That's The Way It Should Be, Like A Leaf Is To A Tree, So Fine.

     Only God, me, my mom, dad, brother, sister, grandparents, and a few friends from college know why on God's green earth, I, Evan Lane, would be awake at 5 AM.  I mean to get up, not because I hadn't gone to bed.  For those of you who don't know, it's nothing sinister as my narrative implies.  But as it stood, I was awake.  4:30 AM to be exact.  I grab Ted Dekker's Thr3e and read through to the end, I only had about 50 pages left.  I recommend it, great twists and a suspenseful story.  A bit lame in the slang he uses at times, but that's okay.  I move on to Donald Miller's Through Painted Deserts and read about 6 pages.  I am inspired by his tale of leaving everything to go on a trip to just live.  I fling myself out of bed, get dressed, and am about to fish through the cupboards for some breakfast when I remember Dunkin Donuts.  America runs on Dunkin you know.  I can understand why, their croissant breakfast sandwiches are to die for.  Or to run for.  Whatever.

     I was fresh out of cash so I decide to stop at the ATM before heading to Dunkin Donuts.  I planned to get a breakfast sandwich, coffee, and come back home to sit down and plot out a trip out West.  To the romance of the untamed world, roadside kingdoms, deserted oases, nature preserves unmatched in beauty, somber views of ghost towns that brought both sadness and happiness because like a friend who has watched a friend suffer in their last moments of life, it is known that while we wish they were still here, their presence would be dilapidated, forced, difficult.  This was my plan.  As it were, it was not God's plan.  Right across from the ATM sits a retro diner, Northside Diner.  I hadn't eaten there in ages and decided to go eat there rather than Dunkin Donuts.  The croissant sandwiches could be eaten anywhere at anytime.  I was only home on sparse occasions, and only awake in time for Northside breakfast on even sparser occasion.  I contemplate going home to get a book or newspaper to read.  I decide that I could use the time to soak in the cool atmosphere and just think.  It was one of the better decisions I'd made in awhile.

     I walk in the door to see six old men spread throughout the cafe, some in groups, some by themselves.  Those that sit alone sit far enough away to not intrude, but close enough to be able to commune and share stories when the time called for a recital.  They see me, and all seem to wonder who told the young guy that there is a life that can be lived before 12 PM.  I settle in to a booth near the back.  The seat is uncomfortable and I think about switching booths or sides but decide that I can bear the imperfection.  Further, I must bear it if I want the charm of this place.  It isn't that the place isn't a good establishment.  Only some traits are a bit ramshackle.  The food is not one of these traits, nor is the Wurlitzer jukebox that runs in perfect condition, nor are the framed hit records from different years joined by the original score sheets showing the top 30 hits from that day in that year.  If I was alone I would walk around and read each one, but it seemed that in that situation, not too many men would appreciate my jacket dropping dog hair into their coffee or eggs while I crane to read which song by Dion and the Belmonts or Diana Ross and The Supremes held the top spot.

     A nice woman comes to my table, "Coffee?"  "Yes, please.  Thank you."  I reach for a cream and two sugars.  It tastes delicious, and I peruse the menu.  Looking past Abbot and Costello, scanning just above Frank Sinatra's head, and glancing next to Elvis to realize he's on the lunch page, flip back to to the breakfast section.  Abbot and Costello suggest "Two in the Nest" a hearty dish of two eggs, potatoes and toast as you order them, and corned beef hash.  Coming in close second and third are "Two Chicks Went To Idaho", the same as "Two in the Nest" but without corned beef hash, and "Stacked Chicks", the same but with biscuits and gravy underneath it all.  I place my order and sit back soaking in the charm that our world has forgotten.  I know we haven't forgotten, and that we forcefully repressed the old.  I just prefer to think that we wouldn't forsake something so cool, so warming, on purpose.  I begin to find myself listening to the stories that surround me.

      Gripes about the nature of women, tall tales of when is best to go fishing, how crops are going, dramatic lovers who had a gunfight (I found this hilarious, shame on me), war stories of a personal medical nature (though I know some of them had real war stories too), and other assorted limericks and melodramas worked their way through the room around me.  I smiled with each, and wonder if any of them saw the weird young guy who was not only awake but sat with a queer smirk on his face while they had their day.  I was an intruder, it was clear that everyone else had undergone the necessary hours and initiations to be included as a regular.  Nonetheless, I enjoy my time as an alien.  I come in peace.  I merely enjoy observation.  I don't have any tubes or probes or cameras or forceps.  With my ears and eyes I dissect the little world inside Northside Diner, scraping away the years these men showed in their beard and sagging faces.  I see them with sweethearts, pals, Letterman's jackets.  The Wurlitzer doesn't sit quietly as it does now.  I prod around with my visual tweezers and it begins to rudely play an Elvis tune.  Upon the use of a magnifying glass, the waitress is wearing a long skirt and hair in a mature pony tail.  She wears signature 50's glasses, walks with a dignified kindness, and makes this little place her mission.  People laugh and eat and don't ever consider the fact that they will one day be what I see now.  They are young for eons, and never do they say never.  They are fighters, builders, formers of the world we know now, blazers of the trail the youth of today are straying from with machetes in hand, slicing away the vegetation of society that says "You don't walk here!  The trail is that way!  Ow!"  In a peculiar way, they are following the trail of the people they are wandering from because the past generation did the same thing, as did the one before it.  A generation cannot be called a generation of its own if it doesn't stray and head into certain doom like the past generation did.

     I realize that across the restaurant is a man named Steve DePung.  I don't know how to spell his name but this is how it is said.  Steve taught me how to shake hands.  My mom's side of the family is large and somewhat of a dynasty in my hometown.  I met Steve at the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) when some family function rented it out.  I was introduced to hi by my older cousin Mark.  Mark is a Marine, and Steve is a Marine.  I look up to Mark and Mark looks up to Steve and therefore, I look up to Steve.  I shake his hand, saying hello meekly.  His large white beard and stern frame make me shy away from eye contact and a firm grip.  He shakes my limp fish of a hand and stops.  Like a lumberjack he bellows "Hell no!  That isn't how you shake a hand.  You look the man straight in the eye, let him know you're his equal.  Firm grip.  Yeah just like that."  He walked away seeming a bit flustered, unsure of if we will survive the coming decades if youth like me are going to be at the helm.  Later that same night I met another man through my cousin Mark, and put Steve's lesson into practice.  The man seems intrigued and says, "Now that's a handshake.  You're going to be one helluva man someday."  I don't remember his name.  I think it's funny that we remember those who compliment us greatly less than we do those who chastise and teach us something that we didn't know before.  I'm glad this is the case though.

    This is the underworld of my hometown.  Boisterous youth doing pot and having sex behind their parents' back think they are the underworld.  But they're not.  The underworld is something that is forgotten, invigorating, and flagged by the rest of society as wrong.  The six men and few women working this Diner are the underworld.  I am pleased to be able to be a part of it all, if only for a few minutes.  I'm there for a half hour maybe, probably less.  As Steve gets up to leave, I follow him to the register.  After he pays he tells a man a story and in his passion almost bumps into me backwards.  He doesn't notice and I happily move aside a bit.  The man he is talking to notices and grins at me but Steve doesn't turn around.  I pay my bill, 9 dollars.  I pay with a twenty and leave the waitress the rest.  She strikes me as the waitress who cares for each customer as her own kin, and like many mothers, receives far less than she gives.  I know I can't rectify this with a ten dollar tip, but mothers scarcely want more than the occasional show of generosity.  They ought to desire more, but they're mothers and that's why they behave that way.

     I stand awkwardly and wait for Steve to say his goodbyes and follow him out.  Clear of the others, I say "Steve?"  He turns slowly and surely, and I say "Evan Lane."  I shake his hand firm and look him dead in the eye.  "You taught me how to shake hands like this."  He looks a bit puzzled and then laughs.  He doesn't remember me yet, but I'll bet he frequently corrects those who shake hands as though they are sickly.  I continue, "We met at a Ruge family function at the VFW, you know Mark Strudas obviously.  He's my older cousin, he introduced us.  I shook your hand like I was terrified and looked down and you pounced to correct me.  'Hell no!  That's not how you shake hands!  You shake it firm, look 'em dead in the eye.'"  He lets out a big cackle like only an old jolly man with more stories and scars than most other people can.  "I remember that!  Shoot, that was a while back."  I say, "You know, a lot of people have given me advice but none of it has ever been so clear and helpful as the advice you gave me that day.  He lets out a quick breath in a 'hmmm' shape, and says he was glad I told him that.  I go on, "I'm a freshman in college and I'm surprised how many grown men don't know how to shake hands.  There's obviously a lot more to a person than a handshake, but there is a lot that can be told and a lot in our perception of a man from a handshake."  He agrees.  He goes on about how he works with boy scouts at the VFW sometimes still, and I've not the slightest clue where this topic comes from.  Old people do this though, and I appreciate the awkwardness of the moment.  We chat a bit more, and I thank him again.  I  get in my car and leave behind this underworld of smiles and laughter and old friends that exists right beneath the nose of the world that says grimaces and sneers are the new way to go.

     I arrive home and my head swims with inspiration for what I'm writing right now.  I remember, and will for a long time, this trip to the underworld that warmed me inside and reminded me that there's not only a life to be lived before 12 PM, but that it is wholly superior to the life after noon.

They're All Off Without You, Having Fun

Seriously.

     Goodbye son!  Enjoy college!  We'll be here, don't worry.  Not doing anything fun and leaving you out or anything like that.  There is that one cruise in the Caribbean though, but it's only like 5 days long.  All sorts of food and beautiful weather and destinations.  No worries.  The people are really personable and the activities are really intriguing.  Nothing you'd be into.

     I wish I could tell you that was another one of my fictitious rambles, but it was totally true.  In different words, sure, but totally true.

     It's a nice day, I wake up early, grab some coffee, watch some videos online, creep some potential soulmates on facebook, weep a bit, and then get ready to go.  Go where, one might ask?  To take my parents to the airport, and then to go back to college.  My parental units will be enjoying their week on a cruise ship.  I will be enjoying my week in a dorm that smells like old buttery garlic pizza dipping sauce, wishing I understood the appeal of the double-bass and screaming duet that is unabashedly blaring its way out of my roommates iPod docking station.

I hear he does lovely needlepoint work.

    It's not all that bad.  I'll make it through.  But not with sea turtles or tropical islands or free steak buffets.  

     I feel like I need another picture here.  Does google do searches for "funny but random pictures" that actually return stuff that people above the age of 14 will find humorous?  Ha, look at me asking you.  Why not just ask google myself?  Relationships are so much harder with a go-between.

This is the first one that google returned.  I'm slightly humored, but mostly just annoyed that the taker of this photo, presumably the homeowner, thinks the dog should care about renovation and maintenance of the building shown above.  Let him do his thing.  He's a dog.  Shouldn't you be angry that politicians don't want to come over and fix your holes in the wall for you?

That's better.  He makes house calls I hear, especially since elections are approaching again.

Been a Long Time, Been a Long Time, Been a Long Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely Time

It's been forever since I've posted here!  I've been rather occupied with college and the accompanying social conundrums (think "pizza or burgers" and "sleep or hang out").  Blogging is something I do miss dearly and would like to re-commit to soon.  But for now this is just a "Wow, it's been forever since we've talked.  See ya."

See ya.

I Can Hear It Callin' Me The Way It Used To Do...

I've begun to pick up the ole gee-tar again.

Don't worry, it's a real guitar.  The one I'm playing that is, not that dinky little toy.  Which by the way is a phenomenal way to pass car trips and simultaneously have very little fun.

Well I've tried many times to get into guitar and it just never really worked, I don't know why.  But this time it seemed to have sped along quite nicely.  I was sitting in my English class and my good buddy and ex-bandmate Lucas had his guitar.  We're seniors, it's the last two weeks of school.  Of course we've got nothing better to do.  So I pick the guitar up and try to show him how to play "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" by Led Zeppelin, and I fail miserably.

So that night I went home, watched a lesson on how to play it, and now I've made more progress in a few days on guitar than I have every before.

Anyhow, the point of this whole thing is my realization that music is so ridiculously therapeutic.  Listening to music rarely puts me in a long-term good mood anymore, playing music is my last stand of musical escapism.

For example, today I was in a horrendous mood, down, slightly grumpy, but overall just sad and craving some solitude.  I sat down and started playing on that guitar and totally forgot everything I was upset about.  I even poked around a bit and figured out a part of the song all by myself!

Tonight, just before I wrote this, I composed my own music for one of my many songs which hopefully will be combined soon with the music I just made.

Jimi Hendrix said something along the lines of "Music is a safe type of high. It's more the way it was supposed to be. That's where highness came, I guess, from anyway. It's nothing but rhythm and motion."  And he wasn't kidding.  I've never felt an unsafe high but I can believe him when he compares music to all of his illegal highs and says that they don't stack up to music's high.


All the above was written quite awhile ago and I've just sat down to finish a draft that I'd forgotten about.  Just so we're all clear here.


Anyhow, I'm a few weeks into the new guitar voyage and it feels awesome.  I've written more, practiced more, and etc.  It is an awesome option to have because I'm truly a drummer at heart but I just don't have the ability to keep my kit at home.  Rather than flip out and go into a rage for a lack of musical opportunities, I play my ol gee-tar and the fur on the back of my palms goes away, my fangs retract, my spine is normal again, and all the girls chasing me around screaming 

"JACOB JACOB JACOB!!! I'M ON YOUR TEAM! PUT ME IN COACH JACOB!"

finally go away.  And believe me, it is hard to concentrate on anything with their prattling.  Give me like 3 or 4 minutes to pick up the guitar because I just sprouted a tail as I became enraged from merely thinking about it, and the girls have already broken through the boards on the window I just replaced today.

That cuckoo clock represented 3 or 4 minutes of time passing.  Heck, you may have even spent 3 or 4 minutes trying to figure out why the heck anyone would buy such a thoroughly redneck cuckoo clock.

Now that the fangirls have been warded off, I can continue telling my story.  Or I should say, can continue to conclude my story.  Like I said, I am a drummer at heart, but guitar is a blast.  I also love singing so maybe guitarist-singer could be a possibility after some serious practice.  

Oh and a word to the wise; one of my first blog posts said that I'd be posting songs and creative projects, but after some thought, I've decided to keep that to a minimum.  I'm not arrogant but I tend to stand by my work with pride and am proud of it.  I'm proud of it because I believe it's good, and any old yahoo on the internet (heh, yahoo, internet) who searches for one of the pictures I've used could stumble across a story or song and steal it.  And we dont take too kindly to plagiarists and thievin' scoundrels 'round these parts. *spits*

Big Ol' Jet Airliner, Don't Carry Me Too Far Away

In a few hours I am traveling to the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean Sea.

First time ever out of the country.  Except for one time when I walked over the border to see Niagara Falls from Canada.  And wouldn't you know, it looks exactly the same from that side.  Big and wet.  And worthy of navigating in a barrel.

     Anyhow, I'm very excited to finally get to venture out a bit into the world.  I'm going with a group called Campus Life that I was very involved with when I was in High School and would like to continue to work with in college and perhaps even as a profession.  We'll be visiting Santo Domingo, the capital, and working within schools and neighborhoods there spreading God's word of love through action and not little tracts or pamphlets or other more or less useless demonstrations.

     I tend to be a guy of "Doing" rather than "sitting around wishing", or at least when it comes to things I'm motivated to.  I add that proviso because I know there's a good load of people who would say "What about homework?!  Or building Rome in a day?!  Or my engagement ring?!"

     And they'd be right.  All that crap was largely unimportant to me.  Now however, a chance to "DO" rather than stand on a street corner and hand out clever little million dollar bills that then go into how eternity is like a million bucks.  Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt that it is worth that, but it's only going to annoy people and will probably only rope in the easiest to persuade of people.  However, nothing says "We are legitimate" like leaving the comfort of your home, heading to a new and somewhat daunting world, and then rather than hitting up all the vacation zones, going into poor neighborhoods and schools to do work.  And even if we don't win any souls over, who's to say we didn't do any good?  That'd be a tough argument.

     It feels good to be on the brink of forging ahead somewhere new with God leading me there.  I am hoping that I am capable of making this trip solely about Him and others and not falling into vacation mode.  I think I can do it.  I'll probably be so worked up after the trip that you'll be getting an update so I suppose you'll find out if I did or didn't.

     If you by chance stumble across this before I'm back from my trip, the whole team will be documented online with daily blog postings, photos, videos perhaps, and more at

www.campuslifedrtrip.com.

     And with that I say good day.  Keep it classy.  And see if you can't perhaps wage your own little missions work campaign here at home.  If you aren't Christian, wage it for something you believe in.  Unless it's Satan.  Then we'll probably have to duke it out, and be forewarned, I am really good at checkers, chess, Risk, Sorry!, and Monopoly.  And those pretty much constitute 99% of the methods use to settle Christian/Satanist conflicts.

Checkmate anyone?

"The Armory", Another Short Story of Mine in Progress

    It was, by all accounts and standards, a typical Sunday morning. Cars driving by, dogs barking, women on their daily jog, sun beaming down graciously and earth gratefully receiving it. Nothing was extraneous, nothing unique. On the road were quiet families in minivans and loud teens trying to drive off the night before with sobering music (and equally sobering cars in bad condition). Houses were docile, but excited with the notion of a day off to relax and reload. Quiet noise emanated from the open windows; bacon frying, televisions humming happily, and old couples reliving their old days on swinging porch swings, which had also seen better days. Victorians, ranches, duplexes, Gothics, all houses were at peace, all houses appreciated the day. And the typicality of this Sunday morning was exactly what three small boys were depending on with wistful faces pressed to the gaps of a picket fence.

Garrett lived in a nice new home, with a spacious yard, a picturesque white fence, and a driveway that still reflected fresh cement. Garrett attended a small private school and his classmates acknowledged him as delusional and quite unsound mentally. He made absurd claims about this church that was across the street from his house: odd transformations, unnatural happenings that apparently occurred every Sunday morning. For this, most of his fellow students rejected him, laughed about him, and generally regarded him as the plague, fearing that his alleged insanity might rub off on them. However, there were two students, Omar and Danny, who were more astounded than repulsed at his stories. They agreed one weekend to spend the night at his house, so as to view this supernatural occurrence. Garrett, pleased to have companions, made the arrangements to play games, watch cartoons, and tell scary stories. When they finally arrived, after an interminable wait, Garrett flew down the stairway, let in his friends, and after the parents had been shooed away, took them up to his room. Games, TV, stories; nothing the boys did occupied the two guests. They were anxious and excited to stake out the front yard and watch the church the next morning.

Waking up early, the boys crept downstairs, and after grabbing some juice and cookies to hold them over till lunch, sat in the front yard. They had set up their headquarters under the shade of a small tree that straddled near the white picket fence, quaint enough to be included in a view of the house, yet beautiful enough to be half seeking escape.

“8 A.M. Anytime now…” Garrett said nervously, with the sneaking suspicion that that Sunday would be different and leave his newfound friends just as skeptical as the other students.

“You’re sure?” asked Omar, clearly becoming more doubtful every second he didn’t see a metamorphosis.

“Absolutely. Here comes a car now!” A new minivan sauntered around the corner and quietly pulled into a parking spot at the church. It seemed that the father of the family occupying it didn’t even need to steer, the car simply knew its place in comfortable and sustaining routine. They exited the vehicle, a mother, a father, and two young boys. Happily strolling towards the door, the group looked truly content. The mother, donning a yellow dress, carried under one arm a bible and in the other a cup of coffee. The father, in a smart button down with a classy tie, carried the same. The two boys, one in a blue polo shirt and the other in red, carried much larger bibles, with big colorful words on the front.

More and more families began to show up in the same fashion, carrying a bible, holding hands, toting babies, greeting each other as they entered, and then disappearing once inside. After the influx had died down, all was quiet, save for the occasional car passing by. It seemed that all the cars in the town knew that this was their designated time to be parked somewhere and not move, and those that ignored this general rule were boisterously loud, sad testaments of engineering from days gone by. Omar and Danny were getting anxious.

“Nothing’s happening now, not even boring families in casual clothes! Are you sure that you ain’t crazy? I’ve heard it from more than a few people you know.” said Danny, speaking up, seeming interested for the first time since he had been there.

“I’m sure! I promise that it will be amazing! It happens every Sunday, I sit here and watch, and it happens! I swear!”

Danny’s voracious impatience was curbed temporarily. A sudden but not harsh flow of music started from the other end of the church.

“Here it comes! They always play music extra loud for the end of the service!” shouted Garrett.

Shapes could be seen mingling behind the doors, saying goodbyes and see-you-soons. Nothing amazing was happening however. Tauntingly, a family would near the door, and then be called back to the center of the building, tormenting the boys into aggravation.

“If nothing happens soon, I’m going back inside.” said Omar with clear regret of compliance to this absurd plan.

Just then, the door to the church swung open. As they glanced through the parking lot, they gazed upon the man who was wearing the button down and tie and drove the minivan. But to call him that same man would be truly an insult. He now looked otherworldly, majestic, a tribute to medieval chivalry.

In glistening gold armor, with silver encrusted hinges and accents, and a large blue cross emblazoned on his chest which glittered in the sun, the man walked back to where he had parked his van before. His head was shrouded by a helm that must have been fashioned with the flames of God’s fireplace. Its contour matched his crown perfectly, with leading curves and inlays that confused the eyes as to what beautiful part of the helmet should be watched. On the sides of the helm were miniature wings that curled up to the heavens, so gold they had stolen the identity of yellow, glowing and vivid. The man’s gait was well measured, and as each step was lain down on the ground, no harsh clanking sound could be heard as one might expect. The suit appeared so majestic that it should have surely been a burden, but it moved and bent fluidly as it obeyed its wearer. In his hand the man now carried a shield rather than his bible. The shield was finely polished, and the boys behind the fence squinted their eyes as light reflected off its surface and hit them in the face. The shield’s blue color complemented the cross on the man’s chest. It was a large disc, made from two thick pieces of iron. Around the rim of the bulwark were stationed visibly the rivets that held the plates together. The face was solid sapphire blue, with a golden cross in the center of the shield. The boys just knew as they saw it that the cross would repel any blow.

Perched on his flank was the most fearsome yet admirable component of his armor: A large sword, about four feet long and forged out of fine silver. It thudded gently against his leg with each stride, encased in its stupendous golden sheath. As he dislodged the blade to inspect it, the three boys’ jaws dropped further, defying anatomy. The blade had a long wavy indent carved into the blade, stretching from the point and leading the boys’ eyes blissfully spiraling down to the hilt. The hilt was a spectacle in and of itself. Spreading about a foot wide, with gently curved ends, the hilt flashed as the light played off of three mammoth rocks pulled from the most secluded paradises of the world. All three were deep burgundy in color, arranged in a triangle, with one in the center of the hilt and one each near the top of the curves in the strong arms that reached to either side. He reinstalled the blade into its body-hugging case, and continued his stroll, at ease, but simultaneously full of purpose.

Trailing him, walking side by side in flawless formation and synchronized steps, were his two sons. Garrett, Omar and Danny looked with jealousy at the two sons. The two boys were not much older than Garrett, Omar, and Danny, but they looked more like fantasy heroes and legends than the three spectators did. The statuesque children were clad in identical suits. Their small and slender frames were housed in a copper colored armor, detailed with ebony colored metal shapes and vine-like designs. The designs wove about the armor in fabulous absurdity, but all branches led to the center of the righteous breastplates and cradled a royally purple crucifix. The crucifixes leapt out towards the beholder and stole their breath. They donned helmets of bronze with traces of silver, with crosses cut into the cheeks, and a full mask with narrow and intimidating slits to peer out of. A red feather was poking out of the top, bobbing cheerily with every step the brothers took in cadence. The brothers walked in such synchronicity and determination that a passerby may have taken them for a machine being remotely controlled. Perhaps the signal was coming through the regal feather standing like a pillar atop their heads.

The sons also carried weapons fit for a knight: they toted miniature broadswords upon their hips in a reddish-gold scabbard. Upon watching them pull the blades out to feel the splendid balance and comfort they offered, the three boys were more jealous yet. Each pondered their parents’ reactions when they requested swords like that for Christmas. No, the chances of Garrett, Omar, or Danny procuring a relic like that were slim, but closer to none. The blades were unique and unlike anything seen in cartoons or comics the boys frequented. They were double-edged, but the edges were terrifically exceptional. One side was straight as an arrow, coming to a sharp point at the tip of the sword. The other edge was like a rolling wave, a smooth curve that stretched the length of the blade. To be attacked with this weapon would be fearsome indeed; any wound may prove to be fatal. The design of the blade seemed to have a straight side to puncture, but a curved side to pull itself into its enemies, all the way to the hilt. And the hilt was a decoration as well. It consisted of a convex silver piece that could completely shield the wielder’s hand, almost reaching down to cover it entirely. On this convex slab were twelve luminescent pearls arranged in a ring around the place where the blade and hilt met. They also carried shields, but smaller than their father’s. Theirs were small and diamond shaped, worn on their arms and attached with straps. The faces of the bucklers were divided into four triangles. A pair of the triangles, opposite each other was colored in copper bordered by silver, and the other pair was silver bordered by copper. Situated in the center as though it caused the division of the shield was a cross of the same magnificent shade of purple that sat on their chest.

Omar and Danny looked at Garrett wide-eyed, grinning stupid with delight. Garrett knew there was more though, and he pointed back to the church. The boys’ heads followed his finger and saw the final member of the procession.

The mother exited the building steadily scanning the horizon and nearby environment for anything that may harm her family. She was taller than when she had entered the church, and brought up the back of the formation as the lookout. She too had a newfound outfit, with a less constrictive but equally eye-catching chain mail suit. It was a venerable silver hue, and each chain linked to the next with breathtaking continuity. The cross on her chest was orange, carved from a crystal sized in saga-like proportions. She wore leather pants with metal kneecaps and elbow pads of bronze, bordered with a thin line of gold. Her helmet was open-faced, with a chain mail coif guarding her neck. It was made of blindingly bright silver, accented by gold rims, and the front came to a thin point that covered the mother’s nose. A four-sided spike of gold and silver was embedded in the top of the helm.

She held a crossbow at the ready, and on her back dwelled a quiver to hold the bolts. The bow itself looked like a cross, golden and effervescent with color. Silver tracings garnished the side of the bow, weaving a web of entrancement. The trigger was of fine silver, and had imprints for the woman’s fingers to fit into. The band that propelled the bolts was supple and strong, and looked as though it had been woven from the clouds. The quiver rollicked to and fro with each step. It was constructed of black leather with a white cross stitched into it. The bolts had tips shaped like crosses, sharp on all sides, and the shafts were made of the strongest wood available on heaven and earth.

The Space That's In Between Insane and Insecure

That is how one might describe my mood of late.

I feel as though I ought to have something to say here, but I just can't form the words.  

In time I will understand, if I'm meant to understand.

God is good. He does not hold back the good food, the coldest drinks, the best chair, the clearest view of the movie screen.

I find myself undone when I decide what is going to happen in my life.  It isn't for me to decide, which is both frightening and sublime.