Slain

           

         The heat could blister her skin into the new age of cancer and Kaycee wouldn’t care. With her Midwest arm out of the Jeep window, she ran her fingers through the warm, dry air with pleasure. Back home, it was thirty-seven with sleet and here she was under the balmy eighty-two sun. Her boyfriend, Kendall drove her and their friends along a steaming gray ribbon through the New Mexico desert, which would eventually lead to Four Corners. In the back, over the harmonious vocals of Casting Crowns, her childhood friend Cain fought with Jan over the last ho-ho.

            “How can you eat anything else?” Kaycee tilted her head back so they’d hear her above the rushing wind. “You guys practically bought out the gas station of its junk food.”

            Cain and Jan’s faces morphed into wounded gasps. “This is not junk food, Kaycee! Donuts, Little Debbie, and Gatorade are the stables of a road trip.”

            “They’re also the reason we have to stop every hour.” Kendall grumbled over the growing wind. 

            “Were we the ones who bought a 32 oz. Pepsi?” Cain nudged Kaycee’s shoulder, making her blush. “The one time I splurge and you guys won’t let it go.”

            “It was this morning!”

Kendall glanced at Kaycee out of his peripheral, but kept driving to stay out of the conversation. He was the designated driver for their second day of travel. The four had found themselves fortunate enough to have spring break all on the same week this year. Being in three separate states, that was a small miracle. Kaycee would’ve been content to go home, but Cain had insisted it was the perfect time to get acquainted with his Navajo roots. Plus, Jan was studying in Albuquerque and he missed her.

“Her Pepsi, your ho hos…” Kendall griped as Kaycee batted Cain back. “And all I get is the gas bill.”

Cain shrugged, arm around Jan. “Told you not to eat that burrito-“

“Ewww!” Jan cried with Kaycee, jabbing Cain’s ribs. In that same moment Kaycee burped, which sent Cain reeling with laughter. Blushing even harder, Kaycee went back to watching the desert fly by. She had to smile; these moments of happiness and friendship… Thank you, God. 

The rest of the jeep settled down, falling in sync with the same content Kaycee found herself in. She thought of starting up a sing-along as C.C. started ‘Come Thou Font’. Jan would join her and they would spend a few hilarious minutes getting the boys to harp in. The song, however, didn’t make it to the second line before cutting out. Than back in, then back out again.

“What gives?” Kendall messed with the volume.

“Dead spot?” Cain suggested, leaning back up. Kaycee almost knocked foreheads with him. “It’s a CD. We’ve played it so much, it might be damaged.”

“Then the whole radio is too.” Kendall pointed. The display flicked on and off, same as the music. Kaycee’s stomach flip-flopped. She hated the thought of car trouble. 

“I’ll pull over and check the battery.” Kendall decided, shifted the jeep to the side. 

“Go the extra two miles to that sign up there.” Jan pointed ahead at the lone billboard. “Kaycee and I can get a photo while you men take care of business.”

“So sexist.” Cain teased her. Jan stuck her tongue out. Kaycee gave silent thanks for her friend’s optimism. Kaycee, while she tried, was more pessimistic… especially when it came to any kind of vehicle. But that was because anything with wheels hated her. She couldn’t go a month without engine trouble or a flat tire. Kaycee would take walking any day… even in the four-foot snowdrifts back in Vermont.

“Hear the word,” Jan was reading off the billboard as Kendall eased the jeep into park. “Live the word… oh, it’s advertising a church.”

“Pretty good slogan.” Cain remarked, climbing out after Kaycee. Kaycee arched her back so the sun blinded her, Jan jumping out beside her. While they stretched and found the camera, Kendall looked over the radio and Cain popped the hood to check the oil- so he’d feel useful. Jan got a couple snapshots of him flexing his muscles, and then Kaycee joined in, giggling at their ‘grease monkeys’. She handed the camera back to Jan. “Get me in a panoramic with the desert. It’s so big!”

“Ok.” Jan readjusted the focus as Kaycee ran several yards into the golden-red dust. The bushes were the only resemble of shade, minus the billboard’s, stocked behind it like a cape. She turned around as Jan yelled. “Squat down! It’ll look like you’re carrying the mountains on your shoulders!”

Good idea. Kaycee sent her a thumbs up, squatting. Jan held the camera to her face, growing still. Kaycee waited, but Jan stayed still. In fact, her stillness changed. 

“Jan?” Kaycee frowned. “Did it take?”

“KAYCEE!” came the terrified cry. “Get back here!”

Some friendships ran so deep that when certain questions were asked, you listened. There was that much trust between them and Kaycee launched herself forward. She hadn’t made it five steps before her foot hit something and sent her sprawling. Kaycee hit the ground, coughing and retracting her shin from the hot griddle of its surface. It was so hot… deceptively so, given the breeze…

FILTHY CHILD!

Kaycee froze from investigating her trip, not daring to look toward the whisper. Instead her mind flung into action, throwing up its steel walls and double-locked doors. Oh come thou font of every blessing-

THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO! The whispers laughed. NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR HIS WORDS, YOU DRAW UPON THE WORDS OF MAN? PATHETIC!

Kaycee’s mind reeled, searching for the right weapon, but the attack had come so suddenly… so strong. It chilled her, even in the baste of the heat.

“Kaycee!”

Kaycee lifted her head, intending to yell back at her friends, her brothers and sister in Christ Jesus… but instead she caught sight of the object that’d tripped her. Immediately, her heart swelled. Lord, give me strength. 

AND WHY SHOULD HE.

“Man does not live by bread alone!” Cain shouted, his voice close. “By the words of our Savior in Christ Jesus, get behind us, Satan!”

There was a familiar hissing, from pain at her friends’ words, shouted in spirit and conviction. I’M ALREADY BEHIND HER, FOOL! YOU THINK IT MATTERS WHICH DIRECTION.

“They’re coming!” Jan cried, her voice high with fear. “I saw them! In the camera, from every direction!”

Her words hit Kaycee with a realization. The radio wasn’t broken. There’d been no need for Kendall to check the battery, no need for them to…

“A time to tear down and a time to build!” Kendall shouted out. He was drowned out by Cain’s sorrowful cry. He fell to his knees, a few feet from Kaycee. She couldn’t look directly, but she saw the enemy on his back, hideous as ever. 

REMEMBER ME?

They all remembered. Five years or fifty couldn’t erase the memory of that battle. Caine would always bear the scars and they would bear the loss of a friend, his soul lost to hell. Kaycee’s breathe still left her in horror at the thought of Van.

A TRUE DISCPLE WOULD’VE SAVED HIM.

Tears in her eyes added to Kaycee’s confusion. She clutched her hands, shaking with fear… wait, what was she clutching? Kaycee looked down; wood? Like a wave, hope surged through her and she gathered the strength to scream. “There’s a cross here! Get to the cross- in the name of the Father, come to the cross!”

Her words were sent out like a shockwave, repelling the demons back. There was several clinging and leering from the dry brush and cracked cacti. Kaycee’s sight cleared, pulling herself up as the others joined her. At their feet laid a cross, fourteen feet in height, furrowed in dust of many weeks. Forgotten, unattended, and uprooted. It needed to be replanted!

“Cain, take that end.” Kendall ordered, leaping over the stem. “Jan, you and Kaycee dig a hole!”

Jan was grabbing Kaycee’s wrist then to a spot at the base of the cross. The dirt proved soft enough and they dove in with both hands. The voices kept on in their taunts and tearings, causing Kendall to stumble when he and Cain started lifting the cross. Cain huffed. “C’mon man! All things are possible through Him who gives us strength! Let me see that strength, brother!”

Kendall re-gripped the cross, where Jesus’ left hand would’ve bled out. “I… God…”

“Faith as small as a mustard seed.” Kaycee cried out over a wind that was growing again. “And what? Kendall, WHAT!?”

Kendall strained, eyes to the glinting sun. “Say to this mountain, move…” he rose to his feet, grunting with the weight. “And it will!”

“Praisie Abba Father.” Jan choked in awe and dust. It was getting so they couldn’t see. But not from the dust; the sun! It was burning bright… not hot, just bright. The demons were shrieking now, their own terror turned on them as Cain and Kendall pushed the cross higher and higher. Kaycee and Jan dug for all they were worth, bouncing Scriptures from one mouth to the other like a Gospel tag team. 

“Put it in.” Jan ordered. Kaycee faltered. “It’s not deep enough.”

“Do notdoubt the power of God.” Jan responded fiercely. “It’ll stay. He’ll make sure of it.”

IT’LL FALL… JUST LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO.

“No!” Kaycee grabbed the foot of the cross and guided it to the hole. Splinters snagged into her palms, but she only worried about pushing the dirt back and packing the beam in tight. Still the wind blew and the sunlight increased ten-fold. Kaycee felt the weight across her back; but it didn’t burn. She risked a squint above, where the cross loomed straight. She breathed out. “Finished. It’s finished, Lord.”

Jan’s hand squeezed hers as Cain and Kendall knelt beside them, surrendered around the cross. Arms around each other and heads bowed low, they waited. The heat grew immense, cutting off all the whispers and shrieks.

Then, it was still. It was quiet.

It was peaceful.

Kaycee opened her eyes, looking up cautiously with the others. Cain’s forehead rested on the cross. Jan took her breath in great gulps to keep from hyperventilating. Kendall’s arms loosened from around her to look behind them. Kaycee gave another line of prayer before copying him. There was nothing but the desert. God’s desert, reclaimed!

“Jan.” Caine got their attention on Jan’s face, pale and exhausted. Kaycee was certain they all looked like that. Jan eased her hand into Caine’s eyes hardened in determination. “I’m okay.”

“We all are.” Kaycee swallowed, her heart falling back into her chest. “Praise God.”

THE END

Tax Season

"I am come that they might have life and that they might have it more abundantly."

~ John 10:10~

               "Tax season!" Mary Jo had announced in November... six months before taxes were due. Three months before the onslaught of forms would start dogging their mailboxes. But it was a good thing she did since the window of free tax aide had shrunk. That, and Cody's new job would effect what weekend they could gather together. 

                 Many a groans are uttered, burying the human race throughout the sentence of 'tax season'. Mary Jo, however, didn't utter a foul word or complaint. Her opportunist mind had been the first to suggest the crazy tradition, between her and her best friend, Beth. They had been post-grads at the time, scrapping nickels and dimes from their first jobs. And as far as either of them were concerned, there was no difference between W-2s and hieroglyphics. Thank goodness for tax aide! But how to look forward to it, much less keep track of all the 1040s and 1099s?
               "You think too much." Beth moaned to Mary Jo, the morning person of the duo. To which Mary Jo had just smirked in her sleepy face. "That's how I come up with all the good ideas."
               As far as Mary Jo's ideas went, she could've come up with worse. In the dawn of the month of February, they started camping out in the basement of a local church, where the free aide was offered every year. Their first year was spent like any greenhorn- ill-prepared and a four-hour wait, with shoeboxes as their tax folders. The three subsequent years seasoned them to where they were prepping for it like one might a hike into the Rockies. Food, drink, games, knitting needles and yarn, magazines, and eventually, a first name basis with the AARP volunteers. The turn over in faces didn't have any faze on that part.
               Then the girls were met with true love; Cody and Nathan. Not on the same day or in the same place; not even in the same state! But it ended in rings for Beth and Mary Jo, and an unexpected commrodery for the boys. Ninety minutes of freeway eventually separated the couples, but that didn't mean much to two female friends. They found reasons to see each other, sound or not. But February... February took special precedence. Maybe because it revolved around finding joy in the mundane.
              So Mary Jo announced it and it was planned out as usual. Tax Dy was always a Saturday, but the joy would begin Friday night with Mary Jo and Cody welcoming Beth and Nathan into their home. Pizza or Japanese cuisine was ordered and the first of any movie trilogy was already playing as the foursome gabbed over pepperoni or soy noodles. They'd stay up later then necessary, but that was all part of the feel, pushing them back to the all-nighters of college. Watch alarms set for 7:10am, Nathan would manage to get the rest of the slugs out fo bed for coffee. The caffeine was the only way to jumpstart Beth's body from the couch, much less into the car and down the church stairs to the basement. Any steps in between, it was often Mary Jo's job to encourage her friend. Not hard for someone who started every day at 5:30!
               Arriving at the church was the easy part. It was the sign-in and subsequent wait that made the presence of friends so essential for successful taxes. Otherwise, it all went to bonk. The shortest wait Beth and Mary Jo ever had was still over 90 minutes... but then, that seemed to be half of the fun. Armed with their coffee, breakfast bars, and any game from solitaire to Scrabble, the four friends sat, played, and talked. They remained the spectacle, even after their names were called. And neither couple realized it, but people walked away and into their own homes, carrying questions with them.
               Why such a fuss for a grueling task as taxes? What was the purpose, their intention for making such a bother? A likely answer would be found in the oblivious glance Mary Jo and Beth often gave one another. Followed by a shrug and a 'Why not?'

THE END

A Stage Apart

           He was a hypocrite for being here. But he had already gone so far as to make the drive. Even so, after grumbling and refusing the money for Erin’s registration, he now found himself $35 poorer for purchasing a measly day ticket to be here. And after telling her that she would need to get the money for this conference on her own. I feel pretty low… did that lowness drive me here, or something else?

            He didn’t know where Erin had gotten the full amount in just over three months before the conference. She was sixteen, she baby-sat when she didn’t have tests to study for, and her college fund had been off limits. He’d been surprised when she hadn’t fought him on that. Rather; ”Ok, Dad. Those are your rules. I’ll pray for the money in another way.”

            Her phrasing of that sentence had appeared off, but her demeanor much more so. Erin had been a tantrum child since she had discovered a will of her own. Arguing and biting for her way or her say. He was proud of this, of sorts. Though lately, he had been watching it fade away. Except for the fire in her eyes; it was there still, and it burned bright. Erin had bluish-gray eyes that he swore could turn red like tempered stone with she got going. Maybe that had contributed to how she had gotten the money.

            No sense in prolonging it any farther. He got out of the car, glared up into the sun, and starting walking up the sidewalk. He clicked the lock mechanism and the car beeped behind him. It sounded lonely, though there was no shortage of cars in the lot. Had they paid $35 to be here as well? Or had they been here for the entire week? That would cost them, for sure.

            He needed to be honest though. There were worse expenses then this teenage retreat that Erin had been so persistent about. Cars and college, to name the obvious few. More so, it was the nature of the retreat that had him worried. It was a nationwide event for grace brethren churches. And, apparently, Erin had been attending youth services at the one in their hometown for a while now. To be frank, it beat wildly against the agnostic views he was quick to uphold in his house.

            “Are you asking me not to go Dad, or are you telling me?” Erin had asked him when he’d first learned of her interest in going. What could he say? He believed that the world, being made of people and nothing more, would teach his children the good and the bad of it. This would instill in them firm, realistic perceptions of others and themselves. 

            He heard the music while still two dorms back from the field house. These events, he was finding, were held on college campuses that were abandoned for the summer. The tall building shock waved the vibrations of sound out beyond the walls, muffled and yet not. He cringed, never a huge fan of loud music. It was hardly a parent thing; he just wanted to keep his eardrums intact. He trotted closer in the sticky July humidity, only to find little relief inside. He was met with a multi-colored crowd of backs, all pressed in toward the massive black and silver stage that spanned the far end of the indoor track.

            Every chain will break as broken hearts declare His praise.

            Noise emitted from this stage in the same shock waves he had heard outside. It pounded the walls, slammed the roof, wanting out. Lights of red, purple, blue and green swiped the rows of ecstatic kids. They circled overhead and blinded him every five seconds. He was keeping to the edge of this conjoined mass, but could still smell the close-knit heat and hype of collected youth. As he moved closer to the stage, he saw them growing tighter and deeper with every inch.

            Who can stop the Lord Almighty.

            Their voices were singing along as the chorus hit. A wave of the same words, front to back. Their energy was undeniable. Adults, sitting or standing on the sidelines, held smiled of equal energy on their faces. It had him wondering… what did Erin look like in this madness? What had they enticed to her, to get her running with them?

            “We live this life because there’s nothing else to it.” He had said so many times. “Any hopes and dreams you have are only born out of solid work.”

            He pictured the additional lecture he was gearing for her. Hard work and rational decisions. Not blind faith, Erin. Faith starts with an ‘f’ because it’s folly. There may not be a point, but what’s the point in screwing up what you have?

            In that moment, he glimpsed onto the stage. He was almost to the front now, to the far left of the lead singer. Amplifiers blocked the corners and the space for the band swam with the rapid sweeps of the lights. And, there behind the lead singer, he saw Erin playing her bass guitar.

            The God who comes to save is here to set the captives free.

            Her feet pounded with the chords that she was throwing her entire arms into. In the glimmers of light passing over her, he caught the sweat on her skin, beneath her shirt, and matting her hair to her neck. There was a smile on his lips before he could help it. He had gotten her that guitar, watched her practice with it week upon a week. That’s what she needs to be believing in! Hard work, commitment, independence…

            “Our God is the Lion,” the crowd proclaimed, the music reaching a moment of stillness. “The Lion of Judah!”

            He was startled then when Erin’s hands stopped strumming. Her head dropped, chin to chest, right hand raised in the air. Stretching, searching… for what?

            He’s roaring in power and fighting our battles.

            Erin’s head stayed down, swaying and hidden in her sweaty, clumped hair. She almost looked dead. He banished the thought, then wondered if she was, in fact, dehydrated. 

            “And every knee will bow before Him!” the crowd went on singing.

            In her own exclamation, Erin’s head thrust up, joining her hand in its reach. The lights had calmed their flailing, bringing some focus to her face. He was shocked to find that it wasn’t just sweat covering her cheeks, but tears shining over them. Erin’s cheeks were red with them, her eyes closed, and lips moving.

            “The Lamb who was slain…” so the song continued, the music picking back up. Erin hesitated, staying as she was. Like she didn’t want to break from her stance.

            He stared at this portrait of his child. She looked so… exposed… fragile. Yet, unashamed. There were volumes there he couldn’t name and this frightened him. He often complimented himself on being a parent who knew his children. Matched them in openness, honesty… but this. He had never seen Erin like this. Another breathless moment, and she lowered her hand. Flawless on the wires, she jumped back into the song. But the previous image was sticking to him now. Her hand, her tears, her face…

            Was that his daughter now?

            Or was she someone else’s?

            He had barely recognized the one on stage.

            “And every knee will bow before the Lion and the Lamb.”

THE END

Now

         Ordinary Human. It was a hit single of the American pop rock group known as OneRepublic. An intertwining of bass, percussions, keyboard, and layer after layer of vocals echoing through it. Sybille was echoing it through her mind, while she was still in shadow. The song was a techno-wizard's playground... and it was the classical student's blasphemy. Or those were the mixed metaphors that Sybille had often heard in class.

          One heard many things in class, especially in the ones at such a prestigious school as hers; the Dansforum Performing Arts School of Goteborg, Sweden. It spoke in tones that no other school could dream of. Sybille had heard them from her first steps through the front doors. She heard and, as always, she had listened.

          The tones were nothing if not powerful. They pitched and rolled, like the tremendous waves of the arctic waters. The kind that broke icebergs. Like icy tentacles, the waves would hurl themselves forth and draw the ice deep, deep beneath the blue and into the black of the ocean. It was where they could share their secrets in safety. Then, when all was said, they rushed the ice back to the surface, back into the common world. Thrusting them through to lay there, floating, agape in their new understandings.

          That was how Sybille heard it. The sound bites, the lectures, the advise... push, rush, drag, thrust, and again! Sometimes the rhythms were loud, others softer... yet they always came in a roar. Through her ringlets of honey-blonde hair, the waves crowded into her ears, pressing in until they had wrapped themselves tight around her brain. It was a feeling, so dangerous in its beauty... but then, the music would play. And like a shockwave, would push the storm back. Reducing it to a mountain lake; just as cold, only like that of a spring rain. Just as deep and blue, and full of secrets...

          Sybille was so deep into her metaphor, she was completely lost as to where she was. Still in shadow, but why? What had brought her into the shadow? A person, the gender escaped her, nearly ran her over in their haste to make it deeper into the right wing of the stage.

          The stage of course! And... why was she here again? Half of her days, the reason never mattered. Breakfast was at eight. English, history, and math until noon. Then there was a break, usually for homework. Then, at one'o'clock, the music could begin. The storm would calm to the laps of the mountain lake on Sybille's pale toes. She would be glad to return there, once she began her piece. That was the purpose of the stage... for music.

          "Sybille." Justina's voice popped up and Sybille looked up at the face that was bending to smile at her. "Your turn. You'll do great."

          Gentle words, spoken through a harsh sweat. The students were performing sets tonight. Dancer, musician, dancer, musician. Justina had been the dancer. She had also been Sybille's friend since her first day at Dansforum. She meant what she said.

          "The bright lights." Sybille whispered. "They'll wash me out, wash me away."

          "Then you play as loud as you can." Justina told her. "For everyone to hear and no one to deny."

          Both girls started at the headmaster's announcement; Froken Sybille Moreau, age eleven, on the violin. Theviolin. The 1963 Wurlitzer. Sybille had first held it when she was four. She hadn't been parted from it since; her grandfather wouldn't allow it.

          "It is not an instrument for her." he had beamed to many over the years. "It is the means to converse, to cry out. Without it, she has no voice."

          Sybille needed to take that voice on the stage now. Grand-pere would be waiting to hear it. Mama and Papa as well, but they would not hear. They never had; it was Grand-pere's money that sent her to this school. His letters and phone calls that sent her love, encouragement, comfort... the lights slammed Sybille in the face, telling her it was time to put it all away. It was time for the music; it would say plenty. It was a better speaker then Sybille was... then she could hope to be.

          Sybille counted with the click of her heels. She reached the mark of green tape at the center of the stage and turned, facing the lights. She shut her eyes then. She felt her height, dwarfed beneath the steeped ceiling. She was in the depths, her and the violin. They had been under since first entering Dansforum, until it was time to break above the sea-green foam. 

Their conversation could start. They hadn't talked since rehearsal, but she had changed the dialect once again. Converting 'Ordinary Human' had not been easy... a challenge, a journey. Insanity, to her professors. But it was her piece, the speech that Sybille had earned the rights to say.

          More metaphors. Sybille thought with the square of her shoulders. Time to put those away too.

          No more camouflage. She couldn't lie or hide the meanings when using the violin. She could only tell the truth. Like the Bible. And the violin, her conviction.

          Sybille opened her lips. Breathed. Arm raised, chin to chilled wood, the violin breathed with her. It opened with its long, horse-hair sigh. Sybille breathed again, easier. I can't apologize for something that wasn't my fault.

          The violin proved eager, but Sybille reined the notes in, checking them through the introductory bars. She wanted to pull the audience in close, close enough to hear her. Then Sybille entered the first verse. Every note leapt when she released it, reaching beyond the massive floodlights. Mama... Papa. This is all I have to give you. But I know you want more.

          She broke the bow away and held it in the air. I know that you wish she was here. I do too.

          Sybille slammed the bow back to the strings, running through the first and second chords. 'Ordinary Human' was a slow song, but that didn't change the intensity with which she played. Or stop the sway of her body. The violin needed to move, in order to speak more clearly. There were problems with the pregnancy. Mama, I can't help that. Only one could survive; it was me.

          The violin screamed now, strong and proud. Out of the depths climbed the notes, bringing their secrets with them. Such beautiful secrets! Some glorious, some disheartening... yet always beautiful. Because they were truth, whether accepted or not.

          I'm sorry that every look at me makes you think of her. Sybille's heart cried out, stripped bare with every strum, hair to wire. But, God chose me. To live! He chose my sister for Heaven. So, maybe, there was no death. 

           Her arms moved without being told. Sybille's body spelled out every measure, up the second chorus, down through the bridge. This is life, Papa! I am alive, and telling people how I live. Will they hear me? Will you? Just because you don't want to see it, doesn't mean it stops happening.

          An ordinary human... but not so ordinary today. These were the lyrics that struck Sybille every time she had run through the song. So much Haydn, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Shaubert... now, Ryan Tedder. Oh, the look on her professor's face when she had announced it! Perhaps it's not classical, but it is music. The only message that will allow me to speak.

          And was she ever speaking tonight! She had brought the violin to its squall, breaching the crest of the song, and prepared to bare its final naked wave. The mountain lake had found its way down, breaking free over the chilling drop of a waterfall.

          I'll fall silent after this. Sybille warned her parents, the audience, in the outré of her melody. But, if you were listening, I won't have to say anything else.

'In the morning Lord, you hear my voice;

in the morning I lay my requests before you 

and wait expectantly.'

~Psalm 5:3~

The Passage, The Piece

It was that time of year... when we should've had the blizzard we're experiencing now! But I digress and revel in the fluffy, crystal snowbanks with a post I forgot I had written.

It's that time of year; where the ornaments are hung on the tree (after the lights have been wrestled out of their devil knots!), the cookies are on the counter waiting to be frosted, and the stacks of cards are organized into the 'friends' and 'family' piles.

Christmas fills us with anticipation, but also an eye-roll inducing aggravation. And yes, I say that as a Christian. We revisit Luke 2, as we do each December. Jesus' birth is also chronicled in Matthew, and foretold throughout the Old Testament, but it's that chapter of Luke that's the infamous Christmas chapter.

Many know its words inside and out, from 'In those days Caesar...' to 'And there were in the fields, shepherds...'. 

So, how do we keep its impact from fading when the words become so familiar and expected that our motivation to read it suffers? This is the ultimate challenge that our pastors face, when standing in front of fifty or five hundred expectant worshipers awaiting the two thousand year old story in a new light. Course, ever think that its light doesn't need to be made new?

'For God, who said, "Let light shine out of darkness," 

made his light shine 

in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of 

God's glory displayed in the face of Christ.'

~2 Corinthians 4:6~

Jesus' birth story is part of what we have to celebrate as Christians. Just as God didn't have to create us, He didn't have to create a way for us to spend eternity with Him. He could've been a Supreme Being who was content to enjoy us for a while, then move on to His other toys. And He certainly wasn't under any obligation to use His own son to end our separation! And yet, He did. He did all of it, despite our rejection and empty worship... and it became real the moment Jesus Christ began growing in Mary's stomach.

Realizing- knowing- this, staring in awe at the significance of Christmas and the Christ child, doesn't it make you want to read Luke 2 and memorize every word?

When

He had not visited Goteborg for some time now. His last opportunity had been for a story over the country’s political climate of 1998.  The haughty politics aside, it had good people, good food; enough to make him think of sticking around. But he never had. And perhaps he never would have shown up again if not for the brochure that he had received. Dansforum Performing Arts School in Goteborg, Sweden was celebrating its new term showcase. A brand new generation of free spirits to grace the stages and the director had wanted him to see. Too late had he learned why. Curse that Uma; why had he listened?

Then again, how couldn't you? He questioned himself, mulling over the list of the school's rising stars. No, not the entire list; just on a name; Justina Caughlin. She was an American, born and raised in Washington D.C.; a fifteen-year-old prodigy come to study under the Swiss Alps rather then the Washington Monument. His glossy tri-fold read that she disciplined her body in ballet and contemporary dance. Her favorite dance however, was the rhumba. Justina's other hobbies included swimming, reading historical fiction, and photo-bombing -- every chance that she got!

         This was the paragraph endorsed by the school to sum Justina up. It was her introduction, or rather the audience's shortcoming of what to expect. So it was with every student. Their dancing was to do the rest and bring the loudspeaker up to their soul. Allow their soul to cry out, be it in passion, devotion, conviction, or melancholy.

          Which will you show me? He thought with a run of a trembling hand through his dark hair. He hadn't even bothered to cut it for the occasion. Too late though; the announcer was calling for Froken Caughlin to the stage. Applause, applause... he didn't join in with them. He was fixated on the short, raven-haired girl stepping lightly out of the left wing. She was slender, but her frame was toned into one of a dancer. There could be no doubt. It spoke of a highly disciplined mind for one still in their youth. What had he been doing at fifteen? He couldn't even decide on journalism as his major until his junior year of college.

          It's from her mother. He thought simply. 

          She was so pale. Almost luminous under the stage lighting. Maybe it was because of the damp grays and rose reds of her leotard and skirt. But then, where did the glow come from? Justina braced herself in the center of the stage. Held her pose, waiting for quiet. To him, it wouldn't come quick enough. Shut up, shut up! I need to see this!

          Claps ceased, their echo fading a second later. Justina inhaled, raising deep-set eyes to the audience. Her arms spread out to them... to him, it seemed! She invited him, beckoned, encouraged... join me!

            Music crept in and Justina's movements began. Slowly at first, then gaining speed and mounting in agility. He watched, heart frozen in wonder. She brought life to every chord of the orchestra with her body. He watched and caught every fluid movement. Sure and steady, swift and confident... yet they spoke of fears and of doubts. 

No wait… Those were his own!

They rushed his ears along with the mighty music, made so by Justina's dance. They tugged on his heart instantly, as clutching and cruel as the day that he had first discovered Justina's existence. She hadn't been born then, but even so, her presence had proven powerful. How could he ensure that he wouldn't fail her in life? What advice could he give her, what support could he offer? For her and her mother? 

And where did that leave him? Would his lifestyle disappear, ceasing to matter as it was faced with these two others? What would've changed? That had been the driving stake through his heart, the single grain of rice... his Waterloo, his Jericho...

          But, you changed all the same.  His conscience said without pity. It watched Justina in silence with him, refusing to split hairs with the truth. 

          The music leapt its tempo. Justina defied its height. It stretched and she broke past its limits. Cold sweat broke out over his palms. The fears, they had been cowardice; the doubts, selfishness. He was a journalist, a feeler, a people person- to people in over thirty countries around the world- and he knew art when he saw it.

          Art. He stated in stunned sensation. Brought to me in the form of my daughter. 

         But he was not a father. He had chosen his way, his forum, his reaping... and now? Now he could understand what the Bible meant by 'flesh of flesh' and 'bone of bone'. Justina's dark hair and eyes were his. The pale skin, her mother's. Had she been this way at her birth, at her first Christmas or for her eighth birthday? Had she ever been in need of a warmer coat, a smiling teddy bear, or an extra kiss? Was there a time she could have had that sense of protection, or assurance, or love... had he robbed her of these things!?  

          Why can't I breath? He stepped back, steading himself. It was only a dance, but he was sensing how well Justina's mother had done. Justina's movements spoke openly of a gracious heart, an upbeat opinion of the world around her. A strand of hope strung her sequence together and trailed behind her, lingering for the audience to ponder upon.

          Protect what is yours. He would advise her on her talent. If he could... couldn't he though?

          NO! The old fear was back. The doubts with them. They shadowed his steps to the exit doors at the back of the hall. They had nothing new to say to him, yet they had not grown old. Justina's music was rushing again, running, flying off the stage to catch his ear once more before the doors could give their cold snap. But why would it think that it was strong enough to lure him back?

THE END

'Be very careful then, how you live- not as unwise but as wise, 

making the most of every opportunity because the days are evil.'

~Ephesians 5:15-16~

With What's Ahead

'The wicked have set a snare for me, but I have not strayed from your precepts. 

Your statutes are my heritage forever; they are the joy of my heart. 

My heart is set on keeping your decrees to the very end.' 

~Psalm 119:110-112~

Heritage can be applied to property or something other then that is passed down to the preceding generations. This word pulls its roots from the French and Latin dialects of the 1620s, which translate to 'condition or state transmitted from the ancestors'. Other words associated with heritage are legacy or tradition.

The worldly context to see this in is through the children you have, or any of your extended friends and family. Anyone that carries a piece of the influence you've lent to their lives. Generally, anything linked to the past being carried into the future, long after you've died. God backs this up generously:

'Children are a heritage from the Lord, 

offspring a reward from him.

Like arrows in the hand of a warrior 

are the children born in one's youth.'

~Psalm 127:3-4~

But as I've contemplated my resolutions and goals for this bright new year, I find myself looking back more and more. Heritage is, after all, the standard to which most people hold themselves to as they move forward. This is where I come from, this is the stock I'm cut from, this is what I was born for... (insert superhero pose here!)

That heritage however, is only as strong as the person holding it. Think on those that you don't have to ask what they believe. It's because of the way they live their beliefs through every minute of every day. They're not just living out their faith, but their heritage. It takes awhile to sink in (maybe even an entire lifetime), but when you ask God into your heart, you inherit an eternity of love.

You carry the authentic legacy of God (the Bible) and put it in your children's hands- to put into their children's hands and so on.

You talk about your ancestors (Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) to everyone you meet and encourage them with your traditions of mimicking God's compassion and confidence in this life.

And upon your body's death, you become the bended knee and the singing tongue, alongside countless nations of your brothers and sisters (Revelation 7:9).

I don't know what more to ask for in an inheritance; especially when it's one I cannot earn. But I do know that as I carry it into this new year, I can do so with pride and boldness. Fueled by hope in my heritage in Christ Jesus!