Covered

Once a church in Murree, Google Images

Anne stepped out of the office, breathing in the cool air coming down from the mountains of Kashmir on the other side of the Jhelum River.

She loved Murree; had done so since first arriving to teach at the missionary children’s school eight years earlier. The place exuded history and pageantry, both of which fascinated the young woman. Wherever she went in Pakistan, the dusty remnants of the long, lost British Empire could still be seen. She had wandered through the excavation site at Mohenjo-daro* in the Indus Valley, entered the humble dwellings of Marwari tribesmen, been blessed by their older women and touched her hands to the foreheads of the younger women as she blessed them. Anne had traveled through the streets of Shikapur, head covered as Muslim law demanded of even non-Muslims, “protected” by the company of whichever male, however young, was willing to explore with her.

Murree outshone them all. Here, in the streets of the bazaar, walking the forest trails, or passing though Jhika Gali just beyond the gates of the school, she could walk freely, alone, with her head uncovered. This was a world within a world tucked away among these magnificent Himalayan foothills.

However, peaceful Murree lay surrounded by a world of conflict, making the 150 children of missionaries, diplomats and foreign executives in boarding here, a mighty big temptation. The school took every precaution. Anne chuckled out loud, remembering the first time she had seen the fierce-looking mustached men walking the streets of Murree, rifles slung over one shoulder, double bandoliers full of cartridges crisscrossing their chests. They were not, she had been told, people she needed to fear.

Anne, caught up in her reverie, almost missed the sharp retort of rapid gunfire coming from the gate just beyond the drafty old British Garrison Church that now housed the high school.

The kids!

The yard was empty.

Recess is over. They’re back in class.

Anne sucked in air, suddenly conscious that the yard was empty—except for her. She could hear the thudding coming from the church, semi-automatic fire, yelling, screams suddenly silenced. Feet came pounding toward her. She pulled back and pressed herself into the rough stone corner jutting out into the yard from the administration building. It was poor shelter, but too late for anything else.

A figure in western clothing raced past her. Anne almost called out but bit her tongue when she realized that the man was carrying an assault rifle. He dashed toward the door to the office, kicked it open, strafed the room, and ran on without looking.

Oh Lord, please not Faridah.

That room belonged to the school’s secretary.

Horrified, the young teacher stepped out of her hiding place. She needed to get to Faridah. The sound of more pounding feet drove her back into the skinny shadows. This time the steps slowed and stopped.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Lord…

She couldn’t see, and didn’t dare expose herself in case it was another of the attackers. She sensed movement, and the figure came into view. The man’s head moved back and forth, rapidly scanning everything around him, his back toward Anne. With his peripheral vision, he had to be able to see her, sense her. The hunter and the hunted both saw the movement to their left at the same time. The gunman spun in that direction, leveling his weapon as he turned.

Anne cringed, stifling a cry as Mukhtar’s familiar figure flopped backward, unable to resist the impact from the spray of bullets. He was, had been, one of the kitchen boys.

The killer surveyed the yard again. He took a step back as though seeking shelter in the same shadowed corner where Anne huddled. She had the sudden, almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch him. How could he not feel her breath on his neck, sense her presence?

Lord, remind mom I’ll see her…

The man moved on, heading toward the back of the property and the safety of the woods beyond. He never looked back, never saw the girl, never felt her presence, or heard her gasps for breath.

Nor did he feel the brush of the angel’s wings as they covered her.





*The Mound of the Dead, one of the earliest city-settlements in the world.
Author’s Note: this story is based on actual events. Six Pakistanis died in the attack on Murree Christian School in August 2002. The quick action of the staff prevented the four terrorists from entering the classroom areas.

---

Abusing Grace

Alexi Harlamov

(Author's Note: Part of this morning's message at church reminded of this story. I thought I'd share.)

She lived on the streets, but she was not a vagrant or a streetwalker. Grace eagerly embraced the opportunity to be where people constantly passed, but she was not selling her services, or begging for leftovers. Unlike many forced to live exposed to the meaner things of life, Grace had chosen her path eagerly. Instead of darkness and despair, she radiated light and hope. As she walked the sidewalks and greeted each person who passed, those who bothered to pay even the slightest attention were impressed.

Day and night, summer and winter, Grace never abandoned her place in the thoroughfares of life. Most ignored her—an amazing error in judgment considering what she was offering. Her approach was never offensive though it often gave offense. People react oddly at times, so she discovered.

A few were tempted, but even among these there were some who thought her too good to be true, and walked away. They were half right: She was good, so good that she WAS true.

However, there were others who saw her charm, appreciated her willingness, saw the advantage of a closer relationship, and thought to take advantage.

"She's an easy mark. It shouldn't be hard to take her."

This from a shriveled little soul, with a slight green tinge around his mouth. He resented it when others had something he didn't. He wanted to be the first in line for this prize. However, the leader of his group enjoyed certain privileges, aided by his being a much bulkier man with weight to throw around. Calculation was etched on his face as he responded to his underling's prompting.

"Of course, adding her to our stables will represent a coup of huge proportions. She is special."

"Do you think her Master will object?"

"From what I hear, he wants us to take her."

The leader snorted. "Well, what did you expect? She's out walking the streets, offering herself to everyone who passes. My question is, how much is she worth?"

Another offered: "I heard he's offering her for free." He had left all his possibilities to pay for anything attached to a now-empty six-pack occupying space in a dumpster in a nearby alley. Free was a good thing as far as he was concerned.

That got the attention of a fourth member of the gang.

"What? She must be diseased, or undercover. Free? Impossible."

This comment came from a sly slip of a man who hoped that his suggestions, based on absolutely no facts, would divert the attention of the rest. He could use a piece of the action himself.

He continued: "Can't be as good as she looks, then. There's no such thing as a free ride, a free lunch, or "

The greenish man ruefully added: "Nope, seems legit. I know some people who know her intimately. Never seen such a haphapless bunch."

He had been about to use the words "happy" and "healthy," but caught himself in time. Such positive remarks about the band's rivals would earn him a cuff across the back of the head.

The comments bounced back and forth until at last, tired of talking, the parties came to a decision.

"Well, let's try her out. We don't have anything to lose."

They were wrong.

The gang approached Grace. The girl was sitting on the broad, stone steps of a church. She was well dressed, her hair shone in the sun, and she smiled invitingly at each person who passed by. As the men sauntered up to her, Grace looked up and smiled.

"Good morning."

She said nothing more, waiting.

The leader reached out and took her hand in his and pulled her up, toward him. She didn't resist, but continued to smile, her brilliant eyes meeting his in open invitation.

"Come with me, baby—your beauty to my beast. We'll make beautiful music together."

"I'd love to go with you—with all of you."

Hopes rose. This should be easy pickings.

"But " Grace hesitated, pausing to bestow a warm look on each face that met hers. She then continued: " though I specialize in beasts, I don't do beastlies. You'll have to leave those behind."

Objections spewed from three sets of lips.

"What?"

"Honey, I am what I am. I don't change for nobody."

"Freebies can't be fussy."

To this point, the leader of the band had been silent. When everyone else had finished protesting, he grasped Grace's arms in a vise-like grip.

"Look, little girl. Your boss sent you out on the streets looking for people like us. Joining the gang will make you look good, attract business your way, so to speak."

A piece like her on my arm would turn heads.

"Besides, a beast isn't a beast without his beastlies."

Grace's smile broadened.

"Precisely."

"So?"

"So, to have me, you have to let my Master deal with the beastlies."

The green-tinged man grew greener.

Another shook his head, thinking his drink-induced fog must be affecting his hearing.

"You're lying," objected a third. It takes one to know one, he added to himself.

Their leader released Grace, holding up his hand to signal silence among his companions.

"You do charge for your services then. Word on the street is that you are free, that your Master is offering you to any, and to all who want you."

"My services are free. But you are mistaken about the relationship. It's not me hanging around with you; it's you hanging on to me. You won't make me look good; your knowing me will make you not only look good, but be good. Your life will change from the moment you accept my Master's offer. You won't want the beastlies anymore."

Horror rose like smoke from hell at her words.

"What? Not want what I want? Impossible."

"Not be what I am? Nothin' doin'."

"Lose my identity for you? Dream on."

Grace picked up on the last comment, fixing her beautiful eyes on the bowed figure peering from behind his master's tattered dungarees.

"Do you honestly believe that what you are now is what you were meant to be? My Master's offer is to restore to you your true identity; that of a child of the King and a citizen of Heaven, free from beastlies and reborn to beauty."

Sensing the weakening resolve of his compatriots, the leader of the pack signaled his henchmen away from Grace. She sighed, sadness tempering her features. Reluctantly she returned to her duties on the street corner, amazed as she always was that people preferred a fatal disease to perfect health.

"Excuse me."

Grace sensed his approach and was already turning as he spoke.

"Yes?"

"I heard what you said. I'd like to sign on, sign up, volunteer, joinwhatever the appropriate word is for taking advantage of your offer."

Grace made no judgment calls; that was neither her job nor her nature. If she had been one to distinguish between people, she would have preferred this one to her previous companions. He was well-dressed, casual but neat, sincerity gripping the hand of politeness.

"You understand the terms and conditions?"

"Oh yes. I want to be a child of the King and a citizen of heaven. I beg forgiveness and renounce "

He listed an impressive number of beastlies, the mention of each one broadened Grace's smile just a little more. As he finished his list, she touched his arm. A current passed from her to him, something like a rush of swift water over rocks. She linked her arm in his. Together they walked to the door of the church where Grace had been sitting not long before.

"Go in there, and they will teach you more of what you need to know about my Master and the step you have taken today."

He smiled and opening the door, disappeared from view.

Four pairs of eyes watched from an alleyway close to the church.

"There's another one gone," said the liar. "The big boss will not be pleased."

His comment was followed by a snort of disbelief from the leader of the gang.

"Don't believe everything you hear. Just watch and wait. Grace thinks she so smart. She ought to develop a little more savvy about the people she deals with."

"She saw through us, didn't ?"

Three turned on the fourth with savage disgust.

"Shut up!"

The leader of the band loosened the grip he had held around the throat of his talkative follower. He cocked a crooked smile. Then, looking back around the corner, said:

"Wait. You'll see. Keep Grace in sight."

And so they did. Day and night they watched. Days passed and so did they. They stopped to talk to her as she spoke to the passersby. She always looked at them with hopeful eyes, and renewed her offer. If they thought to waiver and consider what she said, their leader was quick to smash the idea to smithereens with his fists or his tongue during their nightly consultations at the back of the alley.

Time passed. They noticed that the man with whom Grace had spoken on that fateful day, entered and exited the church quite frequently. He stopped to talk to Grace and she would touch him again, just as she had done the first time. She often entered the building as well.

Then one day, the little green one sidled up to his boss. He had something to report.

"Hey, man. Gracie is looking a little peaked."

Sure enough, four pairs of eyes peering around the corner of the church all noticed the same thing. It was the same Grace, but different. Her dress was smudged. A tiny rip showed in her sleeve and her stockings had a run in them.

"I told you so," crowed the leader of the group, his eyes crinkled up with glee. "Now, listen."

Four pairs of ears became fined tuned to the conversation on the street. People passed Grace by. More than a few took a look at her bedraggled appearance and laughed. Some who seemed as though they wanted to stop and talk with her, moved away, doubt marking their faces. The only ones who lingered were some of the people from the church. They came more frequently than ever. Oddly enough, they were less polite now, and the silver of sincerity seemed more than slightly tarnished.

Grace began to look more ragged, though the brilliance of her eyes and her manner never changed. The rips were longer, the dirt more pronounced, and there was blood on a bruised thigh.

"Let's go. Let's find out if Gracie hasn't swallowed some of her pride. Maybe she'll like our terms and conditions better now."

The band of miscreants sauntered down the street, past the church, and stopped on the corner where Grace was working.

"Well, well, look what we have here. If it isn't our friend, Grace. Looks like you've been having a bad day, or should I say bad days?"

Chuckles followed the wisecrack of their leader.

She smiled too—without the evil intent.

"So, your new friends aren't treating you too well. Maybe you should call a cop, or better yet, report them to your Master. Looks like business is dropping off too. Looks like you've lost a little of that credibility stuff. People are convinced that you're too easy? Or cheap? Or ineffective? Give it up, Gracie, your grace-nics aren't livin' up to the advertising."

Not content with having the boss hog all the action, her cohorts chimed in.

"Yah, they're comin' too often "

" and takin' you too lightly."

"I hear they like studying Tai Chi more than theolo-chi in there," chortled another.

"Face it, Grace, they think you're a joke—and so do all the people who know them and see you. Those people in there don't care, Grace. So much for your 'terms and conditions.'"

"So much for them givin' up the beastlies."

"So much for even wantin' to give up the beastlies. Your Master's plan don't work. They took what they wanted and only gave up what didn't matter to 'em."

"They lied," exulted the liar, looking with friendly, longing eyes toward the church.

"They used yah and abused yah, Cheap Grace."

The insults and taunts at last brought tears to Grace's beautiful eyes. Nevertheless, though bruised by her own and battered by those she longed to make her own, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve, straightened her skirt, and her spine.

"I know. But I'll still be on this street this afternoon, tomorrow, and the day after that."

"You're the perfect victim, Gracie," sneered the head bully. "If I try harder, things will get better," he mocked.

"If you're so concerned about me, why don't you accept my Master's offer and make the difference? Yes, there are some who claim to follow in his light, but are still blanketed by your darkness. But right now you're here, and they're not. You could show them what walking in the true Light is really like. Take what I offer—what He offers. Take it with a whole heart."

Stunned silence responded to the gentle words. Before the band's incredulous eyes, the rips faded, the stains softened. The blood on Grace's leg glowed scarlet, pulsing with life. The light from those beautiful eyes pierced through layers of evil to strike at souls long shriveled and dry.

"You you still make this offer in spite of the abuse that you have taken?"

Grace smiled gently. The voice that then spoke was not hers. Deeper, and overwhelming in its compassionate, it reached down from the heavenlies and said:

"Yes, come."

Kitties Come Home

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January arrived and the bitter winter settled in for the long haul. Night came early and with it a gnawing need.

The male slipped out from under the naked shrubbery and wound his way around the southern end of the garage where the snow wasn’t quite as deep. He paused. The street was asleep but inbred caution demanded that he be sure no threat existed.

Inspection completed, he padded softly across the freshly shoveled driveway. Wide-open spaces made him nervous. A security light flickered on, startling him. He paused for a split second, then skittered away, belly brushing the snow, until he reached the pine trees beside the walkway. The lower branches were weighted down with snow, providing a shelter near the base of the trees. A sudden gust of wind stirred the wind chimes on the porch of the house, breaking the silence.

The tom’s breathing settled as the light switched off. However, he kept his eyes on the route he had just traveled. He uttered a short cry that, despite its softness, seemed loud in the quietness that had once more descended. Though he was keeping watch, he almost missed the smaller, lightly-coloured female who sped across the driveway coming to a perfect landing at his side.

“You didn’t even trigger the light,” he said.

“You gotta stay closer to the garage.” She trembled slightly and her companion snuggled closer.

“Cold?”

“Not really,” she lied.

This was their first winter on the outside and it had taken her some time to move from abject terror to just plain fear as she faced this new aspect of life on the streets.

“Do you think that…?” She continued.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” interjected her companion. “We’ve been disappointed before.”

The previous summer, after being left behind, the two cats had stuck close to their home for a while, believing that their humans would soon return to the now empty house. The tom resurrected kitten-hood memories of life in a barn and the old hunting skills soon returned. The she-cat, domesticated and declawed, became his shadow, instinctively understanding that without him she would not survive long.

The arrival of a new family with two enormous and aggressive dogs killed their hopes as surely as water kills fire. The fall was bitter with sad reminiscences of better times. By the time snow fell the only thing on their minds was the next meal and a safe place to sleep.

The house they now watched from under the pine trees was miles from the home they once knew. From the outside this place didn’t seem that much different from its neighbors. But there was something…

The porch light came on suddenly and both cats stiffened, ready to run. The front door opened, then the outer door.

“Not yet,” the tom cautioned.

“What if she’s going to let out a dog?” came a throaty whisper. Without the means to defend herself, the she-cat’s terror began to build.

“No dog,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Dogs make a mess in the snow. There’s no mess in this yard.”

The figure in the doorway stepped onto the porch—a woman in slippers and heavy wool socks, wearing a baggy sweater wrapped around a bulky dressing gown. She looked around the dark yard, then skyward for a few moments as the moon broke through the clouds. The porch gleamed in its pale light. The woman returned to her business. She had been carrying a bowl, which she now carefully put down on the edge of the porch where it met the top step. She then turned, went back into the house, closed the outer door, but left the inner door open just a crack.

“What’s that all about?” said the tom.

“It’s for us—the bowl. She’s waiting for us,” she replied. The tom could feel the tension melting away in his companion.

“You’ve been wrong before. I told you not to hope.”

“There’s always an exception. Watch the moon and hear the wind. You’ll know,” she said.

For once he followed her lead—and her hopeful heart.

The figures of silver cats dancing on silver leashes twinkled and tinkled as moon and wind played tag among the chimes. The moonlight cast a blue shadow, turning the freshly fallen snow into a sea of sparkling diamonds, pristine except for the paw prints of two abandoned felines heading for the bowl on the porch and the sliver of light coming from a partly open door.

A Bridge is...

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A tiny cry
Lustier now
One large finger reaches
Five tiny ones grasp
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is born.

A solid thump
Dignity hurt
Tears fall, wailing starts
Some comfort sought
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is strengthened.

Oh lonely walk
School begun
Strangers at each turn
Seek kindred souls
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is started.

Cross my heart
And hope to die
The pledge is given
Friendship forever sealed
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is cemented.

This sweet love
The first to be
With every intention
Of lasting past forever
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is expanded.

Long black robes
And sweaty palms
Fine speeches made as
Superior becomes equal
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is spanned.

Nine to five
Joyous terror struck
Until new minion is
Equal to old master
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is possible.

A coffee shop
Pumpkin pie
Double sugar, double cream
Eyes meet, hearts unite
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is completed.

Some angry words
Senseless battle
Second thoughts, wisdom prevails
One face turns to another
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is repaired.

Two, then one
Alone again
House empty, heart full
One thing forever sure
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is gone.

In stillness now
The bonds released
Peace fully and forever known
A nail-scarred welcome
Hand reaches out for hand.
A bridge is crossed.

Tinkle and Clang

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A flurry of discordant sound announced the arrival of several sections of the bell choir.

“Move it, you three. You’re late and we haven’t got much time,” chimed the Bell Master from his place on the bottom rung of the carillon.

“Nag, nag, nag,” whispered the D flat to his buddy, C, as they climbed into their places on the top level. “What’s the hurry, anyway? Clang’s got his clapper in a knot for sure this morning.”

“Morning? It’s still dark outside,” protested the F major, breathlessly hauling himself up behind the others.

The smaller bells finally got themselves into place, just as Clang struck the note that indicated readiness and silence in the ranks. He looked around, carefully checking to make sure no one was missing. Worse than a faulty note was no note at all.

“Where’s Tinkle?” he boomed from his assigned spot.

Tinkle was the littlest bell of all. Her spot was high up at the top of the carillon.

Like an evil wind brushing through the tower, the rustle of the bells created dissonance as everyone looked around, hunting for Tinkle.

“I’m here sir. Just polishing, Bell Master.” Her clear, high sound rang out as Tinkle took her place at the apex of the musical arrangement.

“That girl takes herself too seriously. ‘Just polishing, Bell Master.’ As if fingerprints made any difference to anyone,” mimicked the D flat.

“You have something to share with us?” came Clang’s voice from down below.

Everyone froze. More than once Clang had said out loud that he wished they never had to have contact with their human counterparts—the evil always rubbed off a bit, like fingerprints on the burnished surface of a bell.

“Uhmmmmm, no sir. I was just, well, wondering what all the rush was about,” stuttered the offender. “It’s not even daylight yet.”

“Well, if—and I know keeping time for you doesn’t usually include knowing what day it is—you had been paying attention during rehearsals, you would have remembered that dawn today is the biggest moment of our year. Today we bring hope to the world.”

From somewhere in the middle of the bevy of bells came the dulcet tones of one of the G’s. “But, boss, do you really think anyone listens to us? It’s nasty out there. Everyone knows what happened to poor Liberty. Those humans are a mean lot and we don’t seem to be making much of an impact.”

There were a couple of chuckles from the group at G’s unintentional play on notes. The subdued merriment stopped as Clang’s clapper sounded for silence.

“I’ll admit that I sometimes have my doubts as to whether anyone gets our message, but that’s not the point. The point is that we have a message that we have been assigned to deliver, we’ve been practicing faithfully for this last year, and we are going to chime out that message no matter what. It’s up to the Master Musician to do the rest. So, are we ready? It’s almost time.”

The bell choir stirred, positioning themselves, clappers at the ready, all eyes on Clang.

“Tinkle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t forget, your part is critical. Sometimes people don’t hear the high notes, so you can’t hesitate or show weakness.”

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

Slowly the blackness outside the tower retreated before the insistence of the watery light of a winter sun. As it peeked above the horizon, Clang readied himself, gave the choir one last check, and nodded to Tinkle.

The high, light sound rang out loud and clear, followed by a rolling scale of melodious notes that reverberated across the awakening town.

Far below the tower, in the manse beside the church, a pastor looked up from his prayers. He had wrestled all night with his Christmas morning message. What could he say that would bring hope to a world where evil ruled men’s hearts, where even Christmas was banned with an “X”? How could he make sense of a world where, in the name of preserving peace, war was wrought?

He listened, remembered, and smiled. Hope was in God’s final note—which had yet to be played.

***************

And in despair I bowed my head/There is no peace on earth I said/For hate is strong and mocks the song/Of peace on earth, good will toward men/
Then peeled the bells more loud and sweet/God is not dead nor doth he sleep/ The wrong shall fail, the right prevail/Of peace on earth, good will toward men./ (from: I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day)

One Little Snowflake

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Once upon a time, long ago and far away there was a little snowflake. She was one of many waiting her turn to announce the coming of yet another winter season. The delicate embroidery of each flake had been lovingly crafted by the Master Snow Maker. Still, the little snowflake felt lost and forgotten in the presence of the bigger and more complex designs.

As her time approached, the little snowflake grew more and more worried. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, for she was afraid of what might await her out in the outer limits of the heavens.

The little snowflake made one last appeal to the Master Snow Maker. Perhaps he would have compassion on her and let her wait until she too, was bigger and better.

However, he shook his head, and with a wise smile, eased her out the celestial windows along with a multitude of others whose time has also come.

“You may not become the cusp of the biggest snowball, or the cornerstone of the strongest snow fort. You might not be the first to signal the coming of winter, or freeze into perpetuity in the still waters of a waiting stream. But, you’ll be exactly what you were meant to be just as you are. You will do what you were designed to do-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o …” and his voice drifted away as she fell further and further into the dark night.

For a time she lost sight of the rest of her companions as she drifted down through puffy clouds. She was teased by gentle breezes and tossed by some that were not so gentle. Now, more than ever, the little snowflake felt small and oh so alone.

As she drifted through the blackness, she tried to remember all that the Master Snow Maker had said. “You are unique. You know that I never make even one snowflake like any other. Only you can be you.”

“But I am only one among so many,” she argued.

“You are still the only one that is YOU,” he patiently insisted.

The little snowflake felt her progress slow. The breezes had faded. The night was still and silent. The air was cold. She could see more clearly now. The clouds had drifted away leaving the skies intense with glittering stars. One in particular drew her attention. It shone more brightly than the rest, bathing the landscape in a warm glow that penetrated the cold and dark.

“I’ll head for that star,” she said to no one in particular. She picked her currents of air carefully and soon found herself under the pale light of the bright star. Below her, the little snowflake could see the outline of hills against the dark sky. Nestled among them was a village. Pale lights flickered from the rough dwellings, occasionally disappearing as their inhabitants went off to bed. Against one hill, on the edge of town, a shed rested, its tired beams sheltering the entrance to a hollow carved out of the hillside. The star on whose mantle she rode seemed to point the way to that unlikely spot.

Closer and closer the little snowflake came. In the light of the star, she saw that there were four-footed beasts huddled beside the humble shelter below her. Some of her quicker companions melted themselves into curly wool and rough hide. Others slipped through the gaps in the roughly hewn slats in the roof and came to rest on the woolen cloaks, weathered cheeks, and calloused hands of the sheep keepers seeking shelter inside the shed.

The little snowflake braced herself. Her end was coming. She wondered how it could possibly fulfill all that the Master Snow Maker had promised. She landed gently on soft and pure flesh; the tip of the tiny nose of a Child nestled deep in the straw of the feed box. He made no sound, no move to brush her away. She, so small and insignificant, would go unnoticed right to the end. Or, would she?

As the little snowflake melted into Him, she felt the warmth of His smile and sensed that, somehow, He had been waiting for her arrival. In a flash as bright as that of the star she had followed, the little snowflake knew in her deepest being that in finding Him, she had found everything and had discovered not her end, but her beginning.

It All Depends On Who's In Charge

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Soon. Too soon. I know you told me that you’d be with us, that we should be courageous and strong. I can hear your words ringing in my ears, reverberating through every sinew and muscle, sticking like Jordan’s muddy banks to my every sense. Nevertheless, it still feels like it’s too soon.

You took Moses too soon. I know, I know — he blew it at the rock, but I’d rather follow him than be the leader. After all, he was your friend, got closer to you than any man ever has. I hear that voice again reminding me about what you said: you’ll be with me just like you were with Moses.

I just feel that I will never be as close to you as he was, obey you as well as he did — the rock notwithstanding! I’ve never had that intimacy with you that he did. That’s my fault, I know. I’m sure not blaming you. I try to meditate day and night on your word, just like you said. It’s not easy to find the time or the energy with all these people at my heels.

When I think of all the things that could go wrong, I get a bad feeling. I told the people what you said, and they promised to do everything they were instructed to do. But, as soon as they said that they would obey me just as well as they obeyed Moses, I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck. They think they are better than their fathers. You and I both know they aren’t. I know I’m not.

Then there’s the business with the prostitute in Jericho. I hope I didn’t make a mistake there. You told me not to spare anyone and now I have to live up to the promise that Micah and Judah made to that woman — and to whoever ends up sheltered in her house. She did take a lot of risks for them, and showed some strong faith in you. Still, I feel as though I’m already breaking the rules you made. How can you bless me, or these people, if I don’t do exactly what you tell me? I hope there are exceptions.

I’m a military man, not a diplomat, so who knows how many toes I trampled on issuing the orders to get us across the river. That WAS pretty amazing though. I remember the Red Sea parting, but not too many others do. Crossing the Jordan with the waters piled up before us was like déjà-vu for me. I still haven’t gotten over the big hoopla once we crossed. For the first time, I really felt that the people saw me as their leader, not just as a Moses stand-in. Now that I’ve reached that plateau, I’m not sure I want to be here.

I suspect your latest command brought me down a couple of rungs on the leadership ladder. That business with the circumcision took the stuffing out of most of the male population — quite literally! Boy, you sure do ask us to do some scary things. While the men were healing we could have been wiped out, easy pickings for any ten-year-old armed with a pick handle.

Well, here we are, facing Jericho. I sound confident, but my innards are churning. You told me to be strong and take the land you promised, and here I am thinking that the desert is beginning to look pretty good!

Wait, someone’s coming from the Jericho side.

“Who goes there? My men know better than to draw a sword in the presence of their commander, so you’re either suffering a lapse in judgment or, you are an enemy. Which is it?"

“It’s a good thing YOU don’t have your sword drawn then, isn’t it. I’m not one of your men, nor am I one of your enemies. Give your brain and your innards a break, Joshua, I have come as the commander of the Lord’s army.”

Get down, man! Get down. This is a Moses moment.

“My Lord, give me your orders.”

“Moses took his shoes off in my presence once; you do the same. I touched the ground you are standing on and it is now holy."

Forgive me; here I was thinking I was in charge of all this. It’s you; it always has been. Just as I was Moses’ servant, I am more than happy to be yours. Issue your orders, Lord: I’m ready now, whenever you are.