Fact: Since returning home from college late Thursday, March 3, I have
- Used a large piece of power equipment, utilizing its rapidly rotating plastic blades to cut down thousands of organic growths.
- Learned about Christians in Chile, Colombia, Cuba, and Brazil, including information about their countries' history, customs, foods, and governments.
- Eaten hormigas. For those of you who have not tried them, they have a texture like popcorn and a flavor like roasted salted peanuts.
- Stepped barefoot into a casserole dish which had marshmallow spread in the bottom.
- Won several important battles with the help of Tristan and his band of warriors known as the Shining Force.
- Eaten four restaurant-prepared meals.
- Eaten no Chartwell's-prepared meals.
- Eaten several little-sister-prepared meals.
- Eaten several self-prepared meals.
- Finished a book I have been reading for more than half a year.
- Begun a translation of William William's Theomemphus, which begins with a fascinating biography detailing his part in the Great Awakening, and includes lots of Welsh words like ' ' and ' '.
- Written on my blog.
- Forced cotton fabric to realign by pumping water onto it and applying pressure with a superheated piece of iron.
- Forced wooden stakes into the ground by pounding on them with a piece of heavy metal.
- Dug out a 120-or-so square foot section of my back yard to a depth of about 3.5 inches. Might I add that I live in Georgia, thus ensuring that I was digging into Georgia red clay.
- Chipped concrete. Granted, I could have done this at college if I had signed up for that particular Practical Service, but it is still exciting, and something I did not do at college.
- Watched TV, just for fun, in the middle of the week.
- Watched on in a mixture of horror and anticipation as our fridge/freezer and stand alone freezer broke at the same time. We had to eat everything. Everything included a lot of ice cream.
- Sold shoes. If you don't think that's cool, think again.
- Teased my little sister.
- Gotten a blister on my thumb.
- Written pieces of stories, and pages of outlines for the second book in the Sol War story arc that I thought up, oh, four years ago.
- Discovered David Webber's book, Off Armageddon Reef, which is quite enjoyable, though slightly annoying due to its similarities to the Sol War story arc.
- Gone to the library without any idea that I was going to run into a bona fide member of the Imperial 501st stormtrooper legion, and myriad other Star Wars oddities collected for the thirtieth anniversary of the theatrical release of Episode IV.
- Most recently, I have acquired a rocket launcher.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Timothy and the Grenobles, Part III
Dear Readers,
It is finished. However, due to the wise advice of my dear younger sister, I have split it into two more episodes, only one of which you will find below. I hope that this will allow you to read and digest it bitesize, and not be so bored (at least not all at one sitting), as you might have been had I published it all at once.
The Grenobles caught each other's hands and twirled together; the glade was filled with a singing wind that once again tossed Lisa's hair up over her head, and showered her with leaves.
"Timothy!" she called loudly, half to test the strength of the wind's song. It drowned her out completely, even though it did not overwhelm her ears. The Grenobles broke their grasp and danced past her, careening, gusts of wind laughing for them. One cart wheeled from the land into the trunk, and down the stairs out of sight. The other leapt on top of the trunk, straddling it, with legs splayed so wide that Lisa gasped, lest it slip and fall down the center of the stairs.
"Come home," it whispered from all around her in the wind.
"That is not my home," she said back, and though her voice was drowned out, it seemed to hear her, for it replied.
"It is your way home."
Lisa did not consider too long, for the sun was blotted out by clouds, and a wall of rain drummed in from the forest toward her, soaking Timothy's moss-covered tree and making the brook leap up from its place as it approached. She stepped into the tree-trunk, ducking beneath the Grenoble's legs, and down until only her head was above the trunk. The water danced and rippled just beneath her eyes; the wind swept her hair about still, but her dress was not touched by rain or wind.
The Grenoble snapped its legs together, grabbed the side of the trunk with one arm, and swung down to stand on a step above her. Lisa turned and climbed down the steps to bring her head out of the wind and rain. Holding onto the twisting, bark-covered rail that ran along the inner wall of the trunk, she leaned over the center, and saw many soft lights, the other Grenoble descending gracefully, and Timothy just in front of it, now leaping with both legs drawn up at the knees, from one step to the next.
"We are coming home," sighed the Grenoble behind her in its normal voice.
"Excuse me," said Lisa, not wishing to offend it by changing the subject when it was discussing something so important to it, "Timothy!"
He turned, leaning back against the wall of the trunk, still making humming sounds to accompany his descent.
"Don't get too far ahead, and listen to the Grenoble. You're in its house. Should we take off our shoes? They are wet," she said, turning back to the Grenoble beside her.
"Yes," it said, and, turning back to sit down and take her shoes off, Lisa saw Timothy and the Grenoble ahead of her going into a hole in the wall of the trunk, from which the first of the glowing lights seem to be emerging. Coming to the hole, which was actually a giant knothole-door, Lisa bent over and entered the room within. It would not have been large in her own house, but the glowing light, that came from a vein of sap running down the wall, put shadows in the corners, and in such a small house, with such small people, the room seemed very large indeed. Leaning against one wall was a stove, which the first Grenoble opened and tossed in glowing crystals of sap, licking its fingers with a thin tongue that was deep red striped with brown tree-rings, like the wood on Lisa's old dresser drawers. The stove glowed bright in a moment, and warmth poured in, for the tree was cool and moist inside. The other Grenoble, meanwhile, had approached a stand on another wall, and pulled down four pairs of slippers, covered with a light tan bark that curled and peeled up, and filled with soft, spongy moss. Then they all sat down on a bench along the center wall, took off their shoes.
"Funny feets!" chortled Timothy approvingly, and he leapt down, shoes half off, to examine the Grenobles' feet.
"Feet," muttered Lisa, leaning back and struggling to pull her shoes off.
The Grenobles' calves were smooth and a little green, under moss stockings. As they took these off they wiggled stubby, knotty toes, each toe having a young bud atop it for a nail, and each of their four feet having a different number of toes. Timothy sat down on the floor, pulled off his shoes, and tossed them back over his shoulder. Then he did the same with his socks. He leaned back, holding himself up on his arms, and wiggled his own toes in the air to compare them with the Grenobles.
After this, they all slipped on their slippers, picked up their shoes and socks (Timothy only after Lisa told him to twice) and put them on the now-empty shelf before continuing down the stairs.
Timothy tried walking down sideways, looking up to grin and laugh at the Grenoble above him, but after he saw too many glares from Lisa competing with the Grenoble's quiet, mouthless smile, he turned and hurried on. Timothy and the first Grenoble passed the next door without even looking in, but Lisa caught a glimpse of bookshelves as she passed, and stopped with a sigh.
"Timothy, wait!" she called, and stuck her head through the door for a better look. Through sap-filled cracks in the wall streamed in the light and warmth of a summer day, but outside of the beams was the cool of late fall. A rocking chair and a couch of velvet pillows, one deep brown, the other deep green, sat in the room, and within the walls were curving bookshelves and hundreds of books. The Grenoble came in behind her, picked up pipe, book, and reading glasses from a stand, lit the pipe, sat down in the rocking chair, and opened the book with a modest creak. A sweet aroma like maple syrup filled the room with the pipe's thin smoke, and Lisa forgot Timothy and began circling the room, head sideways, looking not for a good book, for they were all good, but for the best book for that day.
Finally, she settled on a book about an afternoon spent by a group of dear friends on a grand estate, and fell slowly into the couch's palm, watching the dust rise to be caught in the shafts of light. The Grenoble sucked on its pipe, and turned to eye her over its reading glasses. She could not help but laugh at those beautiful and strange eyes staring at her over the oak frames.
"What are you reading?" she asked to cover her laughter.
"The latest volume upon the pine style of dance. It is quite modern; I am not sure if I and my brother will ever learn it, but it is fascinating. See," it said, turning the book to show a diagram that looked like a piece of Timothy's pencil scribblings, only marked with numbers in a good hand, "the tributary gusts are used to surround the wells, and gradually lift them. There's some thought as to popping them and showering down the forest carpet; quite tricky, you don't know," it chuckled.
"Oh," said Lisa, and hid behind her own book, which was much more suited to her tastes.
It is finished. However, due to the wise advice of my dear younger sister, I have split it into two more episodes, only one of which you will find below. I hope that this will allow you to read and digest it bitesize, and not be so bored (at least not all at one sitting), as you might have been had I published it all at once.
The Grenobles caught each other's hands and twirled together; the glade was filled with a singing wind that once again tossed Lisa's hair up over her head, and showered her with leaves.
"Timothy!" she called loudly, half to test the strength of the wind's song. It drowned her out completely, even though it did not overwhelm her ears. The Grenobles broke their grasp and danced past her, careening, gusts of wind laughing for them. One cart wheeled from the land into the trunk, and down the stairs out of sight. The other leapt on top of the trunk, straddling it, with legs splayed so wide that Lisa gasped, lest it slip and fall down the center of the stairs.
"Come home," it whispered from all around her in the wind.
"That is not my home," she said back, and though her voice was drowned out, it seemed to hear her, for it replied.
"It is your way home."
Lisa did not consider too long, for the sun was blotted out by clouds, and a wall of rain drummed in from the forest toward her, soaking Timothy's moss-covered tree and making the brook leap up from its place as it approached. She stepped into the tree-trunk, ducking beneath the Grenoble's legs, and down until only her head was above the trunk. The water danced and rippled just beneath her eyes; the wind swept her hair about still, but her dress was not touched by rain or wind.
The Grenoble snapped its legs together, grabbed the side of the trunk with one arm, and swung down to stand on a step above her. Lisa turned and climbed down the steps to bring her head out of the wind and rain. Holding onto the twisting, bark-covered rail that ran along the inner wall of the trunk, she leaned over the center, and saw many soft lights, the other Grenoble descending gracefully, and Timothy just in front of it, now leaping with both legs drawn up at the knees, from one step to the next.
"We are coming home," sighed the Grenoble behind her in its normal voice.
"Excuse me," said Lisa, not wishing to offend it by changing the subject when it was discussing something so important to it, "Timothy!"
He turned, leaning back against the wall of the trunk, still making humming sounds to accompany his descent.
"Don't get too far ahead, and listen to the Grenoble. You're in its house. Should we take off our shoes? They are wet," she said, turning back to the Grenoble beside her.
"Yes," it said, and, turning back to sit down and take her shoes off, Lisa saw Timothy and the Grenoble ahead of her going into a hole in the wall of the trunk, from which the first of the glowing lights seem to be emerging. Coming to the hole, which was actually a giant knothole-door, Lisa bent over and entered the room within. It would not have been large in her own house, but the glowing light, that came from a vein of sap running down the wall, put shadows in the corners, and in such a small house, with such small people, the room seemed very large indeed. Leaning against one wall was a stove, which the first Grenoble opened and tossed in glowing crystals of sap, licking its fingers with a thin tongue that was deep red striped with brown tree-rings, like the wood on Lisa's old dresser drawers. The stove glowed bright in a moment, and warmth poured in, for the tree was cool and moist inside. The other Grenoble, meanwhile, had approached a stand on another wall, and pulled down four pairs of slippers, covered with a light tan bark that curled and peeled up, and filled with soft, spongy moss. Then they all sat down on a bench along the center wall, took off their shoes.
"Funny feets!" chortled Timothy approvingly, and he leapt down, shoes half off, to examine the Grenobles' feet.
"Feet," muttered Lisa, leaning back and struggling to pull her shoes off.
The Grenobles' calves were smooth and a little green, under moss stockings. As they took these off they wiggled stubby, knotty toes, each toe having a young bud atop it for a nail, and each of their four feet having a different number of toes. Timothy sat down on the floor, pulled off his shoes, and tossed them back over his shoulder. Then he did the same with his socks. He leaned back, holding himself up on his arms, and wiggled his own toes in the air to compare them with the Grenobles.
After this, they all slipped on their slippers, picked up their shoes and socks (Timothy only after Lisa told him to twice) and put them on the now-empty shelf before continuing down the stairs.
Timothy tried walking down sideways, looking up to grin and laugh at the Grenoble above him, but after he saw too many glares from Lisa competing with the Grenoble's quiet, mouthless smile, he turned and hurried on. Timothy and the first Grenoble passed the next door without even looking in, but Lisa caught a glimpse of bookshelves as she passed, and stopped with a sigh.
"Timothy, wait!" she called, and stuck her head through the door for a better look. Through sap-filled cracks in the wall streamed in the light and warmth of a summer day, but outside of the beams was the cool of late fall. A rocking chair and a couch of velvet pillows, one deep brown, the other deep green, sat in the room, and within the walls were curving bookshelves and hundreds of books. The Grenoble came in behind her, picked up pipe, book, and reading glasses from a stand, lit the pipe, sat down in the rocking chair, and opened the book with a modest creak. A sweet aroma like maple syrup filled the room with the pipe's thin smoke, and Lisa forgot Timothy and began circling the room, head sideways, looking not for a good book, for they were all good, but for the best book for that day.
Finally, she settled on a book about an afternoon spent by a group of dear friends on a grand estate, and fell slowly into the couch's palm, watching the dust rise to be caught in the shafts of light. The Grenoble sucked on its pipe, and turned to eye her over its reading glasses. She could not help but laugh at those beautiful and strange eyes staring at her over the oak frames.
"What are you reading?" she asked to cover her laughter.
"The latest volume upon the pine style of dance. It is quite modern; I am not sure if I and my brother will ever learn it, but it is fascinating. See," it said, turning the book to show a diagram that looked like a piece of Timothy's pencil scribblings, only marked with numbers in a good hand, "the tributary gusts are used to surround the wells, and gradually lift them. There's some thought as to popping them and showering down the forest carpet; quite tricky, you don't know," it chuckled.
"Oh," said Lisa, and hid behind her own book, which was much more suited to her tastes.
Monday, May 07, 2007
The Prayers of Benjamin Dobbs
Benjamin Dobbs thought he had asked for a great blessing. He had not really expected to receive an answer. For he had become quite cynical with God lately, and as he prayed that evening (head bowed in his hands) he waxed eloquent in anger and frustration.
God was not being reasonable.
It seemed that if poor sinful wretch-of-a-man Benjamin could think of these good things and ask them, then God should jolly well be good enough to do them. So great was his annoyance at God ignoring his helpful suggestions that he had come away from his prayers the night before with a feeling that crossed the line from consternated lack of understanding to disgust. Yes, he was disgusted with God. What good was an all-powerful being if he lacked the will or the desire to do good?
"Am I better than you?"
"My God!" he shook his head in disbelief, the motion turning his arms and shoulders as well.
"How can it be that I could do better? Will You not listen? I come in the name of Christ; is He not good enough? I ask for You to save human beings -- made in Your image -- from burning in Hell for all eternity. You save a few but why not more? I'm asking You for more, God! Could it be that I would do better than You?"
Something poked him in the back of the head and he leapt to his feet, the prayer forgotten as he turned this way and that to look for his assailant. But there was no one behind the damp wooden bench on which he had been reclining. Only a paper airplane lay on the concrete pad behind it. Benjamin looked up at the windows of Maclellan Hall suspiciously, but there was neither laughter nor movement in any that he could see. Most everyone had their windows shut. Benjamin stepped around the bench and picked up the folded sheet -- the plane was of notebook paper, and was already loosing its crispness to the misty cloud that wisped about. With a last glance in the first story windows that satisfied him that none of those lounging in the lobbies were in the least interested in teasing him, Benjamin sat back down and unfolded the paper, listening all the while, the muscles on his neck tense, for some sound to alert him to a repeat offense from the windows behind.
Benjamin sat for a long time looking at the paper, and I would not have been surprised if a question mark had appeared floating over his head. Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder. Then, disconcerted and chilled, not just by the biting wind, he went back inside, and to bed.
"Good morning," murmured Benjamin's roommate, setting his tray down with a slight clatter.
"Morning Graybeard!" replied the other as he sipped his water, staring out through the windows into the fog. The cloud had settled in overnight, and Benjamin couldn't tell for the life of him if the rest of the campus even existed outside the windows. He noticed Graybeard noticing that he was daydreaming, and shifted uncomfortably.
"What's before you today?" he asked, to avoid any questions about what he was thinking.
"Well," Graybeard pressed on the center of his glasses with one finger, and began wrapping up bacon in a pancake. "I have a philosophy test in about twenty minutes which I am not looking forward to."
"Oh, that's right. How late were you up studying?"
"The sad thing is I've forgotten. Past two for sure."
"Uuugh."
"Yes. I don't know what I'll do about my paper. It's due tonight; I haven't begun it, and with not enough sleep tonight and the two nights before, I'll have to sleep this afternoon. I may ask for an extension, but I doubt he'll give me one.
"I'm sorry, man."
"Yes...what do you have?"
"Oh, nothing much. Certainly nothing to compare to what you have going on. I need to catch up on Calculus homework for this afternoon, though."
"Test?"
"Next week, but I'm pretty far behind studying."
"Busy with that Literature paper?"
"Yes -- hello Almsy! -- but it's done now. I finished it yesterday afternoon. I want to talk to you about what I wrote it on sometime when you're not busy, whenever that will be."
They both laughed.
"What about you, Almsy?" asked Graybeard.
"Oh, the usual. Enough work to kill a wild boar, you know."
"Kill and roast a wild boar," muttered Benjamin. Then he saw the time. "I've got to run. See you guys, and I'll...I'll be praying for you."
"Thanks bro!"
"Thank you, Benjamin; have a good day."
As Benjamin walked out of the Great Hall he knew he could wait no longer. Why not pray? He was supposed to pray about everything. And if it were somehow, somehow true, he had plenty of work to do!
Dear God, Please help Graybeard and Almsy to do well on their work. I pray that you would help Graybeard to work hard...to get a good grade on his philosophy test, and to stay awake this afternoon and be awake enough to finish his paper.
Nothing particularly unusual happened. He could not see the sun as he left the Great Hall. He could barely see three feet in front of him. But excitement beat hard in his chest. He wondered, and it hurt to wonder so hard.
Thankfully, his first class was interesting and he was sleepy, so he forgot and remembered, forgot and remembered, at the same time as his head sank and rose, sank and rose, until he focused all his powers on the class, and forgot his prayers completely.
He did not remember again until Graybeard burst in at two that afternoon, and dropped his book bag onto the floor.
"Hello Graybeard."
"I (hello) have had quite an interesting morning. I'm not sure about my test, but I think I did well. It surprised me that I knew it so well though, so I think I may have been completely wrong on some parts and just thought I knew it. But I am certainly wide awake. I didn't even drink any caffeine at lunch. I had better shut myself in at the computer until the paper is done, before I collapse."
"Wow. Well, I'm glad it went allright and you're more awake. I'll try not to distract you too much.
"Thank you."
Benjamin got another half of a Calculus problem wrong, and then went outside. He paced behind Mac for a few seconds, then looked up at the sky, hands on his hips. The words were at the front of his mind, squeezing together as they tried to burst out. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn't be a fool.
Biting his lip he looked down at the ground, his heart burning. He loved them all so much. It was not wrong to pray. And whatever God willed would come. It was not up to him. Or was it?
"...you will be allowed complete access to the will of God..."
he shivered. He did not want to be fooled into not praying. No, when did he ever pray perfectly? Even if there was pride and self-reliance, he would ask in Christ's name. He had to pray.
So he did. He prayed simply at first, for people who were tired, down, depressed, overloaded, people he saw around the campus. But he could not keep them out (or in), and in a few moments they burst into his prayer. They were friends who were not believers, or who he was not sure were believers, and those who he thought were Christians, but were struggling so much to make it through each day. Before he knew it he was standing in front of one of the concrete supports, head leaning on it, knuckles brushing against it as he swung his hands at his sides, his thoughts and prayers moving from one to the next. He wondered if it were love or selfishness, whether he wanted them to love and live for God so that he would be happier, or so that they would be safe, or so that God would be glorified. With several his feelings bit hard into his heart, so that he clenched his teeth and wept. When he was done he praised God, asked for his glory in the world, and prayed, "In Christ's name, Amen," before going back inside and rushing to Calculus.
Benjamin decided at dinner that he had not been truly afraid for quite some time. He cautiously asked the first friend he saw whom he had prayed for, how he was doing. He was doing well, he said; quite well, in fact. Actually...the friend paused, looking down,
"God's really been dealing with me this afternoon. He's helped me to see things a lot better. And I just heard that the whole situation that was getting me down, you know, the one I didn't want to talk about? I've gotten good news about it, so I'm happy," he smiled.
Benjamin didn't remember what he said in reply. He was happy too, as he sat down at his table and listened to the gang chattering away, but also a little dazed. Then another friend sat down at the table. She was too far away for him to talk to, so he waited, listening, until in her conversation with another friend he caught the words he was beginning to expect he would hear.
"Life...good...God...helping...grades...professor said it was all right...I'm optimistic...trusting the Lord..."
A phrase floated in front of his mind, and before he swatted it down disdainfully it whispered itself to him.
"The prayers of Benjamin Dobbs availeth much."
He could not study that evening. He waited. He had not yet had any contact with the unbelievers or the backsliders he knew. He was used to wishing he could know how they were; used to thinking he was the center of the universe, and that unless he knew about their relationship with God, it must not exist. But this was overwhelming. In this, a more aggressive and gruesome form of his sin, he could see nothing to tolerate, as he sometimes could the milder case, as simply being his care for others. This obsession he fought, and fought, and fought. Two hours passed, and all he did was make small talk with his hall mates, pace, read his Bible, pray a little in short, desperate prayers for peace.
Graybeard gave him several updates. His paper was going quite well; in fact, it was almost done, and it was still three hours until it would be due. Another friend ducked in to proclaim that he had finished his lab early and was going to go catch up on his devotions. Benjamin almost giggled. He had prayed for those things specifically.
Benjamin prayed soberly in his bed that night, for his family, for his church at home, and for a few of his closer friends. Then, as he lingered between sleeping and waking, he dreamed of what it would be like if all those he had prayed for came to know and serve God. He fell asleep smiling, and his face was wet with tears.
It had rained again in the night, but the fog was beginning to clear when Benjamin got up the next morning. He typically did not check his email until after his morning classes, but this morning was different. At least Benjamin hoped it would be. He argued with himself that even if God had answered his prayers it might be a while until he heard from his friends, especially the ones back home. But even as he promoted the sensibility of not checking his emails until a time when other people might have been awake for long enough to actually write him, he checked them anyway. There was the announcement of the next chapel speaker, who had a very dry-sounding topic. Benjamin prayed that the speaker would come in with Christ foremost on his mind, and that he would explain his topic and its relationship Christian living clearly. There was an email from a professor about an upcoming test. Benjamin prayed for all the students to do well, and then tossed in a prayer for their general health as well. Then there was an online newslink from home. He read it, since he had a few extra minutes before he needed to eat breakfast.
Apparently, there had been a massive Earthquake in Central America. It was expected that thousands had died, and even more had been displaced. Benjamin eagerly prayed for the people of the region, and then logged onto Facebook. He had one new message. It was from a dear friend back home.
The first line was confusing, a general greeting and something about wanting to let him know because it was so amazing...
Benjamin stopped jiggling his foot and rotating back and forth in the computer chair. He didn't notice it, but he was holding his breath as he pored over the rest of the message. Another friend, not a close one at all, but one of those who didn't even profess to be a Christian had apparently been born again; was exuberant about Christ, rushing around telling everyone; it was totally strange to see him so exited about Christianity, wrote Benjamin's friend, when before he hadn't cared a whit...Benjamin closed his eyes, suddenly fully awake and full of energy. He wrote a message back, thanking the friend for letting him know, and went to breakfast, praising God.
At breakfast, his friends were eager to discuss their spiritual lives. Taken-aback, Benjamin found himself wanting to jump into the conversation and just be quiet and listen at the same time. He had prayed that their conversation would be more worthwhile.
That afternoon he pulled his red-backed journal out of the second drawer of his chest, "My Prayer Journal" it said on the cover, and flipped past more than a decade of brief updates on his life, the very first in his parents' hands because he had been too young to write them himself. Finding the end of the last entry, he put the date at the top, transcribed the message from the paper airplane, and began writing down all the answered prayers. Every friend he ran into had changed, just as he had prayed they would. He was indescribably happy. The only thing that bothered him was that he wanted to tell his friends, and he knew that they would think he was insane. He could show them the note, of course, but what would that prove? They already knew how silly he was, now they would think he was insanely arrogant and looking for attention and glory. This was only made worse because he knew that, at least to some degree, he was.
He was just about finished when he remembered the Earthquake, and wrote down his prayer for protection and comfort. As he considered the event a rush of thoughts wafted through his mind. He had better start paying attention to the news. With his new power, it was his responsibility, no matter how terribly prideful it sounded to say it, to keep track of what was going on in the world so he could pray.
He spent two hours in the computer lab reading the Drudge Report ©; and he found plenty to pray about. A few wars, a genocide, several famines, a depression, two revolutions, multiple instances of persecution, and a forest fire all vied for his attention, and he sent them all on up to God to fix them. The sheer breadth of what he was praying for amazed him.
He smacked himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Aids!" he gasped, and spent the next few minutes praying against that epidemic.
Then he saw an article about the Earthquake he had prayed for that morning. There had been a second Earthquake. Many more had died, including relief workers, and even a pastor who had been comforting the survivors. Fires had broken out.
Benjamin was displeased, and a little bit panicked. He had, after all, not prayed against the occurrence of another Earthquake, but he was a bit miffed at God for getting around his prayer. He had prayed that the people would be comforted and rebuild well. Now he prayed specifically that the disasters would end within the next twenty-four hours, and that no one else would die, and that the relief workers would be effective. Satisfied that he had made himself crystal clear to God, he went to dinner.
His cell phone rang as he was trying to catch up on his homework that evening and wondering if it was ethical to pray that he would do well on a test he hadn't even studied for. It was a friend from back home; one who had been struggling. Benjamin could barely hide the fact that he was not at all surprised the friend had just gone through a season of serious conviction and repentance and was now doing much better. Thankfully, despite expecting it beforehand, he was still quite happy for his friend, and he allowed that emotion to take the forefront and hide what would probably have been confusing, and perhaps offensive to his friend -- the fact that Benjamin was the one who had started things rolling. Obviously, God had done the work, thought Benjamin to himself as the conversation continued, and God had even been the one to delegate the authority to him, but he, Benjamin Dobbs, had prayed down the blessing all the same.
He put his phone on its charger when he finished his conversation, but then took it off again and put it in the pocket of his pajamas. He wanted to be available as soon as anyone else wanted to call.
"A friend from home?" asked Graybeard from where he sat at his desk behind Benjamin.
"Yep. I'm so exited...he's doing great. Better than I've ever known him to be, actually." He felt the pang of loneliness. He wanted to tell Graybeard everything.
"That's wonderful. You know, that seems to be true of a lot of people up here. I don't know if it's just that a lot of my friends have come to an easy part of the semester or what. It seems to be as much in their spiritual lives as in academics."
"Yes. I've noticed it too," said Benjamin, hoping he wouldn't say anything dishonest.
"Really? Well, it's certainly encouraging. Sometimes I expect everything to be horrible, at least until Heaven. It's nice to know God has good things planned for this life."
"Yes," said Benjamin, and he was glad Graybeard could not see the broad grin that took over his face.
Benjamin leapt from the top bunk, took a step towards his chest, tripped over his backpack and fell flat on his face in the middle of the dark room. Something glowed in front of his face. Surprised, he jerked his head back from the carpet, to find that a sheet of notebook paper lay glowing on the floor in front of him. Hurling insults at himself for not thinking to pray that he would wake up rested and non-delusional in the morning, he clambered to his feet, his knees now just as numb as the arm he had been lying on, and used his remaining good limb to turn off the alarm that was rapidly escalating. In the relative quiet that followed he could hear the construction workers beginning their day of building the new dorm room outside his window. The glowing sheet of paper was still on the floor. He leaned over a picked it up, mmphing as the blood rushed into, and back out of his head. There were letters in thick black ink on the page:
Of all the nerve, he heard himself think. A third Earthquake had struck. He looked up other news. The wars had not ended. The famine continued. God was being nitpicky, and if Benjamin had been indignant when God didn't answer his small prayers before, he was livid when God failed to answer his big ones now.
But he was not a complete fool. He pulled his anger under control. No matter if God decided to delegate his authority to him, God was still God and he was still just Benjamin Dobbs. "I'm sorry Lord," he whispered.
The door to the computer lab opened, and in walked Nathanael Booth. "Good morning, sir," he entoned to Benjamin, as he checked over the printer, "finishing a paper?"
"No, reading the news." The loneliness struck again, and this time he saw a way to share his struggle without being explicit. "I'm a bit sad this morning Nathanael. I prayed about those Earthquakes, you know?"
"Yes, I've heard a bit about them."
"Well, there's been another. It's discouraging when God doesn't answer your prayers."
"Indeed it is," replied his friend thoughtfully, eying him. "Of course," Nathanael loaded a new ream of paper into the printer, "we can't really expect precisely what we pray for to be best. He knows what he's doing. If we were in charge of everything we'd probably botch it all up. Well, I've got to go see about Mills. Cheerio!" He tipped his hat and sauntered from the room, putting on his leather gloves, leaving Benjamin to roll his eyes and sigh. That had not helped.
He turned back to the computer. He was responsible for these people. They needed him to pray for them. So he prayed.
Lord, please help each of these individuals through this hard time. Help them to know you better. Comfort them by your Word. Send people to preach to those who don't know you, and to encourage those who do.
When he finished the prayer he felt much better. It seemed that all might be well again. He headed for breakfast.
Someone had postered the campus for a birthday. He paused, confused, as he passed the first poster in Mac lobby. His picture was on it. But it wasn't his birthday for another three months. In fact, the poster didn't even say happy birthday.
Dear Benjamin, it read under the picture. He stared at it, shivered, and walked quickly out the door into the cold morning. There was another poster on one of the front supports.
Your prayers are still too general.
He walked even faster. There was another, on a bench. He wondered who else was reading these.
You are still not praying for individuals.
He tore the page off the bench. The paper ripped straight through his picture. He hurried on. There were at least half a dozen more posters lining his path in front of Founders and Mills. By the time he made it into Carter Lobby, past the girl vacuuming the floor, he had a handful of torn posters clenched in his hands. He dropped down into a sofa and squeezed his eyes shut hard, the message running through his head.
He did not notice the sun rising, carving swaths of dusty light through the lobby.
"I can't be responsible for praying for everyone. Lord, you know all their names. You can take care of them all. You know every bad thing that's about to happen. I can only pray after they've already come. Father, maybe it would be better if you decided how best to answer my prayers, because you know better than me."
God was not being reasonable.
It seemed that if poor sinful wretch-of-a-man Benjamin could think of these good things and ask them, then God should jolly well be good enough to do them. So great was his annoyance at God ignoring his helpful suggestions that he had come away from his prayers the night before with a feeling that crossed the line from consternated lack of understanding to disgust. Yes, he was disgusted with God. What good was an all-powerful being if he lacked the will or the desire to do good?
"Am I better than you?"
"My God!" he shook his head in disbelief, the motion turning his arms and shoulders as well.
"How can it be that I could do better? Will You not listen? I come in the name of Christ; is He not good enough? I ask for You to save human beings -- made in Your image -- from burning in Hell for all eternity. You save a few but why not more? I'm asking You for more, God! Could it be that I would do better than You?"
Something poked him in the back of the head and he leapt to his feet, the prayer forgotten as he turned this way and that to look for his assailant. But there was no one behind the damp wooden bench on which he had been reclining. Only a paper airplane lay on the concrete pad behind it. Benjamin looked up at the windows of Maclellan Hall suspiciously, but there was neither laughter nor movement in any that he could see. Most everyone had their windows shut. Benjamin stepped around the bench and picked up the folded sheet -- the plane was of notebook paper, and was already loosing its crispness to the misty cloud that wisped about. With a last glance in the first story windows that satisfied him that none of those lounging in the lobbies were in the least interested in teasing him, Benjamin sat back down and unfolded the paper, listening all the while, the muscles on his neck tense, for some sound to alert him to a repeat offense from the windows behind.
Dear Benjamin,-- These words were written in thick black ink in the middle of the sheet.
After considering your request it has been decreed that you will be allowed complete access to and sway over the will of God. Your prayers will be answered.
Love
Benjamin sat for a long time looking at the paper, and I would not have been surprised if a question mark had appeared floating over his head. Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder. Then, disconcerted and chilled, not just by the biting wind, he went back inside, and to bed.
"Good morning," murmured Benjamin's roommate, setting his tray down with a slight clatter.
"Morning Graybeard!" replied the other as he sipped his water, staring out through the windows into the fog. The cloud had settled in overnight, and Benjamin couldn't tell for the life of him if the rest of the campus even existed outside the windows. He noticed Graybeard noticing that he was daydreaming, and shifted uncomfortably.
"What's before you today?" he asked, to avoid any questions about what he was thinking.
"Well," Graybeard pressed on the center of his glasses with one finger, and began wrapping up bacon in a pancake. "I have a philosophy test in about twenty minutes which I am not looking forward to."
"Oh, that's right. How late were you up studying?"
"The sad thing is I've forgotten. Past two for sure."
"Uuugh."
"Yes. I don't know what I'll do about my paper. It's due tonight; I haven't begun it, and with not enough sleep tonight and the two nights before, I'll have to sleep this afternoon. I may ask for an extension, but I doubt he'll give me one.
"I'm sorry, man."
"Yes...what do you have?"
"Oh, nothing much. Certainly nothing to compare to what you have going on. I need to catch up on Calculus homework for this afternoon, though."
"Test?"
"Next week, but I'm pretty far behind studying."
"Busy with that Literature paper?"
"Yes -- hello Almsy! -- but it's done now. I finished it yesterday afternoon. I want to talk to you about what I wrote it on sometime when you're not busy, whenever that will be."
They both laughed.
"What about you, Almsy?" asked Graybeard.
"Oh, the usual. Enough work to kill a wild boar, you know."
"Kill and roast a wild boar," muttered Benjamin. Then he saw the time. "I've got to run. See you guys, and I'll...I'll be praying for you."
"Thanks bro!"
"Thank you, Benjamin; have a good day."
As Benjamin walked out of the Great Hall he knew he could wait no longer. Why not pray? He was supposed to pray about everything. And if it were somehow, somehow true, he had plenty of work to do!
Dear God, Please help Graybeard and Almsy to do well on their work. I pray that you would help Graybeard to work hard...to get a good grade on his philosophy test, and to stay awake this afternoon and be awake enough to finish his paper.
Nothing particularly unusual happened. He could not see the sun as he left the Great Hall. He could barely see three feet in front of him. But excitement beat hard in his chest. He wondered, and it hurt to wonder so hard.
Thankfully, his first class was interesting and he was sleepy, so he forgot and remembered, forgot and remembered, at the same time as his head sank and rose, sank and rose, until he focused all his powers on the class, and forgot his prayers completely.
He did not remember again until Graybeard burst in at two that afternoon, and dropped his book bag onto the floor.
"Hello Graybeard."
"I (hello) have had quite an interesting morning. I'm not sure about my test, but I think I did well. It surprised me that I knew it so well though, so I think I may have been completely wrong on some parts and just thought I knew it. But I am certainly wide awake. I didn't even drink any caffeine at lunch. I had better shut myself in at the computer until the paper is done, before I collapse."
"Wow. Well, I'm glad it went allright and you're more awake. I'll try not to distract you too much.
"Thank you."
Benjamin got another half of a Calculus problem wrong, and then went outside. He paced behind Mac for a few seconds, then looked up at the sky, hands on his hips. The words were at the front of his mind, squeezing together as they tried to burst out. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn't be a fool.
Biting his lip he looked down at the ground, his heart burning. He loved them all so much. It was not wrong to pray. And whatever God willed would come. It was not up to him. Or was it?
"...you will be allowed complete access to the will of God..."
he shivered. He did not want to be fooled into not praying. No, when did he ever pray perfectly? Even if there was pride and self-reliance, he would ask in Christ's name. He had to pray.
So he did. He prayed simply at first, for people who were tired, down, depressed, overloaded, people he saw around the campus. But he could not keep them out (or in), and in a few moments they burst into his prayer. They were friends who were not believers, or who he was not sure were believers, and those who he thought were Christians, but were struggling so much to make it through each day. Before he knew it he was standing in front of one of the concrete supports, head leaning on it, knuckles brushing against it as he swung his hands at his sides, his thoughts and prayers moving from one to the next. He wondered if it were love or selfishness, whether he wanted them to love and live for God so that he would be happier, or so that they would be safe, or so that God would be glorified. With several his feelings bit hard into his heart, so that he clenched his teeth and wept. When he was done he praised God, asked for his glory in the world, and prayed, "In Christ's name, Amen," before going back inside and rushing to Calculus.
Benjamin decided at dinner that he had not been truly afraid for quite some time. He cautiously asked the first friend he saw whom he had prayed for, how he was doing. He was doing well, he said; quite well, in fact. Actually...the friend paused, looking down,
"God's really been dealing with me this afternoon. He's helped me to see things a lot better. And I just heard that the whole situation that was getting me down, you know, the one I didn't want to talk about? I've gotten good news about it, so I'm happy," he smiled.
Benjamin didn't remember what he said in reply. He was happy too, as he sat down at his table and listened to the gang chattering away, but also a little dazed. Then another friend sat down at the table. She was too far away for him to talk to, so he waited, listening, until in her conversation with another friend he caught the words he was beginning to expect he would hear.
"Life...good...God...helping...grades...professor said it was all right...I'm optimistic...trusting the Lord..."
A phrase floated in front of his mind, and before he swatted it down disdainfully it whispered itself to him.
"The prayers of Benjamin Dobbs availeth much."
He could not study that evening. He waited. He had not yet had any contact with the unbelievers or the backsliders he knew. He was used to wishing he could know how they were; used to thinking he was the center of the universe, and that unless he knew about their relationship with God, it must not exist. But this was overwhelming. In this, a more aggressive and gruesome form of his sin, he could see nothing to tolerate, as he sometimes could the milder case, as simply being his care for others. This obsession he fought, and fought, and fought. Two hours passed, and all he did was make small talk with his hall mates, pace, read his Bible, pray a little in short, desperate prayers for peace.
Graybeard gave him several updates. His paper was going quite well; in fact, it was almost done, and it was still three hours until it would be due. Another friend ducked in to proclaim that he had finished his lab early and was going to go catch up on his devotions. Benjamin almost giggled. He had prayed for those things specifically.
Benjamin prayed soberly in his bed that night, for his family, for his church at home, and for a few of his closer friends. Then, as he lingered between sleeping and waking, he dreamed of what it would be like if all those he had prayed for came to know and serve God. He fell asleep smiling, and his face was wet with tears.
It had rained again in the night, but the fog was beginning to clear when Benjamin got up the next morning. He typically did not check his email until after his morning classes, but this morning was different. At least Benjamin hoped it would be. He argued with himself that even if God had answered his prayers it might be a while until he heard from his friends, especially the ones back home. But even as he promoted the sensibility of not checking his emails until a time when other people might have been awake for long enough to actually write him, he checked them anyway. There was the announcement of the next chapel speaker, who had a very dry-sounding topic. Benjamin prayed that the speaker would come in with Christ foremost on his mind, and that he would explain his topic and its relationship Christian living clearly. There was an email from a professor about an upcoming test. Benjamin prayed for all the students to do well, and then tossed in a prayer for their general health as well. Then there was an online newslink from home. He read it, since he had a few extra minutes before he needed to eat breakfast.
Apparently, there had been a massive Earthquake in Central America. It was expected that thousands had died, and even more had been displaced. Benjamin eagerly prayed for the people of the region, and then logged onto Facebook. He had one new message. It was from a dear friend back home.
The first line was confusing, a general greeting and something about wanting to let him know because it was so amazing...
Benjamin stopped jiggling his foot and rotating back and forth in the computer chair. He didn't notice it, but he was holding his breath as he pored over the rest of the message. Another friend, not a close one at all, but one of those who didn't even profess to be a Christian had apparently been born again; was exuberant about Christ, rushing around telling everyone; it was totally strange to see him so exited about Christianity, wrote Benjamin's friend, when before he hadn't cared a whit...Benjamin closed his eyes, suddenly fully awake and full of energy. He wrote a message back, thanking the friend for letting him know, and went to breakfast, praising God.
At breakfast, his friends were eager to discuss their spiritual lives. Taken-aback, Benjamin found himself wanting to jump into the conversation and just be quiet and listen at the same time. He had prayed that their conversation would be more worthwhile.
That afternoon he pulled his red-backed journal out of the second drawer of his chest, "My Prayer Journal" it said on the cover, and flipped past more than a decade of brief updates on his life, the very first in his parents' hands because he had been too young to write them himself. Finding the end of the last entry, he put the date at the top, transcribed the message from the paper airplane, and began writing down all the answered prayers. Every friend he ran into had changed, just as he had prayed they would. He was indescribably happy. The only thing that bothered him was that he wanted to tell his friends, and he knew that they would think he was insane. He could show them the note, of course, but what would that prove? They already knew how silly he was, now they would think he was insanely arrogant and looking for attention and glory. This was only made worse because he knew that, at least to some degree, he was.
He was just about finished when he remembered the Earthquake, and wrote down his prayer for protection and comfort. As he considered the event a rush of thoughts wafted through his mind. He had better start paying attention to the news. With his new power, it was his responsibility, no matter how terribly prideful it sounded to say it, to keep track of what was going on in the world so he could pray.
He spent two hours in the computer lab reading the Drudge Report ©; and he found plenty to pray about. A few wars, a genocide, several famines, a depression, two revolutions, multiple instances of persecution, and a forest fire all vied for his attention, and he sent them all on up to God to fix them. The sheer breadth of what he was praying for amazed him.
He smacked himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Aids!" he gasped, and spent the next few minutes praying against that epidemic.
Then he saw an article about the Earthquake he had prayed for that morning. There had been a second Earthquake. Many more had died, including relief workers, and even a pastor who had been comforting the survivors. Fires had broken out.
Benjamin was displeased, and a little bit panicked. He had, after all, not prayed against the occurrence of another Earthquake, but he was a bit miffed at God for getting around his prayer. He had prayed that the people would be comforted and rebuild well. Now he prayed specifically that the disasters would end within the next twenty-four hours, and that no one else would die, and that the relief workers would be effective. Satisfied that he had made himself crystal clear to God, he went to dinner.
His cell phone rang as he was trying to catch up on his homework that evening and wondering if it was ethical to pray that he would do well on a test he hadn't even studied for. It was a friend from back home; one who had been struggling. Benjamin could barely hide the fact that he was not at all surprised the friend had just gone through a season of serious conviction and repentance and was now doing much better. Thankfully, despite expecting it beforehand, he was still quite happy for his friend, and he allowed that emotion to take the forefront and hide what would probably have been confusing, and perhaps offensive to his friend -- the fact that Benjamin was the one who had started things rolling. Obviously, God had done the work, thought Benjamin to himself as the conversation continued, and God had even been the one to delegate the authority to him, but he, Benjamin Dobbs, had prayed down the blessing all the same.
He put his phone on its charger when he finished his conversation, but then took it off again and put it in the pocket of his pajamas. He wanted to be available as soon as anyone else wanted to call.
"A friend from home?" asked Graybeard from where he sat at his desk behind Benjamin.
"Yep. I'm so exited...he's doing great. Better than I've ever known him to be, actually." He felt the pang of loneliness. He wanted to tell Graybeard everything.
"That's wonderful. You know, that seems to be true of a lot of people up here. I don't know if it's just that a lot of my friends have come to an easy part of the semester or what. It seems to be as much in their spiritual lives as in academics."
"Yes. I've noticed it too," said Benjamin, hoping he wouldn't say anything dishonest.
"Really? Well, it's certainly encouraging. Sometimes I expect everything to be horrible, at least until Heaven. It's nice to know God has good things planned for this life."
"Yes," said Benjamin, and he was glad Graybeard could not see the broad grin that took over his face.
Benjamin leapt from the top bunk, took a step towards his chest, tripped over his backpack and fell flat on his face in the middle of the dark room. Something glowed in front of his face. Surprised, he jerked his head back from the carpet, to find that a sheet of notebook paper lay glowing on the floor in front of him. Hurling insults at himself for not thinking to pray that he would wake up rested and non-delusional in the morning, he clambered to his feet, his knees now just as numb as the arm he had been lying on, and used his remaining good limb to turn off the alarm that was rapidly escalating. In the relative quiet that followed he could hear the construction workers beginning their day of building the new dorm room outside his window. The glowing sheet of paper was still on the floor. He leaned over a picked it up, mmphing as the blood rushed into, and back out of his head. There were letters in thick black ink on the page:
Dear Benjamin,Benjamin pondered the meaning of this for quite some time. He skipped his Bible-reading to check his email, and found another news article from home.
You have forgotten that whether I use one event to effect many, or many small events on individuals, I am always motivated by the needs of individuals. Your prayers are becoming far too general. Please pray for precisely who you would like to me to help or hurt, and I will decide on the method.
Love
Of all the nerve, he heard himself think. A third Earthquake had struck. He looked up other news. The wars had not ended. The famine continued. God was being nitpicky, and if Benjamin had been indignant when God didn't answer his small prayers before, he was livid when God failed to answer his big ones now.
But he was not a complete fool. He pulled his anger under control. No matter if God decided to delegate his authority to him, God was still God and he was still just Benjamin Dobbs. "I'm sorry Lord," he whispered.
The door to the computer lab opened, and in walked Nathanael Booth. "Good morning, sir," he entoned to Benjamin, as he checked over the printer, "finishing a paper?"
"No, reading the news." The loneliness struck again, and this time he saw a way to share his struggle without being explicit. "I'm a bit sad this morning Nathanael. I prayed about those Earthquakes, you know?"
"Yes, I've heard a bit about them."
"Well, there's been another. It's discouraging when God doesn't answer your prayers."
"Indeed it is," replied his friend thoughtfully, eying him. "Of course," Nathanael loaded a new ream of paper into the printer, "we can't really expect precisely what we pray for to be best. He knows what he's doing. If we were in charge of everything we'd probably botch it all up. Well, I've got to go see about Mills. Cheerio!" He tipped his hat and sauntered from the room, putting on his leather gloves, leaving Benjamin to roll his eyes and sigh. That had not helped.
He turned back to the computer. He was responsible for these people. They needed him to pray for them. So he prayed.
Lord, please help each of these individuals through this hard time. Help them to know you better. Comfort them by your Word. Send people to preach to those who don't know you, and to encourage those who do.
When he finished the prayer he felt much better. It seemed that all might be well again. He headed for breakfast.
Someone had postered the campus for a birthday. He paused, confused, as he passed the first poster in Mac lobby. His picture was on it. But it wasn't his birthday for another three months. In fact, the poster didn't even say happy birthday.
Dear Benjamin, it read under the picture. He stared at it, shivered, and walked quickly out the door into the cold morning. There was another poster on one of the front supports.
Your prayers are still too general.
He walked even faster. There was another, on a bench. He wondered who else was reading these.
You are still not praying for individuals.
He tore the page off the bench. The paper ripped straight through his picture. He hurried on. There were at least half a dozen more posters lining his path in front of Founders and Mills. By the time he made it into Carter Lobby, past the girl vacuuming the floor, he had a handful of torn posters clenched in his hands. He dropped down into a sofa and squeezed his eyes shut hard, the message running through his head.
...You see, dear son, you do not know their names. I care for people by name. If you are to direct my will, you must give me your requests for each of them, and I will answer. Because I work in individuals, not generalizations."God," he whispered after a while, "You know I cannot know their names. I could never, never pray for everyone and everything."
Love
He did not notice the sun rising, carving swaths of dusty light through the lobby.
"I can't be responsible for praying for everyone. Lord, you know all their names. You can take care of them all. You know every bad thing that's about to happen. I can only pray after they've already come. Father, maybe it would be better if you decided how best to answer my prayers, because you know better than me."
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Feather Knight
Dear Readers,
I post today as I rest upon my battle-stained blade. For I have just slain the third of five giants which assail this fair land. Two days hence either the last two shall lie dead upon this ground, or I shall. In the meantime I thought I should give you a bit of a scheduling update, and some low-quality poetry.
I intend to post a lot over the summer. The following projects have already come to mind, and I shall list them in order of impending writtenness.
~"The Prayers of Benjamin Dobbs": This is mostly written, an odd tale of what happens when Benjamin challenges God and God accepts.
~IMHO: A discussion of why we find it necessary to relativize what we say by prefacing it with qualifiers such as "I think" or "in my opinion." Why does it offend people when we neglect these phrases? Should it?
~"Timothy and the Grenobles, Part III": I may be aiming too high, but I would like to actually finish a story properly. I might just do it with this one. There's a bit and a piece of this written.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Case of the Flying Dutchwoman" [working title]: It's up to Mac's finest private investigators to track down the muderer of a Halcyonite. The trail will lead them down the mountain into the darkest parts of Chattanooga, and end in the middle of a deadly ring of villains.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Ring of Power" [working title]: The discovery of a magic ring by a member of The Family prompts a series of disturbing ethical questions (is magic on-contract?) and leads to a deadly stuggle for power at Covenant.
There may be others, but those are the ones I've got in my head at present.
Now, on to that poetry. Watch for the "behind the scenes" afterwards. Oh, and there's some violent death entailed in this tale. Take care.
I wrote this a few weeks back, about an hour before taking a Calculus exam, in the middle of studying. I rather suprised myself that I had that much creativity in the middle of studying, but not that I had so little meter or rhyme. I'm not really a fan of free-form poetry myself; I prefer to think of this as a choppy story. Until next time.
I post today as I rest upon my battle-stained blade. For I have just slain the third of five giants which assail this fair land. Two days hence either the last two shall lie dead upon this ground, or I shall. In the meantime I thought I should give you a bit of a scheduling update, and some low-quality poetry.
I intend to post a lot over the summer. The following projects have already come to mind, and I shall list them in order of impending writtenness.
~"The Prayers of Benjamin Dobbs": This is mostly written, an odd tale of what happens when Benjamin challenges God and God accepts.
~IMHO: A discussion of why we find it necessary to relativize what we say by prefacing it with qualifiers such as "I think" or "in my opinion." Why does it offend people when we neglect these phrases? Should it?
~"Timothy and the Grenobles, Part III": I may be aiming too high, but I would like to actually finish a story properly. I might just do it with this one. There's a bit and a piece of this written.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Case of the Flying Dutchwoman" [working title]: It's up to Mac's finest private investigators to track down the muderer of a Halcyonite. The trail will lead them down the mountain into the darkest parts of Chattanooga, and end in the middle of a deadly ring of villains.
~"Benjamin Dobbs and the Ring of Power" [working title]: The discovery of a magic ring by a member of The Family prompts a series of disturbing ethical questions (is magic on-contract?) and leads to a deadly stuggle for power at Covenant.
There may be others, but those are the ones I've got in my head at present.
Now, on to that poetry. Watch for the "behind the scenes" afterwards. Oh, and there's some violent death entailed in this tale. Take care.
The knight waited
Crest feather flapping in the breeze
Gauntlet, buckle, emblem still.
A roaming sailing light, afloat
On hilltop heather
For but a moment sailed ore his
Breastplate, laughing as it played upon
His emblem and made the feather glow.
It had not left him when he let
His lance fall
Forward to couch back beneath his breast,
Tip angled up but a little
Probing the air, thick, steady.
Metal gauntlet on wooden staff holding
Let not even the knight's heart throb it.
His helm followed the lance - tilt
A greeting between knights - the feather bobbed.
Steed, enchanted, uttered not a sound,
Till with a jab of silver heels
The armored beast burst up, forward, down,
And down the hill they sped.
Another sailing light between the clouds
Marked the meeting of the two men
At the lowest point, beneath two hills,
Each descending to condescend to send
The other to his end.
Two steel heads alight with noonday fire all their own,
Bowed to each other as they passed, then
Leapt up, long wood necks straining
Each to cross armored finish-line first.
Each horse-head rippling, damp, bespangled
Lit in the light and strained forward again.
Into the light came two crests,
One feather, shadows falling
From the helms of obscured bright
Eyes - lies of lives that did not know
Their worth, their dearth to soon
Upon them.
One lance upon its mark
Could not cross it,
Clattered, shattered on the shoulder plate,
Concussion thrilling, excitement failing
As the truth of death came close,
Scored the knight as the lance had scored his coat.
His own shaft through tattered
Garment ran and ran and caught
The feathered knight through breastplaste,
Heart, and lung.
And the young man was flung down,
Lance - like tree rising from his breast.
His beast stumbled and ran on;
His breath pitched headlong
One great gasp!
Amazed, perhaps, or agonized;
Yet could it be satisfied? Done its
Work of keeping life,
Done its work of endless strife:
Ever going, ever returning.
Now it fled, blue skies yearning,
Following up the hill the vessel
Of light.
The knight rested
Crest feather flapping in the breeze.
I wrote this a few weeks back, about an hour before taking a Calculus exam, in the middle of studying. I rather suprised myself that I had that much creativity in the middle of studying, but not that I had so little meter or rhyme. I'm not really a fan of free-form poetry myself; I prefer to think of this as a choppy story. Until next time.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Breakfast and Everything Block: An Adventure of Benjamin Dobbs
Writer's block. No, everything block. It was something like drowning in opaque water. Not that Benjamin had ever tried that before, but still, he thought it was a good analogy.
It had all started with...
That was about how it went, over and over again.
Calestranov stood from the table with a start...
"Blue wing, break and engage!"...
It was a bright, blue-streaked sky that greeted the three as they emerged. On Polaris 2 it was morning. The beauty of the place was only matched by the cold. Even within their suits they would have frozen in a matter of seconds. Only the addition of heating...
He sighed. There was definitely not going to be any productive writing this evening.
Swords flashed for but a moment in the sunset; Cashalin was not one to toy with an enemy...
Well, at least not much writing that connected with anything else.
He had tried homework earlier. Physics had gotten him through Wednesday. Or, physics and all the things he got distracted by while he tried to finish his lab writeups. Now he was at a standstill on them. Linear Algebra had looked like way too much brainwork. He had talked to an answering machine. His parents were in Texas on vacation. There was very little left to do but try to write, and he had wanted to be able to for so long.
An update? No, he was not in the mood. It would be dry and boring, and some of the stories he could not bear to see written like that. They had been so funny at the time.
Like breakfast last Thursday. Everyone at the table had been tired. That was not at all unusual. The conversation had not been too memorable (at least he didn't remember a word of it). The table broke up around 7:55, and everyone headed for their classes. Benjamin accompanied Efad towards Sanderson, wondering at what point he should leave her to head back to his room. He was skipping class that day, but had gotten up to study, and Sanderson was on the way back to his room. He had a well formulated five-second-or-less explanation for bolting from the Sanderson doors (as if anyone needed one...) which he hoped would suffice to communicate a reason for his absence. Most of the time he wouldn't have doubted his ability to get his point across, but somehow pre-seven breakfasts with sleepy people led to a lot of dull stares and "Hmmm?"s
But he was the confused one when Efad said something and peeled off to the right, back towards Founders, just fifteen feet short of Sanderson. Benjamin, pre-occupied saying something about...something, and dodging the dripping water from the corner of a roof, spun about, brow creased.
"What are you doing!?" he asked.
"Going back to sleep," replied his walking companion.
He paused for a moment, and dredged up what she had said as she turned away. Something along the lines of "I don't have class."
Oh.
"Well, I'm skipping!" he announced, and they parted ways.
Yes, thought Benjamin, tapping a pencil on the desk, that had been hilarious -- each of them walking to Sanderson to keep the other company.
Gregory turned to me, blade in his hand, gasping for breath.
"We'll need a safe place to hide, and quickly. But first we'll need supplies and our weapons. Back to their camp, swift and silent, for the other soldiers will abandon it to find out the cause of that racket," he jerked his head towards where we could hear our pursuers shouting and crying out as they rushed through the sewers.
He couldn't wait until he had enough imaginative energy, and time, to finish that one. It was one of his favorites.
He began to wonder why he never finished any of his stories. And no, he scolded, killing all the characters does not count as finishing. Perhaps it was because he had never seen a whole story before. After all, he lived in the big, grand, story arc that God was bringing about, and it had not yet reached its happy everafter. He hadn't lived to see anyone both born and die, not anyone close to him, at least. And he himself was quite young. Anyway, he would not get to be better writer by dying...well, not a better righter here on this Earth. Perhaps God would be pleased to have him write on the New Earth. That would be...oh, wow...indescribable. But he probably had a lot longer to live, and he had better figure out how to end stories. After all, people might judge a book by its cover when they first see it, but when they actually read it, the last page would do a lot to determine whether they like it or not. He didn't like books that got worse near the end, or just jerked from one point or setting or group of characters or goal or quest...to another.
The determinist smiled quietly.
"You do not understand," he whispered, "but that is not a problem..."
"Because you do?" cried Calente.
"No. I do not understand what is, either. But I can tell you exactly what what did, does, and will do. And, my dear boy, you are part of what."
A sly, mocking grin split Asren's face, "Did you predict this?" she asked, straightening up from where she had been slumped against the wall. Her hand flicked from her pouch, and a clear glass marble flew across the room, its clean blue light out of place amid the dark, brown and black dirt of the hold and the travelers' clothes. A rumble sounded through the room as the head of the determinist's staff blazed with ethereal fire. The marble turned into a spherical pool of ripples, emanating outwards, until with a great sigh that echoed through the walls and corridors of the transport, and made Calente think of sweet sleep after a day of frustration, the ripples froze and the sphere dropped to the floor, shattering with a soft tinkle into thousands of shards, each so light that they bounced nearly to the ceiling, and got into the folds of everyone's clothes.
"Yes," replied the Determinist, still smiling, "I expected you would use a weaker marble, but there was a fifteen percent chance it would be that one."
Yes, Benjamin couldn't stand books that changed their points or goals midway. That was why he didn't like having writer's block. If he didn't even like his own writing, when he knew without thinking exactly what everything and everyone looked and sounded like, why should anyone else like it?
Perhaps he ought to make another go at homework...
He had been doing well that semester. Day-long study periods, even over, no, especially over Easter break, had helped him stay on top of all the projects and tests. Perhaps the breakdown had started with the random poetry about the knight that he wrote during the last hour's cramming for a Calculus exam. He'd have to type that up later, but right now, he didn't have room in his notebook. He'd even gotten some fun work the weekend before -- clearing trails behind the visitor's center. Somehow, demolishing a forest to make it look nicer made him feel all warm and fuzzy. Maybe it was that he got to cut down trees with saw tooth knives. Now that he thought about it, he was almost sure that was why. Then he had gotten to sit in the lobby, eating icecream and pretending to work for Covenant's radio station, and listen to the Bakertree festival performers. After that had been a somewhat disgruntling walk through pouring rain back to Mac, but that had been all right as well. Still, it wasn't home. And later that afternoon he had had to plow through Linear Algebra homework.
And Tuesday hadn't been so bad. His mother had called at breakfast, to ask what he was wearing. That got the table laughing of course, until he explained that she wanted to know so his family could tell who he was when he walked past the webcam on the way to class (then they laughed harder). Dear Old Chap was there; he and Benjamin had kept each other company through deep conversations about the responsibility of the church to the community, the new 18 waffle record at the Anderson's Sunday night waffles get-together, and how they were going to build their space station, all over the weekend. Now, they formulated a most-excellent plan to surprise Benjamin's family. Arriving beneath the webcam, Dear Old Chap placed himself beneath Benjamin and lifted him to his shoulders. Everyone was most pleased, torque puns were made, pictures taken, and along with Benjamin were lifted several moods. The funny thing was his family couldn't figure out who he was anyway. When he informed them why his position should have made him obvious, they simply replied, "oh, you must have been the really tall one!" In their defense, the morning sun was lighting the background, and obscuring the shadowy foreground. They could not be blamed, and fun was had by all, at least until they had to go to class.
Now the semester was almost over. He was sure he would have plenty to do that summer, but it wouldn't be as busy as school. There would be variety to his work, as well, and time at home with his family and his dear friends. Good sleep, time to write! Benjamin sighed wistfully.
"Jonathan? Are you all right?" Martus leaned forward, wishing for the thousandth time that he didn't have the flat black of the suit's mask between him and everyone he cared about. It made it hard to sneeze, too.
Jonathan did not move. Instead, he stared harder and harder off over the plain. They were only a few feet from the edge of the cliff, the mesa spread out before them, clusters of trees and animals, insects buzzing, some happy and some eerie calls echoing up from the jungle. There were a few lights from nearby ranch houses, and the stars above were thick and bright. Martus shivered a little, not used to the drastic change in temperature. His suit-skin shivered with him. Jonathan was not shivering. His pulse was steady, his internal temperature still fearfully low, his core glowing slightly through Martus' infrared eyes.
Martus glanced back over his shoulder towards the city. She loomed up, Angelus BrasÃlia indeed, lighting the darkness like a pillar of fire, ships slipping up and down through her roof like sparks dancing in a chimney.
"They'll be closing the doors soon, and then we'll have to get through the little airlocks. It will be crowded."
He counted to twenty, stamping his feet a little, sensing the grass remotely, and enjoying the feeling even as his patience waned. Poor Jonathan.
"Jonathan, can we go back?"
"Forgive me," replied the other.
Five minutes later Martus was sitting, cross-legged on the same plot of ground he had been standing on before. Jonathan still had not moved. His apology had apparently not indicated repentance from his goal. What was he doing, trying to melt into the landscape? It was his old home, so Martus decide to forgive his obstinance. He accessed his internal computer and sent more heat through to his hands and feet. He almost wanted to activate his suit completely, to feel the warmth of it wash over him. But then he would fall asleep and nothing short of a nuke could move him -- literally! He laughed at himself.
Then he noticed that Jonathan's vitals were changing. His heart rate began to fluctuate, but increased over time, and his temperature changed. Mark tried to recall his emotion diagrams, but found he only remembered fear and resolution -- they were the only two he needed to be able to see in combat. Davel wasn't there, so he couldn't use his memory download -- cheater that he was, it came in handy sometimes.
Then Jonathan moved for the first time. His back stiffened, and then jerked, again and again. Martus leapt to his feet, endless briefings about watching out for attacks and seizures storming their way into his head.
"Jonathan, what is it?"
His friend did not respond. Instead he sobbed harder, and Martus, embarrassed, took his hands off of his friend's armored shoulders and stepped back.
As he waited for Jonathan to stop crying, he truly sympathized with him for the first time. He had speculated before, with Davel and M'haile, how terrible it must be to be lost for so many years, but never before had he been able to put himself in Jonathan's own armor prison, and consider, no, feel, for just a moment the loneliness, emptiness, and strangeness that must come with three decades of absolutely nothing but oneself.
Benjamin smiled. That had made him a little happier.
He would get back to work now, and perhaps tomorrow he wouldn't be so distracted, and he could work hard, plowing through the oh-so-healthy but oh-so-dreary plate of vegetables before him so that the beans, meat, and desert of a weekend would taste all the sweeter.
And wasn't it that way with life? Wouldn't years of struggle, writer's block, and whatever else God was pleased to give him make the eternal main dish of heaven, the Bread of Life, his dear and awesome God, all the more sweet?
It had all started with...
That was about how it went, over and over again.
Calestranov stood from the table with a start...
"Blue wing, break and engage!"...
It was a bright, blue-streaked sky that greeted the three as they emerged. On Polaris 2 it was morning. The beauty of the place was only matched by the cold. Even within their suits they would have frozen in a matter of seconds. Only the addition of heating...
He sighed. There was definitely not going to be any productive writing this evening.
Swords flashed for but a moment in the sunset; Cashalin was not one to toy with an enemy...
Well, at least not much writing that connected with anything else.
He had tried homework earlier. Physics had gotten him through Wednesday. Or, physics and all the things he got distracted by while he tried to finish his lab writeups. Now he was at a standstill on them. Linear Algebra had looked like way too much brainwork. He had talked to an answering machine. His parents were in Texas on vacation. There was very little left to do but try to write, and he had wanted to be able to for so long.
An update? No, he was not in the mood. It would be dry and boring, and some of the stories he could not bear to see written like that. They had been so funny at the time.
Like breakfast last Thursday. Everyone at the table had been tired. That was not at all unusual. The conversation had not been too memorable (at least he didn't remember a word of it). The table broke up around 7:55, and everyone headed for their classes. Benjamin accompanied Efad towards Sanderson, wondering at what point he should leave her to head back to his room. He was skipping class that day, but had gotten up to study, and Sanderson was on the way back to his room. He had a well formulated five-second-or-less explanation for bolting from the Sanderson doors (as if anyone needed one...) which he hoped would suffice to communicate a reason for his absence. Most of the time he wouldn't have doubted his ability to get his point across, but somehow pre-seven breakfasts with sleepy people led to a lot of dull stares and "Hmmm?"s
But he was the confused one when Efad said something and peeled off to the right, back towards Founders, just fifteen feet short of Sanderson. Benjamin, pre-occupied saying something about...something, and dodging the dripping water from the corner of a roof, spun about, brow creased.
"What are you doing!?" he asked.
"Going back to sleep," replied his walking companion.
He paused for a moment, and dredged up what she had said as she turned away. Something along the lines of "I don't have class."
Oh.
"Well, I'm skipping!" he announced, and they parted ways.
Yes, thought Benjamin, tapping a pencil on the desk, that had been hilarious -- each of them walking to Sanderson to keep the other company.
Gregory turned to me, blade in his hand, gasping for breath.
"We'll need a safe place to hide, and quickly. But first we'll need supplies and our weapons. Back to their camp, swift and silent, for the other soldiers will abandon it to find out the cause of that racket," he jerked his head towards where we could hear our pursuers shouting and crying out as they rushed through the sewers.
He couldn't wait until he had enough imaginative energy, and time, to finish that one. It was one of his favorites.
He began to wonder why he never finished any of his stories. And no, he scolded, killing all the characters does not count as finishing. Perhaps it was because he had never seen a whole story before. After all, he lived in the big, grand, story arc that God was bringing about, and it had not yet reached its happy everafter. He hadn't lived to see anyone both born and die, not anyone close to him, at least. And he himself was quite young. Anyway, he would not get to be better writer by dying...well, not a better righter here on this Earth. Perhaps God would be pleased to have him write on the New Earth. That would be...oh, wow...indescribable. But he probably had a lot longer to live, and he had better figure out how to end stories. After all, people might judge a book by its cover when they first see it, but when they actually read it, the last page would do a lot to determine whether they like it or not. He didn't like books that got worse near the end, or just jerked from one point or setting or group of characters or goal or quest...to another.
The determinist smiled quietly.
"You do not understand," he whispered, "but that is not a problem..."
"Because you do?" cried Calente.
"No. I do not understand what is, either. But I can tell you exactly what what did, does, and will do. And, my dear boy, you are part of what."
A sly, mocking grin split Asren's face, "Did you predict this?" she asked, straightening up from where she had been slumped against the wall. Her hand flicked from her pouch, and a clear glass marble flew across the room, its clean blue light out of place amid the dark, brown and black dirt of the hold and the travelers' clothes. A rumble sounded through the room as the head of the determinist's staff blazed with ethereal fire. The marble turned into a spherical pool of ripples, emanating outwards, until with a great sigh that echoed through the walls and corridors of the transport, and made Calente think of sweet sleep after a day of frustration, the ripples froze and the sphere dropped to the floor, shattering with a soft tinkle into thousands of shards, each so light that they bounced nearly to the ceiling, and got into the folds of everyone's clothes.
"Yes," replied the Determinist, still smiling, "I expected you would use a weaker marble, but there was a fifteen percent chance it would be that one."
Yes, Benjamin couldn't stand books that changed their points or goals midway. That was why he didn't like having writer's block. If he didn't even like his own writing, when he knew without thinking exactly what everything and everyone looked and sounded like, why should anyone else like it?
Perhaps he ought to make another go at homework...
He had been doing well that semester. Day-long study periods, even over, no, especially over Easter break, had helped him stay on top of all the projects and tests. Perhaps the breakdown had started with the random poetry about the knight that he wrote during the last hour's cramming for a Calculus exam. He'd have to type that up later, but right now, he didn't have room in his notebook. He'd even gotten some fun work the weekend before -- clearing trails behind the visitor's center. Somehow, demolishing a forest to make it look nicer made him feel all warm and fuzzy. Maybe it was that he got to cut down trees with saw tooth knives. Now that he thought about it, he was almost sure that was why. Then he had gotten to sit in the lobby, eating icecream and pretending to work for Covenant's radio station, and listen to the Bakertree festival performers. After that had been a somewhat disgruntling walk through pouring rain back to Mac, but that had been all right as well. Still, it wasn't home. And later that afternoon he had had to plow through Linear Algebra homework.
And Tuesday hadn't been so bad. His mother had called at breakfast, to ask what he was wearing. That got the table laughing of course, until he explained that she wanted to know so his family could tell who he was when he walked past the webcam on the way to class (then they laughed harder). Dear Old Chap was there; he and Benjamin had kept each other company through deep conversations about the responsibility of the church to the community, the new 18 waffle record at the Anderson's Sunday night waffles get-together, and how they were going to build their space station, all over the weekend. Now, they formulated a most-excellent plan to surprise Benjamin's family. Arriving beneath the webcam, Dear Old Chap placed himself beneath Benjamin and lifted him to his shoulders. Everyone was most pleased, torque puns were made, pictures taken, and along with Benjamin were lifted several moods. The funny thing was his family couldn't figure out who he was anyway. When he informed them why his position should have made him obvious, they simply replied, "oh, you must have been the really tall one!" In their defense, the morning sun was lighting the background, and obscuring the shadowy foreground. They could not be blamed, and fun was had by all, at least until they had to go to class.
Now the semester was almost over. He was sure he would have plenty to do that summer, but it wouldn't be as busy as school. There would be variety to his work, as well, and time at home with his family and his dear friends. Good sleep, time to write! Benjamin sighed wistfully.
"Jonathan? Are you all right?" Martus leaned forward, wishing for the thousandth time that he didn't have the flat black of the suit's mask between him and everyone he cared about. It made it hard to sneeze, too.
Jonathan did not move. Instead, he stared harder and harder off over the plain. They were only a few feet from the edge of the cliff, the mesa spread out before them, clusters of trees and animals, insects buzzing, some happy and some eerie calls echoing up from the jungle. There were a few lights from nearby ranch houses, and the stars above were thick and bright. Martus shivered a little, not used to the drastic change in temperature. His suit-skin shivered with him. Jonathan was not shivering. His pulse was steady, his internal temperature still fearfully low, his core glowing slightly through Martus' infrared eyes.
Martus glanced back over his shoulder towards the city. She loomed up, Angelus BrasÃlia indeed, lighting the darkness like a pillar of fire, ships slipping up and down through her roof like sparks dancing in a chimney.
"They'll be closing the doors soon, and then we'll have to get through the little airlocks. It will be crowded."
He counted to twenty, stamping his feet a little, sensing the grass remotely, and enjoying the feeling even as his patience waned. Poor Jonathan.
"Jonathan, can we go back?"
"Forgive me," replied the other.
Five minutes later Martus was sitting, cross-legged on the same plot of ground he had been standing on before. Jonathan still had not moved. His apology had apparently not indicated repentance from his goal. What was he doing, trying to melt into the landscape? It was his old home, so Martus decide to forgive his obstinance. He accessed his internal computer and sent more heat through to his hands and feet. He almost wanted to activate his suit completely, to feel the warmth of it wash over him. But then he would fall asleep and nothing short of a nuke could move him -- literally! He laughed at himself.
Then he noticed that Jonathan's vitals were changing. His heart rate began to fluctuate, but increased over time, and his temperature changed. Mark tried to recall his emotion diagrams, but found he only remembered fear and resolution -- they were the only two he needed to be able to see in combat. Davel wasn't there, so he couldn't use his memory download -- cheater that he was, it came in handy sometimes.
Then Jonathan moved for the first time. His back stiffened, and then jerked, again and again. Martus leapt to his feet, endless briefings about watching out for attacks and seizures storming their way into his head.
"Jonathan, what is it?"
His friend did not respond. Instead he sobbed harder, and Martus, embarrassed, took his hands off of his friend's armored shoulders and stepped back.
As he waited for Jonathan to stop crying, he truly sympathized with him for the first time. He had speculated before, with Davel and M'haile, how terrible it must be to be lost for so many years, but never before had he been able to put himself in Jonathan's own armor prison, and consider, no, feel, for just a moment the loneliness, emptiness, and strangeness that must come with three decades of absolutely nothing but oneself.
Benjamin smiled. That had made him a little happier.
He would get back to work now, and perhaps tomorrow he wouldn't be so distracted, and he could work hard, plowing through the oh-so-healthy but oh-so-dreary plate of vegetables before him so that the beans, meat, and desert of a weekend would taste all the sweeter.
And wasn't it that way with life? Wouldn't years of struggle, writer's block, and whatever else God was pleased to give him make the eternal main dish of heaven, the Bread of Life, his dear and awesome God, all the more sweet?
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