I am a staff writer for Lorehaven.com. I often write on the topics of story ethics, imagination, and parenting readers. To read my articles, click here!
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For the full article, “How I Masked My Mental Health through Costume Design,” visit Lorehaven.com.
Enjoy the following gallery of costumes I’ve worn and designed for various occasions!
The military hover jet cut through swirling snowflakes, rocking against gusts of wind like a cradle. The full cargo nets hanging from the dark walls clanked, metal on metal. The sharp noise stabbed at Miren’s ears just as the wintery air bit into her bare arms. With every sway of the black aircraft, cuffs dug into bruised wrists. She cringed.
“Too tight?” The voice was almost too quiet to hear over the roar of the thrusters.
Miren glanced up, gaze locking with General Dalton. While his tone was filled with concern, his grey eyes were amused, even mocking. That wasn’t surprising. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted when he found her in that hostel with Kael.
Matthias would never marry her now. Not only was she defiled, but she’d chosen this. Bile rose in her throat.
“You know they’re too tight, General. You made them that way on purpose.”
Dalton tsked, still smiling. “I don’t need to hurt you, Miren.” He leaned in close enough that the guards standing on either side of her couldn’t hear. His breath smelled of rancid coffee, but she didn’t pull away.
“You see,” his eyes bore through her, “I knew you would betray him. I planned it that way.”
Her veins filled with ice. “You… what?”
“What is that saying? Like a dog returning to its vomit?” He spit on the glossy metal floor, and the nearest guard adjusted his stance. “You’re so predictable. The king may have plucked you out of that little nest of filth to be his bride, but that can’t change who you really are.”
“And who am I?” Miren’s voice warbled and not from the cold. Did this man, this hateful, manipulative general, know exactly who she was—and wasn’t? It was as though he could peer through her flesh into a soul that looked nothing like it should. Nothing like Matthias deserved.
“No one.” All laughter was gone from his face. “You are no one. And now you’ve proven it for me. All I had to do was present you with the chance to run back to that man’s bed. The hangar unguarded, hover wide open, passkey encoded, autopilot enabled. And you showed up like a moth to a candlestick.”
Miren swayed, vision blurred. She pulled against the cuffs to keep herself from slipping from the icy, unforgiving bench. Head hanging, she stared down at the linen dress she’d worn while fleeing the towers yesterday. Once white—a ridiculous attempt to blend in with the snow—the fabric was now stained with mud.
She imagined what the scene in the street must have looked like to onlookers—guards extricating the king’s bride-to-be from a reeking hostel in the Fourth Quarter. The crazed woman fighting against her captors, only to fall into the melted snow in the gutter. Then the guards dragging her the rest of the way to the hover jet by her handcuffs.
She couldn’t meet his eyes this time. Dalton knew her far too well. One more look from him would shatter her.
“Why?” she asked.
A genuine laugh burst from his mouth, and he didn’t attempt to mask it. “I suppose it won’t matter if you know the truth. Once Matthias throws you back to your beau in the Fourth, no one will believe a thing you say.”
At the scent of old coffee and Dalton’s warm breath against her ear, Miren clenched her jaw until her temples throbbed from the pressure.
Dalton sniffed. “I care nothing for Matthias and his counterfeit virtue—”
“It is not counterfeit!” Miren spat. “How dare you speak of him like that!” If Dalton could see through her so well, how could he so grossly misjudge his king? Perhaps he only understood her because the two of them were more alike—more deceitful than Matthias had ever been.
Her head swam, and she tried to adjust her position. But the cuffs only dug deeper into her flesh. “He is a thousand times the man you will ever be.”
“It matters not. I have other plans for him regardless, and you’re not part of them.”
He leaned away, a smirk dancing across thin lips. If she hadn’t been cuffed to the bench, Miren would have slapped him.
“What plans?”
“Now that is none of your business.” The self-satisfied smirk lingered, then grew. He must know how it irked her. “But tell me, Miren, is Matthias one thousand times the man Kael will ever be?”
She recoiled and stared at her stained lap. A tendril of brown hair flaked in mud fell in front of her face.
Of course he was better. Matthias was… perfection. If that was even possible. Yet before she’d ever met the king, Kael had been untouchable. Always having the pick of any girl in the Fourth, he would never have looked at her twice. Not until Matthias made her what she was. Only then did the encrypted messages appear. Even knowing she was to marry a man beyond all her most fantastical imaginings, the temptation to prove she was favored above all other women in the Fourth had been too great. As soon as Kael made the offer, she found herself stealing a royal hover and flying back to her home quarter.
Had Dalton also given Kael access to her personal device? Perhaps encrypted the messages himself? Kael hadn’t ever been good with technology.
Did it even matter? She still made her choice. When offered the hand of a king, she chose the bed of the one man who’d never thought her worthy of him before.
Filthy Fourth.
Her stomach cramped as though a creature was shredding her from the inside out. She bowed her head, cuffs cutting into her skin. Perhaps Matthias would be merciful and kill her instead of sending her to prison or back to the Fourth. Death would hold so much less shame.
The hum of the thrusters dulled, and the hover dipped lower. Through the blizzard, Miren caught glimpses of the towers—a soaring cliff face terraformed into a grand, stone palace. The spires of each tower reached into the blanket of storm clouds overhead.
She tried to draw breath, but it wouldn’t come. Dizziness descended, and she attempted to blink the fog from her mind.
A minute later, the noise from the thrusters died. The hover jolted to a stop in a cold, grey hangar. The hatch opened with a gush of hydraulics, and the general exited without a backward glance. No doubt he was in a hurry to report her betrayal to Matthias and witness its consequences.
The guard to her left moved from his statuesque position and uncuffed her long enough to free the chain from the bench. He refastened it, ignoring her cry when the metal cut into her skin once more. Then he shoved her out the door.
She’d been so pleased to see this room only yesterday. But today it loomed over her defiled form, shrinking with every passing second, threatening to crush her as she deserved.
Each breath came quicker, and her chest constricted. With the hangar door still closing, the frigid wind bit into her cheeks, now wet with unchecked tears.
The guards marched her through the door and into the wide hall beyond. The change in atmosphere and temperature was striking as always—from cold grey stone in the hangar to heated white and silver marble floors and walls. Overhead, the ceiling was painted to look like the night sky with glistening metallic stars. As suffocating as the hangar had been, Miren preferred it. The main palace, surrounded by shining white surfaces and glittering stars, spoke only of how unworthy she was of this place.
They stopped outside the king’s hall where he often met with delegates. Miren began to hyperventilate in earnest. Her body dragged against the grips of the two guards.
Don’t faint. Don’t faint.
“I can’t….” she muttered. But the doors swung inward against her wishes.
There, at the other end of the hall, Matthias faced away from her. He stood tall, spine rigid, and hands clasped beneath a thick, navy cloak that brushed the shining floor. His black hair was slightly mussed—the only sign he might be in distress.
He didn’t turn when she entered with her guards. Instead his focus stayed locked on Dalton. The general looked at Miren when she stumbled into the room. But despite the attention he gave her, his lips never stopped their frantic whispering to the king.
Dalton would tell him all. He would tell him every last detail of what she’d done. Not only that she’d stolen a hover, but precisely where he’d found her and in whose arms she’d been sleeping when he forced his way into the room. He would tell him how she fought back when they dragged her from the hostel.
What had Matthias’s face looked like when he first heard of her betrayal? Perhaps his lips had curled in disgust. But, no… that expression belonged only to men like Dalton. The king would have grieved, then thanked God he’d escaped such a woman.
Her stomach cramped again, and she cried out. The guards let her fall to the ground at their feet. Her body convulsed, and she sobbed, face pressed to the floor.
Heavy footfalls started toward her from the end of the hall.
“You may go.” Matthias said. Even pitched so low, his bass voice reverberated around the chamber. Miren savored the sound, knowing this would be her last opportunity to listen to its melody.
The guards marched from the room, leaving Miren alone with Matthias and Dalton. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was her gasping breath and uncontrolled sobs.
I’m sorry.
She opened her mouth to say the words, but it didn’t come. He deserved so much more than any apology she could ever offer.
Miren lay at his feet, dress stained, hair matted in mud, and wept onto his boots. Her sorrow was all she had left to give him, and even that was not enough. Even this grief was not as deeply felt as she knew it should be. If only she could feel the true weight of it, perhaps that would be worthy of him. Yet if she could ever really understand its gravity, her sin would crush her to death.
“Shall I prepare a cell as she awaits trial, Your Grace?” Dalton’s tone was unwavering. Perhaps he didn’t want the king to know how much he was enjoying himself.
But Matthias didn’t respond. His cloak whispered, and Miren glanced up. The king knelt on the ground before her. Tears pooled on his lashes. The straining of his jaw, the tilt of his head spoke of a grief she could only wish to feel.
All because of what she’d done.
How could someone so good feel so much pain?
“Majest—” Dalton’s voice faltered.
“Silence.” Although his words were for the general, Matthias’s eyes never strayed from Miren. “Who has the power to throw this woman in a prison cell but myself?”
“No one, Your Grace,” Dalton murmured.
Matthias’s gray eyes lingered on Miren’s muddy clothes and hair. His gaze singed her skin from top to bottom, as though his scrutiny was enough to slice her in two. But instead of blood, black sludge would pool where she knelt.
The king knew her just as Dalton had. But did he hate her the same way?
“Miren.” His voice warbled, and his expression pleaded with her.
“I’m so, so sorry.” A fresh wave of sobs wracked her body. “You deserve so much better… and I’ve only brought shame on you.”
Matthias shifted, grazing the knife on his belt. Miren waited, sobs subsiding, for him to grasp the handle, to pull it from its sheath. Instead, one of his warm hands gripped her frigid wrists while the other unlocked the cuffs still binding her. They clinked as he set them on the floor beside him.
Dalton sucked in a sharp breath, and his shaking hands balled into fists.
She looked to Matthias. “What are you doing?”
No doubt the general was wondering the same. She could feel his hatred pulsing outward like a beacon in a snowstorm.
Without a word, Matthias pulled Miren to his chest and held her there. She gasped. A murmur in the back of her mind told her to embrace him, but she held back.
“Your Majesty! This woman is a crown traitor! She stole—”
Miren pressed her ear against Matthias’s chest so his heartbeat would drown the general’s words.
“You will hold your tongue.”
“Please, My Lord.” Dalton’s tone turned to pleading. “Why do you not send her away? She has admitted that she is not worthy of you!”
“I have decided that this woman will bear my name. I will not be so easily swayed. Now leave us.”
Miren looked up to see the resolve in the king’s countenance.
Beside them, the general’s skin turned a deep red. “I can’t stand by and let you throw yourself away on this… whore.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “She has already caused more trouble for you than her whole quarter is worth!”
Matthias stood, pulling a silver knife from his belt. He grabbed the front of the general’s cloak before holding the edge of the blade near the man’s throat. “You are treading on dangerous ground, Dalton.”
The general’s feet shifted, but he didn’t try to back away. Miren could hear the growing desperation in his voice as Matthias refused to play into whatever plans Dalton had brewing.
“You must have her stand trial, Highness.”
“General,” Matthias’s tone was unwavering. “You forget your place. Shall I call the guards back to throw you into a cell?”
Why didn’t Matthias listen to the general’s counsel? For once, she agreed with it. What she’d done deserved a prison cell.
Dalton huffed and glanced at Miren. Matthias rested the blade against his skin but did not draw blood.
“Don’t get too cocky, Miren,” Dalton continued as though Matthias wasn’t holding a knife to his throat. “He may be ready to take you back, but the people won’t be as smitten with you when they find out what you’ve done. I will take my leave.” With one last savage glance at Matthias, the general clicked his heels then marched away.
“I will deal with you later, General. Do not go far.”
Dalton turned, dipped his head, then left. The doors slammed shut behind him.
Matthias sheathed his knife and knelt once more. Miren sniffed, and pressed her face into his chest. Moisture from her nose and eyes soaked into his cream-colored shirt. He smelled of mint sprigs, reminding her of chewing on the fresh leaves as a child.
“I forgive you.” The words thrummed inside his chest.
She clenched fistfulls of his shirt in both hands, hardly daring to believe him. “Why would you do that for me?” She leaned away and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I do it for me, because you are precious in my sight,” his gray eyes studied her face, “and honored….”
She shook her head, opening her mouth to argue. But Matthias cut her off by pressing his forehead against hers. Miren’s breath caught in her throat.
“And I love you.”
“But you shouldn’t!” She tried to pull away, but his arms only tightened around her. She beat a fist against his chest, but his grip didn’t loosen.
“Miren,” his tone chided her, “how can I give you up? I’ve made you a promise, and I won’t break it.”
“What about what I want? I can’t stand being with you knowing I don’t deserve your mercy.” She tried once more to free herself before giving up and cradling her face in her hands.
“If you deserved it, then it wouldn’t be mercy. Do you really desire to return to the Fourth?”
Her stomach roiled, and she swallowed back acid. She would never go back there again. But what else could she do? Stay here and let this man simply forgive her for cheating on him with a fool like Kael?
“Please, Matthias. I can’t.”
“Let me help you then.”
“You? You’ve never done anything like this before. You can’t know….”
He shook his head. “I know you. I chose you.”
Matthias reached up and unclasped the fastener on his cloak. The heavy material fell from his back. Two large hands took hold of the cloak and threw it over his bride-to-be. He settled it around her shoulders.
She peered into his face and held her breath. The thick fabric was still warm. As she stared at him, the heat seemed to thaw her from the inside out against her inclination to remain frozen.
“Stay with me?” Matthias asked.
He knew her.
He knew all of her—including the parts of her soul she wanted to hide from him. Even now, he was heartbroken, but not surprised. Did he know she’d fail from the moment they met? Still he promised to love her, to marry her in only two day’s time.
“Yes.” Miren gripped his cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll stay.”
***
“Lady Miren?”
Miren tore her eyes away from her window where bright sun rays cut through the grey cloud cover. Her lady’s maid, Sienna, and another undermaid whose name she didn’t know stood by her vanity holding her wedding gown.
They faced the back of the gown toward her. The ties were undone. All she had to do was step inside.
Moving forward, she drew in a shuddering breath. The two women lowered the dress so the silk pooled on the marble floor. Miren stepped inside—one leg then two. She held her arms out, and the women slipped the sleeves over her arms and shoulders. They began to lace and cinch the ties along her spine.
She turned to face the full-length mirror next to the vanity. A whimper tripped out of her mouth.
“M’lady?” Sienna frowned in concern but didn’t stop tightening the ribbon.
Miren could only stare at her reflection. Instead of the white gown she’d tried on only last week, the fabric that hung from her frame was now stained with filthy, melted snow. She pressed her palms into the skirt, feeling the grit beneath her skin.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Miren asked, voice shaking. This was something Dalton would do to her if only to torture her on what should be the happiest day of her life. But he’d been dismissed from service and sent to the Second Quarter the same evening he’d brought her back from the Fourth.
“Joke?” Sienna tied off the ribbon before coming to stand in front of the king’s bride.
Miren glanced at the undermaid in the mirror. Was she loyal to the general? But the young woman looked just as perplexed as Sienna.
“Who did this?” She continued to rub at the silk. Matthias’s face flashed through her mind—a look of revulsion as she greeted him covered in dirt.
Would he realize it then? Would he finally understand a filthy Fourth was all she would ever be?
The undermaid stood in front of Miren on her other side. “Did what, m’lady?”
The women exchanged a glance.
“This!” Miren pressed the sides of her hands into her stained abdomen like knives. “Who ruined—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed, “m-my dress?”
“Ruined?” Sienna’s gaze raked the gown. “But, Lady Miren, you look stunning. You aren’t pleased with the alterations?”
Miren’s eyes stung. “I’m not… that’s not what I mean! Who’s responsible for these stains?”
She didn’t have another gown. They would have to delay the wedding so another could be made. What would Matthias think if she asked to put it off? That she didn’t want to marry him?
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Stains?” Sienna’s pinched brow never loosed. Her head tilted to the side. “I don’t see anything.” She looked at the undermaid. “Adelaide?”
“No, ma’am.” The younger woman shook her head. “There’re no stains.”
Miren looked between the two women. Sienna at least was not loyal to Dalton. She had spoken against the man often enough for Miren to know that much.
“Leave us,” Sienna said to the undermaid. The woman curtsied and left, her soft shoes scuffing gently against the smooth floor.
For a moment, the only sound was the shush of a hover jet passing over the tower. Then Sienna reached for Miren’s hands. She grasped them firmly, peeling Miren’s fingers from the gritty material.
“You’ve had an ordeal, m’lady. But your gown is white. Perfectly white.”
Miren clung to the older woman. “No. Look! Look again! It’s stained exactly like….”
Like the dress she’d worn when she’d betrayed the man she loved.
Sienna’s eyes were moist. Her gaze filled with pity as she shook her head.
Miren snatched her hands away. Lifting her skirt, she rushed into the washroom. “Warm water!” A moment later, the ornate silver faucet gushed water. Miren stoppered the sink and watched as the bowl filled.
“What are you doing?”
Miren hadn’t heard Sienna’s soft footsteps over the sound of the rushing water. “I can’t let Matthias see me like this. I can’t.”
Glancing around, she spotted a sea sponge on a shelf. She tripped over her dress as she lunged for it, but caught herself on the side of the clawfoot tub.
Sienna rushed to her side. “Lady Miren, please!”
“Water off.” Miren skirted around her maid to reach the sink. Soap from the sponge bubbled up when she squeezed it in the water. She rung it once before setting it against her filthy skirt.
Miren scrubbed the gown as though it was the bottom of an iron pot rather than handspun silk. She scrubbed until her arm grew tired, and her jaw ached from clenching. But not a single centimeter of dirt lifted from the fabric.
“Stop this now.” Sienna tried to pull the sponge from Miren’s grip. “You’ll rip a hole right through it!”
“Better a hole than this! If he sees me in this, it’ll only make him remember what I did to him.”
Miren sank to the heated floor, the stained silk spilling out from her body like a marbled lily pad. She pressed the sponge even harder against the gown. Her hair came loose, and she could feel tears and sweat running down her face and ruining her makeup.
Sienna ran from the room.
She likely thought Miren was imagining the muck covering her. That couldn’t be true. Miren could see the grit swimming in tiny pools of water before it was absorbed. She knew it was real even if the others didn’t believe her.
But then why didn’t it get any better?
Miren screamed and beat her stomach with her fists. Then she grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself up. She was about to plunge the sponge back into the sink, but stopped and reeled back. Instead of the clear, soapy water that had filled the basin minutes before, there was now a bowl of half melted, dirty snow.
“What?” She stepped closer.
A clump of snow broke apart and the dirt swirled around the pieces.
“Who’s doing this?” She yelled. The sound echoed off the mirror and marble walls. “I said I was sorry. I’m so sorry!”
Miren dropped the sponge and collapsed to her knees. She sobbed, her tears falling onto the unmoved stain—the unyielding reminder of what she’d done to Matthias.
She arched her back, and reached for the ribbons on her gown. Miren pulled on the ends, but they wouldn’t come loose. Her breath came in gasps as she clawed at the closure along her spine. But the more she worked her fingertips between the ties, the tighter the gown seemed to compress her ribs. The stars on the ceiling danced in her blurred vision. She tried to draw breath, but it refused to enter her lungs.
“Miren!” Matthias’s voice filled the room. “Sienna, you may wait for us in Lady Miren’s chambers.”
While soft footsteps receded, the sound of Matthais’s heavy boots came nearer. His warm hands grasped her shoulders.
“No! Don’t touch me!” Miren tried to pull away, but his grip on her only tightened. “Please, Matthias. You can’t see me like this. I don’t want you to see it.” She splayed her hands over her abdomen, trying to cover the stains.
“Miren, look at me.”
Instead she closed her eyes, squeezing filthy tears from between her lashes. She didn’t have to see her face to know it was coming from her—from her own body. Grit scratched her cheek when she wiped the tears away.
Dalton hadn’t done this to her. She’d done it to herself. How could she bear to see Matthias’s face when he realized what she was?
One hand left her shoulder and came to rest on her face. His thumb wiped sandy tears across her cheek. “Sienna tells me you think your dress is stained.”
Despite her resolve not to look at him, Miren’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t you see it? Look at me! I can’t make it stop! It just keeps coming no matter what I do.”
Matthias, eyes as wet as her own, sat on the damp floor. He pulled her into his lap, wrapping her in his cloak. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” Miren squeezed her eyes shut again. She couldn’t watch as her filth infected his crisp wedding cloak.
“Would I lie to you?”
“Of course not.” He never had. And by comparison, the stains covering her looked so much darker.
“In a moment, I want you to open your eyes and see what I see when I look at you.” Matthias kissed her hair. “Look, Miren.”
She forced her eyes open. The gown, crumpled as it was in Matthias’s lap, was bright white. So much so that she had to turn her eyes away. “What…. Did you do this?”
Matthias nodded and wrapped his cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I took it all away the moment you entered my jet in the Fourth last year. No matter what happens, this is all I’ll ever see because this is who you are now.” He wiped her face with his hand again, and this time, there was no sting of sand on her skin.
“Am I—”
Mad?
“You allowed your guilt to control your mind. Nothing more.”
Miren pressed her face into his neck and sobbed. A weight lifted from inside her chest like a bird taking flight.
“Miren? Marry me today?”
Meeting his gaze, Miren studied the earnestness, the shameless love he poured into her until she overflowed with it.
“I’ll wait.” He kissed her fingers. “Tomorrow. Next week if you wish.”
Maybe it was all right that she didn’t deserve this, because she couldn’t leave him. Not only did her happiness depend on him, but her very life.
“Today,” she said. “I’ll marry you today.”
A grin spread over his mouth and lit his eyes.
She sank back onto his shoulder, clinging to him for a long time. Then Matthias helped her to her feet.
Glancing down at her dress, she found it exactly the same as it had been last week during the final fitting. The sun-like brightness was gone, but so were the stains. To her right, the sink was full of nothing but soapy water.
Matthias hooked an arm around her waist and the other grasped her hand. Miren leaned her head on his shoulder and let him lead her from the room.
***
Thrusters sputtered to life beneath the royal hover jet before it sped from the hangar. Miren closed her eyes against the flood of memories that sound brought to mind.
Matthias’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, draping her in warmth. “Miren?”
She looked up, gaze caught by her husband’s gentle, grey eyes. A smile broke over her mouth. “I want to make new memories with you.”
“That’s good, because I have a few plans to do just that.”
“Only a few?”
He laughed. “Perhaps more than a few. Enough to last this life and the next.”
She kissed him, then rested against his side. Outside the window, stars were just beginning to appear in the dusty sky.
As she listened to the hum of the jet’s thrusters, Miren pulled Matthais’s cloak tighter around her shoulders until the ache vanished and she felt only peace.
There is a tin pail of ash hanging on a nail in the doorframe with my name on it. Every day before I leave for the schoolhouse, I use the hard-bristled brush from the bucket to dust my dress, arms, shoes in darkness. My hands are covered in soot when I drop the brush into the pail. I smear it over my cheeks and the bridge of my nose.
My brothers and sisters do not use the ash because it is mine. I am my family’s darkness.
When I step into the sunshine, I can smell orange blossoms. It makes me sneeze, but I inhale anyway. One of my older cousins, Leena, waits for me outside. She takes my hand, ignoring the filth. I walk far enough away that my sooty dress won’t dirty hers, but close enough to keep hold of her hand.
The neighbor looks mean at me through her window when we walk by. I cannot look at her face, so I watch my boots instead.
The only sound we hear on the way to school is the whistle of wind through the groves and the crunch of gravel underfoot. Our steps are the same. The weight of our feet on the rocks is almost the same. We are almost exactly the same, but we’re not. I am the dark one, the wrong one.
I sit in the back of the schoolhouse, and Leena sits in front. She smiles at me and points to the seat next to her. I shake my head. That seat is not for me. Mine is in the back so no one has to look at my wrongness.
My best friend, Tareck, slides onto the bench next to me, a trail of soot maring the wood where he’s touched it. He is his family’s darkness too.
Our eyes meet, and we both smile at the ash on our faces. It isn’t a smile that makes merry. It only sees and likes to be seen. One day I want to grow bigger and learn how to make his wrongness go away. Perhaps there is a special school, a no-more-darkness school.
Sometimes my mind wanders while the instructor talks. I hear him when he speaks about shapes and numbers, but I cannot remember the story of our king he told us after lunch. I ask Tareck when we’re dismissed, but he says too many words, and I forget to listen. I hope he doesn’t notice.
Leena takes my hand and leads me through the center of town so we can buy taffy. The lemon one is my favorite. I eat five pieces, then search the crevices of my teeth with the tip of my tongue. I like that lemon taffy does not look like ash. I hope it doesn’t mind a dark one eating it.
Behind the general store, a stranger digs a well. His coveralls are tied around his waist and his flannel shirt is soaked through. Sweat drips off the orange hair falling in front of his eyes. Papa said that the man was asked to dig the well, but no one in town hired him.
I stop and watch beads of sweat fall from his hair into the hole. I want to get closer to see the bottom, but I don’t.
“He might be secretly bad,” my cousin says.
But he looks nice to me.
Leena tugs my arm, and I sigh through my nose. I want to watch him until I cannot see his orange hair anymore, like the sinking sun.
He looks up when I exhale and meets my gaze. He smiles. I smile back.
“Why are you digging a well?” Leena asks. “We already have one. Kingston has an aqueduct and—”
“This isn’t that kind of well.” He rests his arm on the top of the shovel.
“Not the kind of well that gives water to the town?” she presses.
He wipes his forehead on his shoulder. “Not that kind of water.”
Leena shifts her weight, then tugs my arm again. “C’mon, Fenn.”
But I slip my hand from hers and take a step closer to the hole. I crane my neck to see the bottom. “Is it a magic well?”
He cocks his head, thoughtful. “Something like that.”
“Does it grant wishes?”
“No. It’s for washing.”
My heart squeezes like Mama’s dish rag. “But—”
“C’mon, Fenn!” Leena grabs my hand, and drags me away.
Tears drip off my chin on the way home. I watch them fall onto the dirt and stones, imagining the bottom of the man’s hole looked just the same from his dripping sweat. We are almost the same, but we’re not. I am a dark one.
If it had been a wishing well, I would not need a no-more-darkness school. But maybe the magic water is not for wrong people who have wishes.
The neighbor is in her rose garden when I walk by. She glares at me, then moves her shovel and seeds closer to her. She thinks I am a stealer.
Inside, the house smells like baking bread. Papa kneels by the fire gathering soot in my bucket. He breaks up the chunks with the end of the brush. Then he hangs it on the nail by the door before kissing me on my head. I follow him to wash up in the small kitchen.
At dinner, I tell everyone about the strange man. When I get to the part about the wishing well, they all laugh at me. I do not finish the story.
When I finally rest my head on my pillow, I think about all the arithmetic I did not finish because my mind only had space to think about the magic well. The school master will use the paddle on my legs again, but that’s okay. I am used to the sting now. Dark ones always are.
***
The man is digging the well again today. If I crouch down, his neck looks like it is growing out of the ground like a stem.
“We don’t have time to watch him, Fenn.” Leena tries to drag me away, but I plant my heels in the gravel. “We’re going to be late for school!”
“Go without me. I will get the paddle anyway.”
She sighs and walks away, long brown braids swinging like ropes over her shoulder blades.
“Back again?” The man asks. He does not look up from his work.
I inch closer and kneel on the hole’s edge. The bottom is dotted with dark specks from his sweat.
I knew it. . . .
“Why are you digging the well? Leena says you are secret bad because no one asked you to dig here.”
The man laughs, but I do not think he is laughing at me.
“Someone did tell me to dig here, but they aren’t from this town.”
“Who? A wizard?”
“Nope. Better than a wizard.”
I inch closer so the toes of my boots hang over the edge. A few pebbles fall into the hole.
He looks up, and rests his arm on the top of the shovel. “What else is better than a wizard but a king?”
I gasp. “Does the king have magic too?”
“That’s right. Your king has a deep well of magic, and his very favorite thing is to share it with you.”
“But you said it was only for laundry.”
He laughs again, and it sounds like a dog’s bark. “I said it was for washing. Can you think of something you would like to wash besides clothes?”
I look at my hands, at the ash under my fingernails. Tareck’s face swims before my eyes. “Dark ones and wrongness?”
The man frowns. He looks at my smeared cheeks and dress. “What are dark ones?” His voice sounds angry, but gentle. Maybe it is not me that made his voice that way.
“Most families have a dark one.”
He cocks his head like Leena’s dog when he is confused.
“We must wear our darkness,” I say, “so that others will know we are loud, or slow, or forgetting. My papa gives me my darkness in a pail of ash, and I put it on. I am my family’s darkness.”
He jabs the tip of his shovel into the earth like a weapon. He does not look pleased. “This water won’t wash that away, because that isn’t true darkness.”
“But you said it washes—”
“Not your face or clothes or hair. When I finish this well, I’ll offer everyone in town a cup of the king’s water to drink. If they take it, it’ll wash the darkness from their heart, and they’ll be rightness.”
“The whole town won’t need it, because not all of them are dark ones.”
One of his eyebrows jumps up like it’s going to fly away. “You think so? Covering a child in ash to mark them for something they can’t control is something a dark one would do. Everyone needs the king’s water, Fenn.”
I clench my hands into fists. “What does it mean?”
“It means that no matter how much ash you put on, you will never be a dark one again if you drink this. But no matter how many baths someone takes, they will never be clean until they have tasted the water from the king’s well.”
“Can Tareck have some too?”
“Anyone who wants to be free of their darkness can have a drink from this well.”
I jump to my feet, and a cloud of dust rises between us. “I will come back.”
My feet raise clouds of dust all the way home. When I walk inside, the house is empty and all I hear is my own breathing. I snatch the pail from the doorpost.
That is not true darkness.
The ash billows like the dust on the road when I dump it in the fireplace. I try to smile, but I do not feel happy. Papa will be angry when he gets home. He will say that I am a selfish girl not to warn people of my wrongness.
I kneel to scoop soot back into the pail with my hand.
My name is on the tin written in ash. It belongs to me.
***
Tareck, two girls, and one older boy from school come with me to the well after supper. We are all dark ones. I asked the others why they did not want to be clean. They looked at me with anger in their faces and said they were not wrong like me. They do not need the king or his magic well.
Tareck and I lean over the hole where the man is now a foot below ground.
The shovel makes a funny slopping sound in the dirt like cucheh. Cucheh. Cucheh. Cuch—
A low gurgling noise springs from the bottom of the well like the first bubbles to break the surface of Mama’s corn chowder.
Water.
My hands and knees shake, but I am not afraid. Tareck smiles. He is shaking too.
The older boy named Cairn kneels next to us. He pulls a tin cup from his school bag and hands it to the man. “Can I have a drink now, sir? I don’t mind the dirt.”
The red haired man straightens and looks the dark boy over. “This water washes the inside, not the outside.”
Cairn dips his head. “Yes, sir.”
The cup fills with muddy water, and the boy drinks like he is offered fresh cider. It drips off his chin and speckles the dust under his bent knees. Cairn sniffs like he is trying not to cry. I wish he would so I could too.
The man refills the cup, and Tareck takes the next drink before passing it to me. I do not ask for it to be refilled before drinking the last swallow. Cool water and sand pass over my tongue.
I feel coldness seep into my ribs then stomach. It speaks with a gentle voice that my ears cannot hear.
“You’re rightness now, Fenn,” the well digger says with a grin as he takes the cup back to refill it.
“Thank you,” I whisper. My tight throat does not want me to speak anymore.
I turn and dart down the road toward home. The pail is there with my name on it.
It stares at me like it is mine. But I do not want it anymore.
Slowly, I slide it from the hook, wipe my name off with my sleeve, and pull the nail out of the frame with my fingers. It hurts a little.
The ash goes in the fireplace and the pail in the bottom of the garbage where no one will find it. I fill the hole in the doorpost with plaster so everyone will see the bright white spot where there used to hang a pail of ash. Father will be angry, but that’s okay. I am used to the paddle.
After I change my clothes and scrub my face, I walk outside so the trees and sky can see my clean face. The wind blows, and I smell the orange blossoms.
A hand grabs my wrist very hard. I look up. The neighbor is standing very close, and her round face looks like an angry bull.
“How dare you stand out here without your darkness!”
She drags me into her house. It smells like lavender and cats. I scrunch my nose. The neighbor unlocks the door on her black iron stove. She uses the little broom next to the stove to cover my dress in soot.
I try to pull away. “I do not want the darkness anymore!” I say. But she will not let go.
Once she finishes rubbing a scratchy coal over my cheeks, she shoves me out the door. “Don’t think I won’t tell your Father about this!” The door slams shut.
Tears dripping, I run down the road and into town. The man is there sitting on the side of the well. He looks at me when I sit by him.
“What’s wrong?” He asks with a frown in his eyes and his voice.
And I tell him. The wrinkle between his eyebrows gets deeper when I speak of the neighbor. I like to watch the freckles disappear into his wrinkled skin. It helps the tears stop coming.
“People can put soot on your dress, Fenn,” he says when I’m quiet, “but they can’t make you a wrong one.” He bumps my shoulder with his. The wrinkle is gone, and all his freckles are out. “Do you know why?”
I sniff and watch my feet dangle over the water in the well. I am not my family’s darkness.
“I am a girl of rightness.”
Photo by Mika Baumeister.
Have you read my book, Automated? Here’s the place to read and write reviews! Scroll down to the comment section to leave an honest review.
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What’s the book about? I’m glad you asked! Automated is a steampunk Pinocchio retelling. Here’s a description!
In a world where every person is born an automaton, enslaved to their gears like a clock to time, Nico only wants to be free.
He was disassembled and discarded with the garbage—the kind of treatment a mischievous orphan like Nico has come to expect . . . until the day the clocksmith, Hubert, reassembles his broken mechanics, calling him son. But with Hubert’s rival, Rigar, and Nico’s penchant for trouble, the fragile new family is ripped apart.
On the run from Rigar’s goons, Nico must learn to lay down his pride and accept the help of the invisible Mechanic if he’s ever going to be a real boy. Will Nico escape his own lies and find the freedom to live with a heart of flesh?
For a little over a year now, our family has been living near Palm Springs, California where my husband, Tim grew up. If you haven’t heard of it before, well . . . it’s a desert. And this year has been particularly hot, reaching record high temperatures. We’ve prayed for rain, but the Lord has not seen fit to send it until this weekend. It’s been more than two hundred days without rain.
Well it didn’t exactly pour, but the temperatures plummeted into the 40s at night, and we felt a little sprinkling during the day on Saturday, November 7—the day Joe Biden and Kamala Harris were confirmed as president-elect and vice president-elect.
This morning as we drove to church, the sky was clear over the desert, but rain clouds were visible over the mountains as we headed west on the freeway. A rainbow on the north side of the road, low to the ground and shining brightly, was covered by a drifting brown cloud from the south side. It was a strangely beautiful image, marred by the presence of smoke.
As we drew closer, the kids stared, yelled, pointed at the fire to our left. We could see a few flames and billowing smoke amongst the desert’s windmills. “But look!” I called back. “Look at the rainbow! It’s so bright, and now it’s a full bow. It’s touching the ground on both sides!” To our right was a breathtaking sight as every color stood out in all its glory, and the top of the bow was even shorter than the nearby foothills.
But they wouldn’t give it more than a cursory glance.
“They’re too distracted by the fire,” Tim said. And he was right.
After another attempt to turn their attention away from the smoke, I gave up. What was a rainbow next to such a disaster?
We drove between the mirrored sights, the irony of it not lost on us.
It occurred to me as the car was soon covered in dark rain clouds beyond the mountains, that we’re all just like my children right now. Whether you are celebrating the victory of our new president-elect or mourning, it doesn’t really matter. We have convinced ourselves that this election means everything for our country. We have bought into President Trump’s line that this is the most important election of our lives. But this is not true. We are distracted by disaster. If your disaster has been the last four years, that is a distraction. If your disaster is the next four years, that is also a distraction.
Do not turn your eyes away from what is right in front of your face. God controls the rain, the wind, the heat of the summer. He ordains presidents and nations, and nothing happens outside of his plan. Not only is he sovereign and will bring about judgement for all of our disastrous sin in the end of time, he will intervene now. He will discipline and show mercy even now. He is constantly sending down rainbows and blessings as a reminder of his faithfulness to keep his promises, but you will never even know they’re there unless you look away from the disaster surrounding you.
I adjusted the chains across my back. Rusted links the size of magnolia leaves slapped my legs when I moved. A groan slipped past my lips as the metal dug further into my shoulders.
Hand shading my eyes, I glanced up the hillside toward the gate at the top—wooden with an iron ring instead of a knob. Towering hedges spread out from the door as far as the eye could see. Gray clouds dusted the sky beyond the hill.
I needed to get through that gate.
My feet moved forward—one step. Two. Three. . . .
With every bend of my knee, every pad of my foot on the grassy hillside, the chain bit into my flesh, orange rust staining my white t-shirt.
Just one more step.
Okay, now another.
Another.
The links slipped on my shoulders, so I looped them around the back of my neck like a scarf. I winced as they pinched the tender skin on my throat.
Don’t stop, don’t cry. Just take another step.
The wind picked up, and I glanced at the gate again. It didn’t look any closer. Could it be a mirage? Didn’t those only exist in the desert?
The breeze carried the scent of salt water. How strange. . . . There was no water to be seen. But it didn’t matter. Only the gate mattered now.
Just keep walking up the hill and don’t think.
I shifted the links, and my hands came away covered in corrosive rust. My back ached. I didn’t know how long I could go on like this before I had to stop and rest. Would I be able to stand up again?
In front of the gate, a frothy white wave rose into the air out of the base of the hedge. My breath caught in my chest. Panic seized my body as though every limb was encased in a Chinese finger trap.
The monstrous wall of salt water curled at the top, then slammed into the grass only yards in front me. I leaned backward, the weight from the chain pulling me down the slope. I stumbled, but didn’t fall. There was nowhere I could go, nowhere to run, even if I was able to move quickly with this burden.
In mere seconds, the wave was upon me, swallowing my form like the fall of a pebble in the ocean. Ice cold water pricked my skin like a thousand pins. I held my breath and tried to kick up to the surface. But burdened as I was, my body only moved down. My lungs burned from lack of oxygen.
As I tumbled, the chain wrapped itself around my limbs like a snake with a mind of its own, cutting into my arms and neck.
I opened my mouth to scream. Salty brine rushed in to silence my terror.
Then the water filled with voices.
Their scorn, my shame pressed down on me along with the pressure of the wave. The sound was familiar. I knew those voices and remembered their words. With every syllable, the weight of the chain encircling me grew heavier.
And there was nothing I could do to make it stop.
Dear God, help me!
Shadows whispered on the edges of my vision. Instinctively, I tried to draw breath, but only filled my lungs with more water. I flailed and kicked against the water, the chains, the hopelessness of it all.
Then my feet touched solid ground. First my toes, then my heels settled. But instead of spongy, wet grass, I felt something hard underfoot.
Water peeled away from me, and a single ray of sunlight pierced the shadows to kiss my brow.
I coughed and retched water from my lungs, blinked the salt from my eyes.
Through the haze of water still clinging to my lashes, I could just make out glass stairs beneath my feet. Although they felt like stone, my chain fell through the glass like . . . water.
I blinked droplets off my lashes. The stairs weren’t glass at all, but the wave itself.
“Walk,” said a melodic voice somewhere above me.
Coughing, I said, “I w-want to, but I can’t.” I lifted the chain encircling my arms. “It’s so heavy. . . . And the gate never gets any closer.”
“Walk,” he said, all the more coaxing and kind. The sound seemed to thrum inside me.
I bit my lip, and took a tentative step forward. Again, I landed on something solid. Yet the link that fell through the surface of the glassy stair disintegrated—rusted orange particles dancing in a salty swell.
I took another step forward, the sun’s rays spreading across my face as each link in the chain brushed the surface of the water and fell away.
The gate, once unmoved, drew nearer as I climbed. Warmth blossomed over my form, beginning at my head and moving into the center of my chest.
The last few links in my chain crumbled in a gust of wind as I stood at the top of the watery staircase. Orange dust lingered in the air around me, sparkling in the blazing sun, before dissipating.
I released a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the majesty of what lay beyond the barrier.
With two hands, I reached for the iron ring and pulled.
“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are full of the bones of the dead and every kind of impurity.” Matthew 23:27
A clump of hair fell from Sapphira’s temple revealing blood and bone beneath. She snatched it from the vanity, spread super glue along the perimeter of the tissue, and reattached it to her skull.
John popped his head into the bedroom. “This is your thirty-minute warning, Phira,” he said in a poor imitation of a robot. His self-satisfied chuckle bounced down the hallway and into the bedroom like one of those obnoxious tiny rubber balls the kids liked so much.
She frowned, and that stupid hole in her cheek reopened. If he’d just leave her be, she’d already be done with her hair and makeup.
“Okay, babe!” Her voice was as sticky sweet as her morning latte.
More super glue to seal the puckering flesh below her cheekbone. A lot more. Sapphira tapped her foot and held the hole closed while it dried.
“Good enough,” she mumbled, scraping bits of crusty glue from her fingertips.
She picked up the bottle of liquid foundation and dabbed a generous amount onto a stained sponge, then began applying it to her face. Although the label indicated this shade was “Fair,” it still appeared dark against her deathly pale skin. She continued to apply it over her entire face, neck, ears, and chest before moving on to her hands. The rest of her skin, either too pale or rotting, would be covered by long sleeves and a smart pair of black slacks.
John’s crooning baritone voice filtered through the door. “You’ve brought me up from the grave—”
Sapphira shot to her feet, marched across the bedroom, and slammed the door. How did he expect her to be done in time for church with all that noise? Some people were so inconsiderate.
Back in her vanity chair, she brushed out her thin hair ever so slowly. There were few spots left that weren’t clinging on by super glue and a prayer. She tapped her foot—
Her foot? Where did it . . . ?
Sapphira scanned the floor beneath her, but only a dark smear could be seen on the carpet. She looked toward the door and spotted the foot halfway across the room, deep crimson blood soaking through the white, nylon sock. Throwing the hairbrush against the mirror, she growled deep in her throat.
Now she’d have to sew the whole thing back on, and she wouldn’t have time to curl her hair. What would Lettie say when Sapphira walked in looking like one of those moms who wear jeans to church—or worse, yoga pants. If only her trusty glue were strong enough to keep her foot secure.
With a heavy sigh, she sat on the end of the bed, removed the dirty sock, and started to stitch the skin together.
One, two, three, four. . . .
A drop of watery blood splattered onto the third stitch.
“Wha—?” Her fingers skimmed over her face, looking for the offending wound. Moisture met fingertips beneath her nose. Her brain must be oozing again. Such wonderful timing.
Ignoring the rhythmic drip against her ankle, Sapphira finished attaching her foot. Then she leaned across the mattress, snatched a tissue from the bedside table, and shredded it. After rolling the strips into balls, she shoved them up her nose. Breathing was overrated anyway.
The bedroom door swung open, and John stepped in holding a worn Bible and a stupid grin. “Ready to go?”
Sapphira ground her teeth in annoyance. “Sure, sweetheart! Just a sec.” She pulled on a clean sock, and bent down for her flats.
John appeared at her shoulder, and Sapphira craned her neck to meet his gaze.
“Ouch, hun. I never understand how you can turn your head so far. Are you ok?” His brow furrowed with concern as he searched her eyes. “You always look so tired. Maybe you should go to one of those sleep studies.”
Slipping her shoes on, she said, “You worry too much. I’m perfectly fine. In fact, I’ll be even more fine when we’re at church worshipping our savior.” She stood and pasted on a smile, careful not to reopen the hole in her cheek. “All set!”
In Dr. Seuss’s book, Oh the Places You’ll Go, there is a waiting place—a “most useless place.” Where people of all shapes and sizes are “just waiting.” In Seuss’s defense, he was implying these people lacked initiative to do something with their lives. But despite the truth of that, God still keeps us in that place at times. In a recent sermon, my pastor Mark Rogers said, “. . . when it comes to God, the waiting place is never a useless place. God gets so much done in the times that he has us waiting.”
Many of us feel the tension of the waiting place right now—whether still in partial quarantine, searching for a new job, or waiting for schools to reopen. God knows waiting for future grace is difficult. That’s why he instructs us not only to have patience, but courage. Psalm 27:14 says, “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”
The Bible often uses words like strength or courage when discussing waiting (Jas. 5:8, 11; Is. 40:31; Ps. 33:20; Col. 1:11). If courage is strength in the face of fear, what does that have to do with waiting? If we’re honest with ourselves, we’d see that fear is a vice that often accompanies waiting—a fear of future suffering, of not being in control, or even of what God might bring. But the Lord tells us, “let your heart take courage” (Ps. 27:14) because our God can bring goodness from any amount of suffering, present or future.
During my husband’s job hunt, he often reminds me that God is cooking, and we must wait. We can smell the feast he’s preparing for us, and it only makes us hungrier. In that time of eager waiting, our faith is increased because we know God will be good to us—we can smell the food! We’ve eaten of his blessings before, and can almost taste what’s to come before it arrives. With such eager longing to experience God’s goodness in this world and the next, is it surprising how much courage is needed to stay in the waiting place?
I enjoy experimenting in the kitchen, and my three year old, Peter, likes to help. A couple months ago, Peter and I were preparing falafel patties when I turned away for a second, telling him not to touch anything. When I turned back, he’d dumped half a bottle of lemon juice into the bowl of chickpea flour. Had I not immediately poured off the juice, the whole thing would have been ruined.
I love how eager he is to help, but at his age, I can’t look away for even a moment in case he decides to continue cooking without me. He thinks he knows what needs to be done, but he ends up ruining the food instead.
We are often like a small child when God is preparing a way for us—eager to fix when we’ve been told not to touch. But in the waiting place, all our efforts and plans will fail or produce sour consequences.
Another Peter struggled with putting his own plans above those of his teacher. In Matthew 16:21-23, Jesus tells his disciples about his death and resurrection. “Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, ‘Oh no, Lord! This will never happen to you!’ Jesus turned and told Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me because you’re not thinking about God’s concerns but human concerns’” (CSB).
Peter was essentially saying, “You may be the Messiah, but I still know better than you. What you’re saying will never happen.” Such sentiment deeply lacked faith, which is why it produced such a strong rebuke. Peter must have been shocked by Christ’s words. Perhaps he thought he was somehow loving Jesus by saying he wouldn’t die in such a way.
Perhaps we also think our intentions are good when we refuse to wait and submit to God’s plan. Instead it shows that same lack of faith as Peter.
I’m a fixer by nature. When there’s a health or developmental issue in my family, I won’t stop searching for a solution—even if it takes years. Sometimes my persistence produces good results. But at other times, I push past every dead end God errects in my path. In the end, I have to repent and deal with the consequences of my scheming and lack of faith.
Rogers said, “There are things that only God can do, and so we often find ourselves waiting on him to act. . . . We all know that waiting can be hard, right? It’s much more natural to try to make things happen ourselves—to push, and plan, and scrape, and sometimes even manipulate in order to make things happen.”
What would it look like to have faith when your life is characterized by waiting? It wouldn’t look like obsessive hunting on the internet. It wouldn’t look like hovering over all your problems feeling hopeless. It would be prayerful, courageous, and faithful. “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him” (Lam 3:25). If you’re in a season of waiting, God is preparing a feast. His goodness and faithfulness will never fail.
Legend of the Wapa by Ernie Bowman is the fourth fictional title released by the Christian publisher, Cruciform Press. They have an interesting platform for works of Christian fiction and non-fiction less than one hundred pages in length! I would highly recommend checking out Cruciform Fiction if you’re in the market for a solid Christian novella.
In Legend of the Wapa, the Allens are a missionary couple living deep in the jungle with the Kilo tribe. Ian and Rachael have dedicated their lives to learning the language of this small people group in order to translate the word of God. Life is ripe with the humor of a huge cultural and linguistic clash between a tribal people and a modern American family. When strange droppings are found in the jungle, the Kilo are convinced they belong to a mythical creature called the Wapa. But the unsuccessful hunt for the animal leaves the life of one of the Kilo resting on Ian and his meager medical supplies.
I’ve never read missionary fiction before, but I will definitely do it again. The life of a Bible translator is nothing to scoff at as the Allens can attest to. Their days are filled with adventure, humor, embarrassment as they learn the culture, and education coming from both sides. I found myself frequently laughing aloud at the absurdity of many of the situations they found themselves in as modern Americans in a rural, tribal setting. I don’t know anything about the author, Ernie Bowman, but he left the impression that he’d either been in this situation himself or he intimately knew of someone who had. The detail and bits of information only a tribal missionary would know were frequent and amazing to read.
Legend of the Wapa was hilarious, adventurous, and made me want to go tromping off into the jungle to make some Kilo friends of my own. I especially loved the emphasis the author placed on the faults of the missionaries—that they were not superhuman saints for doing what they did. They are like us. Sinners like us who happen to live in the middle of the jungle.
Content warning: Mild action and gore.
The Southern Baptist Convention 2019 was a momentous occasion. Not only had I never attended before, but everything from the resolutions to the panels to the coffee dates were alive with the whirlwind of change.
Sexual abuse.
Racial reconciliation.
Women’s roles in the church.
No one was afraid to talk about the SBC’s dirty laundry. We didn’t always agree, but that was okay. We talked about all of it in painstaking detail and invited the whole world to watch. Then we voted that sexual abuse and racism were grounds for expelling churches from the convention. And I couldn’t be more proud of our leadership for their humility and resolve in these areas.
While remaining steadfast in conservative, Biblical principles and complementarianism, I saw men—leading men—affirm the value and voice of women in the church. At the SBC Women’s Leadership event, our president, J.D. Greear, expressed his excitement about the new generation of women and change we are ushering in. And while he was glad for what has already taken place, he reminded us that we are only starting to scratch the surface.
The SBC (along with other conservative denominations) are just beginning to see the effects of the minimization of women in churches—especially in the South where legalism over leniency is more common. And I would have to agree fully with Greear—there is much to be done, not primarily in the convention but in church culture.
I was in a state of awe during the convention. There was so much to see, hear, learn, and read. I couldn’t have done it all if I’d wanted to. And I was just so darn happy to see change finally taking place in so many areas, I didn’t immediately feel where it was still lacking. But as we drove out of town on Thursday morning, I finally put my finger on it.
No one asked me what I do.
You know those moments when you get stuck at a table with a bunch of people you don’t know? You’re forced to make small talk, ask where they’re from, what they do, how many kids they have. But people in the church don’t ask women what they do unless they’re alone.
I asked my husband how many times he had a chance to tell someone he’s a philosophy professor and PhD student. It was so many, he’d lost count. When he asked me the same, I recounted the one time I told someone about my various writing endeavors—at the women’s leadership event. It was at a place where there were no men at the table and women only had eyes and ears for one another.
That realization stung deeply. All the implications crashed down around me. I could list all the reasons why they ask him and not her, but there was one that stuck out to me above all the others: they already knew. Or they thought they knew, and they didn’t care to know more.
All the people at those tables and booths subconsciously assumed I was a stay-at-home mom and my husband had a real job. And I assumed right along with them. Don’t think I’m trying to be high and mighty in my critique here. You can bet I did it too. I am guilty of not wanting to hear about other women’s kids and schooling choices because I think (wrongly) that it’s boring and ordinary. Nor do I immediately assume they have something they do outside the home or in their spare time. It’s not something I would ever have admitted to until now since it’s mostly subconscious.
But here’s the thing—I am a stay-at-home mom. My husband really does have a job outside our home. I change diapers, cook the food, fold the laundry (sometimes), and then some. And all those things are extremely important. There were seasons—and rightly so—of my life where that is all I did, and all I was able to do because my kids were little.
But that isn’t the whole story for me. I am a woman who loves the church and the people in it. He has gifted me as well as every woman to serve his church in some capacity. He has gifted you, sister, to serve the body for the sake of the kingdom.
I have things that I do apart from my family. And if we were honest with ourselves, we look a lot more like the Proverbs 31 woman than we usually give ourselves credit for. We care for our homes, our families, start businesses, use our teaching/serving/leading gifts in a multitude of venues, and pretty much git it done.
I know a lot of men in SBC churches who think very highly of women. Some of them even read theology books written by the opposite gender. But I can’t help but wonder if they would think to ask that woman, the one sitting at a table with her husband, what she does.
This is a glorious season of change in the church. Let’s all work together for the sake of the gospel.
**Click here to read Part One**
Overcorrecting Subculture
I’ve lived in four different states in the US and visited ten countries around the world. God has been gracious to show me how different cultures and subcultures can greatly impact the way we live out our faith. I want to focus on two specific cultures that I have the most experience with: First, where I was born and raised in Southern California, and second, where I have lived the last eight and half years in the Bible Belt of the South (Kentucky for six years and Texas for two and a half).
As I’ve said, it is human nature to overcorrect problems within our subculture. There are two main ways we do this as individuals. First, we observe the subculture around us and think that it is right, then demonize and stereotype people outside of it. Here are some overly simplistic examples: “Southern California is so much more enlightened than most of the US. I’m so glad I don’t have to live in the South with all those racists and fundamentalists.” Or, “The South is so much more grounded in its history and the Bible. I’m so glad I don’t have to live around all those crazy liberal feminists on the West Coast.”
The second way we overcorrect is to observe the subculture we live in, think it’s wrong, and then jump ship entirely, usually into a very different subculture with it’s own set of problems. Here are some examples: “Southern California is way too progressive and the churches are so shallow. I wish we could go to one of those churches that sings only hymns, offers Sunday school, and has a potluck after service every week.” Or, “The South is so legalistic and they hate women. I wish I could go to a more inclusive community in California where I can serve anywhere or teach anyone.”
These examples are trite, I know. But you get my point. No culture is perfect because everywhere you go, there will be sinful people there. There will be sinful you there. Yes, sometimes the answer to a problem is to jump ship. God can use discomfort to call you away from a place. But just because you’re uncomfortable doesn’t mean it’s time to quit. This is where temperance, critical thinking, and more importantly prayer comes in. Temperance is needed to say, “I know there is a problem with my community but I don’t want to throw the baby out with the bath water and think the solution is doing the exact opposite.” Critical thinking is needed to ask questions like, “I feel like there is nothing good about my community, but I know that can’t be true. What is good and what is bad? What is salvageable here? What needs to go?” Prayer can enlighten your path more than any virtue or critical thinking ability. There will be times when your options ahead look perfectly equal and you really have no idea what to do. Thank God for his Spirit that directs our hearts and minds toward wisdom.
Temperance and Secular Culture
How far is too far to participate in secular culture? How far is too far to pull out? Can I let my kids read Harry Potter? Should I go live on a farm in the middle of nowhere to escape secular culture?
I’m not actually going to answer any of those questions specifically. But I do want to talk about one of the virtues we use in answering these questions (and others) for ourselves and our families.
This is an age old conversation, but an important one. First let me quickly define some terms!
Temperance: The ability to moderate your actions. Most Bible translations refers to this as “self-control” in the lists of the fruit of the Spirit.
Virtue ethics: Focuses on the virtue or moral character—the heart, dispositions, and habits—of a person rather than on external actions and duty (deontology). We can see this in scripture in many places, most notably in the Sermon on the Mount.
Aristotle’s Golden Mean: Virtue is the mean between two extremes—the opposing ends being vices of excess and deficiency. This principle can be seen many times in the Bible when it talks about not turning aside. Such as Deut. 5:32, “Be careful to do as the Lord your God has commanded you; you are not to turn aside to the right or the left.”
There are two common dispositions towards American culture that I see in the church at the moment (and for all time really, but I’m going to speak only into modern, western society). One is unrestricted (or nearly) indulgence in secular culture which can lead to further sin and idolatry. This is the “excess” side of the golden mean scale. The other is total (or nearly) abstinence from secular culture which often leads to legalism and self-righteousness. This is the “deficient” side of the golden mean scale. Both are vices, not virtues.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking at this point. Most orthodox Christians attempt to find a balance between participation in and abstinence from culture. We don’t always draw the line in exactly the same place. I would agree with that. It’s even a good thing that we don’t all make the exact same choices with our cultural diet because some disagreement, as long as it is civil, builds up the body of Christ.
So then, why say those vices (a lack of temperance) are common? Although it is generally known that we should find balance with our participation in secular culture, there’s real confusion about how to express such temperance. Confusion comes from our evaluation of our subculture and the human tendency to overcorrect when we see a problem. More on overcorrecting subculture in Part Two.
Christians are not taught how to think critically. Most evangelical seminaries do not even offer classes in the basics of philosophy (i.e. critical thinking, logic, metaethics, etc.) whereas Catholic and Orthodox seminaries require them. (Rabbit trail: Why is that important? I could go on and on about that, but I’ll keep it simple. Lest you think “human philosophy” is all evil, recall that logic is a kind of science that says if A and B contradict each other, they can’t both be true. Seeing as God does not contradict himself, it’s safe to conclude that God is logical, and we should strive to be as well. We should not believe contradictions.)
Our church congregants as well as our church leaders typically have no training in how to think critically. And how can we rightly discern the balance of such things as cultural involvement without those skills? We usually don’t. We overcorrect into vice which leads some to cultural indulgence and idolatry and others to cultural abstinence and legalism. Then we sit back and judge those who overcorrect in the other direction. Without temperance, we will not only fall, often unknowingly, into vice, but we will have a complete lack of grace for others who simply fall differently.
Let me give you an example of these two things.
Indulgence (excess vice): The community of Christians who write and read science fiction and fantasy, like myself, varies widely. There are those who make great effort to think critically about how far they should go with their writing and reading and how closely it should resemble that of the secular market. Then there are others who, upon seeing the problems with abstaining from much of pop culture, delve headlong into the fantasy world without restraint. Some of their fiction includes sex and the use of explicitly dark magic by protagonists. They see themselves as critical thinkers because they dodge the bullet of “legalism.” Yet, in their new found freedom from fundamentalism, they display an utter lack of critical thinking against indulgence, seeing it as good or the lesser of two evils. Cultural indulgence in general is prone to either deleting parts of scripture or twisting the meaning to fit certain needs. By some of these well intentioned readers and authors, I have been accused of being a fundamentalist due to articles like this one that tell of my position on sexual purity. (Not to be confused with the purity movement which uses shame to keep young people from premarital sex.)
Abstinence (deficient vice): In some circles I run in, lifestyles such as homeschooling, stay-at-home moms, and even patriarchy are commonplace. For the right family and the right child, homeschooling is prudent. And not only am I a stay-at-home mom, but I think it’s a blessing for any mom to be able to stay with their child when they’re an infant and toddler. Yet, where the indulgent delete or twist scripture, the culturally abstinent tend to stretch the commands of the Bible like silly putty so that they are no longer recognizable. For example, Proverbs 22:6 says, “Train up a child in the way he should go.” This becomes the basis by which they advise others that public school is inadvisable or even immoral. Worse is the petrifying fear within the American conservative community of radical feminism. The overcorrection against such liberalism can be drastic and horribly unbiblical. Was the baby not thrown out with the bathwater by Paige Patterson, former president of a Southern Baptist seminary, when he advised a female student who had been sexually assaulted not to go to the police? In this conservative subculture, I have been labeled by some as erring in indulgence due to my stance on women’s roles within the church because I affirm their need to use their God-given spiritual gifts in accordance with scripture. Their role should not be defined by Bible-belt culture. Ironically, this view is shared by at least some professors at the theologically orthodox Southern Seminary.
I point out how I have been labeled by these subcultures not to merely complain or to show that I must be in the right because I think I fall in the middle of the two and, therefore, must have the virtue of temperance. But, instead, I want to illustrate that they can’t both be right. We can’t all be right, especially when we believe such contradictory things. I said before that disagreement, as long as it is civil, builds up the church. We must have temperance paired with grace if we are to flourish in unity. Knowing that it is in our nature to overcorrect into vice, grace is required for others who do the same in a different direction.
Pray that God grants his people temperance, wisdom, and understanding in this area. Ask also that we would learn to be more gracious to our brothers and sisters who are different from us.
The New York Times released an article this week about an African-American teenager forced to cut his hair, styled in dreadlocks with a cap over them, or forfeit his wrestling match. He chose to cut his hair. The article, not the teen, stated that he should not have to forgo part of his identity in order to continue the match.
The language in the article disturbed me. It wasn’t the teen who was using it but someone imposing that particular sense of identity on him without his consent. Perhaps he does consider it part of his identity. We may never know. But what disturbed me the most was that the way the author of the article uses “identity,” although normal for our society, was wildly ambiguous.
What is my identity? Who am I? Is my cultural identity the same as my individual human identity? Can I still be me if I’m stripped of my culture?
The word identity is often thrown around in these ambiguous terms. My appearance is my identity. My hometown is my identity. My gender is my identity. My church is my identity. But is this helpful? Does it diffuse racial tension or infuse it?
This is especially important for the Christian. Our individual identity is in Christ first before anything else. We should not be demanding of others to understand us whether they are unbelievers or weaker brothers and sisters in Christ. As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 9:19-23,
“Although I am free from all and not anyone’s slave, I have made myself a slave to everyone, in order to win more people. To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win Jews; to those under the law, like one under the law—though I myself am not under the law—to win those under the law. To those who are without the law, like one without the law—though I am not without God’s law but under the law of Christ—to win those without the law. To the weak I became weak, in order to win the weak. I have become all things to all people, so that I may by every possible means save some. Now I do all this because of the gospel, so that I may share in the blessings.”
As unpopular as this opinion may be, I am not my earthly culture. Culture, although important in many ways, is not something I will take to heaven with me. It is temporal and I am eternal, made to commune with Christ forever in heaven.
Right about now I probably sound like a know-it-all white evangelical who likes to tell other people who they can or can’t be. But I’m actually attempting the opposite. While keeping in mind that all cultures are flawed in some way, cultural identity should still be celebrated. The teen with dreadlocks shouldn’t have to cut them because of someone else’s cultural preferences. (Whether he actually broke a real rule by having long hair is moot because I’m trying to make a point here….)
To understand this better, I will give another example of evangelicals rudely butting into culture—one which I am passionate about: worship styles. It is so common, especially among my own people (the young, restless, and reformed), to tell people how to worship. “Don’t be too loud, it’s not a show!” “Your smoke machine is too distracting.” “Hymns are the only thing you should be singing.” And my personal favorite as it directly contradicts the example set for us in the Psalms: “Don’t sing any song that’s repetitive!”
Should we not celebrate our culture differences (as long as it does not contradict the Bible’s direct or implied teaching) with something that is as personal as music? Should we not worship God in our own musical, mother language? It is not wrong to play your music loud. It is not wrong to keep using the organ and singing hymns. It is not wrong to dance and shake a tambourine. It is not wrong whip out the synthesizer on a Sunday morning. Worship is a celebration! Celebrate in a way that best communicates your love for God. Celebrate in your own culture, and when need be, gladly celebrate in someone else’s culture for the sake of the gospel.
Cultural identity is much like listening to my favorite style of music. Or better yet, worship music done in my favorite style of music. It can make me dance, cry, or wrap up in a warm blanket with a cup of tea. It feels like belonging.
That’s what the author of the article is talking about when he says that boy was forced to forgo his identity in order to compete. And that’s why it was so offensive. It was like stripping him of his sense of belonging—stripping him of his cultural identity. What he was not stripped of was his value—his innate human worth. Cutting his hair did not literally devalue him as a human being. With or without his dreadlocks, he is made in the image of God and has just as much value as a fetus, a small child, a teenager, a middle-aged man, an elderly man dying in a nursing home. He is always valuable because his individual identity is as a human being made in the image of the almighty God.
But what if the man who forced him to cut his hair really was a racist and was attempting to devalue him? That’s an important question. And it begs another—is every racist act committed, whether purposeful or not, an attempt at compromising another person’s value as a human being? Or is it disrespect for their cultural identity—their appearance, music, hometown, etc.?
You may be wondering why it matters. Racism is racism! It’s all bad! Well I think those categories do exist and they matters because, at least for me, it helps to have specific questions to ask myself in order to root out my own sin. As the song goes, “Everyone’s a little bit racist sometimes.” And if I don’t think rightly and specifically about my sin, how can I find it and, as John Owens says, mortify (kill) it?
Questions I can ask myself (or others) in order to know my heart better:
Do I think I am better than that person? Do I actually believe I have more value than someone else? If so then I am calling into question their human identity given by God.
Do I think my cultural preferences are superior to someone else’s? Am I imposing those preferences on them when I speak to them or advise them? If so then I am being disrespectful of their cultural identity.
Does my life invite the celebration of other cultures or do I make them uncomfortable by being narrow minded or willfully naive?
This year’s reading was a little different for me. I normally read a far greater number of fiction books with only a few non-fiction titles. But knowing my weakness in this area, I decided to forgo all fiction (outside of my own writing) during Lent. I needed that time to reset my mind and habits. I also used the “Reading Challenge” feature on Goodreads to help track my books for the year and discourage random seasons of booklessness. Out of 46 books read, here are my top ten of 2018!
Fiction
Wayfarer by K.M. Weiland (5 stars)
I’d been anticipating this book ever since reading a tiny blurb about it years ago. 1700-1800s is my favorite time period and superheroes are my jam. I also knew K.M. would do it right. And she did not disappoint! She definitely did her homework for the period and the characters were well developed. Out of all of her novels, this is probably my favorite (although tied with Behold the Dawn). I highly recommend this to anyone who loves historical fantasy/superheroes.
The Electrical Menagerie by Mollie E. Reeder (5 stars)
Wonderful genre bender! Reeder infused The Electrical Menagerie with elements from steampunk, fantasy, science fiction, and murder mystery. I loved that the world and tech was all simple (mostly--I was a little confused about the stars and what they had to do with religion and politics) but still quite unique. The characters were lovable and had real depth. I originally read this book as research for my own writing about automatons, but I will keep reading this series for sure.
The More Known World (#2 in Oddfit Series) by Tiffany Tsao (5 stars)
Despite the author’s occasional (intentional?) shirking of modern storytelling *rules* I love her. I love this series. I love love love LOVE it! If you are a fan of a Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy sense of humor and a love of awkward people, you just might adore this book (series) as much as I did.
Keeper of Shadows by Bridgett Powers (4 stars)
Christian epic fantasy anyone? This is a classic fantasy setting (including setting, verbiage, and classic mythical creatures such as faeries and unicorns), but the use of "magic" in this world is forbidden by the King--as in scripture. A delicate balance is struck between fulfilling reader expectations for the fantasy genre while simultaneously staying true to commands in the Bible regarding sorcery. The prose was gorgeous and free from common commercial ailments. The characters, especially Brennus, were well developed and grew slowly, and believably over the course of 500 pages. I’m looking forward to the next book!
The Gateway Chronicles by K.B. Hoyle (4 stars)
I reread this series this year because the author rereleased it with some edits including a couple new scenes. She’s even beginning to release it on audiobook! Exciting stuff! It’s been one of my favorite Christian YA series for time and I loved delving back into the world of Alitheia with Darcy and Tellius!
Honorable mention: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Non-Fiction
On Reading Well by Karen Swallow Prior (5 stars)
Okay so technically I haven’t finished this book yet. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is one of the most wonderful things I have ever read. And some of my reasons for saying that are very personal. Not only is this book about reading fiction (my heart!) but it’s about reading fiction with purpose and for the sake of Christian virtue (more on why virtue ethics is personal for me in a sec). I have long been discouraged by the amount of modern secular and Christian fiction on the market that seeks to entertain (and even torture) readers for the sake of writing thrilling page-turners. Although this book is about reading well and not specifically writing well, I think the Christian fiction writer can pull a lot from it too. And now regarding virtue ethics! My husband has been studying that branch of ethics for over ten years with the desire to see more people in the protestant church adopt it. We both feel God has called us to serve the church. One of the ways we hope to do that is through the teaching of virtue ethics—he in a classroom and me with my stories (which may one day see the fluorescent lights of a bookshop). I’ll need to stop there before I write an entirely new blog post. Basically I think this book is super important for more reasons that I can say! Read it. And then give it to someone else to read.
Humble Roots by Hannah Anderson (5 stars)
This might be my new favorite book on humility—or perhaps tied with The Freedom of Self Forgetfulness. What this has over Keller’s is thoroughness, and (IMHO) a slightly more accurate definition of the virtue. But I could be wrong. (Shrug.) I would highly recommend this to anyone looking for a deeper understanding of humility.
Lit! by Tony Reinke (5 stars)
This book was EXCELLENT. Even writing this at the end of the year, I feel like I need to reread it already. Reinke gave a theology of reading along with some very practical thoughts and suggestions. . . . I could go on and on. I loved this so much that I wrote one of my Lorehaven articles based on one quote from this book. If you’re a Christian and you like to read, don’t like to read, don’t like to read but wish you liked to read, then this is for you!
Women and God by Kathleen Neilson (5 stars)
This book was wonderful and timely. I have perused other books on women lately only to be disappointed in their treatment of scripture. Nielson's theology, application, and understand of women's inner workings was on point. She was fair, but critical. She did not throw the baby out with the bathwater (my pet peeve....) I bought this book in kindle format but now I'm going to get it in paperback so I can loan it out. If you're swinging on the pendulum of women's issues in the home and church, READ THIS BOOK!
All That's Good by Hannah Anderson (5 stars)
Two books from Hannah Anderson made it onto my top ten this year! That’s only because I haven’t read her third book yet. Expect that to show up next year! I had a hard time getting into this one, but the pay off was well worth it. I especially enjoyed the last chapter on the spiritual gift of discernment. I will highly recommend this book for a long, long time!
Honorable mention: The Gospel comes with a house key by Rosaria Butterfield
In Haunted Man by Charles Dickens, Redlaw is tormented by memories of his tragic past. When a demonic spectre appears and offers to take his haunting memories away, Redlaw accepts. He spend most of the book visiting people as passing his gift (i.e. his curse) along to them to disastrous results.
What’s the moral of the story? Well as C.S. Lewis said, “A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered.” Okay that’s not really what Dickens is saying. But there is something to be said about looking back and remembering your life, whether pleasurable or tragic. Either way, it produces virtue. In the case of Redlaw, retaining his difficult memories brought him closer to Christ once he took the time to see their value.
Haunted Man is a novella published in 1848, twenty years before Dickens died. I mention the date in relation to his death because I was often wondering if there was a correlation as I was reading. I don’t know a great deal about Dickens, but until I’d read this version, which includes an introduction and afterword by Dave Swavely, I’d assumed, like most, that Dickens was not a Christian. His portrayal of organized religion and “religious” types in his novels was not always favorable. Swavely argues that the explicit Christian content in such stories like this one (and some others) proves that, despite his dislike of religious hypocrites, his affair, and separation from his wife, Dickens was, in fact, a Christian. Or at least possibly a Christian. So as I read, I sometimes wondered if he wrote this near the end of his life after repentance. Instead, he didn’t separate from his wife until ten years later. I think this only heightens Swavely’s point in his novella, Next Life, that heaven is filled with saints who were no stranger to sin on Earth.
This version is abridged and includes a fascinating commentary by Dave Swavely. I love his proposed idea that Dickens could have been a Christian and it makes me want to read more from this prolific author. I’ve seen a number of BBC film adaptations of Dickens novels but have only read Great Expectations so far.
I also highly recommend the 2017 film (also a book), The Man Who Invented Christmas, available on Amazon Prime. Although partly fictional, it offers a lot of good tidbits on the life of Dickens as he wrote A Christmas Carol—a similar story to Haunted Man.
The novella, The Mona Lisa Mirror Mystery by Latayne Scott, follows Christian girl, Addy, through the ups and downs of teenage life and . . . time travel! Addy is an artist and covers her room--as teens usually do--in posters. When one of da Vinci’s paintings hanging on her wall wooshes her back in time to the year 1500ish, she finds herself befriended by none other than Mona Lisa. Or at least the woman who is thought to be Mona Lisa.
The unexpected twist (no, not a spoiler) was her being shortly thereafter whoosed back to her own life. This happened a number of times throughout the story, parallels between her two lives appearing along the way.
The writing was enjoyable and engaging. I particularly liked that Addy was a good little Christian girl, yet her thought life still rang true to teenage temptations and immaturity. Yet, those thoughts and temptations never went overboard or became inappropriate for a young reader. I loved every scene that Addy spent in Italy and wished I could have just marinated in that time a whole lot more!
A major theme in the story was sexual abuse. (Like I said, there was nothing explicit.) This is where most of the parallels arise. Addy is dealing with her own close call of abuse in 1500 while her best friend, Lace, is being molested back home. All turns out well and the abusers are caught (in a way). Lace learns from the story of Joseph in the Bible and from Addy’s time travel stories that what others mean for evil, God means for good. After reading up on the author, Latayne Scott, I noticed that she has another book coming out next year on how to protect your children from sexual predators. It’s clear from this novella that Scott is passionate about this topic.
My only issue with the story was the lack of foreshadowing or clear plot progression. I felt pretty confused as to the point of the story or it’s themes until three quarters of the way through. Until then, Addy was just time traveling, hanging with her friends, living life, etc. I also felt derailed by the random subplot of evangelism and textual criticism. I’m all for a good conversion story (and apologetics for that matter), but this did not seem to fit the theme (that I later discovered) and added to my sense of aimless wandering. Hopefully this review will help you feel less lost.
This is a fun, quick read for anyone seeking Christian speculative fiction!
Dave Swavely’s book, Next Life, is a fictional account of a man dying, going to heaven, and then coming back to life. This is not your average heaven tourism book! Where those (supposedly) non-fiction books fall short (from Scripture), Next Life attempts a reformed, and more biblically faithful speculation on what the afterlife will be like. I would even go so far as to say this book was partly a critique on those “non-fiction” afterlife books.
Okay so I’ve been meaning to read those theology books on heaven . . . but they’re still chillin’ on my TBR list. I’ll get there, ya’ll. So I definitely learned a lot from this book. Be warned! It reads differently than your average work of fiction. The tone and style more closely resemble a letter or a journal. Swavely even left out all the quotation marks for the small smattering of dialogue!!! (Gasp!)
But that approach allowed him to be more open about his thoughts on the Bible as well as other books on heaven. He often mentioned other authors books on the topic—both positively and negatively. This was . . . okay. But I had to get past the unpleasant feeling that he was speaking as a real authority on the subject (he wasn’t because the book is obviously fictional) when he said such and such author was wrong.
My favorite thing about NL was its ability to put sin into better perspective. For example, the main character, Pastor Tim Carler, spoke about how much more he could see his old sinfulness when he got to the intermittent state (the IS being the place in which one goes before the finally coming of Christ). Yet, his “tour guides” were both serial killers while on Earth. This made for a heavy image of how gracious God is and how diverse the community will look in heaven. When Tim asks Jesus why he picked the serial killers to be guides, Jesus responded by saying, “because they love me so much.” No doubt.
This book put a rather new spin on both a theology of heaven and heaven tourism. My only real qualm was the main character’s assertion that everything in his account will be biblical. I think he meant that he isn’t going to be making stuff up like the faux non-fiction tourism books do. And that is definitely true. Yet, the story is speculative (as a fictional work of this nature would undoubtedly be). The good part about this is that all Swavely’s speculating is based on scripture and his interpretation. I think I would have borne any theological disagreements a bit more happily had I not been told up front that nothing within the story would function outside the Bible. How he could get away with not saying that though, I have no clue. . . . I’m not here to fix problems, but only to create them.
Overall, Next Life, was enjoyable, fascinating (especially the part where Charles Spurgeon and Charles Dickens hang out!), and informative! Give it a read and make sure to leave an amazon review!
Based on Psalm 42 and 23
I wrote this during one of the worst seasons of loneliness and debilitating fatigue. Although I was depressed and in poor health, I had hope that God would stay with me and help me. And he has. He is always good.
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.
I reach for his word and my hand falters. Fatigue eats away at my flesh like rot. The smell overtakes my senses.
Does he prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies?
Hope in God, O my soul.
Sleep eludes me. Every night I lie down, “God have mercy on me.”
My salvation and my God.
I wake dizzy, addled, exhausted. I should be productive. I should read, I should write. My Bible falls open before me.
What did I just read? Try again.
Nothing. I remember nothing.
Hope in God, for I shall again praise him.
I wish my friends were here. But really, I wish I wasn’t here where I have no friends.
Busy. This place is so busy. These people are so busy.
Why are you cast down, O my soul? Hope in God!
Why do I neglect your word? I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. Your word is my only hope.
Have mercy on me. I’m so tired.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
I read. What did it say?
I’m losing my mind, and I can’t remember what I just read. Can’t remember how to sleep.
Prepare a table before me, and my cup will overflow. Quench my thirst, my salvation and my God. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.