Tuesday, July 12, 2016

A LEGEND OF ELADRIENIA AND DEATHSTROKE

Murtagh and Thorn
Drawing by Mary Cullen.
"My mind is the only sanctuary that has not been stolen from me. Men have tried to breach it before, but I've learned to defend it vigorously, for I am only safe with my innermost thoughts."— Murtagh

By Gabrielle A. Hartenstein
Grade 6


Once there was a girl. Her name was Eladrienia. She was a bright girl of 15, but she always had her head in the clouds. She heard stories of dragons and elves and the famous rider, Eragon. She always imagined herself riding on top of a dragon and fighting with the elves against the evil King Lucifer. One day when Eladrienia went to fetch water, she heard an agonizing cry. She followed the sound to find an injured baby dragon. The dragon looked at her with navy eyes as big as diamonds.

‘’Hey there…you’re going to be all right…just hold still while I rap up this nasty wound,’’ Eladrienia explained cautiously. Eladrienia ripped a piece of her dress off and rapped it around the dragon's wound. ‘’There you go.’’ Eladrienia answered.

The dragon was black as night. The thing that troubled Eladrienia was that dragons do not just show up. They usually hatch from eggs, when the one they chose as their rider finds them. This one was already hatched, but alone. "Okay, you go now," Eladrienia responded. She went back to her jug but when she turned around the dragon was still there. “You really need to go,’’ Eladrienia explained.

As she began to walk home, she could hear the dragon trudging behind her.

"Please go away, you will get hurt if you are with me, or worse taken to Lucifer!’"

The dragon just stared at her.

"Okay you can come, but you have to be quiet."

So she put the dragon in her pack and set off carefully. When she arrived at her home, she gave the water to her aunt and went to her room. Eladrienia pulled out the baby dragon and set it on her bed. She made sure that the door and the blinds were shut. She sat on her bed and stared at the dragon. The dragon walked over to her and snuggled up against her shoulder, then it felt like fire to Eladrienia and she blacked out.

When Eladrienia woke up the dragon looked at her curiously, she felt different. She walked over to her looking glass. She gasped. She almost looked like an elf; and she had a weird scar on her shoulder.

"Bree! Dinner Time!" yelled her Aunt Lilly.

"Coming!" Eladrienia yelled back but in a quiet voice then she commented to the dragon, “You stay here.”

She put another dress on to cover up the scar, and she put up her hair in a way that her ears were covered. After dinner, Eladrienia snuck some meat to her room for the dragon. She was playing with the dragon when there was a knock on the door. Eladrienia tried to hide the dragon a little bit and then she went to the door. When she opened the door, a lady with the black hair that was always watching her was standing there.

"Eladrienia, let me in your room,’’ the women explained. “We need to talk privately.’’

"Um…you cannot go in there.’’ Eladrienia said frantically, as she tried to block the door.

Surprisingly, the women had enough strength to grab Eladrienia’s wrist, push her, and shut the door. The women’s eyes grew big when she saw the dragon.

"It’s you?’’ she questioned. She looked at Eladrienia and turned back to the dragon. She held out her hand to show the same sign that was on Eladrienia’s shoulder.

"A rider!’’ Eladrienia said to herself.

The women walked over to Eladrienia and she ripped off the sleeve of her dress exposing the scar. Then she pulled down Eladrienia’s hair to reveal her pointed ears. "The prophecy is true,’’ the woman said,’’ I’m Arya, a rider and an elf. You are the prophesied one, and you are in grave danger. You have to come with me.’’

"Wait, Arya the elf that fought with Eragon?’’ Bree asked.

"Yes, and we have to get you to him, the Varden, and Ellesmèra to sail you there.’’ Arya vehemently exclaimed,’’ Have you named your dragon yet?’’

"No, because I do not know if it’s a boy or a girl?’’ Eladrienia answered.
"It’s a boy.’’ Arya stated dully.

“Then his name is Deathstroke.’’ Eladrienia replied.

Eladrienia went into her brother’s room and took some trousers and shirts. Arya and Eladrienia snuck out of the house. As they traveled, Eldrienia felt as her mind was exposed. They had little trouble except that Deathstroke grew too big for the bag he was riding in, so he flew above them in the clouds.

One night while sitting around the fire Bree felt something touch her mind.

“Eladrienia,’’ it said.

“Who is this?’’ Eladrienia asked.

“Deathstroke.’’

“You can hear me?’’

“Yes.’’

“Of course, I heard that dragons and the riders could talk with their minds.’’ Eladrienia explained excitedly.

Arya suddenly said, “I did not think the prophecy was true, and I found you. The weird thing is you appear similar like him.’’

“Like who?’’

“Eragon, well, when I first met him.’’

That was all they said to each other. During the time they were together, Arya taught Eladrienia to use magic and a sword. Eladrienia also started to ride Deathsrtoke. She decided that she liked to ride Deathstroke better than riding her horse.

One day as they were traveling Eladrienia asked, “What exactly does the prophecy say?’’

Arya was quiet for a moment. Then she replied, “The prophecy predicts that there will be a rider with the rider’s sign either his or her shoulder, and the dragon would be the as black as the sky. It also predicts that rider will defeat Lucifer.”

“Oh…but who will train me?’’

“Eragon. He will teach you to be fearless and strong.’’

“Why do I have to go to the Varden and Ellèsmera?’’

“Because we have to prove to Orik and Nasuada that the prophecy is true, and if we sail out from anywhere else but my home, Eragon will think we are intruders.’’

It was about a month or two before they arrived at the Varden.

“So the prophecy is true.’’ both Orik and Nasuada agreed.

“Yes, but I’m sure Lucifer has found out by now. That’s why I must get her to Ellesmèra and sail her out to Eragon before it’s too late,’’ Arya answered.

“Yes, hurry!’’ Nasuada protested.

So Eladrienia and Arya set off again. When they arrived at Ellesmèra, everybody was extremely elated. Unfortunately, Eladrienia was put on a ship the next day to go to Eragon. Deathstroke followed by the sky.

About three days later, Deathstroke touched Eladrienia’s mind, “There’s another dragon ahead; it must be Eragon.’’

Suddenly, Eladrienia felt a breeze of sleepiness sweep over her. Eladrienia woke up in a room with Deathstroke beside her. There was also a man looking at her; behind him was a blue sapphire dragon.

Eladrienia only had one thought when she saw him,’’Eragon.’’

“You’re lucky to be alive,’’ he explained. “You suffered from heat stroke. I came at just the right time.’’

“Thank you, for helping me.’’ Eldrienia answered in a quiet voice.

“I am Eragon Shadeslayer, and you are the prophesied one, and this is Saphira Brightscales, gesturing to the dragon behind him.

Eladrienia suddenly felt as if someone was invading her mind. Deathstroke was growling at Eragon, looking as if he was about to pounce on him, but Saphira kept him from doing it.

“Stop it!’’ Eladrienia screamed.

After a few minutes, she felt it as her mind was released.

“Good, it is actually you.’’ Eragon said. “I will leave you to get ready.’’

Eladrienia looked at Deathstroke and he gave her a gesture that sort of looked like a shrug. As Eladrienia stood up she was dizzy. She walked over to a desk to find a black shirt and black trousers. When she walked out of the cabin, riders and dragons were everywhere.

“Hail the prophesied one!’’ someone yelled from somewhere.

Then everyone knelt down and bowed to Eladrienia and Deathstroke. Eragon walked up toward Eladrienia and spoke saying, “You will train with me and when your training is complete you will go against Lucifer. Are you ready to begin?’’

“Yes…Master,’’ she replied.

“Let’s begin.’’ he answered.

Applause broke out.

Over the next few months, Eladrienia became very skilled with a sword. She caught on quickly when it came to magic and riding techniques on Deathstroke. The last day came. The riders’ sword maker presented Eladrienia with a black sword with silver engravings on it that said that she was the prophesied one in dwarfish and in elven. Before she, Eragon, and the others left, she went to her cabin to make sure her armor was ready for battle. She also went to say goodbye, because she might not come back. Eladrienia walked up to the looking glass and what she saw was not a farm girl, but a warrior. She had become stronger. The reason why she looked like an elf was because it was apparently part of the prophecy. Eragon was really fond of Eladrienia, but she never knew why. She wore black dragon scale armor. Eladrienia once had long hair, but she had had to cut it for training and for the battle. Eladrienia walked out of the cabin ready for battle, and if it be, ready for death.

As they flew, Eragon pulled up beside her and asked, “What did you name your sword?’’

"Tagingiera,’’ she answered. When she proclaimed that, her sword crackled with black lightning.

"Very nice.’’


As soon as they arrived they were attacked. About half way through the battle, a gigantic gray dragon appeared and on the dragon sat Lucifer.

“Dragon rider, you are too weak to defeat me, so join me!’’ he yelled.

“Never! You have terrorized this kingdom long enough! Now I will defeat you!’’ she screamed back.

The battle was bloody. Eladrienia was cut on the shoulder and at the rib. But Lucifer was more injured than her. Lucifer suddenly jumped on Deathstroke. Eladrienia was trained to fight on Deathstroke’s tail so she was prepared. They fought and fought until finally Lucifer was on his knees. Eladrienia yelled,’’Tagingiera!’’ She stabbed him through the chest, and she thought he was dead so she made way back to the saddle. Then she felt as if hot iron slice through her back and then she passed out.

Eladrienia woke up in her cabin. She felt bandages all over her back. Eragon was talking to two people, but he stopped when she woke up. He walked over to her and asked, “How are feeling?’’

“Not the best, not the best.’’ she answered.

“Well there are some people here I would like you to talk to,’’ he said.

The people walked over. It was Nasuada! The man beside, strangely, he looked like Eladrienia.

“Eladrienia,’’ Nasuada said, ’’This man Murtagh…is…your father.’’

“What?!’’ Eladrienia asked.

“I am your mother. Listen, when I was captured by Gallbrotorix, Murtagh was his right hand man, and he saved me. He left soon after that, but I found him and we secretly married. I had you and I left you on the doorstep of your "Aunt Lillie’s." Then she started crying,’’ When I saw you I was amazed how much you looked like him, Murtagh, your father.’’

“So I am your daughter?’’ Eladrienia asked.

“Yes,’’ said Murtagh.’’And when I heard that I had a daughter, I returned as soon as I could, and now I have decided to never leave again.”

So now the family was reunited. Eladrienia had a family and a dragon. This story of Eldrienia and Deathstroke along with others is now told from generation to generation, but it is not time yet for all to be known, only when they are history and then to the end time.


END


Thursday, June 30, 2016

Elechi Amadi



One of Nigeria's stellar novelists and poets has died. Elechi Amadi died on Wednesday, June 29 at the age of 82.

His novels, plays and poetry paint a picture of Nigerian village life, describing customs, beliefs and religious practices typical of pre-colonial Nigeria. His first novel, The Concubine, was published in 1966 and is regarded as a classic of Nigerian literature.

Other works by Amadi include The Great Ponds, Isiburu, Sunset in Biafra, Dance of Johannesburg, Peppersoup, The Road to Ibadan, The Slave, Estrangement, and the Woman of Calaber.

Amadi served in the 3rd Marine Commandos of the Nigerian Army.

In 2008, Amadi was abducted by gunmen and was released 23 hours later.

He received an honorary doctorate from the University of Port Harcourt in 2011. His volume of essays and poems Speaking and Singing was published in 2003 by the University of Port Harcourt Press.

Amadi was a writer-in-residence and lecturer at Rivers State College of Education, where he has also been Dean of Arts, head of the literature department and Director of General Studies.

May he rest in peace and rise in glory!


Thursday, June 9, 2016

"The Weight of Glory" by C.S. Lewis


The Weight of Glory
by C.S. Lewis

If you asked twenty good men to-day what they thought the highest of the virtues, nineteen of them would reply, Unselfishness. But if you asked almost any of the great Christians of old he would have replied, Love. You see what has happened? A negative term has been substituted for a positive, and this is of more than philological importance. The negative ideal of Unselfishness carries with it the suggestion not primarily of securing good things for others, but of going without them ourselves, as if our abstinence and not their happiness was the important point. I do not think this is the Christian virtue of Love. The New Testament has lots to say about self-denial, but not about self-denial as an end in itself. We are told to deny ourselves and to take up our crosses in order that we may follow Christ; and nearly every description of what we shall ultimately find if we do so contains an appeal to desire. If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

We must not be troubled by unbelievers when they say that this promise of reward makes the Christian life a mercenary affair. There are different kinds of reward. There is the reward which has no natural connexion with the things you do to earn it, and is quite foreign to the desires that ought to accompany those things. Money is not the natural reward of love; that is why we call a man mercenary if he marries a woman for the sake of her money. But marriage is the proper reward for a real lover, and he is not mercenary for desiring it. A general who fights well in order to get a peerage is mercenary; a general who fights for victory is not, victory being the proper reward of battle as marriage is the proper reward of love. The proper rewards are not simply tacked on to the activity for which they are given, but are the activity itself in consummation. There is also a third case, which is more complicated. An enjoyment of Greek poetry is certainly a proper, and not a mercenary, reward for learning Greek; but only those who have reached the stage of enjoying Greek poetry can tell from their own experience that this is so. The schoolboy beginning Greek grammar cannot look forward to his adult enjoyment of Sophocles as a lover looks forward to marriage or a general to victory. He has to begin by working for marks, or to escape punishment, or to please his parents, or, at best, in the hope of a future good which he cannot at present imagine or desire. His position, therefore, bears a certain resemblance to that of the mercenary; the reward he is going to get will, in actual fact, be a natural or proper reward, but he will not know that till he has got it. Of course, he gets it gradually; enjoyment creeps in upon the mere drudgery, and nobody could point to a day or an hour when the one ceased and the other began. But it is just in so far as he approaches the reward that be becomes able to desire it for its own sake; indeed, the power of so desiring it is itself a preliminary reward.

The Christian, in relation to heaven, is in much the same position as this schoolboy. Those who have attained everlasting life in the vision of God doubtless know very well that it is no mere bribe, but the very consummation of their earthly discipleship; but we who have not yet attained it cannot know this in the same way, and cannot even begin to know it at all except by continuing to obey and finding the first reward of our obedience in our increasing power to desire the ultimate reward. Just in proportion as the desire grows, our fear lest it should be a mercenary desire will die away and finally be recognized as an absurdity. But probably this will not, for most of us, happen in a day; poetry replaces grammar, gospel replaces law, longing transforms obedience, as gradually as the tide lifts a grounded ship.

But there is one other important similarity between the schoolboy and ourselves. If he is an imaginative boy he will, quite probably, be revelling in the English poets and romancers suitable to his age some time before he begins to suspect that Greek grammar is going to lead him to more and more enjoyments of this same sort. He may even be neglecting his Greek to read Shelley and Swinburne in secret. In other words, the desire which Greek is really going to gratify already exists in him and is attached to objects which seem to him quite unconnected with Xenophon and the verbs in pi. Now, if we are made for heaven, the desire for our proper place will be already in us, but not yet attached to the true object, and will even appear as the rival of that object. And this, I think, is just what we find. No doubt there is one point in which my analogy of the schoolboy breaks down. The English poetry which he reads when he ought to be doing Greek exercises may be just as good as the Greek poetry to which the exercises are leading him, so that in fixing on Milton instead of journeying on to Aeschylus his desire is not embracing a false object. But our case is very different. If a transtemporal, transfinite good is our real destiny, then any other good on which our desire fixes must be in some degree fallacious, must bear at best only a symbolical relation to what will truly satisfy.

In speaking of this desire for our own far- off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. Do you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them. And you and I have need of the strongest spell that can be found to wake us from the evil enchantment of worldliness which has been laid upon us for nearly a hundred years. Almost our whole education has been directed to silencing this shy, persistent, inner voice; almost all our modem philosophies have been devised to convince us that the good of man is to be found on this earth. And yet it is a remarkable thing that such philosophies of Progress or Creative Evolution themselves bear reluctant witness to the truth that our real goal is elsewhere. When they want to convince you that earth is your home, notice how they set about it. They begin by trying to persuade you that earth can be made into heaven, thus giving a sop to your sense of exile in earth as it is. Next, they tell you that this fortunate event is still a good way off in the future, thus giving a sop to your knowledge that the fatherland is not here and now. Finally, lest your longing for the transtemporal should awake and spoil the whole affair, they use any rhetoric that comes to hand to keep out of your mind the recollection that even if all the happiness they promised could come to man on earth, yet still each generation would lose it by death, including the last generation of all, and the whole story would be nothing, not even a story, for ever and ever. Hence all the nonsense that Mr. Shaw puts into the final speech of Lilith, and Bergson’s remark that the elan vital is capable of surmounting all obstacles, perhaps even death—as if we could believe that any social or biological development on this planet will delay the senility of the sun or reverse the second law of thermodynamics.

Do what they will, then, we remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy. But is there any reason to suppose that reality offers any satisfaction to it? “Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.” But I think it may be urged that this misses the point. A man’s physical hunger does not prove that that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man’s hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called “falling in love” occurred in a sexless world.

Here, then, is the desire, still wandering and uncertain of its object and still largely unable to see that object in the direction where it really lies. Our sacred books give us some account of the object. It is, of course, a symbolical account. Heaven is, by definition, outside our experience, but all intelligible descriptions must be of things within our experience. The scriptural picture of heaven is therefore just as symbolical as the picture which our desire, unaided, invents for itself; heaven is not really full of jewelry any more than it is really the beauty of Nature, or a fine piece of music. The difference is that the scriptural imagery has authority. It comes to us from writers who were closer to God than we, and it has stood the test of Christian experience down the centuries. The natural appeal of this authoritative imagery is to me, at first, very small. At first sight it chills, rather than awakes, my desire. And that is just what I ought to expect. If Christianity could tell me no more of the far-off land than my own temperament led me to surmise already, then Christianity would be no higher than myself. If it has more to give me, I must expect it to be less immediately attractive than “my own stuff.” Sophocles at first seems dull and cold to the boy who has only reached Shelley. If our religion is something objective, then we must never avert our eyes from those elements in it which seem puzzling or repellent; for it will be precisely the puzzling or the repellent which conceals what we do not yet know and need to know.

The promises of Scripture may very roughly be reduced to five heads. It is promised, firstly, that we shall be with Christ; secondly, that we shall be like Him; thirdly, with an enormous wealth of imagery, that we shall have “glory”; fourthly, that we shall, in some sense, be fed or feasted or entertained; and, finally, that we shall have some sort of official position in the universe—ruling cities, judging angels, being pillars of God’s temple. The first question I ask about these promises is: “Why any of them except the first?” Can anything be added to the conception of being with Christ? For it must be true, as an old writer says, that he who has God and everything else has no more than he who has God only. I think the answer turns again on the nature of symbols. For though it may escape our notice at first glance, yet it is true that any conception of being with Christ which most of us can now form will be not very much less symbolical than the other promises; for it will smuggle in ideas of proximity in space and loving conversation as we now understand conversation, and it will probably concentrate on the humanity of Christ to the exclusion of His deity. And, in fact, we find that those Christians who attend solely to this first promise always do fill it up with very earthly imagery indeed—in fact, with hymeneal or erotic imagery. I am not for a moment condemning such imagery. I heartily wish I could enter into it more deeply than I do, and pray that I yet shall. But my point is that this also is only a symbol, like the reality in some respects, but unlike it in others, and therefore needs correction from the different symbols in the other promises. The variation of the promises does not mean that anything other than God will be our ultimate bliss; but because God is more than a Person, and lest we should imagine the joy of His presence too exclusively in terms of our present poor experience of personal love, with all its narrowness and strain and monotony, a dozen changing images, correcting and relieving each other, are supplied.

I turn next to the idea of glory. There is no getting away from the fact that this idea is very prominent in the New Testament and in early Christian writings. Salvation is constantly associated with palms, crowns, white robes, thrones, and splendour like the sun and stars. All this makes no immediate appeal to me at all, and in that respect I fancy I am a typical modern. Glory suggests two ideas to me, of which one seems wicked and the other ridiculous. Either glory means to me fame, or it means luminosity. As for the first, since to be famous means to be better known than other people, the desire for fame appears to me as a competitive passion and therefore of hell rather than heaven. As for the second, who wishes to become a kind of living electric light bulb?

When I began to look into this matter I was stocked to find such different Christians as Milton, Johnson and Thomas Aquinas taking heavenly glory quite frankly in the sense of fame or good report. But not fame conferred by our fellow creatures—fame with God, approval or (I might say) “appreciation’ by God. And then, when I had thought it over, I saw that this view was scriptural; nothing can eliminate from the parable the divine accolade, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” With that, a good deal of what I had been thinking all my life fell down like a house of cards. I suddenly remembered that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child—not in a conceited child, but in a good child—as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised. Not only in a child, either, but even in a dog or a horse. Apparently what I had mistaken for humility had, all these years, prevented me from understanding what is in fact the humblest, the most childlike, the most creaturely of pleasures—nay, the specific pleasure of the inferior: the pleasure a beast before men, a child before its father, a pupil before his teacher, a creature before its Creator. I am not forgetting how horribly this most innocent desire is parodied in our human ambitions, or how very quickly, in my own experience, the lawful pleasure of praise from those whom it was my duty to please turns into the deadly poison of self-admiration. But I thought I could detect a moment—a very, very short moment—before this happened, during which the satisfaction of having pleased those whom I rightly loved and rightly feared was pure. And that is enough to raise our thoughts to what may happen when the redeemed soul, beyond all hope and nearly beyond belief, learns at last that she has pleased Him whom she was created to please. There will be no room for vanity then. She will be free from the miserable illusion that it is her doing. With no taint of what we should now call self-approval she will most innocently rejoice in the thing that God has made her to be, and the moment which heals her old inferiority complex for ever will also drown her pride deeper than Prospero’s book. Perfect humility dispenses with modesty. If God is satisfied with the work, the work may be satisfied with itself; “it is not for her to bandy compliments with her Sovereign.” I can imagine someone saying that he dislikes my idea of heaven as a place where we are patted on the back. But proud misunderstanding is behind that dislike. In the end that Face which is the delight or the terror of the universe must be turned upon each of us either with one expression or with the other, either conferring glory inexpressible or inflicting shame that can never be cured or disguised. I read in a periodical the other day that the fundamental thing is how we think of God. By God Himself, it is not! How God thinks of us is not only more important, but infinitely more important. Indeed, how we think of Him is of no importance except in so far as it is related to how He thinks of us. It is written that we shall “stand before” Him, shall appear, shall be inspected. The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God...to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness...to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.

And now notice what is happening. If I had rejected the authoritative and scriptural image of glory and stuck obstinately to the vague desire which was, at the outset, my only pointer to heaven, I could have seen no connexion at all between that desire and the Christian promise. But now, having followed up what seemed puzzling and repellent in the sacred books, I find, to my great surprise, looking back, that the connexion is perfectly clear. Glory, as Christianity teaches me to hope for it, turns out to satisfy my original desire and indeed to reveal an element in that desire which I had not noticed. By ceasing for a moment to consider my own wants I have begun to learn better what I really wanted. When I attempted, a few minutes ago, to describe our spiritual longings, I was omitting one of their most curious characteristics. We usually notice it just as the moment of vision dies away, as the music ends or as the landscape loses the celestial light. What we feel then has been well described by Keats as “the journey homeward to habitual self.” You know what I mean. For a few minutes we have had the illusion of belonging to that world. Now we wake to find that it is no such thing. We have been mere spectators. Beauty has smiled, but not to welcome us; her face was turned in our direction, but not to see us. We have not been accepted, welcomed, or taken into the dance. We may go when we please, we may stay if we can: “Nobody marks us.” A scientist may reply that since most of the things we call beautiful are inanimate, it is not very surprising that they take no notice of us. That, of course, is true. It is not the physical objects that I am speaking of, but that indescribable something of which they become for a moment the messengers. And part of the bitterness which mixes with the sweetness of that message is due to the fact that it so seldom seems to be a message intended for us but rather something we have overheard. By bitterness I mean pain, not resentment. We should hardly dare to ask that any notice be taken of ourselves. But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory meant good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last. Perhaps it seems rather crude to describe glory as the fact of being “noticed” by God. But this is almost the language of the New Testament. St. Paul promises to those who love God not, as we should expect, that they will know Him, but that they will be known by Him (I Cor. viii. 3). It is a strange promise. Does not God know all things at all times? But it is dreadfully reechoed in another passage of the New Testament. There we are warned that it may happen to any one of us to appear at last before the face of God and hear only the appalling words: “I never knew you. Depart from Me.” In some sense, as dark to the intellect as it is unendurable to the feelings, we can be both banished from the presence of Him who is present everywhere and erased from the knowledge of Him who knows all. We can be left utterly and absolutely outside—repelled, exiled, estranged, finally and unspeakably ignored. On the other hand, we can be called in, welcomed, received, acknowledged. We walk every day on the razor edge between these two incredible possibilities. Apparently, then, our lifelong nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we now feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation. And to be at last summoned inside would be both glory and honour beyond all our merits and also the healing of that old ache.

And this brings me to the other sense of glory—glory as brightness, splendour, luminosity. We are to shine as the sun, we are to be given the Morning Star. I think I begin to see what it means. In one way, of course, God has given us the Morning Star already: you can go and enjoy the gift on many fine mornings if you get up early enough. What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more— something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words—to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves—that, though we cannot, yet these projections can, enjoy in themselves that beauty grace, and power of which Nature is the image. That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can’t. They tell us that “beauty born of murmuring sound” will pass into a human face; but it won’t. Or not yet. For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendour of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, may be very near the truth as prophecy. At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in. When human souls have become as perfect in voluntary obedience as the inanimate creation is in its lifeless obedience, then they will put on its glory, or rather that greater glory of which Nature is only the first sketch. For you must not think that I am putting forward any heathen fancy of being absorbed into Nature. Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive. Nature is only the image, the symbol; but it is the symbol Scripture invites me to use. We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects. And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life. At present, if we are reborn in Christ, the spirit in us lives directly on God; but the mind, and still more the body, receives fife from Him at a thousand removes—through our ancestors, through our food, through the elements. The faint, far-off results of those energies which God’s creative rapture implanted in matter when He made the worlds are what we now call physical pleasures; and even thus filtered, they are too much for our present management. What would it be to taste at the fountain-head that stream of which even these lower reaches prove so intoxicating? Yet that, I believe, is what lies before us. The whole man is to drink joy from the fountain of joy. As St. Augustine said, the rapture of the saved soul will “flow over” into the glorified body. In the light of our present specialized and depraved appetites we cannot imagine this torrens voluptatis, and I warn everyone seriously not to try. But it must be mentioned, to drive out thoughts even more misleading—thoughts that what is saved is a mere ghost, or that the risen body lives in numb insensibility. The body was made for the Lord, and these dismal fancies are wide of the mark. 

Meanwhile the cross comes before the crown and tomorrow is a Monday morning. A cleft has opened in the pitiless walls of the world, and we are invited to follow our great Captain inside. The following Him is, of course, the essential point. That being so, it may be asked what practical use there is in the speculations which I have been indulging. I can think of at least one such use. It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbour. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Life Beyond the Grave?


Is there life beyond the grave? Isn't this one of the most important questions a person can ask? Ed Pacht's poem explores this and asks another important question: "When I am beyond the grave, have I left the ongoing story of this life? Is there more to my story in the here and now?"

Ed writes, "I am in many ways an expression of the earthly lives of my Yankee Puritan and German Lutheran ancestors, and though they have presumably entered eternal life, their earthly story simply has not ended."

The End
The end:
“…lived happily ever after,”
but did they?
Was that the end?
Does ‘ever after’ ever end?
Ah, yes, perhaps it does.

The end:
obituary:
the final end,
or is it?
Does life cease?
Is the story then complete?
Or is there more to tell?
Do the living still go on?
Is there a tale beyond the grave?
Infinity never stops,
never stops,
never ends.
The end:
a name upon a stone,
and dates,
perhaps a line of text,
in a quiet place where others lie.
Is it the end?
Is this all there is to say?

Or does a tale begin,
a quest,
a search for what has gone before?
What brought this person to this place?
What joys and pains are in this tale?
What of this life still now goes on?
What of the works this one has done,
the progeny that have been left behind,
the thoughts that he or she then thought,
or the beauty of the place we see?

Ah, has this story now been ended,
or has it only just begun?
Beginning, middle, ending of a tale,
not so clearly separate as we thought,
but this brings this poem to completion,
and now this truly is the end,
or is it?

ed pacht
11 May 2016

Related reading: Stories Don't Hold Still


Thursday, May 12, 2016

Stories Don't Hold Still



I found the following essay by Ed Pacht to be thought provoking. When it comes to story endings, some people prefer to be left hanging because this allows the mind to explore the possibilities. As Ed Pacht reminds us, "Stories don't hold still..."

Often the novel's ending disappoints because it seems disconnected from what came before, or what came before has not been sufficiently explored by the author.

The task of  Biblical Anthropology is to pull back the veil of time and track antecedents, like the ancestors of Abraham.  Who were they?  Where did they live, what did they believe? Such investigation usually reveals that there is a connection between what those people believed about the end and the New Testament writings about the end. The New Testament writers make it clear that even that story doesn't hold still.

There is His glorious appearing, the final judgment, a marriage feast, and an eternal kingdom of peace. Sorrow will be no more and every tear will be wiped away. And that is only the beginning.-- Alice C. Linsley

Ed explains that, "The essay came from having read a review of a story I haven’t read which begins with the words, “The End.” What is the end? What is the beginning? Just exactly what it the now? Yes, the Bible and Christian tradition take a linear view of time, but this has to be seen in the light of One who created time itself and stands entirely outside of it."


The End

The end. Is that any way to begin a story? Shouldn’t a story have a beginning and a middle before it gets to the end? That’s what you and I have always been taught. It’s what we’ve always believed. It’s the way life is, or is it?

Well, there is always a beginning, but we don’t always know how the story begins. In fact, when we think we know the beginning, there’s always another beginning further back, and another before that one, all the way back to the beginning of everything that is; and even that is not the real beginning, for the infinity from which everything came has no beginning at all. Furthermore, if we do think we know the beginning of something, that may be all that we will ever know, and, so far as we can see, this beginning is the end of the tale.

So, it seems as though, whatever story we are telling, we’re really jumping into the middle of it, no matter where we start; and, you know, trying too hard to start at the beginning can get us so bogged down that we never manage to tell our story at all. And when we have begun our tale in the middle of the action, well, this is like life, isn’t that the way it is? We seldom really know how things started, and can’t really know how they’ll turn out, but here we are, right in the middle, where the action is really happening. We are taught, probably rightly, that a good work of fiction ties up loose ends and comes to a conclusion, but that really isn’t how life works at all, and sometimes a tale just has to leave the reader hanging in the middle of events.

Which brings us back to where we started: the end. Well, yes, every story will have an end. The writer or teller will eventually stop. Will it be an obvious ending? Will the ends be tied up and the plot resolved? Perhaps so, but life is not like that. There’s always more, and rarely do we understand the implications of what has gone on, rarely do we know where it will lead; and often what we see as the end of the tale may be all that we will ever see, the whole story in itself, so far as we can know it, or it may indeed be the very beginning of the tale we hear, leading us to look back to the middle and even the beginning of it all.

Stories don’t hold still for the pattern we want to put on them. They develop a life of their own and our efforts to force them where they don’t want to go can make them wooden or confused.

ed pacht
11 May 2016


Sunday, May 8, 2016

Writers' Groups in Kentucky


Berea
Berea Writers' Circle

Edmonton
The Edmonton Kentucky Red Writers meet every second Tuesday of the month at 6:30 pm at the Edmonton Kentucky Chamber of Commerce office.

Frankfort
The Capital City Writers Roundtable meets monthly in Frankfort. For information contact Jerry Deaton jdeaton@me.com

Harrodsburg
Writers Bloc 40330, meets on the third Monday of each month from 5:30 to 6:30 at the Mercer County Public Library meeting room. Address: 109 W Lexington St, Harrodsburg, KY 40330 For more information, email brightmyer@hotmail.com

Lexington
3rd Letter Writers, a Christian writers group, meets at Northeast Christian Church in Lexington every 3rd Thursday from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. The address is 990 Star Shoot Parkway, Lexington, KY 40509.

Eagle Creek Writers' Group

Lexington Fiction Writers' Group meets on the first and third Wednesday of every month at noon at the Beaumont Branch of the Lexington Public Library in Lexington, Kentucky.

Tate's Creek Writers' Group meets the first Thursday of each month from 6:00 to 8:30 p.m. at the Tates Creek branch of the Lexington Public Library. The Tates Creek library is located at 3628 Walden Drive in Lexington KY. Call 859.231.5580 for more information.

Louisville
The Stuffed Owl Louisville Fiction Group

The Vault (Science Fiction)

Louisville Christian Writers

Dreambuilding meets every first and third Wednesday, noon until 1:00 at the Carnegie Center. Contact Katerina Stoykova-Klemer at katerina.klemer@gmail.com

Women Who Write meets the first Thursday each month 6:30-8:30 pm at the Highland Library Branch in Mid City Mall, 1250 Bardstown Road, Louisville. For information call 502.541.4670.

Green River Writers

Owensboro
Owensboro Writers' Group meets the third Saturday of each month at the Daviess County Public Library from 11:00 – 1:00. The Daviess County Public Library is located at 2020 Frederica Street, Owensboro, KY 42301. Contact Theresa Jewel Pinkston at t.j.pinkston.2007@gmail.com


Paintsville
Paintsville Main Street Writer’s Group meets on the 4th Thursday of each month beginning at 6:30 pm at the Johnson County Library. For information call 606.789.4355.

Radcliff
The Written Word Writer's Group meets on second and fourth Mondays at 6:00 pm, at the Hardin County Public Library Branch in Radcliff, KY.

Friday, May 6, 2016

The Hand of God



Kristy Robinson Horine is a Kentucky writer: journalist by trade, creative by heart. She makes her life in Paris with her husband, Eric, and four children – Hanson, Anna, Emy, and Sadie. Her professional and creative work has been published in newspapers, magazines and anthologies in Kentucky and Southern Indiana.

The piece that follows was written by Kristy for the edification of the writers in the 3rd Letter Writers, a Christian group that meets at Northeast Christian Church in Lexington, KY every 3rd Thursday from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. Address: 990 Star Shoot Parkway, Lexington, KY 40509


 
Main Street Bounty
 
I don’t start to cringe until the third time she tells me.

“That girl of yours is all growed up,” she says. “It’s hard to believe how growed up she is. Almost didn’t know her face. What do you think about that?”

“She sure has grown,” I say as I shake my head in a gesture I hope looks like sympathetic disbelief.

I wait for the next sentence and I know it will be about the pastor search, about how much she likes this interim pastor man whose name she can’t quite put at the front of her brain.

Then, again, she’ll tell me that girl of mine is all growed up.

I don’t cringe because of the grammar.

I’ve known Miss Aleen for years. Her speech is just a part of who she is. It never bothered me when she taught my children oh-so-long-ago in Sunday School. It doesn’t bother me now, at this all-women fellowship. Even though I don’t attend their church any longer, I’ve followed Miss Aleen’s decline through a series of prayer requests from my mom.

What makes me cringe is the evidence of decline. 

It’s that repetition that I remember from my Meme and Great-Grandma Ledford.

It’s the moment of lucidity and panic in her eyes as she realizes she’s repeated her words.

It’s the fading of lucidity and panic into the comfortable over and over and over again.

And, still, I sit and I wait for the cycle again because that’s what writers sometimes do.

We wait.

And, we listen.

And, sometimes, we see the hand of God.

This is not how the day began. I was full of a grudge. It mostly had to do with the fact that I did something that I didn’t want to do because it was that something that was good and right and it would make my husband happy.

Normally, I like making my husband happy. It means I don’t feel guilty. The air is clearer at home. I don’t have to do extra sweet things to make up for my orneriness.

But that morning, I just didn’t want to. Dad-gum-it!

Eric’s company has an annual health fair. Employees and spouses go through different stations where healthy people check - and record - our weight and height and figure up those initials I am convinced are from Satan: the BMI.

Another station takes and records blood pressure. (It’s right after the weigh station. I reckon they want as close to real-life diastolic and systolic as they possibly can get, since they don’t have a separate room where we interact with our teenage children …)

Yet another station stabs a finger, squeezes blood onto a strip and - Presto! - instant numbers that indicate internal processes.

The final station sits us down with another healthy person who explains our numbers and gives us brightly colored papers with tips on how to be better with our numbers.

I had already planned on going to the one in Paris at the end of the month because I figured I could probably lose a few ounces by then. But Eric wanted me to go to the one at his office in Lexington. At the beginning of the month. That morning.

So I went, but I made sure pretty much everyone in the house knew of my displeasure. I didn’t want to drive to Lexington. It makes my palms sweat. I didn’t want to park in Lexington. It makes my palms sweat-ier. I didn’t want to weigh in earlier than I had anticipated. It makes me want to purchase gray sweat pants and think bad thoughts about really skinny people. I didn’t want to be so close to him because we could compare our internal processes numbers and my insides might fall short somehow and then I would feel all broken, unworthy, unlovable. (Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is fall-out from another-lifetime-abuse, even in a Christian’s mind).

All I really wanted was coffee.

Accurate internal process numbers required fasting. From coffee.

We stood in line to go through the stations for about an hour and a half.

An hour and a half.

With a toddler.

On no coffee.

That’s just not nice.

But it was a good and right thing because after the health fair we got free toothbrushes and a weird square of something edible and a mini bottle of water where the plastic crinkled when we drank it. And it was a good and right thing because we saved money on our health insurance by going. And it was a good and right thing because Eric got to show his coworkers how much his sweet and only Sadie had grown. 

Psalm 13: 5-6 says:

“But I have trusted in Your mercy; My heart shall rejoice in Your salvation. I will sing to the Lord because He has dealt bountifully with me.”

Indeed.

After the health fair, we trekked upstairs. We were on a mission to visit Jane.

Jane is a cancer survivor. She wears denim skirts or dresses and piles her hair on her head in graceful loops that make me pray for protection against jealousy. Her cancer check-up dates are on our calendars and we pray and follow up with her. She walks sweetly with Jesus in word and in deed and visiting her is a good and right thing.

After we chat and she coos over Sadie, Eric points out this picture on a desk.

It’s Main Street in Lexington and it appears to be from sometime in the 50s or 60s. It’s from before my time but it makes me have this strange yearning. It’s beautiful and we drink it in with our eyes and tell the stories of it with our mouths.

The old KU building. Baker’s Shoes. Lerner Shops. McCrorys. The Phoenix Hotel. Stewart’s.

When Jane was young, she worked at the shoe store after school.

Standing there, high in the KU building, with one eye on Sade, I wanted to be there on Main Street. I wanted to know what it was like to have the traffic go both ways though not as fast nor as crowded as today, and have men in suits and hats pass me on the wide sidewalk and open doors like I know gentlemen can and nod, and have my own self clothed in a dress and hat and gloves and nylons and sensible black pumps.

But my need for coffee calls from the deep within place and we hold Jane and promise prayers for May 10 and instruct our Sadie to say “Thank you for having us” and to blow a little kiss. Jane catches it and puts it on her cheek. 

The Lord has dealt bountifully with me.

I don’t think about the BMI. I don’t think about how my menu and my budget will need to change yet again to accommodate these beautiful and somewhat saggy and creaky bodies God has given us. I don’t think about having to drive in Lexington. I don’t think about being broken.

As we sit near the window of A Cup Of Common Wealth and try to encourage Sadie to eat the scone and not crush it, all I think about is how rich I am and how generous God has been to open His cornucopia of numbers and travel and people and mercy and pour it out on us.

I, in my stubborn, human way, might have missed all this.

This is what flashes in my mind when Miss Aleen begins our fourth cycle of talk.

“I sure do like that interim pastor. God sure knowed what He was doing, didn’t He?” she asks me.

“Doesn’t he work downtown?” I ask.

“Why, I think you’re right. Oh I remember downtown,” she says. 

“Do you remember Baker’s Shoes?” I ask.

“Lord, yes! And McCrory’s where we used to pop a balloon to see if we had won anything,” she says and claps her hands together. “I worked back in this building, Perkins, it was. They gave me a little room where I did all their accounting. They sold fancy women’s things, they did. Yes, they did. And I did all their numbers for them.” 

And there we were the two of us, hand in hand, on Main Street in Lexington.

And I almost missed this.

I close my eyes for a few moments as Miss Aleen goes on and on. She is happy and secure and she is there even though she is here with me. My heart whispers gratitude overflowing as I realize that God has given me exactly what I wanted.

A dress and a hat and little gloves and nylons and sensible pumps, and a friend with which to walk.

Her main street bounty is right and good. Together, we see the hand of God and it makes us sing.