Jennifer L. Wright's Blog, page 3

Anatu: A Short Story

Citadel of Susa, Babylon

483 B.C.

“It’s going to be you, Anatu. I just know it.”

I smiled tightly at Shala as she clasped my hands, the myriad of rings on our fingers clinking together with the force. Perhaps her comment was genuine. Or perhaps she was waiting for me to return the compliment, to play the game we’d all been playing for months on end, where we pretended to encourage one another when, in reality, each of us was secretly hoping the other might come down with a horrific rash or lose all her hair. 

Because there were over a hundred girls inside this harem.

But there was only one crown.

The motivation behind Shala’s comment didn’t really matter. Because it was going to be me. Becoming queen was my destiny, the reason I was brought here. I’d known it from the moment my family had received the summons from King Xerxes, requesting the most beautiful virgins in the land be brought to his harem. 

I’d been summoned before the king five times, far more than any other woman here. And, each time, I’d won him over heartily. More than once I’d caught the king staring at my long dark hair, kohl-rimmed green eyes, and delicate features enhanced by powders and oils. But all the women in the harem had undergone a year of beauty treatments, including six months with oil of myrrh and six more with perfumes and cosmetics. Even the homeliest among us could be considered beauties now. 

  What set me apart was my charm.

 I sang for the king. I played the harp. I told him stories—tales that made him laugh, cry, and everything in between. I listened, always making sure to ask all the right questions. I did as he requested immediately. And I complimented him profusely but not so much as to seem disingenuous. 

   In short, I did the exact opposite of everything the disgraced former queen Vashti did.

  There was no doubt in my mind that the inhabitants of Babylon would soon be bowing down to a new member of royalty. 

  Me.

 The king was down to his last potential suitress, a rather ordinary woman who went by the name of Esther. She was a nobody. Certainly, no threat to my claim on the title. Oh, she was pretty, don’t get me wrong. But she was too quiet, too meek, too reticent to have any real chance. Among the harem, she was never unfriendly, but she kept to herself, refusing to participate in the gossip or debauchery that bound the rest of us together. 

 So when, not long after her last appointment the king, members of the harem were summoned to the throne room and Shala squeezed my hand, stating the obvious conclusion to His Majesty’s looming decision, what else could I do but smile with false modesty and pretend as if we all had an equal chance for the crown? 

 I wore my finest robe to the assembly, the emerald one that perfectly matched my eyes, with the fringe that brushed delicately over my bare shoulders. Shala helped weave gold beads in my braid, which we then wrapped around my head. I enhanced the beads with several matching accessories: gold bracelets, a gold belt, gold collar-style necklace, and a gold ankle chain. I had to be sure my subjects would never forget the first time they laid eyes on their new queen. And, with this outfit, how could they?

The throne room was packed, the air stuffy with the scent of perfume and body odor. I attempted to find a place toward the front; no need to embarrass anyone forced out the way when my name was called. I kept a tight smile on my lips as I sought my way through a sea of bodies to the platform that held the throne. To my place beside the king.  

  Only…the place beside the king seemed to be already occupied. A woman kneeled beside him, only her dark head of hair visible from my spot in the crowd. 

Dread dropped into my stomach as I made my way forward, not caring about the toes on which I stepped or the elbows I had to dig into ribs to make space. Curses were thrown, as plentiful as dirty looks, and more than once my jewelry got snagged on another’s woman’s trinkets. The murmur of the crowd grew louder; something was happening up front, something I could not see or hear. I pushed forward with greater urgency. Sweat dripped down my back, my face, spoiling my make-up and the scented oils I’d dabbed on my skin. My linen robe clung to my moistened skin. I could feel the stray hairs that had escaped from my braid tickling my neck. 

But I gave only a fleeting thought to my ruined appearance. The fear growing inside was so much worse.

A great cheer erupted from the crowd, freezing my sweat. I did not want to move forward; I could not bring myself to stop. 

I burst through the last row of spectators just in time to see King Xerxes place a golden crown on top of the woman’s head. She rose then, her smile both thrilled and terrified as she glanced around the room at the elated crowd. 

Bile rose in my throat. I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell. I wanted to fall right through the floor, to become invisible, never seen in all of Babylon again. But it did not matter what I wanted. For, just at that moment, the woman’s dark eyes locked into mine. 

And there was nothing else I could do but lower my head, a show of pained reverence to the newly crowned Queen Esther. 

****

I should have been gracious. Should have at least faked being gracious, like all the other women in the harem, the ones who smiled at Esther—excuse me, Queen Esther—and hugged her and offered up a nauseating amount of congratulations. I should have accepted my fate as one of the king’s concubines; with guaranteed food, shelter, and clothing, there certainly were worse things in life to be. But I couldn’t. 

I didn’t know how she’d pulled it off. She was mousy, prudish, and way too self-effacing for a king like Xerxes. But I knew one thing: she wasn’t royalty. She was a thief. 

That crown was mine. It was my destiny, the reason I was brought here. And Esther stole it. 

And I was going to do everything in my power to get it back.

But for all my scheming and plotting, the opportunity to destroy Esther came from a place I least suspected: Haman, a pompous and rather disagreeable official in King Xerxes’s court. The rumor around the Citadel was that Haman was fuming over a perceived slight from a Jew named Mordecai. Because he held the king’s ear, Haman was somehow able to convince His Majesty that the Jews were a threat to the kingdom and must be destroyed. Even I gasped when I read dispatch calling for the “annihilation” of the Jews—men, women, and children. Such brutality was shocking, even for King Xerxes. 

And yet my distress quickly faded when I happened upon the queen one day deep in conversation with Hathach, one of the royal eunuchs tasked with attending her. She didn’t see me; the late afternoon sun cloaked the hallway in shadows, and I ducked into a doorframe before anyone became aware of my presence. I was suspicious even before snippets of their conversation reached my ears; there was no reason for Esther to be in this part of the Citadel. She was far too important to be seen anywhere near the harem now.

And yet here she was.

“What word from Mordecai? Does he still dress in sackcloth and ashes?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” came the answer from the eunuch. “I tried once more to give him the clothes you sent, but he refused. He bid me only pass along his proposal to you once again.” 

From my spot in the shadows, I could see Esther’s jaw slacken, her face grow pale. “But I’ve already told him—”

“He also asked me to pass along this.” The eunuch paused, biting his lip as if the next words pained him. “He…he said, ‘Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone of all the Jews will escape. For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?’”

The two of them continued in hushed whispers, but I heard none of it, so dizzy was my mind with the new information I’d received. I cared not for Mordecai or the unexpected drama seeming to play out between him and Esther. The only thing that mattered was this:

Esther—Queen Esther, the king’s prized jewel—was a Jew.

I could barely believe my luck. It felt as if the gods were smiling at me in this moment, reaffirming the truth that I—not Esther—was meant to be queen. The world was righting itself. Once the king became aware of Esther’s background, she would fall victim to his decree, sealed by his signet ring and thus irreversible, lest he risk an uprising among the people. The king would, of course, be devastated; he seemed to genuinely care for her. But I would make sure I was there to assuage him, to comfort him, to reassure him of the validity of his actions. 

And, when he was ready, remind him of the rightful head that should have worn the crown all along. 

Normally, it was a risk to appear before the king without being summoned. Death was a common fate among those who dared interrupt His Majesty in his inner court. But I pulled some strings—a concubine was not completely without power—and soon found myself outside his throne room door, knotted with anticipation. I’d worn the crimson dress, one I knew he adored, and arranged my hair half up and half down, perfumed with the floral oils of which I knew he was so fond. But still, for all the care I had taken with my outward appearance, I knew it was my demeanor of which I had to be most mindful: the king could sense no glee within me as I delivered the news about his beloved’s ethnicity. Taking a deep breath, I rearranged my face into a mask of regret and humility before daring to open the heavy wooden doors. 

When the official had granted my audience with the king, I had expected to find him upon his throne, alone, awaiting my company. I had not expected a feast. 

And I had certainly not expected to see Queen Esther. 

I froze inside the doorway, unable to take another step forward. Yet neither the king nor Haman, the other two members of the company, seemed to register my appearance. Instead, their eyes were transfixed on the woman who stood before them, head bowed, as meek and quiet as ever, but with a voice that seemed to echo off the cavernous walls:

“If I have found favor with you, O king, and if it pleases your majesty, grant me my life—this is my petition. And spare my people—this is my request. For I and my people have been sold for destruction and slaughter and annihilation.”

She was confessing. 

Esther was confessing her heritage to the king. 

She was not being duplicitous. She was not lying. Nor was she was hiding or cowering. She was standing—respectfully, soberly—but standing. Boldly risking her life. For her people.

For her God. 

Though she continued to speak, I was no longer listening. Instead, I found myself backing out of the room, mind racing, heart pounding inside my ears. I only made it halfway down the hallway before my knees gave out. With deep, chest wracking breaths, I slid down to the stone floor, gripping strands of my hair with my hands. A thousand different emotions swirled inside me, churning my stomach. There was anger, defeat, frustration, and disappointment that the plan—the plan that would have restored my destiny—had collapsed into nothing. But equally as strong were the feelings of bewilderment, of confusion and disbelief. 

What sort of woman would put herself in that kind of danger? What strength lay hidden beneath Esther’s seemingly mild exterior? What courage? What faith? 

And…in what kind of God?

I’d gone through the motions of our Babylonian religion, offering up sacrifices and prayers to the hundreds of deities I’d been taught to worship. And yet never, even in my wildest dreams, would I have considered sacrificing myself. If it ever came to endangering my life, Marduk—or any of the other gods—would be long gone. They’d never really done anything for me any way. 

And yet here stood Esther. Unflinchingly proclaiming her identity in her God…and brazenly asking for respite for both her and her people. 

The contrast between the two of us shook me to my core. All this time I’d been so sure that I had been the one who deserved to be queen. Be that as it may, I knew, deep within, that I never could have done what I’d just witnessed Queen Esther do.

I returned to the harem subdued but rattled, unable to free myself from the unease that had weaseled its way into my soul. The news of Haman’s execution, the subsequent revenge of the Jews, and the establishment of a new Jewish holiday washed over me like spoiled water; none of it soaked in. None of it cleansed. Queen Esther and the Jews had been saved…but I had been irretrievably broken. 

Until now. 

Today, I have requested an audience with the queen, one she has graciously approved. And I am going to attempt to express to her all the things that have been needling my heart. I want to confess the ugliness within me. I want to know how she did what she did. I want to know her.

And I want to know her God. 

I had been so sure that arriving at this harem and being crowned queen was my destiny. But I was wrong; it was Esther’s. Always had been. Because it was only she that could have stopped the senseless and inhumane massacre of her people. And yet there feels like something else inside this story, something that involves me, something that tells me my position here, inside the harem, bearing witness to these events, was not without purpose either. 

I won’t stop searching until I find out what it is. 

For as I knock on the door to the queen’s quarters, that long ago whispered conversation echoes inside my head: “And who knows that you have come to the position for such a time as this?”

The Obelisk that Almost Wasn’t

It’s one of the most iconic sights in our nation’s capital. A 555 feet and 5-1/8 inches obelisk that–per Washington D.C. law–is the tallest structure in the city.

The Washington Monument.

But did you know this testament to our first president was decided upon before he became our first president?

In 1783, the Continental Congress voted to erect a statue of George Washington, commander-in-chief of the American army during the Revolutionary War, in the nation’s yet-to-be constructed permanent capital city. However, after Washington became president in 1789, he scrapped the plans for it; money was tight for the newly formed nation, and he didn’t believe public money should be used for something so trivial when there were other, pressing needs. It wasn’t until after his death in 1799 that the plan was brought up again. Congress considered building him a pyramid-shaped mausoleum to be housed in the Capitol rotunda; however, the plan never came to fruition. Instead, the geometric layout of Washington, D.C.’s streets and green spaces, originally designed by Pierre L’Enfant, reserved a prominent space for a monument at the intersection of lines radiating south from the White House and west of the Capitol.

However, years went by before any progress was made. In 1833, a small group of Washingtonians, upset that nothing had yet been done to memorialize the first president, formed an organization known as the Washington National Monument Society, which solicited both designs and private funds to complete the project. It took ten years for the group to settle on a design: a pantheon (a temple-like building) featuring 30 stone columns and statues of Declaration of Independence signers and Revolutionary War heroes with a statue of Washington driving a horse-drawn chariot residing above the main entrance and a 600-foot-tall Egyptian obelisk rising from the pantheon’s center, which was submitted by Robert Mills (who would later go on to design the U.S. Treasury Building and the U.S. Patent Office, now home to the National Portrait Gallery and the Smithsonian American Art Museum).

Despite difficulties raising funds, construction began on the Washington Monument in 1848. On July 4 of that year, the monument’s cornerstone (embedded with a box containing such items as a portrait of George Washington, newspapers, U.S. coins and a copy of the Constitution) was laid in a ceremony attended by a crowd of over 20,000 including President James K. Polk; former First Lady Dolley Madison; Eliza Hamilton, widow of Alexander Hamilton; and future presidents Buchanan, Lincoln, and Johnson. Construction commenced, but in 1854, with the structure at about 156 feet high, funds ran low and work came to a standstill. This was due in no small part to a new group aligned with the controversial Know-Nothing Party, which was anti-immigrant and anti-Catholic, which gained control of the Washington National Monument Society in the Society’s periodic board election in 1853. In 1853, a new group aligned with the controversial Know-Nothing Party gained control of the Washington National Monument Society in the Society’s periodic board election. The group was angry that Pope Pius IX had donated a block of stone from the ancient Roman Temple of Concord for the monument. They confiscated the stone, seized possession of the monument project, and then slowed construction to a meager pace. Having always struggled to gather funding, the Society’s change in administration alienated donors and drove the Society to bankruptcy by 1854. Without funds, work on the monument came to a complete halt.

For more than two decades, the monument stood only partly finished, doing more to embarrass the nation than to honor its most important Founding Father. Congressional attempts to support the Washington National Monument Society failed as attentions turned toward the sectional crisis, then civil war.

By a joint resolution passed on July 5, 1876, Congress assumed the duty of funding and building the Washington Monument. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, led by Lt. Col. Thomas Lincoln Casey, was responsible for directing and completing the work. But, to continue building upward, the masons needed stone. And, after so many years, the quarry near Baltimore used for the initial construction was no longer available. Seeking a suitable match, the builders turned to a quarry in Massachusetts. However, problems quickly emerged with the quality and color of the stone, and the irregularity of deliveries. After adding several courses of this stone from Massachusetts, still recognizable by the naked eye today as a brown-streaked beltline one-third of the way up the monument, the builders turned to a third quarry near Baltimore that proved more favorable, and used that stone for the upper two-thirds of the structure. The stone never matched exactly, and the three slightly different colors from the three quarries are distinguishable today.

After its many hiccups and false starts, the Washington Monument was finally dedicated on a February 21, 1885–140 years ago today and over a hundred years are the idea’s original inception. It remains one of the most iconic and recognizable structures in all of the United States, almost as much so as the man to which it is dedicated.

Doing Life Wrong

You know the feeling.

You’re going along, minding your own business, feeling like all is well. You know–like everything is just *clicking* in your life. You’re where you’re supposed to be, with who you want to be with, doing what you want to be doing, and–best of all–you can feel God all around you.

And then you see her.

The woman who is juggling eight million things and making it look effortless because she is succeeding in all of them. The woman who has the job, the kids, the marriage, the side hustles, the friends, the looks. The woman whose shine dulls those around her, not intentionally, but simply because hers is so bright. The woman who is friendly but not overbearing, busy but never too occupied for her friends, and self-confident but not self-righteous.

The woman is the complete opposite of you.

The woman whose very presence makes you feel as if you are somehow doing life wrong.

And you know it has absolutely nothing to with her. And everything to do with you.

Because there is nothing mean or malicious about this woman. The insecurity you feel around her is just that–insecurity. Because you see all the things she has that you lack.

And that is a tough place to be.

Recently, I was reading in the Book of Luke a familiar story found in chapter 8, where a man who was demon-possessed encountered Jesus in the tombs where he was living. Jesus, being Jesus, cast out the demons, sent them into a herd of pigs, and then the pigs hurled themselves off a cliff and were drowned (see story in Luke 8: 26-39). There’s a lot to dissect in this story but, today, one particular verse stood out to me. It comes near the end where, after the man had been healed, he “begged him [Jesus] earnestly to be with him. But he [Jesus] sent him away and said, ‘Go back to your home….'” (verses 38-39a)

This man whose life had just been changed in a significant and dramatic way begged Jesus “earnestly” to follow Him.

And Jesus said no.

Picture yourself in that man’s shoes. We often think it was just the twelve disciples following Jesus around, but this wasn’t the case. At any given moment, there were dozens if not hundreds of people following Jesus, listening to Him teach and watching Him perform miracles. Not only that, Jesus by His very nature was open and loving; following Him wasn’t exactly an exclusive, VIP-only calling. He was, at all times, surrounded by the sick, the poor, the undesirables, the sinners.

And yet he told this man no.

Talk about a blow.

Now, thankfully, I can’t relate to being demon-possessed, but I can relate to a life-changing encounter with Jesus. He saved me from myself, pulling me from the pit in which I was living. And, despite the many slip-ups I’ve had since, has never let me go.

And yet, I can’t help but look at the things He’s done for other people–such as the woman above–and wonder why He’s given them the things He has…and not me. Especially when it’s things I’ve “earnestly” asked for. I imagine the healed man might have, in the very depth of his being, felt this same thing.

“Jesus, thank you for what you’ve done for me….but how come they get all of that and I don’t?”

It’s a thought that physically pains me. To think of this man watching these other people walk away with Jesus, leaving him behind. These other people who have what he so desperately–“earnestly”–asked for.

But this is why we have to keep reading. Jesus didn’t just tell the man to go home. He told him to “go back home, and tell all that God has done for you.” (verse 39)

Jesus wasn’t telling the man no because He didn’t want him. It wasn’t because the man was unworthy, unloved, or even because he lacked use. In fact, it was the opposite. Jesus had a better job for him to do.

You see, while Jesus was here on earth, He was bound by His physical body. He couldn’t reach everywhere during his short, three-year ministry. Following Him was great…but so was going out and being a witness about all the things He had done–who He was–to those who might not otherwise get to hear it.

What an amazing testimony this man had. From demon-possessed, living among the tombs, to walking, talking physical proof of God’s power come to earth.

This man wasn’t rejected by Jesus. He was set apart by Him. On purpose, for a purpose.

And I think that’s something you–and I–need to remember. When we see those people whose calling and influence seem larger than ours; whose lives cast a shadow that makes ours seem small or insignificant or less than, whether intentionally or not. When our insecurities rear their ugly heads, may we always turn our eyes back toward Jesus. He has made each one of us, with our own strengths and weaknesses, and placed a unique calling in our hearts. Yours may look different from mine, and mine probably looks different from yours.

But neither of us are more significant, more loved, or more blessed by Jesus.

He may have told you–and me–no to certain things.

But He has said yes to things far greater. And those are the things we must focus on.

So, like the healed man, instead of falling into the trap of comparison, let us instead go off, “proclaiming throughout the town how much Jesus had done for [us].” (verse 39b)

The Great Baltimore Fire

At 10:48 a.m. on Sunday, February 7, 1904, a fire was reported at the John Hurst and Company building on West German Street at Hopkins Place in downtown Baltimore. Supposedly, someone had tossed a smoldering cigarette into the basement. Although the city had a professional and well-trained fire department, by the time they arrived, the building was engulfed in flames, with winds from the harbor fanning the fire in the direction of neighboring buildings in the downtown district.

It soon became apparent the blaze was too much for their woefully inadequate equipment. At the time, pumpers and tankers were still pulled by teams of horses. In addition, the cities themselves were tinderboxes. Buildings were constructed of wood in close proximity to each other, fire breaks weren’t built into city planning, and building codes were either nonexistent or not enforced. Many streets and alleys were often crowded with cars, wagons, and discarded items, while others were just too narrow for fire wagons to squeeze through under even the best conditions.

It quickly became apparent that the fire that began at the John Hurst and Company building was out of control…and out of the capabilities of the Baltimore Fire Department. Pushed along by prevailing winds, the flames spread north through the retail shopping area as far as Fayette Street and began moving eastward. Firefighters sent out telegraphs to surrounding communities, asking them to send equipment and manpower. Nearby cities such as Philadelphia, Washington, D.C. , New York City, Wilmington, and Atlantic City responded…but it took hours before horse-drawn pumpers, wagons and other related equipment would arrive, as much of had to be carried via train.

When they did arrive, however, an entirely different problem presented itself: at the time, firefighting practices and equipment were largely unstandardized, with each city having its own system. As such, the hoses and couplings brought by neighboring departments were useless; they didn’t fit the fire hydrants in Baltimore.

The fire lasted into the following day; it took about 30 hours for it to be extinguished completely. When all was said and done, an 80-block area of downtown Baltimore was in ashes, leaving more than 1,500 buildings completely destroyed and an additional 1,000 heavily damaged. The estimated cost of the fire was $100 million (over $3 billion today) and, as the fire affected only commercial buildings, 35,000 people were left unemployed. Although, officially, no lives were lost directly from the fire, four firefighters ultimately succumbed to pneumonia, which they were thought to have contracted during their exposure to the blaze.

Surprising everyone, much of the destroyed area was rebuilt in relatively short order. More importantly, the city adopted a building code, stressing fireproof materials. But the greatest legacy of the Baltimore Fire was the push it gave to adopt standardized firefighting equipment in the United States.

Walmart and Lepers

Okay, I have a confession to make:

I can be a little bit of a snob.

I know, I know, it’s terrible, and it’s not something I’m proud of, but it is the truth. It’s also something the Holy Spirit has really been working on in my life lately. So much so that I saw myself-and Walmart-within the pages of Scripture recently.

Okay, so a little back story: I live in a small town where Walmart is pretty much your only option for cheap groceries. We do have other grocery stores but, let’s be honest, inflation has hit hard, and every dollar and cent counts. But, the thing is, I have always prided myself on NOT shopping at Walmart. I don’t agree with a lot of the things Walmart as a whole stands for and, to be honest, the Walmart in our town is a little…yikes. I know, I know, it sounds super snobbish, but you see the absolute worst in human habits and behavior at our Walmart (or, is it every Walmart?) I rarely leave without witnessing something unsettling or disgusting. Or both. So, believe me when I say that it has taken me a LOT to shop at our local Walmart store.

A lot.

And it’s the truth of that leads me to Mark 14.

Hang with me; I’m going somewhere with this.

We pick up in verse one with a very familiar story:

“Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread were only two days away, and the chief priests and the teachers of the law were scheming to arrest Jesus secretly and kill him. ‘But not during the festival,’ they said, ‘or the people may riot.’ While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head. Some of those present were saying indignantly to one another, ‘Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money given to the poor.’ And they rebuked her harshly. ‘Leave her alone,” said Jesus. ‘Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. She did what she could. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.'” (verses 1-9)

Beautiful, right? A wonderful teaching moment between Jesus and His disciples, one that I’ve (and you’ve) probably heard more than a dozen times.

But, this time when I read it, something else struck me: Jesus was in Bethany, “reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper.”

Simon the Leper.

The detail is thrown into the narrative so casually, and yet the implications of it are huge. Though there is debate about the true identity of Simon the Leper and whether or not he still had leprosy at this point (or if Jesus had healed him), the fact remained that he was still known as Simon the Leper. As such, it’s highly likely that there was still some degree of stigma (if not sickness) associated with this man.

And yet there Jesus is, reclining at his table.

With his disciples all around Him.

Despite the beauty of this account, what struck me the most about this particular reading was the disciples: what must they have thought, following Jesus into a leper (or former leper’s) home? Did they dread it? Were they uncomfortable? Anxious? Worried that others might see them? Did they find it unsettling or disgusting or both?

Now, I know it might seem silly (or not) to compare Walmart to a leper’s house. And by no means am I trying to convey that Jesus is calling me (or anyone else) to shop there. But what this story does call me to do is exam the condition of my heart.

What is it that makes me so reluctant to shop at Walmart? Yes, I have lots of reasons I can list off to you, but none of them truly explain the dis-ease I feel when I walk through the door. They are just excuses. Because, what it really comes down to is…

I don’t want to shop at Walmart because I feel as if I’m too good to shop there. That I’m above some of the “riffraff” walking the aisles. I deserve better than sticky floors and screaming, half-dressed toddlers.

I am better than that.

Better than Walmart.

Better than others.

Know what Jesus calls that?

Pride.

And He hates it.

What if the disciples had held that same mindset the day Jesus invited them to follow Him into the house of Simon the Leper? What if they’d felt “too good” to enter? What if they’d believed themselves better than the leper and his companions? What if they’d felt they deserved more?

They’d have missed out on a beautiful moment with their Savior. A humble act of worship. A lesson meant to help shape their hearts and their minds.

Thank goodness they didn’t let their pride get the best of them.

And we shouldn’t either.

Pride is a sneaky sin that turns up in the most unexpected places, manifesting in the most unexpected of ways. Every time we find ourselves turning up our noses at something, we must be diligent in quickly examining our motives. Because only by grabbing this beast by the roots, before it digs in, can we purge it from our lives and thus grow closer to Jesus. Let nothing stand between us and our Lord.

Not even Walmart.

The Forgotten Soldier

This is a story that starts with one war and ends with another.

Or, rather, ends with a war that, for one man, didn’t end.

But let me back up.

In February 1895, Cuba began its fight for independence from Spain. Though largely isolationist, there was growing demand for U.S. intervention in the crisis…a crisis that reached a fever pitch after the still-unexplained sinking of the American battleship USS Maine in Havana Harbor in February 1898. It had been sent to protect U.S. citizens and property after anti-Spanish rioting in the city. What is known is that the ship sank after her forward gunpowder magazines exploded. What wasn’t known was why. Still, war-thirsty Americans were quick to blame the sinking on the Spaniards, and what ensued was an almost pathetically one-sided conflict in which the United States quickly overtook Spanish fighting forces, who had neither the army nor navy to adequately compete. The conflict was over within months, and the U.S. took possession of several Spanish territories, including a 200-square mile island in the Western Pacific known as Guam. A U.S. Navy yard was established there in 1899, and a United States Marine Corps barracks in 1901. For nearly fifty years, the island served as a station for American merchant and warships traveling to and from the Philippines.

But then another war started.

During World War II, Guam was attacked and invaded by Japan on Monday, December 8, 1941, at the same time as the attack on Pearl Harbor, across the International Date Line. Under Japanese occupation of Guam, which lasted for approximately 31 months, the indigenous people of Guam were subjected to forced labor, family separation, incarceration, execution, concentration camps and forced prostitution. Some historians estimate that war violence killed 10% of Guam’s then 20,000 population.

American forces finally reached the island on July 21, 1944, with troops landing on western side of the island after several weeks of pre-invasion bombardment by the U.S. Navy. After several weeks of heavy, bloody fighting, Japanese forces officially surrendered on August 10, 1944.

Well…all Japanese forces but one.

On the evening of January 24, 1972, two CHamoru hunters from Talo’fo’fo, Manuel Tolentino De Gracia and Jesus Mantanona Duenas, were checking their fish traps when they stumbled upon a man down by the river . Startled, the man charged at them after dropping a homemade net sack containing shrimp traps and reached for one of the hunters’ guns. However, weak and emaciated, the hunters quickly subdued him, and brought him out of the jungle tied and slightly bruised. As he was led through the jungle, the man asked for the soldiers to be kill him. Instead, they fed him and then took him to the commissioner’s (mayor’s) office.

The man turned out to be Shoichi Yokoi, a sergeant in the Imperial Japanese Army, stationed on Guam during the Japanese Occupation of the island. During the battle with American forces, Yokoi’s unit had been annihilated. Despite US leaflets and broadcasts calling for surrender as the fighting wore down, thousands of Japanese soldiers refused. It took months to flush out the remaining troops; thousands were killed, hundreds more captured. Sergeant Yokoi, the apparent last of these, wasn’t discovered until 28 years after the official surrender of Guam, 27 years after the end of the war, and 17 years after the Japanese government had him declared dead.

Yokoi’s is a story of remarkable survival. He told the commissioner that he was originally one of ten who had escaped into the jungle after the U.S. invasion, but all the others had since passed on. Before his stint in the army, he had been a tailor, and so he was able to weave hibiscus bark fiber together to make cloth and to sew them into garments he could wear. In the early months after the war, Yokoi and his ten companions learned how to catch, acquire and process local foods from the surrounding environment. They made shoes from materials found in piles of war wreckage. Eventually, they began making their own footwear, such as sandals woven from plant fibers, and even began repairing their clothes with dried toad skins. Three of the group eventually were shot and killed by patrolling American soldiers; two left on their own volition; and tension among the rest divided them into smaller groups.

By 1946, from the original ten holdouts, Yokoi remained with only two other soldiers, Shichi Mikio and Nakahata Satoshi, for several years until the three separated, leaving Yokoi alone for a year. They returned to live with each other around 1950, moving from place to place until they decided to build an underground cave. After several attempts to dig a suitable place–and several residences later–Yokoi finally left the other two in a disagreement over the preparation and storage of food. Recounting this experience, he said, “We dug a cave in a bamboo thicket, but after a few months our food ran out. The others moved to a new hiding place where there was more food. We visited each other.” The three agreed they should limit their contact with each other to avoid being detected.

Yokoi took three months to construct his cave about 500 meters away from the one he left behind. The interior of Yokoi’s cave was about three feet high and nine feet long, and about seven feet underground. The cave was supported by strong bamboo canes, and was accessible through a narrow, concealed hole with a ladder. The floors and walls were covered with bamboo and he even constructed an indoor toilet. The other two soldiers had been his only human contact until about eight years before he was captured, when he found them dead, presumably of starvation. He buried his former companions in a cave which he revealed to officials after he was captured.

Yokoi himself lived on shrimp, fish, river eels, toads, rats and wild pigs and jungle vegetation such as coconuts, breadfruit, papayas. He even learned how to process fadang or federico nuts, which are toxic if not processed correctly. He bathed frequently and avoided getting lice or ringworm or other infections. He moved only at night, covered by darkness and the thick jungle growth.

When Yokoi was captured, his cave was found to contain a shelf which held handmade utensils, rusted metal food and water containers and handmade traps. Two grenades and a 155mm artillery shell were the only weapons, and Yokoi’s rusty and useless rifle, which he had hoped to present to the Japanese Emperor Hirohito.

But, equally as astonishing as the “how” behind Yokoi’s survival is the “why.” Why would he have remained in the jungle even though he himself admitted he knew the war was over?

Japanese soldiers had been trained that death was preferred to the disgrace of being captured alive. Despite the cessation of hostilities, Yokoi was unable to shake the shame that went along with the Japanese defeat at Guam. He had failed. Not only that, he had survived. Those two facts, he believed, were unforgivable.

Perhaps most telling to Yokoi’s state of mind were the words he spoke when he returned to Japan in February 1972. Though treated to a hero’s welcome, he appeared forlorn and bewildered, uttering this phrase, which was broadcast nationally:

“It is with much embarrassment that I return.”

Missing the Forest for the Trees

“Honey, you’re missing the forest for the trees.”

I will never forget the look on my daughter’s face the first time I spoke these words to her. Inside her deep brown eyes, I could see her mind lingering over each word, trying to piece together my meaning, with little success. Finally, after a few minutes, she looked at me, clearly exasperated.

“But, Mom, the forest IS the trees.”

She was right, of course. The forest is made up of trees. If you’re any kind of a fan of hiking or being in nature, you will agree that seeing trees is a big part of being in the forest. However, as I tried to explain to my daughter, this expression is much deeper than its literal meaning. “Missing the forest for the trees” is a colloquialism to describe being so consumed by the details, procedures, or routine of something that you miss the entirety of the object or situation as a whole.

It still didn’t make any sense to her.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not a real experience, especially when it comes to faith.

In Mark 6, we see Jesus, having already begun His earthly ministry, return to his hometown. Picking up in verse 2, we read that “when the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. ‘Where did this man get these things?’ they asked. ‘What’s this wisdom that has been given to him? What are these remarkable miracles he is performing? Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t this Mary’s son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon? Aren’t his sisters here with us?’ And they took offense at him.” (verses 2-3)

Despite everything Jesus was showing them through His miracles and His teaching, despite all the ways Jesus was revealing to them WHO HE WAS, the people of His hometown found it difficult to believe Him.

Why?

Because they already knew Him.

They’d seen Him grow up. They knew His mother, His brothers, His sisters, His family. He was the carpenter’s son.

He was nobody.

Just as we often can’t see the forest for the trees, the people in Jesus’s hometown couldn’t see Jesus for themselves and their own knowledge. So blinded were they by what they already knew, they found it impossible to open their hearts–and their minds–to Truth standing right in their midst.

And, while it’s easy to scoff and judge these first century non-believers, I think often times we in the twenty-first century can be just as guilty.

How often have we rejected an activity or attribute of God simply because it doesn’t fit into the narrow window of who we think God is (or, even worse, who we want Him to be?) How often have our own prejudices, biases, stubbornness, or–dare I say it–our religion gotten in the way of seeing Jesus for who He actually is?

Maya Angelou once said, “When people show you who they really are, believe them.” And, if that’s true for people, how much more so for God Himself?

All through the pages of Scripture, God has revealed Himself to His creation. We have seen His goodness, His love, His mercy, His kindness…but we’ve also seen His justice, His wrath, and His judgment. All of these exist within Our God without contradiction. So why are we so quick to dismiss one or more of these characteristics when they don’t line up with what we think God should do/not do or be?

We don’t want to miss the forest through the trees….but we most certainly don’t want to miss Jesus through our own misconceptions. Especially when we read on in Mark 6 and see the repercussions.

“Jesus said to them, ‘A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home.’ He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them. He was amazed at their lack of faith.” (Mark 6:4-6)

The people of Jesus’s hometown missed out on His miracles all because they found it impossible to believe in Him.

Some people misconstrue this verse to mean that our faith determines God’s abilities, but this is not the case. The Bible recounts many instances of Jesus healing those with little faith (see Mark 3:1–6; 4:35–41; 6:35–44 for some examples). One possibility is that Jesus simply does no mighty works in Nazareth because no one asks Him. Perhaps only a few injured and sick show up, the rest staying home in their unbelief, until the crowd drives Him out of town and tries to throw Him off a cliff (see Luke’s account of this episode in Luke 4). Another explanation is that Jesus “could not” do many mighty works because it would be spiritually moot. Miracles may pique the curiosity of seeking people, but when faced with the unexplainable, a hardened heart will make up whatever excuse is necessary to avoid submission. According to bibleref.com, “A prophet is identified by the God-powered miracles he performs. If a person has already rejected the prophet, he will reject the miracle, thus becoming even more resistant to the message. This cycle can push people further away from God instead of drawing them near. Since Jesus’ intent is to promote faith through His miracles, He “cannot”—meaning He chooses not to—perform them in Nazareth.”

Whatever the case, it’s a sobering thought. I don’t ever want to miss God, but I certainly don’t ever want Him not to perform a miracle simply because my heart is too hard for it.

Friends, let’s pray for eyes to always see Jesus for who He is. Let Him be amazed at our faith, rather than our lack of it. And let our hearts always be ready and willing for Him to do whatever it is He wants to do in our lives.

Let’s not miss the forest for the trees. And let’s not miss Jesus for ourselves.

A Literary Love Story

Chances are, if you’re a reader of romance, you’ve heard of the name Elizabeth Barrett. Or, if you haven’t heard her name, you’ve at least heard a line or two of her most famous poem. It goes a little like this:

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”

See, I told you you’d probably heard of her (or her work).

But, as famous as her poem is, it is nothing compared to real life romance behind it.

Elizabeth Barrett was born in March 1806, the eldest of twelve children. From a young age, she displayed an aptitude for literature and words, reading novels by age six and writing her first significant poem at age seven. By age eleven, she had already achieved publication, a four-volume poem entitled The Battle of Marathon. Granted, it was privately published and done so by her father, but that gives you a peek not only of Elizabeth’s talents but also the nature of the relationship she had to her family and the supportive environment in which she was raised.

At age fifteen, she contracted a mysterious illness or possibly suffered an accident. Although history is unclear about what in particular ailed her, what is known is Elizabeth was left frail and in intense pain; she would be an invalid for her entire life. Her physical discomfort, however, did not negatively affect her writing. In fact, it has been suggested that laudanum, a strong opiate medication she took, might have enhanced her already fiercely vivid imagination. Confined to bed for many hours a day, books and poetry became Elizabeth’s lifeline. Her first adult collection of poems was published in 1838, and she wrote prolifically from 1841 to 1844, earning her mixed reviews.

Poems, a collection published in 1844, and a follow-up, A Drama of Exile: and Other Poems (1945), proved to be her big breakthrough–in more ways than one. She became an instant celebrity in both Europe and the United States, receiving letters from admirers across the continents…including one from a man named Robert Browning.

Browning himself was a writer, one whose works (like Elizabeth’s earlier attempts) had been released to mixed reviews. After a hodgepodge education, Browning anonymously published his first major work, Pauline, in 1833 to little fanfare. In 1840 he published Sordello, which was a flat-out failure. Undeterred, he tried his hand at drama, but his plays, including Strafford and the Bells and Pomegranates series, were also unsuccessful.

He was, however, a fan of Elizabeth’s.

Upon release of Poems and A Drama of Exile , Browning wrote a letter to Elizabeth–penned on this very day 180 years ago, January 10, 1845. In it, he wrote “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,—and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,—whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a graceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me …”

Intrigued, Elizabeth responded. And so began an intense period of correspondence between the two poets, during which time a friendship and, eventually, a romance began to develop. Over the course of twenty months, the two exchanged five hundred and seventy-five letters.

The courtship, however, was kept in secret, due in part to the strict and overbearing nature of Elizabeth’s parents who were, naturally, concerned about their daughter’s poor health and Browning’s ability to care for her needs. The two literary lovebirds were undeterred; on September 12, 1846, they were secretly married at Marylebone Church. A few weeks later, they moved to Pisa, Italy, which the doctors had advised might be helpful to Elizabeth’s health. Elizabeth’s father was furious about the subterfuge. He and several other members of the family disowned her for the betrayal.

After spending time in Pisa, Elizabeth and Robert settled in Florence. True to the doctor’s advice, Elizabeth’s health did indeed greatly improve, and the two poets composed what would later become some of their most well-respected and widely known works, including Elizabeth’s most famous, Sonnets from the Portuguese, which was a collection of love poems written during the first few years of her marriage to Robert and includes this, her most renown:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

After many happy years together in Italy, Elizabeth became seriously ill in the summer of 1861. She passed away in Robert’s arms on June 29, 1861. According to Robert, Elizabeth’s last word was “beautiful.”

Robert returned to London with their son, who had been born in 1849. Overcome with grief, he spent most of his time alone, and he worked on preparing Elizabeth’s final work, Last Poems, for publication. Eventually, however, he resumed his own writing, publishing The Ring and the Book in 1868 and 1869. The work was immediately received with enthusiasm, and it established Robert’s reputation as a top literary figure of the era.

The two had finally both achieved literary success. But the true legacy of Elizabeth and Robert lives on through their love story, started by a series of letters, which lives on in the works their great romance inspired.

Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas, dear readers! May the warmth and joy of our Savior’s birth surround you and your family this day and into the year to come.

I will be back with regularly scheduled columns in January.

God bless!

The Story No One Wanted

“Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

You and I may not have a lot in common, but I’m guessing you (as well as I) know exactly where that quote comes from.

It’s spoken by Zuzu Bailey at the end of It’s A Wonderful Life, the seminal Christmas classic starring Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed that premiered on this day back in 1946. Both heartbreaking and uplifting, it’s hard to imagine the holiday season without George Bailey or Clarence, the Building and Loan or Mr. Potter.

And yet did you know that, for the longest time, it was a story no one wanted to hear?

One morning in 1938, while preparing for work, author and editor Philip Van Doren Stern came up with the idea of a stranger saving a husband and father from a suicide attempt on Christmas Eve. In the story, this mysterious stranger would restore the man’s joy of living by helping him realize his value to others.

He started writing the story in 1939 and, after several drafts, submitted it to his agent with the title “The Greatest Gift.” The agent, in turn, submitted it to publishers.

They all hated it.

Now, as a writer, I know the sting of rejection, how it can make you doubt, not only your story’s worth but your own. When the dismissals roll in, it can be tempting to shelve a manuscript, deciding its publication simply wasn’t meant to be.

That wasn’t the case for Stern, though. Stern believed in his little book, even when no one else did. Refusing to take no for an answer, he decided to print his story as a 21-page Christmas card and send it to 200 of his friends in 1943. Two of those cards ended up at the U.S. Copyright Office at the Library of Congress. Another wound up in the hands of an RKO Pictures producer, who convinced the studio to buy the rights to the story, hoping to use it as vehicle for their biggest star, Cary Grant.

It didn’t work out. (Though it’s highly likely Stern was no longer complaining–the story was eventually published as a book in 1944 as well as in Good Housekeeping, which published it in its January 1945 issue under the title “The Man Who Was Never Born”).

Unable to produce a workable script, RKO sold the rights for the story to Frank Capra’s production company, Liberty Films. Under Capra’s direction, Stern’s story received new life–a new script, a new star (Jimmy Stewart), and a new title. The film finished production and was released on December 20, 1946.

Despite earning five Oscar nominations, “It’s A Wonderful Life” was not a commercial success. Liberty Films soon went belly up and, in 1948, Capra sold the production company to Paramount, which now legally owned the rights to the film.

Not that Paramount really wanted it. According to lore, it sat in a box on a dusty shelf, with neither audiences nor Paramount Executives really giving the film much thought.

Until 1974.

That year, National Telefilm Associates failed to renew the movie’s copyright. With no royalty fees required, TV stations aired the film repeatedly, and suddenly the lost gem of “It’s A Wonderful Life” started to gain traction–and viewers. It wasn’t long before it became a Christmas favorite–one of the first “cult classics.”

From a rejected manuscript to a forgotten film to a beloved holiday staple, “It’s A Wonderful Life” is a lesson in perseverance and the power of how a good story–like a good friend–can touch the hearts of many, no matter how many obstacles lay in the way.