Allie

On the Zombie Apocalypse

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An important lesson to remember in life is this: Follow-up is key.  My last post, On Being a Pastor’s Wife, was my most-read post so far this year. So it only makes sense that I would follow up that post with a topic I’m equally passionate and expressive about: the supposedly inevitable zombie apocalypse. Yes, there is some sarcasm there. I give you permission to groan.

I’ve never understood our culture’s obsession with zombies, vampires, ghosts, and various other paranormal undead/immortal creatures. I like to keep my fiction and reality very clearly separated, for the sake of my own sanity. It drives me crazy when people bring up this zombie apocalypse thing like it’s something that will actually happen, as though we need real strategies for how to survive it and conquer the walking dead that are out to eat our brains or whatever it is that zombies supposedly do. The images are horrible, the very thought makes my stomach turn, and I generally like to point out Hebrews 9:27, “…it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment” (ESV). So there. Clearly, zombies are completely fictional, made up by some crazy people for some sort of sick entertainment or to horrify children and women with appallingly vivid imaginations. The “inevitable” zombie apocalypse will never, ever happen, as I have frequently and emphatically declared in conversations and on social media.

Then, as part of my daily Bible reading, I came across this fascinating description in Zechariah 14:12, “And the Lord will send a plague on all the nations that fought against Jerusalem. Their people will become like walking corpses, their flesh rotting away. Their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouths” (NLT). Eek. I don’t know about you, but to me, that sounds a lot like zombies. I should probably note that when I pointed this verse out to my husband, a pastor and Bible scholar, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. However, that verse has forced me to rethink my dogmatic belief that the zombie apocalypse will never, ever, happen.

And now for a word on biblical interpretation. It is possible to take any singular verse of Scripture, or an isolated passage, or a few scattered verses that seem to deal with the same topic, and make them say just about anything. In support of zombies, one could also point to the passage in Ezekiel 37, where the prophet records his vision of a pile of bones becoming a great army, or the brief, strange account of graves being opened and many bodies coming out and appearing to people immediately after Jesus’ death in Matthew 27:52-53. I think it’s important to point out that none of these passages (or any others you might know about that I’ve missed) are actually about zombies. I believe Ezekiel is painting a dramatic visual of the fact that when it comes to restoration, God is capable of anything. The passage in Matthew shows some of the immediate, powerful, literally earth-shaking effects of Jesus’ death on the cross. And Zechariah is pronouncing judgment on the nations and restoration of the nation of Israel. Of course, that passage is actually apocalyptic, so the zombie plague is, in my opinion, a possibility. It could be suggesting something like biological warfare or nuclear fallout, which Zechariah obviously would not have understood, but he could have described the effects. Or maybe it’s symbolic, a picture of something that won’t actually happen, but which warns of the seriousness of opposing the people of God. Zionists could read the passage and declare, “See! Don’t mess with Israel!” The fact is, the Bible talks about a lot of things, but it’s not about zombies. So to build an entire zombie doctrine on this one verse would be foolish. This is why my husband rolled his eyes. It’s important to be very careful when interpreting Scripture.

That said, the Bible does provide abundant fodder for a fertile imagination. I’ve also caught references to what I believe are dragons and unicorns (prompting additional eye-rolls from Greg). It’s amazing what you catch when you actually read it. I’m just a few days from finishing my latest year-long read-through of God’s Word, and it’s always interesting when I find things I don’t remember ever reading before. The book of Zechariah has some fascinating parts to it. Even if you don’t have time for careful analysis and and study, reading through the whole Bible every year is a worthwhile endeavor, and I highly recommend it. I’m going to start a new plan on July 1st. I’ll post the link if anyone is interested in joining me.

So, I have to admit that a zombie apocalypse might actually happen someday. Does it matter? Probably not. Do I care? Definitely not. Am I going to start stockpiling weapons and planning how to defend my family and my brain? No. If it does happen, or if something similar happens, from what I read in Zechariah it will be part of God’s judgment on his enemies, so I’m safe. Whew.

On Being a Pastor’s Wife

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Every once in awhile something will come out in a magazine or on the Internet about all the things pastor’s wives deal with, and when that happens, I’m always tempted to write a blog post. Today I’m succumbing to the temptation. So here goes.

I suppose I could call this post “5 Simple Truths About Pastor’s Wives…and Everyone Else” and it would maybe go viral or something. People seem intrigued by this special and rare creature often called “The Pastor’s Wife” as if that is the sum total of her identity. I’ve been described as “not your typical pastor’s wife,” whatever that means. I’ve heard people say, “I forget you’re a pastor’s wife! You’re so normal!” And I’ve also been asked, “So you’re a pastor’s wife? Wow! What’s that like?” And I want to ask, “What’s it like being an engineer’s wife? Or a computer guy’s wife? Or a doctor’s wife?” Because being a pastor’s wife can’t be very different from any of those. Let me clear up some of the mystery: Being a pastor’s wife means being married to a man whose life is defined by his calling. Does that mean my life is also defined by his calling? I don’t know. I’ve never thought of it that way. The way I see it, my life is defined by my calling. Not so different from anyone else, really. It’s just that my calling is to be married to a man in ministry, specifically, to Greg Duke. Right now that calling means I’m a pastor’s wife. It’s that simple. Really.

Please hear my heart: My intent is not to belittle the struggles and hardships that pastor’s wives face. All those things you read in articles and on blogs are true. Life as a pastor’s wife can be difficult and sometimes it’s not very rewarding. But isn’t that just life? Life is hard. In many ways life as a Christian is even harder, like we’re struggling to stay afloat while we swim against the current of the culture. Seeking to be a Christ-following, God-honoring, Kingdom-growing wife and mother brings a new set of challenges every day. Some days I look back over the day and think of all the things I could have done better, things I shouldn’t have said, or things that I should have said but didn’t, ways that I think I failed, and all I can do is thank God that He got me through it and we’re all still alive and mostly unharmed. I am always thankful that I have the resurrection power of Christ working through me, giving me the strength for that swim upstream. And I’m thankful for the roles He’s given me in this life, one of which is the role of a pastor’s wife.

Did I always feel comfortable with the idea of being a pastor’s wife? To be honest, no. I struggled with the idea when Greg first brought it up. But it’s not like he came home one day and said, “God is calling me to be a pastor,” and I groaned and said, “Great. This is not what I signed up for.” I know that happens to some women, but that’s not my story. I always knew I was called to marry a minister, and Greg has been in ministry the whole time we’ve been married. I just thought he’d be a music guy, or a college campus minister, or a church planter. The journey to his calling as Senior Pastor (and currently the only pastor) at Aberdeen Baptist Church is a long story, maybe for another post. But it’s a journey that we took together, and we knew that God was leading us every step of the way. I believe with all my heart that we’re where we’re supposed to be, doing what we’re supposed to be doing.

I am so incredibly blessed. I have deep connections in my community of friends. I have the privilege of investing in the lives of many people around me through prayer, through conversations about God and His Word, through just hanging out and enjoying life. The wonderful people in our church take really good care of us. They’ve watched our kids, taken us out to eat, given us generous gifts when we needed them most – whether they knew that or not. My husband is a treasure and I thank God for him constantly. Sure he’s busy, but he does good work, and although he sometimes has meetings or has to visit with people at times that might be inconvenient for me, and yeah, those middle-of-the-night calls happen and they’re not fun, his flexible schedule allows him time to spend with his family that many men don’t have. Our family doesn’t suffer because Greg is a pastor; we’re blessed because he’s a pastor. And that’s the truth.

So I’m a pastor’s wife. I really think the most important part of that “title” is “wife.” Just like every Christian wife, I’m called to support, respect, and help my husband in any way I can, submitting to his authority over me just as we both submit to Christ’s authority over us. I have struggles, and I have victories. Sometimes I control my temper, my tongue, my thoughts, and sometimes I don’t. I try to be open and honest, but I do have things I don’t tell certain people, and even some things that I won’t tell anyone. I love and adore my kids, but there are moments when I don’t like them very much. I have lots of friends but sometimes I’m lonely. Sometimes I just long for a few minutes of adult conversation. Sometimes I wish I could get away. But most of the time, I’m happy with who I am, where I am, what I’m doing, and who I’m with. This is who I am. If that makes me a unique, strange creature known as a “pastor’s wife,” I guess I’m okay with that. I just have this feeling that I’m really not so different from anyone else.

On Joy…No Matter What

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This week I’ve been thinking about joy. And grace. I often think about grace, because it’s a topic I’m totally passionate about. So this week my thoughts about grace have manifested themselves in thoughts about joy, and about how it’s really hard to live a life of joy and freedom unless I’m living in grace. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. (And yes, that was a reference to The Princess Bride. You’re welcome)

In life, there are always ups and downs. There are times when everything seems to be going right, and times when it just…isn’t. There are times when I look around at my life, my circumstances, my occupation, and think, “Yes. This is the life. This is right where I want to be,” and times when I think, “How did I end up here?” Circumstances change. Goals and dreams change. If you had asked me five years ago where I thought I’d be, what my life might look like, in five years, I probably would not have described a scenario of constant chaos, chasing around a strong-willed four-year-old and a one-year-old with a heart problem (not that you would know that from his energy level. He makes me tired), pouring my heart into a couple of ministries that have a lot of potential but can definitely be described as struggling, still buried under a mountain of debt, still writing that same novel. I would have painted a glowing picture of my idea of success – in life, in motherhood, in business, in writing. Instead, the picture looks more like someone who struggles to get up before her kids in the morning. Who sometimes feels depressed, angry, discontent, frustrated with who she is, with what she feels she has accomplished, with her circumstances.

So what does this have to do with joy? Well, like I said, circumstances change. People change. I’m not the same person I was five years ago. I want different things. I’ve learned some things. And here’s one of them: Joy isn’t found in circumstances, but in what is constant, what doesn’t change. No matter how my life shifts, how I change as a person, how many failures and frustrations I experience, God remains the same. His love remains the same. His grace is always there, making me into something I could never be on my own. Complete. Justified. Forgiven. Content. Joyful. In Christ.

The character of the Almighty, Most Holy God is a fascinating thing. He is both just and merciful. He is full of love, and full of wrath. He created humans to be pure and perfect, living eternally with Him, but allows us to follow our prideful hearts down a path of sin that leads to death and separation from Him. He created a code of behavior, called the Law, that He knew we could never live up to, but then grace entered the scene in the form of Jesus. The pure and perfect God-man, the only one who could live up to the Law and then sacrifice Himself on behalf of all humanity so that in one transaction, we can look to Him as the means of our salvation and be covered in His sinless, righteous perfection for all of eternity. This isn’t God throwing His hands in the air and agreeing to overlook our faults because we’ll never get it right. This is the judge taking on his own judgment. This is the executioner turning the axe on himself. This is God doing what I could never do, because He can. This is grace. This isn’t about me. It’s all about Him. My circumstances, my failures, my aches and pains that I complain about when I get up in the morning and when I go to bed at night, fade to nothing when I get just a glimpse of who God is and what His grace means. Grace means I can get up in the morning. Grace means I get to go on living even when I fail. Grace means I have a lifetime to share this good news with everyone I can on this earth, and then I get eternity with the grace-giver, to really get to know Him and maybe begin to understand His grace. When I start thinking about all that, I find joy. Deep, heady, delighted, excited, joy. There are many things in this world that make me happy, and just as many things can take away that happiness in an instant, but nothing can ever take God’s grace from me, and nothing can ever take my joy.

Do you understand this? I hope so. I hope my meandering thoughts make a little sense to someone out there. As Christians, saved by God’s amazing grace, we’ve got the market on joy. We really do. And yet too often we don’t live it. We live sad little lives, afraid to have too much fun, afraid we might offend God with our inadequacies, afraid He’ll zap us when we fail, afraid we’ll ruin our reputations, miserable because we still can’t live up to God’s standard, even while we’re trying to follow in His steps. Here’s my advice: Quit trying and start living. Jesus gives us His life. Let’s surrender our lives to Him, every moment of every day, set aside our pride, our desires, our agendas, our dreams, and offer the broken, empty vessels of our lives to Him, so that He can mend us and fill us to overflowing with the very grace He wants us to preach to the rest of the world. Does that sound easy? It’s not. It’s simple, but it’s work. It’s the best and the hardest work we’ll ever do. It’s what we were made for. I don’t know about you, but for me, doing what I was made to do sure feels a lot like joy.

On STARDUST by Neil Gaiman

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This month for my book club, I had the dubious privilege of picking our selection. Because I like to call myself a rebel, and I wanted to read something a little different and a little quirky, I picked STARDUST. It’s not a new novel, and it has been made into a strange little movie, and I thought it would be a fun read. It was fun, and surprising at moments, and largely satisfying overall.

STARDUST is a fairy tale for adults. Because of language, thematic elements, and the general tone of the book, I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone younger than 16. Of course, this is coming from the same person who doesn’t think people should read Harry Potter books if they are younger than the characters in the books. So take that as you will. Still, there is a certain dark abstract feel to the story that I don’t think younger readers would find very appealing. And if you’re one of those “save the unicorns” types, you might want to think twice about picking up this book.

The premise of the story is what happens when you get your heart’s desire – whether or not you realize at the time what that is. It starts out with a young man named Dunstan Thorne – not to be confused with the main hero of the tale, who turns out to be Dunstan’s son, Tristran. Tristran sets off on a quest to retrieve a fallen star for his true love, and learns along the way that he has greatly misjudged the nature of stars (in the land of Faerie, at least) and of true love itself. There are villains, and helpful companions, and magic, and all the things that make a delightful fairy tale, including some moderately graphic details and a bittersweet ending.

The book has some faults. I found the style to be quaint and charming, but the modern writer in my head was counting off all the rules that the author broke in the telling of it. However, I don’t mind a few broken rules on the way to a good story, so this wasn’t a problem for me. It gets a little confusing at times, there are lost of strands that seem disconnected from the main story at first, but then Gaiman ties them all together so brilliantly that I was completely satisfied by the end.

Immediately after finishing the book, I made the mistake of mentioning that I might like to watch the movie sometime, so we ended up watching it that night. Do not watch the movie before reading the book. It will ruin all those abstract connections and the feeling of satisfaction when they all come together. That said, the movie isn’t terrible, and it follows the plot of the book for the most part, with some obvious license, until the ending, which is all completely made up by the filmmakers for additional drama.

So, if you’re an adult, or you think like an adult, or maybe if you think like a child but people think you’re an adult, and you enjoy fairy tales, I think you’ll like this book. I did, and I definitely fall into one of those three categories. I’ll let you guess which one.

Have you read STARDUST? Do you have any comments you’d like to add? Or any recommendations for what I should read next?

On Why I Hate My Novel Right Now

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Yes, that’s right, I used the word hate.

I have been writing this book for longer than I care to admit. Okay, I’ll admit it: I have files from this story that go back to 2006. For those of you who don’t realize how long ago that really is, I’ll do the math for you. It’s eight years. I have been writing this story for eight years. And I’m no closer to having a finished product now than I was eight years ago. I have written, rewritten, and written it again. I have outlined it, trashed my outline, attempted to write it without an outline, realized that in writing without an outline I had forgotten to include a plot, added a plot, wrote another outline, and now I’m rewriting it again. And I hate it. On days like today, when I’m pretty sure it’s time to throw out at least half of the manuscript and start over, I wonder, “Why am I torturing myself over this? Why can’t I just write something else? Or not write at all?”

Because I can’t, that’s why. Because if I don’t figure out what this story really is, and how it develops, and how it ends, it will bother me for the rest of my life. Because in the last eight years, I’ve fallen in love with these characters, and this world, and this idea I have of writing fantasy that honors God and communicates a biblical worldview, even though no one in that world knows that the Bible exists. And just to be clear, no one in that world actually exists. It’s fantasy. But somehow, I love them anyway.

On this journey, I’ve learned a lot about writing, and a lot about myself as a writer. Most of the time, I’m not very good at this. There are moments when I think I might be able to produce a whole book that will be worth reading someday, and other moments, like today, when I think it’s impossible. It may never happen. But I’ll keep at it because maybe someday, it just might.

So for today, I hate my novel. I feel like nothing is working, and I don’t know how to make it work, and it’s probably not worth the attempt anyway. And that’s okay, because it’s not as though anyone is paying me to write it, or expecting me to actually finish it. I’m not published, I don’t have a fanbase, I have 140 followers on Twitter and a handful of people who read this blog. You are good people, by the way. Thanks for putting up with me. Anyway, I think I’m allowed to hate my novel. I’m probably allowed to delete it and start over, as I’ve threatened to do repeatedly. But instead I’ll keep plugging away, hoping to someday craft it into a real story that I can be happy with.

And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow I’ll love it again.

Have you ever felt the same way? To be honest, I need an intervention today. Yes, I am begging shamelessly for encouraging comments. We all need encouragement sometimes, and today is my day.

On Time

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I have had several posts bobbing around in my head for the last month or so, and yet if you actually follow this blog you’ll know that I haven’t posted any of them. There are several reasons for that, but the main one is that I simply haven’t had the time. Or made the time, or taken the time, or whatever it is we’re supposed to do with the time that we’re given every day.

I suppose this could be a rant about being overly busy, or a whine about having two children under four, or excuses about why my house is messy and I usually refuse to clean it up, or something educational about time management or inspirational about priorities, but I don’t feel like writing any of those things. I just feel like talking about time. And writing.

We all have 24 hours in a day. I think, if we’re being honest, most of us sleep for about 6 of them. I now have an app (which drives my husband crazy) that tells me exactly how much time I spent in bed and what percentage of that time was spent in deep, restful sleep. At least, that’s what I think the percentage is. Honestly I really don’t know, except that the higher it is, the better I slept, supposedly. Sometimes it’s as low as 47% and sometimes it’s as high as 88%. I do know that out of the last 36 nights, I’ve spent 1.4 weeks in bed. So maybe that’s why I haven’t been blogging. I’ve slept for a week and a half.

When I’m not sleeping, I spend lots of time doing lots of other things, and lots of that time wishing I were writing instead. I have many roles in life, the primary ones being a Christ follower, wife, mother, and friend, but when I think, “who am I?”, what immediately pops into my head, almost every time, is: a writer. Not that I think any of the other things are less important. In fact, I think they’re immensely important, certainly more important than this little writing thing that I do whenever I get a spare hour or two, usually only once or twice a week. I spend much more time feeding kids, changing diapers, answering the deep questions of life presented by my almost-four-year-old, texting friends, reading my Bible, tweeting, talking to my husband, cooking, driving, going to church, running errands, and even grocery shopping, which I abhor. So then I ask myself: if I spend so much more time doing other things, why do I identify myself as a writer? I don’t really even make any money at it, maybe $1000 in my whole life.

The simple fact is, I’ve always been a writer. I’ve stated this before (This Is Who I Am) so I’m not going to labor the point, but when I think about me, just me, apart from anything else I’ve ever done or ever been, I am a writer. Whether I do it full-time or for one or two hours a week. It’s my identity. Would I like to spend more time at it? Sure. Do I have to do it full-time in order for it to be truly who I am? No. At different seasons in my life I believe God has called me to set aside writing for a time in order to focus on some other role or calling, and that’s just fine. Because ultimately my identity is in Christ and who He has called and equipped me to be. Writing will always be a part of that, but meanwhile, I have other things to do. I have years of my life to spend sleeping, after all.

Some day, I think it would be nice if I am able to spend enough time writing that when other people think of me, they think “She’s a writer.” Maybe even a good writer. But if what they think instead is, “she’s a mom,” or a wife, or a good cook, or a friend, that’s just fine too.

Who are you? What do you spend the most time doing? Are you okay with that?

On How I Met Your Mother (no spoilers)

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So I guess How I Met Your Mother ended last night. I didn’t see it. I haven’t watched the show in at least a year and a half, and I stopped caring about it long before that. But there was a time when I wholeheartedly endorsed it as probably the best show on television. So what happened?

How I Met Your Mother was a well-written show with a cast of well-developed cast of characters, unfortunately based on a ridiculous premise that was doomed to failure. Some of the episodes were so funny I thought I’d die laughing, and some of the moments were so poignant and real that I’m not sure they belonged in a comedy at all.  For the first five or six seasons, it was fun to watch the relationships develop between the characters, see them grow and change as people, and get fun glimpses at their lives before (and sometimes after) the years chronicled by the show. There were running gags and “inside” jokes that made the characters feel like real people who I really knew, and that was the brilliance of the show. Unfortunately, it was not set up to be successful for more than five or six seasons because at that point, no one really cared about who these kids’ mother was and the jokes started getting overdone and stale. But that’s not exactly why stopped caring about it.

Like I said, I felt like these were real people who I was getting to know better as the show went on. Eventually, I began to realize how little I had in common with any of them. And then, as they got older and more crass and obnoxious, I stopped liking them at all. So I really didn’t care who married who or how they met or if they all were still friends years later because I didn’t care about them as people. This is truth in real life and in TV shows: there is only so long you can live a life completely focused on self, pleasure, and fun, before it starts to wear thin and get really old, really sad, and really ugly. That is what happened with How I Met Your Mother. At some point I realized I was no longer entertained by the ridiculously self-focused lives of the characters. And that’s when I was done with the show.

I’ve seen some of the reactions to the finale. I actually don’t know what happened, but I’m not worried about spoilers because I’m not even remotely curious about it, and I don’t care. I used to be a fan of How I Met Your Mother, and now I’m just glad that I never have to hear about it again. And you know, maybe that says more about me than it says about the show. I guess I’m okay with that.

On Spinach Dip

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I love spinach artichoke dip. It’s yummy, creamy, and it’s good for you because it’s got spinach, right? Well, no. Greg read an article in some bicycle magazine or something that said spinach artichoke dip is the worst thing to ever happen to spinach and artichokes and no one should ever eat it because it might actually kill you. That said, I’m going to go ahead and post my favorite recipe for the deadly stuff. I adapted it from a couple recipes. Next time I make it I’ll add a picture to this post. Oh, and just for fun, I’m including the recipe for really delicious pita chips that are definitely not as bad for you as the dip. Who knows, maybe they’ll counter the effects and save your life. If not, and you die from eating it, I promise you’ll die happy.

Yummy Baked Spinach Artichoke Dip
Ingredients:
1 pkg (8 oz) Neufchatel cheese (reduced-fat cream cheese), softened
1 pkg (10 oz) frozen chopped spinach, thawed, well drained
1 jar (7.5 oz) marinated artichoke hearts, drained, chopped
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
1/2 cup plain lowfat or nonfat yogurt
1/2 tsp garlic powder
Dash of cayenne pepper or a few drops of hot sauce such as Tabasco
1/4 cup grated or shredded parmesan cheese

Instructions:
Heat oven to 350. Mix all ingredients except parmesan until blended. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Bake 20 minutes or until bubbly. Serve with crackers or pita chips.

Easy Baked Pita Chips
Ingredients:
1 pkg whole-wheat pita rounds
2-4 TBSP Italian dressing (I like KRAFT Tuscan House Italian)

Instructions:
Heat oven to 350. With a pizza cutter or sharp knife, cut each pita round into eight pieces (like a pizza). Separate the halves and arrange the pieces on a cookie sheet. Each round will make 16 chips, so make as many as you need. You may need to do several batches or use more than one cookie sheet. Brush lightly with dressing. Bake for 10 minutes or until browned. Serve warm with dip or hummus.

If you make this and love it, or hate it, or have questions about the recipe, or take a nice photo of it that you’d like to share, please comment. Enjoy!

The Orphan

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 It was in the days when the Ancients and the dragons were at war. The King had come across a great golden dragon and her young, a half-grown blue male and a tiny female, only a few years old, who glowed with the soft purple of the amethyst. The mother dragon heard the King coming and warned her son, who immediately took flight, but the baby was too young to fly well. Quickly, the mother hid her baby beneath a huge gold wing and turned to face the King of the Ancients, who was armed with a bow and arrows designed to pierce dragon armor. She tried to Speak to him, to tell him she was not an enemy but a Servant of the One as he was, but he would not listen. As she reared up to defend her baby, he shot the bow with the skill of the master, piercing her heart. She fell, and as she did, her wing knocked the baby’s head and she fell too,unconscious, one leg trapped beneath her mother’s dying body. 
     Hours later, the baby awoke in confusion. Her leg hurt terribly, crushed underneath her mother, who by that time had grown cold. She keened in pain and mourning, a terrible, lonely sound that only dragons can make. Her brother had fled, her mother was gone, and she knew she would most likely die there, orphaned and injured in one of those terrible twists of fate that sometimes happen when the servants of the One pursue their own crusades instead of paying attention to His desires and interests. The little dragon did not know much, but she did know that her mother had fought against the evil dragons and did not deserve to die. The keening continued until her throat ached almost as much as her leg. She was so distraught, she didn’t hear the rustling in the nearby undergrowth.
     “Hush, little one. Do not be afraid. If you let me, I will help you.” Despite the gentleness in the voice, the baby was filled with terror when she recognized the language of the Ancients. She choked and looked around in horror, but her vision was blocked by her mother’s wing. Then the wing was lifted, and she looked for the first time into the face of the King’s daughter. Tears filled the girl’s eyes and tracked down her cheeks.
     “Oh little one, I am so sorry. Please let me help you. My father does not know that I followed him on his patrol. I was pretending I was one of his warriors, strong and able to help him if he should need me. But at the first sign of trouble, I hid. I heard your mother try to speak to him, but he was filled with fear at the thought that a dragon had found its way so near to our home. He reacted without listening. I tried to stop him, too, but I was too far away and he still does not know I am here. He is gone now, and I swear I will not hurt you. You do not have to fear.”
     With strong arms and gentle hands, the girl lifted the dead dragon’s body enough to free the baby’s leg. “It is broken badly. I do not have a gift for healing, but I will do what I can,” she promised. As she worked, the baby was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude that only grew as the days went by. The King’s daughter hid the little dragon in a clearing miles from the city but came to visit her every day, bringing food and herbs to help with her injured leg. Unfortunately, she had spoken the truth when she said she did not have skill in healing, for the leg developed a twist and the dragon never could walk without a limp. However, with the guidance and encouragement of her friend, she did learn to fly well. Once she had grown strong enough to fly away and make her home wherever she chose, she insisted on staying near her friend. Long after the dragon war ended, their friendship continued as an enduring symbol of the truth that the One an take even the worst of circumstances, the most bitter enemies, and make something beautiful from the pain.

The Rift

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“This time, we have them,” Daevan reported, mopping his brow as he handed his lathered horse off to a groom. “They are holed up in a cavern at the Tendaer/Kaderya border.  We have word that they intend to launch their strike on Tendaer from there.”

“What do you propose?” Chandellan asked.

“Proceed with the plan.  We have been too cautious in the past, and they escaped.  We must strike now!”

Tenga stood, stretching as he pulled himself to all fours.  “I agree,” he Spoke with a growl.  “Much has been lost at the hands of this enemy.  He is ruthless, powerful, and hungry.  His accursed Dragon allies have defiled our land.  The land of Kaderya no longer speaks to us, and we have lost an entire pride.  Killed or stolen, we do not know.  We have suffered much at the hands of the enemy.  He caught us unawares.  Even yet, no one knows how he grew his power and influence so quickly.”

“What do you think, Chandellan?” Someone spoke from behind, beyond the field of vision.  “He is one of your kind, the Others.  Where does all this power come from?”

“He is partly of your people, as well.  So much power in someone who is only half-Other is unnatural.  We believe he has turned to forbidden magic,” Chandellan frowned, “But no matter how he has done it, the deeds of this enemy and his powerful allies are unpardonable and dangerous.  They must be stopped.  I agree with Helnadaran.  We must move quickly and decisively, while we still have power and surprise on our side.  We have a united army of races assembled and ready to move at any moment.  Send the word.  Let us stop this enemy while it is within our power to do so!”

Helnadaran’s daughter and her dragon friend, Amethyst, rode with Chandellan and his partner in many a battle, Meeresha.  The plan was for groups of Others and Power Keepers to gather together and combine all their magical forces to defeat the enemy and chain the mighty dragon who had joined forces with him.  Chandellan gathered his troops together near a waterfall just north of the entrance to the cave where the enemy and the dragon were reportedly hiding.

“Are we ready?” He asked each of them, using thought speech to maintain silence and communicate with the nonverbal members of the group.  Idira, the great golden-eyed lioness, nodded.  Meeresha stamped a foot and tossed his proud head, the watery image of Teak the Dolphin did a somersault in the waterfall, and Amethyst hissed out a low, “Yesss…”

Chandellan glanced at Helnadaran’s daughter.  She was young and untried in battle, but the King of the Ancients claimed she was well trained as a fighter.  She looked up at him, her large emerald eyes glittering with resolution.  In that moment, she reminded Chandellan of his own daughter, only twelve, but with the same fierce spirit.  His heart ached as he thought of his family, wondering if he had seen them for the last time.

“I am ready,” the princess interrupted the mighty warrior’s thoughts, her musical voice filled with quiet determination.

He held up a hand.  “We wait for the signal.”  

And so they waited, tense, ready for the moment when they would all strike together.  The roar of the waterfall drowned out other sounds, but Chandellan could feel the presence of other creatures, neutral in this fight, as they fled the scene of what would soon become an epic battle.  He looked down at his hands, where he held the chains, forged by both Others and Ancients, which they hoped to use to magically bind the dragon, trapping him in the cave for the rest of his life.  Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer that the One God would guide and bless their actions this day.

Suddenly, the signal came.  They all heard Helnadaran call out, “Now!” and they burst into the cavern with the others.

The enemy was not alone, but the cave was small and only about fifty warriors guarded the entrance.  Side by side, Chandellan and the princess fought their way through the ranks until they stood behind an outcropping, watching the great red dragon defend himself with claws, teeth, and flame.  

“What now?” she asked, panting.  A drop of blood trickled down her cheek, evidence of a blow that would have killed her if Chandellan had not severed the arm of her attacker at the last moment.

“A shield,” he muttered, “We need a shield.  Amethyst, Teak, Meeresha, and Idira, help us!  What can you do?”

A moment passed, and another, before Chandellan heard Meeresha’s voice echo through his mind.

“This!” the Power Keepers cried out in unison, and a glittering, rainbow-coloured shield burst into existence before quickly fading from sight.  Although invisible, it was there, and Chandellan felt all of the elements protecting them from the dragon.  Without a word, he and his companion sprinted toward the dragon’s hind feet.  She looped one end around a rock formation, and just before the dragon noticed them and turned, Chandellan slapped the cuff around on a giant, scaly foot.

“The spell!” he cried, and they both chanted the words, together directing the flow of magic into the chains, which began to glow with all the colors of magic.  The dragon roared, and the place shook.  Screams reverberated through the space as rocks fell from the ceiling onto Allies and their enemies alike.  And then the spell was finished.  The chains melted into the rock and the dragon’s scales.  He was bound by a power stronger than anyone could have managed alone, one that would hold him until the end of his life.

“Nooo!” the scarlet giant screamed.  “Curssse you!  I curssse all of you!  Kill them!”

The enemy stood before them, evil in his eyes, and prepared a spell that would bring the mountain down on all of them.

“Idira!  Tenga!  Stop him!”  Chandellan shouted.  The lions spoke to the stones of the hills, and they stood fast.  When the enemy tried to raise the waters of the stream through the cavern to drown them, the Dolphins held the water back.  The red dragon bellowed fire, but Amethyst and the other good dragons created a fire shield.  Frustrated and enraged, the enemy screamed, and used the pain of the dying to gather a blast of magic that would destroy the Allies and everyone with them, but they gathered together and met his dark magic with their combined powers, natural and elemental, in a stronger shield than anyone had ever created before.

And then it happened.

When the two forces struck each other with so much power, something occurred which no one could have anticipated.  The force of the Power Keepers’ shield would not give, but faced with so strong an attack, it reacted.  With a blast of power that threw everyone to the ground in confusion and dismay, the shield exploded, throwing up a magical barrier that incorporated all of the elements.  Chandellan, Amethyst, Meeresha, and the King’s daughter were trapped with the enemy and the dragon on one side, and most of the other allies had disappeared.  Chandellan was the first to react.  With a cry, he launched himself at the enemy and almost struck a killing blow before he was able to react.  At the last moment, he raised his sword in defense.  The clash of the weapons brought Meeresha out of his daze and into action.  Together, Chandellan and Meeresha fought the enemy, delivering blow after blow until all three were panting with exertion.  Chandellan could hardly feel his sword arm.  He had to draw on his dwindling supply of personal magical power to continue swinging his weapon.  The enemy was tiring, too.  The strain in his eyes was obvious.  Chandellan and Meeresha shared a glance.  They knew each other so well that no word or thought was needed.  They struck at the same moment, as two parts of the same whole.  The enemy fell.

Silence filled the chamber for an eternal moment.  Then the great dragon screamed.  Pulling all the power from the body of his dying partner, he attempted to break the chains, but the power that held them fast was too strong.  He roared again and reared, beating his wings in futile anger.  Leveling a great red eye at Chandellan and Meeresha, he cried out, “You!  You have done this, you miserable creatures!  I curse you!  Do you hear me?  I curse you and your kind forever!  As long as I remain chained in this tomb of rock, you will wander, lost!  Your mates will die in childbirth, or languish in ill health until claimed by an early death.  You who have enjoyed long life and fame in this world will have your lives cut short, and your names will fade from memory.”  He focused on Meeresha, “And you, especially!  No one will even remember your race existed!  I curse you until the end of time!”