Dusk

If I possessed any artistic talent whatsoever, I’d paint a picture for you of the dusky calm I’ve nestled into. The cool and cloudy-dark of a receding storm, the night bugs and tree frogs singing, the glow and scent of a favorite candle...after a whirlwindy-maelstrom of a month, this is what I need. Everything softens and relaxes with the waves of silky night air pouring through the windows.

The lack of posts all this time has been the quiet of happiness and thanksgiving, awe in the face of reflection. Yes, life has continued moving at a hectic pace and I frequently long to pause for naps in sunshine puddles, but overwhelmingly this season is one of wondering gratitude. It’s a season of hearing in the tree frogs’ song choruses of “it really is a fine evening, isn’t this moment grand?”

I don’t have a specific tale that comes to mind, but there is in Märchen a common concept of marking transitions, of recognizing the high and low points of life that cause one to be changed. Thankfulness, too, is a common theme and illustrated both in the positive and negative; those who recognize and express thanks are often successful in their venture, whereas those selfish and graceless “non-thankers” tend to encounter unpleasant repercussions. Scripture has a lot to say about thankfulness too (there are too many to choose from!).

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossians 2:6-7

“You are my God, and I will give you thanks; you are my God, and I will exalt you. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” Psalm 118:28-29

“Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that can not be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our ‘God is a consuming fire.’” Hebrews 12:28-29

So I find myself, in this season of unexpected goodness that is NOTHING I can claim to have had a hand in, bowled over by achingly beautiful gratitude for and to my King. And my fear is not that failing to be thankful would be punished, but that I would become complacent and merely hoard the goodness that yes, is for me, but is ultimately to be shared for His glory. I’ve wrestled this whole summer with how to best offer thanks. I have been changed this past year, and none of it by my power. I have received a multitude of blessings, and none through deserving or earning or meriting. So then- how shall I mark this transition, and what expression of thanks is fitting to offer?

I have ideas, but no answers yet, and so I will bask in the cool dusk and the love of a great God and good King, and agree with the tree frogs- this really is a fine moment.

Yesterday

The announcement came over the radio yesterday morning… “Today is National ‘Tell a Fairy Tale Day,’ so call in and let us know which one is your favorite! I can remember being a kid and my Dad…”

What?? How did I miss this?

“Tell a Fairy Tale Day.” What a splendid thing to celebrate; I will do so and happily, even if I am a day late.

*             *             *

The shedding should have tipped us off. Each morning we’d come drowsily into the kitchen and stop, blinking in puzzlement at the near mountainous proportions of fur coating the floor. “How is this happening? It’s the middle of winter.” “Maybe it’s the breed; perhaps she doesn’t need as much fur.” We would shake our heads and continue on with the day, though with rather more sweeping than usual.

The fact of our owning a dog at all was an accident of location coupled with the inability to find another family willing to take in a stray of unknown origins. She made no demands, though, and required no discipline. I swore from the beginning that she understood everything we said and sometimes even the things we only thought at each other. She was an impossibly easy dog, so we agreed that she could stay. Putting up with inordinate amounts of shedding was worth her presence.

One morning after she was properly named and vetted and ours, an extra flash of movement caught my eyes as I entered the kitchen. Was that-? I rubbed my bleary eyes. No; the dog was asleep on her bed in the corner, not involved in whatever dream had crossed my vision. I said nothing of the incident to anyone. Soon it happened more and more frequently, these odd hallucinations of a strange woman operating a spinning wheel in my kitchen. I began dreaming, too, of solitary weavers singing to their looms, creating something altogether odd, something simultaneously fabric and story, textile and text.

The weavers’ song threaded its way into my waking hours. “What’s that song you’re humming? You’ve been at it for days. The dog sure seems to like it, but it’s starting to get annoying.” “Huh? Oh, I dunno. Must have heard it on the radio.”

Then came the weekend that I was to be home alone, everyone else having out-of-town plans. I was happy enough to be on my own since it would mean I wouldn’t have to hide my sidelong glances at the dog or humming of unknown songs. The first night the dog whined pitifully when I headed to bed; the second, she shook and moaned and whined; and on the third, she knocked me to the floor and refused to let me up.

The mantel clock chimed every quarter hour for the next several until midnight came. The fur flew faster with each of the twelve chimes, until a dog no longer sat on my chest but a woman stood before me, offering a hand of assistance to rise. I stood silently beside her for much of the night, watching as she spun fur into the finest thread and wove it with a song into encouragement with tassels of hope, or love within a pattern of longevity, or covered strands of loss with beauty and comfort. No two products were alike, but each she carefully folded and bound between book covers.

She produced a pen from thin air—hey, that’s the one I lost last week!—and wrote a single name into each volume. She looked at me and then bent to write a name in the last book: mine. I accepted it gently as she offered it to me and read in its pages the story of her arrival and an explanation of who and what she was. Her weaving song rose from the pages as I flipped through them, this time singing a powerful blend of gratitude and purpose held together with affection.

The chimes of the clock blended with the book’s song, and with no warning the woman vanished and my dog sat at my feet, softly wagging her tail and causing fur to drift along the floor. The book in my hands now appeared to be an ordinary volume telling the heartfelt tale of a beloved canine. These days it sits on one of my many book shelves, mostly silent except for times when I feel blue. It’s as though it just can’t help singing softly in those moments.

I have no clue what happened to the other books she made that night or over the many years she was with us, but I’d be willing to bet there are a few volumes on your shelf that sing to you when you need it most. Listen for their song—and if your dog sheds more than usual, tell her I say hello.

First Telling: The Man with a Great Nose

For HJR, who inspires and encourages stories in all around her and who recently told me (roughly) that "even when you're not writing, you're writing," and for the cloud that floated across my sky, looking so much like a man with a great, long nose that it birthed a character.

            There once was a man with a very great nose. Now, it wasn’t “great” so much as to mean “distinguished,” though it certainly was, as to mean “abnormally large.” It left his face at a precipitous angle before striking a course straight forward, reaching to his toes and then four times again beyond. Seen from the front it looked unremarkable but from the side it struck one as being like the whippy, low-hanging branches that one must suddenly duck to avoid. He carried always on his back a bulging, round pack containing what to him were handkerchiefs but which another person may consider a tablecloth, and which were useful also in keeping him upright as the weight served to counterbalance that of his nose.

            This state of affairs was at once the most natural and most tedious thing in the world for the man: natural, for he had grown accustomed to it as it was his nose after all, and tedious, for he never quite grew used to others’ reactions. It came frequently in his way, too, as you might imagine. Despite his great setback—or stick forward—he was considerably kinder, gentler, and less self-centered than his peers who yet struggled to see beyond the end of their averagely-sized noses.

            Hearing one evening of a young widow too ill to gather sticks for her fire, he wrapped up and set out. He gathered sticks for some time at the edge of the forest before thinking that perhaps fresh herbs to sweeten her fire or to make tea may also aid the widow in healing. And thinking nothing of the dwindling hours of light remaining, he walked deeper into the forest’s embrace, his pack of handkerchiefs weighing more with the addition of each stick.

            It was early in the season for the plants he wanted though some eager few may have blossomed. He walked slowly, intent on his purpose, and so it was some time before his ears passed their information to his brain. Their information was this: a young, reedy voice was crying plaintively and trailing after him at a distance as though equally afraid to be too near or too far from him. Immediately when the sounds registered he stopped and turned, finding its source in a small magpie.

            “Young magpie, why do you follow me? Why do you cry?” he asked (for conversing with animals, though rare, was not impossible in his land).

            “A great wind came and stole me from my home,” the little bird replied. “It blew me I don’t know where and I can’t fly. I am lost!”

            “Little magpie, do not cry. I am searching also for something and you are welcome with me. We will look for your home as well.” He knelt and offered his open hand to the little bird, who hopped in with relief. The man placed the magpie gently on his branch-like nose and the two continued on together. They found neither herbs nor nest that night before the light ran out.

            They rose with the first rays of the next morning’s sun. A great many more sticks were found and added to the man’s pack but neither nest nor herbs had been discovered when the man and magpie were startled by piercing shrieks.

            “He found us, he found us! Oh, he will eat my children and murder us all!”

            “Mother Rabbit, who threatens you? Who has found you?” the man asked.

            “That fox! He drools after my children. Many nights have I lain awake, listening to his nose brush the grasses of my roof in search of us. But look there—! He discovered an entrance last night and will not be long in following it to the very heart of our home.”

            “He will not find your family, Mother Rabbit, for we will confuse him. Take me to each entrance and I will place one of my handkerchiefs by it. He will smell a man and a man’s home, covering your scent and keeping your children safe.”

            And the rabbit, quivering with gratefulness, did as he suggested and led him to each entrance by which a handkerchief was placed to disguise the rabbits’ home. The morning was past and the pack empty of handkerchiefs by the time the man continued on, a magpie on his nose and only sticks for another’s fire on his back.

            Much more of that day passed with no sign of herbs or nest. The man was disappointed to not be able to offer the young widow herbs but knew it was time to return home. He opened his mouth to speak with the magpie but it was another’s voice they heard.

            “Stop! By what right do you walk here?” a voice of frost challenged. “You trespass on lands belonging to the Queen of the Forest. You do not have her leave to enter.”

            Indeed, a faint line could be seen on the ground and across all living things. The man looked down; his feet had not crossed the line, but there was no question a good portion of his nose now rested within the Queen’s land.

            “Your freedom and life are forfeit to her. She will be your judge; come.” With the guardsman’s last word, invisible shackles fell on the man and he could do naught but obey. The little magpie had stilled at the guardsman’s mention of the Queen of the Forest and now clung tightly to the man’s nose, his small frame tense with what seemed more like awe than fear. So the trio arrived—stern guard, bound man, awed bird—at the Queen’s throne.

            Neither then nor ever after could the man find words to describe the Queen in aspect or character, so neither will we attempt it. For all that he saw and all that she was, the man knelt before her in reverence and humbly sought her pardon.

            “Your Majesty, please forgive me for wrongly trespassing. For though I was unaware of the boundary until it was pointed out, it would be a lie to say I did not cross it.”

            The Queen regarded him silently for a long moment before speaking. “Why did you enter the forest, man?”

            “I came in search of firewood and healing herbs, Your Majesty. One of my village needed aide.”

            “And how came there to be an infant bird on your remarkable nose?”

            “He came to me while I searched, Majesty, and also was in need of help.”

            “Did you enter the forest so unprepared, with no pack?”

            “No, your Highness. But its contents were needed by a mother rabbit, and so I am empty-handed before you. I have nothing to offer for my pardon.”

            “Nor could anything you offer prevent the Law, which states whatsoever unlawfully enters my domain belongs to me, from taking that which it requires. However,” and here she softened as though Springtime herself, “I cannot overlook your heart and your service to your people or to mine. For their sake, I claim only that which entered this land.”

            The man fell promptly onto his backside—the weight of the sticks had pulled him over for, he suddenly realized, his nose was gone. No, not gone, but of only slightly larger than average size! His mouth open in astonishment, he stared at the Queen’s amused, gentle smile.

            “Nor will I see you leave unprepared. Take this stick from my hearth, and you will have no more need to gather wood. Its flame will not go out, nor will you require herbs, for the fire will always be healthy and sweetly-scented.”

            The man bowed with his forehead to the floor (for now he could!) and thanked her, saying, “Your Majesty, these gifts are too great. My thanks are a small thing to offer.”

            “Ah, but perhaps not in my currency,” the Queen replied. “Go now. You will find the magpie’s home near where you entered the forest, and perhaps at your home you will find more than you thought to look for.”

            The man bowed once more to the Queen and was then escorted to the boundary, a stick from the Queen’s hearth across his shoulders in place of the bundle he had carried and the magpie, having lost his perch on the man’s nose, instead sitting on the stick. All was as the Queen had said. The little magpie’s nest was found near the entrance to the forest and he was returned happily and thankfully home. The man who no longer had a very great nose unexpectedly found a friend, and in time something more, in the young widow. Their hearth burned ever sweetly and brightly, nourished by small acts of loving service. And if shiny gifts were found on their windowsill more often than chance allowed and rabbits stayed out of their garden—well, perhaps that was just good luck.

Edify

“‘People in fairy stories,’ he said, ‘always find what they want. Why should not I find this Carasoyn? It does not seem likely. But the world doesn’t go round by likely. So I will try.’ But how was he to begin? When Colin did not know what to do, he always did something.”[1]

I don’t know how to begin this easily or gently, how to find a natural segue, and so we will simply begin with something. This is born of many conversations over a good decade with close friends as well as people whose names I have forgotten. It comes, too, out of multiple requests and repeated “you should!!”s. And today’s topic is…..deep breath (am I really going to share my thoughts on this??)…dating in the church.

Preface: I am, and have for some time been, perfectly content to be as I am, which happens to also currently include being single. So many of the best things in my life have not been of my choosing, that while I do greatly desire marriage and a family, I cannot doubt that if it doesn’t happen, that too will be good. I believe that the Lord protects His people and that He gives good gifts[2]; if I believe that, how can I not be thankful for His gift of singleness, however long it may be and however much I did not ask for it? There is goodness in the unexpected, and gifts that come out of situations that would otherwise never be.

Being not married, I fall into an odd little category[3] that the church doesn’t yet fully know (but is learning) “what to do with.” But even that phrase I dislike, because it suggests that to be an adult, unmarried Christian is an oddity and requires special consideration. Um, no. Let me just say NO to that. I and my single friends, male and female, do not need to be treated delicately. We need the same respect and offers of friendship offered to anyone else in the church; build relationships with us, walk through our lives with us, and bring us into your lives. Don’t mince around the issue, but don’t make it the focus. Allow us the freedom to celebrate and to share where we are in the journey, the same married couples and parents can celebrate and share what is happening in their relationships. And please, consider carefully how you encourage those who are hurting in singleness[4].

A tiny amount of googling yields a vast number of hits on this subject and a crazy number of theories as to why fewer and fewer people are getting married. Personally, I think there’s credence to a lot of the reasons and can see how intertwined they are. Whatever and however manifold the reasons are, a couple prominent and recurring themes have stood out over the years.

For the men: In one word, intentionality. Be intentional with girls who are friends, that to the best of your ability they do not presume an interest[5]. Be intentional with girls you are interested in. If you like someone and there isn’t a reason not to, ask her out. Going on a date is not an offer of marriage (goodbye, I Kissed Dating Goodbye). Your chances of success? 0% for never asking and just hoping it comes up. 50% if you step up to the plate and ask; that's significantly better than 0%. It is awkward and intimidating in ways neither I nor any girl will ever truly understand, and I respect that. We respect you for asking, for taking that chance for us. And that idea that you have to guard our hearts? Not only does it keep you from being fully yourself around us, it isn’t your job. Treat us with respect, keep a clear conscience, and allow the guarding of our hearts to fall where it should: between us and the Lord.

For the women: I know this is hard because I’ve been there but, sisters, relax. It’s true that there aren’t a lot of single men in church, but for every one there is, there is a group of girls analyzing if “he’s the one.” From the bottom of a heart that has hurt as yours has, please, stop. That is not how we are to treat our brothers. At best, it does them no good, and it only hurts you. Who do you trust more? The relationship specialists and columnists and researchers, or the God who created every single thing around you?[6] Who commands the turning of seasons and giving of life? You may look around and feel like you’re in the middle of a desert, but guess what—beautiful things grow there too. God intentionally created every environment and left no space empty of His fingerprints and vitality; your life, no matter how far from your expectations, is no different.

To both: be encouraged. I write not to condemn or malign, but to acknowledge and support as one who has been there. As Colin said, “Why should not I find this [rare thing of great value]? It does not seem likely. But the world doesn’t go round by likely. So I will try.”

So may we all try, single and married and divorced and widowed, men and women, to treat one another with love and respect as we are called to do.

---

[1] From ch3 “The Old Woman and Her Hen” of The Carasoyn by George MacDonald.

[2] “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him! So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” Matthew 7:9-12

[3] Really though, it’s not so little and it continues to grow.

[4] Nowhere does the Bible promise everyone a spouse; you shouldn’t either.

[5] Unfortunately, some people will read into things they shouldn’t, and that is not on you. If people start asking if you and a friend are an item, though, take that as an indication you’re doing it very, very wrong.

[6] Psalm 104 is GORGEOUS and an absolute favorite. It’s also very appropriate here but looooong. Look it up, read it out loud, and let its praises be proclaimed even from the painful places.