I Buried a Dead Body

This past Saturday, the sun was shining and light breeze was floating through the window. How it managed to float through a very dense bush and down a small cement wall before reaching my basement window is a complete mystery but I was rather grateful for it. With my homework completed, I grabbed my sandals and went for a walk around campus. On my third round past the activities field, I noticed something small gleaming with reflected sunlight. I walked past it, thinking it was trash someone had left. What with our college hosting a basketball tournament, a lot of trash was being left around by visitors who had no respect for our campus rules on litter. Then something hit me: grey fur. I turned around and found to my surprise, a  full grown mole lying face down. I stood there for a few seconds wondering if he was afraid to move because of me or if he was dead. Then it hit me that he would have made a run for it by now if he could. From what I could tell, there were no wounds on his back, and his stomach was laying on the ground. He could have not have been there long, for there were no flies or any other sort of insect eating at him. "Oh, baby" I hear myself whisper. "I'm so sorry." I stood up and made a dash back to my room. Once there I grabbed five tissues and, for lack of a better option, a fork. No I did not eat the mole. I went back to the activities field, and noticed mole tunnels through the grass leading up to their owner's little body. Gently, I picked up the mole's body with the tissues. I had to cup him in both hands and stick the fork in my back pocket. Yet despite that he seemed so small and fragile. His body was limp and warm from the sunshine. His tiny white nose reached my fingertips and his perfect little tail rubbed against my wrist through the tissues. He was full grown, but to me he was as miniscule as a pen cap and as breakable as a glass figure. Ever so carefully I carried him to the cliff behind the library and ducked back behind some trees. Using the fork I dug a small little grave and paused. The mole lay on his back, velvet grey fur highlighted against the white tissues. There were no wounds on his front either. A blood covered tongue hanging out of his mouth was the only sign that he hadn't died a natural death. Chances are his little neck was broken by a predator before he died. With the greatest of care not to squeeze or damage him, I picked my little friend up with my bare hand. His fur was soft, so much softer than the silky belly of our family cats. His miniscule little white paws were perfectly formed and as endearing to me as the fingers of a new born babe. Once again I was struck by how small he was in comparison to me. Is this how small and fragile we seem to Abba? In a physical world where we are the largest, most powerful creature it can be easy to forget just how tiny and fragile we truly are. This past Saturday I remembered. In Abba's eyes I am no bigger than a mole, but I am loved with a fierceness that surpasses the compassion I felt for my smaller fellow creature at that moment. I sat there for a few seconds and stroked brother mole's fur lightly, putting it all in place as I hummed a small song and talked to him. I apologized for the shallow grave in a rocky earth that no mole would dig in. I couldn't bury him in the field where he had lived, not without getting caught and most likely in trouble for ruining the field where college students played Frisbee and had picnics. I apologized that he had to die right when the weather was starting to get nice and when he had just come out of hibernation. I described the trees, the view of the river below, the birds and the lack of college sounds to him. Then I laid him in his new home face down, as if he was tilling the soil beneath his paws once again, and covered him with the rather loose dark earth. It wasn't much, and in some ways I felt like Antigone, who just sprinkled earth over her brother. No doubt the wind and rain would blow the earth off and leave my poor friend open to the elements again. I offered a prayer for him, that he hadn't suffered, that his grave wouldn't be disturbed, and that I was grateful he was back with his creator. I asked for a chance to see him again when the whole world is restored. It isn't just humanity Abba wants to restore, it is all of creation, even the trees and moles. I wonder if my little mole will look any different when he is restored, will I recognize him? The chapel bell tolled as I stood up again, as if it was tolling for the death of my little brother. I wonder if it will toll for me when the time comes.  I do know part of my prayer for Mr. Mole was answered: it snowed the next day and the ground was frozen solid. He will rest undisturbed for a while longer. I can only hope the same is true for me when I am buried in the earth where the moles will make me welcome....that sounded much more morbid than I planed it to be.

Into the Night

It is hard for me to write when I am in the middle of a battle. I pour my soul into my stories. My fears, my short comings, my shadows. When I am in the middle of a struggle with the Dark, my writing often gets pushed back. Held off until I'm in the light again. "You can't write know, you can barely make it through classes/work without tears. Writing would tear you apart. Besides writing while in a highly emotional state impairs your work." I tell myself. "Focus on college, you don't know how to write yet."

I need to break the cycle. After college it will be "You're too busy at work to write. Writing drains you." Yes, writing does drain me. I get shaky and need to sleep after a solid day of writing. But what is it draining me of? All the strife and struggles; the darkness is finally laid out on paper for the world to see.

There are a lot of Christian books that were written in the light, about nothing but the light. That is all well and good, but Christianity is not about light alone. It is about leaving the darkness. It is learning to fight back. It is about diving into the dark to be a light. A light only shines when it is in the dark. I need to write about the dark. How it talks to me, caresses me and beckons me to follow. Only then will I be able to help others turn down that offer. There is no point in a lighting a candle at high noon. To defeat the shadows, we must first enter them. Yes, it is hard to write when the Dark is at my shoulder, but that is where the Light is needed. We chose to be bearers of light, to carry it into the shadows. It is time to plunge into the night.

Believing in Fairies

I should be studying for a midterm right now. For some reason I can't focus, perhaps it has to do with the weather. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, Swift, Austen and Byron are not holding my attention this evening. So here I am trying to write a blog post instead, listening to the soundtrack for the 2003 production of Peter Pan.

One of my coworkers and I are in love with Peter Pan. We both love the story even though we are both halfway through college. In someways, he even reminds me of Peter. He has the same clever, sneaky smile that could charm the fairies while he steals their purses. Not that Puck (as I shall here call him) would ever steal. He is far too good natured. We both would defend J.M. Barrie against the American authors his best friend (and our fellow worker) preferred.

What is it about Peter Pan that fascinates us both? The idea of retaining our childhood? Perhaps, no one ever fully abandons his or her childhood willingly. There is that small part of us that wants to continue to believe in fairies even when we know they are not real. Something in us withers when the Hooks in our lives whisper "there's no such thing as fairies." There is no magic. There is no fun.

My love of Neverland started when I was little, and I adored Peter as most young girls do. However, it was when I started Jr. High that I truly fell in love with the story. That was when it finally sunk in that I was growing up, and  oh how I wished Peter would visit my window before that happened! While my little sister slept beside me, I would stare out our window at the stars and wonder which one was "second to the right." I retreated, and cried myself to sleep as I slowly, horribly continued to grow older.

At some point in high school, my grandmother took my little sister and me to see Peter Pan on the stage. I don't think she ever knew how much that meant to me. I was re-connected with the best part of my childhood: the steadfast never doubting belief. Belief in fairies, magic and light. Pure unfiltered sunlight and joy. I hate heights, but I wanted with all my heart to fly with Peter that day. To me, flying has a different definition all together.

I am much older now than I was then. I no longer live at the small house at Possum Box Lane. I had to say goodbye to the fairies that rustled the trees in the day and danced in the garden at night. I had to wave farewell to the mermaids in the creeks and the unicorns in the hidden glade I named Mossflower (after Brain Jacques' book by the same name). But only because we moved to a new house. I stubbornly clung on as while the rest of my classmates prepared for college and uttered their own version of the hated line "there's no such thing as fairies." I didn't want to grow up, and fought back by not applying for scholarships and my mother had to drag me by my hair to get me to apply for colleges. It wasn't until the summer before I left that I finally stopped fighting. Peter wasn't coming. His forgetfulness had gotten in the way yet again. I would have to find him.

I think the hardest thing for a six year-old child to understand is that Peter Pan is a story about growing up. The whole reason Wendy, John, and Micheal Darling left was to avoid growing up. It always confused me why they went back. Yes, they loved their mother and missed her. That reasoning I could very well understand. But it was the argument between Peter and Wendy about feelings that always got me. Understand that I was very romantic as a child and took Wendy's side; even then I knew that that disagreement between Peter and Wendy was the real reason why she left Neverland and that while the part about missing mothers was true, it also served as Barrie's way of making the departure easier to swallow for the children. There was something about growing up that Peter was (and probably still is) terrified of. And why shouldn't he be? As small children, we are given the impression that the adults around us wish us to stay small and pure. Somewhere along that time frame our small hearts begin to think that growing up is bad, why else would our parents wish us to avoid it? However, there comes a time when we, like Wendy discover that growing up is not a bad thing, if you handle it right.

No one likes to be told to stop doing something they enjoy. "Don't play in the mud." "Don't stay up late reading" "No, you can't go play with your toys, go do your homework." "There's no such thing as fairies." Children get it into their heads that growing up is losing all the fun things in life, all the things they enjoy. Wendy was going to have her own room, away from her darling brothers (sorry, I couldn't help myself). That is not what growing up is. Growing  up is learning to take responsibility for your actions. Something that the Lost Boys, Peter and Wendy do throughout their adventures. Peter puts Wendy and the Lost Boys' safety before himself when he ties Wendy to a kite, or goes in to save them all from the pirates.He never admits that it was his actions or lack of actions that caused their scrapes, but he does try his best to fix the problems that arise. In that respect, Peter is a grown up (although he would be ashamed to admit it and would argue with me, the cocky fellow)  Growing up is also learning to take the fun things and turning them into part of who you are. Wendy went to Neverland to play being a mother. She loved taking care of her rowdy brothers and the Lost Boys. Guess what she became when she grew up? How do you know that the child who plays in the mud will come to nothing? Perhaps he has the making of a great gardener.

Wendy's father tells her at the beginning of the story to put away childish thoughts. That it is time for her to think like an adult. This is the lie that all children are told, even inadvertently. We are told to forget the Easter bunny, Santa and so on. "There's no such thing as fairies." We are told to toss away that unquestioning belief in what we cannot see. That is part of growing up, we are told. It is a hard pill for any child to swallow, a bitter one. One that many take, but we don't have to. Peter never took his medicine. Hook poisoned it. And he has poisoned ours as well. We were called to have the faith of children, to keep that unquestioning trust and belief. We are to take responsibility for our actions, but to keep that child's sight, the laughter and the ability to fly. We are to keep that hope and love. Living without faith, or hope is dismal and is a surefire way to piracy towards the soul.  Wendy willingly went back to her window in London, as we must all go to our own windows. But she kept hope, and Peter came back for her; and later for Jane. Peter never truly leaves Wendy, just as he never leaves us. Those who claim to be adults, and say "there's no such thing as fairies" have broken themselves off from themselves, creating another Lost boy (or girl) for Peter to lead while the "adult" part becomes as heartless as a pirate. Our childhood never leaves. Sometimes he hides from us, but in the end, we will find him and keep him close.

Puck and I both are still determined to never grow up as the world sees it. We still believe in fairies. I wear medieval dresses just because I like them. So what if people think I'm crazy? They would be right. I once danced barefoot with Abba on a cliff during thunderstorm at midnight till my feet bled. And enjoyed every second of it. I still go out and dance with him on that cliff. Granted with shoes now, bleeding feet are not fun and the Wendy in me was horrified and berated me for the full week my feet were healing. The Peter in me still thinks it was well worth it though. Puck tries to act as like an adult as much as I do, but he still likes to watch ice chunks shatter on the sidewalk with the same fascination my sister and I had as five year-olds. And last semester he did try to shove a snow ball down one of our co-workers shirts. In someways we will never grow up. We will always see fairies and believe in magic. Not the witches and wizard magic, true magic. Real magic, the magic of all fairy stories, the magics of the Bible are called miracles. What is magic but a miracle that we don't understand or recognize?

My mother once wrote the following line on her blog, and it sealed my view on this matter. "Faith and Faerie, I've been told are incompatible. Once cannot believe in both miracle and magic. One should not open windows in the wind. Phooey."  I believe that they are one and the same. Yes, witches and dark magic is real, and we need to stay away from it. But I firmly believe that God has his own magic. With his fairy dust, I can and will fly.

Tonight, as I came back from dinner, I walked in the dark with orange street lights and falling snow. The clock outside the caff glowed, and for a second, I thought it was Big Ben. The snow became fairies and I could feel Peter laughing beside me, tugging me along. As I listened to the below song, I felt that I was flying. In some ways I will never grow up. I will never abandon my belief in the unknown. "I do believe in fairies." I sleep with my window open in the wind. You never know when Peter may drop in.

 I Do Believe in Fairies

Between Battlefields

Right now I am sitting in my dorm room, trying to complete some homework so I won’t have to take it home with me for the weekend.  It will be the second time since Christmas break that I will have left campus and returned to Mind Over Manor. Number two out of the five expected times I will be home during the semester, not counting Easter weekend and Spring Break. My best friend and honorary brother was able to follow one of his dreams and join the Chapel Choir for our college this semester. This has limited his weekends off to five, and most likely mine as well as he is the main person I trust from our home area to car-pool with.

Not that I mind staying on campus during the weekends. It is easier to get my homework done without the urge to spend time with the family I don’t see during the week or play with the cat on my bed. I can workshop with classmates, have girly nerdy movie nights with my roommate, get caught up on laundry, and  listen and watch the joy on my brother’s face as he sings in the choir every Sunday. This past weekend I watched movies on Hulu, and managed to defy the darkness that had threatened to swallow me on the same date of the previous year. But sometimes it is not enough.

I desperately need this weekend off. The past weeks have been a struggle, emotionally. More and more I’ve been fighting the urge to cry as soon as I wake up. I quit going to the writing club that was my favorite part of the week up until now. I haven’t been able to make myself write. This week in particular, I had to drag myself to the student worship service. A normally enjoyable activity that I have loved since I first came to college. But it has been too much; being around people was too much. I need to curl up on a love seat with our elderly marmalade cat and a book that is not related to class in any way shape or form. I need that quiet peace that can only be found in the middle of the woods, and hear birds outside my window instead of blow dryers down the hall. I need to be a child again, to re-connect with Abba and be free from all these problems that the adult world has pushed me into. And in an hour or so I will have that break.

One hour till I am on the road with my brother. I’ve never told him this, but those car rides are my favorite part of going home. Just the sight of his black Infinity is enough to make the tension, the stress start to ease off. Some of my favorite memories are in that car on the road back to Mind Over Manor. In some ways, I think I enjoy more out of the ride home that being home (don’t get me wrong, I love my family dearly).  In the summer we race down those majestic hills with the sun pouring down on us, wind tearing through the open windows while we sing “Good to Be Alive” by Skillet. Not that we could hear each other, not with the loud music and the wind. Often we had to turn down or pause the song and roll up the windows a bit before we could talk. In the fall we would take the same road, now filled with red and gold tree tops and, on occasion, thick mist while listening to TFK (Thousand Foot Krutch) or even the soundtrack to The Walking Dead. At one point we had to slow down to a crawl because the fog was so thick we couldn’t make out other cars, let alone our exit. I think we spent ten minutes convinced we had missed it in the low clouds before the sign popped up in front of us. When we left for Christmas break this past year, the trees were dead and the sky was overcast. We drove through the tall winding hills listening to “I See Fire” by Ed Sheeran.  I leaned my head against the now closed window and let the words sooth over me while my brother sang along. I’ve heard some people say it is an ant-Christian song, but not for me. Tolkien loved Norse mythology and culture, and used a lot of it in Middle Earth. “I See Fire” reflects those Nordic beliefs, at least to me. Those people knew that the world around them was fallen and dying. They knew that they too would leave this existence, but they did not hide. They mourned and despaired the destruction of their world, but they did not run from it. They ran to meet it and died fighting. To quote Secondhand Lions, “they went out with their boots on.” 

As Christians, we know this world is fallen and that we are promised hardship and pain. But we are called to fight on anyway. I may see fire, I may feel darkness and death, but that puts me in the best position to put out the flames, light a candle and give life. How are you going to stop the fire if you can’t see it? That day in my brother’s black Infinity, I found the strength to fight on. Yes, I was tired and ready to cry in front of my best friend because the weight of everything was too much. I was so weak from the semester that I didn’t think I could stand if I had been asked to. But that cloudy car ride gave me strength to go on, it reminded me what I was fight for. “That there is some good in this world…and it’s worth fighting for” as Sam reminded me shortly after that during my family’s Annual Lord of the Rings Marathon.

  

Sometimes I stop and listen to “I See Fire” between classes. Just to remind myself that just because I see fire, I am not doomed to burn and that I can stop those flames from consuming others. It is a nudge that keeps me going at times. Whether my brother and I listen to it today on the way home, or if we decide to go with Thousand Foot Krutch, at least I am going home. Granted, home is just as much a battlefield as campus is. It has a different set of tactics that we will have to re-acquaint ourselves with and no doubt I will be eager for the ride back to campus by the time Sunday afternoon comes. But sometimes a change of pace can be good and being moved to a different battlefield can give us a break from the first. However, it is the journey between the battlefields in a black Infinity that gives me space to change my mind and spiritual weapons from college to Mind Over Manor mode. It is there that (for now at least) I can find the time to sit and simply be in Abba’s arms.