On Change

The world changes. It is one of the facts of life. As the natural processes continue, ages come and go. People are born, and people die. Life begins and ends, but the world is not the same at the end as it was at the beginning.

In an age long ago, there was honesty and honor. Chivalry and courage were respected and revered among men, and justice was praised above all else.

But then the world changed.

Sometimes change is sudden, like a clap of thunder or flash of lightning. The ground shifts under our very feet, and things are abruptly not as they were. It is the gradual change, however, that is most common. The dull, yearly foot that after five-thousand, two-hundred and eighty years becomes a mile. It is not sudden. It is not obvious.

And often, we do not notice the change until it is too late.

With each passing moment there is change. This second in this day will never come again—nor will this night, or morn, or month, or year. Sixteen years becomes seventeen. There is courtship and marriage, children and empty-nesters, and then there is death. It is only in rare, somber moments that we see the change taking place during the years—in which we see that things will not always be the same. Some miss those moments altogether. Some find them daily.

Children grow old—as does romance. Is it not strange how one can spend one’s life wishing the days away ‘until’, and then wish the very opposite? At the end, when gray hair has replaced youthful color, and the Golden Age has set like a dying sun, there are only the memories of the way things were before the change.

For when change occurs, there is naught on earth that can undo it.

Many fear change, for no one understands it. Everyone wonders why the seasons shift from spring to summer, summer to fall, yet no explanation can be found. Change is a fearful thing—yet it also brings great joy. The chilling bliss of a moonlight night would never sweep across young lovers if the sun should never set. The amber rays of dawn would never stretch across the sky if the cool night never ended.

And if this life went ever on, would we really be the gladder? If things went unchanged—if age after age went by with not a difference in culture or inhabitants of this earth—would it make us happy?

Without change, there is no risk; without risk, no thrill, without thrill, nothing worth living for. If dull gray monotony rose over the horizon each dawn, what would be the point of rising from one’s bed? Change, therefore, is not always to be feared. If there was only gray unfeelingness, truly, there would be no sorrow, yet there would be no joy either.

Change comes and change goes. Life goes on, but things will never be the same as they were before. Therein is the victory and despair of the world. If joy was not worth risking sorrows for, we would not try it. But given the choice between an unchanging forever, or one that is different day by day, which would you chose?

As for our earth, our world, it changes more with every heartbeat. And that is the only thing that will ever remain the same.

The Mountains Are Calling

RMNP Mountain Lake

So. My family just got back from a very long, very exciting vacation. I won't go into details, but at one point we went on a very treacherous mountain pass which dropped off on both sides (think Shasta in Horse and His Boy). The views on both sides were fantastic. Scrumptious. Incredible.

There was a visitor center at the top (probably so you could rest a while and uncurl your fingers from their tight grip around the steering wheel or, in the passenger's case, from the sides of one's seat. One of the popular shirts at said visitor center read, "The Mountains are calling and I must go." It was by some naturalist...one I could probably find quickly were I not too lazy to google it right now.

On the way back, I snapped this picture with my phone out the window (hence the lousy light and terrible resolution). It's a mountain lake I'd noticed on the way in-a small body of water half hidden by the craggy mountainside and the forest and snow around it. As soon as I caught sight of it, the story ideas began. What would it be like to hike up to that lake? What if there was a hidden city on the side of the mountain I couldn't see, beside the lake? How many people had traveled through that forest-what if knights had made the journey, being more technologically advanced than we believed them to be. Were there lakes like this in the UK-in Ireland and Scotland and all those other lovely places I've always wanted to visit? Did knights wander through there, eventually passing similar remote mountain lakes on their quests or adventures?

And then it hit me-the longing. I suddenly wanted more than anything to go see this lake, to go stand on the edge of that mountain and feel content because I'd reached this secret, mysterious place.

The mountains are calling and I must go.

In the Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis uses the illustration of "the old Narnia" to remind us of how we feel about our own world. Once the old Narnia is destroyed, the survivors, Peter and Lucy and Edmund and so on, are heartbroken. Then they realize that the new place in which they find themselves is almost exactly same as the old Narnia, only different-deeper, more wonderful, more like the real thing. Jewel the Unicorn says, "The reason we have loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this."

Every longing we feel in this world is a blind grasping for something else, something we'll never find in this world no matter how hard we look. Y'know the hope you get when you squinch your eyes shut and dive into a wardrobe, desperately longing to plunge, not into the wooden back of the thing that ends up giving you some nasty splinters, but into a field of lamp-post lit snow? That longing isn't for Narnia. It's for somewhere else, really. Somewhere we belong.

Again, from Jewel: "I have come home at last. This is my real country. I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, but I never knew it till now."

Personally, I can't wait until that longing is fulfilled. And it will be. For the Kingdom is calling, and eventually, I must go.

The Arena: A Sutcliffian Short Story

 This is a short story I wrote about a gladiator. I was currently obsessed with Rosemary Sutcliff at the time, especially her book "Mark of the Horse Lord" (go read it. Or anything by her. Her stories are LEGENDARY!), which explains the stolen name "Phaedrus" (which just feels like it rolls off the tongue). The story is called "The Arena".

----

The sand of the arena was soaked with sweat and blood and riddled with wounds made from the sharp hooves of horses and the scars left by previous battles. Phaedrus stopped to stare at the desert of death for only a second, then letting himself be shoved forward until he and the others stood together in a tight band before the Emperor’s seat. His hands were shaking harder than they’d ever shook before—harder than when he’d faced the band of invading brigands who had plundered his family and stolen him from his homeland—harder than when the slavers had knifed his brother for trying to escape. Ander was next to him, fair hair rumpled and that familiar, eager grin twisting his face into an almost-grimace. Ander was excited about today—their first fight in the Ring. Phaedrus just felt sick.

“Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.” It was a roar, rising up from around him. Hail Emperor, we who are about to die salute you. Phaedrus only barely remembered to lift his spear in salute to the man who sat in the Emperor’s seat. It was the custom, Ander had told him before, eyes shining but face stern in an attempt to look seasoned and at ease. The custom. The games were a custom too, which was part of the reason Phaedrus felt as if his insides had turned to snakes.

The audience roared back in response to the gladiators’ salute. A flower floated down into the arena and landed on the sand at Phaedrus feet. When he looked up, his eyes found another pair: dark, cool, thoughtful; he could see them clearly despite the distance between them. The girl watched him calmly, and then smiled as he inclined his head slightly toward her.

“So, sa,” shouted Ander at his side (one had to shout to be heard in the arena). “You have an admirer!”

His friend swept the flower from the ground and shoved it into Phaedrus’ hand—his sweaty, shaking hand that also held a round buckler.

“Keep it close to your heart. She may look for you after the games.”

After the games. If he survived. Phaedrus glanced up at the girl again and saw that she was still watching him. After the games, he thought, and decided that if he could remember her eyes and hold onto her flower, he might just make it to the end of this day.

The doors opened at the end of the arena, and a mass of brightly colored Somethings leapt through. Phaedrus recognized Demos, the new magnificent horned bull that Ander swore he could best. And there was Serpas, the beardless lion, striding forward with the grace of an enslaved monarch. Of the rest he could name only Junas and Tamar, the two leopards from the wilds to the south, but the others that followed were just as deadly as the creatures that had names. There was an elephant—not full grown, although his tusks were still sharp and deadly; two more bulls were released, and also some wild dogs that might have once been called wolves. The animals entered the ring lazily, as if they did not want to fight today. Someone jabbed Phaedrus in the side with a pole and shouted, “Stir ‘em up, boy! The Emperor’s in a foul temper today.”          

Ander was already halfway across the ring, running (of course) toward Demos. The striped bull held his head as if the long horns that hung from it were heavy, but he was already beginning to pound the earth with his bone-crushing hooves.

Phaedrus jogged toward the creatures as quickly as he could while holding a buckler and spear. He’d entertained hopes of being given a sword, but knew the idea was outlandish and silly. The trainer had given him a try with one the day before yesterday, and then decided that javelin and spear were better for a former hunter who’d never touched a sword—much less fought with one—in his life.

One of the three tigers turned its head to look at him as he ran towards it, and his stomach churned in anticipation. His feet kicked up claret sand as he stumbled; his buckler flew from his grasp, though he did not let the flower fall. Cursing, Phaedrus dove for the shield. It would not do to be caught without it—he’d seen the mangled bodies of strong warriors being dragged inside the gates after an animal fight. The tiger had veered away from the others and was moving toward him now. With a shudder, Phaedrus grabbed the buckler and hoisted it back onto his arm. He could feel the flower wilting in his sweaty clasp, its white petals no whiter than his bloodless face. He turned to face the tiger just as it sprang forward.

Time slowed. Phaedrus lifted his buckler and shoved his spear forward with a bellow of fear and bloodlust—a war cry. The spearhead sliced a ragged gash in the tiger’s leg and shoulder, and it screamed with pain and rolled away—but not before two searing claws raked across its opponent’s scalp. Phaedrus felt nothing until the first shock passed. The warm, sticky blood felt almost like sweat on his forehead, but it stung his eyes and made it hard to see. He swiped at it carefully, ignoring the throbbing as best he could, and then turned to look at his foe.

They circled each other now; the tiger's eyes were yellow like gold. As Phaedrus met its gaze, anger poured over him; hatred. Fear. The beast was afraid, and so was he.

Perhaps it was this, the strange understanding between him and his enemy, that created a strange kinship between them in that moment. The hatred did not fade from the tiger’s eyes, yet somehow Phaedrus knew that it was a shared hatred—a hatred of the men-like beasts that had taken them both from their homes and thrust them in this bloody arena to kill for the entertainment of others.

We are not so different, my enemy, he thought, and it seemed to him that the tiger agreed.

It turned and loped away slowly, limping from the cut he had given it. Phaedrus was not so foolish enough to think that the understanding they had found had anything to do with its retreat; the creature was tired and did not want to fight. He watched it run and took in the hollow sides and protruding ribs, the matted fur and stumbling limp, and knew that captivity had done more than give hatred to this beast. He watched it for a moment more, and then felt feeling return to his limbs. The sweaty flower was still clamped in his fingers. Perhaps the stem had been squeezed in two—he dared not look to see. There was a roar from behind him, and Phaedrus turned just in time to dodge the attack of one of the leopards. His spear moved before his mind could, and the leopard fell in a heap at his feet, snarling and clawing at him as he wondered about the easiest way to remove a spear from a carcass.

There was a sword on the ground a few yards away. That was the best bet, for a spear once lodged in beast’s body—especially a beast that was not yet dead—was a hard thing to get back. The sword was lying next to its previous owner, a man with a thick beard and no left arm. It surprised Phaedrus that the missing arm did not make his stomach swell with sickness again, but his blood was up; his battle-lust renewed as it had not been since the day he fought for his freedom.

Only on that day, he had not won.

The next moments were a blur to him. The sword was clumsy in his fist, and it was better to run and evade the elephant, using its bad eyesight as an asset, than to try to fight it himself. He led it to three men who had spears, and they killed it for him—although one was speared himself on the giant creature’s tusk before at last its great head rested on the sand.

It was now out of pity that he slew half-wounded cheetahs and bulls. They were often still fighting, but too slow to do him any damage, so that it was a little thing to dodge forward and cut their throats with the sharp blade that was now quite slick. His hands were sticky with the red stuff—what was it called?—and the metallic taste and smell were in his mouth and at the back of his nose. His ears were filled with the roar that rose up around him and swallowed everything else—swallowed his anguish and fear and left him with nothing but the systematic slashing and stabbing that was all he had left.               

Phaedrus had just put a wounded wolf out of its misery when someone shouted, “The tiger! The tiger!”

Everything else in the ring was dead, it seemed; what was not would be soon, and the only survivors were being led away out the gate. Phaedrus recognized the sturdy form of Ander, which meant his friend had made it out alive. A rush of exhilaration almost overwhelmed him: he had survived. It was over.

Unfortunately, it was not. Someone jabbed him from behind—the butt end of a spear, Phaedrus saw, as he stumbled forward and rubbed his ribs with his spare arm (he’d lost his buckler to the bull). The Arena Guard ignored his glare and jerked his head toward a group of three other men who were prodding along the tiger he’d faced before.

“The crowds want blood. Finish it off.”               

Phaedrus felt the blood-lust ebb as he gave the man an incredulous stare.

“The tiger? But it’s wounded—not a fair fight.”

“The crowd doesn’t care. They want it dead—and make a show of it, boy. This is your moment.”

Phaedrus’ head ached, as did his shoulder, where the wolf had bitten him, and his lower leg where he’d strained some sort of muscle running from the elephant. His breathing was beginning to slow as the battle-rage died down, and he shook his head stubbornly. Memories of his family—his stolen sisters, his slaughtered brother—give him strength through anger, and he wonders if he could take the guard if he tried.

“Just do it, boy!” the guard growled, and then turned his spear so the point was facing Phaedrus. “Or we’ll treat you like one of them!”

“Haven’t you already?” Phaedrus muttered, but turned obediently to face the tawny beast as his anger died down. What point would there be to attacking the guard? He would not escape the Arena—not now, or ever. His brother and sisters would be avenged, though—someday. Somehow he would find a way, if it took him a lifetime of weariness and hatred to do it.

The tiger was limping still, and there was a weary, defeated look in its eyes. Still, they hardened when they met his gaze, and the hatred returned in full force. He wondered it was fighting with family in mind as well.

Slowly, calmly, he raised his sword and saluted the beast. It pulled back its lips into a snarl, and then gathered itself for one more spring. His sword leapt forward of its own free will and cut its legs out from under it. The tiger screamed, as it had before, and its foreclaws raked his arm and side. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, pain hung on his lips as the world stood still. The tiger landed and rolled heavily on the sand. It did not get up.

“Go on, boy,” shouted one of the guards, one of the three who had been corralling the tiger forward. “Kill it.”

Phaedrus watched as the golden gaze closed, as the great tawny body gave a shuddering sigh, and turned away with blurry eyes. He let the sweaty flower fall from his trembling fingers and dropped to his knees in the hot, bloody sand of the Arena.

“I did.”

finis

Wordle

I discovered something epic on the web. Well. I've discovered /lots/ of epic things. But this was pretty cool. If you go to wordle.com, you can make this thingummy called a "word cloud", which basically measures how many times you use certain words in the document you upload and generates word sizes proportional to the number of times used.. Writers use it to determine the sorts of words that pop up the most in their novel.

This wordle is mine, from my pirate novel affectionately titled "Avenger's Quest". I was going to use the wordle for the book I'm working on right now (a mysterious story called "Theo"), but the pirate one is complete. Apparently I use "one" and "eyes" almost as often as I use the names of the two main characters, Alec and Tran.

And then, as I was sitting here thinking, "Hm...could I honestly fill up a whole blog entry with mindless babble about wordle?", it hit me.

What would our lives look like in wordle? It would be tempting to think that our names would be the biggest words /ever/, because it's our lives, right, but really, what would there be.

If I did a wordle of my life, I would want the biggest word to be "God" ("Jesus" would also be acceptable). I would want the words "faithful", "servant", and "joy" to be repeated so many times in my life story that they were bigger than "money", "writing", or even "fun". I'm afraid "sin" would be larger than I would like, as well as "pessimist", "grumpy", and "hurtful". Can't you just picture, on Judgement Day, God glancing in the book for your name, ticking at a few keys, and pulling up an image like the one above?

"Hmm..." he'd say. And you'd wince, because you KNOW what's on there. All the foolishness and frippery and novels and movies and things that "seemed important at the time". Oh look. The money you didn't tithe because you rounded down. Oh look. Sarcasm. It's awfully big, and so is Lie. You hang your head in shame, because why is your name so darn big in the middle of the page? Looking at the Huge Worlde of History, it's easy to see that God is the main character, God is the beginning and end of the story, and everything on earth revolves around the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ-not you.

Your life is like the part of an extra in Lord of the Rings (or another movie of a similar, colossal size). And yet, you (I) are foolish enough to structure your life, your wordle (and world) around self. How about Amy Carmiachael? India was probably big. And orphans. And prayer. And servant. Did you know that she refused to allow pictures of her in the books that she wrote, because she was so intent on shifting the focus from her to her Lord?

I know. We're not all Amy Carmichaels. But still, wouldn't it be the best moment in the world when God, staring at your wordle, looked up and said, smiling as He opened His arms wide to you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"? But when it comes down to it, the truth is that it doesn't matter what our wordle has on it.

For man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.

Unceremoniously Redundant

I was reading a random fanfiction the other day (I think it was of the TV show "Merlin") and had a thought. I blame the thinking on the fact that I'd been reading fanfiction for the past few hours and my brain was getting bored. Anyhow.

Why do people use the words “sprawled” and “unceremoniously” together to describe people who are sleeping? I wonder what it would be like to sleep ceremoniously—observing proper sleeping etiquette, muttering polite things…or what? I don’t know…it just doesn’t seem like a very accurate description of sleep. I mean, people /always/ sleep unceremoniously. There has never been a case in which people have done the opposite (at least, not that I can think of and even if I could I probably would never be able to forgive myself for describing something like sleep as ceremonious).

Or perhaps I'm taking it wrong. Perhaps "unceremoniously" is supposed to describe "sprawled".

Right. Because there's even the slightest possibility of someone sprawling ceremoniously. Just had to clear it with readers so they knew that this case of sprawling was not ceremonious in the least.

I don't pretend to be better than that. I'm pretty sure I've used "sprawled unceremoniously" in a story or two...probably more than just two. It's one of those phrases that just flows, but this fanfic got me thinking: why do we restate the obvious? What is it with writers and being redundant just because it sounds good?

A few others that get on my nerves:

Huge big (because just huge or big wouldn't fully explain it?).
Let's continue on (because we wouldn't want to accidentally continue backward).
Repeat again (can you do it again again?).
Free gift (because I made you pay for the other gift).
Actual facts (because we don't want false facts, do we?).
Drop down (good heavens! Don't drop up!).

And so on.

And then it struck me: there is nothing new under the sun. Mankind is doomed to redundancy, because no matter what, history will repeat itself. Everyone does the same things over and over again...work, sleep, eat. People are born, grow up, grow old, and die. It's a cycle, and it's dreadfully redundant.

Except that someday, the redundancy won't matter. I've had days before that I wished would go on and on forever-beautiful summer days, days of rain, whatever. And heaven, I think, will be like that. It'll be so beautiful and wonderful and full of joy that even if every moment is the same, that's more than I could ever wish for.

Because if every moment is spent in His presence, than I have a feeling that redundancy won't matter anymore.

On Farmboys and Carpenters

Young heroes

If only we could win without ruining their lives.

If only they could become butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.

Instead of warriors.

But they are warriors. They know death and pain and blood and war.

They are old—old men and women in young bodies.

And we have made them so.

Every victory has a price.

We pay it with the farmboy’s hopes and dreams.

--

Why is it always the farmboy? Eragon. Luke Skywalker. Rand al'Thor. Shasta. They were innocent. Untouched by the world (in most cases). And yet in order for the victory of the story to be achieved, they all had to give up something (generally their future, innocence, family, or identity).

The above...thingummy is the beginning of an idea I had for a story focusing more on the unfairness of placing the responsibility on young heroes. My story, however, begins after the original "Coming of Age" part, where Veld, (the farmboy) rose through the ranks of the army and then ended up saving the kingdom in the battle. Indeed, it starts when he's still trying to adjust to life as the King's Champion, Betrothed to the Princess Diana (whom he does not love). He is trying to cope with the loss of his best friend, who died in his arms in the heat of the battle. But mostly he's confused. Confused about why it was him instead of a general or a noble-why he was chosen for this deed, and really, in his heart of hearts, is asking why couldn't it have just been someone else?

-

When presented with this ingenious plot, my sister wrinkled her nose.

"What?" I asked. "Don't you like it?"

"Well," she replied, carefully. "It's a little...depressing."

And so it is. But I had to do it, because there's something about it I don't understand. Why is it the innocent ones who must bear the weight of our victory? Why is it that, if a sacrifice has to be made, the one who least deserves the burden of the world must carry it?

If this sounds like something else, it's not my fault. Farmboys and Jewish carpenters are, it seems, doomed to save the world by their own sacrifice.

In other words, it was God's plot first.

Bugs

I hate bugs.

Not bugs in general (well, maybe bugs in general). Of course I strongly dislike wasps and bees, spiders and scorpions (which, although arachnids and not insects, might technically fall under the category of "bugs"). It's the little bitty gnats and mosquitoes and...whatever these things are that like to buzz around the screen of the computer and get in between the keys on the keyboard.

Yeah. Those bugs.

There are bugs and then there are trials. There are big, mean ones, of course, that sting like wasps. I'm very brave after I've been stung, and can bear it most stoically. Yet the gnats and little thingummies that buzz around and around, those are the ones that break my calm, make me lose my temper and fall into a bad mood. The little things, the distractions that cause me to sin, rather than the big things that should be more of a temptation.

As Hamlet said, such bugs and goblins in my life. But at least the goblins draw me closer to the One who shields me from them. Whereas the bugs just annoy me and distract me from Him.

Fortunately, I'm not alone. My favourite author and spiritual mentor (in my mind, at least) C.S. Lewis had something to say about these little things that surprise and distract us in "Mere Christianity".

“We begin to notice, besides our particular sinful acts, our sinfulness; begin to be alarmed not only about what we do, but about what we are. This may sound rather difficult, so I will try to make it clear from my own case. When I come to my evening prayers and try to reckon up the sins of the day, nine times out of ten the most obvious one is  some sin against charity; I have sulked or snapped or sneered or snubbed or stormed.  And the excuse  that immediately springs to my mind is that the provocation was so sudden and unexpected: I was caught off my guard, I had not time to collect myself.  Now that may be an extenuating circumstance as regards those particular  acts: they would obviously be worse if they had been deliberate and premeditated.  On the other hand, surely what a man does when he is taken off his guard is the best evidence for what sort of a man he is? Surely what pops out before the man has time to put on a disguise is the truth? If there are rats in a cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly.  But the suddenness does not create the rats:  it only prevents them from hiding. In the same way the suddenness of the provocation does not make me an ill-tempered man:  it only shows me what an ill-tempered man I am.  The rats are  always there  in the cellar, but if you go in shouting and noisily they will have taken cover before you switch on the light.”

This is definitely the most convicting passage for me out of Mere. Well. At least one of the most convicting passages. After I read it, I started noticing how much more likely I was to snap or sneer or snub or storm because of an "unexpected provocation", a little mosquito that makes me start complaining (in the form, perhaps, of a harmonica played in close proximity, or someone whistling the same song over and over and over and over again).

C.S. Lewis called them rats. They remind me of bugs.

I think, though, that the importance of the "rats in the cellar" theory is that once we realize the problem, we're more likely to catch the rats/withhold from getting angry at the bugs (because, after all, it's not their fault they're alive). Of course, we can't be perfect by ourselves. It's a blessing to have prayer, because whenever that occasion pops up where the song is being whistled for the forty-ninth time and you just can't muster up the strength to stand it for the fiftieth, Jesus offers to meet you halfway.

After all, he conquered the rats.

And he created the bugs for a reason.