Minesweeper

"Great.  We've come this far and now we're stuck," spat Jonesie.  It had happened--we'd gotten through the jungle only to find ourselves in front of what was obviously a minefield.  It wasn't very wide across, but it we'd seen the telltale signs enough to know that it would be less-than-smart to traipse across the stretch of dirt in front of us--I could even see some of the treacherous green devices on the ground ahead of me.  Despair was as thick as the humidity as we set our packs down and drank for a minute from our canteens.  I looked around the group--a ragtag platoon out here in the hellish nightmare of Vietnam, stuck between impending Vietcong action on the other side of the jungle and a treacherous minefield in front of us.  Talk about a rock and a hard place!  It was me--Spendlove--, Jonesie, Smitty, Burt, and Cap'n (Captian Scott Buckman); we'd lost the other half of our little band in the jungle and to enemy gunfire.  We were dirty, sore, almost out of ammo, and doing our best to not lose hope. 

I thought of home, my mother and father, my brothers and sister, my friends, the folks in our town who frequented our family store where I'd swept and stocked shelves and counted change before I was drafted.  It all seemed so far away.  I had gotten over the tears long ago, but I couldn't help wondering, once again, if I'd ever see those faces again.  I leaned up against a tree and sighed heavily as Jonesie got up and began to pace.

"What're we gonna do?  I mean, it's not like we have any metal detectors or anything!"  He was right.  It's not like we were equipped to make it through unharmed. 

A Pearl of Great Price: Part VI

Once I had gathered myself and the mingled, bitter-sweet taste of Shiloh's sacrifice for me had subdued enough for me to regain my faculties, I remembered where I was sitting: at the gates of the City of Promise!  A fluttering, palpitating surge of joy and fulfillment coursed through my whole body as I leapt upon my miraculously-healed feet and gazed in wonder at the luster of the place for which I had been searching for so long. 

"I'm here," I whispered to myself, still in disbelief. 

Images of my journey flashed before my eyes:  the night of the sandstorm that left me without shelter, but that had introduced me to the Wanderer's kindness; the day I nearly died of thirst, but was once again saved; when I had the opportunity to help Jesse and Ruth stave off the jackals and return Shiloh's kindness; the blazing sands and circling buzzards that had been my only company for so long; the vicious brutality of the bandits and the icy grip of fear that had clutched my heart as doom drew near, only to find my Savior once again rescuing me--as I reflected on how far I had come, the joy of my arrival at this blessed place grew ever more potent.

It struck me that all those who had gone and returned in vain must not have believed that the destination would be worth the trial to get there.  They must not have been changed by their experience, nor had they grown or become anything different than when they had left. As I reflected thus, my mind caught hold of another idea: perhaps the destination wasn't where the growth was meant to come anyway!  Perhaps, I thought, the reason this place was so blessed was because when men and women who ventured here arrived at these gates, they came tired, beaten, and spent, but they had learned the true meaning of love, of sacrifice, of the joy of selflessness. I had!  I had learned, out in the wastes, that to give of oneself is to receive; that when you strive when your arms are too weary and reach for the seemingly unreachable ideal, you grow to become something more.  I had overcome so much--only, of course, with the help of the Wanderer.  The joy had been in the journey.

I was lost in thought for quite some time, basking in the luminous joy and unspeakable gratitude I felt merely standing where I was.  Presently, I floated back down from my flight-of-fancy and strode through the ornately wrought gates and into the city.

It was so beautiful.

A Pearl of Great Price: Part V

Well, I will not bore you with the unimportant details of my day-to-day survival in the desert.  I will, however, say this:  the longer I traveled, the more I realized my utter dependence on the Benevolent Wanderer--or Shiloh, if I am to believe that was indeed him.  He had provided light and nourishment; and more than that, he had taught me that giving is receiving, that to truly find joy and companionship in the harshest of circumstances is to give freely of oneself and think not of the consequences.  What I learned out in the waste was more than any elder could teach me or what a lifetime of study could possibly afford.  Truly he taught me that greater love no man has than he who gives all he has for another, even to the point of giving his own life.  

...Perhaps you feel I am getting ahead of myself.  Let me relate one final tale from my wandering in the desert. 

Long after the experiences of home had become personal legend and the nights of the sandstorm and the jackals had become hazily distant memories, I saw, far in the distance, the glimmering outline of what appeared to be a city!  I stopped dead in my tracks.  Had I come to the end of my journey?  Was I within a day's travel of that blessed abode?  I checked and rechecked the details outlined in my now-tattered and falling-apart records of the ancients.  By all accounts, the sheen of the pearly alabaster walls and domes of gold that adorned the buildings, the sudden reappearance of the rivers and sparse greenery that had been absent for so long--as far as I could tell it all added up to one thing:  my journey was nearing its end!  I fell down on my knees and prayed to God, "Is this all real?  Am I hallucinating?  or have I finally wandered far enough from my home to that sacred and safe haven--the Land of Promise?  Please, Father--give me strength to at least make it that far!"  Deep within my heart, I felt a surge of joy; it was as if time stood still, or as if all the cares of the world were lifted off my shoulders.  I knew it was the place of my desiring.  I just knew it.


 I gathered my belongings, and, almost automatically, started into a quick jog, my eyes unblinkingly fixed on the dazzlingly white and beautiful city that lay beyond me.  My mind was aflutter with thoughts of what was in store for me there--peace, rest from my cares, a fountain of pure and clean water (a bath!), the fruit of the tree, that beautiful pearl of great price--Oh, it was almost more than I could stand!  How I longed to be there!  Yes!  Yes!  It was coming ever nearer!
 
As my mind continued to focus on the blessings surely awaiting me just inside those pearly gates, my euphoria was shattered by a faint whizzzz punctuated by an excruciating pain in my leg.  I was knocked off my feet, falling face-first into the sand, totally bewildered and unable to comprehend fully what was happening.  I clutched my leg, crying out in pain--I looked through watery eyes and discovered a black arrow protruding from my right calf.  I began to hyperventilate--I could not pull the barb out.  I looked at the staunch, seemingly disaffected city that was no longer drawing nearer; indeed, the distance seemed to expand endlessly in front of me.  I cried.  I heard laughing.  My heart sunk as I looked around and saw several dark figures wearing rough leather garb forming a circle around me--bandits.

A Pearl of Great Price: Part IV

For the first two months or so, I traveled entirely alone (save the few times the Benevolent Wanderer had chanced upon me).  I must confess, it was quite lonely, having no one to speak to for days and days on end.  Sometimes I would sing the familiar songs of my childhood to myself, other times I would speak to the bleakness or to some imaginary companion; often I would speak openly with God, asking for His blessings and safety.  Truly I missed the human-to-human interaction that of necessity constituted my daily life at home--haggling some merchant who was charging me too much for cattle feed, laughing with my boyhood friends, conversing with the elders about the pearl and the Promised Land, seeking advice from my parents and kin.  I missed that.  It was a lonely time indeed.

The gap was partially filled by the love and joy I felt when I had met the Wanderer those brief, dire moments.  I knew at least there was someone out here in this waste who cared about me.  His bread, water, and light comforted me and at least took away the strain of survival from my mind so that I could focus on where I was going and try to make it as safely as possible.  I was filled, it was true, but somehow it seemed something was missing...

Late in the afternoon one particularly hot and unpleasant day, I spied a small, dark figure far out on the dunes ahead of me.  I couldn't exactly tell what it was at first; it lay motionless on the sand.  As I drew closer, I realized it was a person!  I ran to his side.  He lay unconscious, his breathing shallow, his face bright red.  As I looked him over, under his desert garb I could see he was emaciated and starving.  Immediately, I slung one of the Wanderer's waterskins from my shoulder and sprinkled a few drops on his forehead and lips.  His eyes moved under their weary lids, and slowly he opened his red and exhausted eyes.  I was shocked--they were such piercing blue, and so familiar-looking...  I gazed at him for a moment, then remembered he was dying.

A Pearl of Great Price: Part III

Over the next several weeks, I pondered on the singularity of the events the night of the sandstorm.  What strange events they had been indeed.  How could it have been that I would have chanced upon such a marvellous person as I had?  And how had he bested the storm enough to have reached out in love and compassion toward me?  Surely, I thought, there must be a way to overcome as he had, to reach out and think not of yourself in the perilous times, to not take only, but to give.  Though I had encountered him but once, this man, this friend inspired me as a great mentor.  I hoped to God I would meet him again.

A word about survival in the desert:  if ever you should venture out as I did, remember that food and water are very scarce.  I know that sounds obvious, but you really don't grasp that concept until you have to go days without restocking your supplies.  It was about three weeks into my journey that I realized I would probably be without water for a few days; prior to that, small rivulets or streams had zig-zagged across the sparsely vegetated desert floor, providing for my thirst.  However, as I ventured farther and farther into the barrenness, the streams no longer flowed the direction I knew I needed to go and I found myself drawing solely upon the water I kept in reserve in my animal skin, which, I realized to my utter disappointment, was not entirely full.  How foolish I had been, when the water was plentiful, to not fill my skins with all the water I could carry!  I remember thinking to myself, "Well, the little streams will run along for another while, I'll be alright.  Besides, water is heavy!  why carry it when there is an abundance?"  Indeed I had played the fool.

A Pearl of Great Price: Part II

The more I studied the more I knew.  And the more I knew, the more I knew I didn't know (funny how life's ironies seem to accompany the thing we want most).  But that didn't quell my determination; rather, it seemed to me that I would discover, through the experience of it all, how to find the best way to this Promised Land.  What intrigued me the most was that the records all indicated the presence of a Desert Guide--a benevolent Wanderer sent by God to assist weary travellers in their journey.  The prophecies were unfortunately vague and gave no indication at his name or figure--I was thus left only to hope for some Godsent boon if I were indeed to meet such a one as had been spoken. 

After years of preparation--both physical, mental, and emotional--and countless hours of diligent study, the dawn of my venturing-forth came (as it is not my intent to focus on my home life, but rather tell the tale of my quest for the pearl, I will spare you the unimportant details).  As I rose to the door of our ancestral yurt that morning, I breathed in the scents and emotions of my village life.  I would certainly miss the regularity of my childhood, the certainty of shelter and food, and the familiarity and friendship of those whose faces had smiled on my youth.  Indeed it would be a perilous journey, each day filled with hardships I could not then comprehend.  I would face the unabated brutality of a barren waste, with no respite from wind, sun, and the dangerous creatures of the sands. 

Notwithstanding, it was indeed time for me to embark on the journey I knew I was born to take.  I gathered my sparse accoutrements (not much more than a traveller's tent, rations, copied portions of the records of the ancients, a knife that belonged to my grandfather's grandfather, and all the hope I could muster), bid my incredulous and reluctant friends and kinsfolk farewell, and set out in search of the treasure I knew with all my heart was waiting for me. 

I was on my way.

A Pearl of Great Price: Part I

They told me I was crazy to even attempt it.

Everyone who's ever lived has heard the stories--our ancients and elders speak of a far away place beyond the brutal desert sands, out past the remotest oasis, and beyond the edge of the Known where there springs a fountain of everlasting life; where grows a tree of the sweetest fruit, which is said to fill one with intense joy; and where each weary traveller is rewarded a "pearl of great price", a prize most desirable above all.  The elders spoke of this land from the records of our fathers.  They spoke of those who had come before us--how many a wide-eyed wanderer had set off on the journey, fully- (if not over-) confident in his or her abilities to best the desert's perils, to traverse the sands by his own strength and to reach the blessed home, only to return dejected, battered, and spent. 

 

Far worse, we knew, were the tales of those who encountered the ruthless bandits who hid amongst the dunes and rocks, waiting for unsuspecting travellers to fall victim to their insatiable lust for carnage and treasure; only a few survivors ever returned to tell the tragic stories of their less-fortunate friends.  Truly it was a perilous journey, one fraught with danger and uncertainty--who was to say if any of the travellers ever actually found the place of legend, where they could rest from all care and sorrow?

Thus, you can understand when my friends and relatives balked at my announcement that I, too, wished to brave the desert, to embark on the quest to find the pearl of great price.  They asked me to reconsider:

"It will be dangerous!  Have you not heard the tales?"
"How can you be so certain such a prize exists?  No one has ever returned to show us the pearl or give us of the fruit!  You'll die in the desert chasing after a fantasy, a disappointed, unfulfilled wretch."
"Life here in the village is so much more fulfilling than getting chased by bandits and snakes and eating cactus and bugs.  Now go clean out the cow stalls--they stink."

A Stone Cut Out of the Mountain Pt. III

As my Master chiseled and scraped, brushed and polished, I began to see myself how he saw me: worthwhile, important, magnificent, and something great.  As I mentioned before, the pain of the chisel never decreased, but I learned to accept it as my Master's plan and trust that his skillful hands would work untold wonders for my future.  Truly--and I understand this will sound terribly ironic--my heart of stone softened and I learned to respect, and far greater than that, to love my Master, the Great Michelangelo.  The great care he took, the joy he expressed at seeing me become glorious, his detail in carving every intricacy with precision--it all evidences his pouring his whole soul into making me his masterpiece, his work and his glory. 

It took him three and a half years of working daily and toiling arduously to finish me, but he did it.  In the early summer of 1504, I, David, was completed.  Standing erect in mighty majesty, I was a symbol of hope for the Florentine Renaissance, a budding revival of great human achievement that was endangered by the iron-fisted traditionalists of Italy.  Michelangelo explained to me as he worked that the man I depicted had been a courageous defender of the truth and of God's kingdom long ago.  As a boy, this David had faced a foe many times his size and strength.  I was created to remind the good people of Florence that no obstacle is insurmountable when we put ourselves in the Hands of God, the Great Creator and Master. 



We truly are our Master's masterpiece.



 I am living proof of that.  I was a hard-willed, stubborn block of stone, doomed to crumble in a dusty old warehouse until I was discovered by a Master.  Once I learned to act, to submit my will to his, and not just be acted upon, a world of understanding and hope blossomed before my eyes (so to speak).  No longer was I doomed to impregnable uselessness; no longer was I destined to be rubble; no longer was I consigned to the unfulfillment of my true potential.  This Master, this caring, honest, dedicated craftsman shaped my destiny forever. 

I hope my tale has brought to light the struggles that everyone's heart, stone or flesh, must endure.  Remember, my softer-skinned friends, we are all shaped by a Master.  He knows best.  When we love Him and serve Him and submit ourselves to His will, He will polish us and craft us, and, like a stone cut out of a mountain without hands, we will all become our Master's masterpiece. 

The End

Image from: http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/arts/artwork/michelangelo-sculptures7.htm

A Stone Cut Out of the Mountain Pt. II

Well, I have to tell you, my determination really paid off.  Tell me how this sounds: I was abandoned, neglected, and rarely talked about for 25 years while the big wigs tried to figure out what to do with me.  And not only that, I was abandoned and neglected outside!  In the elements!  Sounds great, right?  You're right.  It wasn't great.  I remember thinking to myself, "Well, you really showed them up, didn't you?  All this rain and wind and snow and blazing sun are really doing wonders for my texture and durability!  What was I thinking?!"  And so for 25 long years I sat there, worthless, dejected and beaten by the storms. 

The turn of the sixteenth century (that's 1500 for all you math whizzes out there) found me less-than enthused; in fact, I had just about given up hope on ever becoming anything more than a poorly-formed, misshapen hunk of rock.  Then one day, the patrons of the cathedral where I was stationed came rushing in, shouting the name of some new artist they had found--"a real prodigy! a Master!" they had said.  Well you can bet how excited I was after being treated by the last "master" they'd sent my way, but I figured anything at this point would be better than what I'd been doing for the last two-and-a-half decades.  They acclaimed him as the most promising sculptor of the new age ("Renaissance", they called it), for he had completed a most beautiful statue the year prior, which they called La Pieta.  I was intrigued by their accolades, but held my peace until I could see firsthand who this man really was. 

They called him "Michelangelo".

I will never forget that September morning when that graceful young man approached me on the sculpting platform.  He was so different than the last man who had come to chisel on me that for a while I was simply stunned by his demeanor.  He didn't even touch the chisel that first day.  I will never forget this as long as I stand: he came up and greeted me, calling me his friend.  He then laid his hands on my sides, not in a probing, caustic way, but with the touch of a Master--I don't know how to explain it other than that.  He examined what had been done on my corner so long ago by the other sculptor, shaking his head and saying he had done me wrong.  Then he sat down, with his back against mine, pondering and sketching on paper how he would work his plan; every stroke of his charcoal, every look and every movement seemed to be calculated with divine precision.  He considered my every angle and niche; where my marbling was most durable and where it was weaker; and even some qualities I had not recognized in myself.  He spoke his thoughts, not to himself, but to me, as if he felt my considerations were important.  I tell you, I was so enraptured by this young man's care, that when he left that day, I longed for him to return.  It was an experience that caught me quite off-guard.




As the extra stone came down, so did the walls
 I had built around my heart

 

As the weeks passed, I began to see that it was not just his preparation that was calculated and caring, but his execution as well.  He worked his plan with great skill and precision, knocking off every bit of excess that I could not help but be grateful that the superfluous stone was gone.  As the chunks of extra stone came down, so did the walls I had built around my heart toward this Master.  Sure, the chiseling was still uncomfortable, but he made sure I was becoming something more, something worthy of the highest accolades and honors.  Oftentimes I would get frustrated, not knowing where his chisel would fall, and when it did, why he would strike there, but in time I learned to trust his skill and rely on his masterful plan; indeed, I began to see myself shaping into the form of someone graceful and mighty, as I never had before supposed.

Truly this was what I was meant to become.

To be continued...

Image from http://www.carraramarble.it/images_en/products/blocks/marbles_bianco_venato_standard.jpg

A Stone Cut Out of the Mountain Pt. I

You might think this weird, reading a story written by a block of stone--Italian marble, to be precise--but that's what you're doing.  It has never been an easy life, as you might expect, but I hope my story helps you fleshier folks appreciate what you've got.  It's not much, but here it goes.



My home--Carrara Quarry, Italy



I was born over three hundred thousand... well, you don't want to hear about that long ago do you?  That's boring.  Mostly just lava and hot and... yeah.  Fast-forward to the year 1464.  I was discovered and roughly hewn from the warmth of Mother Earth in my home of Carrara, a marble quarry in the Italian Alps.  I was, needless to say, a little upset.  After being jostlingly carted to the city of Florence, I was taken to a large building where men of all shapes and sizes examined me over and over, feeling every bump and scrutinizing every surface (quite embarrassing, if you think about it).  They told one another of my great potential, how priceless and beautiful I was (my narcissism got the best of me there), how only the greatest sculptor, a Master, would be able to form me into the perfect statue.  They mentioned how I was to become a great and marvelous statue to personify some other man who had been dead for centuries.  All narcissism aside, that didn't exactly sound like my cup of tea. 

 "Great," I said to myself.  "They don't even care about what I want!  All they can think of is their selfish pursuits!  Well!  We'll see who erodes first!"

Finally, a man named Agostino was selected to "shape me up" into this statue or whatever.  I can still remember the first day he walked into the studio--he didn't look like much of a "Master" to me, but hey, I'm just an eons-old hunk of rock, what do I know, right?  He strode onto the platform, picked up his chisel and hammer, looked at me for a few minutes, and then BANG!! Right in my side!  Oh how it hurt!  and it didn't stop!  BANG, BANG, BANG! Oh boy, it still makes me cringe just to think about it.  I hated the chiseling!  It was so bad that first day that I said to him "Hey! what are you doing?!  you think that feels good?!"  But he wouldn't listen.  He just kept on chiseling!  So again I say to him "Hey!  Cut that out!... no don't cut that out of me, I mean stop!  It is really uncomfortable!!"  Nothing.  Day after day I pleaded, begged, and almost grovelled (not "gravelled", that's something different) for him to stop; despite my pleas, he still chipped, brushed, and pounded away at my beautiful marble, leaving a strange-looking lump where my corner used to be.  I wasn't altogether happy about this. 

So I decided to think very hard thoughts, hoping to toughen up enough to break that puny little chisel of his, or at least make him tired enough to want to stop.  Well, guess what--it worked.  Now, the historians will tell you a more complicated story about how Agostino needed some time off, then a man named Rossellino stepped in but couldn't quite hack it (no pun intended)... No.  I was the one who bested them.  I knew better than they what my potential was!  A statue?  No.  No man could be as majestic or glorious as I; no man would catch the public's gaze as could my brilliant marble sheen; and certainly, no "Master" could ever design a product as magnificent and breath-taking as a block of Carraran marble!

...Or so I thought. 

...They called him "Michaelangelo"...

To be continued...


Image from: http://www.artinfo.com/media/image/4154/BurtynskyCarraraMarbleQuarries.jpg
Historical info from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_(Michelangelo)

More Fit for the Kingdom: Part II

More Fit for the Kingdom

by Chris Spendlove

"My son... rise, my boy." The knight resurfaced from the depths of a turbulent sleep. His vision came into focus upon the sadly smiling face of his beloved King. The knight had been brought back to the castle and was now lying in the bed of the King Himself! "Oh, my son... you heeded not my counsel and warnings. You have been gravely wounded by that old serpent. But I will make you whole." The King smiled as He said this, and laid a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the knight. The knight wept bitterly.

"O, my King! I have betrayed you! I have turned my thoughts away from the light and meddled with the things of darkness! Forgive me! I beg you...forgive me..." The knight covered his face in his hands--he was too ashamed to be looked upon by the King.

"I will make you whole, my son. But you must put your trust in me. You must not go astray again, and you must re-learn what it means to be a knight. It will be difficult and the poisons of the dragon will sting as they leave your body, but I love you, my son, and I will stay by your side until you are healed." The knight looked into the eyes of his King, and he knew that the King could not lie. He nodded, and embraced the King.

"I will put my trust in you, my Lord. I know that you can do many mighty works and can heal me of this poison and fix my broken body and spirit." The King laid the young man back down, and the knight presently fell asleep.

When he awoke, the King was still by his side. The King was preparing a balm to apply to the wounds of the knight. "You must know that you have lost the trust of the villagers," the King said gravely. "They have lost much in the dragon's attack, and will lose much more while you heal. They have suffered much, but I think they will learn to forgive you in time." The King smiled softly and applied the balm. It seared the knight's flesh, and he yelped because of the pain. "This will be uncomfortable," the King continued, "but it will save your life." The knight, still smarting from the balm, realized that this pain was nothing compared to the anguish that he had caused the poor villagers by his actions.

"They trusted in me," he said softly, "and I betrayed that trust by not being the man they needed me to be. I must repay the debt that I owe them--when I am well again, I will rebuild their houses, work in their fields, and serve them in their homes."

"And you must again face that dragon," the King reminded him. "You must show them that you are capable of defending them from the evils of this world as you did before. I will heal you, my son, but you must then do your part--protect the people, be the true and just defender you were born to be." The weeks passed, and slowly the knight regained his strength. Daily, the King taught him once more how to be a knight; the young man loved being instructed so, and he resolved within himself to be a bold defender. And if he was wounded in his efforts to defend the people, the King promised that He would heal the knight, as long as he would learn from the battle.

The day came when the knight was fully healed and ready to face the dragon again. "The dragon said he would come back to watch me die," the knight told the King. "Perhaps he will return today, thinking that I am soon to perish."

"You must be ever watchful, my son, for the day when the dragon comes. You must be prepared. I want you to have these," said the King, presenting the knight with a bright new set of armor, a sharpened sword of excellent craftsmanship, and a large shield, upon which was emblazoned the Crest of the King. "The best knights are those who get back up when they fall, who put their trust in their King, and face the challenges of life with hope. You have the makings of a great knight.  I love you.  I have confidence in you. Now go, my son, and be the defender you were born to be."

It was with confidence that the knight strode past the portcullis and out onto the drawbridge of the castle. The King had taught him to have hope, to put his best foot forward, and to keep moving forward in the face of opposition. The knight knew he had a solid foundation in the love of the King, and that no matter the circumstances, the King would be there to heal his wounds.

The villagers looked rather angrily at him as he walked through the town, and he heard them whispering under their breaths. The knight tried to offer apologies to them for the sorrow he had caused, but many of the townsfolk turned angrily away without a word. Others looked at him sadly, as if longing for the old knight to return, the knight who had defended them so bravely. "I will be their knight. I will use what I have learned from the King to protect these people from harm. It is my charge. It is my duty."

The knight spent the afternoon seeking to make amends with the people. As the sun set, the knight retired to his tent, seeking to get some rest in preparation for the oncoming confrontation with the dragon.

The morning came early; the golden fingers of dawn caressed the eyes of the young knight, beckoning him to rise. He polished his armor, sharpened the sword, and cleaned the shield with the same meticulous care as before, and headed out into the clear morning. No sooner had he set out, than the cry of "Dragon! dragon! who will save us?!" rang out from the square. The knight was ready. he had been anticipating this moment for weeks, had been preparing himself mentally, spiritually, and physically under the care of the King, and was now ready to prove himself to the villagers--he would show them that they could once again rely on him for support and defense. It was his duty.

The dragon roared with laughter as he spewed flames from deep in his gullet. "Where is you precious defender now?" he cackled, torching a cart of apples. "Your knight is dying! Fear, peasants! fear!"

"STOP!" shouted the knight. The dragon wheeled around to face the man in bright armor, sword ablaze with the morning sun. "I will defend these people, even if it costs me my life! Either you or I or both of us will die right here, right now!" The knight stared the dragon straight in the eyes, and, brandishing his sword with mighty conviction, rushed at the dragon.

"Hmph! Impudent boy! I crushed you once, I will crush you again!" The dragon reared up on his hind legs and barred his teeth.

Sword met claw, sending sparks into the air. The young knight fought not for himself, but for the safety of the people and for the honor of the King; he contended bravely against the evil dragon, using his shield to protect him from the dragon's fire and from the sharp fangs and claws. His sword was a piercing ray of light, scoring the black scales and flesh of the dragon with each stroke. The dragon was surprised at the courage of the knight--he had been so weak in their last encounter that the dragon underestimated the new-found bravery and conviction of his opponent. The dragon began to fear for his life as the knight blocked his swipes and parried with powerful blows to his neck and shoulders. Letting out a mighty roar, the dragon retreated toward his cave. "I will return, knight, and you will pay dearly for

this encounter!!"

The villagers slowly appeared in the doorways of their homes and shops. The knight was burnt in some places, scratched and bruised in others, but he was alive and well; his armor had served him well against the vicious attacks of the dragon. As he looked into their faces, the young knight could see gratitude in the eyes of the people. Slowly, they began to applaud their defender. As the cheering grew, tears welled in the eyes of the young man--it was for them that he had fought so mightily, and it was for them that he lived. The knight realized that day that his life was meant to be lived for others, and that there were people who depended on his strength and stability. He would, with the King's support, defend these

people until the day he died, because it was with His support that he lived, and it was because of His gifts that he continued to fight.

The dragon was gone, but, they knew, he would return. And when he did, the knight would be there to protect and to defend and to serve them. More importantly even than that, the King would always be there too, watching with unparalleled love, willing to stand beside the wounded and ready to succor the needs of His people. The knight knew that he had a kind, wise Friend in the King, and that, no matter the circumstances, the King would guide and protect him. He could go forward with hope and be the defender he was born to be.

The End.

More Fit for the Kingdom-- A Short Story

This is an adaptation of a story I wrote during some particularly difficult times in my life.  I wrote myself into the character of the knight, but in all reality, we are each the knight in the story.  We all rely on our King for our support and our spiritual healing so that we can be the men and women He wants us to be.  I hope you enjoy this tale.

More Fit for the Kingdom

By Chris Spendlove

Once upon a time, there was a knight. He was a relatively new knight to the kingdom, but nonetheless willing to fight for his King and Country. His most valuable possessions in the whole world were a suit of armor, a sword, and a shield that the King had given him when he was brand new in the land.

Every day, the knight would polish the armor, checking for cracks and weak spots, sharpen the sword, lest he be caught off guard with a dull sword, and meticulously scrubbed the dirt and grime from his shield so as to keep himself protected in battle. He loved that armor, that sword, and the shield--he took such good care of them that the villagers, as they passed by on the way to the market or fields, would gaze in speechless wonder, and aspire to become gallant knights themselves.



"Once upon a time, there was a knight"



Everyone loved the knight, and not just because of his armor; he was kind to the children, chivalrous to the women, and helpful to the men. The villagers felt that they could always depend on him to follow through with commitments and to lend a hand in any and every endeavor. He was widely considered to be a very good knight indeed.

One day, as the knight was polishing his armor, he heard the cry of the villagers, and, poking his head out of his tent, the knight spied a ferocious dragon lumbering toward the village! The knight had been

warned that the dragon was a master deceiver, and even though one could plainly see he was a fire breathing monster, many had been tricked by his cunning. The knight hastily donned his armor, and, sword and shield in hand, rushed out to meet the dragon.

By the time the knight reached the village square, two peasants had already been devoured, a cart of grain had been upset, and a house was ablaze. "Oh boy," thought the knight. "This is one angry dragon! Armor? Check. Sword? Check. Shield? Check check." The knight rushed up to the dragon, brandishing his sword, yelling, "Alright, dragon! That's quite enough! You cannot be allowed to terrorize this village any longer!"

"But, my good lad," oozed the dragon--his voice was deep and rumbling, but he put on an air of sweet gentility. "I was only hungry. The food has been scarce around my cave, and I had no choice but to eat these villagers. Besides," he added, bending low next to the knight. "These two men were dishonest in their dealings! I have done your town a favor!" This startled the knight. Surely these men, who had been his friends, were good and honest men!

"You lie!" shouted the knight. "I knew these men, and, by golly, they were the most honest and true fellows you'll ever meet! Now, begone or I will use my sword--which is very sharp--and slay you right here!" Upon hearing this, the dragon became angry, but backed away (truth be told, he was a coward at heart). He eyed the knight's armor, looking for any crack or dent, and, finding none, he blew smoke from his nostrils and went away without another word.

The villagers rejoiced at the departure of the dragon. "You are such a brave and gallant knight that the dragon left without a fight! You truly are a great defender of the Kingdom! Three cheers for the brave knight!" That evening, a celebration was held in honor of the knight. "I suppose I AM a great defender, aren't I?" he thought to himself. The King Himself arrived in all His splendor to congratulate the knight. Later in the night, the King pulled the knight aside.

"My son," He said. "You have done well in defending our village against that old dragon. But be warned: the dragon will come back. He always does. He is a master of deception, as I told you before. He will invent new ways of destroying the people. And, if you are not careful in your preparation, the dragon will destroy you as well. He eyed your armor, didn't he?" The knight nodded. "I thought so. He was looking for cracks to get his awful claws into. Take care of that armor, my son. It will protect your life if you keep it in good repair."

The knight pondered over the words of the King. "Destroy me?" he thought as he lay in his bed that evening. "Did the King even see how well I handled the dragon? Clearly the King has never fought a dragon like this one before. Why, I'll bet I could slay that dragon without any armor on at all! Ha!" And with that notion, the knight fell asleep and dreamed of slaying hundreds of dragons.

In the weeks to come, the knight slowly became less diligent about cleaning his shield, sharpening his sword, and repairing his armor. In fact, the knight didn't wear his armor at all for a few days. When asked about his armor, the knight boasted that any dragon foolish enough to face him would be dead before he could say "Bob's your uncle." The villagers didn't quite know how to reply to the change in the knight's mien, so they just smiled and went on their ways. "Hm," he thought. "I wonder what's gotten into them?"

And, sure enough, the day came when that old dragon poked his ugly head into the village again. "Dragon! Dragon! help us, brave knight!" came the call. The knight reached for his armor, only to discover it was dirty, banged up, and starting to rust in some places. Slightly uneasy, the knight quickly strapped it on, grabbed his not-so-sharp sword and dingy shield, and rushed to the village.

The damage was worse this time: two houses had been leveled, their smouldering ruins littered with the bodies of the villagers, a cow had been slain, and much of the market had been pulverized. The dragon smiled slightly when he saw the knight run up, his armor in a state of disrepair.

"Well, well," he snarled. "If it isn't our gallant knight. How have you been? I am a fool to return when there is such a brave knight to oppose me."

"You've got that right!" retorted the knight, adjusting a loose strap under his arm. "I'm going to have to slay you this time, no questions asked."

"Surely you shall. But before you do me in, may I let you in on a secret? I'm not the enemy. It's that old King you should be after."

"Stop this! none of your lies! The King is good and just and cares for the welfare of His people!" cried the knight, brandishing his sword.

"Does he now? Is that why He sits on a golden throne and lets His people die? If He cared so much, wouldn't he come and face me Himself? risk His life for the good of His people? Some King, if you ask me," hissed the dragon. The knight began to ponder what the dragon had just said. He lowered his sword and shield slightly.

"No... you-you're wrong," the knight said half-heartedly. It DID seem like the King just sat on his throne, collect taxes, and make laws. Perhaps the dragon was right... The knight lowered his defenses.



Before he could respond, the dragon was upon him. He viciously ripped at the knight's armor with his claws and broke the weakened sword with his jaws. The knight struggled furiously against the might of the dragon, but to no avail. The dragon was merciless--he wounded the knight deeply with his claws and fangs. "I have not killed you," he laughed. "Not yet, at least. My claws and my fangs have a poison in

"I find it more enjoyable to watch you writhe in agony before you

perish. I will return..."

them that will destroy you slowly. I find it more enjoyable to watch you writhe in agony before you

perish. I will return to watch your last mortal moments." And, having left the knight in such a state, the dragon slipped away to his cave.

The knight slipped in and out of consciousness. Thoughts of despair resonated in his tortured mind: "How could I have been so foolish! I am no brave knight. I am worse than the dragon! And now I will die, a broken, foolish, incapable louse." The pains of the dragon's poison ebbed and flowed throughout his entire being; perhaps worse than the pain of the poison, however, were the pains of defeat, of losing the trust of the people, and, above all, harming the King. The King was a wise and loving monarch, and the knight had doubted Him. If only, if only he could somehow beg the King's forgiveness! But it was all over now. The knight, giving up his will to live, allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness...

To be concluded...

Images from http://images2.layoutsparks.com/1/195527/knight-in-shining-armor-31000.jpg (knight); http://www.layoutsparks.com/1/120926/cool-black-dragon-fiery.html (dragon)