It was so dark he couldn’t see his hand even if he held it in front of his face. At first he hadn’t noticed the gradual encroachment. It was a bit misty, perhaps. Maybe exceptionally cloudy. It was possible he needed his eyes checked. No one believes a lie as easily as the one telling it, but with time his excuses started sounding false even to him. It was dark everywhere lately, and he recalled a place he could get a light to break a path so he at least wouldn’t trip. His grandmother had told him about it – the light – when he was young enough to believe such things existed, and where to find it. He hadn’t given it much thought until now. But now? Now it was all he could think of!

He counted. .7..8..9..10. Ten steps from the base of the storm cellar. He felt around. Brushing through spiderwebs and – eech – surely that was a spider that just ran across the top of his hand – dust, he persevered. Ah! At the back of the second shelf from the top there was something small and about the size he remembered from those years ago. He picked it up. It was a little bigger than an ink pen. He moved his fingers around it until he found what felt like a switch and slid it up with his thumb. Light! A burden he hadn’t known he’d been carrying fell from his body as he looked around the small room. Yes! There. Old canned goods. Metal cans of Folgers. A stack of old wool army blankets. Some matches. He held the light close to them. They looked dry. At that moment the little storm cellar felt like paradise.

After two days of selfish possession there, his conscience tweaked him. The thought of exiting the storm cellar made him a bit nauseous. But, he chided himself, he must. He had friends, even family, who would benefit. And the town just a mile from where he was? They would be thrilled with such an invention! So, too, the towns beyond. But the dark! He dreaded it.

Holding tightly to the light, he set out; first shining it at his feet, then just ahead. And so he made his way to a neighbor’s house at the half mile mark. He wondered if he should knock at the door or call from the yard. What could he do if they tried to wrest it from his grip and hoard it for themselves?! He would not part with the light. No, indeed! He would do whatever necessary to keep it, that was for certain. He needn’t have worried, though, for when his foot stepped on the edge of their property, a light ignited within the house. What? He guessed he didn’t need to stop after all. He approached his sister’s home just a quarter mile ahead. And – another light?! It appeared he hadn’t needed to make this trip in the heavy dark. Still, dark enveloped the town ahead and he continued on. And each time his foot touched a property, a light flickered on in the building it held; sometimes two, sometimes more.

It occurred to him there was a peculiar power in the light he carried that he had not before understood nor even imagined, and that by simply making his minimal effort to bring them the light, a light appeared to them without his further effort.

Soon the town was alight and the darkness seemed to recede.

He plodded on into the suffocating dark ahead. And it happened as before. One step on the property and a light flickered on; house after house, business after business. Somewhere near what he imagined would be the break of dawn except for the forbidding dark, he turned and looked back to where he’d walked. Light! Lights in buildings and on streets! People were venturing out into the glorious open spaces! Over his shoulder a line of darkness still fell. But he knew now that it would yield. Energized, he turned toward it and walked on.

Image: pexels-gift-habeshaw-3415211.jpg; pexels-photo-348392.jpeg; mike-ralph-0yIzvpbRFw8-unsplash.jpg; jordan-wozniak-xP_AGmeEa6s-unsplash.jpg; Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on a candlestick, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:15-16; When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’ John 8:12; The truth is like a lion; you don’t have to defend it. Let it loose; it will defend itself. Often credited to St. Augustine of Hippo, but the origin is uncertain. Charles Spurgeon is the source of: Let the pure gospel go forth in all its lion-like majesty, and it will soon clear its own way and ease itself of its adversaries. and is a more likely origin.; One basic truth can be used as a foundation for a mountain of lies, and if we dig down deep enough in the mountain of lies, and bring out that truth to set it on top of the mountain of lies, the entire mountain of lies will crumble under the weight of that one truth…from Behold A Pale Horse by Milton William Cooper

We all feel like a small piece of a very big puzzle from time to time. It’s true! During the reign of King Josiah of the Old Testament, a prophetess named Huldah was instrumental in doing her part to help the wayward nation of Israel move back toward honoring God’s law. Her name might not be well-known, but her part was important in purifying Israel under King Josiah. You might have a small part in this time in history, but it is nevertheless important. Speak truth.

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

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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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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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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