Shive sits on the highest point of the compound, a small mound with an air of antiquity about it that pleases her for some reason she's never been able to fathom.

She has a few moments before her duty time in the crèche. Shive likes House Kamaars' free and equal duty rotations where all Co-Fam Members rotate every assignment. "Sure makes 'poo-dooty' easier knowing it is only ten days at a stretch" she thinks. Then, like a buzzing gnat, a memory ghosts through her mind of her having being (or going to be?) responsible for the total care of several children birth to adulthood. "Light have mercy on my aching grey head, who could handle that?"

She checks her wrist chrono implant. Two ticks til the news and then poo-dooty with the toddlers for the next twelve tocks. And then she rotates to TechWarez and adult Co-Fam chats. Shive holos up the BBD, FGR, and TTH newsfeeds not wanting to over-tax her brain with more than three simo feeds.

As the news unfold, Shive finds herself sitting up straight. Finds herself paying close attention. Finds herself tingling with an excitement beyond her ken as vids and pics stream an all-globe announcement of uber-import.

The excitement mounts, threatens to erupt lava-like. Shive minimizes all feeds except for BBD. "This is it!" she whispers and then immediately questions herself, "What is "it" anyway? Why am I so stirred?"

She concentrates on the holo playback of a speech given by World Manager Sakis. "And there you have it, Friends, Stellar Summit—known formerly as World Summit—is reality. Species-centricity is thing of past for Homo sapiens race. We have today, embraced universal diversity and stellar tolerance by opening our world to our friends."

"Terredoxi. . . "  (Here the sidebar shows a frail-looking offworlders with over-sized cranium and ubiquitous robes of light) ". . . and their faithful companion Cachune. . . " (now the sidebar powerpoints to show the multi-appendaged, multi-eyed Cachune peering over the 'shoulders' of its Terredoxi host) " . . . and Humans  . . . ."  (now bringing World Manager Sakis into the group) ". . . are One!"

And Shive watches thousands jubilate world-wide.

And Shive feels a wave of terror. A wave of fear so cold it crackles. And then memories rise like an angry ocean in the throes of vicious, unrelenting waves. And she will feel terror. And she remembers having felt cold terror. She felt. She feels. She will—

Shi'Veli lumbers, fully pregnant and ripe to deliver. She plants calloused feet and her stick carefully for she knows the time of magic, the time of birth breathes closely by. She fears not for her men are near to hand. They, too, wait for the magic in their own mannish ways, for Shi'Veli bears the hope of the future.

Her countenance darkens. "Future? It's past, right? The child lived. Lives? Will live?" She makes no sense of these thoughts for they tangle with concepts for which she has no context, yet of which she possesses strong dreams.

Sh'Veli pauses with the weight of her thoughts, and to rest the heft of her great belly, but she craves sweet berries more so she climbs the hill of the white rock for there the berries are plentiful. At the crown, she looks over the wild tangle that is the verdant valley below. She sees the river as it cradles the valley. She squints to see beyond to the edge of the horizon to the south where she knows the valleys treasure not growing things, but ash and fire, smoke and death. She turn north and though she sees it not, she knows the Upheaval comes nearer and nearer with its cold and frozen death.

She senses the beast, with a sense neither hearing nor smell, seconds before he pounces.

Letting out the ululation for danger Shi'Veli grabs up and swings her great staff as the saber tooth swings his great paw, claws fully extended.

Both connect.

The creature is felled. Neck broken, skull bashed in. The woman falls too, to the agony that is her right arm. Blood spurts and birth waters are breeched. She hears the men through a great roaring. She feels the warmth of life seep through both the jagged furrows in her flesh and the place of magic between her thighs. She closes her eyes . . .  

Shiveleah sits and rocks on the warm verandah. Mind painfully acute. Eyes gently clouded, set among the wrinkles of her parchment skin like opals on manila velvet, watch the end of the driveway, knowing, dreading, the military carriage, the Officer, the telegram and the folded flag.  Old wounds and wounds-yet-to-be pain her joints. Emile. Emile of the proud grey uniform, Emile of the laughing blue-sky eyes, Emile is dead again and she waits for the news and weeps for she heard the news.

Her heart, though, her crafty, wily, cunning human heart hides a secret and in her hands she conceals a seed. She sees the War and she has hope clenched in arthritic captivity. Rozzell---

Shively sits on a porch, cold and waiting. "No, wait, it won't be a porch for a century or two, it's just a rock.  Or has it been a porch already and this is After-Time?"

She looks down at her body of the Instant. It's on the scrawny side. It's wearing leather from the skin of a once living being over a plant fiber tunic, dalga boots, flared Levis, and an asteroid spiral interface. The interface emerges from a socket at the base of her brain and wraps its wave net sinuously around her left arm from shoulder to pinkie. She testcalls, but of course there is no net link pick-up in the Here.  Her right hand is a tight little fist as if she's Midas and the hand holds gold.

"Must be nine Line years old, so this is definitely the After-time" she thinks. The saber tooth scar is there, a monstrosity that aches even as she glances at it, but the plane crash burn isn't. "Thank the Light that the saber tooth thing is over at the moment. That's one I don't relish. Not at all."

.She shivers. The Now is a desolation of warped and twisted automotive carcasses, horseless chariots once the pride (or to become the pride?)  of man's glory, now home to ore-borers, metal maggots and Things of  Dark which feed on rotten metal and whatever unwary creatures venture too near.

Naked and bent rebar and girders from bridges and high-rises foul the land like wrenched skeletons or mangled prison bars. The moon paints harsh, bleak shadows with its stark, unforgiving light. Light which climbs in magnitude as all sound diminishes. The light builds and builds and crescendos as all the spectrum screams—

And Rozzell approaches—

Shively suddenly, from an unknown fragment of her mind, thinks, "How can this be? Each journey into the Terredoxi press of time device is a solo journey so say the Terredoxi and the vile Cachune who serve them. The Terredoxi say much through their Cachune interfaces. To the Dark with the little spiders, I say. Never liked them. Way too crawly and too whispery a voice, I say."

While Shively thinks, Rozzell, impossible Rozzell, approaches. Shively starts a smile then stops as Rozzell shakes her head and does the unthinkable—she reaches to Shively's head and unplugs the interface!

Shively panics like a diver whose air supply is suddenly compromised. She imagines she feels the tentacles of death surround her. She imagines the pressure. She –

She is slapped by her friend, Rozzell. "Shive, snap out of it! I just unplugged it. I haven't destroyed your interface. It was necessary.  We need to talk privately. Look—"

And Rozzell lifts her thick red hair to show her own gaping gleaming empty socket at the base of her skull.

Shively, faintly nauseated, shirks from this unwonted intimacy. She forces her eyes to meet Rozzel's as she feels the other cock her hand for another skin-tingling smack on her face. "Okay, Okay—I get it, I know you. Put your hands down. What is so darkening urgent?"

"Jabri has a theory--"

."Jabri?"

"Yes, Jabri. Your son. Now Jabri has this theory--"

"I have a son?" Shiveley's hands go to her flat adolescent chest which nevertheless remembers the aching fullness and the sweet relief of milk release at a child's cry.

"I have a son?" she repeats softly.

"Yes!" says Rozzell impatiently. " Have, had, will have. Will have had—whatever, you know the drill. Now, please shut the dark up, woman—we don't have much time."

Shively nods though some secret part of her mind gets a real kick out of Roz's last statement.

"Okay. Jabri has a theory. He's been working closely with Cachune Eex and—" Rozzell breaks off her sentence at the look on disgust and repulsion on Shively's face. It is so vitriolic that she takes a step back.

"No!" growls Shively. "No spiders! I don't truck with that sort and you dark well know it!"

"But, you don't understand—"

"Right and I don't want to understand, either. Filthy, disgusting parasites. Dark burn them all to outer Blackness!"

"No!" roars the redhead. "You WILL listen and you WILL hear or by the Black Snuffer Himself, I'll knock you to the lightless Void right NOW!"

Shively opens her eyes wide. Roz, phlegmatic Roz never gets worked up. She is always calm and peaceable.

"Too many people," continues the person in front of Shively, "have paid too high a price over and over and blackin' over again for me to have to listen to this bigot crap of yours. We are allies at the most basic level—so, deal! For your information, the Cachune have been working for eons to escape the clutches of the Terredox."

"Escape?" mumbles Shively.

"Yes, escape. Seems that Terries enslave and feed off the 'Hoonies. And, up til now, off of them exclusively. Not every species they've run across has been able to service them. The 'Hoonies keep them at starvation levels—but I guess it beats the alternative. And now, when they might have a chance to get away while the Terries are occupied with us? Do they take it and run? No. They seek our freedom as well. "

Shively nod. She wills herself to hear Rozzell out.

"Jabri says with us humans, they've hit the Light Almighty jackpot of the ages.  We not only feed them, we take them into raptures. They're addicts and we are their substance of choice."

"But, but—"begins Shively, then stops. She starts again. "What exactly do they get from us? What gives them the buzz?"

"How old are you, Shively?"

"Old??"

"Yes, how old would you say you are?"

"This body? Oh, it looks about 9 Line years, I'd say. Why? What does that have to do with it?"

"Have you loved? Have you born children?"

"Of course, I have. I have known the love of many men and born children."

"In that body?

"Yes. Er, no, not yet. Or was it long ago? No, wait, I will bear—but I remember having borne—Oh, it hurts my brain!"

"Exactly. The truth is, you are a 9-year-old virgin who has born several children in the future. And the past.  And the present, as well.   Here's how it works. Man has a relationship, unique in the universe. Jabri says we are all "tied" to the earth for were molded from it by LightMaker.  There are repositories in the earth where the ages of time and lives lived collect. . ."

Shively feels a twinge of something hidden in her soul begin to rouse itself. "Yes," she whispers. "Time banks."

Roz startles. "Exactly. That is what Jabri calls them, too. How can you know? Anyway, certain people, the Terredoxi have found are sensitive to certain repositories. Years and years ago, when they first came and Stellar Summit—"

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

"How long ago was Stellar Summit? And what was his name—Saken? Sooki? "

"Sakis. That was his name, dark rot him. World Manager Sakis. Sure you want to know?"

"Yes. Tell me, please."

"Sakis—and you—lived seven hundred eighty Line years ago."

Shively is stunned. She feels her world constrict. She feels faint. "Seven hundred eighty??"

Rozelle, supports Shively and lowers them both to the ground. "Well, dim-it! You are starting to withdraw from the interface. We don't have much time—"

Shively laughs as if Roz has made a joke.

Roz ignores her. "Listen, I need to tell you all that Jabri wanted you to know. He says it is vital you get this info. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah—where do you think you are now?

"Isn't it obvious? Look around you. We are in the After-Time. That time of great destruction. What--?"

Roz shakes her head. "We are in a large room built of some impenetrable off-world sap. The After-Time has happened but it is not Now. This room sits over a Time Bank that looks like an ordinary rock atop an ordinary hill. There used to be houses here once, but that was long ago.  You are extremely tied to this Time Bank, Shively. And your power to interface with it, to "translate" to re-live what it stores is phenomenal. This one feeds scores of Terredoxi."

"But, how? I still don't understand how."

"Cachune Eex says that the concept is hard to put into Standard, but it is like the Terredoxi sense the power—ha—sense it? They slaver for it—of a place like this and bring Cachune in to set up the initial connections between the Time Bank and the human and between the human and the various Cachune who serve portals for the Terredoxi."

"When sequenced properly, a single human life experience is mined from the Time Bank's hoard. It is distilled within the Cachune, then fed to the human, who then lives that life as if it were his own—only at a much faster rate—absorbing and concentrating all the triumphs and terrors, joys and sorrows.   When you are full of a life, the Cachune portal is brought in. Then a Terredoxi—several, in your case—then interface with the portal and suck that life from you. And all knowledge of it with it. The "syringe" is emptied fully that it may be filled and re-used again and again. And the human's body gets altered to fit the memory they are loaded with—to a certain extent."

"So, in essence, they feed on time itself? The passage of time?"  whispers Shively

"Yes. And Jabri has found— "

"Jabri finds a Writ," continues Shively in the same low, earthy whisper. "He finds a Writ and a Promise and then mention of a LightBringer. And a Seed of a woman. But what Jabri and the Cachune and the Terredoxi know not is that the container empties not."

Now, Rozell startles. "Not emptied?" 

"No. The heart of the mother remains. It transcends loss. Mamas remember the details." Shively presses her small hands to her flat chest and yearns (will yearn? has yearned?) for the full breasts of a Pleistocene princess. She drops (will drop? Has dropped?) her hands to her lap where she does not cradle with liver-spotted, palsied hands a carefully folded flag. There is no rucksack with House Kamaars' logo, filled with poo-dooty cloths and wipes and supplies near to hand, either.

Shively's head aches. She feels the loss of the metal interface suddenly. She groans,

"Anyway," starts Roz, "Jabri says you must get the Seed. He says—"

"Have it." Gasps Shively through the fire in her nerves and the ice in her guts. "Will have it. Will have had it."

Tears leak from her eyes, mixing with the salty sweat from her brow. A pervasive clamor arises from somewhere beyond. It adds to Shively's agony. She realizes

She wants to lie down, like a traveler seeking the warmth of a snow bank in a blizzard, but a sense of urgency arises within her. It cajoles. It begs it pleads. It threatens.

It is a voice that brooks no disappointment. A voice that commands. (has commanded? will command?) Comforts. Teaches. Pleads. Suffers damnation if need be.

Shively sits up straighter. She flings her thin, scarred childish right hand in front of her, loosening it as she does (will do? did?);

As Shive flings (has flung? will have had flung?) her strong right hand, scarred though it is, down in front of her, opening it as she does;

As Shivleah smiles her crafty, cunning, human smile and pulls on the scarred, drawn right hand until it lays like a broken thing before her and slowly pries (will pry? Pried?) open the stiff arthritic fingers;

As Shi'Veli, at the height of her natal magics, labors long and hard to outstretch her crudely-bandaged, swollen right arm and to open the fingers by will alone—

And a Seed drops—has dropped—will have dropped—had dropped—does drop—into the ground in front of an astonished redhead.

And all over the Universe, the press of time eases. 

..tr> ..table>

(S)cripture For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words.  1 Thessalonians 4: 16-18 (O)bservation Paul is giving these people for whom he cares deeply, encouragement for their everyday lives by telling them how the end of this Age shall be, a "heads-up" if you will on the beginning of the end of the world. (A)pplication By the time they were walking well, my children knew 4 key verses of the Bible as well as they could walk. The knew "In the beginning, GOD created the heavens and the earth;" they knew "For God so LOVED the world;" they knew "When the Day of Pentecost was FULLY come;" and they knew "For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven with a SHOUT!" The first two are very obvious, the third obvious if you know me, but the fourth?? Isn't that just the "funeral verse" that you recite just before the guy with the bagpipes plays the funeral song, "Amazing Grace?" No way! These verses are the bedrock of our Christian encouragement in THIS life. Why? Because they preview for us the end of this world . . .and the beginning of our eternity, these verses are the start of us living "happily ever after." They encourage us by letting us know that whatever hard times or trials or sufferings we go through in this life WILL end. They encourage us by letting us know that when things get wilder and wilder in this society, there WILL be a "final bell" to it all—the Trumpet Call of God—that WILL sound.  They encourage us by letting us know that even IF we die, we still win because both the dead AND the living will rise to meet the Lord in the air. No ifs, ands, or buts about it, it WILL happen. We WILL get to fly at least once. We WILL defeat gravity as our Lord has defeated death. And we WILL get to see Jesus face to face—what can be more encouraging than that?? (P)rayer "Oh, God, help me to keep my eyes on Your promises when I get discouraged. Help me to remember that when evil comes to pass; it comes, only to pass for it is not eternal.  Help me remember that Your Trumpet will sound the end of this Age. And open my eyes this week, Lord, that I may encourage another brother or sister with these very words. Maranatha, Lord, amen!"

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(S)cripture

7 Therefore, brothers, in all our distress and persecution we were encouraged about you because of your faith. 8 For now we really live, since you are standing firm in the Lord. 1 Thessalonians 3:7-8

(O)bservation

After being forcibly expelled from the city of Thessalonica by irate Jews (who also followed him to the next city, Berea, to cause trouble as well), Paul remained concerned for the new believers he'd left behind.

(A)pplication

How many times do we think of others in the midst of our own trials or troubles? Is the most important thing to us in our trouble always me, me, me?

How often is the faith of someone else more important to us than anything else?

It is easy to notice, catalogue and pass judgment on our friends' sins, but how often does the health of their faith concern us?

When we are in the midst of our own distress and persecutions, how often do we let ourselves be encouraged by another's faith?

(P)rayer

"Oh, dear Lord Jesus, help me to break my me, me, me fixation. Help me see beyond my own trials of the moment. Let me notice--and be encouraged by--the faith of others. Amen."

(S)cripture

For the appeal we make does not spring from error or impure motives, nor are we trying to trick you. On the contrary, we speak as men approved by God to be entrusted with the gospel. We are not trying to please men but God, who tests our hearts. You know we never used flattery, nor did we put on a mask to cover up greed—God is our witness.       1 Thessalonians 2:3-5

(O)bservation

In this, his first letter to the church at Thessalonica, Paul is defending his ministry to them by comparing and contrasting it to the "ministries" of others. By letting us know what he did NOT do, he paints a clear picture of what the unscrupulous DID do.

(A)pplication

If ever a passage of scripture spoke from the past into the reality of the present, this one does! As believers we are deluged with appeals on every front: appeals through radio, through the television, through the US mail and lately, through emails as well.

Sad to say, not EVERY appeal is from pure motives. Not every one who asks is free from error. Not every asker is approved by God and entrusted with the Gospel by Him.

There are wackos. There are people with downright impure motives making appeals. There are tricksters. There are manpleasers. There are people who specialize in flattery of Christians to get what they want. There are masked men out to get all they can from us because they are greedy.

We need God's Holy Spirit power to discern for us the motives behind every one we meet and every appeal we hear or see in print. We need to be on the alert for error. We need to be as careful in our giving as we are in our living.

And we must accept the fact that not all who CLAIM Christ are in fact His. We need to go to red alert when we sense flattery in progress. We need to seek the Lord to reveal masks hiding greed.  We need to be careful and we need the Lord's help to do it.

(P)rayer

"Oh, good Lord, help me to resist flattery. Help me not to be taken in by tricksters or masked men or insidious appleas. Test my heart often, Lord, that I harbor no flattery or greed or masks. Cleanse my motives and my ways from error so that I may be approved by You and entrusted with Your gospel. In Jesus' name."

(S)cripture

He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. 2 Samuel 22:17

(O)bservation

The literal setting for this 17^th verse is given to us in the first verse: David sang to the LORD the words of this song when the LORD delivered him from the hand of all his enemies and from the hand of Saul. 2 Samuel 22:1

 

(A)pplication

"Deep Water" here refers to David's powerful enemies as well as the greatest enemy, death. But for me, for today, deep water implies being in over your head. It implies being out beyond your comfort level.

You are in deep waters when you can no longer control things yourself, when you are beyond your own ability to get yourself out of whatever you have gotten yourself into.

When you start an addictive habit or a sin, it is small at first—a thought here or there, a smoke or a pill popped, an instance of gossip, a time of envy, every so often, a single serving of alcohol infrequently. You say, "Yes, I know I am doing this, but I have it under control, I can stop any time I want to." And for a while, that is absolutely true. In the beginning, you can control your thoughts, your desires and your cravings. You can control the situation.

But it never stops there, does it?

Soon, these scattered instances have become your whole lifestyle. Soon you are beyond your ability to just say "No" to that which you thought you controlled. You are no longer the master; you have become the slave. And you are in over your head. You are right smack dab in the middle of deep waters and you will NOT get out on your own. The waters rise higher and higher and unless someone saves you, you are lost.

But the GOOD NEWS is there IS one who can save you. One who has power to reach down and pluck you from whatever deep waters you are in. It doesn't matter what it is or how you got there, if you humble yourself and call on Him, He will reach down His nail-pierced hand from on high and draw you out of the deep waters.

(P)rayer

"Oh merciful God, help me to escape my pride and call on you to save me from these deep waters I am in. I thought I could handle it, but, Lord, You know and I know that I am in over my head. Deliver me from my evil thoughts and my sins and my addictive behaviors. In Jesus name, amen!"

(S)cripture

 When I am afraid, I will trust in you. Psalm 56:3

(O)bservation

As the note at the beginning of Psalm 53 states, this particular psalm was written about the time that the Philistines seized David in Gath while he was on the run from Saul.

(A)pplication

By the timeframe for this psalm, David was already a warrior of renown in the kingdom—that was the whole problem. David was outshining the king. Saul was incensed over the fact that all the young maidens were singing that Saul had slain his thousands but David had slain his tens of thousands. So, basically, David feared for his life because he was on the run from the government.

We learn from this that there are times when everyone feels afraid—even warriors! We also learn that it is not a sin to be afraid or to admit it when we are.

But the crux of the matter is not being afraid, but it is what we do when we are afraid, isn't it?

If David had, in his fear, become immobilized, had just sat in a corner quaking in his fear and being overwhelmed by it, then Saul would have caught him and that would have been it.

But David didn't quit when he became afraid. He trusted God actively when he was afraid. . .and he kept on the move. And we must do the same thing when we are tempted to give way to fear. We musn't give up; we musn't give in; we musn't give out. We must trust our God in spite of our fears. We must be humble enough to confess the fear, yet bold enough to trust our God anyway even when men hotly pursue us. Even when we are slandered, when our words are twisted, when we are plotted against—even then we must have our total confidence and full reliance on our God because our attackers are only men and even if they do kill us, our God—whom we trust—has power over death!

(P)rayer

"Oh, Lord God of creation, help me to never falter in my trust of you. When I fear, help me to admit it and trust in You anyway. When I am beset by enemies, help me not to collapse, but to stand my ground and to trust in You no matter what they do or say. When I am afraid, Lord, help me to always trust in You. Amen"

(S)cripture

"What do you think?" "He is worthy of death," they answered. Then they spit in his face and struck him with their fists. Others slapped him." MATTHEW 26:66-67 

(O)bservation

After the scenes of Judas' betrayal, The Last Supper, Jesus' prediction of Peter's denial, the Garden of Gethsemane, and His Arrest, Jesus is taken before the Sanhedrin of His own people.

But the Son of God is not recognized for who He is. These religious people find Him worthy all right, but not worthy of the honor or glory or praise He is due. Instead, they find Him worthy of death.

These religious leaders have the unparalleled opportunity of a face-to-face with the King of Creation. And do they ask for blessings for their people as Jacob did when he wrestled with the angel? Do they ask for wisdom as Solomon did?  No, they contemptify the Son of God by spitting on Him.

With very God before them, does the Sanhedrin touch Him in love, kissing His feet as did the woman with the alabaster box? Do they touch Him in hope as did the woman with the issue of blood?  Do they touch Him in faith as did the woman seeking crumbs from the master's table? No, they assault Him by striking and slapping Him with their fists and hands.

(A)pplication

It is so easy to view these people with disdain. So easy to judge them with 20/20 hindsight and forget that they hadn't read the Bible account like we have; that they were living in "the moment." So easy to think, "Well if I had been so blessed to have been that close to Jesus, then I would certainly have treated Him right!  I would bow just so.  I would ask Him things reverently"

We forget tha�G�$ DO have opportunities every day to touch Jesus. And that these opportunities are every bit as "real" and "count" as much as when Jesus stood before the Sanhedrin.

What are OUR opportunities to touch Jesus today?

Our opportunities are all around us. When we see someone who is hungry.  Or thirsty.  Or lonely.  Or sick.  Or in prison.  When our children want something for the forty-leventh time.  When the neighbor is pestering us.  When that person who gets on our last nerve corners us at church.  When the boss wants extra.  When someone cuts in front of us.  Whenever we meet someone who needs a touch of love, a touch of hope, or a touch of faith, we have the opportunity to touch Jesus.

'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'               Matthew 25:45

(P)rayer

"Dear Jesus, I do want to find You worthy of glory and honor. Help me to touch You with love anywhere I find You today. Open my eyes, please, to see You where you are, too, that I may touch You by touching others with faith, hope and love. Amen."

(S)CRIPTURE

 1 Samuel 22:5   But the prophet Gad said to David, "Do not stay in the stronghold. Go into the land of Judah." So David left and went to the forest of Hereth.

 
(O)BSERVATION

 
David is at the point where his life is just a series of "flip-flops." He starts out as a simple shepherd, a regular boy—not even the eldest at that. Prophet Samuel comes to his house and David's life flips—he's anointed to be the next King. David is in the fields tending sheep, Flip! he's brought to court to play harp to soothe the king. He's nobody, then, Flip! he's blood-brother to a Prince. He's a kid, then, Flip! he's a giant killer. He's a simple shepherd, then Flip! he's a King's Champion . . . with tons of girl groupies to sing his praise. He is single, then, Flip! he's  wed to a Princess. He's Court Musician, then, Flip! he's fleeing 'cause the King is now trying to kill him. And he keeps fleeing. And keeps fleeing.  Until he comes to the stronghold of Moab where he finally finds a little rest for himself and his family.  And naturally, he wants to stay for a while, but God has other plans. He sends in Prophet Gad who tells David "Do not stay in the stronghold!"

 

(A)PPLICATION

 Sometimes in the flip-flop-ness of our lives, we get so tired and just want to rest. We are in too many battles.  We've had too many betrayals.  We've had to be the  strong one so much of the time that we feel we have no strength left. It gets so hard to keep on keeping on and all we want to do is find a quiet spot to light and lick our wounds. 

And then God sends in someone to tell us to get back to the business.  To rejoin the battle. To leave the stronghold.

Why?

Because we are in a battle.  Because there are works God has prepared in advance of our salvation for us to do. Because we are to lean on Him when we are weak.  Because we can do all things through Christ Who strengthens us. Because we are not in this alone and there are people depending on us, depending on our witness.

Because if David had languished in the stronghold of moab, he would never have become King.

 

(P)RAYER

"Oh Father, forgive me for looking for rest in Moab when I have You.  Strengthen me by Your might and I shall be strong.  Help me to hold steady when my life flip-flops.  Help me to trust in You, the Unchanging One. Amen!"

I caught a glimpse of what God is like today in the most unlikely place imaginable, and it brought tears of awe coursing down my cheeks.

It was on YouTube in the category of "comedy" and with tags of  "the   worst   singer   ever."  
Here is the URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1A_4M-bd8c&NR=1

Wikipedia even mentions the event (though Wiki missed God in it): On April 25, 2003, during a game between the Trail Blazers and the Dallas Mavericks, Cheeks aided 13-year-old Natalie Gilbert in singing the National anthem. After Gilbert forgot the words at "At the twilight's last gleaming", Cheeks rushed over to help her and they finished it together, as the entire Rose Garden Arena crowd sang with them. Cheeks and Gilbert received a standing ovation after the song was over.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maurice_Cheeks

Yes, Wikipedia definitely does not see God in there, so how, you may ask, do I?

Well, when I saw Natalie in that huge arena of strangers, I saw myself in the world, alone and all by myself.  And I also saw every Christian in the world but not of the world, strangers and aliens among who no longer share the same Father.

I saw Natalie with a huge task before her. Her task was singing the national anthem at only thirteen before a huge crowd of people.  And I saw myself with every challenge I've had to face, every time I've stepped out to accomplish something way bigger than myself.  And I saw every Christian ever called upon to do mighty exploits for God, to do "greater works than these,"  to preach, to heal, to raise the dead–to do every impossible thing the New Testament calls upon believers to do.

I saw Natalie begin the great task and then begin to fail, to become overwhelmed by the task and the arena, and to begin to fear. And I saw myself get scared, get overwhelmed, get freaked out, get my eyes off my God and onto my puny human self all the many times I have.  And I saw Peter step from a rickety fishing boat at Jesus behest; saw him walk on water, saw him take his eyes off Jesus, saw him begin to falter and begin to sink in deep water.

Then I saw Natalie become aware of her failing. And I saw that she could not help herself.  And I saw no one in that vast arena of people who could–or would–help her although all of them saw. And I remembered all the many, many times I have felt the same way: lost, lonely, helpless and hopeless. And then I saw Isaiah the Prophet when, speaking of God,  he wrote, "He saw that there was no one,  he was appalled that there was no one to intervene; so his own arm worked salvation. . ." (IS 59:16)

When I saw Maurice Cheeks stride out of the background like a force of nature or an avenging angel, tall, bold, and confident to lend his presence and his support and his strength (and what little singing ability he had, poor guy) to that little girl in trouble before thousands of people, none of whom had offered to come to her aid--

That, my friends, is when I saw God in this secular video.

And I wept for every time God has come to my aid, for every miracle He's done for me, for every answered prayer in the dark of my midnight, for every time I thought I was all alone and then He came. And I wept for the definition I learned long ago of the Holy Spirit as paraclete "one called alongside to help."  And I wept some more for this verse: John 14:18 " I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you."

And I wept again as I replayed the video and thought of this verse in Hebrews 5: 13 (AMP) ". . .for He,  God, Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you,  nor give you up,  nor leave you without support. I will  not,  I will not, I will not in any degree leave you helpless,  nor forsake,  nor let you down, nor relax  My hold on you!  Assuredly not!"

And so that is my glimpse of God today. . . in a secular video where He surprised me to tears.

LindaSue

"Isdodda and the Aviss Heiliss"

By Linda S. Johnson

 

"I dreamt again of her last night, that true daughter of my parents, that violet-eyed specter who has haunted my life since I can remember."

Isdodda paused in her journal entry to assess the row of glyphs marching across the pristine parchment like so many swarthy Calborlin mercenaries. They were neat enough, she supposed, but would never have passed the inspection of her father, the meticulous Scholar Vavore Silver-Oaks, in his prime.                       

 She sighed.  That was part of the problem; her Fatha was no longer in his prime.  His sight was failing though his wits were nearly as keen as ever, and the trembleache had overtaken his hands so that the once slim and agile Scribe's fingers were now jerky, knotted, and gnarled.  Yet he continued, ever vigilant at the bedside of his beloved Paoli wife, living for the times, ever rarer now, when the mindfog parted and Hyl Silver-Oaks knew him once again

 And Motha.               

 Motha never seemed to see her anymore.  Even when the mindfog did part, it seemed to Isdodda that when her Motha looked at her, she kept looking, beyond her, always hoping to see someone else, one of the Sisters.  When she was a young tweener, this constant oversight had rubbed Isdodda nerves raw.  Even though Fatha had explained so patiently how a blow to the heart such as Hyl had suffered at the loss of her five daughters in a single day could affect the mind.  And young Isdodda had understood–or thought she had. 

Being naturally gifted for Healing, Isdodda had reasoned that if Motha missed the Five, then having a reminder of them ought to help her and lessen her pain.  So she had studied the portraitures of each of the Five, Aleeka, Malva, Tamar, Dulcet, and Qwilla, intently.  Next, she had studied her own face in the still feesi pond, back of the house.  She had decided that she looked most like Tamar, the middle Sister.  Although there was no way her sky-colored eyes could be made to appear the violet hue of hers, Isdodda had thought she could master Tamar's old-fashioned ribbon weaving technique with enough practice.  And her pale, knee-length wheaten hair had been almost the white of Tamar's.

 Sitting now in the great room, her journal spread open before her on the massive firegle meal table, Isdodda remembered the day well–how could she ever forget?  It had been the day after First Snow.  Motha had been restless and muttering for days.  She had not known Fatha in a handful of days and nights and his countenance was becoming as grey as his hair.

With an excitement so profound it almost hurt, Isdodda had sneaked into Their Room and lifted from Tamar's bed the two ribbons and the matching overtunic early in the day.  She had excused herself from lastmeal, donned the tunic, and interwove the ribbons through her hair.  The boys had been out, Meetra had been hidden nearby and her Fatha had been seated, as always, by Motha's side in the sleep chamber. He had been humming a soothing nonsense song and trying to capture and warm one of his wife's hands as they moved restlessly over the coverlet. 

When she had entered the room, Fatha's head had been on his arms on Motha's bed.  His shoulders might have been heaving with sobs–she never had gotten time to check before Motha's screams had begun.

 Hearing Hyl's scream, Vavore had whipped around, taken a step and had been ready to attack. Then he had seen Isdodda and his face had blanched. 

 Hyl had screamed an animal scream of misery.

 Vavore had looked at Isdodda. "What have you done?" he cried.

 Isdodda had tried to explain, "Please, Fatha, I was only trying to help--" as she had sought the comfort of his arms, which for the first time in her life had been denied her.

 "Get out of my sight!  Now!"

 Isdodda had turned and fled to the outlying kitchen buildings, head pounding, guts roiling and feeling as bad as she had ever felt in her life.

 Vavore had sent Meetra for the bottle of merrimumm from his desk and had administered 4 careful drops of the powerful sedative to Hyl before she calmed down.  Then he had gone searching for Isdodda.  By the time he had found her, she had taken the sharp Otwellian boning knife and shredded the over tunic, and had been hacking off the last hank of her hair, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Despite the blood pouring from the many scalp wounds, her father had taken her in his arms.  He had spoken so eloquently of Mind Ills that Isdodda knew she wanted to make the study of them her life's work.  Vavore had also taken her to the friseur to see what could be done about her hair. To even it up, he had had to shave it completely.  Isdodda had kept it that way ever since.

 Isdodda's misadventure into Mind Healing had not made much of a change in her mother.  After the merrimumm had worn off, she had been pretty much the same.  Still looking for the Five.  Still calling for them.

 Or lately, one of the Triple Born, Isdodda's brothers, who had perished together in the War as they had lived together all their lives.  At some time in the past season, it had finally penetrated Hyl's befogged mind that the boys were as gone as her girls.  Now grief leached from palsied lips day and night, as she spoke in soft whispers and motherly words to children no more of this world.

 So much death for one house to hold, Isdodda thought.  So much grief and loss.

 With this thought, Isdodda's eyes were drawn to the various azmaadi, the little shrines of remembrance for the dead which lined the walls of the great room in which she sat like they lined the walls of kitchen outbuildings across the courtyard. And like they lined the courtyard itselv.  Like they lined the walls of her parents' room. Like they lined the walls of her and Meetra's room.

Well, like they lined the walls of her former room.  When Meetra had wedded Darnal Tormo, she had left Isdodda alone with the everburing tapers, the cloying ishteer incensed, and the eerie pentacle-shaped portraitures of the Sisters.  Motha was bloodkin to the renown Haatarrah portraiteer Rau Dyvor.  Isdodda had stood it only part of the night before she quietly dragged her bilcreeta feather bed into the tiny, windowless room meant for dayhires and boughtens–back when there was money for servants–and had stayed there since, cramped but blessedly alone.

 It was not that Isdodda begrudged her sister her marriage because the marriage was a good one and Darnal was strong, ambitious and totally beset with Meetra.  And, of course, Meetra's small size and quick head for figures and tongues, her only heritage from her Ghani birthparents–not to mention her evident delight in her mate–would go far towards helping Darnal achieve his dream of establishing new trade routes the length of the Bardi coastline from ghost-ridden Ghani in the west along the south Calborlini coast and over to the Ag mines in the east.

 And it was not that Isdodda minded caring for her aging, declining parents; not at all, she loved Vavore and Hyl Silver-Oaks with a deep and grateful love.  She often marveled at the strength of the Silver-Oaks in taking in not one, but five of the Left–two newborn and three milkteeth–and none bloodkin to either parent.  She had often wished she could have known her parents before they had become grief-stricken.

 In fact, her parents' love and devotion were prime examples of what today's Fest, The Aviss Heiliss, was about.  The Day had begun as a time of spontaneous mourning and affirmation for those people who had been Taken when the Three Abysses had appeared in the midst of the Village seventeen cycles back.  From what Isdodda had been told, the man-tall ovals had made a sound that some people–her birthparents included–had found impossible to resist.  Those thus called, the Taken, had left hearth and home, kith and kin to disappear straightway into the strange abysses, never to be heard from again.

 And in that time of great confusion, the Bardi Folk had done what Bardi Folk had always done in time of disaster: they took in the young Left behind, those whose parents were Taken and who were too young to care for themselves.  They made room at their own hearths, added a little more water to stretch the food in the stew-pot, and life went on.

The Abysses were regarded thereafter as a grave and present danger even when no sounds issued forth.  For reasons Isdodda could never fathom because no one would talk to her about it, not even Motha and Fatha, people feared the glimmering ovals even when they were silent.  It had not been long before a rough barricade had been built around them lest the unwary stumble into them.  This makeshift barrier was soon replaced by a grieving metalsmith who had had his entire family Taken and who had used his craft to forge both an intricate Campanile to enclose the Abysses as well as forge his own path back to sanity.

 It had seemed right and good–perhaps ordained of Omni–that on the anniversary date a cycle later, those whose loved ones had been Taken and those who'd adopted those Left behind had been drawn to the Campanile at the same time.  They had spoken aloud the name of every person  Taken with solemnity.  They had spoken the names of those children Left who had been adopted with joy.  They had sung the Hymn of Perseverance to Omni. And those with food had shared it with those who had none and there had been enough for all.  And all the people had known that they had shared a sacred thing. And thus was born the Aviss Heiliss which in the ancient and formal tongue means: Day of Sundering, Day of Melding.

Next cycle, and the cycle after that, and all cycles since, the people continued to meet at the Campanile on the anniversary date.  They continued to Name both the Taken or the Sundered and the Left or the Melded. And they continued to eat together in this most solemn Fest.                                                                             

Word had spread of it throughout the land and merchants and entertainers had been petitioning the Village Fathers for many cycles to be allowed to set up trade for the Fest and thus add to Aviss Heiliss' renown–and incidentally, their own coffers as well–but First Father Aziety was a righteous servant of Omni and had thus far withstood the pressures from without–and from within–to desolemnize the Day. Aziety's Family has lost many people to the Abysses and so the village continued to be closed to the public and prying eyes on Aviss Heiliss.

Isdodda came to herself and, looking down, discovered that her hands had been very busy indeed as her thoughts had wandered.  Below her opening sentence, were drawn a series of cages and traps and locks of all sorts in a circle.  On the edge of the circle were drawn five beautiful female faces linked together by a thin chain. Within the circle was slumped a small stick figure with no hair beside an openwork dome arising from the ground.  At the far edge of the page–as far away as possible–were two broad-smiling figures on ridingbeasts.  The smaller one had wild curly hair cascading down to well past the feet–like her sister, Meetra--and the taller, brandished a fine whip, such as Darnal favored.

 And what does the Healer make of this symptom, she asked herself with a smile.  The smile quickly faded as another old ache re-opened.  

Apart from the debacle when she was younger, Isdodda really did have some actual Healing skill, which Hyl had taught to her when she was very small.  Of course, that was well before Hyl's mind had become so befogged and unable to pass on her skill.

 The five had met together and the plan had been for the boys to enlist as mercenaries for a cycle or two to build up wealth while she and Meetra cared for their parents.  Then the boys would return and serve the Home while Isdodda went to study with the Eyul, Master Mind Healers in the cold city of Beryldon and Meetra honed her Herbal Mastery in the Haatarrah city of Ne where Hyl's bloodkin dwelt. 

But.

But it was not to be.  Word had soon come that the Battle in which the Triple Born fought was not going well due to treachery at high levels.  Then word had come that many were captured–the boys among them–and waiting for ransom.  Then word had come--while Isdodda and Meetra were still trying to arrange for the ransom--of the Void Fever in which the body turned against and killed itself, thus completing for the whole mercenary squad what human treachery had started.

The Mercenary Captain, Hof Garun, was a man of honor and had sent Jorin, Korin, and Epsumal's bones home, along with their share of the Treachery Bond and all past wages, with an affable young waggonmaster named Darnal Tormo. . . .

Of all people, Isdodda hadn't really been surprised when Meetra and Darnal had refused to take dowry from the Triple Borns' bequest, and insisted that Isdodda keep all of it for the Silver-Oaks Home.  And Isdodda was the only one to see the silent plea in Meetra's eyes as she left for her life with Darnal.  The plea that said, "Please, 'Dodda, forgive me!  I have to go now or not at all!"

Isdodda drew a deep breath and mentally tightened the chains of love and devotion that kept her broken heart in some semblance of order.  Beryldon was a city hewn from granite and the Eyul were virtually timeless: both  would still be there, waiting, when her present Work was finished.

 She scattered sand over the parchment to dry it and began to pack her writing things away.  There would be no more writing today for her muse had deserted her and she had Fest Day preparations to make: packing the loaves Hyl's famous priessi bread which she'd baked yesterday as the Silver-Oaks' contribution for the common meal; dressing Motha in her best garments and double-checking Fatha's that they were unstained; and then propping Hyl up in the tiny gojea cart for the trip to the center of the village.

 Looking out the window to gauge the position of the distant sun in the brittle morning sky, Isdodda wondered if it was time to awaken her parents for their ceremony; she had already had hers.

As if in response to her thoughts, the tchinna bell began to tinkle from her parents' sleep chamber and Isdodda Silver-Oaks rose to serve her Family.