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. :)

My friend, the joker

I love little kids. There. What more of a straightforward sentence could you ask for? But it's true; I love little kids, especially ones that want to sit next to me and tell me jokes, even if those jokes make absolutely no sense. I had this experience recently, last Friday night. Our church decided to have a Sabbath meeting all together for a change, and afterwards we had Sabbath treat, watched a slide show of Mr. Maguire's Haiti pictures, and played games for the young as well as games for the old (i.e. huckle-buckle-beanstalk and pictionary).

 

 

Hold it! Do you not know what huckle-buckle-beanstalk is? *gasp* Well, that's okay, most people don't. I suppose you can be excused THIS time. Ahem! Huckle-buckle-beanstalk: a favored game of my childhood in which a certain small item is hidden in a room and then everybody has to find this item. When you find it, without directly giving away the item's location, you go somewhere else and sit down while saying, "Huckle-buckle-beanstalk!" The first person to find it and sit down gets to hide the item in the next round, once everyone leaves, but everyone has to look for it until everybody has found it. That's good ol' huckle-buckle-beanstalk in a nutshell. Although it was intended for the youngsters, the only youngsters that showed up for this part of the evening were the Posts (and even then only Michael "officially" played--Gabriel said that he was looking even though he wasn't playing:) and Timmy, so a bunch of us joined in (i.e. Craig, Gretchen, the majority of the bibleschool, and me).

 

 

Played in the parlor, the game proved to be a jolly success. Even the bibleschool, even Michael seemed to really enjoy it. The only hitch was that little Timothy often had a hard time finding the special item, which in this case was a purple lollypop. Since a basic rule of the game is that you play "hot and cold" if someone is having a hard time, we all proceeded to do so when he was the only one left. However, he seemed to have a misconstrued idea of the game, meaning that he was practically convinced that he had to change directions whenever we said anything, ending up so that all he did was walk around in circles. Realizing that maybe he was too young to know about the game, I carefully explained it to him. After this, when he took a step forward, everyone of course said, "Warmer. . . " but then he would take a step backwards so that everybody said, "Colder. . ."  He kept on like this for a half a minute or more, practically rocking from one leg to the other as everybody inevitably responded with the apt answer. It was as if Timmy were the conductor and we were his choir. A simple shift was all that was required for a response; but instead of singing different notes, we simply chanted, "Warmer. . . colder. . . warmer. . . colder." Pretty soon we were convinced that he was just enjoying his power over our vocal chords. Amy then took the initiative to gently but firmly push or pull (I can't remember which) him in the right direction, which he resisted, but eventually (with persuasion) he was led to location of the hidden lollypop and found it accordingly, with some helpful hints.

 

 

For the next and last round of huckle-buckle-beanstalk it was my turn to hide the lolly pop because I had found it almost first thing the round before (just because it was in a special spot right near the door that I had checked every other round). Chad, who was sitting on one of the small couches observing, suggested with a twinkle in his eye that I stick the lollypop out of the back of his shirt collar. Once I had secured his promise to sit still, I agreed, and shortly let everyone else in so that the search could begin. This time, however, Timothy turned out to be the first one to find it! After a few minutes of everyone searching with no luck, the little fellow spotted it (it was more or less at his eye level) and pulled it out to hold up triumphantly. Fortunately, he made no exclamation or the game would have immediately ended. As a result, only four or five people noticed him and the game continued until everyone had discovered the lollypop's unique location. And thus ended our wonderful time down memory lane with huckle-buckle-beanstalk.

 

 

As I said, we had Sabbath treat, made by my very own dear mamita (Sarah provided us with the popcorn:). As I sat eating my apple pie and ice cream, little Stephen and Luke came and sat next to me; both are very interesting characters, as little boys are wont to be. Luke not only dazzled me with his extensive knowledge of dinosaurs, but he played "blow out the candle" with me on a candle that was far from being lit ("It's plastic, but we're pretending we don't know that," he told me).

 

 

As for Stephen, he dug into his dessert with noisy relish, expressed by the "hmmhmmhmm" noises that he made as he devoured his treat. The funny thing is that when I started to copy him he acted as if I were the strange one, and he practically insisted that he hadn't been making a similar noise when I told him that he had been. Then he started to tell me every joke that he could think of at the moment. After all, "We have a joke book that's the size of our couch," he informed me. Even though part of the time I couldn't always tell what he was saying (or even if I did, it made no sense), I often laughed anyway, just because it was so fun to see him enjoy his jokes so immensely. I wish I could remember all the jokes that this clever little six-year-old told me, but here are a couple as I roughly remember them.  

 

 

"Have you heard this one?" Stephen asked. "Uh, my father is Chinese, um, yeah, and my mother is Japanese, and I'm Japanese-Chinesey!" Or maybe he said, "You're cheesy!" Whichever version he said to me, someone was pretty sure that the latter was Stephen's altered punch line when they heard him tell this joke.

 

 

Or,

 

 

"Um, my daddy is a mosquito, my mommy is a daddy-long-legs, so that makes me a sheepie!" he laughed heartily. This time I was quite stumped, so I confessed to him that I didn't get it.

 

 

"You don't get it?" if he was surprised, he didn't show it too expressively. "Well, I turned into hot water--get it now?"

 

Oh, of course!

 

Not.

 

 

Or all that's what I think he said. Don't ask me to explain the joke--I'm probably more clueless than anybody. However, it still managed to tickle me, mostly because Stevie was so tickled. After all, who doesn't like to laugh just because a kid thinks he's so funny? I imagine people have done it with me plenty of times.:)

 

 

A purely informational post

For the benefit of those noble few of my readers (or perhaps there are many of you, I couldn't say) who read my blog more than just for entertainment/edification and would actually like to know what's really going on in my life, I believe I owe you a brief report. After all, who knows? Maybe you're thirsty for a general view of my recent life, however dull or interesting it may be. I can't say it's extremely interesting, but for communication's sake I think I'll clear up the general idea of "what I'm doing" right now.

First of all, in case you can't keep track (and why should you?), I'm in my last year of high school. *cheers* It's a little weird, actually. I've been having a lot of "lasts," like "last first day of school" and "last day I'm doing school during apple sauce day," etc. What is one to do when one no longer has any more school to do? Never fear, I'll find something.

Right, so I'm in my last year, and it's perhaps one of my most laid-back years yet, at least for high school. For one thing, I'm no longer taking HomeSat, so I have SO much more flexibility. For another, since according to the number of credits required to graduate from our local high school, I already had enough credits before the year started, it's pretty much a low key, "fill in the gaps" year. I've already taken my necessary maths, I have the necessary sciences and three years of foreign language study, plus I've already taken the SAT, so now what? Well, we decided to have me take an economics, classical physics, and music theory courses, all of which I've already finished (I started music theory in the summer and the others were short enough so that with just a little diligence I knocked them off by/around the first week of this month). So basically I have left an American literature course (a college level kind where you have to read entire books, not just excerpts from a text book), vocabulary, writing (I'm doing two different books and working on at least one good sized project for this), and home economics. Plus I'm going to try to do a little more art stuff, which I still need to work on doing. Anyway, this is just a great year where I get to do most of stuff that I want to do and count it for school! So all's good.

Hmm, another general fact from my more or less recent (that is, like the past three months) life is that I have a new violin! Indeed, that dear little instrument that I've been playing for the past eight years has now retired, and I have a much better instrument. I say "have"; the fact is, I don't really "have" it yet. My parents have paid for half of it and it's on loan to us from our friendly local fiddle shop and they said that I could pay for the rest of it by coming in to do background music for their adjoining Italian restaurant! ay, ay, ay! Nothing has happened yet, but we're hoping to meet with the lady before too terribly long and set some dates (she said something about Valentine's Day. . . I hope I can start sooner so that I can get a little more paid off).

Ah, and the violin? The violin is the sort of instrument that has actually been sitting unused for awhile in an attic, but this lady sent it in to have it fixed by an expert, who said that it was worth more than she had first thought. My violin isn't much to look at, but it's excusable given where it's been sitting and that it was probably made in the 18oos in Germany. So yeah, it's old; and it can blow my old student instrument partly out of the water.

The last brief thing I'll mention by way of informing the benighted as to my doings is that I'm working at a horse farm. Yessirreee, I've been working there for nearly four weeks now, getting up at about five-thirty week mornings to leave at six o'clock to drive with Kate down the road about two miles to feed our neighbor's horses. And do other less pleasant duties. Thankfully, the "less pleasant" duties don't bother me, and it's fun getting more comfortable with the handsome beasts. Since I've already been asked what we actually do, I'll tell you: we give the horses (there are three of them) their hay-type stuff, their grain, and their beet pulp. Then we shovel the barn, get their hay, get their water, and possibly put out new shavings. Finally, when they're done eating, we take their night coats off, let them out, shovel their stalls if they need it, sweep the inside of the barn, and mix up their beet pulp for the next time. That's the basic gist of it. It usually takes us half an hour to an hour, depending on if we have to get the horses, if they behave themselves, how much manure we have to shovel, etc. You get the idea.

Oh, and I think the horses are thoroughbreds. They're the kind that have lots of ribbons hanging up in the barn for the shows they've been in. Once, I even counted them while I was waiting for the massive water buckets to fill up (I hoping I can add something to my non-existent muscles:); I counted aprox. 112 ribbons, if I remember correctly.

Apologies for a post that's not very exciting. I'm not in a very exciting mood, but I thought it might be beneficial to let ya'll know what I'm employed in most of the time that I'm not writing here.

Our amazing (haha) volleyball

Last Tuesday night, I went to play sports with the bibleschool like I do every Tuesday night. But this time, there were no second years. *gasp* Alas, all five of them were away on Kingdom History trip. *gasp* Which meant no second year guys. *gasp* And no Jane. *gasp*gasp* And that night, Craig, Josh, and Diane decided not to come to sports. *gasp*gasp*gasp* So what did this mean? It meant that there were only six of us to play volleyball (which is all we ended up doing): Mary, Heidi, Sarah, Kate (for only part of the time), Shawn, and me. Wow. Talk about interesting.

The positive thing about playing volleyball with only a few people is that you actually get to hit the ball a lot, plus you get exercise. And the great thing about the group (everyone was great, don't mistake me) was that Shawn, who of course was leading sports and is one of the most amazing players ever, was playing. The bad thing was that no matter what combination of teams you came up with, Shawn's team always won. Always. Of course it wasn't his fault, it was ours. But still.

After a few games, Heidi jokingly suggested that we try to have all of us girls (minus Kate, who had left) on a team against Shawn. This idea highly amused us, so we agreed, and Shawn was just as game. Haha. It was amazing to watch him. Of course he still got three hits, so when he got the ball he would bump it to himself, then set it, then spike it. Only he had put the net down to girls' height, so he tried to follow the rules of a guy to spike it behind the ten foot line. He didn't always succeed in being able to set himself there, so sometimes he would set it over the net, which of course really threw us for a loop since we were so fascinated with watching him play. After all, we were bad enough already.:)

Unfortunately, I don't think we fully exploited our one advantage: that Shawn was only one guy. We should have served it to every corner of the court that he wasn't, but somehow it didn't quite happen. Mary was especially cute when she accidentally served it right to Shawn and then cried out, "Oops! Wrong person!" hehehe

I think we got about five points in that game before Shawn won. Yeah, I know; talk about pathetic! But we still had a great time and it was almost more fun watching him, so all in all it was worth it.

Oh, and afterwards Shawn offered to set the ball for me and any of the other girls who wanted to practice spiking. So Sarah and I took turns trying to perfect our sweet spike. I have a long way to go. . .

P.S. If you haven't read the following post(s) yet, please don't feel like this is the only one to read, because you might not want to miss what I already wrote today! :)

An imitation of style

Today for my creative writing course we were asked to write a story that imitated (and possibly exaggerated) our favorite author's style. Although I didn't choose my favorite author (I'm not even sure who it is), I did choose somebody that I thought would be extremely enjoyable to imitate. I had no idea what to write about, but then a memory of mine burst upon me, so I'm basing this little story on an experience I had, even though it's a little different. I don't think I could ever perfectly imitate any good author, but do you care to guess who I was thinking of as I wrote this?

I woke from my nap, frightfully refreshed, ready to flap through the day and take on any heavy-weight challenges Fate might be cooking up for me. As there were no heavy-weight challenges presenting themselves for getting knocked off in my bedroom, I decided to pop my head into the hallway in case I could spot any villains that needed to have their noses bottled. Seeing neither villains nor noses, the rest of me followed.

I was just determining that the house seemed to be like a freshly brushed mouth having spewed out all other inhabitants, when, hallo there, I spotted Megan. She seemed to be doing some spewing herself, and I thought it must be downright catching. I was just about to breeze away before she could notice me and accuse me of snooping when light dawned on marble head that a girl had just expect-a-somethinged in the hallway. Since the picture just wasn't clicking, I knew something must be wrong. Wheeling around, I decided to blast straight ahead and like a good chap see if I could offer any aid to a m.i.d. I pride myself on my vast chivalrous abilities. Why, all a poor girl needs to do is say, "I need your help, Archie," and my whole person will melt into buttery assistance. That's how I feel toward maidens in distress.

I sailed toward Megan, trying to be discreet and nonchalant. I'm pretty sure the qualities were oozing from my pores till I absolutely reeked of it. Megan's orbs were fixed over the edge of the balustrade--she obviously hadn't caught whiff of me yet.

"I say," I said. "Is everything all right?"

The m.i.d. jumped and the brown orbs were fixed upon me as if I had just stuck a cold fish to her neck. The thought flitted through the old cranium that perhaps she would have preferred a cold fish to her neck than to seeing me, but that of course was nonsense so I waved the idea away.

The frightened rabbit look in the m.i.d.'s eyes disappeared when she realized it was me, but instead of being replaced by the comforted look that I would have expected a real maiden in distress to put on when she caught sight of her noble hero, a look of mirth crept into those dark orbs. Then without a word she slid off, leaving behind an enigmatic laugh as the only vapor that betrayed the fact that she had been there. A moment later, she reappeared to my flummoxed self as she glided in with an air of mystery about her like a halo and a glass of water in her hand. Still smiling, she let the contents of her glass trickle over the railing.

Peering over the rail, I gaped. Yes, indeed, I gaped. I don't think I've gaped quite like that since I saw cousin Louis's pet hamster dash backwards and do the Virginia Reel.

What I saw Megan aiming at down below was a sink, and in that sink was some water (from the aforementioned glass that the supposed m.i.d. was pouring), and next to that water was something that looked frightfully like toothpaste and spittle. Yes, my maiden in distress had expect-a-somethinged on purpose just because she was brushing her teeth. It's a jolly good thing she was a good shot, too, or who knows what sort of tempests could have resulted if she had spewed on some hapless bystander?

I don't think it's a rotten thing to say that from now on old Archie is going to think twice before offering his benevolent services to maidens in distress.

A Spanish-English Dictionary

The other day in my creative writing course I was studying similes and metaphors. Oh, what fun to be able to come up with one's own similes and metaphors! It's like discovering a new kind of flower. It is digging a well that turns out to be a fountain.

 

In the process of this noble study (don't worry, I have studied similes and metaphors before:) "we" were given the simple task of taking a few common objects from around the room and coming up with a simile for each one; then we had to explain it.

 

For instance: (and pardon me if this isn't perfect)

 

A camera is like a lightning bolt--it reveals moments of the past the same way a flash of lightning reveals figures in the darkness.

 

However, my favorite one is this:

 

A Spanish-English dictionary is like Craig--look him up and he'll tell you how everything I say translates into Clyde's English.

 

This simile may seem odd, but I think it's strangely true, at least at times. As much as I love my dear brother Clyde practically to death, there are times when our brains simply do not operate on the same wavelength. Our personalities have never been alike, and although we appreciate eachother a lot more than we did many years ago, there are still times when what I'm saying makes no sense at all to my brother. I may be laying out an argument for a situation, and that argument may seem perfectly logical to me, but Clyde may just stare at me as if I'm looney. This is where Craig comes in. Always the Mercy and mediator, he understands each of us almost as well as we do ourselves. I don't know exactly why; maybe he understands Clyde because they're both guys and they're closer in age. Maybe he understands me because we're fairly alike in personality. Anyway, however he does it, he manages to tell Clyde what it is that I'm trying to say, revealing to Clyde that I am more than just an inarticulate female animal. Not there aren't times when I'm not articulate or when I might not make any sense, but these times are much more infrequent than Clyde might suppose. Light dawns in my dear brother's eyes, and now we understand eachother.

 

What would we do without Craig? But at the same time, what would I do without Clyde? And while I'm in this philosophical questioning mode, what would I do without Chad, Kendra, Dad, and Mom?

 

Let's not go there.

Fanaticism is contagious

Last week I got to do something I've never done before: wave signs. You cannot believe how much fun it can be! When I originally thought of sign waving, I pictured standing out in the cold for hours while the seconds dragged by as you gripped your brave sign with cold fingers. But this was much better than I would have expected two years ago. Sadly, I missed my first opportunity on Saturday when the whole bibleschool and more went to Keene (I slept in a leetle late that day, heh heh); however my golden chance arrived the following day on Sunday afternoon. Excited, I planned to go with Dad and Craig to Peterborough to wave signs partly because we heard that McCain (!) and Kurt Schilling (!!) were coming!!! So we left a few hours early to offer our support--oh, and Ben and Bobby came along. We passed the one busy intersection in Peterborough (which was crawling with sign wavers and huge inflated puppets, mostly Obama supporters) and decided to plant ourselves on the large island where Rte. 202 meets Rte. 101.

 

        Uncertain but eager to be enthusiastic, I joined my brother and the two bibleschool guys, united in our cause which was displayed proudly by our signs. Have you ever waved signs before? Frankly, I don't think it would be an easy job to do by oneself, but when you're with three other energetic people (two of which happen to be very choleric:), fanaticism is contagious! It wasn't long before we were warmed up to our job, whooping, screaming, jumping, waving, smiling, and "thumbs upping" everyone who passed, delight warming us whenever we saw a fellow McCain supporter, which was not infrequently, though it may have helped that it was the same day as a McCain rally. Occasionally, we ran next to cars as they turned past our island, leaping about and bobbing our signs madly. Ben even held up our "Honk 4 McCain" sign for awhile and it got some happy responses. One guy, laden with signs for the democratic party, passed us a couple of times, but finally shrugged and gave us a honk, probably just to give us credit for our broad smiles and enthusiasm. Another person the guys saw fighting with the driver to honk.

 

Some of our rallying cries sounded something like this:

 

"Votes for McCain!"

 

"Let's have it for McCain!"

 

"True leadership over charisma!" (that was one of Ben's favorites, and some of us took it up)

 

"Let's have it for experience!"

 

"McCain's the man for America!"

 

"Remember to vote for McCain on November 4th!"

 

"Vote for McCain--you know you want to!"

 

And so forth, accompanied by plenty of whoops and screams. Sometimes you never realize how well a guy can scream until you get him going in a political rally; for instance, the week before I was out with the students (we were putting out signs after we participated in the Bible reading marathon in Concord) and somebody passed us with a (hopefully happy) honk, followed by a scream, and I said or at least thought, "That girl likes us!" Then I realized that the scream hadn't issued from a girl, but from Ben!

 

Sometimes our cries were more improvised, depending on the cars and license plates we saw.

 

"Massachusetts for McCain!"

 

"Dogs for McCain!"

 

"Hey, nice car! Nice cars for McCain!"

 

"Goats for McCain!" (yep, I really saw a goat:)  

 

"Young people for McCain! Old people for McCain! Everyone for McCain!" (that was Craig's line)

 

One lady rolled down her window and told us that she was undecided. This was all the chance the guys needed. Immediately they ran closer and started to list all the basic reasons she should vote for McCain. She told them they were very persuasive. They pursued it, listing more reasons, so that finally she announced that she would think about it. That was enough for us, so we all cheered.

 

Another great thing about sign waving in a smallish town was that I knew some people! It was fun seeing my brothers' old driver's ed teacher, as well as some of Clyde's basketball players; I even saw the mom of one of my violin teacher's pupils.

 

Once or twice, we even managed to convince somebody! Like the time this girl pulled off the road and came toward us; we started yelling at her to vote for McCain until she finally threw up her hands and told us that we had convinced her. Then she laughed and gave us a sign that said "Live Free Vote McCain" before leaving. It was none other than Andrea. Another time this blonde guy came walking toward us and so we pointed at him with vehemence to vote the right way, but it was only Aaron, so our efforts, however joking, were fruitless, since he was probably going to vote for McCain anyway. Nevertheless, whatever we did must have done something, because this Aaron cousin of mine stuck with us the rest of the day.

 

Darkness soon crept in after a couple of hours, so we proceeded to the traffic lights where we paused for a few minutes to throw our efforts in with the rest of the bibleschool who had arrived to swell the ranks of sign wavers. As the guys, who as I already told you were yelling plentifully, spread their fanaticism, one little boy with an Obamah sign started to yell back. However, his mother quickly stopped him, saying, "He's making a fool of himself and you're not to be one too!" To this, Ben responded with the cry, "It's okay to be passionate about what you believe in!"

 

"Your mother would be ashamed of you!" some women yelled at Ben. Ha. "They don't know my mother," he said later. :)

 

Pretty soon we peeled off and made a dash down the street for where the McCain rally was located. Here there were a bunch of people in line waiting to get in, as well as many Obamah supporters standing around holding signs. We kept ours aloft, though, and with Craig's declaration, "Red Sox fans for McCain!" (he was wearing his hat) we stood our ground.

 

Very shortly afterward, however, a little boy came up to Craig and said very politely, "Excuse me, I'm a Yankees fan and I'm for McCain so it's not just Red Sox fans for McCain."

 

"Aw, you're right," Craig answered, touched by this boy's correction. "See, he's a Yankees fan and he's for McCain too!" He said this pointing at Bobby, then repeated more loudly, "Baseball fans for McCain!" After this Bobby revealed his Yankees hat hidden beneath his hood ("Not that I'm ashamed to be a Yankees fan," he had told me earlier, but I agreed that politically it was wiser to keep it hidden while campaigning in New England) and the dad of the little boy wanted to have their picture taken with Bobby and his McCain sign. Then for some reason the dad wanted to take my picture with my sign, perhaps because I had a little American flag tucked behind my ear (who knows?), and he thanked me for the "photo op." Um, sure, no problem! :)

 

We wandered around for awhile, trying to figure out what direction the McCain bus would come from. In an alley we passed a handful of Obamah supporters, who started screaming for their candidate as soon as they caught sight of our signs. We yelled right back at the same time. The volume contest (who can scream their candidate's name the loudest?) was brief and completely lacking of spite, and it was rather remarkable how such contact, which might normally be unpleasant, was pretty good-natured and almost enjoyable.

 

Passing a lady during our same wanderings, a lady (and obvious McCain supporter) told us, "They can keep their change, we want to keep our dollars." Hardy har har, way to turn their own slogan back around on them!

 

After awhile we decided that we wanted to go in past security, so we waited in line for a few minutes. As we did, Bobby, who was complaining vociferously of his thirst (try yelling for a couple of hours and you'll understand), called across the side parking lot to some media guys, asking if they had some water. To our vast amazement and amusement, they said they did, so Bobby ran over to one of the vans parked nearby (the kind with a satellite dish on the roof) and came back with a bottle of water that he shared all around. That's Bobby for ya.

       

        Once past security, we joined the masses of people flooding the remaining length of the street, which was probably about a block or less. We found Andrea (and eventually Gretchen and Aunt Sharon) and stood around waiting for McCain's arrival, which wasn't much later. However, we weren't just wasting time either. Everything has blurred together in my mind now, but I vaguely remember continuing our loud vocal demonstrations of loyalty to McCain, being the loudest group around, waving our flags and signs, and dancing to the music that played over the loudspeaker (don't worry, Andrea got permission from her mother first:). That is, we more just hopped to some of the music as it played; Bobby, who was probably the only one among us who really knew some of the songs being played, joined in singing with some other dudes nearby--all McCain fans. Before long, the bus had arrived, and we waited, breathless, for the famous man to appear. There he was! Everyone jumped up and down screaming, waving signs and flags. This time we weren't the only ones being loud. . . oh, and Bobby got on Ben's shoulders to see better. What's more, McCain actually stood outside and TALKED to us for a few minutes before going inside where the real meeting was! That made us very happy, since the chances of getting inside had been pretty slim. One lady we happened to talk to later said that she had arrived at 11 that morning so that she would be sure to get in, and she did; she even got to ask a question. She also told us that her husband thought she had sounded amazing when she asked it (those are my words, not hers), and she wondered jokingly if she had missed her life's calling.

 

After seeing the great John McCain and Kurt Schilling, many people left, but some still crowded around the screens set up on the street to show us what was going on inside. By now (it was about 6:30) it was pretty cold; I had long ago regretted leaving my gloves in the car and I tried to keep myself from getting too numb. And it was no wonder, for we found out later that the temperature had dropped from about 43 degrees F at the beginning of our sign waving to about 29 degrees when we left the rally.

 

Long story short: we came, we saw, we went home. After McCain was done speaking, we hung around, hoping to get a glimpse of him leaving. Now that a lot of people had left we would have been able to be pretty close when he came out. We waited. . . Daddy and Gretchen both got interviewed by somebody from People magazine. . . then the bus pulled away! Alas, John McCain had left by a back entrance, and now it was our turn to leave, a little disappointed. Daddy went home with my mom, who had arrived at the actual rally shortly after we did, but I stuck with Craig and the three bibleschool guys. I was glad I did, because Craig took us to Dunkin Donuts and I was able to thaw out with a cup of white hot chocolate. . . the perfect finish to a great day.

 

I must say that the whole time t'was a delight--there's something remarkable in being able to share common beliefs and excitement for a cause with friends, even if they're not your best friends or your own age or even if most of them are guys. Still, we were promoting what we believed was right and there was some comradery as a result, even though normally I might have been an outsider. It's really a lot like being a Christian, or what being a Christian should be, so it seems to me. Each of us believers have faith in the same amazing God and ultimately we have the same goal; that should be enough to unify us no matter what our differences are! That may sound easy to say or maybe it sounds wishy washy, but I think it's a neat thought to keep in mind. This day kind of depicted to me what it's like to have a common excitement with other people--shouldn't we be just as excited about God?

 

Huh. A fan for God. A fanatic fan for God--and haven't I already said that fanaticism is contagious? Just think, if we were all truly fanatic fans for God. . . . . how long would it take the world to catch this contagion too?