A familiar fox arrives, the rose behind its left ear bobbing as it bows its head to you, then takes a missive from the bag at its side.

You take the letter, and begin to read...

Friends! Romans! Countrymen! Lend me your... *checks notes* eyes! (Yes, I know this is October. I worked through the month of September and almost got it done... but not quite. So you get TWO letters this month. Congratulations... so sorry.)

In personal news...

As a youth, it always bothered me that September means the seventh month. There's an error in math here, somewhere... But at least I'm not the only guy to think so. Behold, a historical joke!

Still fighting migraines-- but, as of this month, I am one year older and fighting migraines. Survival of the stubborn!

Preparing for fall and winter involves cleaning and reorganizing, taking extra allergy medication and stocking up on baking supplies and good books. Also, trying to work on exercise routines that keep me active when the outside is not as friendly.

What I’ve Been Reading:

This and that. I'll catch you up in October, as it's been erratic of late, and this doesn't really count as September's newsletter anymore, anyway.

Some Funny Stuff:

Snippets/Stories to Share:

This space was occupied, for some time, by a series of stories based on Havok Magazine's themes of the month.

This year at Havok, the annual theme is Encore! Each month, they'll review one past season and accept new submissions for those old stories. Season Two, Stories that Sing, was one I really wanted to participate in... but found out about far too late. So, I've taken the liberty of summing it up for you: Stories that Sing was all stories based on songs. So I'm doing stories like that All. Year. Long. The title of the song is clickable to the song the story's based on. I don't listen to songs with language in them, that I know of, and I'll search for clean versions if for some reason I've never understood the lyrics and have been by accident.

I'm sorry in advance, but also... not that sorry. If you have suggestions for songs, email me back and you might get to see one you love!

And now, for your perusal: Hedgerow and Echo In the Dark​

~~~

What to bring as a gift to a royal wedding? I find myself fidgeting as I complete my work that day, milking the goats, helping to serve dinner… the unopened envelope an anvil’s weight at my side. I haven’t shown it to anyone, and as I rest my head that night, I hold it close, not daring to open it or put it away from me.

Timothy, what can I do?

As I fall into a fitful sleep, I dream of Granny. She and I sit and wind the yarn she’s made, and though I long to tell her of my heartache, something keeps me from speaking aloud. Instead, I carefully keep the work going smoothly, as she always liked. No snarl or break in rhythm to disrupt the work, and soon enough our yarn is fully completed, a clean and smooth work well-finished.

“You are not your own,” she says at last. “But you bring yourself to the table. That is one of the great mysteries that our Lord allows in this life.”

I nod, unsure of what to say.

“You are a good girl, Beth,” she says. “Do not forget yourself. Promise me.”

“I promise, Gran.”

She pulls me close, gives me a peck on the temple, and slips something into my hand; the spindle, still with thread wrapped ‘round it. “Use it when you have need.”

The dream becomes murky, and I stand at our doorway, now, wrapped in traveling-clothes, looking out at an unfamiliar road.

Granny stands a little ahead of me, looking out at the sky, then turns back to me.

“You knew what that changeling-boy was, and yet ye still treated him well.” Something shifts in her eyes, a glint of silvery that makes me grip the doorway and look down at my feet. I do not dare meet the gaze from Granny’s face that I’ve realized is most surely not my grandmother, one that seems.

“It wasn’t Twain’s fault he was here,” I say at last. “I would have him be well, too. To keep our part of the bargain.”

The silence that stretches is long, then her feet approach, crunching on the fallen leaves. “Would that truly be the only reason?”

I keep my eyes down, but bite the inside of my cheek. “No.”

The shoes appear within my vision. Fine shoes, made of tree bark and the spun fluff of dandelions, all bedecked with summer flowers still blooming despite no root.

“Look at me, girl.”

I shake my head, and silence stretches again, then a sigh.

“My time grows short. I do not ask lightly. Look at me?”

Something approaching a tremble in that voice causes my heart to squeeze; and I look up, though I fear what will happen.

The face is no longer Granny’s. It is both the face of a kindly grandmother and that of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, like looking through foggy glass of one image at the other, truly lying beneath, and I blink as my eyes try to comprehend both at once.

Only the eyes remain the same, and as I focus on them, a slight glimmer appears in them. “I am glad,” she says. “He had at least one kindness in your world.”

“Who are you?”

“My name would mean little to you, as would my place. But so that you might understand— the boy you call Twain was my son, sent in the place of your brother.”

Though I try to contain them, it’s too late— tears spring to my eyes, and I clap my free hand over my face.

“He was sweet,” I choke out. “Gentle to the beasts. Be… be proud of him.”

There’s an odd noise, as if she chokes, too, and a cool hand lies over my own. “So, I speak this over you; on the night of the wedding-feast, you will find yourself with garb appropriate for your station, as the sister of the groom. For your service to my blood, done in kindness. Thus our debt to you is repaid.”

She removes her hand, and her footsteps retreat a little. “Should you see me again, expect naught else, for you have received in kind for your actions. But for this moment…” her voice, so proper and cold, fails, and takes on a softness and a trembling.

“You have a mother’s gratitude. We are not wholly without the emotions of Men.”

Perhaps some of Them, too, suffer under unjust rulers. They are, on the whole, not to be trusted, but something in me prods me to speak. “May I ask one thing of you?” I say, trying to keep the shake out of my own voice.

“You would have to answer one query of mine.” Her voice has lapsed back into the cool, transactional thing I would expect, and I wonder if it was, indeed, all an act. ‘Only tried finds the truth’, our priest always says. I must know whether or not to trust this strange offering, for to refuse outright would bring nothing but harm, but to accept blindly is foolish.

“Did… did you choose to give him up?”

I am met with a stony silence. I slowly pull down my hand, and am met with only the old woman, as the beautiful one seems to have faded in great sorrow.

“Does any mother?” she says at last.

I step forward, then, emboldened, and put my arms around her. “You have my permission to visit his grave, his alone, if They will allow it.”

She shudders under my touch, but does not fight me. “Why?”

“You should not have him torn from you in life, and in death.”

Her touch is cool as she gently pulls away and lifts my chin to look me full in the eyes. “You will have no reason to be ashamed of your appearance at his feast,” she says. “I swear it upon my life, once, twice, thrice.”

She kisses my brow above my left eye. “Now, we must both return to our worlds before this place muddies our minds further. Go.”

She fades from my sight, and I sink into a deeper sleep, wondering what exactly she meant.

I wake, mind bleary at first— then, as I stretch, realize the spindle that Granny gave me in my dream is still in my hand. I stare at it for a long minute. A sharp gasp rouses me from my thoughts, and Mama stands there, eyes wide, staring at me.

“What happened to you?” she says, aghast.

I frown in puzzlement, and she strides forward and touches my hair, then pulls away as if she’s been burned. “Witchery,” she murmurs. “Someone’s put a curse on you.”

“What?” I scramble out of bed, and stumble to look in the water-barrel. There, my visage looks back, unchanged but for a lock of hair near my forehead, which is startlingly white. I stare at it, then remember the kiss in the dream. It was near enough to there…

“No, Mama,” I say slowly, and I turn to her. “I think… I think it’s a blessing. From Granny.”

I dare not explain fully, lest she think me mad, but I show her the spindle. “I dreamed about her last night.”

She stares at the spindle, then looks back up at me, something in her eyes I can’t quite understand. “What does it all mean?”

“I…” I want to tell her what I intend, as the notion grows strong in my mind. That I will get Thomas back, that everything will be alright, that while I know things have been strained ever since those words passed Da’s lips, that we’ll be whole again… but merely I shake my head. “I’m not sure. But I hope it’s good.”

She gives me a sad smile, a searching one, but I don’t offer anything else. If They were to hear, it would all be over. No, this is a thing best accomplished by steadfastness and stealth.

***

The days pass like the dried leaves that blow on the wind, erratic and quick, aimlessly passing as though they’re driven by something greater, ceaseless, and fickle.

I pray faithfully, and wait. I have no idea what to expect, so I pray for wisdom. Every day, every hour, every time it crosses my mind. And I practice my introduction in my mind, lest I slip and my name with me.

“I am the groom’s blood-sister, called Wren—” (For that was the nickname I had as a child; small, unassuming, yet busy and sweet, Granny said, nor would I lie when I say that is what I was called.) “I am most honored to meet you.”

And when the day came, my nerves were a-jangle, and I spoiled nearly everything I touched. Milk was spilt, I cut my finger when helping to cook, I knocked ashes into the bread, and my mother went fairly mad and sent me out.

I lingered with Bess, the goat, and prayed, and though it felt like an eternity, soon, the sky began to change hue.

I went back to the house and scrubbed myself, thanking the Lord it was the sabbath tomorrow and no-one would suspect anything was amiss. Then, I lay down, the spindle in one hand, the invitation in my other. I still hadn’t opened it; something told me not to, and as I lay, waiting, I found a peace settling over me at last, and I closed my eyes, listening until the sound of my parent’s breathing grew deep, even, and heavy with slumber.

It was as I rose to my feet I heard it; a crystalline noise, so faint I thought I might’ve imagined it.

I stepped to the door, praying they would not waken, and that I might be able to slip out without incident. As I unbolted the door, Da rolled over, and then all was still.

I slipped out, closing the door behind me, and out into the dark I went, straight as an arrow, towards the hedgerow.

The moon shone dimly and caught in the clouds I breathed out. Frost lay thick on the grass, as though winter was straining, trying to force its way here already, and I shivered. This was no night to be out. But I couldn’t, couldn’t turn my back now.

As I grew nearer the divide, I found I was not the only one arriving. Beasts and shadowy figures appeared here and there, slipping through the evergreens and bare trunks, only to vanish from sight.

“Protect me,” I whispered to the sky, a final prayer before I went too far to turn back— and then I closed my eyes and stepped in.

It was warmer, and I opened my eyes to see the beasts and figures that I thought had vanished all shaking themselves and greeting one another, as though they’d just arrived from a long journey. We weren’t underground yet, that much I knew; but we were definitely in Their realm.

None seemed to notice me, and I stepped a little away to observe, praying that none would notice how shabbily I was dressed. The spot on my head where Twain’s mother kissed me suddenly prickled, and down over me spiraled a miniature wind. I closed my eyes and gripped my envelope and spindle as tears sprang up against the gale, and then all was still.

My hair was braided, my dress replaced with one of deepest green velvet with rose and gold threading, and I marveled at the fit. My feet wore slippers of rose petals, yet tough as leather.

The spindle remained untouched, but the envelope now warmed and wriggled in my grasp, springing out of my hand, and open.

The invitation was alive— first it was a paper rabbit, hopping here and there as though glad to escape confinement, then it spotted me and returned, a large bird. As I held out a hand for it, awed momentarily by the beauty They could create, it swept down and raked at my face with claws that were all-too-real.

I shrieked, and almost— almost —dropped my spindle as I tried to defend myself. Shielding my face, I thrust out my free hand and caught it, crushing it back to a simple gilt paper.

A few of those around me looked over, puzzled or disturbed, but they turned away again, seeing me.

I could feel the blood trickle from my brow, the drops sliding down to my cheekbone, and I turned to find a stray leaf, anything, to wipe it up with. Blood was dangerous, too. I should’ve opened it sooner. Shouldn’t have opened myself to any of Their tricks.

“It’s you!” a badger, presumably the one who delivered my invitation, trotted over to me on his hind legs, looking cheerful, but pausing at the sight of my bloodied face and the crumpled, bloodstained paper. “Oh.”

“Did you know what was inside?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from a growl.

He shook his head, bowing his head as though expecting a blow. “I delivered several missives. I am not permitted to know their contents.”

“I didn’t think so.” I wince as I touch the spot again. “I suppose I’m not as welcome as receiving an invitation would make one think.”

Withdrawing a handkerchief from the russet vest he wore, he proffered it. “For your wound. It won’t do to arrive looking like that.”

“I agree.” I take the cloth, and the unspoken apology. Dabbing at the wound until the bleeding slows, I look around again. The crowd lingers, shifting to make room for more or to greet others they knew, and my little badger friend lingers near me.

“Bartholomew,” he says at last. “Barty for short.”

“Barty.” Affection surges through me, and I hold out my hand. “They call me Wren.”

“A lovely nickname.” He shakes my hand gravely, then we return to watching the crowd.

“Are you sure you want to stay, after..?” he gestures, at length, to my face as I return the handkerchief.

“I am,” I say. “But thank you. It’s nice to know that someone is concerned. If…” I hate to think this, hate to ask, but if I do not succeed, someone should tell my family. “If I do not return to the mortal realm tonight, will you let my parents know where I’ve gone? Tell them anything else you like, lie if you wish—”

“Beasts do not lie,” he says firmly. “Nor do we follow the rules in name only, like…” his voice trails off. “I will make sure they know the truth, though how much depends on what comes.”

I almost want to hug him, to feel something real and solid and comforting before They appear… but suddenly, a great stump rises out of the ground in the crowd’s midst, ringed with silvery toadstools and flowers. It shivers, and the center of the stump rots and falls in, leaving a yawning mouth.

In groups, the guests start down, like there’s a staircase inside, and I and Barty shuffle along near the back. We don’t say anything else as we go further, and finally, we enter.

It takes my eyes a short while to adjust, but Barty, sensing my discomfort, takes my hand in both paws to guide me along until my steps grow surer again.

All the while, an uncertain feeling brews in me. Something not quite approaching dread and eagerness all at once. I grip the spindle tight in my other hand, the ordinary thing an anchor in this topsy-turvy nightmare.

We emerge in a great cavern, which is lit from far overhead with little eerie, greenish lights which resemble stars at this distance, but which Barty says are simple moth larvae.

“Most Men never get to see them,” he says. “You’re lucky.”

The earth and stone walls are rough, lined with geometric root patterns here and there. To most, this seems ordinary, as they don’t hesitate their conversations for a second to admire or even remark on it.

Soon, however, we emerge from the first cavern to another, far greater which is instantly recognizable as a celebratory place.

There are gemstones strategically set in the walls to catch the light of fireflies contained in elegant glass globes here and there, and the light of other stones that glow all of their own accord.

There are long, carved tables and benches assembled before a great high-table at the end, on a raised dais. As people seat themselves, there doesn’t seem to be any special order, so I head for one of the tables, but a man (I use the term loosely) in bright yellow garb darts between me and the bench.

“Invitation?” he sneers.

I gesture to my face, and he looks almost smug.

“But,” I add, “If that’s not satisfactory for you, milord…” I produce the crushed thing from my pocket, and he looks almost alarmed. He flattens it, a bit, and then gestures to the high table. “You’ll be up there,” he grumbles.

I shoot an alarmed look at Barty, who nods. “I’ll be along shortly,” he says. “I serve the court personally, though as only minor clerk. I should be near you, I think.”

The yellow man, whose eyes, I notice, have a yellow gleam in them, leads me toward the table, fairly subdued, though he shoots me several dark looks as we cross to the table. Other Fae Folk we pass, varied in appearance but all with yellow and golden eyes, also give me glances that could only be described as scornful at best.

Once, I glimpse someone that I think could be Twain’s mother, but she is distant enough that I cannot be sure. True to her word, she would have nothing more to do with me, anyway.

I grip my skirt with one hand, the spindle with the other, and hold my head high.

The high table is half-filled already, and more approach as we do.

I am set far to one end, but as the table curves, I have a clear view of the highest seats. Two are already occupied; a strange, too-perfect couple are seated there, and I quickly look back down once I spot the crowns on their heads. His soon-to-be parents-in-law, the High King and Queen. I stare at my gilt plate for a few minutes before I look up again, cautiously, slightly to the left and right of the couple.

There’s two empty seats to the right side of the high thrones, and as the other chairs are occupied by a woman and man swathed in so many furs, it’s hard to tell where one starts and the other begins… I’d bet my right hand that those seats are for my brother, and his bride-to-be.

The rest of the seats slowly fill, and then a hush falls over the crowd as a figure appears. She seems to float in, in a fine white dress that glimmers, and a veil to match.

Alone.

I hold my breath, glancing between her and the entry she came in from. Still, he does not appear, and my stomach curdles as I wait. Is he dead? Is he imprisoned?

She makes it all the way to her seat, sits gracefully, and applause rings out.

I applaud under the table, but my eyes are back towards the entry, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Only now, with all eyes on her, does he hurry in.

He is dressed better, now, though I feel it is all for formality’s sake, as not one head bothers to turn to watch him approach.

Barty, by my side now, nudges me. “The gift-giving happens before dinner.”

Somehow, I doubt I’ll make it to dinner, though I would not eat anything even if I did. I nod. Though I had no plan before, the solidity of the spindle in my hand, reminding me who I am, where I come from… I have one now.

“Thank you. Remember your promise.”

He nods, nose twitching nervously.

“I would like to present you with my gift,” says one of those from the long guest tables, arriving at the dais. The woman— or man? —who so resembles a tree I half-expect them to root to the spot extends a nest in one bark-covered hand, and the veiled bride-to-be accepts it. Whatever is inside glows a little, but I cannot see what it is. However, it does seem to please her, as she nods, and shows the contents to Timothy, who bows his head to their guest. They shuffle back to their seat, and the nest disappears under the table as a line forms.

No-one from our table moves, and I wait with them.

The line moves surprisingly quick, many of the animals bringing bits of food or little trinkets before hurrying back to their seats. The bride seems pleased enough with each gift, but her silence and veiled face still unnerve me.

Then, a few seats down from us, a figure rises. A squirrel. Then on the opposite side, another badger, this one’s muzzle scarred. Then the yellow man.

Barty rises. “It’s nearly time. Good luck to you.” He heads towards the procession, and I watch him, my muscles locked in place. Icy fear trickles like sweat over me, and I close my eyes, sending up a prayer, though in this twisted place I fear it may not reach.

Let this be right. Do not let me be afraid.

I rise to my feet and join the procession, already spaced too far away from Barty for my comfort— though, if everything goes wrong, then at least he is far enough to escape safely.

The line advances. Timothy glances up at me, and his eyes light, then he looks away quickly, attending to his bride-to-be. I look down at my hands, and take a slow breath, stepping forward as the hem of the dress in front of me moves.

I will be strong. I must.

The line advances again, and I look up. Only one between us, now. I can feel an almost-frosty hint to the air, now, and I now know why none linger near the bride as I see my brother shiver the slightest bit.

As the golden-haired guest scuttles away, I stare at the figure beneath the veil, the glitter of eyes barely visible, and bow my head.

“I am your groom’s sister. They call me Wren.”

The eyes stare, unblinking, and the room grows colder. I catch those at the table shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye.

“I offer you this gift.” I extend my empty hand, and the glittering eyes stare at it for a moment, then back at me, a flash of anger in them.

“You dare come without a gift?” shrieks the yellow man, and I turn a scornful eye towards him. “Of course not. I offer the gift of my service.”

A sharp intake of breath from Timothy, and the cold recedes a little as the bride extends her hands to me, the angry light extinguished at once. I offer the spindle, this time.

“I can do fine handiwork. Will you see?”

She nods, and I hand the spindle to her. She drops it at once, as though it burns her, and with a hiss she strikes me. Her blow is more powerful than her frame would betray, and I drop to the ground, head swimming. But the spindle rolls off the table, and rolls down through the passageway, leaving a trail of thread behind it, longer than should rightfully be there.

Eyes smarting with tears, I struggle to my feet, and turn to her, anger rising in my own self. “You would scorn my valuable gift?”

“You offered poison,” a voice hisses from beneath the veil, and her fingers twitch as if she’d like to strike me again.

“Nonsense,” I say, picking up the end of the thread. “It doesn’t hurt one bit.”

She lets out a long, dangerous hiss, and the thread twitches in my fingers, as though it’s alive. I grip it tightly, and stand taller. “Then I find you an unfit bride for my brother, if you cannot handle the thought or touch of simple labor.”

There is a sharp gasp around the room, and I plunge on, more boldly than I’ve a right to. “Unless you can prove me wrong…”

Her hiss ceases, and she throws back her veil, revealing reptilian eyes in a face that most men would find beautiful, except for the fang-tips that protrude from her lips. “I challenge you, then, human girl,” she spits. “You choose the task, and I shall perform it. If there is something you do that I cannot… then, I will give you a gift of your desire. But if I win, you are my servant, body and soul, for the rest of your natural life.”

“Do you swear to abide by those words you have spoken, if I do?”

She smiles. “I swear it on my own life, thrice do I swear.”

The room became glacial, and Timothy’s shivers, though I would not look at him directly, were no longer subtle.

“Then I propose a test of skill in perhaps the simplest of things a wife may do for her husband… Washing a shirt.”

She scoffs, and with a snap of fingers, we both stand before a washtub, a filthy, but otherwise fine linen shirt in hand. “If there is anything else you need, ask. A servant will fetch it. Begin,” she snaps, and we both set to. I tuck the end of my thread in my belt before beginning, but she’s already scrubbing with vigor.

I scrub like Granny always taught me; starting with the dirtiest areas, and carefully working my way across the shirt. When I encounter a hole, I skirt ‘round it, instead of fraying the edge. When I encounter wax imbedded in the shirt, I take a candle from the nearest table, snuff it out, and press the warm wax onto the old, which causes it to peel away. I continue on, keeping my eyes fixed upon my work.

Remember who you are.

I am a farm girl, one of the Lord’s people— one created in His image, to work and give Him glory.

From the temperature of the room, I surmise the princess’s success… or, rather, the lack thereof.

At last, I hold up a clean shirt, albeit one with a hole that should really be repaired, and I look over at hers.

The wax in her shirt has spread and blackened. The hole is torn wide. The shirt would, actually, be not too badly laundered other than that, for she used good vigor. But she has not been raised to simple work.

She turns to me, eyes sparking with rage, and I hold out my hands. “Let me try that shirt. After all, you said it must be something you cannot do.”

The anger extinguishes as she sees the loophole, and she passes me the shirt.

“Cold water,” I order, and, with that and the candle, I manage to remove most of the sooty stain. “You really did a fine job on the parts that my grandmother chides me on,” I say as I near completion, truly pleased that I don’t have to clean the rest of the shirt. “You would do better than most human princesses.”

I hold out the shirt for examination, and pleasure and anger war in her eyes. Finally, she looks simply exhausted. “You are clever. And a fine worker, I will admit. What will you have from me? In my power, so I give.”

“I want what I can carry home on this thread,” I say, pulling the thread off my belt again, and she eyes it warily, then nods at last.

I bow. “You are too gracious.”

I turn to Timothy. “Come on.”

He stares, puzzled, and the guests begin to laugh. The princess crosses her arms, mouth pinched tightly. “The jest is not amusing.”

“Come,” I repeat, and he takes my hand, stepping over the table.

I lay down the thread, and it grows. Wider and wider, until it is a carpet, and I, having been fed with good country food and having worked the farm, can lift my underweight brother and carry him along the carpet to my home, and They are powerless to stop us, though they curse and spit at our backs.

Back through the great rooms.

Back through the hedgerow.

Back across the field.

Up the steps to home, where the spindle lies at the door.

“Well,” I say, placing him down at last. “We’re home.”

~THE END~

Something Cool to Me:

​Acceptance of the Potato is a fine article that relates to one of the memes above; written by an English comedian who I rather admire (though I cannot recommend all his work across the board). It's for the history geek in me (and the potato-lover, as well.)

All hail vegetables.

Also! There's a new collection being released that I REALLY wanted to read more of, but it was discontinued...

Now, I can ingest more of this intriguing world! (And as I love to promote other's work... check it out and see what you think!)

The law is simple: a life for a life, no matter the circumstances.

But society still has a use for killers. By doing the grunt work for the heroes, they can save up more time to live. It’s a vicious world of prisoners scrambling against each other, doing anything for another day to survive.

Austin’s life was never supposed to turn out that way. He was a hero in training, supposed to help people on the right side of the law. But when he finds himself thrown in with the cutthroats after killing in defense of another person, he must learn to navigate this new life while staying true to his ideals.

Now, I can't recommend this to younger readers, as the author doesn't suggest it, but from what I've read before, I loved it and she handles the content very tastefully (and I will soon share the full version of my review with you, as I've ordered a copy of the collection)! Also, the author is a trustworthy, Christian lady who is upfront about what you'll find in her work:

From the author: This series does not feature explicit/adult content, but it does include intense features such as violence, abuse, systemic failure, and mental health crises. As such, the book is recommended to readers ages 14+

If you're interested in acquiring a copy for yourself, you can find it on Amazon, Lulu, or the R. M. Scheller's site.

I'm also wanting to pass along another's friend's work... My friend Thirzah's finished a trilogy of novellas, and to celebrate, she's reducing the price on the first book to ninety-nine cents on the first book! I've read the first one, and I own the second... it's a nice, light-fantasy read for young teen and/or tween girls. Nonmagical (at least in the first book, I can't personally verify further than that), and the sibling snark is extremely on-point. So if you ever want to check it out... I suggest the sale! You can take a peek at it here.

Closing thoughts:

Heard a sermon that discussed how Israel is God's special people, but that we are, too--- not a backup plan, we were actually intended to be all along. And while I know this, since God's outside of space and time and all that, it's nice to be reminded that God deliberately thought of us waaaaaaaaaay back then.

Especially when the days are long and hard, or run together so much it feels like I can't get my head above water.

"In you, all the families of the Earth shall be blessed" was a covenant promise from God to Abraham... that included us, the people of every tribe, tongue, and nation that weren't even remotely on the scene.

The fox bows again, and as it turns to leave, cocks its head.

"Shall I take a message in return?"