what can be done? They come seeking aid and we give it to them,” he paused, grinning slightly, “for a price.”

“Now that Canaanite who arrived last feast day. He seemed promising. A boon to our land, so he will be.”

“His sister certainly was favorable to our Pharaoh. That is why he is being treated so. If she were his wife, it would not go so well for the foreigner.”

“You are wise, Ameres, in the ways of this court. Perhaps you could advise me on another matter…”

Abram looked to the setting sun, wishing in his heart he were settled in the land promised to him. “When will I truly be at rest?” he asked the insects chirping nearby. “When will peace and wholeness be mine?”

“The royal court has been asking itself that for the past few days, too, Abram the Canaanite.”

Abram turned at the sound of his friend, Chebron’s voice. “Is that so, Chebron? Then perhaps they ought to follow my advice concerning care of the herds.”

The Egyptian smiled wryly. “It is not regarding so trivial a matter that I have come to see you.” He paused, “It is regarding your wife.”

Abram looked nonplussed. “Oh?”

“You know to what I refer,” he pressed, “the illness in my master’s house is not without cause, and there is no other matter which could cause the gods so much anger as this. She whom you said was your sister is really your wife.”

Abram stared steadily as the swiftly darkening sky, “I do miss her terribly.”

“The Pharaoh will see you in the morning,” came the brusque reply.

“Yes, he will.”

The following day Abram and his servants once again packed their belongings, now doubled in size, and prepared for another journey.

“Is the famine ended?” asked one servant to another.

“Whether it is or not, there’s no use staying here.” Came the reply, “I think the master has received as much as he will from the Pharaoh.”

“El sure takes good care of our master, doesn’t he?” Asked the voice in a hush.

Untitled

2008-08-05T09:48:00.002-04:00

He makes winds his messengers,
flames of fire his servants.

Psalm 104:4[1]

James pulls into the drive way and turns off the car. He pauses with his hand on the door handle. He is unwilling to go back just yet. And what a situation to go back to. It’ll just be nag, nag, nag. It always is. His body seemed to freeze. It was almost like he couldn’t move. The muscles in his arm and hand were tense and unwilling. Though, it is not as if his mind was much help either. It too was in a sort of paralyzed state. Finally, he simply sighed and opened the door. With the initial task completed, he found it easier to continue the undesirable action of leaving the safety of his car and the comfort he had experienced all day for the strife and conflict of home. Huh. I don’t know what’s so homelike about it. It was funny, really, how work seemed like home and home like work. You weren’t supposed to dread the weekend. Whatever had gone wrong to make it flip-flopped in the first place?

Before his thoughts could proceed further, James entered the house and was immediately (and blissfully) distracted by the stillness he found there. If there was any way he would describe his homestead it was not “still.” There was always something going on, something moving, something to distract. His parents both worked out of the home, ever since officially “retiring” a few years before. However it always seemed to James that very little was accomplished by either of them nowadays. Time was always spent helping a neighbor move a piano, trimming the hedges, staining the deck, shoveling snow off the side walk, running errands, doing anything that classified as urgent and no one would pay you for. I’m the only one around here who’s got a real job. And apparently it’s not good enough. James was bitter and he knew it. His fellowship group had taught him that much. But a great deal of good it did him. He didn’t know what to do about it. Anyway, wasn’t it all his parent’s fault? How could he not be bitter until the cause for bitterness was removed? He grunted in self-approval of this conclusion and began to wander the house for signs of any member of his family or any of their sundry animals. James didn’t only have his parents on his case, but both his younger sister and older brother as well. His sister was constantly pressuring him to help her out financially and in order to do this (according to her) he either needed a better job or to marry wealthy. As if I needed any more prodding in that direction. Because James was single and of marriageable age it had become his job to “make it” for the entire family – aunts and uncles included. His older brother did not live with them, which gave James due cause for rejoicing every Sunday in church. But still his legacy remained and if James ever did not look penitent enough his brother was brought up in conversation so as to humble him even more and remind him of the duty he had yet to fulfill. Is it any wonder I don’t like this place? Still, although in a great many ways he absolutely despised it, it was still his home and seeing it so incredibly empty and still was more than James would ever wish on it. Any stiller and it would be a tomb.

James roamed the rooms taking note of what he found in each one. In the front hallway all the shoes and coats and random items being borrowed or loaned or “momentarily” set down were scattered as usual. The dining area and kitchen were in their normal state of disarray as well. Though, the range was in pieces, which was not normal. However, James attributed this to one of his mother’s cleaning sprees coupled with the over-exuberant and frequent assistance of his father. In the parlor the only odd feature was the presence of all the candles in the entire house on the great oak table almost as if a séance or cultic ritual were about to take place. Since James’ family were very traditional Baptist Christians, he found this hypothesis unlikely. What was the reason for the candles then? As he picked one or two up to inspect them further, James also noticed the matches. Strewn amongst the candles were broken matches, all unlit. How could someone succeed in breaking every single match he set his hand to? James was flummoxed.

He turned to leave the room and continue searching the house when something in the corner, beside his favorite reading chair caught his eye. It appeared to be a mark of some sort on the wall and it was plainly out of place, though it was hard to say why. James slowly approached it, his eyes riveted to the spot, his mind working and working to understand just what was so captivating and different about it. It was obvious, he was sure, and crucially important. He skirted the table, automatically stepping over lighters and strange looking sticks as if he were a mother entering her child’s room after a great Lego excursion. The mark drew him. But as he came nearer he saw it less as a mark and more as a protuberance. Yes, it was definitely not flat, it had depth. Not only that, but James could now see that it was not even attached to the wall at all. It was, in fact, a good several inches away from the wall. And it was resting on top of a candle. James had reached the armchair. He rested his hand on it to steady himself and in the process glanced down. What he saw horrified him: white on white. Not the usual shade of white, the brilliant color that reflects all colors, no. This was the absence of color that knew no color. James realized with horror what it was that was so special about the blob on the candle – it was yellow. It was the only color in a world suddenly devoid of color. The only reason he hadn’t realized it before was that all he saw was devoid of color, only when he had the ability to compare could he see the utter loss he had come to.

Despite these grim thoughts, James was again drawn back to the color. He could see now that it was actually connected to the candle, though it was difficult to say precisely how since the bottom of this thing was much thinner than the top and it was rather oblong and came to a point on the bottom. One would think it would fall over, but nay, it was precisely balanced. If anything, it looked like it was trying to escape from the candle. This troubled James for he almost thought that if it could escape it would come straight for him, pulling him into it and consuming him wholly. James took a step back, and then noticed that it wasn’t a pure or solid yellow. It was variegated and had the most delicious shades of orange all around and through it. Made all the more delicious by the void in everything surrounding it.

James was pulled from his contemplation by a resounding crash. His head snapped up and his body began to turn and move out of the room before his mind could even make up about where it had come from. He walked hurriedly in the direction of the garden. He did not want to run – not in this nightmarish world.

Part 2

“Come out of her, my people, so that you do not take part in her sins,

and so that you do not share in her plagues;”

Revelation 18:4b

James paid no attention to the rest of the house as he hurried to the source of the clamor. He reached the door to the backyard and paused with his hand on the door handle. What would he find on the other side? A sudden fear surged through his body finding an outlet in the pressure of his fingers downward on the handle. His body moved outward with the energy gained by the uncertainty of the situation. He stepped quickly outside and let the door shut with a bang behind him. As he looked around he was mildly surprised at the normalcy of everything he laid eyes on. Nothing seemed out of place. There was the white table with the four plastic chairs strewn around it. There was the young ash tree his father had planted quite recently. There was the assortment of balls and toys left by the neighbor kids.

As his eyes continued to scan to the right James noticed that the grill was lying in pieces as if it had recently been pushed over. He approached it warily, wondering who or what had caused it to fall. The lid was detached from the grill proper and the coals were spilt all over the ground. Something beneath the wreckage seemed quite un-grill-like, though it was difficult to tell with only the grey scale at his disposal. It looked like an animal of some sort. James picked up a broom that was lying nearby. He wasn’t going to confront anything empty-handed. He paused three feet from the wreckage and began poking with the broom handle. From this close he could see that it was much larger than an animal. He lifted the lid off the prone form and was able to discern the figure of a woman. Her hair was in a tangled mess and was currently covering most of her body, which, James realized, was why he had supposed her to be an animal at first. There was no sign of movement, so James knelt down and pressed his fingers against her wrist. As soon as he did so her eyes popped open and looked at him with, not alarm, but a sort of triumph.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I was just. Are you all right?” Spluttered James, completely taken aback by her demeanor considering the circumstances.

She said nothing, but gave a smile of smug contentment. She sat up and her hair fell about her, still the tangled mess it was when she had been prone. She was now holding James’ hand in her own. James felt a thrill unlike any he had felt before. It was not only sexual stimulation. He felt as if fulfillment was at last within his reach. It seemed like power emanated from this being and that simply by being with her, he too could partake of it. The woman began to lead James away and as she did so he thought he noticed something move within her hair but he didn’t take much notice of it, he was too intoxicated with the promise of control.

The mysterious woman led him away from the house and away from the solid, yellow flame, which had been haunting James’ vision since he first laid eyes on it. He was quite relieved to put as much distance between himself and the house as possible. When they reached the edge of the yard a dense fog moved in and nothing ahead or to the side was discernible but when James looked over his shoulder he could still see the house, the only distinct thing in the mist. What’s more, he almost imagined he could see into the house, through the walls and rooms to the candle with the unmoving flame. Even now it seeks to haunt me, thought James, annoyed, well, it won’t work.

With that he turned to his companion and in an act of defiance made to grasp her other hand. It wouldn’t have worked to walk that way, but he wanted to “show” the candle who was boss of himself and choosing to embrace the woman more fully seemed to be a way of doing that. As his hand sought hers it passed through her hair and he felt a sting, sharp and bitter. He withdrew with a cry of pain and was barely able to look at the wound before the woman gave him another haughty look, as if to assert her own superiority, and grasped his wounded hand with both of hers, squeezing it harder and harder. James wasn’t sure which was worse, the stinging from the pain or the realization that he wouldn’t be able to retract his hand from her vice-like grip until she chose to allow him to. The flame had been demanding, but at least it had allowed him to maintain control of himself. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of pressure, the woman released his hand and resumed her hold on his other, continuing on her winding way through the fog. James bit his lip to keep from crying out again. When he looked down he had been horrified to see that his hand was no longer a hand, but a mangled lump of hardened flesh. It more resembled a primitive sort of prosthesis than a healthy part of human anatomy.

Before James could analyze the state of his flesh any further a change of scenery suddenly demanded his attention. The mists had separated and he could see that they were walking through a forest path. At first it seemed to be raining because as they progressed James noticed the feel of water on his face and arms. However, he didn’t feel any pattering on his head and though he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear the fall of the rain on the trees above. It wasn’t until they came to a stop outside a clearing when James could see that the raindrops were suspended in air and they had been walking into the water. In his curiosity, James pulled his hand out of the woman’s and reached up to touch one of the stationary drops. As soon as he did so the woman shrieked. James looked up in shock, worried about the wrath he was about to suffer. But the woman wasn’t looking at him. She was scanning the clearing ahead of them. From ahead came an answering shriek, which made James think of vultures and carrion birds. Soon his suspicion was confirmed and from the misty woods ahead flew huge birds with beaks and claws made for tearing the flesh of animals and humans alike. Their faces were mangled and unlike those of other carrion birds James had seen.

The woman began chanting in a strange, harsh dialect. She raised her arms in front of her as if to welcome the newcomers, “Sarcoramphus, necrophagus, luetai, luetai, luetai.” James did not like the sound of that. He was not much given to ritual himself and his upbringing had fostered within him a deep suspicion of the occult. But still, he watched on. What was there for him to go back to the house for? He glanced behind him and was shocked to see the house still, peeking out behind the trees and shadows. It was like it was following him or something.

More noises from the clearing took his attention away from the persistent house. Several hunched over creatures had appeared since he noticed the arrival of the vultures. These he soon recognized as men. They approached the place where he was standing and knelt before the woman. She produced from out of the deep recesses of her hair a goblet, which had a dull gleam, and seemed as close to gold as grey could come. It had what surely were splendid jewels in a world with color but which, in the circumstances, looked like flashing steel. The writhing masses of her hair wriggled towards the chalice and spewed a steaming liquid, filling it to the brim. The venomous creatures retreated into the hair before James could get a good look at what had bit his hand, which had now lost all sense of touch.

The woman brought the cup to each man in turn, murmuring something as she did so. After taking his drink, the first man stood up and, walking past James, began a circuit of the clearing. As he passed James noticed a small bag swinging from his belt. It was the only distinguishing feature. As the rest began their circuits, James saw that all the men had such a bag. When all thirteen had gone through, the woman turned to James. He felt himself kneel under her steely gaze, though at this point he had decided he wanted nothing to do with this ritual or this woman. He was about ready to go back to the crazy house and take his chances with the flame. But just when he wanted to leave, he could not. The drink was being offered and now he could hear what she had been murmuring all along. “Ouai, ouai, e polis e megali, Bablyon e polis e isxura.” James had no idea what this meant, but the sorrowful tone, determined look, and venomous liquid was enough to make him resist for all he was worth. Still, the woman raised the cup and made as if to force it on him. James pressed his lips together and turned his face to the side.

As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the house and saw the flame, clear as could be, though still and unmoving. He concentrated his whole being on that flame, willing it to flicker, willing it to be alive once more for now he realized the meaning of the solid flame and the suspended rain. Time froze for all but himself and this strange woman, wherever she had come from. Perhaps she was the cause.

As James made these connections the men began to cease their circling of the clearing as a whole and closed in on James and the woman until they were pressing right up against him. Still, James concentrated on the house. Right as arms came down to turn his head toward the cup, a light flashed from the house and orange light zoomed towards them exploding into a fire on the very spot where the woman stood. She shrieked in pain as the fire consumed her flesh and one by one the men caught fire in the order they had drunk the potion.

James had not ceased to look at the house this whole time and felt himself being caught up in the flame as well. His right hand burned fiercely and he thought he would die. The numbing was gone and was replaced with a searing as the fire ate at his dead flesh, burning layer after layer until it reached a small, inner core, all that remained of the original hand. Then, something amazing happened. The outer dead flesh had fallen away and the small remaining core fashioned into a little white hand, like that of a child. James turned to look at it and as he examined it he realized that he was once again in the house and in the room with the flame.

The candles are gone as are the matches. The clock is ticking loudly on the wall. Color has returned to the world. The front door opens and James hears the sound of his parents conversing. He takes one last look at his hand and goes to greet them.

For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light,

so that their deeds may not be exposed.

John 3:20

Dans nos obscurités, allume le feu qui ne s’eteint jamais.

The End

[1] All scripture references are from the New Revised Standard Version.

The Way of the Mystic is Both Interesting and Chall...

2008-07-28T10:14:00.002-04:00

Why are you so afraid of the word "mysticism"? Perhaps it makes you think of the eastern religions - Buddhism, Hinduism, Shintoism - and you want nothing to do with them. You are an adherent of a religion of the book. You believe in the Bible, not in the Void. Your religion is a religion of facts. Okay, but it is also a religion of faith. What exactly is faith? Classic definition: Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible. So your religion is not entirely a religion of facts. It also involves the unseen and the creation of what is seen from what is not visible. Very interesting.

And what is mysticism? I shall first give you David Downing's take. He gives William James' definition: a mystical state is a "consciousness of illumination". This illumination involves new insights, which elude description in words, creating a sense of an overpowered will, and is experienced in a short period of time. Another intriguing definition Downing explores is given by R. M. Jones: rather than a new idea or insight, a mystical experience transforms "what one believes into what one knows".

Mysticism is, of course, mysterious, elusive, and a bit esoteric, maybe. But, is not God mysterious and elusive? Is not the universe in which we live beyond our comprehension? Do we not all experience awe and wonder when we really stop to think about the world? We cannot understand our own existence, so why should we be able to understand God's? The mystics experienced that which cannot be fully understood by reason alone. Are some mystics fakes? Sure. Do some babble incoherently in a way that helps no one? Of course. But that does not mean that the mystic way is completely off or completely unhelpful or dangerous. Mysticism is simply another way to express one's relationship with God and another way to experience God through nature, through contemplation, and perhaps through direct encounter.

The Binding and Submission

2008-07-19T14:38:00.001-04:00

Part One

“Hey, Zeke.”

Zeke’s face fell as soon as he heard the despondent greeting from within the prickly thicket, which he had until then been stealthily approaching. “How can you always tell it’s me?”

“A woodland creature told me,” came the now lighthearted reply.

“Ha ha,” remarked Zeke dryly.

“No, really,” the voice was now in earnest, “as you were approaching, a coney came scrambling down the rocks. If you had been my dad, you’d have gone on and on about the wonders of the coney in order to teach me a moral lesson or something.”

“Oh, come off it, Yitzhak. You’ve got a great dad. I mean, at least he spends time with you. I heard Rach and Judy talking this morning about how he’s going on yet another pilgrimage and that he’s taking you with him!”

Yitzhak frowned from within his thorny stronghold. “What do servants know?” he snapped back. But in his head Yitzhak contemplated this news with utmost seriousness, none too happy to be dragged along on another spiritual quest. So that’s why Dad has been acting weird lately.

The sound of his thicket being penetrated reached his ears, drawing him back to the present. Concerns of defense and general strategy overcame his previous depression, a change which suited him just fine. “Invade my fortress will ye, barbarian? Not while I yet draw breath!”

A most glorious campaign then ensued, which both sides agreed was the most fabulous war yet betwixt the warring nations of the Hittites and the Hurrians. Numerous poems, songs, and ballads were swiftly composed to detail the exploits of the two nations and their superb leaders and were just as swiftly forgotten. The excitement lasted until just before sundown when the king of the Hurrians, bedecked in his most splendid garments turned to his most trust adviser and said, with a wave of realization, “I was supposed to chop down this thicket and bring back the brambles hours ago.” The war council which was about to take place was postponed until further notice and the king’s most trusted adviser and sometimes mortal enemy was convinced to help finish the task.

The two youths worked feverishly for the next half hour before finally resigning themselves to a job partially completed due to the imminent darkness besetting them. They piled high the cart with one large stack in an effort to make it look like they had more then they did. As Yitzhak pushed the cart home he yelled his thanks, farewell, and promise for vengeance to his companion.

It wasn’t until he came into sight of the house that the dread of what awaited him again entered his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his father, on the contrary, he loved him, but he didn’t have the same devotion and excitement his father had for the family religion. What, after all, did Yitzhak know about “the encounter” his father had so famously had decades earlier? For all Yitzhak knew it had all been a dream. He scowled fiercely as he thought about all this dream had led to – the separation of his family from their relatives and the home of his grandparents, which none of their relatives had seen the need to leave. Then he thought of his step-brother, the big bully he had been, and the lengths to which his father had gone to restore the family peace. And all this, for a dream? Yitzhak was in no mood to go gallivanting into the wilderness to pay homage to his father’s fantasies. But at this point, it didn’t look like he had much of a choice. Yitzhak began unloading the cart when a voice called out from the direction of the entranceway, “Son, is that you? Where are you?”

“Here I am, Mother,” he called out to the figure holding the candle in the entryway.

“Come in, my boy. That can wait until morning.”

Yitzhak paused, thinking carefully. “I thought I was going with father on his journey.”

“I’ll have Rachel do it.”

That must mean we’re leaving before sunrise. Yitzhak suddenly felt tired. He tossed aside some sticks he’d been holding and slumped his way to where his mother was standing.

“Yitzhak,” his mother said gently, “your father loves you very much. He only wants what’s best for you.”

Yitzhak pulled away from his mother’s embrace. “He only wants what is best for himself and his stupid dream.”

“Yitzhak!” The mortified face was made garish in the low light.

“Well, it’s true! Ever since we moved it’s been the Promise this, the Promise that! He cares about the Promise more than he cares about our family! He cares about the Promise more than he cares about me!”

The mother made one last ditch effort to pacify her son, “Some things are more important than ourselves!” Before she could say any more he had stormed past her, into their dwelling and straight to the mat that served as his bed. It was the only place he could be alone. He feigned sleep and stolidly ignored the noisy movements that indicated the presence of others. Eventually he was left alone with his churning thoughts and restless emotions. He could faintly hear his parents conversing.

First the deep, calm voice of his father, “I need to tell him.”

Then the soft, worried tones of his mother, “he already knows.”

Lastly he heard a sigh, which was long and drawn out, full of agony, pain, hope, uncertainty, and a resignation to a higher purpose than at that moment could be understood in the slightest. The sigh turned into a cool breeze that washed over him like a flood of soothing waters, bringing him to a realm of blissful sleep during which his body rested and his mind was renewed.

Part 2

Yitzhak shifted in his sleep while he dreamt of his friend speaking to him: “You’re not the only one, you know. There’s greater things than you out there. Wouldn’t it be great to be part of it?” Then Zeke had laughed and jumped into the air, catching some sort of wind which whisked him away into the heavens to dance amongst the stars. In his dream, Zeke’s proposition hadn’t seemed at all bad, but now, as Yitzhak dressed and gathered what he would need for the journey, he scoffed at the lofty words and rejected such an idea.

When he finished inside, Yitzhak went out to join his father and the two servants chosen to accompany them. One was loading some of the thicket Yitzhak had hurriedly chopped the day before onto a donkey along with some special wood for a sacrifice. The other servant was laden with food.

Oh, boy. A multi-day affair. I bet we’re going to some mountain, known for its religious significance.

His father looked at him, gave a nod of approval and began to walk. Not even a “good morning”. It did not look to be a good journey.

They walked all day, stopping only briefly during the hottest part, shaded by a makeshift tent Yitzhak’s father had brought. No one spoke and Yitzhak’s resentment only grew as he thought of the things he could be doing if he were at home with his buddy Zeke. That night as he went with the servants to a well to fetch water, Yitzhak listened with interest to their conversation.

“Baal goes down into the earth to fight with Mot, the god of the underworld and the bringer of drought.”

“Does Baal not win? Isn’t he strong enough to beat Mot?”

“Not at first. That is why it gets so hot and dry – because Baal is being held captive!”

“Wow. No wonder the rains stop. How does Baal escape?”

“After his sister searches and searches, after seven long years, he comes back to life!”

The servants paused in their water gathering to think on this great feat. As they resumed their work, the one who had been asking the questions glanced at Yitzhak and said, “But that’s not what the master believes. Baal is not his god.”

“Oh no. El is his god – the god of the gods. And he speaks to the master directly. The master is his most trusted servant and he will do great things through him.”

“And perhaps through us, too! I wish we could be entrusted with a special mission from El or from Baal. It is our purpose, is it not? To serve the gods?”

“That is what the Words say, and it only makes good sense.”

They handed the jar to Yitzhak and hoisting their own burdens, made their way back to the camp.

That night while falling asleep, Yitzhak thought of what the servants had said and contemplated what it would be like to be chosen especially to serve the gods.

On the second day of the journey, Yitzhak’s body was sore from the previous day’s exertions, but his spirit was mellow and his mind relaxed. His father, too, was unusually attentive and kind to him. While journeying along, he turned to Yitzhak, touching him gently on the arm. “Son,” he asked, “have I ever told you about how your mother and I named you?”

Yitzhak was slightly puzzled. Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure why he had been given such a strange name. “Wasn’t it because everyone laughed to see such an old couple with a little baby?”

His father chuckled. “Well, that is an understandable conclusion. But, no, that is not the real reason.” His eyes twinkled and it seemed to Yitzhak that they glistened with tears and with loving memory, a memory that included himself. “El prepared us in a special way for your coming. He changed my name, and your mother’s name. She was to be called ‘princess’ and I ‘father of a multitude’. That multitude was to start with you. When El told me your mother and I would bear a son in our old age, I must confess that I laughed. But El was not deterred.” He paused, looking carefully at his son. “El took my natural response and incorporated into who you would be. We need not be perfect, Yitzhak. We can even laugh in the face of El and still be used by Him.”

This gave Yitzhak much to think about. He had never thought of his name in the way his father talked about it. He had always thought he was just some sort of joke or anomaly, a subject of entertainment. Put this way it appeared he was part of a plan after all. Yitzhak thought back to the conversation between the servants the night before. Perhaps he too would be able to serve the gods of his ancestors and the god of his father when he arrived home from the journey.

On the third day, Yitzhak heard his father instruct the servants to stay behind with the donkey, while he and Yitzhak continued on alone. Their destination was now visible and the peak looked to be only two days’ walk away. Yitzhak was given special wood, wood used only for bunt offerings, to carry for the rest of the journey. As they set out, Yitzhak called out, emboldened by the previous day’s tenderness, “Father!”

“I am here, son.” Came the loving voice from ahead.

“I have burnt offering wood, and you surely have the flint and knife. But what about a lamb? There is no one nearby from which to ask one.”

There was a long silence before the reply came in a husky voice, “El shall provide the sacrifice.”

They spoke no more until they reached a point halfway up the mountain. It was not yet dusk, but both were tired from the ascent and they had found a good spot by a stream to rest.

“We may not find water again in so accessible a place.” Yitzhak’s father told him, “Let us rest and think on the goodness of El.”

“Father,” said Yitzhak, “I, too, want to be used of El. I, too, will be his servant.”

His father’s face twitched. “Will you?” He sighed. “Think of that as we worship tomorrow.”

The next day dawned bright and clear, though the air was inexplicably heavy and the footsteps of the two journeymen did not fall with ease. It was all they could do to place one foot in front of the other. The summit was claimed by mid-day and Yitzhak and his father immediately began to construct an altar. El will provide. El will provide, thought Yitzhak. But what will El provide? He looked around, doubtful that any creature would show itself. The altar was completed before long and the wood was laid. Yitzhak looked at his father, about to ask what they were to do, when he saw the ropes in his hands, and the determination in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was all his father could manage before he began to walk toward his son.

Yitzhak froze, not knowing how to respond. His father was feeble. It would be simple to bind him instead. If El wanted a sacrifice, why not the old rather than the young?

“I, too, will be his servant.” His words came floating back. But this? This? Surely this was too much. Surely this was not what El would want. As his father placed the ropes around his wrists, Yitzhak looked into his eyes. “I thought you loved me?”

Tears welled up and spilt over, dripping down the craggily cheeks.

“Why are you doing this?”

The only response was a croak that sounded like “El.”

The feet were bound next.

“What about the promise?”

The eyes closed as tears continued to force their way out. A pause in which Yitzhak saw a glimmer of hope. And then, “El.” Then Yitzhak realized he was the hope and it was in Yitzhak that his father was trusting even as he prepared to commit the most abominable of acts and the most abhorrent of practices.

The altar was low and Yitzhak sat down on it, slowly lifting his legs onto it and lying submissively down.

I can’t believe he wanted my life was the last thought to enter his mind as the knife flashed upon him, glinting in the sun.

“Avraham! Avraham!”

The knife froze a foot from Yitzhak’s chest. The hand trembled along with the voice, “Here I am.”

Don’t drop the knife. Don’t drop the knife.

“Do not harm your son. Now I know you fear El.”

The knife was put safely aside and the sound of a nearby thicket being penetrated reached Yitzhak’s alert ears.

I am a Monk Lock

2008-07-10T19:34:00.002-04:00

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/string_theory.png

Going to the Monastery this weekend in Three Rivers, MI. Those poems I published in the last blog post were written after my experience visiting the monastery last Fall. I went with Rena, Remy, Dan Bethel, and Ben Wright for Labor Day weekend. It was really nice. This time I'm going with Joanna, Thad, Rena, Shelly, and Dan. I am anticipating a good weekend, although I am really quite tired and I don't know that I'll be able to get a lot of sleep. Perhaps, if we go to bed early.

I really like the monastic lifestyle. Having 7 services a day is fantastic. It focuses the mind and puts you into a rhythm that includes God in a way that other lifestyles do not allow. I should go to an Anglican seminary. Wouldn't that be neat?

2008-07-01T23:46:00.000-04:00

At the Monastery

Matins

It is cold

And dark.

All night I have been anticipating this.

The appointed time is come.

I dress quickly and splash my face

For I have not allowed myself much time.

Dong.

The first bell.

I fasten my hair and slip on my shoes.

I open the door and enter the cold pre-dawn. Pausing,

I notice the stars.

Ah. Orion.

I do not normally see you in the summertime.

Good 3^rd watch of the night to you.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

The second series of bells begins.

I walk towards the sanctuary, open the door, and enter in.

I find a place,

I kneel,

I bow my head.

Lauds

After Matins I do not want to return to sleep.

That feels wrong.

So I stay awake and do what seems most natural:

Read scripture.

Your Word, O Lord, is a light.

My God, enlighten my darkness.

O Lord, my God, enlighten my darkness.

The simple song sings in my head.

It repeats itself,

Filling my whole body,

Infusing me with its melody.

Perhaps God is trying to tell me something.

Oh, yes. I know He is.

He is trying to bring the steel down.

He’s trying to remove the metal from the wall of my life;

The cynicism I cling to for comfort.

Very well, I’ll give it a try.

Lamentations 3.

Very good.

Commentary.

It is well.

Just as usual.

Perhaps I should read it again?

Interesting.

This passage stands out to me.

I know it was written regarding the exile but I can relate to this feeling of being

Abandoned by God and

Shunned by Him.

I like being the victim.

I focus on these verses, thinking that they are for me.

I re-read.

What’s this I find?

Verses of hope.

Okay.

That’s nice.

Too bad I didn’t feel that at the time.

(I’m caught up in the past).

I’m sleepy.

It’s dark.

Drooping eyelids.

Tired mind.

Beep! Beep!

It’s my watch.

I hold it up to my sister’s bed.

No response.

There’s the bell.

There are the stars.

I take my place, kneel, and bow.

Dawn/Terce

The sky has changed.

Still there are stars

But less.

The world is lightening.

I enter the house

And sit to write.

A division of self is the focus.

I wrestle with my identity.

I cannot be both at once!

Must I deny one for the other?

Insight.

No.

There are far greater things in store.

Redemption. Change. Transformation.

To what?

The real self,

That was already plucked from danger

And placed in the basket.

A journey of two gains a third companion.

The weight lifts

And I understand those lines of hope;

I experience them.

But this do I call to mind,

Therefore I have hope:

The kindness of the LORD has not ended,

His mercies are not spent.

They are renewed every morning—

Ample is your grace!

“The LORD is my portion,”

I say with full heart;

Therefore will I hope in Him.

I find myself outside.

I am walking, bouncing,

Hardly able to contain the joy within.

Nor do I want to.

Freely and gladly do I express my glee

To the sky,

To the trees,

To the rising sun.

I walk to the East

In excited anticipation

Of the world within

And the world without.

As the dawn breaks

I make my way back.

To the ringing of the bells

I enter the chapel,

Find a place, kneel, and bow.

Requiem Mass

“Today’s reading is from the Lamentations.”

I sit agape.

“Your mercies…new…morning…”

A double confirmation.

As if I even needed one.

Amazed.

I am amazed.

Going to the front,

I anticipate this holy meal.

We give each other the sign of peace.

“And also with you.”

“Peace be with you.”

“The body of Jesus,

The Bread of heaven.”

Amen.

“The blood of Christ,

Shed for you.”

Amen.

A mouthful of warmth

Courses through my whole body.

The wine strikes me in a way

To which I am unaccustomed.

We return to our seats.

The mass concludes.

We walk to the house,

Take seats at the table,

Give thanks,

And partake of the feast.

The Dark Tower

2008-06-21T19:33:00.002-04:00

I had the pleasure (and agony) this week of reading C. S. Lewis' unfinished novel The Dark Tower, which is extremely fascinating, not least of all because it was originally intended as a sequel to Out of the Silent Planet. It also happens to be about that tried and true movie seller: time travel. Time travel, the novel begins, is not possible in the body, but that does not mean there are not other ways of accomplishing it. As the novel unfolds, Lewis' wit and academia are unleashed and right as the story reaches its most climactic moment (90 some pages into it) it stops. Mid-sentence. Lewis never finished the novel, but it is still a very good and interesting read. Props to Lewis.

The Dark Tower was published by Walter Hooper along with several short stories and another unfinished novel (though shorter in length and less of a disappointment because it was less developed). All are very interesting and quite gripping. Most are science fiction and all have to do with mental or psychological processes of some sort, except for the final partial novel, which is wonderful to read because of the plot twist at the end of the first chapter, a method also utilised in one of the short stories about traveling to the moon.

Reading Lewis' stories and partial novels really makes me want to write. But what do I want to write? Do I want to write my 175 page novel that is only half finished? Nooo... I want to write short stories for which I have absolutely no ideas. I'm usually filled to the brim with ideas and now that I feel competent to write, they have all fled me. Where does this leave me? With the drudgery of the novel, I suppose. Well, since my youtube video is taking so long to upload, I might as well work on the novel in the meantime.

The video is titled 'The PAK Baigent: Maiden Voyage'.

An Emotional Process

2008-06-18T17:21:00.002-04:00

Since John Breen is likely the only one to see this, I shan't worry about posting hastily and then revising later. Here it is, post haste:

I find I am angry at my brother. This is quite possibly the first time I have been solidly and definitely angry with him, at least in my memory. I am so angry that I cannot handle him being out with his friends and spending time with his girlfriend rather than with me. I 'have it out' with him and tell him how I feel. That apparently isn't enough and we do the same the next day after I've sought counsel from a friend. Two weeks later I find I am still left with repressed emotions and a deep feeling of angst. What do I do with this? I cannot chop wood, Joanna, for I have not the tools nor the skill. I have a good talk with my sister - no, I should not hate my brother, because he is being like Jesus - spending time with those who need him, who need someone to be their friend. He is doing the right thing. But I still feel a latent anger and bitterness. This morning Z makes it all clear. Anger is not the primary emotion. The primary emotion is, in fact, pain. I experience pain and disappointment because I had high expectations of the time we would be able to spend together because of previous promises made by my brother. But since we do not like to stay in pain, Z says, we move on to anger. And, what's more, we become demanding. Suddenly the tables have shifted and my priorities are revealed. I think it is all about me and that my brother should spend time with me and fulfill my needs and deepest longings for significance and security. That is what transforms my pain into anger. Otherwise, I would feel pain, and justly feel it, and tell my brother and seek solace in Christ. How does one seek solace in Christ? Is prayer the only means? Prayer and contemplation, perhaps? I am not entirely sure. What do you think?

Everybody's doing it

2008-06-16T16:46:00.003-04:00

Jane had this on her xanga because Holly had this on her facebook, so it is appearing on my blog.

Rules :
Turn on Google & look for the following expressions. Be mature & use your real name. Use the first thing that appears & makes sense

Q. Put "[your name] needs" on Google
A. Princess Alexandra needs to steal Mary's stylist.

Q. Put "[your name] looks like" on Google
A. A Venn diagram of my love for Alexandra looks like this:

Q. Put "[your name] says" on Google"
A. Derek Alexandra says our sharing ratio will be 50:50 should incase if I am interested Nigerian Scam Scavenger Hunt.

Q. Put "[your name] wants" on Google
A. Alexandra wants the Camera!

Q. Put "[your name] does" on Google
A. Name: Alexandra Does Not Approve ...

Q. Put "[your name] hates" on Google
A. Clothes Alexandra Hates: Modo (mid style), Russian (low style);

Q. Put "[your name] asks" on Google
A. ALEXANDRA ASKS LOYALTY FOR SON And, "from the Depth of Her Broken Heart," Begs Nation's Prayers.

Q. Put "[your name] becomes" on Google
A. Big Brother Housemate Amy Alexandra becomes the ninth housemate to be...

Q. Put "[your name] likes" on Google
A. Alexandra likes to pose in front of a nice chess set ...

Q. Put "[your name] eats" on Google
A. Alexandra Eats with Factory Girls and Children in the East End of London.

Q. Put "[your name] wears" on Google
A. "Queen Alexandra wears a Cartier necklace in 1910. She was famous for wearing high chokers in the style shown and for wearing a daring amount of make-up, ...

Q. Put "[your name] was arrested for" on Google
A. Alexandra was arrested for kicking a girl in a drunken night out in Croydon...

The GRE and the Angst of a Philosopher

2008-06-11T11:50:00.002-04:00

"You'll do better on the GRE by putting aside your feelings about real education and surrendering yourself to the strange logic of the standardized test."

Cracking the GRE, 21.

On a completely unrelated note, as a philosopher I often feel angst. The question is: how to express it without freaking anybody out and yet feeling a sense of release or satisfaction afterward?

Presocratics

2008-05-29T16:38:00.003-04:00

First we shall begin with a tribute to Thomas Aquinas, the composer of the first limerick (according to metre), so saith Wikipedia. Anyway, it's in Latin.

Sit vitiorum meorum evacuatio
Concupiscentae et libidinis exterminatio,
Caritatis et patientiae,
Humilitatis et obedientiae,
Omniumque virtutum augmentatio.

Oh, look, it's all ancient looking, too. I mean, really, who uses Courier nowadays? And how do you figure out what font you were using before you change it? I obviously wasn't using Times New Roman before.

Anyway, now the Pre-Socratic Limericks.

Prelude

A couple of men from Miletus
Said ‘why does everyone hate us?
We just sought to find
The substance that binds
And not let our minds take hiatus’

Triduum

The first Anatolian was Thales
Who rejected all notion of Hades
Instead to explain
All things he took rain
As the substance beneath (even daisies)

Anaximander, he was a Greek man
Who thought Thales was terribly bland
'Water? No, no.
To the boundless we'll go!'
Was the shout that he gave as he ran

Anaximenes did not really care
For his compatriots and their love of flare
Instead he preferred
That the base of a turd
Be the whimsical substance called air.

Eleatics

Parmenides came from Elea
Not believing in what he could see-a
He disbelieved change
Thought Heraclitus strange
Trusting reason to explain diahrrea

Other options?

A Sicilian was the first Captain Planet
Thinking fire, water, air, and granite
Were the four that combined
In love. So refined
Was Empedocles he never would can it

A philosopher from Athens was banished
For the whole was seemingly vanished
And seen in a part.
He was terribly smart,
Anaxagoras who ended up famished

To Blog or Not to Blog?

2008-05-27T13:18:00.000-04:00

An unoriginal title, I am sure, but oh well, the question remains. Ought I to have a blog as John Breen so adamantly insists? Or should I shun his words of advice and continue on my merry blogless way? After all, I still have xanga. So what if xanga is, in John's words anyway, 'so middle school'? So what if no one except for Jane and I read it? And anyway, why should I post on a blog in the first place? Sure I have thoughts on things, but why should I thrust them upon the world, unwanted, unread, unappreciated? I suppose it would cause me to be a bit more organised in my thoughts and it would force me to think deeper about things. Hm. Well, anyway, I'm not going to create a new blog in any case. I shall simply keep this one. I created it accidentally, anyway, so I might as well use it.

The next post shall be: Pre-Socratic limericks.

Accidental Randomness

2006-08-17T15:23:00.000-04:00

Without entirely meaning to, I have founded a blog with the purpose of sharing literary creations. Sharing is not the entire purpose, as criticism and discussion are also welcome. I originally merely wanted to create an account so that I could join the inklings blog, but then I realized that the inklings blog may not be the most appropraite place to post my poems if I wanted comments. So, this separate space is dedicated to poets, fiction writers, and story writers of all kinds. And it is dedicated to all taken in by the poetry.com scam.