Marionettes

Words dance. Like a young, delicate ballerina flows gently across the stage, moved by the music’s sweet rhythm, words twist and turn gracefully, passionately. The words’ music, the imagery, enchants senses and imaginations. Writers, with their china marionettes, spend endless hours perfecting every sleight of hand, every turn of phrase, to move their word-puppets gracefully across the paper. Every flinch of the manipulator’s hands creates some beautiful ripple in the ballerina’s fragile frame. Young writers who have the patience to learn and perfect a thousand techniques achieve the  mastery of great authors. After struggling with tangled strings and graceless wooden puppets, the proficient writer will learn the practical and stylistic techniques necessary to turn dead words into beautiful porcelain performances. Eventually, the audience beholds the glass puppet spring to life: the words seem to flow without the writer’s help. From wood to china, china to flesh, the manipulator’s ballerina finally dances with invisible strings.   

Liam has a problem. And Laura Beth doesn't remember what it is!

“Liam? Liam, it’s Vanessa. Listen, I’m on Dixon Road, almost to your house. Are you awake?”

           

“Nessie? It’s three in the morning. What’s wrong?”

           

“Nothing…”

           

“Why are you awake?”

            

“I need something from you, Liam. Do you remember when I told you I would help you find…”

            

“Ness, you’re drunk. You shouldn’t be driving.”

            

“I’m not, I’m walking.”

            

“Go home, Vanessa. Go to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.”

            

“Liam, I’m not drunk! Please listen to me! I can’t tell you everything now…I’m being followed. I’ll be at your house in a few minutes.”

            

Hanging up the phone, Liam stared blankly at the tile. A few seconds later, his father stumbled blindly into the light.

            

“Who was that, Son?”

            

“Nessie Roland,” he turned around and pulled a coffee mug out of the cabinet, and started to fill it with water from the sink, “She’s on her way over.”

            

“What? Now?”

            

“Mm hmm. She sounded pretty upset.” He rethought the mug and pulled out the coffee pot instead.

            

“She’s drunk, likely as not.”

            

“She’s not like that, Dad.”

            

“Plenty of good girls go out and get drunk once in a while.”

            

He wondered if Nessie would be averse to coming if she knew his father was home. She was a strong little thing, tough as nails, used to playing with the bad boys. In fact, he didn’t really think she wasn’t the kind to go out and drink, but he knew she wasn’t the kind to let herself out of control. Control. Vanessa Roland was always in control.

            

He sat down and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Soon, his mind wandered beyond recapture. History exam tomorrow. Hated history. Paper to finish for Professor James. Need to work on that. Have barely started yet. Practice tomorrow…Eventually, one thought was indistinguishable from another. He drifted off to sleep.

           

“Liam? What are you doing down here? You’re going to be late for class.” His sister, Anna shook him awake.

            

“Wha…Dang! I’m late already!”

            

In the rush to get to history class on time, he forgot that Vanessa had never arrived the night before.   

Two months later, in a little coffee and wine shop across the street from University of Denver, a depressed-looking young man sagged. His face, once bright and cheerful, was worn, tired. He stared restlessly at his hands, as though he expected them to do something. His eyes were empty and lifeless. When his cell phone rang, he stared at it for a few seconds before reaching for it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Liam Canaford? I’m afraid I have some bad news for you…” 

He bit his lip and closed his eyes. In the discombobulated thoughts running through his head, only one was clear: “I killed her.”

Hours later, he found himself on the front porch of a yellow house. He just stood there, motionless. Eventually, the door opened. His eyes met those watery, puffy eyes of the most beautiful face he thought he had ever seen.

“You better come in.”

“You must be Vanessa’s sister?”

“That’s me. Sophia.”   

“I…I just heard about…”

She nodded. She had the same controlled demeanor of her sister, “She was found with a piece of scrap paper in her pocket. I thought it might mean more to you than it means to me.”

He took the receipt that the young woman offered. Scrawled on the back were the letters, “NE 23 5.50. JmCr 34, 7.30.”

“It doesn't mean anything to me. Sorry.”

“No, no. It was a long shot anyway. Do…can you stay for a while?” She opened the door a little wider and ushered him inside.

“My mother was going through Nessie’s journals. She wrote everything down. Not saying we could understand any of it…”

Now what? I need help here, people! When I started this, I knew what the heck was going on. Now I don't remember. So, fellow writers and people who hate words with a passion alike, where should I take this? Or should I just leave it alone? Sound off! 

Inkblots

"I want that. I want to be in love with the Holy Spirit."

I remember the look of wistful desire, the first bit of hope she had felt in months, crossing my friend's beautiful face. "What can I do?"

"Well...you can...um..." I didn't know what to tell her, "Read 1 John. It's a place to start."

At the time, a battle was being fought in her heart. I knew it. She knew it. But neither of us realized that she was so close to losing. And now, two years later, she's already lost. I'm plagued by the notion that maybe, just maybe, if I had done what I knew was right at the time...

He beautiful face is scarred now. So are her arms and legs. Her gentle, loving heart has long since drowned in the hate she carries. The precious woman God created has been dragged into what society would call acceptable, but what any honest human being sees as despicable.

What now?

Be merciful, God. Be merciful.

Crushing on Isaac Newton

Dead men are better than live ones.

Nearly every so-called schoolgirl crush I've ever had was on a dead man. Basically, reading history is to me what reading gossip columns is to any other teenage girl. In fact, while other teenage girls have pictures of Edward Cullen taped to their walls, I'm more than content with my poster of Jonathan Edwards. 

Think about it. They can't talk back. They can't forget to call you or make you miss your curfew. Sure, they give lousy Valentine's Day presents, but they some are great for cuddling up with on a rainy day. Plus, they are better than fictional characters, because these men really lived. They lived, and they left a thumb print on our society and history.

Some, like C.S. Lewis, left their legacy in their writings. And man could he write. Others, like Marquis de Lafayette, left legacies in their deeds. Heck, how many 17 year olds served as a Major General of Washington's Continental Army? And some, like Tutankhamen, left their legacy simply by being filthy rich. Those ones, however, aren't generally worth our time. 

What I wouldn't give to see one of these men!

But there's one man I've always longed to have met face-to-face, one many history books fail to acknowledge. Which seems natural; He wrote nothing, traveled little, fought no one, owned nothing. He was just a Hebrew carpenter, after all, with a good speaking voice. And the Jewish people wanted someone to follow. His influence should have died out.  

But His legacy didn't end with the Jews. Today, over two thousand years later, people of every nation and every blood still passionately follow His words, living and dying for a man long dead.

Talk about thumb prints.

The only way His influence could have lasted is if He wasn't dead. And as it happens, He wasn't--isn't. No, He's not "undead." He's not ancient. He died, yes, but death itself could not hold Him. He laid in the ground for three days, dead as a doornail, before His Father, God, raised Him. And now, he sits before God, declaring His followers free. 

King Tut couldn't do that if he tried. 

Baby Blankets and Baseball Bats

Let's talk about a concept.

Imagine you're a four year old boy. You want cookies. Mom has left the cookies sitting on the counter, but told you that you'd get "sick to your tummy" if you ate any more. You don't listen, and steal one last cookie out of the box. Mom never finds out, but you still get sick. 

Ok. New scenario. You're a preteen girl with a baseball bat and a few boys taunting you. Per their suggestion, you decide to break into the abandoned barn beside your school and light it on fire. You get glass in your hands, which makes you unable to write or draw comfortably for the rest of your life. Sure, you could have the glass removed, but that would mean owning up to setting the old barn on fire all those years ago. Instead, you chose to live with the pain.

Last time: you're holding an eleven-month-old infant, playing peekaboo. After several rounds of you hiding your face, the baby decides it's his turn. He ducks his head behind the blanket and declares, "I's gone!"

In the first of these situations, the sin could not be seen. There was no evidence of the crime, but that didn't make the consequences go away. Physical pain could still be felt. Like the young child will soon understand, just because something isn't visible doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Now, consider this. Hiding a problem doesn't make it go away.

How much of what we do is in the interest of hiding a problem? We lie about the flaming barn, we dance with cactus, and we even murder innocent, unborn children simply so "no one will see" what we did wrong.

But the truth remains that even though mom can't see the cookies that make my stomach hurt doesn't mean I didn't eat them. It just means I can't get help. Like a mother might tell her son during a game of peekaboo, "Just because I can't see you doesn't mean you're not there." Just because you can't see my sin doesn't mean it isn't there.

What then? If our baby blanket is too thin to cover us, what will? How will we hide?

We don't need to hide.

"Who shall bring a charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Is it Christ who died--more than that, who was raised--who is at the right hand of God, who is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" (Rom. 833-35)

The shame is gone. The guilt is gone. God Himself is satisfied. There is no longer any reason to hide.

The Idea

Once, a few years ago, I heard a motivational speaker. She talked a bit about some things, a little about others, and a lot about nothing. I walked away from her hour-long speech frustrated. She had the attention of thousands that day, if not millions, and she had said nothing worth hearing. What would I say, I wondered, if I had the attention of a million people? Therefore, this blog represents the little-bit-of-some-things, the-pieces-of-others, and the hopefully-not-a-whole-lot-of-nothings I would say to a million people given the chance:

**Ten thirteen. Ten thirteen and fifteen seconds. Ten thirteen and twenty-seven seconds...

The clock couldn't have moved any slower. Rahab, picking at her already-chipped blue nail-polish, hummed along with every passing second. She hummed the tune her audience had been chanting as she was led to the courtroom that morning. 

Guilty! Guilty! 

She will hang!

As disturbing as this cry might seem to an average listener, Rahab didn't particularly mind. They were right. Even she could not dispute her guilt. Her lawyer had not even bothered to call other witnesses, or to examine those brought forth by the accuser. Everyone knew she was going to hang.   

Faced with this grim truth, Rahab focused on her nail-polish, barely hearing the accuser's screaming threats. 

"...She simply doesn't deserve to live, Your Honor! You see before You indisputable evidence of this woman's guilt. See how she..." 

It was funny, really. He was very determined, and his nose was turning very red with his excitement. It was funny how he had not told her what was offensive prior to her being arrested.  

The Judge sighed. "Well, Child. It appears I have no choice. I cannot acquit you." 

"Objection." A voice spoke from the back of the courtroom--a voice she knew well, but had often mocked. It was the one voice who had dared call her a sinner, the one who had presented her with the truth no one else knew. He had once been her friend, but because of his dislike of her lifestyle, she had grown to hate him. She hated his brown, concerned eyes and his easy smile. She hated everything about him. 

"Your Honor, it is too late. This woman is not guilty. I have proof." He held out his hands, covered almost completely in bloody scabs. "Five witnesses. She owes no debt to anyone but me."

The face of the Judge softened. "My son...Do you wish to pardon her?" 

"She is innocent." 

The accuser began to stammer out protests. But even he could not deny the validity of the scars. Her friend had already suffered her punishment. As her Redeemer, he now owned her life. And if her set her free, no one could imprison her again.

The Judge smiled. "This woman is innocent. She must and shall go free." 

For a second, Rahab could do nothing more than stare at the young man, once so ugly and hateful to her. Like a caged bird faced with an open door, she at first did not leave the accused's box. When she finally stood to go, she heard her Redeemer's voice call her. 

"Rahab. You are not free." 

"What?" 

"You belong to me now." 

Feeling the weight upon her shoulders, she realized she had escaped one slavery for another. She belonged to her Redeemer now.  

Her head fell. Studying her face, he lifted her chin and smiled at her. "Beautiful Rahab. You're finally mine. Marry me."

Swept with relief, Rahab nodded. And nodded. And smiled. 

And as they left the courtroom, the people sang a different chant. 

Should the Law against her roar, 

Jesus' blood still speaks with power:

"All her debts were cast on Me.

So she must and shall go free." **