Jubilee

She knew it was a Jubilee year: a 50 year marker in which debts are forgiven, land is restored, and captives are freed isn’t easily missed. At least not for her. Her parents had named her Jubilee, after all. When she was young, she told her friends to call her Jules. Not many knew her given name. But with her 50th birthday only a few days away, the Jubilee called to her.

Oh sure. Some people, maybe even most, believed the Jubilee was dismissed with the scattering of her people. It might’ve been because of her name, but she disagreed. A Jubilee was a Jubilee! And she could use one just now.

Her nation felt anything but celebratory. She, herself, had been yanked from her home only a couple of months ago. The person with her had been killed within two days, so she was alone. She was kept in a cage in the attic of a teacher sympathetic to the cause of her nation’s attacker and given a little rice to eat on some days, nothing on others. One day she’d been forced to eat toilet paper. She’d seen things she wished she could forget, but they haunted her dreams. She needed a rescuer. She prayed for a rescuer! So many prayers.

Her people had been promised one would come, hadn’t they? The prophets had said so! Along with everyone else, she waited for Messiah to come. It was surely not the one who had come 2,000 years ago! Absolutely not! An imposter, more like. Even considering the possibility made her feel disloyal to her heritage.

But something pinged her conscience; yes, even in her present desperate state. What if she was wrong? What if His followers were right?

Then one night she had seen someone in a dream. If she had to admit it, she would. It was the One some called the Messiah, Jesus! She immediately knew she had been wrong about Him. He spoke to her about how delightful her name was. His voice had a tenderness in it she had never experienced. He was very kind, but with an edge. The edge told her that rescue was on the way.

She listened hard all the next day. And the next. Maybe she had only imagined things? She shrank down and sat in a corner. But then! Then the attic door burst open and some masked men yanked her out of the cage and hurried her to their vehicle. As dust filled her mouth and nose and the cold made her shiver, she wondered what fate awaited her.

But that dream had been so real! It gave her hope. And if hope is in the form of being pushed out of a vehicle onto her homeland, then she would embrace it with all her heart. And more; she would forever embrace the One who gave it to her!

She ate birthday cake that night with her family and told everyone to let go of her childhood name, Jules, for she wanted always to be called Jubilee! And another thing. They would celebrate Christmas. Oh yes they would. There would be no argument! For Christmas, she told them, is a time of miracles and she knew the Man of miracles; for she had met Him – kinder than her best friend, stronger than a storm, and He had given her one.

*Some believe beginning September, 2023 is the 70th and final jubilee year in the Biblical timeline. This author is one of them; Image: mads-schmidt-rasmussen-v0PWN7Z38ag-unsplash.jpg; juan-encalada-RSyYMb5Km_k-unsplash-scaled.jpg

Church Clothes

He peered down at the pile of clothes. Several pairs of jeans, two – very worn. Ten short-sleeved t-shirts and four long-sleeved. Three pairs of tennis shoes, one pair of work boots, and one pair of cowboy boots. Twelve pairs of socks, the white no longer white and the black, a faded shade. Two baseball caps, one trapper hat, one warm knit beanie, and a hard hat. No dress shoes nor dress pants nor dress shirt. No tie.

He scratched under his jaw, then rummaged through the pile for his best jeans and least worn shirt. Dressed, he surveyed himself in the mirror and briefly closed his eyes before heading out.

How long had it been? Ten years? No – longer. Fifteen? Short of twenty anyway. But he’d made a promise to himself and determined to keep it.

God, he thought – was it a thought or a prayer? Why would the Almighty hear him, of all people? Whatever people thought of him, they didn’t know the half of it. He pressed on. God, I’m embarrassed. Is there some way you can make my clothes look better? More dignified? Or maybe make me invisible? (what was he saying!) Or make people blind to my presence? He didn’t think he’d ever seen a miracle or even believed they existed, but it would take one to answer his prayer. Please?

Church bells rang and he found himself in the sanctuary. Miracles? He looked around and thought maybe he could believe in them. A feeling of fire shot through him head to toe. No, this wasn’t a miracle, but an answer to prayer. For tonight, Christmas Eve, was a candlelight service. No one saw what he wore. Everyone saw only the dancing lights of the candle each held.

Only then did he see the best miracle: a Savior who allowed His own dignity to be replaced with swaddling cloths in a crude manger surrounded by animals and visiting shepherds. And something else invisible to all but some working men: angels.

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Not So Different After All: A Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear Heavenly Father, Holy, Just, Merciful, Good,

We think back to the first Thanksgiving and imagine that times were uncertain and scarcity was not uncommon. We understand that relationships – both long-standing and new – were sometimes fragile due to differing perspectives and a feeling of living worlds apart. We know that good lives had been lost and were missed by those remaining. How familiar it seems.

And not just then, but through the history of this nation who, a rarity among nations, marks a special day of thanks to their Creator, we have paused amid the clamor of the amazing and common, hopeless and miraculous, and terrible and precious to give thanks.

So on this day spent around a common table, we thank You for food. As we think of cold months arriving, we thank you for shelter; for shelter from nature’s storms and life’s storms both. We thank you for Your comfort in distress and sadness. We thank you for celebrations. We thank you for saving us from the horror of sin, both our own and that of others. We thank you for people all around us, people made in Your Image, and the humor and kindness they show.

For You, Dearest Father, are in all of life. There is nothing hidden. And though times change, human experience varies in some ways, but in others is not so different after all. And You are the same yesterday, today, and forever. And we love You. And we are indebted to You for all of life’s goodness and protection in this present darkness. And we thank you.

In Jesus’ kind and blessed Name,

Amen.

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Buyer’s Remorse (conclusion)

Deeds! There had been an actual treasure trove of stuff underneath the floorboard, but deeds – as in plural – were what caught my attention. I wondered, and not for the first time, if the information I was finding in the house had been hidden out of distress or laziness. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell, however, was that I apparently owned more than I had initially believed and most probably what the seller had known about as well.

I also learned that there was a tunnel starting behind what I had originally thought were just boards to supply a sort of underpinning to the root cellar. One Saturday I took a flashlight and a broom for both spiderwebs and weaponry – okay, I know (But still) and explored it. It traveled underneath the sleeping porch and then another two or so miles and ended at the far end of an old-fashioned covered bridge (I own a covered bridge!). I’m still not sure why someone dug a tunnel, and a long one (at least to me) at that. I found nothing to smuggle from my house and wondered what had been of such value or danger in the past. So many whys.

But I do know a thing or two about deeds and I confirmed my ownership of the additional property I hadn’t known about.

I couldn’t do things as quickly as I would have liked, because I still had to sort out “the delicate matter” to which I’d been assigned. Looking back, I should’ve figured things out more quickly. But I didn’t. I blame myself for that, but I also forgive myself for it because all of God’s children sometimes stumble even with the lights on. It took 7 days straight of waking up at 4 a.m. before it clicked. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d heard the term 4 a.m. talking points. It must have tweaked my unconscious until I made a waking connection. Once I did, I could see clearly that the information I was given – the talking points as my subconscious told me – wasn’t the whole story. I won’t discuss the matter other than to say I found myself having to confront my boss and resign from my job and what lately had been a decent remote work arrangement. Oh I could’ve stayed and lived with the pretense that I hadn’t connected him to the matter needing discretion. I could’ve kept my mouth shut. I had done so in the past, and that’s probably why he gave me the assignment. But having learned about courage from the former inhabitants of this place, I couldn’t very well do it now. Finding myself in the line of owners of this crumbling edifice, for some reason I didn’t want to let them down. I became an independent contractor and found more than enough remote work to stay at my new old rundown home. I can assert it is no longer new to me, but it is still definitely rundown.

It’s been a year! One year ago today I bought a house sight unseen. It was a ridiculous decision, and I clearly understood the term buyer’s remorse the minute I pulled in front of my ill-considered purchase. Do I still have buyer’s remorse? About the house – yes, indeed. It’s terrible and will take more time and money than I want to invest to make it comfortable and appealing. But I bought more than I knew.

And this is what I learned: The things in this life that we are given to own may look to us like a tumbledown bit of nothing. They may appear without merit or too far gone to salvage. And yet. And yet what is hidden from us, what is unseen, and what, if we make the effort to uncover, we eventually discover is far greater than what meets the eye.

Now excuse me while I drink a cup of coffee, enjoy my lemon poppy seed scone, and watch the sunset. Oh yes – and admire the sign I placed in front of my house just this afternoon. It is the name I have given my property: Hole In The Wall.

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Buyer’s Remorse (cont. 4)

I woke with a start at the edge of morning while it was still dark. And it was. Pitch black. My heart was racing, but there was no dream in memory that could have prompted it. I reached for my bedside lamp and turned it on. It’s a gift, isn’t it, when the electricity works? The utilities in my new home being what they were, I was quickly learning gratefulness for those little things.

There was nothing out of place. I looked at my watch. It was 4:00. Some people go to work at this time of day, I reasoned. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to return to pitch black.

I was dressed and at my computer, files spread on the table, and a cup of coffee accompanied by a lemon poppy seed scone next to it by 4:30. I’d stocked up on scone ingredients before I left the city. Don’t judge. It’s harder to think freely or analyze when feeling emotional, and I needed both in my work. Scones were my way to rise above the fear I had felt upon waking. Emotional eating has its uses. Due to my early start, I finished for the day by early afternoon.

I was by now in the habit of using my afternoons to (try to) fix the broken down mess I’d bought, and was accomplishing at least a little. I had reconstructed my front porch. That was somewhat of an accomplishment, I assured myself. I’d pulled down cupboards, sanded and painted them, and somehow gotten them back in place so my dishes didn’t slide toward the cupboard door like they had at first. You have no idea the pleasure it is to open a cupboard door without bracing for destruction. This afternoon, I’d pushed and pulled and carried everything out of the living room whose floors I planned to sand as my evening entertainment.

In the meantime, I brought my box of the things retrieved from the hole in the wall, sat on the porch to await the sunset, and mulled over loose connections floating around in my brain.

I got to bed later than usual. Sanding can be a messy project. One board, in particular, had given me terrible trouble until I realized it had been pulled up and nailed down again. It didn’t take much to pull it up, and what I discovered had kept me awake until the wee hours.

to be continued . . .

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Buyer’s Remorse (cont. 3)

I was about halfway down the lane when I began to regret that it wasn’t paved. The rain from the night before (the one I had commended myself about thinking ahead and putting out pots and pans to catch the rain – that one) had left not only friendly puddles here and there, but an unfortunate puddle the size of my ex-boyfriend’s propensity for lying – excuses with holes in timelines and logic that defied the imagination of any reasonable person . . . but I digress. For those of you uninterested in detours, let me just say it was a very large puddle that covered the breadth of the road, and leave it at that. However, I managed to skirt it by going off-road for the minute it took to go around it.

The next morning I dropped off my car at the auto shop (the off-road minute had compromised the front axle), walked the extra mile to work, and stepped into the office as though I hadn’t entered another world in one weekend.

I had decided to be dignified and personally hand in my resignation. Before I could hand it to my boss, he pulled me aside. He had a special assignment requiring some amount of delicacy and would I be willing to work remotely for the next six months or however long it would take to complete it? To wit: was I willing to disappear while on assignment?

Okay. I must take another detour here, and I’m sorry for those of you who get hives from such things, but it must be done. You see, I work in forensics, my boss is a fairly well-known lawyer, and there have been things that have crossed my desk from time to time that have given me pause. And while I can be impulsive, I can also be circumspect in office conversation. And although there are gaping holes in some of my life skills, I’ve become rather good at my job. So you’ll understand that when the word “delicacy” is used, the reputation or worse of someone of note is very possibly at risk.

I scrunched my face as though I needed to think about it, not as though I had to guard against jumping up and down. He hurriedly assured me the firm would pay any related costs. I blinked fast, which made him offer me an increase in salary. I inquired whether paving a lane could be included in the offer and he gave me his hasty affirmation. I began to think that if I stayed any longer I would own the firm, but who wants that headache? We shook hands, I cleaned out my desk, and made arrangements for a satellite internet that would impress Tim Cook.

It’s been two months, my lane is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, the electricity and utilities work as well as the government, and I’ve settled in. I’ve uncovered pieces of the lives of the people who lived here before me, thoroughly cleaned the root cellar and began to stock it, and found a use for the weeds behind the house (yes, I’m calling it a house in order to reassure myself that my future isn’t as bleak as the person whose delicate matter I’m researching). The weeds? I discovered that many of them were herbs or had some kind of usefulness. It’s going to take me longer than two months to figure it all out.

The puzzle that keeps me up at night, though, isn’t the weeds. It’s some of the letters that were hidden it the wall. Oh I fixed it. Who wants a hole in the wall? But I mean to say that those lives – the ones of the people who wrote the letters – they were full of courageous words. And as I look at my surroundings, I can’t for the life of me figure out why they would need to be brave and wish I knew. What’s the expression? Be careful what you wish for.

to be continued . . .

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Buyer’s Remorse (cont. 2)

It wasn’t the sun’s rays that woke me, but the scampering of little feet belonging to who knew what. On the heels of the sound, though, the sun peeked over the horizon, and I watched as red turned to orange and pink, filling the sky with indescribable color and hope.

I sipped day old coffee (bought from the gas station the day before and surprisingly still hot) from my thermos and mulled over my options. I had one more day to explore . . . okay, I know it shouldn’t take even a half hour to explore something like my “new house”, but the things stored in the wall told me otherwise.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, what you can learn from letters, journal entries, recipes, newspaper clippings, and the like. And hand-drawn maps. Innuendo isn’t only for mainstream media, politicians, and trashy novels, you know. And some of the things that I’d read in that place between wakefulness and sleep made me think that my house was like the lid of a jar. I determined to open it. I spread out some of the things I’d read and read them again to make sure I hadn’t been dreaming.

By the time dark enveloped my property, I’d made a plan. Now I’m not saying you should follow my example. In fact, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t. But I concluded that if I was to honestly own this place, I should be more than a curiosity seeker. What I’m saying is that some people are owners in name only. They might have something, for instance, from an inheritance, but rarely visit it and value it only for its eventual monetary worth. Getting back to my conclusion: if I was to honestly own this place, I should take ownership – you know, like people do who actually believe something is theirs and that they are in charge of it. Like that. Which meant (in my mind) I needed to be more than a visitor on convenient weekends.

It had begun raining before I went to bed, and I took advantage  of it by setting out some pots and pans to collect the water. Even I am amazed at how well I think ahead sometimes. The next morning I cleaned. Okay, I mostly swept and sprayed the all-purpose cleaner with a “light lemon scent” I’d brought with me all over everything. At least I had rinse water!

I put away things I’d planned to take back with me and locked the door. I’d written my letter of resignation to my employer the night before, but hadn’t sent it. Sometimes spotty cell (and in this case, internet) service can save you from yourself, not that I planned on being saved. You have your personality, I have mine.

I watched my new house grow smaller in the rearview mirror as I drove down the long lane and back to my normal that would never seem normal again.

to be continued . . .

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Buyer’s Remorse (cont. 1)

Not without a huge sigh (part uncertainty and part regret), I disembarked from my car and just stood, looking. The house was surrounded by trees on both sides, in addition to the long lane I had just trekked. But some wild daisies sprinkled amidst the long grasses lent me comfort. A meadow of what appeared to be weeds of different sorts was visible if I leaned to peer around the side of the building, which I did. Weeds. How apt.

The house, itself, well, not really a house – I don’t know what to call it; was more than a shed, less than a respectable cabin – was fronted with a sagging porch with four steps ascending. I took the challenge, and, as I did, heard some scurrying underneath. I had company without even sending housewarming invitations! Lovely.

I fished the key from my pocket and unlocked the front door. It was sturdy! I took the win and stepped inside. Remarkably enough, it was furnished with decent furniture, clearly from past generations.

I blew dust from a side table holding a lamp and the lamp wobbled until I grabbed it. It seemed a nice piece, perhaps even valuable in its day. I would hate to be the owner that broke it. Then I wondered how many owners there had been: if I was the second after an original or near the end of a long line of proprietors. I wandered through the rooms: a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and even a small bathroom (I was pleasantly surprised, though held no certainty that it worked). Beyond the kitchen, to the back of the house, was a sleeping porch, complete with a swinging bed held to the rafters by sturdy chains. My eyes scanned the mattress full of acorns.

Dusk was creeping over the yard by the time I brought in my belongings. There had been more to explore than at first glance. For one thing, there was a root cellar. I know! I saved my examination of it for daylight when I could clear the spiderwebs  with greater assurance of seeing whether the spiders were elsewhere.

In my inspection of the bedroom, I had literally stumbled into what sounded like a hollow place in the wall near the head of the bed. I scraped the bed across the floor in order to get a closer look. With a little effort, I broke through the false part and found a compartment which held my interest as well as, it appeared, things from a past owner.

I pulled out my sturdy flashlight and spent my evening reading the papers I had found. By the time my eyes were gritty with sleep, I knew my new house was not the tumbledown shack it appeared to be.

to be continued . . .

Image: Pinterest

Buyer’s Remorse

When I clicked, it was more of out of curiosity than intent. Then I decided I was hungry, and fixed myself a scone with grape preserves. That, of course, needed a cup of coffee to go with it, giving me even more time to ponder the possibilities from the admittedly vague listing on my computer. I don’t know if they do that for you, but scones always put me in an agreeable mood. By the time I’d followed possibility after peculiarity after potential, and after I’d polished off both scone and coffee, I’d contacted my bank, signed some papers, and become the proud owner of a house sight unseen.

Oh sure. Like you’ve never done something on impulse!

Don’t mind my defensiveness. The jitters I get when I think of what I’ve done could send me into the next decade, not that those years look any more promising than the ones everyone is bemoaning this year. Or last year. Or even the year before that. Maybe I should stop counting.

Anyway, that original, innocent click on the listing on my computer led me to a weekend trip outside of my usual paths. In addition to jitters, I was also a bit excited. Me! A homeowner! Visions of cute cottages with herb gardens and hunting lodges surrounded by bendy pines filled my imagination.

I rechecked the directions, and turned onto a long dirt lane. Yes, I have GPS. I’m not 60. I’m 27 and I know a thing or two. But my cell service stopped working about 20 miles back. Fortunately, the guy at the last gas station assured me with a creepy sort of smile that cell service is spotty in these parts, so after I’d gassed up and before starting out again, I’d taken advantage of what I hadn’t known would be the last of the reassuring, if not somewhat annoying, voice telling me which way to turn, and had written down directions I’d pulled up from a phone map service. Did I say the lane was long? And dirt? Because I feel like that’s something you need to know. At least I think I do.

Finally I pulled up to the front of my new house, which was neither cottage nor hunting lodge. And as I sat behind my steering wheel peering at the structure in front of me, I thought to myself that I should’ve sworn off my love of scones long ago.

to be continued . . .

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The Power of Old Words

Remember the old fairy tales you used to read or watch? In those stories there was often a hero and a villain. And if the villain was a witch or something of the sort, she would mutter incantations, supernatural spells, and curses which had the effect of all sorts of trouble.

Some people believe that what we say actually does affect the world in some way. I suppose preachers and professors hope so. The Bible, in fact, speaks to this. It says life and death are in the power of the tongue. Our forefathers believed it.

After three long and perilous months at sea, the first settlers of this nation landed in Virginia at a place we call Cape Henry. As they disembarked and made first plans, they set up a commemorative cross. Then they bowed their heads in prayer. They didn’t pray to baphomet, satan, osiris, gaia, or any of the other false gods so popular today. They prayed to the God of the Holy Bible.

We do hereby dedicate this Land, and ourselves, to reach the People within these shores with the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and to raise up Godly generations after us, and with these generations take the Kingdom of God to all the earth. May this Covenant of Dedication remain to all generations, as long as this earth remains, and may this Land, along with England, be Evangelist to the World. May all who see this Cross, remember what we have done here, and may those who come here to inhabit join us in this Covenant and in this most noble work that the Holy Scriptures may be fulfilled. – Prayer by Robert Hunt at Cape Henry, April 29, 1607

Our land, the United States of America, was dedicated to God’s work at the beginning. If you think of prayer as part contract, you will conclude it is one we are still under. Psalm 22:27-28 was read following this prayer. I encourage you to re-read it today.
Someone once said: God’s work must truly be our own. And in our work, let’s remember to speak truth which Someone has said will set us free. Speaking truth. Pretty powerful stuff. Unlike the fairytale villains, we don’t mutter anything. But we can utter a prayer. The power of the tongue to the power of Almighty God is unstoppable. You almost might say it has supernatural power.

Proverbs 18:21, James 3; https://www.groupbiblestudy.com/post/the-prayer-and-prophecy-for-america-spoken-in-1607; JFK quote from Inaugural Address;  Psalm 22:27-28 All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord, and all the families of the nations shall worship before you. For kingship belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations.; John 8:32; image: 1200px-An_Appeal_to_Heaven_Flag.svg_.png