More than Turtle Soup

Check out this article that just came out in our local paper. I thought it was pretty amazing, so I thought I would share it:

Dublin--Truck driver Jay Rivers made an unusual discovery while headed west on Rte. 101 last Monday. After receiving an alarm from a very rough obstacle in the road, he pulled over and discovered that the turtle he had mistaken for a trash bag was dead and its shell had broken open. To his astonishment, he found that the inside of the shell was coated in a quarter of an inch of gold!

"I don't know how it happened," Rivers said. "It was foggy this morning so I didn't see it 'til it was too late. I knew by the jolt that it was more than just a bag of trash." Concerned, Rivers stopped at the Citgo gas station at Carr's Store to investigate the mysterious bump, located just east of the Morning Star Maple sap house.

The creature, a snapping turtle with a shell aprox. sixteen inches in diameter, was old and a little too large for its shell, so the pressure exerted by the eighteen wheeler on the shell broke its spine and killed it instantly. It has been pointed out that the gold layer probably contributed to its demise.

The presence of the gold itself has puzzled experts tremendously. Zoologist Kim Larsen believes that the gold could have been deposited in the soft lining of the inner shell.

"I estimate that this guy was about seventy years old," Larsen speculates. "And if he were exposed to a body of water that was infiltrated with tiny gold particles, it could have easily started to build up in his shell at a young age, instead of the normal addition of calcium and mineral enriched deposits."

Where this gold-diffused body of water is remains a mystery, but the most obvious possibility is the marsh right along Rte. 101 where the turtle was found. Ecologists and mineralogists alike are now conducting experiments to test the waters for gold deposits, and they're taking samples of water from all the surrounding areas as well. Since many of these reservoirs are fed by waters from Mt. Monadnock, many people are wondering if the mountain is the ultimate source of riches. Has Dublin struck gold? This and many other questions are what experts are endeavoring to answer.

By Kathleen Scott.

Well, I don't know about you, but I enjoyed that and thought it was very cool.

Skeptical? You have good reason to be.

Have a happy April Fools Day. :)

Here I Stand

Okay, here's a story that I've written in the past few months. Actually, I finished it nearly two months ago, but I've still been working on it now and then; I should probably get a second person to help me edit it though. However, since it's not very likely that I'll do anything amazing with it (it would have to BE amazing for that), I figured why not put it on my blog? After all, this is a place where I can "publish" whatever I want to, so here we go. But just to warn you, the only person that I've actually shared this with fell asleep (during the most exciting part!), so who knows if anybody will find it interesting. I found it exciting to write, but I'm more than a little biased. Of course, my friend's dozing off may have had something to do with the fact that I started reading this to her at like eleven fifteen at night.  :)

 

Here I Stand

 

            "Really, Shammah, you are certainly the most incorrigible boy I've ever known," the brown-haired girl declared with a toss of her head. She was trying to keep her hair out of her eyes as she kneaded her bread. "To still be telling such tales to Rachel at your age!"

          

"Peace, Hannah," said an older woman entering the kitchen. Her weathered complexion gave her away as a Hararite, a woman of the mountains. Streaks of silver lit her hair, betraying one of the few signs of her aging, while her kind brown eyes spoke a rare rebuke.

           

"Peace, Hannah," she repeated when she saw her daughter about to protest. "Our Shammah is no longer a boy. He is a man, and we need to remember that. And," she added with emphasis and a stormy gaze that silenced Hannah as she tried to interrupt, "I see no harm in telling stories to the children. It is breaking no commandment."

           

"It might be breaking a commandment if it includes solemnly telling a gullible child that cheese is really sheep's brain, dried and condensed," Hannah replied, trying to defend herself without being disrespectful to her mother. "You wouldn't expect a man to invent a story like that. That is why I call him a boy, Mother."

           

"Well, maybe if you started calling him a man he would start acting like one," her mother answered calmly.

           

The subject of this debate grinned down at his little sister as she fumed silently. Hannah could be a fierce enemy in an argument, but their mother was even fiercer, for all her placidity. Still, Shammah loved his sister and didn't like losing her favor, so even though he wasn't sorry for teasing Rachel (who looked like she was about to cry, she so hated the sight of such warfare), he offered his hand.

           

"Come, woman," he said, purposefully using the word to address his seventeen-year-old sister, "let us be friends."

           

Hannah kept kneading her bread with something akin to violence, but when her stern eyes were lifted to his, something in them broke like the ice on a crystal green lake. Smiling, she accepted her brother's hand and gave it a squeeze.

 

"Oh, come old man, you and I just wouldn't get along the same if we didn't have something to squabble about," she laughed.

 

"Old man," Shammah repeated, as if insulted. "Not so fast. I'm only four years your senior, you know."

 

"Quiet, you'll keep my other bread from rising."

 

Shammah opened his mouth to protest that such a notion was nonsense, but Hannah was too quick for him. She popped a small lump of cheese in his mouth before he could utter a syllable.

 

"Have some sheep's brain; I know you'll enjoy it. Then hurry up and finish your noonday meal so you can go back to work." And with that, she returned to her dough and ignored him.

 

Shammah could have felt hurt, but he knew Hannah better than that. He would just do what she advised and make her think that she had won this round. Sometimes that was the best method when dealing with womenfolk, Shammah had discovered, and besides, arguing with girls was beneath him. He had to pick his battles.

 

"I like sheep's brain," a small voice piped up. Eight-year-old Rachel patted her brother's hand as if he needed soothing. "And I like it when you teach me, Shammah."

 

In response to this innocent confidence issuing from his victim, Shammah tried to smooth his ruffled conscience by enfolding his sister's slight frame in his massive arms. This hug was followed by a kiss on her neatly braided brown head, then a brief tickling session.

 

"Don't believe everything your big brother tells you, all right?" he murmured, patting her outside to play. She skipped out of the room, still bursting with giggles.

 

Shammah looked up to see his other sister, Sarah, sitting at the table smiling. Her clear blue eyes stared unblinkingly in his direction, but not right at him.     

 

"She is very forgiving," he said to her, feeling rather humble.

 

"In her eyes there is nothing to forgive," was Sarah's serene reply. None of Hannah's choleric temperament resided in Sarah's quiet presence. Blind from her birth fifteen years ago, Sarah had accepted her dark world with impressive grace, and now she sat shelling lentils, ready to be a peacemaker if necessary.

 

"In the long run, I think she's really the winner," Shammah said ruefully. "All I get is a couple of laughs on the inside, while she gets to make me feel like a monster."

 

Sarah's face wreathed itself in even larger smiles, and her short strawberry blond hair quivered as she shook her head, "But she gets no satisfaction from what she's not aware of. You shouldn't try to excuse yourself by making her the victor, Shammah."

 

"Khaval, you're right, as always," Shammah admitted, an air of the melodramatic in his tone.

 

Snatching two hunks of bread and cheese designated as his lunch, Shammah retreated to a stool at the other end of the kitchen. He chewed with measured haste, knowing that he should be returning to their field shortly. His work, tilling, planting, weeding, and harvesting that field, was what his whole family depended on for their livelihood. It wasn't just the few vegetables that they managed to turn out of their garden that were important. No, the true prize of the seven-acre field was the lentil plot that crowned much of the area. Not only did the family eat the lentils (in various stews, breads, and casseroles that their mother concocted for any season), but they used what was left to trade for whatever else they needed. Their lentil field was everything to them, according to a solemn statement by Shammah's father. It had been in the family for six generations, carefully cultivated and improved before being handed down to the next generation, along with equally cultivated and improved methods for raising better lentil crops. No wonder people were willing to trade with them; the lentils that Shammah's family grew were said to be caressed into enormous sizes and tastiness, but such legends are often exaggerated.

 

Born as the eldest into an Israelite family of the tribe of Ephraim, Shammah was more than keenly aware of his privilege and duty to caring for the lentil field as well as for his family. After all, he was the only man of the house to provide for his mother and three younger sisters, besides Gamaliel, who was only twelve.

 

Finishing his lunch, Shammah brushed himself and strode out the open door to return to the field, but not before bestowing a staid nod to the females present. He was, after all, a man of many responsibilities. Or so he thought.

 

Taking up a hoe and resuming work, Shammah mulled over what might have been different if his father were still alive. Perhaps the transition from boyhood to manhood would not have been so abrupt and painful. Perhaps he would be able to read and write better if he hadn't had to take charge of the field. Perhaps he would have become an excellent swordsman like his friend Caleb. Perhaps he would not feel faint whenever he picked up a sword. Perhaps his mother would not look so old and tired all the time.

 

But speculating such possibilities was folly, Shammah thought as he overturned another pesky weed. The familiar scent of earth filled his nostrils and he felt grit between his teeth as his jaw tightened. Time had passed; eight years in fact. Eight years.

 

Shammah had been on the threshold of his thirteenth birthday when the Philistines made a raid on their village. The raid was small, it is true; little was stolen or damaged by the marauding band, most of them drunk and looking for mischief. One of them, a remarkable brute with one eye brown and the other blue, had fixed one of his evil eyes on Hannah, who even at age nine was pleasing in appearance. Their father, Agee, had stood up to him, and had paid for it with his life. A curse and a careless thrust of the sword upon the unarmed man were all that it took.

 

Shammah tried to fight back, hurling himself forward as if powered by the grim thrust of a catapult. A laugh and a blow to the side of the head had sent him reeling, but, trembling as he was, Shammah grabbed the sword that the Philistine had dropped when the boy had attacked him. Now Shammah almost wished that he had ended the Philistine's beastly existence right then, but something held him back. His head still throbbing, Shammah's breathing came in loud staccato gasps as he gazed into the grotesque eyes of his enemy. The boy was shaking violently all over, and his hands felt slippery as he clutched the sword aloft, the sword that was still dripping from the blood of his murdered father who lay at his feet.

 

It was not the panting boy who frightened the dirty scoundrel and his two friends away; if given the time, he would have laughed at the lad's feeble attempts at bravery. No, more likely it was Hannah's high-pitched wailing that discomfited him more, and a call from his compatriots who were leaving the village was all that was needed for him to quickly mount his horse and exit the scene, a little guiltily.

 

Words cannot express the anguish that was left in the wake of that foreigner. Time had passed; the wound had mostly healed, but a rankling scar remained. Even this was only evident through scattered symptoms which hinted at how the family really suffered. Their mother's hair seemed to turn gray overnight; Hannah, strong as she was, started having hysterical fits whenever she saw a Philistine; Sarah became even more withdrawn. As for Shammah, whenever he touched a sword he could not forget that sick throbbing feeling he had experienced as he clutched that blade on that foul day. He still learned how to handle a sword, as was almost necessary in those dangerous times, but he had little time to practice much like his friend Caleb, who was a shepherd, and whenever Shammah did take on that loathsome weapon his legs felt like pillars of sand.

 

Once, three years after his father's death, he tried to stand up to a lion that came prowling on their property while he was working. Shammah couldn't douse his memories or his fears as he held up the sword toward the approaching beast. To his utter shame, he fainted, and he was only saved because Caleb's older cousin happened by on a visit to his relatives. The cousin killed the lion with his bare hands and then considerately deposited Shammah in his house. His name was David.

 

"Here I am, Shammah," a boy's voice panted. "Where shall I work?"

 

Shammah left his reverie and paused in his labor, which had never ceased since he had started. "Oh, there you are, Gamaliel," he said. "I had quite forgotten about you; where have you been off to?"

 

"Talking to Caleb while he watched the sheep. He's teaching me how to use a sword," the tactless twelve-year-old responded, not noticing the look of pain that crossed Shammah's face. Gamaliel had never asked Shammah to teach him how to use a sword.

 

"Uhuh, and I suppose that you came home when your stomach called you, is that it?" Shammah asked without anger.

 

"Yes."

 

"And what reminded you to come here?"

 

Gamaliel blushed. "Hannah told me I couldn't have any lunch until I helped you for awhile."

 

"I see," Shammah said with the appropriate gravity of an older brother who has just heard his younger sibling confess a great sin. Then, assuming a more insouciant air, he said, "Well, I realize it's a hard lot to have to work for one's bread, but we men must do our duty, if only to fill our stomachs. You can start working over there."

 

With a nod of acquiescence, Gamaliel walked slowly to where his brother had pointed. Then seizing his hoe, Gamaliel worked from a gradual speed to a more feverish one that denoted his idea that if he worked quickly then maybe he could get an unpleasant task over with at once. Smiling at his little brother's reckless tempo, Shammah resumed his labor.

 

"He's a good lad, even though he is lazy sometimes," Shammah thought. "To think that I was about his age when it happened!" He shuddered at the thought of Gamaliel having to face the Philistine, but the shudder was no larger than when he thought of his own experience. He was glad for Gamaliel's sake that he had been only a toddler at the time of their father's murder, and fortunately he was taking a nap when the three older children were playing in the yard and the Philistine happened by. Rachel hadn't even been born yet, and Shammah thanked God for it, for the nightmares she would have had would have been far worse than Hannah's and Sarah's, had the little girl been alive and a little older.

 

A road ran by their lentil field and through their small village, and Shammah and Gamaliel had not been busy together for long when a man with what appeared to be his family came trudging down the road, equipped for what looked like a considerable journey. The man was unfamiliar to Shammah, but, thinking it right to be friendly, Shammah called, "Hail, stranger!"

 

The man visibly jumped, his eyes darting all about before he finally caught sight of Shammah. "Hail yourself, but it would please me more if you did not startle a man out of his senses. I've had enough to deal with."

 

Before Shammah could offer an apology or an inquiry as to what ailed the man, the brusque stranger hurried his family away.

 

This family was soon followed by another, which was followed by a third, and finally a whole band of travelers lumbered by, all looking as harried as a mouse who knows that a hawk has its eye on it. They tossed about furtive glances in every direction, especially behind them, and their haste was such that prevented Shammah from engaging anyone in conversation.

 

With his curiosity mounting, Shammah came nearer to the road and grabbed the attention of a boy about the age of Gamaliel who was rushing by, "What ails your band, young friend? From where do you come and to where are you going?"

 

"We come from a village about half a day's journey from here," the boy blurted, perhaps glad of a moment's rest from his walk, even though he looked wistfully after his family.

 

"And why do you travel like refugees?" Shammah persisted.

 

The boy rolled his eyes. "Haven't you heard? There's a troop of Philistines on the move! They're pillaging all the neighboring villages, and they're headed this way!"

 

Shammah's brow darkened. These were grave tidings indeed. "How many? How far away are they?"

 

"They're about a league or two behind us," the boy replied. "And as for how many, I couldn't say. Hundreds, thousands maybe." Then the boy ran off without another word, eager to catch up with his family.

 

Shammah couldn't help but smile at the boy's obvious exaggeration. Philistines rarely moved in such large groups unless they were really at war. And were they? No, they had been defeated a couple of years ago, so this was probably no more than a plundering party, nothing of such extreme proportions. Perhaps there were enough of the brutes to cause a family to leave, but surely there weren't enough to cause a dozen good strong men to be afraid.

 

"Gamaliel, run into the house and tell Mother and the girls that they need to prepare a few things so the family can evacuate. They shouldn't be anywhere near here when the Philistines come through; the strain would be too great even if they were unharmed. You know how Hannah is." Shammah issued this order like one who expects to be obeyed. Gamaliel understood the tone and dropped the hoe to follow through with celerity.  

 

In the meantime, Shammah busied himself with putting the tools away and girding on his sword. He needed to find Caleb to see how many men he thought they could muster. Leaving was out of the question in his mind, for the lentil field would be absolutely worthless to them if the Philistines burnt everything and sowed salt, as they were known to do on occasion. The lentil field was everything to their family, Shammah thought, and worth more than he was, at least in his mind. Plus, he needed to gain time so that his family could get well away, and he was sure that Caleb would feel similarly. After all, Caleb was the swordsman; he was the brave one who would delight to put his swordsmanship into practice.

 

Shortly after Shammah had put the tools away, Caleb himself appeared on the scene. Desperation was in the air, and the sheep that Caleb herded down the road betrayed signs of their uneasiness.

 

Catching sight of Shammah, Caleb called, "Shammah, have you heard? The Philistines are coming!"

 

"Yes indeed, I have heard," Shammah replied with calmness that he didn't feel. "I was just trying to estimate how many men you think will stay to fight with us."

 

Caleb stared. "Shammah, there are over a hundred of them."

 

Taken aback, Shammah replied, "Are you sure?"

 

"I'm sure. A friend of mine counted them himself, and he's not one to tell tales."

 

"But I think if we only tried to convince some of the others to stay, we could take care of them. That way we could protect our homes and gain time for our families to escape."

 

"I doubt it. How many could we get? Our village is small—we could get a dozen at the most. Say ten. Now, ten against fifty conveys a whiff of madness. Ten against a hundred and ten reeks of insanity. I think our only chance is to run for it."

 

"I can't afford to run," Shammah answered. He was trying to shake off a leavening of despair. "This field is all we have. If we lose it, work of generations would be lost and my family could starve. I must try to defend it." The words sounded strangely hollow to his ears.

        "You and your noble ideas, Shammah," Caleb shook his head. "I trust God to keep you. I must go now." And with that, he was gone, the sound of anxious baas wafting back the expression of the remaining stillness.

           

Shammah's mind was spinning. He had so counted on his friend's support to defend the village. After all, he was the one who was so outspokenly fearless, not Shammah, and he had such a way of convincing others to take his views. However, despite his friend's persuasive talents, Shammah remained unconvinced.

           

What course of action should he take? He knew he would gain little, no matter what he chose. If he escaped, his family's most precious property would almost certainly be destroyed, and with it their inheritance, their livelihood, their honor, and their future. Yet if he remained he would hold almost no chance of surviving, and he and the field would probably perish together.

           

Suddenly, Shammah felt angry. What right did these uncouth foreigners have to wreak havoc in Israel's lands? God had given it to His people; others had no right to take it. Surely it would be no inglorious thing to stand and uphold the gift of the God Almighty, and not just the gift, but the holy, unquestionable supremacy of the choice by which it was given.

           

Weariness crept into Shammah's consciousness, and with it came a vast sense of loneliness. It was all very well to stand for what one believed to be right, but if no one else was standing for it, how was one to know that it was a right cause to stand for in the first place? Then it struck Shammah that he had been relying on strength of numbers. What credit was there in that? He contemplated what reasons would compel him to stay there alone if he felt to. He couldn't figure out if foolishness or heroism would be the true motives. However, those definitely weren't sufficient grounds to remain. Then why should he?

           

"Would you do it if God asked you to?" a still, small voice entered his head.

           

Relief swept in as Shammah's whole inner being cried, "Of course!" Immediately, there was no doubt in his mind. If God Himself were asking him to take a stand, Shammah would throw his whole soul into doing it just for His sake. And somehow he knew that God was asking him. He didn't understand why, but he knew it. No choice existed but to stay, come what may.

           

With this resolution firmly fixed in his mind, Shammah advanced toward the house. His mother seemed to have finished her hurried packing, and Hannah was wrapping up her fresh bread in clean cloths so they could take it along.

           

"Are you ready?" Shammah inquired.

           

"Yes," his mother answered. She looked hard at Shammah.

           

"Good. You should have time to get away."

           

"'You'?" Hannah said. "Don't you mean 'we'?"

           

Shammah's eyes never left his mother's, nor did hers leave his. "I'm going to stay, Mother."

           

She continued to gaze intently at him; Shammah felt as though there were nothing in his soul that she did not drink in, bitter though it may be for her to quaff it.

           

Hannah was not so silent. "What? Why?"

           

"God wants me to stay." He still didn't look at Hannah. He saw that his mother understood, and she understood everything.

           

"That's ridiculous!" Hannah exclaimed. "Why would He want you to stay? You'd only be throwing your life away. Remember, Shammah, those Philistines will not have mercy! Remember what they did to—"

           

"Hannah, that's enough," their mother interrupted, although her voice was so quiet that it hardly sounded like an interruption, but the command was clear. "He has made his decision and we should not argue with it."

           

"I'm staying with you," a voice declared. Shammah finally ceased gazing into his mother's eyes and turned to see Gamaliel, his chin thrust out with boyish determination.

           

 "You shouldn't, Gamaliel. I'm relying on you to be the man of the family. You need to watch over the womenfolk—you know they couldn't live without us," Shammah explained with a solemn hand on his little brother's shoulder. He feared that Gamaliel would resist, but thankfully he didn't; he simply bowed his head and nodded as one who accepts what he knows to be his duty.

           

A few minutes later, Shammah was standing by the road waving off his departing family. He didn't know how he had gotten through saying goodbye. Little Rachel had been very tearful; Hannah was a little emotional; Sarah, Gamaliel, and Mother were all very grave.

 

His mother had hardly spoken a word, but her eyes were full of meaning. When she did speak at the last, all she said was, "Take care, my son. I'm glad you are doing what God would call you to do. May He be with you."

 

He wondered if those were the last words he'd hear her speak.

 

A few more straggling shepherds passed by with their flocks. They barely even noticed Shammah as he stood in his field, his hands hanging at his sides. No, these shepherds were too intent upon their purpose. Indeed, one or two did catch sight of Shammah, but when they did, they stared at him as if they could hardly believe he were real; then their eyes would shift back to the ground as they hurried past.

 

Soon, the last traveler had hastened by, and Shammah found himself in utter solitude, except for a bird that chirped to its mate a stone's throw away. The day was hazy, but the sun shone bright and warm down on his head. It vaguely occurred to Shammah that maybe it would be wise to wear armor, but he didn't have any to wear so it mattered little.

 

Seconds inched by. He was just starting to wonder if the Philistines had been a hoax when he heard them. Harsh voices of delight grated in his ears as the first of the Philistine band entered the village and discovered easy plunder. Then he saw them. Although the tales of Philistine lords had always tickled his ears with elegance, the grim reality of their common soldiers was anything but dashing. This group of a score or more had pushed ahead of their comrades who were pillaging a house or two down the road, and their unkempt, fierce appearance was one almost identical to the drunks who had visited Shammah before. They didn't seem to improve with sobriety.

 

Catching sight of Shammah, the villains hooted and strutted closer.

 

"What have we here?" one of them said with an unpleasant chuckle. Shammah winced at his abrasive tongue. "A lame boy who begs to surrender?"

 

"More likely he wishes to be bribed into showing us where the prime loot can be found," another grinned, baring his yellow teeth.

 

"He has a sword. Perhaps he wishes to give us sport!" a third suggested. He guffawed derisively.

 

Shammah didn't understand their language—he barely even heard them. Thoughts spat through his head so fast that he almost didn't realize their existence. The most coherent thing that came through was, "This is it. Here's your last chance to run or give in. You don't have to do this. You know you're weak—remember the lion. . ." and then, "But He asked you to do it."

 

Taking a deep breath, Shammah said in his most civil but firm tones, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This is God's land and He's asked me to defend it. So if you'd kindly leave I'd be much obliged." He felt a little ridiculous since he didn't know whether they understood him, but he knew it was right to be polite in order to avoid a sanguinary confrontation, if such a confrontation was unnecessary. To emphasize his point to the Philistines, he drew his sword out of its sheath and nodded meaningfully.

 

A couple of the Philistines gaped openly, while the others cackled, "He must be a lunatic! It should be great sport to see how long this pup lasts." Still hooting, they patted one of their bolder fellows on the back as he drew his own sword.

 

Shammah shifted his feet, but didn't back down. "I am serious," he cried. He belatedly regretted crushing one of the lentil plants under his feet. "Leave now and you will be spared!" He still felt a little silly, but the words that came didn't seem to be his own. Gripping the hilt more firmly to keep it from slipping through his damp fingers, he ignored the dull throbbing in his head and kept a level eye on the Philistine as he advanced with his scimitar, his eyes glittering cruelly as they measured Shammah.  

 

The Israelite knew that the Philistine was about to attack, and he also knew that now the enemy would not leave without his head. "Please help me," he whispered, "I'm doing this for You." Then, drawing on a strength that was not his own, he lifted his sword and breathed, "Here I stand."

 

The words were hardly in the air when the Philistine gave a savage yell and dashed forward, waving his sword with wild deftness toward Shammah's head. Shammah ducked, spun around the flying blade, parried a blow, dodged, and lunged for his riposte. His actions were so rapid and fluid that he hadn't a second to consider them, and he found himself staring dumbly at the dead man at his feet, noting for the first time that the death-shaded eyes were different colors: brown and blue. Strangely enough, he felt anything but elated at this observation; all he could think of was his father.

 

"Look up," a voice in his head commanded, and doing so, Shammah realized that three of the Philistines were running at him simultaneously. It had taken them a moment to recover from the shock of their companion's demise, but once they had, they weren't going to lose any time in decapitating their friend's killer.

 

Now poised and on his guard for their attack, Shammah decided to do some attacking of his own. Racing forward to meet them, he slashed madly on both sides, ending resistance there. He leaped straight up in the air as a fourth Philistine made a go at his feet, then returned the favor with a whack of his own. Six were running at him this time, and Shammah wondered how long his body would be able to keep this up, as it seemed to have a mind of its own.

 

"God asked me to be here, so here I stand!" he yelled. "If you want me to leave you'll have to kill me!" He whirled as his assailants started to surround him. Stabbing and hacking with blinding speed, Shammah fell to watching his sword arm with mixed horror and fascination, as if it were detached from his body. Gone was the Shammah who couldn't hold a sword without trembling; he was filled with a power that he knew not of. And as he fought, he dwelt less and less on his actions and more and more on the burning zeal for his God that was contained within him. He would show these Philistines, not what mere Shammah could do, but what God could do—He was the one they should fear!

 

Shammah had no idea how long he battled. Time was as a wisp of smoke to him and as a myriad of Methuselah's life-spans at the same time. Ten Philistines sprinted forward, screaming with rage. The sounds soon attracted the rest of the troop as they ambled up the road in search of plunder. Seeing their compatriots in a fix with a wiry lad standing in a plot of lentils, they rushed forward to prove their own superior skills on this crazy swordsman; of course, all the others who lay dead at his feet were only in that position because their skills were far inferior to their own, and it would be easy for those still alive to finish it. With that in mind, the rest of the band charged into the lentil field.

 

If Shammah had been as big as a house, he would have had some problems because it would have given almost every Philistine a chance to stab him at once. However, as that was not the case, even when he was completely surrounded he could only be reached by a limited number, and it was only a wink and a shove before yet another outstretched sword lay still on the ground.

 

If Shammah happened to wink, it was quite involuntary. He was merely trying to blink out the stinging perspiration that poured into his eyes as he ignored the roar going on inside his head. The smell of sweat and grime blasted his skull through his nasal passages while the dull peal of iron clashed in his ears, but still he never paused. His fingers felt slick with more than just sweat, but miraculously his grip on the hilt never slipped. A red haze clouded his vision, yet he aimed at his shadowy foe with unflinching precision. His aching muscles moved of their own accord, never faltering. Shammah marveled at the strength unnaturally possessed in his body as he pushed off men twice his size, grunting fiercely as he did so. A supernatural energy was within him, invigorating him beyond belief, leaving him only able to emanate silent praises to heaven and to push on as more of the enemy came within reach.

 

As the grueling force of time pushed past him, Shammah gradually noticed that the shadows with which he fought were getting scantier in number. "That's impossible," he told himself. "It's some sort of optical illusion." But when he poked one of the wraith-like figures and sent flying the head of another, he found that no more figures were presenting themselves. He turned all the way around in search of a nearby being, but the only ones present seemed to be lying prostrate on the ground.

 

Clutching his aching head, which was matted with his soaked hair, Shammah waited for his vision to clear. It did eventually, but still not a moving creature was in sight. Where could they have gone? Surely they weren't afraid of him. Shaking the dizziness out of his head, Shammah cast his eyes on the ground for the first time, only to start in amazement. Over half of his lentil field was littered with dead bodies! Numbly he began to count them, and he found that the corpses numbered one hundred and ten. He staggered under the number—had he done all that? He was convinced that he was quite incapable of it.

 

"Impressive," a voice said. Startled, Shammah whipped his sword through the thick air as he turned, prepared for anything. Against the corner of the house leaned a muscular young man. His handsome face was solemn while his blue eyes twinkled, not at death, but at Shammah's bewilderment.

 

"Sorry, there weren't any lions or I would have left them for you," Shammah said, relieved as he recognized Caleb's cousin, David.

 

David's face broke out into a broad smile, "It's a shame you haven't lost your sense of humor after all these years. You'd think that you'd know better by now."

 

Shammah shrugged. Utter exhaustion had just swept over him, and he wiped his sword wearily on the ground and placed it in its sheath, letting his arms fall limp at his sides, his muscles screaming. At the moment, he felt as though he didn't have any humor left in him, as though his battle had just woken him from a boyish sleep into raw manhood and he had left all his laughter on the pillow. He hoped he hadn't lost it forever.

 

David's face grew serious. "Come, you need to rest," he said, coming forward and drawing an unresisting Shammah by the hand. Inside the house, the lion-killer settled the younger man on the bed as gently as if his patient had been a lamb. The occurrence was not unlike a time about five years before.

 

"When did you get here?" Shammah asked, feeling foolishly feeble.

 

"Ah, about the time you were slaying your final man. My fool of a cousin told me that you had remained behind, so I sent a message to some of my friends to come, and then I preceded them to rescue you. I guess you didn't need it," David chuckled.

 

"Oh."

 

"I don't know if you realize it, but that fight of yours was quite something," David continued thoughtfully. "I could use a great fighter like you, Shammah."

 

Shammah turned his head on the pillow and stared keenly into David's eyes, wondering if he understood how it really was. "That wasn't just me out there, you know," he said.

 

David nodded, comprehending. "Oh, I know. That's why I want you."

 

 

 

 

Happy to be a girl

Yesterday, on my way home from having lunch at Fairwood, I met Timothy and Peter. I hailed the two little neighbor boys, bedecked in jackets and gloves a little more warmly than one would have expected for such a spring-like day, asking them enthusiastically if they were heading to boys' club.

 

"We're going to boys club!" a very happy Peter informed me as if I hadn't spoken. "Do you remember going to boys' club?"

 

"No, I don't," I told him regretfully.

 

"She's a girl," Timothy corrected him.

 

I must say I was actually flattered by Peter's question. Not that I'm the least bit ashamed to be a girl, but to have it not even enter Peter's head that I didn't enjoy every boyish delight that he does was quite amusing and complimentary. I was one of those girls who rather wished she was a tomboy but almost certainly was not. I even had to have my friend teach me how to do somersaults when I was ten! Yeah, that was the pathetic little girl who didn't believe in snowball fights or racing because somebody was liable to get hurt, and I had a feeling that it would be me. Hence, I steered clear of certain fellows who were prone to pummelling me with snowballs whenever I came within throwing distance, and if I were unlucky enough to encounter them and receive an icy snowball on the neck, I would go cry to my mom. Needless to say, if one of those same fellows were to pummel me now (most of them are gentlemen now so they probably wouldn't), I would probably pummel him back, if he were kind of enough to stand within my comparatively limited throwing range.:)

 

At this point in my life, I can think of only two times when I heartily wished I were a boy. Sure, there have been many other minor times when I wished that athletic stuff came as easily to me as it does to boys (I respect all those athletic girls out there because I think it takes more effort for a girl to be athletic than it does for a guy), but only two very real times come to mind. The most recent time was when I watched Sound Foundations guys playing ultimate Frisbee--I mentioned that in an earlier blog post.

 

The other time that such a thought pervaded my brain was when I was in eighth grade watching Clyde get ready for guys' week. The girls had already left for their festivities (I was a year too young), and since there were fewer guys, Gerry was allowing one of his nephews, who was my age, to participate in the guys' week. And just then rock climbing sounded a lot more fun than shopping, and doing something exciting appealed much more than doing nothing, so as I jealously watched Clyde pack his bags, I loudly lamented my girlish state of being. Suddenly, I listened. Was Clyde talking to me? What? Was he actually telling me most sincerely why he was glad that I WASN'T a guy? Glory be! Someone actually liked me just how I was! And as my big brother walked off to his week of fun, I felt very loved. And very happy to be a girl.

 

Thank God for brothers, girls, and people who like us just as we are. :)

Defining a Man

            Yesterday at the breakfast table of a small school, an interesting discussion took place. The rays of the eight o'clock March sun shone cheerily into the room, but the sunbeams revealed some dust motes of disagreement in the air.

           

        The topic was concerning whether or not it is permissible to refer to the nineteen to twenty-two-year-old guys that were present as "boys." The term "men" was much more agreeable to the males present in the room, but the young ladies found the word too daunting to use it in reference to their fellow classmates. The naturally resulting question was then, "What is a man?"

           

        A small portion of the conversation sounded something like this:

           

        "I don't know," a dark-haired girl said as she poked at her biscuits and gravy. "Like, I don't think of Craig as a man—he's a guy." This was in reference to my twenty-eight-year-old brother.

           

        "No, I'd say Craig is a man," I interjected.

           

        "In my mind," the same girl continued, "you're not really a man until you're married . . . or maybe fifty."

           

        Gerry, a bachelor, appeared a little alarmed by the girl's original statement, but his alarm melted into amused relief. He had turned fifty within the past few years.

           

        "You mean that you're going to marry a boy?" more than one of the gentlemen asked incredulously, the loudest of them being the girl's red-haired brother.

           

        "Well, no," the victim of the darts of ridicule replied, trapped.

           

        "What I say is that if he's old enough to die in Iraq, then he's a man," Gerry stated, mercifully saving the girl from further persecution, "even though some people don't act like men until they're older."

           

        This more or less ended the current debate, besides some questions that another young lady asked the young gentlemen. She wanted to know what term they would use to refer to their female classmates. "Girls," was the answer, and after a little more warm discourse and repartee, the meal was closed and people retreated to their duties, although everyone wasn't wholly satisfied.

           

        "The thing is," one girl told me later as we discussed the subject of the breakfast table, "I don't think of the term 'boys' as a bad thing. When I call them 'boys,' I'm not thinking of little boys like James and Jonathon. I'm just using it to refer to their gender; it's not as weird as calling them 'men.'"

           

        "It's a more endearing term," I agreed.

           

        This debatable topic, brought forth in the morning, offered me much hearty nourishment for the cranium during the afternoon, as it caused me to ponder what a man really is. Not what he is in body (you most certainly are not a man just because you've had your first shave!), but what he is in spirit. Is it definable?

           

        When I think of a boy, I think of jokes, laughter, antics, recklessness, and mischief. When I think of a man, I think of responsibility, maturity, passionate determination, a sense of duty, and something bordering solemnity. However, when I consider the men that I know, I realize that many of them have what I would call the boyish spirit at times. Yet these men are unquestionably men in the fullest sense of the word. But how is one to distinguish between boys and men who sometimes act like boys?

           

        In answer to this question, I have formed a rough theory. To begin with, I think that most people would agree that a man is a man when he stops being a boy. What I would like to base my theory on is that being a boy is not so much as an inherent characteristic as it is a condition, or even a role, if you will. Technically speaking, in the world's eyes a boy becomes a man when he first puts aside the boy and takes on the sense of responsibility pertaining to a man. This may happen at various ages, usually around the age of eighteen, though it could be earlier or even later.  However, if being a boy is a condition, the role is very easily picked up again, so the "man" may become a "boy" once more, and may remain so for quite some time. Is one expected to call the "boy" a "man" when he usually doesn't behave like one?

 

        Not that there's anything shameful in the delightful condition of being a boy, although it usually doesn't encourage volumes of respect, but how is one to know when a male individual is truly a man? In my opinion, it's not when he finally "puts away the boy" altogether. No, the world would be a grim place if no boys remained in it. Instead, I believe that a boy truly becomes a man when he learns exactly how and when to lay aside the boy and put on the man. At the same time, he must know when it is and isn't appropriate to resume the part of the boy. It is true, some men take on the part more frequently than others, but so long as they can relinquish the role at the instant it's called for, they are nevertheless still men.

 

I think that my theory easily explains why it seems so natural for the girls to call the Bible school men "boys." It is merely what the young ladies frequently see. However, on my part, if I were to glance across the aisle during a fervent prayer meeting, I doubt that the boys would even be present. The men probably would have stepped in to replace them. If this is the case, the often boyish men can no longer truthfully be christened as "boys." On the other hand, it is not wholly inaccurate to lightly reference them as such, as long as their deeper state is kept in mind. They may act like boys, yes, but the real question is if they know how to stop acting like boys. And that, I think, is what truly defines a man.

 

P.S. I realize this was a strange topic and quite out of the blue, considering how long it's been since I've posted anything. But I'm interested: do you agree or disagree? I'm not presenting my opinion as Gospel truth by any means, but I tried to formulate a possible solution that might satisfy both parties. Feel free to leave comments. However, if you wish to tear me to shreds, I would prefer that you left your violent opinions on your own blog. :)