What shall we say then when that joy takes wing and flies across that river? I would love to sit down and discuss in detail the grief that fills me when I consider the memories – oh so many of them – that bring me pain even now as I take them out and rearrange in order to find some modicum of peace. But will you break away from all your flittering and fluttering and come down from your treehouse on high in order to speak to me, your dear and oldest friend? I do not lay claim to your emotions or your heart for God knows you’ve given them elsewhere by this point. I just want to talk, that’s all. But perhaps if we do meet up for a coffee somewhere nice and neutral then just perhaps it won’t be good for you. Perhaps it will just be too much pain unearthed and for what purpose? To satisfy my own weary soul? You’re right – it is for the best that we not talk again. A sigh escapes my lips. I’ll write a dialogue between us all the same and let my imagination provide what I need. Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the best lines. Just like always.
Author: James Hogan
La bohème
A few thoughts on books this fine cold Friday evening!
7. Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. This book remains a classic for a reason. I re-read this one in order to have proper comparison point for James(finished right before I started this one), though honestly I didn’t really need to. I read this a few years ago and remember being delighted by it and you know what? No changes to my thoughts on it, except to be surprised anew by the power and sparkle of Twain’s prose. He tells a fascinating tale here, a story of a boy in a murderous and insane world. Twain – as he always does – loves to highlight the absurdity of people and he does that all over the place in this one. Books could be written about all the different types of people Twain lampoons. Books could be written about all the different manifestations of barbarism that Twain details. I’m sure they have. Is this book a bit old-fashioned? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it’s not quite as fit for the modern taste and sensibilities of modern days. Perhaps it’s a bit too rambling and a bit too unfocused. I still greatly enjoyed this one. I’ve read books written more recently that read far more alien than this one! Twain has a great ear for dialogue and great insight into the human psyche. Grateful that books such as this have been written. And yes, it is known, but Twain does write some truly hilarious dialogue. I will never not laugh at the conversation about mumps.
8. The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding by Agatha Christie. A fine collection of Christie short stories to read this Christmas season. I haven’t read Christie in a while and this book reminded me how much I love her writing! Some of the short stories are a bit weaker than others, but there are definitely at least a few top notch tales here, worthy of the price of admission. I felt the Marple adventure at the end (“Greenshaw’s Folly”) was weakest of the lot. But seeing Poirot back in action again was very fun indeed. “The Mystery of the Spanish Chest” was great fun and I found myself rolling my eyes at all the tropes pulled out in “The Under Dog” yet somehow still found it a great rollicking read. And not in any of the stories did I quite crack them until the end! I got close a few times, but never quite there. Alas. This was a fun light read and I’m glad I picked this one up. Christie is a master for a reason.
9. The City of God by Augustine. Well, that was a book. I have been reading this one for probably far too long and I feel a bit dazed to realise I have actually finished it. This book is an interesting one to think about and perhaps I will revisit these words in a few weeks once I have more time to let this one simmer (yet Augustine’s words have been simmering around in my brain for the past eight months or so, so maybe that is long enough!). I am glad I read this book, yet I’m not sure I’ll ever re-visit. For this book, more than any I’ve read in recent memory, is a chore. Augustine goes here and there and everywhere. Yes the book is structured. Yes there is a progression. But I find myself slightly baffled at times by the topics that Augustine chooses to spend fifty pages on, and then the topics I would consider slightly more important get barely a page. Editors today would have a field day with this one. I don’t generally consider abridged versions of old books a good idea, but I would not argue with someone who chose to read a (good) abridged copy of this book.
Am I really being so harsh on Augustine, one of the prominent theologians of the Christian world? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike this one. I simply find it a bit unfocused and probably not entirely worth the time and effort it takes to read. In a way though, I think I understand why I feel as I do. In some ways, this book has far more value as a historical work than as a theological one. Yes, there are many solid and brilliant theological insights contained therein. Yes, Augustine’s devotion to the faith and high view of Scripture cannot be denied. Yes, Augustine’s clinging to Christ as the only way of salvation and his understanding of being eternally with God as the prime good of mankind was encouraging, and thrilling to meditate on! Yet, I also realise that this book was (as all books are) a product of its time. This is actually quite a polemical work. Augustine is responding to the philosophies of his day and speaking to the world in which he lived. So this book is enlightening and fascinating as we consider the topics that were of supreme and dire importance to the great minds of the late 4th century. In this day we do not perhaps need pages and pages detailing the natures and deficiencies of the pagan gods who were so quickly fading into irrelevance. But still? This book is important because it shows a great man of God (and indeed a great intellect, though that is of lesser importance) defending the faith and boldly speaking forth the gospel of God to a world that was so lost in its own pride and ignorance. Maybe the pride and ignorance of that long-ago world seems odd to us now, yet we cannot smirk too much. In this present world we are just as proud of our ignorance, though we would not put it in such terms. Anyway! I go off the topic. This book is important and it is quite fascinating to see Augustine discussing the Christian faith in a world that had just known the name Jesus Christ for barely four centuries. And I am exceedingly encouraged to see the faith Augustine has in both the nature and work of God, as well as his utter confidence in the Scriptures. Yes, sometimes Augustine says things with absolute confidence that I would…question. Augustine is not perfect and this book is not perfect. Yet still, there are many times where Augustine humbly confesses that he does not quite know the answer and simply puts forth his thoughts in the wisdom that he knows God has given him. Would that we all in this day exhibit more of Augustine’s humility.
This book is an odd one. I think I’m glad I read it? Would I recommend it? Unsure. At least, if you’re going to read Augustine, read Confessions first. I am grateful to ponder the truths that Augustine expounded, though the journey was messy at times. It is good to think that God indeed has a people that He has called into communion with Himself. We are now truly part of the city of God and someday we shall fully and intimately know God in a way we do not know Him now. For that day we long. We do not know exactly the future or how God shall accomplish His will. Yet we do know that God’s will shall be accomplished and that He shall not abandon the people He has called to Himself. There always has been a remnant. And someday this remnant shall weep and rejoice as the bride beams to welcome her bridegroom. Oh come quickly Lord Jesus. This is a desire that burned just as hot in Augustine’s own soul. Someday I wish to talk theology with this dear brother and rejoice as we look on the face of our Lord, even if now we cannot quite imagine what that will be like. We do know it shall be far better than we can think now. Oh Lord Jesus, come quickly.
Light and Life
I have many thoughts swirling around my mind. Whether they are particularly good or inspired ones is a question for another day. But for the now, I’m grateful for a cosy home and a warm hoodie and a couch that is far more comfortable than it has any right to be. Many other things I can name in this space that deserve the praise, but shall I clutter this place with words too feeble to do justice? I feel now is not the time.
I will say how thankful I am for quiet 6am moments where the house is still and quiet and my mind waking up slowly yet unfilled by a day’s worth of worries thrills to the idea of reading a few pages in the word of God and delighting in truths that have been passed on to us for millennia and in caretaking of these truths I partake in worship as I ponder the wonders of the Holy God who has called me and calls me into closer communion with Himself day by day. And while at times it is tempting to spend time reminiscing and chronicling the past, my best thoughts in this morning hour are ones that look towards heaven. The past is blessed by God and wondrous enough. But what does future bring? Whispers of eternity fill my dreams and I tremble. Does your heart ache to know the joy that comes with seeing our God face to face? Mine does. I dwell on the promises of God and the peace that fills my heart through salvation that been granted me through the dazzling word and work of Jesus Christ my Lord. My eyes lift to heaven and my mind thinks of the eternal future that even now stretches before my slow and feeble feet. My flesh and my heart do fail. How good it is to be near God.
City Folk
calm before the blizzard
walking to and fro
up to 19th and yale
and then back down again
we go
shall we brave the bitter wind
yes let’s go to target
and then on the way stop and
pray
and put a warm winter bonnet
on our friendly neighborhood
sunflower
may it last the night
as for us now hand in gloved hand
homeward now
we rejoice!
for hot dinner and honeyed tea
and look forward to the morrow
to see what our God
will bring
i’ll take snow any day
as long as power stays
and we have lots of
heat
Blizzard on the Bayou
There is a sentiment within me that swells when there is the prospect of snow. Then quickly I suppress such, for the adult portion of my brain recognizes the stress and hassle that necessarily accompany a blizzard in the south. Yet still! Snow in south Texas, who would have thought? I imagine that someday I shall tell my children of the day I survived the great blizzard of ’25. Rewind that. I sound like an old person already. Of course, if I want to avoid sounding like someone who has lived through far too many winters, I should probably also cease from using phrases that refer to ancient video technology. Back to the snow. Shall we indeed be so blessed with a wintry wonderland? Perhaps. We’ll wake up in a few days and I shall do something I’ve not done in years – peek out the window in the early morning hours to see if there indeed is a white blanket over all. And you can bet I’ll then gulp down some coffee and put on my hiking boots and wool coat and warm hat and gloves and tramp out down the lane to feel the fresh fallen snow underneath my feet and marvel at the beauty that is upon us. Of course it is hard to fully enjoy this thought when I also worry in the fullness of my grown mind of the effects of such an unusual storm upon this land. We do poorly enough with hurricanes and heat waves – how shall this city’s creaking infrastructure stand up to such as the icy blast that in providence descends upon us? The city planners and power providers assure us that the grid is hardened and prepared. One way to find out, eh? At the end of the day I wait and pray for I know these crazy weather patterns are overseen and held together by one who is far more powerful than I. I still hope to see a little bit of snow a few mornings from now. And hope the lights don’t flicker so I can enjoy my hot coffee in peace as I look out upon a winter scene. Even so I sit in silence now grateful for such little things as running water and steady heat. I pull up my turtleneck a little higher and snuggle into my favourite couch. Time to hunker down now and ride this thing out.
Tar and Feathers
oh wow
where does your poetry come from
she says with innocent wonder
in her eyes
and i take a quick breath
for she thinks the light
is mine
bonfires in the night
but who writes
the song that sing the stars
Lucidity
i like riding the underground when i don’t have anywhere
i particularly need to be
and i can relax and look at everyone else
and write the stories of their dreams
for some of them hold shopping bags
and some look at their phones
once i saw a woman cuddling with her husband
as they talked about their newfound home
and i once read over the shoulder of someone
texting with her best friend
talking about her trip back to London
and how she wishes she could stay in France
oh yes i know i’m a bit too nosy
but aren’t we all to some extent?
we are interested all in one another
which doesn’t stop me getting annoyed when
the young man muscles past me to get off
but then i laugh as i recall how i do the same
and all the times i’ve almost missed my stop
for i just like writing stories in my head
little snippets of each person’s day
i wonder if anyone is writing stories about me
a girl with a red winter hat
and oversized hoodie that goes to her knees
unchained
Another day, another book.
6. James by Percival Everett. A quick read but certainly not an easy one. This book is one that is eminently readable and hard to put down, as the story moves quick and true and without mercy, much like the big river that features so prominently. It is hard to go into this book without expectations, as the book that inspired this one is so well known (and indeed, one I read again several years back so it is fresh in my mind). So I knew this book was a companion piece with Huck Finn – a parallel re-telling, so it might be thought. And well. Yes? But this book is quite different in both tone and style. Everett certainly doesn’t have as light a touch with his prose. Whereas Twain’s tale bobs and floats along and written masterfully as a biting commentary on contemporary society, Everett’s book isn’t trying to win any awards for beauty. The writing is hard-edged, concise, utterly direct. There is an elegant brutality to Everett’s prose, as surely as he lays bare the utter brutality of 19th-century America’s peculiar institution. Do not expect any hands to be held or any guns to go unfired. This book will not coddle you. Yet this book very much is in dialogue with Twain’s masterpiece. They are telling the same story with the same basic aim, yet in very different fashions. Twain’s tale is the story of a boy told through the eyes of a boy, with all the wit and sparkle that Twain can muster. Everett’s narrative is the story of a man told through the eyes of a man, with all the pain and rage and sheer disbelief for what one man can do to another. Both of these books dissect the idea of the nature of man and the humanity of such (or lack thereof) but the focuses are different. For how could they not be? The story of a white boy vs the story of a black man. How do they compare? Huck Finn – even with all the darkness that lurks and shrieks – is a story of a boy growing up. James is the story of a man grown who has seen too much.
Why am I talking so much about Twain’s novel? I think Everett demands such. He is consciously writing in response to Twain and he is very deliberate in how he tells (and re-tells) the story that Twain first put to page. Because at the end of the day, as much as Twain does what he can to show the shocking inhumanity of those who proclaim to be so pious, Everett can and does do so much more as he both highlights the humanity of blacks while laying bare the utter inhumanity and animality of whites. There are quibbles I could make. I’m not sure all of Everett’s changes to the narrative quite work (especially Huck’s origin story – seemingly attempting to redeem him from the sin of whiteness?) and while I find myself amused by the way Everett uses language to highlight the demarcation between black and white society, the conceit eventually wears bare. Yet I think Everett’s attempts to portray the Other in race-essentialism-fashion hammer home the point of the evils of a race-based society. There is a tinge of discomfort at the depths Everett goes to show the amorality and evil of white society. Yet that is proper and I don’t think needs to be excused. The ending of this book is difficult to read. You could argue that Everett’s work lacks nuance, but well…nuance isn’t the point here. This is supposed to be a hard book to stomach. We should be frankly shocked and horrified at the tale Everett tells. This is not an easy book to read. Nor should it be.
Definitely Full of Wind
A little book review of a big book.
5. Wind and Truth by Brandon Sanderson. I am disappointed but not surprised. This book was enjoyable enough in its own right and I read it fairly quickly, all things considered. Yet? This book, the ending to the first major arc in Brandon Sanderson’s magnum opus series, was not a book I found joy in reading. The plot hooked me well enough! If anything, this book has reinforced my belief that Sanderson is a magnificent plotter. He has his story and he knows where he’s going with it. The ending of this book was actually thrilling and the climax caught me genuinely off guard. Yet it fit so well (and was even well sign posted earlier in the book if I’d been paying attention!) and I am actually intrigued to see how the latter half of the Stormlight Archive plays out. The plot is all there. Yet. Do I actually want to read the latter half of the Stormlight Archive? Honestly? I may pass. The reading experience is getting more and more excruciating with each successive book. This may be worse than Rhythm of War. And that was the previous low, in my opinion. Am I being overly harsh? Possibly. Am I just being contrary? Also very possibly. I think I’m just frustrated because I care. I want Sanderson’s books to be great. I’ve seen and read his books that are! Yet this book has little of the charm, whimsy, creativity or gravitas of his earlier books. The character beats are starting to feel rote, even as the plethora of one-liners and italics proclaim the important moments just to make sure that we don’t miss them. (I’m sorry. The italics are something that I just continue to roll my eyes at as they grate me so) And the prose – while Sanderson’s prose has never been great – has continued to decline in quality? Maybe I’m being overly harsh. I know I can’t write like Sanderson and I’m grateful that he has a story he wants to tell. But his characters are continuing to sound more and more similar to each other and less and less like real people. The character moments Sanderson is trying to highlight are straining to be real and vivid yet for all that the author is doing to tell, I struggle to see the show. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just starting to burn out on Sanderson? Way of Kings and Words of Radiance were two books I much enjoyed. The next two? Less so. And this one? It’s similar. Not abysmal yet…not great. Not even good. Average? Yes, I suppose so. As stated earlier, I really did enjoy some of the ending beats. Dalinar’s decision caught me by surprised and propelled things far more forward than I was expecting. I could talk about the other characters but I don’t really want to bother. Except Adolin. Adolin continues to be awesome and I will always love him.
At the end of the day? I read this fairly quickly because I was genuinely interested to see where Sanderson was going. Not sure if or when I’ll want to re-read though, with the journey being such a slog. There is little beauty in this book, little that I will want to return to. Also the truth – as grandiosely self-proclaimed as it is – is somewhat barren in this one. The philosophies espoused are humanistic in the extreme, self-centered and self-glorifying. The grand truths unveiled are trite and simplistic. There is very little in the base philosophy of this book to enliven and hearten the soul. Many books lack true vigor of truth and beauty. I know this. Maybe with this one it grates more simply because of how loudly the book protests the worth of which it contains. Maybe. Or maybe I’m simply becoming slightly less eager to read works that don’t encourage my soul. Maybe this book truly is the pinnacle of modern fantasy. If so, that makes me sad. This may be the last Sanderson for me.
Table Talk
The windows glow golden in the early evening light. Sunlight trickles past the curtains and falls shyly on Isabel’s hands as she slices the cheese. It’s the simple things that bring her pleasure these days, the way the sharp knife falls through the cheddar and gently kisses her favorite wooden cutting board. It’s the way the hearty pieces of cheese tip over onto the board and make a pile to the side of her hands working on autopilot. These autopilot tasks can be dangerous things sure, as Isabel generally does not enjoy slicing into her fingers in tasks such as these. But for now? Isabel delights in the good work that is preparing food in her kitchen as the late winter light filters inside. There are too many tasks of late that have tasked her cerebral abilities and it is kind of nice to just use her hands and make something that will go to a good purpose. In this case, sandwiches for an adventure. Because of course, adventures demand sandwiches, as everyone knows. Because at some point in the adventure when all goes wrong and the adventure goers are cantankerous and hungry, that’s when the plucky heroine will remember – we’ve got sandwiches! And they’ll pull them out of the knapsack and pass them around. Instantly moods will be improved. Thus it has been, thus it always will be.
The door shakes a bit as a knock sounds once, twice. Thrice. And Isabel knows that pattern and she stops her slicing and tells Harry he can enter. The door opens noisily – she really must get Dad to oil those hinges – and Harry enters in beaming bright. It’s time, Isabel! Are you ready? This is it.
Isabel smiles and turns to him in reply. I can’t say that I’m ready. But I’m here.
Harry frowns at that – usually she is the eager one. But why? What’s the matter? I’ve got the paper and the pens, the compass and the old-style camera. And the raincoats. And a bunch of water bottles in this backpack. And power bars. And two flashlights. And yes extra batteries before you ask. What else? Isabel notices that he at last slows down his spiel as finally picks up on the absent vibe she’s giving off. She’s not trying to space out, it’s just her mind is whirling with deeper mysteries. Harry deserves to know. Why does she always shut him out in the moments when her soul is crying the loudest?
Harry I’m sorry. Isabel sets down the knife and turns to him deliberately this time. I think I’m a bit afraid of what’s to come. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, but now? I’m just a little scared. Sorry.
Of course, no matter. I’m sorry, Isabel. Have I been rude and pushy? I know I probably have been. I’m sorry.
Oh Harry! Don’t say sorry again. It’s not your fault. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, about the future and us and this world and my dreams and church and God and your parents and my parents and…well everything.
Harry sighs as a cloud passes across his eyes. He sits down on one of the stools at the island and sets his elbows on top. Ok. Yeah. Ok yeah I get it. There’s a lot going on. Even today. My dad and my mom. Well. You know.
Is she ok?
Yeah, she’s fine. I mean no. But she’s used to it. She shouldn’t have to be. I swear, Isabel, one day I’m really going to talk to him. Maybe it’s my fault.
No Harry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. Hey do you want a sandwich? I think I’ve cut too much cheese.
Harry laughs – only a little forced – and a sparkle returns to his eyes. Sure, I could eat something now. I’m starving since we didn’t even eat anything after church. What do you got? Cheese, cheese and more cheese?
We have some deli turkey too. Let me knock something up. Mayo and mustard ok?
Sure he replies absently as he’s gone back to gazing at the glazed tiles on top the island. Yeah those are fine.
Isabel’s face drops. She’s brought him down to her mood. Well, maybe she ought tell him what she’s really thinking about. For there is more in her head than the universe can contain. This day of all days. She slices a few pieces of bread off the sourdough loaf that Mom made earlier and then goes to the fridge to find the condiments. Turkey, mustard, mayo…and yes, there is some lettuce and even a tomato. She takes the sandwich goods back to the counter and begins assembly of Harry’s sandwich. Mustard on one side, mayo on the other. Turkey, a generous sprinkling of pepper and salt. Lay on a thick slice of cheddar, then the tomato and then the lettuce. Gently press the other piece of bread on top. There. Oh please help this make Harry feel better.
Sandwich in hand, Isabel walks over to Harry. Here you go, good sir. Your afternoon snack as requested. Harry’s head turns up from his studious examination of the counter top and a smile slowly creeps onto his face. You’re aces, Isabel. You know that? He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. He leans back, feet tapping on the floor in rhythm with the branch tapping on the window. That’s a delight, love. Pure culinary bliss there.
Isabel breathes a quick prayer of thanks and sits on the stool next to him. You know what I’m really thinking about, Harry? You were at church today, right?
Harry swallows a bite honestly larger than anyone should ever take and nods. Yeah, we were there. We sat in the back and left early. But we were there. Little good it did dad.
Well you were there for communion yeah? The Lord’s Supper. Isabel let her eyes lock onto Harry’s. This was important and she felt as if it were beyond her ability to communicate. I know me and my family have been going to church since before I was born so maybe it’s just routine for me sometimes. Today was anything but. Do you understand communion?
Harry nods then kind of shakes his head back and forth. Maybe? I know it’s about remembering Jesus on the cross and his sacrifice. It’s not as pomp and circumstance as it was when we used to go to catholic mass. But it still seems like a pretty big deal at Trinity. Definitely wasn’t going to walk up to that table today though. My parents didn’t either, we just watched. I saw you walk up there. You looked so solemn and serious.
Isabel smiled. Yeah. It was a moment. And I’m glad you didn’t go up. It would have not been right. You know.
Harry smiled. Yeah. I know.
Isabel closed her eyes briefly before continuing. Well the bread is there for the body of Christ – broken for us. The wine is for the blood of Christ – shed for us. I say us but you know what I mean. It’s for you if you only believe. We’ve talked about this, I won’t keep saying it again and again. Just know you only need to repent and believe and this gift of Christ is yours. Eternal life and more than just life. Eternal joy in the presence of perfect divinity and love. And the wine and bread at communion – they represent what Christ did for us. And so today…hey is this too much? Isabel bites her lip.
No, Isabel. I…you know I’m trying to figure this out. And I like hearing your passion. Please keep going.
And so she does. Well, Harry – today I was thinking about all this in a different way and it just struck me the sheer reality and power of what Jesus did. The bread we took and broke was real bread. It had substance. I was able to hold it in my hand and eat it and taste it on my tongue. The wine we took and poured was real wine. It had substance. I was able to smell it and sip it and feel it on my tongue. The bread and the wine were real and had real substance. And then I thought – this physical reality that the bread and the wine inhabited and bore witness to – well, so too does Jesus inhabit the real plane of existence. Jesus is just as real and solid and verifiable as the bread and wine on that table. The body of Jesus was able to be touched and hugged and looked upon. And then subsequently it was able to be whipped and beaten and pierced and stabbed. And it was hung on a tree. And this real body of Jesus hung on a real tree and this Jesus that was real died for ones such as you and me. And just as I today at church ate and partook of the bread and wine so too in mystery have I taken and partook and now bear witness to the real Christ who actually in reality walked on this earth. Jesus was real, Harry. You get it? He’s real. He’s not a figment of imagination or a storybook character or some lame religious icon. He’s real. And not past tense. Jesus is real. He lives again. He lives now and someday I will get to see this reality that is more real than anything in this room and I will look at his face and hug his feet and feel his body that died for me and I think I will cry because I can’t help it. Why would God send his son to die for someone like me. I’m pretty terrible sometimes. Why would the God that is real send his son – also real and also God in some incomprehensible mysterious reality – to die a terribly real death for someone like me? This is the meat and potatoes of Christianity, Harry. Jesus is a real person – and by person I mean God and man in perfect divine harmony and reality – and this real person died for me. How can I not weep at that? How can I not want to sing in bliss at the very thought? The infinite God of all grace and love and justice and holiness and perfection and mercy and wrath and patience…this God is my salvation because of the real life that died a real death that day on that terrible and wonderful tree. This is real. This is the true God and eternal life for all that would believe. And that’s me. That’s me. My mind shakes at the thought. My soul quivers in joy. Oh Harry. This is real. Not some vain philosophy. So now wherever we go or whatever adventure you join me in? I want you to know the realest reality that was ever divinely gifted me. It is life with my Jesus for all eternity. Know this is my core and this is my truth. This is more real than any thing you can imagine.
Isabel breathes in quick. And then sighs. Her hands press down on the table as she looks into Harry’s eyes. He has been listening this whole time. What does he think? His mouth opens.
And as he starts to speak the thunder grumbles outside. The storm had come quicker than Isabel thought it would. Where had the golden light gone? Or no. The windows glow a bit brighter now with the flashing of the lightning.
Isabel I…Harry stumbles over his words. You are the best person I know. I still don’t fully know if I can go all the way to being a Christian here. It still is a bit much for me. But. I get what you’re saying. I think. It’s real to you and I don’t deny that.
Harry. Isabel interrupts. That’s the point though. It’s not just real to me. This truth is reality incarnate. This truth is real to everyone, whether people want to believe or not. And you must reckon with that truth. Either you deny it in its entirety or you accept it in its entirety. There’s no going halfway here. It’s not some religion you can kinda just keep what you want and we all agree to disagree. This is life and death.
Harry’s eyes widen. Oh no, did she frighten him in her intensity. But this was real and the words that had come pouring out of her mouth could only have done so with Spirit assistance and Isabel didn’t think she was sorry for anything she’d said. Her spirit felt free and clear and she felt energy pulsing through her in harmony with the songs of stars. But Harry. Are you ok?
I think so Isabel and I want to continue the conversation but…look outside. Isabel glances out the window over the sink. The light pours through. But it’s not night anymore and it’s not storming. It seems as if midday. And she sees a grove of pine trees out beyond. A quick intake of breath. It’s time, Harry. Oh it’s time. Get your backpack. Isabel rapid fire stacks sandwich upon sandwich in the drawstring bag she had prepared. And then she turns to Harry. You’ll follow me? Harry nods, eyes wide. Ok. Hold my hand. Let’s open the door.
And Harry and Isabel walk up to the door as the daylight dances through the curtains draping the window. Isabel looks at Harry. Remember what I’ve said today. That’s all real. And Harry? So is this. They open the door. There is a moment of music spiraling around them and a flash of light. Isabel hears a voice calling her name. Then she is somewhere else. And she feels Harry’s hand in hers. We made it.
Something Weird 