8 reasons to keep a five-year memory book

Nine years ago I started my first one-year journal. I’m grateful for eight reasons.

1. Confining thoughts to four, five, or six tight lines requires the writer to be succinct and brief, a habit that has benefitted my writing–and speaking–elsewhere. Nevertheless, my tiny writing lets me squeeze in a lot of highlights and commentary.

2. It makes us reflect on the day before. I always write up yesterday first thing in the morning after I have had some distance, but not too much. I perceive the day’s highlights but it is still fresh and interesting to me. It forms the cap to the pen of intention; I began the day with a plan and here is what came of it. Ready for the next.

3. Your few notes can spark vivid memories of a particular day in your past. I believe the best memories that survived my teen years are the ones I described in my journals of that time. While writing in my five-year books I have grinned many times to read what I was doing on this date in years past. I often share these in the family chat, Memory Keeper that I am.

4. Don’t avoid the mundane as you record the sublime. I learn that I am still bothered by the time I waste on reels. The mention of a teacher’s meeting two years ago makes me rejoice all over again that I have retired. I see a student’s name and feel wistful that I can no longer watch her grow. The ordinary and the extraordinary are both interesting the more distance I have from them.

5. Reviewing old entries is an antidote to discouragement. In them, I can see the progress made over time. Yesterday’s hopes became today’s joy, and today’s small beginnings will find completion in due time.

6. You learn how meaningful each day is in the aggregate. One sea stone collected from the shore is a memory. A collection of stones from every shore you’ve explored is an expression of who you are.

7. You may write the effects of a widespread upheaval and become a part of history. The many blank pages in early 2020 and the completely filled-in dates since then testify to the new way I look at my days post-pandemic. Life can change drastically at any time so these captured memories will someday speak of a foreign way of living to a distant reader.

8. Logging is a way to treasure each day and loved one in it. I remember marveling at my grandfather’s habit of keeping a daily log. Looking over his shoulder I realized the days that seemed ordinary and forgettable to me were days he treasured. He collected them. He noticed their beauty and pain. My name was written in his record.

One last thing. I compared Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project; One-Sentence Journal, a Five-Year Record with Chronicle Books’ One Line a Day; A Five-Year Memory Book.

The Happiness Project has an inspirational thought at the heading of each page. Four lines available for notes.

The One Line a Day book has six lines for writing.

Review of Kindred Spirits by John F. Harrison

Kindred Spirits: Book Two of Solid Rock Survivors by John F Harrison

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


John F. Harrison certainly deals with “tough issues and thorny questions Christians often face but rarely discuss”, as he says in his author bio. Like dark chocolate, these books are “not too sweet”. In this second book of the Solid Rock Survivors the main character, Roz, journeys from passivity and weakness to agency and strength. The journey is believable; the plot is tight; the insights on church life are spot on.

We encounter issues I have certainly never seen discussed in Christian fiction. The theme of abusive church leadership continues in Book Two of the Solid Rock Survivor series. Rosalyn has been morbidly obese and is working hard to get healthy. We briefly see the tension of Christians dealing with LGBTQ policies in the workplace. The theme of justified violence for self-defense continues as Rosalyn comes under attack by a murderer without a conscience. We also encounter a ghost who has a part to play, and the rebellion of a church member who goes on to marry—horrors! A Reformed Baptist!! (I got a kick out of that.)

The author understands the complexity of human behavior. The tale is tightly told in the deep third person point of view, where we feel Roz’s stress and reactions and experience her inner thoughts. I enjoy the series, in part because it helps me to understand the dynamics of the abusive church leadership I suffered under and why my friends went along when they were told to sever all ties. I see their behavior in Roz’s, the meek sheep just trying to avoid catching the wrath of the abuser. I have never seen this issue treated in Christian fiction and thought he handled it with compassion, wisdom, and a good sense of outrage.

I enjoyed this book and recommend it to readers who want a good yarn and don’t need their stories to be sweet. For those who count, there is no swearing or sex or violence-as-entertainment. The sins on display are more egregious.



View all my reviews

Walker Tale #14 Back to Cold River

The Grey Wolf’s army blocked the front and back gates of the town of Cold River. “General, should we surround the town?”

“No need, Major. There is no other way in. Send the word we attack just before dawn.”

***

After Walker hugged Sophia and his new friends, he started back up the mountain trail. His new shoes made it easy to climb. He was alone but not lonely, for a wind kept company with him. When it nudged him to take the right fork and leave the familiar way, he was not surprised.

This path ran along the mountain ridge. He ate and slept in a shelter above the clouds. At the end of the second day, he descended a steep trail through a forest of fir trees down to a familiar valley, the wind curling around him. He saw the town ahead, lit by the setting sun.

The wind pressed on him to leave the main road that led to the front gate, so he took the difficult footpath through the dark woods until the wall of the town loomed before him. A large window too high to reach was the only feature in the wall. He saw the shape of a woman in the window. When she saw him she held up her finger and he waited while she sent down a rope ladder. He climbed silently and she helped him in.

At last, she spoke. “The king sent you. Are you the hero who will fight the army?”

“All I have is the live ember of Auntie Betty’s riddle,” he said.

Her eyes grew large in wonder. “Come with me,” she said.

They left the house through the door on the street. She quickly led him through the winding lanes and alleys, stopping to knock on a few doors and beckon the ones who answered. Only a few street lamps were lit in order to keep the town dark. They moved swiftly through the shadows.

The woman, Hannah, gathered ten ember holders, one of whom was Auntie Betty. When she saw Walker, she hugged him fiercely but kept quiet. The whole town was under an order of silence. They stopped at last by the water-well in the center of town. The shops were closed. Only one dim light burned at the far end of the center square. They turned and looked to Walker expectantly.

He whispered, “I found the burning embers and brought one back. I didn’t wait for a hero. I thought you should have it right away.”

They each pulled out their ember box. As they dropped their grey coals, barely warm, in a heap in their midst, Walker could see their discomfort.

“How did they get so cool?” he asked.

One said, “I was too busy.” Another said, “I was too sick to come to the fire-ring and no one came for me.”

Around the circle came other answers: “I was ashamed.” “I was abused.” “I doubted.” “There was no shepherd.”

Walker dropped his ember and the extra. They fell in a streak of gold light onto the dark ones. The embers began to glow and grow warm and then they burst into flame. As the crackly fire grew large among them, their hearts grew warm and they beamed at one another around the circle.

Together they raised their faces to the sky and lifted their hands, palms open as though they offered something to the sky and were ready to receive.  One by one they praised the Maker in the name of the King. A wind circled them, ruffling their clothes and caressing them. A second time around the circle, they recited memorized promises from The Letters. Again around, they petitioned for protection for Cold River against the enemy. The wind blew strong. They sang a song of deep yearning, no longer silent, and the song rang out into the night.

At the end of the song, they grew still. The wind fell and their clothes settled. They waited expectantly.

***

The Grey Wolf stood in position behind the first line of his soldiers, ready to enter. He was about to nod to the drummer to give the signal when he heard a commotion behind him. Furious at this disobedience, he wheeled around. A messenger panted and went on one knee before him. “Your majesty, a message from home. Your gates are under attack and you are needed at once.”

The Grey Wolf signaled his army to turn away but he gazed one last time at the town and howled his frustration. Shortly after, the night watchmen blew trumpets to tell the glad news that the enemy had gone.

***

The ember-friends looked at one another in wonder. They began to laugh and cry in joy.

They collected their glowing embers. One remained. Before they could decide what to do, a young woman came out of a shadowed doorway, where she had been watching. She said, “Will the King take me, do you think?”

Hannah replied, “Yes, I know he will! He knew you would be here. See? An ember for you.”

Epilogue: The mayor thanked Walker with a ceremony and said, “I always knew you could do it,” which wasn’t exactly true but everyone knew the mayor didn’t like to be embarrassed. Walker stayed in Cold River for a while. The ember fellowship grew strong and met regularly. A few others joined them. The Grey Wolf lost interest in Cold River. Eventually, Walker continued his journey and had other adventures, but that is a story for another time.

End of Part I

Walker Tale #13 Sophia’s Story

“Sophia!” said Walker. “Why aren’t you coming?”

“Oh Walker,” she said, “I have to keep going. I never told you –because, by the way, you never asked– that I have a mission from the King.”

This is how Sophia’s journey began.

Sophia heard about her cousin Mark’s accident when she found her mother crying. His back broke in a fall and he was paralyzed. When Sophia heard that Mark’s best friend had taken him to the old mines, where they were forbidden to go, she was angry. When she learned that the boy didn’t even visit Mark now, she was disgusted.

Day and night she imagined painful punishments. She could lure him to the mine shaft and push him in. “How do you like it?” she would gloat.

Maybe she could confront him and yell at him till he fell to her feet sobbing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and she would just walk away.

Or he would get terribly sick with a disease that kept him in bed and she would come over and say, “It serves you right!”

She became bitter over the months that followed and her schoolmates commented on it. “You’re not fun anymore. We don’t want to play with you.” She didn’t care.

Her mother pulled her aside one day and said, “Sophia, no punishment will make Mark walk again. It is time to forgive.” But she could not.

One day she came home from school and found an unkempt man hunched at the kitchen table. His dusty clothes hung too big on him as if he had recently lost a lot of weight.

“The King,” he was babbling. “I need to see the King. Darkness all around. A little further…I must get to him.” Holding his head, he cried out, “It hurts! Need to find a healer. Can’t… can’t remember.”

Sophia’s mother said in concern, “He’s been like this since I found him stumbling in the road. I brought him home.” She placed before him a bowl of beef broth. He spooned it absently. She got the guest room ready while he finished and afterward put him to bed.

“What’s wrong with him, Mama?” Sophia asked, when she came back to the kitchen.

“I’m not sure, Sophie,” she answered. “He seems to be broken somehow. Will you help me take care of him until he is better?”

“Sure,” said Sophia.

At first he drank only clear soup and slept. But at the end of the week he sat out on the porch in the sun, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hello,” said Sophia, sitting next to him on the porch swing. “What’s your name?”

“I…” He shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know,” he said.

After that she often sat with him. They played checkers. He asked her to read The Letters to him, which always seemed to calm him. She looked forward to seeing him after school. They became special friends and she named him Uncle David.

One evening he cried out, “O my son! My son, my son!”

Sophia leaned over and took his hand in hers. “Uncle David, what is it?“

“He—is hurt, I think. Where is he? Why isn’t he with me?” he said in growing agitation. “My son! I will always, always love my son. The day he was born he could fit in one hand. I still feel him pressed in my palm. He’s my little boy. He is suffering.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember!”

That night Sophia walked to the river, where the rising moon glistened on the water. She spoke aloud, “Maker, please help Uncle David. He needs a healer.”

But she felt the Maker say, “Why are you fighting me?”

“How am I fighting you?” she asked in surprise.

“You cry out for the boy who hurt your cousin to be punished. I want to show him mercy. Why should I answer your prayer?”

“Uncle David needs you! He’s my friend. He’s hurt!” She burst into tears. “Please help him, Maker.”

“Release me to bless the one who hurt you.”

She tensed as she thought back to her anger. But her desire for revenge seemed small and ugly next to the compassion she saw in Uncle David and the Maker. She was tired of the burden of it. She blew out her breath and sniffled.

“I do,” she said and immediately felt a heat radiating from her heart that burned up the bitterness and left a deep peace.

“It is done,” he said.

“And then I felt him say,” concluded Sophia, “‘Now, my love, go seek the healer.’”

Walker Tale #12 An Unexpected Turn

It was late and the sacred fire was just a glow among the coals. People in the group bent over the fire with their open ember box in hand and swept a coal into it before putting it in their bags.

Priscilla said, “Use the lid to sweep a coal into your box.” Walker and Sophia gathered their embers. When they were done there was an extra. “That’s never happened before,” said Priscilla. “Take that one, too.”

The moon shone peacefully over the desert. Walker and Sophia were too excited to sleep, so Priscilla and Timothy invited them to sit in the dark a while longer.

Timothy spoke for the first time. “You said the mayor told you that heroes live at King’s court. He said the King makes heroes only of the best people and trains them there. They sent you to take a message. But he had it wrong, my friend. That’s not the truth. The truth is the King makes heroes of ordinary people. He trains them along the way. He doesn’t choose the strong and mighty. He often picks the small and weak to do his work. He makes us strong with his strength. You are the one to bring back the fire.”

Walker protested, “But I’m just the messenger!” He hesitated and then spoke haltingly. “I am…afraid of disobeying the King. They asked for a messenger, not a hero. And I’m not a hero! The town is afraid of the Grey Wolf’s army and I know I can’t fight off wolves. That is hero-work.”

Priscilla asked, “Walker, did you get your job from the King or from the people? Do you remember?”

Walker thought back. He remembered that the messages in his heart were, “You go.” “Take what you find in your bag.” “I will guide you along the way.”

“The people sent me to get a hero,” he said finally. “But the King just told me to go. To follow the road. He didn’t say where. I just assumed it was to do what the mayor said.”

Timothy nodded. He said, “It’s late. You don’t need to decide tonight. Sleep on it and let’s talk in the morning.”

They led him and Sophia to their wagon and gave them padding and blankets. They camped under the stars. Sophia dropped right off to sleep but Walker lay awake.

Finally, he fell into a dream in which he saw himself as a mountain goat going nimbly up a cliff, on tiny hooves, finding cracks as he climbed. When he reached the peak he changed. Now he was an eagle flying over the treetops until he found a clearing in the woods, where one woman stood, watching for him. He landed in her outstretched hand. She carried him to a fire-ring where five lonely gray coals lay, not touching. She threw him in and he saw he had become a glowing ember. He landed in the very center and his heat caused the others to leap into flame.

He woke and rubbed his eyes. He looked above at the dark blue sky lit with stars and said as he had in Cold River, “Here I am. Send me.” He rolled over and fell asleep.

The next morning, before he left his warm blanket roll, he read The Letters. One page had this phrase: “I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” That felt important to him.

Arthur and Jenny made a hearty breakfast for all. After they ate, the company outfitted him with food for his journey to Cold River. To his surprise, his haversack gave two things: one was a strong belt around his waist which had a spot for him to hang his sword. The other was a pair of amazing shoes. They were light and fit like socks but had strong soles that would help him grip cracks in the rock as he climbed back up the rocky mountain trail.

Finally, he was ready. He went to find Sophia.

“Sophia,” he said. “Ready to go?”

“Oh Walker,” she said. “I’m not going.”

Walker Tale # 11 Grandpa Tells a Story

Walker helped the other older children collect the dishes and wash them up with heated water on the campfire. They left them upside down on a board to dry. Sophia played a game of hide and seek with the other children in the moonlight. When the dishes were done everyone came back to the fire-ring where the sacred fire crackled.

With a twinkle in his eye, Grandpa said,

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” they all replied.

“Who.”

“Who who?”

He looked around. “Do I hear an owl?”

They hooted in laughter. Then Grandpa said to the teens, “Abigail and Josiah, you built the fire-ring tonight. It’s strong and secure. Best one yet. Well done.”

Betsy said, “Tell us a story, Grandpa.”

“All right. Let’s see. Once there was a stone named Rocky. He sat like a lump in the road all by himself. He said to himself, “I am really lonely and bored.”

Abigail interrupted and said, “Grandpa, I thought you said he was a rock, not lumber.”

Grandpa smiled and shook his finger at her in a pretend scolding. “I said ‘he was bored’, not ‘he was a board’.”

He continued. “So, there he was, bored. Wishing he had family. Along comes a girl who really liked building with rocks. She collected a pile by the lonely stone and cleared the sand off a flat part of ledge. She began to make a wall on the foundation. She made four walls. She built up tall sides. She even found a way to make a roof of stones. Then she went home to her supper.

“That night Rocky made friends with Mica, Schist, Bowlda, Igney, Meta, Sedi and many more, nestled close together. They became a family. The girl came back and put a lantern among them so they served as a guidepost on the trail for people on a journey. The end.

He continued, “The King is building all his people into a temple made of stones. Whenever we gather together we share the stories of the things he does to protect, guide, and feed us. The light drew us to him and lights our way.” said Grandpa.

“With bread and wine we remember how he freed us from slavery.” He took a warm biscuit, pinched off a small piece for himself and passed it around. Each did the same and held it, gazing into the fire or looking up at the moon. When they each had a piece, they raised their bread to the starry sky and said, “We remember the King who died to free us.” They ate together.

Then Grandpa poured wine into a cup and took a sip. They each sipped and wiped the edge with the clean cloth that came with it. He passed the cup to his right and it went around the ring. When it returned to him he held it up and they said, together,  “We remember the King who rose again and is alive forever!”

Grandpa said, “Remember, we are all living stones shaped by his hands into a house that will last. Sleep well.”  Grandma got up and stretched and Betsy yawned.

Walker was thinking how good it felt to be full and safe with others around him. He felt something nudging him over and over and realized he has nearly fallen asleep right as he sat and that Sophia was poking him rather painfully in his shoulder.

“Ow! What?!” he said

“Walker! Say the riddle!”

“Seek the burning embers where 
the living waters run;
A house of stone remembers there 
the death of the Living One.”

“Oh oh oh!!” he shouted. “It’s here! It’s right here!”

Priscilla ran to his side. “What is here? Is it a snake? What’s the matter?”

Walker then told the rest of his story. How he came through the town of Cold River. How they were in danger of the Wolf’s army because their sacred fire was cold. How he volunteered to ask the king to send a hero to bring back sacred fire. And that he was given a riddle.

“The riddle is ‘Seek the burning embers…’” He pointed to the fire. “Right there! ‘Where the living waters run…’ The living waters ran when we were talking about the King! ‘A house of stone…’ Just like Grandpa said, we’re the house of stone. ‘…remembers there the death of the Living one.’ The King is the Living One and we did that with the bread and cup!”

“But,” he sat down slowly. “How do I get the fire to them? What am I supposed to do?”

Walker Tale #10 Water in a Weary Land

Walker and Sophia were out of water. They sat in the trail in the dusk and they were thirsty. Walker realized his mind was saying over and over, “…where the living waters run.” Wearily he recited the whole riddle:

“Seek the burning embers 
Where the living waters run.
A house of stone remembers there 
The death of the Living One.”

Sophia was too tired to comment. The full moon rose above the low hills. It gave enough light to see the path clearly, so they got heavily to their feet to walk a little longer. The air was cooling quickly. Soon it would be chilly. No shelter was in sight.

They climbed a rise and gasped in surprise when they saw moving lights down in the plain below.  They quickened their steps. Soon they arrived at a green bowl in the dry land. They had found an oasis. A small stream flowed over a rock shelf into a clear pool. One tree was planted by the water, casting a long moon shadow on the rippling surface. The first thing they did was stumble to the edge of the pool where they knelt and drank and drank the cool water. Then, faces dripping, they filled their water flasks.

When they got up from the pool refreshed and satisfied, a woman was waiting for them. “Hello! My name is Priscilla. Come and join us.” She led them to a fire-ring where three families were assembling, six adults and four children. Walker and Sophia made twelve. The two older children were carefully stacking stones into a fire-ring in the center of the circle. When it was done, Walker watched everyone there take a box out of their bag and tip it into the dark fire-ring so that a glowing thing fell into it.

Priscilla turned toward them. “Have you found your ember box in your haversack yet?” They shook their heads and reached into their bags. Into Walker’s hands came a warm metal box and when he opened it he saw a live coal.

Priscilla said, “Tip it into the ring. You’ll pull it out later.” They did. The pile of embers glowed vividly and then flame danced above them. The oldest man fed it with dry wood. The light made all their faces shine.

“Hi everyone!” Priscilla got their attention. “This is Sophia and this is Walker.”

Priscilla introduced her husband, Timothy.

“How do you do,” he said.

“Our children are the Josiah, 15 and Betsy, who is 8.”

“Hi,” they said with a wave.

“My sister Jenny is over there, and her husband is Arthur. They children are Abigail, who is 14 and Reed who is 9.” They smiled and waved.

And here is Grandpa,” she said, sliding her arm around his waist. “Our father. And our mother is called Grandma by everyone.”

“Tell us who you are. How do you find yourselves in the desert? What is your story?”

Sophia told them, beginning at their meeting, telling of their trial at the wildflower way and the fall she took coming down the rocky mountain trail. “If I hadn’t gotten hurt, we would have been here long before dark and found the water we needed to get to the next shelter.”

“Well, now. That’s something. We were also delayed. The cook wagon broke down a few miles back and we had to stop to fix it. It appears it delayed us just enough for us to make camp and gather with you! I believe our King wanted us to meet.”

Sophia looked at Walker. “It was a good thing I got hurt!!” She giggled.

But Walker mumbled to Priscilla, “I felt like the King didn’t answer my prayer or that He didn’t care.”

She replied quietly, “He heard. His answer was, ‘Trust me.’”

From the cookfire near the chuckwagon the scent of cooking meat and potatoes wafted over and made Walker’s stomach growl. Soon Priscilla and Timothy passed out to each a heaping plate of hot food. They dug in. Walker thought it was the best meal he had ever had.

As they ate, the company told stories of their travels on the King’s Way, one after another. Betsy said, “Yesterday a butterfly landed on my arm and stayed there for hours. She was very pretty.”

Josiah, who had helped stack stones, said, “One night we saw shooting stars. The sky was full of them. I was in awe.”

Arthur said, “We missed a flash flood by minutes. Just after we got out of a dry river bed a powerful flood roared down from the mountain that had just had a heavy rain. The King be praised.”

Story after story bubbled up like fountains from the grateful company. Walker felt like his heart had been dry but now was refreshed with the flow of stories about the lovingkindness and faithfulness of the King. It was like living water running through the assembly. Something tickled his mind but he brushed it aside and listened to the talk around the fire.

Walker Tale #9 The Long Trail Down

As soon as Walker and Sophia entered the narrow rocky trail they knew they were in trouble. The path went steeply down. Huge boulders in the way forced them to go around. Loose stones from the cliff littered the path so that they were in danger of sliding. After an hour they were breathing hard and their legs were burning from the effort.

The red sun cast long shadows as it set. They knew they had to stop for the night. They spotted a shelter in the gloom of dusk and, sure enough, a heart-shaped rock hid the key for the front door. It was more rustic than the other—no beds, no bread and cheese, no dishes. It did have sleeping bags, though, and a wooden box held beef jerky and dried fruit. A clear brook ran close by and the water refreshed them. They slept on the floor.

The next morning there were up and out the door into a clear sky. They drank from the stream and refilled their flasks. It was hot already.

For hours they went down, down, down the mountain. They often had to stop to rest their sore legs and catch their breath. At midday, when Sophia was beyond the next turn ahead of him, Walker drew out his kayline and spoke softly into it.

“King, this trail is so hard. Surely we have lost our way? Did we miss a turn? Are we still on the King’s highway?”

In that moment he caught a glimpse of blue and when he turned to look more closely, he saw the three blue strips of the King’s Way. That felt like an answer so he pressed on. “Can you send us on a path that’s not so hard?”

The kayline was silent.

Walker caught up with Sophia. She had climbed up on a high rock so she could sit in shade under a stunted tree.  “I’m taking a water break,” she said. “It’s so hot! Do you think we’re lost?”

“No,” he grunted. “We just passed the blue stripes. This is the Way.” He sat beside her and slumped back on the trunk.

“This is so hard!” she said softly. She wiped at her eyes.

They sat until their breathing slowed. Then he said, “I remember what I read in The Letters this morning. It said, ‘Give thanks in all things.’”

“Huh,” said Sophia, startled. “That’s…interesting.”

Walker closed his eyes and said, “Well, uh, thank You, King, that we had shelter last night, water for our bottles that got us this far, and…and for this shade.” He opened his eyes.

Sophia said with a hint of a whine, “My legs are getting wobbly with all this downhill walking. I hope we reach the valley soon.”

From their perch they could see far in the distance. Their trail would eventually take them off the mountain into a flatland of red sand, red canyons, and huge red rock formations. They saw no trees. The sun glared without relief.

It was time to get going. As they hopped off the rock, Sophia landed badly. She fell hard, face first, scraping her hands so that they stung. Walker was dismayed when he saw that they were bleeding. But then, when she tried to stand, pain shot up from her ankle. She sat down with a cry.

Walker got down and gently moved her foot and they decided it wasn’t broken, just sprained. But she couldn’t stand by herself.

Sophia told him now, “I read something like that. I read, ‘Give thanks for all things’. So here goes. ‘Thank you, King, for this twisted ankle!’” They laughed a little at that. How could it be a good thing that she was hurt?

They walked side by side now, Walker helping with his arm around her.

As the day went drearily on they grew terribly thirsty. They were almost out of water, so they just wet their mouths with drops from their bottles.

At long last they came to level ground. They drank the last swallow of warm water as the sun dropped below the horizon. They stumbled on for a while in the dusk looking for a stream but didn’t see any sign of water. Tired and hungry, they sagged to the ground.

“Bag,” panted Sophia. “Water in the King’s bag.” Walker had already tried, but he reached in anyway. Nothing. No water flask came to him or to Sophia.

“King!” wailed Walker. “Why aren’t you giving us water?!”

Walker Tale #8 Trial

When Walker and Sophia woke the next morning, they found Wiley had already left, taking a portion of the bread and cheese for his journey. They finished off the bread and cheese and tidied up.

They each took time to read something in The Letters. Walker read, “No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man, and God is faithful who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, that you may be able to endure it.”

Walker and Sophia picked up their bags and left the shelter, laying the matches near the lantern, locking the door, and placing the key under the heart-shaped rock.

Later in the morning they met a shepherd moving his flock across the lane. His sheep looked contented and well-fed. He smiled kindly at them. “Hello, travelers! Where are you headed?”

“We’re going to King’s Court,” said Walker, sensing his trustworthiness.

“I know that way well. You are headed in the right direction. But it gets tricky. Don’t take a wrong turn. Look for the blue paint marks of the King’s highway.”

They thanked him and continued. They entered a forest that kept them cool most of the day. In late afternoon they emerged to an extraordinary sight. On their right was a wide field full of wildflowers, their colorful blossoms nodding in a gentle breeze. In the field, faint trails with bent flowers told them many others had walked freely through. On their left loomed a rock wall. Ahead, the road narrowed to a path winding around fallen boulders. Walker saw lines of blue paint on the farthest. Three solitary black locust trees grew along the field. They stopped in the shade of the first and admired the view.

Sophia said, “The flowers are so beautiful! All the colors of the rainbow. Let’s go that way.”

A cheerful voice called from above them in the black locust, “Welcome to Wildflower Way!” Something whizzed by Walker’s face and landed in the grass. He instinctively drew his sword. He looked down at an acorn and up into the grinning face of a cheeky squirrel looking down at him through the leaves. The squirrel playfully lobbed another acorn at Walker, who dodged.

Walker grinned. “Hello Mr. Squirrel! It is beautiful, but our path is over there.” He pointed to the rock marked with blue and Sophia now saw it for the first time. “Stick with the narrow path. Wide is the way that leads to destruction,” he said quietly to himself, swinging his sword. Reluctantly they continued down the road.

Under the second tree they each felt an acorn smack on their heads. “Ouch! That stung!” grumbled Sophia. They looked up at an unsmiling squirrel. “The King says to go this way,” he said, gesturing toward the open field.

Walker’s kayline stayed cool but he remembered and recited out loud, “I will instruct you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.” “No thanks, Mr. Squirrel,” he said firmly. Sophia looked a little scared and stepped closer to Walker.

Before they had made it to the shade of the third tree they were greeted with a storm of acorns. They hurt! A furious squirrel jeered at them as he and a scurry of squirrels threw acorns like darts. “You are King’s people? You won’t walk through our field? Why do you hate us? Take that, and that, and that!”

Walker stood a moment stunned at the unexpected hostility of squirrels, but then remembered his haversack. “Sophia! The King’s bag!” He tossed his sword into his left hand and reached in with his right and something filled his palm. He grasped and pulled out a shield and held it between his head and the fierce bombardment. Up went his sword, too, and he shouted, “You, O King, are a shield about me, my glory and the lifter of my head!” He held his head up as confidence surged in him. Their shields deflected acorns, tink-tink tink.

“Come on!” shouted Walker. They ran beyond the trees and entered the rocky track.

Walker Tale #7 Counterfeit

While Walker cut bread and cheese for supper and Sophia spent her free time sketching, Wiley saw his chance and reached into Walker’s haversack. Sophia caught his movement behind her in the mirror and turned quickly with a shout, “Hey! What you are doing?”

Wiley stopped abruptly and said defensively, “I was just standing it up. It fell over.”

Sophia retorted, “Your hand is in the bag.” He hastily pulled it out.

Walker came over. Wiley wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey, Wiley,” said Walker. “Were you in my bag?”

“Not really.”

“Were you going to take something?”

“No,” said Wiley. “Just looking.”

“We all have the same things in our bags,” said Sophia. “Why do you need to see what is in Walker’s?”

“I just want to know what you carry in these bags,” he said.

Walker and Sophia were stunned and they turned to look at each other, “Wait—” said Walker, “Don’t you have a bag of your own?”

“Here’s what I’ve got,” said Wiley, picking up his bag from the bunk and holding it out.

They stared at it and then Walker said, “That doesn’t look like the bag the shepherd gave me.”

“It isn’t the good workmanship of the Lord’s leather-workers,” agreed Sophia. “Where did you get it?”

“A shepherd named Mr. Lupus sold it to me. He said it would do everything a King’s Bag would, guaranteed. After he left I looked in mine and it just had some blocks of wood and a handful of hay.”

“To be honest,” said Sophia, “I don’t know what is in mine. It seems to keep on giving.”

“I’ll show you what is in mine,” Walker offered. He picked it up, flipped back the flap and tried to dump it out on the bed, but nothing dropped. He reached in to the narrow opening and pulled out what came to hand. First came his copy of The Letters and then his short sword. But try as he might he could grasp nothing else. He could feel there was more but his hands remained empty. When he peered inside he could see nothing.

“I guess I can’t,” he said reluctantly as he lowered it. “I carry The Letters in my bag but the sword was a gift that came out of it.”

Wiley sneered. “I don’t see a sword. Look, all you King’s travelers carry those bags but they are useless. ‘The King gives us what we need,’ you all say. But there’s nothing there that you didn’t put in it.”

“You don’t see the sword? But look what else I got from it,” Walker exclaimed. He pulled up his shirt to show the kayline. Wiley stared at him, looking from his chest to his face. “What?” he said finally. “I don’t see anything.”

Sophia and Walker looked at one another in dismay. “I can see your sword and kayline, but he can’t,” she said at last.

Wiley stood up and said gruffly, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” They sat at the table and ate the fresh bread and cheese Walker had found in the pantry. The cold butter he had taken from the springhouse had softened in the heat enough to spread on the bread and with raspberry jam it made a sweet end to the meal. But in the cold silence it turned bitter in their bellies.

Wiley cleared off the table and the others washed and put away the dishes. Wiley curled up on his sleeping bag, his face to the wall. The storm had moved on and stars were visible in the dark sky. Sophia and Walker felt an urge to step outside and together they looked up at the starfields. Sophia began to softly sing a hymn.

The heavens declare the glory of God; 
The skies proclaim the work of His hands
Through the night, through the day, they silently say,
“He is King and great are His ways.”

He made it all and He made it for us—
The sun, the moon, the seas and the lands,
He is vast, we are small; all is His, He is all.  
He is King and great are His ways.

Sophia sings a simple song while looking at a night sky full of stars.

[This is me trying to sing like an eight-year-old. Extracted from the live recording when I delivered the story in church on July 23, 2023.]