E. G. Runyan's Blog

The world is obsessed with love.

It’s everywhere. In the movies, in books, and if you scroll social media or YouTube you’re probably going to see people talking about love. And not just the romantic feely kind. Families, friendships, pets, jobs, all of it boils down to society’s definition of love, and it’s portrayed for us everywhere. How our relationships should work. How people should treat us. What true love should look like.

I’m the kind of person who has a lot of unspoken goals, and I’m probably what most people would call ambitious. I want to try everything; write books, film movies, sing songs. That’s why I’m constantly surprising myself when I realize that for true love, I would give up everything. I would happily throw my writing down the drain forever if it meant that I got to spend the rest of my life with the guy I could give my heart to. That makes the ambitious side of me very uncomfortable sometimes. 

“But you’ve worked for this thing every day for all of your life. You’d really give it all up just for a person?”

Yes, I would. And YES, I may be a practical and straightforward person, but I have a very romantic side. When I was ten, multiple people told me that I was a real-life Anne Shirley. Yes, E.G. Runyan used to float through life commenting about how flowers were her friends and dreaming about a prince that would take her to his castle. 

In Ever After, one of my all-time favorite movies and in one of my all-time favorite film scenes, Prince Henry goes into deep philosophical thought. How can he find the perfect woman for him? How does true love work? It’s not only a funny clip, but it’s also soberingly relatable. 

Henry's thought processes are similar to my own. But instead of trying to unpack how to find the perfect mate (I have strong faith in God's Sovereignty; I'll end up with who I'm supposed to be with) I start to ask the questions what is love and what should it look like? A year ago I was in an immersive Spanish class and my teacher said something that really hit me hard:

It’s true that in Spanish, the language is constructed in a way that makes the word “love” much more special. So what does the word love really mean? Why is it significant that our constant use of the word seems to demote its poignant meaning? 

For me, contrary to the view of society, true love is equivalent to self-death. A true and deep love means that you are willing to hurt for the person you love, whether that means putting their needs over your own, sacrificing your own wants for theirs, or (very importantly) caring about them enough to tell them the truth even when it’s difficult.

Society’s definition of love is associated with happiness and fulfillment. Lies like “Love is love” are a mask for the actual sin and deception slithering underneath. These social agendas and human wrongs are a clever cover-up for self love. So often when I’m watching a love story play out in a movie I find myself thinking, “The only reason so-and-so loves so-and-so is because they make each other feel better about themselves.” 

While Hallmark movies would have us think that finding “your person” gives you a happily ever after, Biblical love portrays something much more serious. By entering into love of any kind you’re opening yourself up to inevitable pain. To truly love someone you must be willing to strip yourself of what you desire. To deeply care about the wellbeing of another person, you must be willing to speak the truth—which could result in you being rejected. 

Human love is messy and broken and without the gospel it can’t work the way it’s supposed to. 

The gospel illustrates to us the perfect love that comes through death. Christ loved us so much that he gave up everything for our benefit. This is the love that should be driving our relationships; not a selfish desire for validation but a selfless desire to give, give, give like Christ gave for us. 

In one of my favorite songs " this is what losing someone feels like ", music artist JVKE repeats the refrain “When you love someone you tell them that you do”. In his music video he highlights the importance of telling the people you love that you love them. Life is short. Do you love someone? Tell them.

I think about the person I hope to fall in love with every single day. I pray for him, dream about him, and hope for him. I regularly ask Christ for a partner in the future; someone I can laugh with, cry with, and walk through life with. But I’m also constantly having to remind myself that finding my person won’t bring me fulfillment; and the only way a deep relationship can work is if I die to myself all day every day. 

There’s a quote from Louisa May Alcott’s novel Little Women that’s always stuck with me. It's always clearly articulated the way I believe I'm to act on love of any kind. When later on in the story Jo March rejects her best friend Laurie’s proposal, he tells her quite wisely that he knows she’s going to fall in love someday. She quickly argues that she can’t see herself ever getting married, but he replies,

Is that your way? I hope that's my way. I aspire to love like that.

Live and die for the people you love.

Live life for them.

Die for them. 

And if you love them, don’t waste a single moment in telling them you do.

Note from the editor: One of the main reasons I chose this story was because of the originality of the concept. While many of the short stories submitted delved into similar ideas, this one was a total bolt out of the blue. The plot is unique, the story original.

Indy Wild

Marcus Benedictus scrambled for the top of a stone-littered hill. He reached the crest of the rise and clambered to the top of a rock—just in time to catch sight of the sunset that he’d been so eager to see.

The sky was dyed fiery red and dotted with flaming orange bits of cloud. The sun cast pinkish-golden beams of light over the hills and on the roofs of the houses inside the walled city of Londinium, the capital of Roman Britain. Outside of the walls, sheep and large gray stones spotted the green, rolling hills. The River Thames, glittering in the golden evening light, cut through the swaths of thick grass and came up to the city. The sound of sheep bleating filled the air, and the wind whistled in his ears, cooling the sweat that had gathered during his swift climb. 

The young Roman smoothed his tunic and sat down on the rock, reaching into his side bag to get his flute. It was the sight of the sun that filled him with a burning desire to contribute to the beauty. All the splendor of the sky built in him so that he felt that he’d burst if he didn’t play a song. If his music was but a leaf in the forest, all the better. When he slipped his hand into his leather sack in search of his instrument, his fingers closed around a slim, cold metal trinket.

He withdrew a small pocket watch on a silver chain, something he'd never seen before—much less put in the bag. It produced a clear, clean ticking noise that he at first associated with a click beetle. Holding the object at arm’s length until convinced it wasn’t alive, he took it into his palm. Three small shafts of metal spun around from a fixed point in the center of the glass.

He turned it over in his hand. Latin words were written on the back. 

This and eternal life are yours until you want true love.

Marcus didn't know what it was or where this thing had come from, but he had no intentions of losing this strange new treasure. If the words about eternal life were true then this was something he would want to keep forever. 

…

London, September 2024.

Cassie Warner-Reuben looked out of Abbey Road Studios into the dismal sheets of rain. It was umbrella weather again. 

"Hey," Mr. Danials stuffed their sheet music into his guitar case before snapping it shut and slinging it over his shoulder. "Need a ride home?"

“No thanks, Mr. Danials. I was going to head for Starbucks—you know, just down the street. I’ll pick up a cab from there.”

“Not working on anything, though, right? You’re putting in a lot of hours already.”

“I just wish we could get the 3rd and 8th tracks down. But I’m good. I’ll take a break.”

“We’ll get them eventually,” Mr. Danials promised. “Sure you don’t need a ride there?”

“I’m good.” Cassie tugged her designer jacket closer around her shoulders and put her head down. She opened the door and stepped out into the cool rain, shielding herself with her umbrella.

A couple of minutes later, she stepped into the Starbucks. The warm air hit her with the scent of scones and muffins.

She shook the rain from her umbrella and stepped up to order a coffee. After the barista handed over a piping-hot cup of brown deliciousness, Cassie found a table in the corner. She put down her coffee and started to scroll through Instagram. Her immersive distraction was broken by a rich voice brushed with an English accent. “Mind if I sit ‘ere?”

She looked up to see a young man with a fledgling beard. His blackish-brown hair was curly, a little loose, and sprinkled with rainwater.  He wore a pair of slacks and a well-fitted navy button-up. He had earrings—small earrings that matched the modest silver chain around his neck and two metal bracelets on his right hand. He looked to be around twenty-four, but his sparkling blue eyes hid a sort of ageless magic. 

“Nope. Have a seat.” Cassie clicked her phone off and put it in her lap. 

“Thanks,” He said in his crisp English accent. While he was sitting, Cassie stole a glance around the restaurant—there were plenty of free tables. “My name’s Marcus.” He said. 

“I’m Cassie.” 

“Nice to meet you. What do you do?” He took a sip from his cup.

“I’m a musician.” 

“Oh, really?” His brown eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’m a musician too. I play anything I can get my hands on. What about you?”

“Just a vocalist—but we are recording for the first time.”

"Abbey Road Studios is really close to here. You checked them out?"

"That's where we're at, actually," Cassie said.

“Not a dodgy start.”

“Well, no. But we’ve only got a couple of days reserved and we’re knackered. My professor put in the money to get us in, but it’s not going so well.” Cassie looked down, embarrassed because she was opening up to a stranger, but it had all been building up for a long time, and it felt good to talk about it with someone besides Mr. Danials, especially after all the extra hours she'd been forcing herself to put in. The music just wasn't working right. Marcus seemed to notice her frown, because he asked, 

“What’s wrong?”

“Our incidentals are rubbish.”

Marcus grinned. “Incidentals aren't too bad.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Do you need some help?” He asked. “I’m free tomorrow.”

Cassie felt herself growing warm. As much as she hated their being stalled and running out of money, introducing a random stranger to Mr. Danials with the hope that he could help them seemed worse.

Marcus just raised his eyebrows, waiting. 

“How good are you?”

“I’ve been practicing for ages. It’s my cup of tea.” He said. “Come on, I know a piano shop just down the street. I'll show you.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve got nothing to lose but the triumph of finishing a recording at the Abbey.”

Cassie finally let herself be convinced to endure a short display of Marcus’ talents at the nearby piano shop and, a couple of minutes later, they stepped into a dimly-lit brick building, filled with pianos and air that smelled of mahogany. 

There was no owner in sight, so Marcus sat down at a Yamaha of red-stained maple. He took a breath and pressed one of the nicotine-stained keys. He tested a couple and then frowned at her.

“C-minor is out of tune.”

Cassie raised her hands to testify to her innocence.

Marcus laid his fingers back on the keys and pressed a single ivory key to begin a song. A rich note flowed from the body of the tired piano. He pressed another key. Then another note followed, sweeter than the last. He set about a song, his fingers slow-dancing across the keys. His hands gracefully wound up toward the far end of the keys as a concerto came to life and all the world faded away. 

When the last notes of the song were gone, Cassie opened her eyes and wiped away tears. 

“That was beautiful. Can you meet me at the studio tomorrow at nine?”

“I’ll be there.” Marcus smiled. 

…

The rain held out through the night and into the next morning, but Cassie arrived at Abbey Road Studios in high spirits. She was waiting for Marcus when he stepped into the lobby. 

“All right?”

“I’m good.” She said. 

Marcus was dressed in a light, clean white shirt, long-sleeved, with two buttons at the collar and trousers. He wore polished leather shoes, and his hair was combed back, damp with the drizzle.

“We’re just down here," Cassie said. She opened the door to a small room, padded with foam. A flat and wide mixing board and a monitor were on the desk. In the center of the room was a mic and a keyboard behind it. A blue couch was pushed up against the back and a cashmere rug was under everything.

An older looking man, half-bald and bespectacled, sat at the monitor playing an audio clip into headphones and clicking repetitively with the mouse. He pulled the headphones off and put them down. “Cheers.”

“Hello, Mr. Danials,” Cassie said, waving. “This is Marcus. I asked him over to see if he could offer a fresh perspective on the keys.”

If her music theory professor was suspicious or annoyed like Cassie feared he would be, Mr. Danials didn’t show it. He shook Marcus’ hand. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” Mr. Danials pointed to the keyboard. “We’re working with an EastWest Fantasy Legato here. Just hold back until you hear the vocals a couple of times. I’ll feed our 3rd song to the keys’ headphones.”

Marcus sat down and slipped on the headphones. He picked out the beat with a finger on his knee before switching to the keys and mock-playing something. Before the song was halfway through, he asked if they could drop the background they already had. “Just the beat and the voice—and maybe you can restart it?”

“Sure.” Mr. Danials clicked a couple of things on the screen. 

“Oh—and maybe we could record this?” Marcus asked. “We can use it later if something else doesn’t work out.”

Cassie and her professor both looked over at him with surprise. Mr. Danials shrugged. “You got it.” 

The song began and Marcus danced his fingers across the keys. Violin music filled the air from the synth keyboard. 

Cassie followed along, listening to the new incidental. She slowly nodded. It was good. Probably better than anything they had yet.

Marcus stopped playing. “Sorry, sorry. Let’s restart. That was rubbish.”

"That was great. Why did you stop?"

"I was just mucking around. I've got real ideas."

It wasn't long before Mr. Danials was satisfied with the final product. It took Marcus fifty minutes to remaster the track they’d spent the last four days writing. 

“All that’s left for that one is mixing and mastering.” Mr. Danials said, shaking his head. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“Practice." Marcus laughed.

They took a break and went back for the next song. 

“Can we rerecord the lead on this one?” Cassie asked. 

Mr. Danials was in a better mood than he’d been in for several days. He'd been beginning to think that the album was a catastrophic failure, but it was suddenly polishing up into a masterpiece. “Sure. Step up to the mic.”

Cassie lowered the suspended microphone to her height and tugged a set of headphones over her ears, brushing a lock of her brown hair back away from her eyes. Mr. Danials set a metronome flowing through her feed and she shuffled the papers around on the lectern. Marcus watched her brown eyes focus on what was on the paper. She glanced up at him. He gave an encouraging nod. She stood there a second, looking at the man who’d come to her rescue. If Mr. Danials was relieved that his monetary investment was paying off, how much more was she relieved that her lifework of singing practice was paying off?

She sensed the song beginning and took a deep breath. The beat rolled back around, and she started her piece. 

...

They worked for another two days, recreating and mastering all sixteen tracks on Cassie Warner-Reuben’s first album. Marcus led the reconstruction with his incredible skills and labyrinthian storehouse of melodies. 

Professor Danials was in a frenzy. He loved every part of the album, from Cassie’s angelic vocals to Marcus’ full orchestra accompaniment. The professor claimed he’d made the best decision of his life—even though Cassie cautioned him against getting his hopes up for the actual sale of the album. He held up a Starbucks napkin full of marketing ideas and names to send the album to and didn’t listen.

The night after the night they finished recording, they all went out to a restaurant in London. The professor set to work on finding a record label. Cassie and Marcus met for coffee or a meal a couple of times during the next few weeks. Finally, Mr. Danials texted them both to announce that he had good news—and wanted to meet them outside of London near the coast. 

Cassie was ecstatic, but Marcus seemed off and only offered a vapid response. It was beginning to become the new normal for him to let lengthy delays grow between text messages. When they spoke in person, he seemed burdened by something, possessed by a faraway look in his eyes. And he certainly seemed distant now, distant and broken. But still, she grew fond of him. And he had to feel the same way about her—at least if the messages his eyes sent could be trusted.

…

Marcus arrived at the Basilica, their selected restaurant, right on time. He stepped out of a cab in a three-piece suit of dark navy. His eyes were as large and as blue as ever, flashing with his wide smile and his stud earrings. Cassie was waiting for him by the door. 

“Hey.”

“Cheers.” He said, nodding with a grin.

They stepped into the restaurant together. The air was filled with conversations, the clinking of silverware, and the smells of fine wine and fresh garlic rolls. People dined in high-back, heavy wooden chairs at tables. The two wound their way through the tables until they reached Mr. Danials and his wife, sitting across from two empty seats.

After perusing the menus and ordering, they started on bread. 

“I’m very glad that this has all worked out so nicely.” Marcus said, obviously trying to bait Mr. Danials into telling them what they were there for. 

"As am I… and, as I'm sure you're both guessing," Mr. Danials said, putting down his glass and folding his hands, looking very serious yet like he was hiding a smile. "We…. have been signed." The smile broke loose. 

Cassie clapped and Marcus grinned. He shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Danials, then leaned over to hug Cassie. They talked over how much they were signed on for and all the details. Mr. Danials once again insisted that they pay Marcus for his work, but he denied the offer for a fifth time. The waiter reappeared with their food, temporarily ending the discussion. 

“Signed or not,” Marcus said, digging into his spaghetti, “It’s very nice to see you all one more time.” 

Though his words were innocent enough, there was a hint of finality in the tone—as if they were having a departing meal. Cassie quickly looked his way, but he didn’t return her glance. “Mm…. This is delicious.” He said, poking at his pasta.

Cassie turned back to her Branzino Cardinale, which had suddenly lost all of its appeal. Her stomach twisted. 

Marcus barely said anything for the rest of the meal, and their conversation revolved around the food and the process of writing the album. 

When the Danials ordered dessert, Cassie—terrified that, after refusing a slice of cake, Marcus would beg to be excused—asked if he would like to take a walk. 

After a hesitation, Marcus agreed.

They stepped out into the fresh sea air and walked in silence down the brick sidewalk, tacitly agreeing to head for the oceanfront. 

Cassie searched for the right words to say in that moment, but none came. Marcus seemed content just to look ahead. 

It was dark down on the water and no one was out. A thin layer of clouds was backlit by a full moon. Below the walkway, damp with drizzle from where the rain had fallen earlier, the seaside was crowded with large, rounded rocks. Even the ocean seemed silent, lapping gently against the large boulders. 

“Is there something wrong, Marcus?” 

"That sea bass was a bit dodgy, but I’m good if that's what you mean.”

“You just... don’t seem like yourself.”

Marcus didn’t say anything. He just kept his gaze on the ground. One of Cassie’s songs was stuck in his head—as was the sound of a ticking pocket watch, which was like an ever-present torture. “I’m just sad we’re saying goodbye.”

“Marcus—we’re not.”

“We have to.”

“Why?”

Marcus winced and dug at the ground with the toe of his shoe. When he spoke, his words were slow and rueful. “I shouldn’t have helped you if you have to be friends with me.”

Cassie didn’t try to hide her surprise. “What do you mean? You said you’re not married or engaged or even friends with… anyone else.”

“I’m not—and that’s just it.”

“That’s just what?”

“If we’re supposed to be for forever, I have to die.”

“Why would you have to die—what do you mean?”

Marcus sighed. “I’ve been looking for someone like you my entire life. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met… but I don’t know if I can throw the rest of eternity away. I’ve been listening for a voice like yours for longer than you can imagine, but I just don’t know if I can do it.” Before she could ask what he was talking about, he slipped a little watch out of his pocket and held it up. “Look.”

She hesitantly took it from him and looked it over. 

He pulled out his phone and clicked on the light, pointing to the glass. On the clock face, a timer was slowly rolling around, along with a series of rollers slowly turning. “I found this 1843 years ago. I’ve not aged a day since.”

She pushed it back into his hand. “What are you talking about? Look, Marcus, I don’t know what you’re saying—are you okay?”

“I’m fine—but—I can’t explain it.”

"Look, Marcus, if you don't love me, just say so… don't play around. Are you saying goodbye?"

"No, no. I'm trying to explain. The back of this watch says that if I want to find true love, I have to throw it away—but then I won't live forever anymore."

Cassie looked at him as if he were mad.  

"Every time I try to love someone, a couple weeks or months into the friendship something dramatic always happens to separate us. I've tried every way to get around it—it's not possible. I waited 1800 years to find someone I could really do it for—really just throw everything away, throw forever away for her."

"Are you okay, Marcus?"

“Look, can you make it back to the Basilica? I’ll be there in a couple minutes… I just have to think this over.”

Concern was written across Cassie’s brown eyes—along with, worse, a look of fear. She turned and strode off, her dress swishing across the ground. 

Marcus turned to the ocean and held the pocket watch up. 

1843 years, 85 days, 4 hours, 49 minutes, and 7 seconds had passed since he’d been eligible for true love. 1843 years, 85 days, 4 hours, 49 minutes, and 7 seconds of life without the hope of true love, the hope of growing old beside someone, the hope of dying beside that person. 

He looked at the small device he’d come to loath. He took a deep, long breath. Was this it?

Could he really do it? Could he pitch the one thing he’d held onto for nearly two thousand years? The one thing that had kept him alive?

He looked at the small watch and he thought hard. Was this part of his life coming to a close? He’d waded and waited through centuries for an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. 

But was this it?

Why should he live forever and never find love? Life was made to be lived—not abused. Life was made to be savored and tasted, not stuffed down the throat. 

The very fact that he considered Cassie and was willing to give up his eternity showed just how valuable this chance was. She would be his forever girl—if he could give up forever so that she could be his girl.

The ticking, the same ticking tone of his never-ending life going on, was beginning to feel as if it would kill him. He couldn’t escape the sound. It had haunted him for ages. It had been everything to him when he had only lived a hundred years, but now that he’d been alive for eighteen hundred, he’d grown to hate it. Hate it so bad. 

He wanted true love. He wanted to hear the sound of wedding bells. He wanted to hear his child’s first cry. He wanted to hear the sound of his pill bottles opening as he aged and went on medication. He wanted to hear the sound of his cane tapping the ground. He wanted to listen to the birds for the last time and know that his time had come. He wanted to hear the sound of his heartbeat on the machine at the hospital and count each one with gratitude, knowing that his life was finally hastening to an end. He wanted to look up into Cassie’s eyes, her same eyes, but years and years older, and tell her it would be okay. He wanted to know that he only had a matter of time until his death.  He wanted to be a melody that would die.

Before he could think another second, Marcus did it. He pitched the pocket watch. The piece of metal—the horrible curse, the chain that bound him to life, flew in a slow arch until it hit the dark ocean with a splash. 

The ticking was gone. 

His forever was gone. 

Marcus Benedictus was gone.

He was someone with a life—and only one life now. What a splendid thing. 

Marcus turned around and raced back up the moonlit street until he saw the slender form of his favorite person hurrying back up the hill with her arms crossed.

“Cassie!” He cried. 

She spoke over her shoulder, not yet turning around.  “Look, Marcus, if you don’t like me then—”

“No, Cassie.” Marcus said, coming up beside her. “I love you.”

Her last look of skepticism drained away when Marcus offered his hand. She took it and hugged him tightly.

He let her go and dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” Cassie said, starting to feel tears roll down her cheeks. She hugged him again. 

Hand in hand, they walked up the street and Marcus tried to explain, to find words to capture what had just happened—as if he’d been dreaming for centuries and had woken up all in a second. He attempted to tell it short but there was no way to. Cassie just listened and nodded. "You're going to have to explain the whole thing in more detail." She said, "Because this sounds like you're barking mad—but I believe you, Marcus."

“In that moment when I threw the thing away, I could hear your voice, ringing in my head, and I could hear the thing ticking, and I knew I had to choose between it or you. A battle of sounds—I can hear the melody in my head, like a song."

Cassie didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded.

"You can sing, and I’ll write music for you—we have everything we need for a life—a life where we can grow up and get old together.”

She nodded. 

“But I need a name,” Marcus said, looking down into her soulful brown eyes with real seriousness. “I’m not Marcus Benedictus anymore. Benedictus died by the ocean.”

“Take one of my names if you want to.” Cassie said.

“Marcus Reuben?”

“No. That doesn’t sound quite right.” She laughed. “How about Marcus Warner?”

The young man nodded, thinking how well it fit him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders again and swore to her how precious she was to him. 

She smiled and whispered back. “It was just a matter of time until you found the right person, Marcus Warner. Just a matter of time.”

Note from the editor: This story hits so well in every area. The theme, character, and prose were all solid. I knew before I was a page into the story that this story had to place.

Kinsey Holt

         Maybe I was. In a world where insanity reigns, everything appears backward, reflected out of a funhouse mirror. Mad is sane, sane is mad, good is bad, left is right, the whole world turned upside-down. It’s enough to make a man crazy, I suppose.

         You see, they thought me a madman because I believed they’d gone too far. Their inventions had become abominations, their creativity an obscenity.

         To put it bluntly, the world was full of bad people doing bad things. At this point, Earth was irredeemable. It had it coming.

         The world deserved to drown. It needed a cleansing. I would be the one to do it.

         Anyway, it was only a matter of time before the world destroyed itself. I was just pushing the hands of the clock forward a little bit.

         How, you ask?

         Simple.

         Much as the world may try to deny it, there’s another level of reality beyond what mortal men can see. Call me magical, or supernatural, or whatever you like if that helps you understand it. To order waves and command storms is my special gift. Water moves when and where I tell it to. The ocean is my playground.

         They say that long ago the Creator wiped the slate clean and started anew, causing the seas to rise and the heavens to spill over.

         Not a bad idea. I figured I could do the same thing myself – not on such a large scale, of course, for that is unfortunately a bit beyond my ability, but a few tsunamis targeted at the most populous areas on the planet ought to fully and completely render the planet an apocalyptic garden bed ready for replanting.

         And then she came.

~~~~~~~~~~~

         I went down to the old stone quay to paint about once a week, if not more. Whenever I could, I slipped away and spent an hour or so alone with the salt breeze and the beautiful, ever-shifting seascapes.

         But I’d never seen Crazy Basil down there before.

         I saw him as I came along the path through the dunes and stopped, surprised. His tall, limber frame was silhouetted against a gray sky, and even with the waves roaring, I could dimly hear him muttering.

         Well, maybe I should have gone back home. Mom did say not to talk to strangers, but Crazy Basil doesn’t really count. He’d haunted the town since before I was born, and everyone said he was perfectly harmless. He slept on stoops and begged from tourists, and the rest of the time, I had no idea what he did, but neither did anyone else.

         So I didn’t budge. I had all my equipment with me and I’d finally managed to find an hour not taken up by school or work – I might as well paint, Basil or no Basil.

         Besides, maybe Basil could use a friend. The look I saw in his eyes sometimes reminded me of the way Oreo looked when we found him on the side of the road. Sure, Basil’s not a dog, but I think he needed to be rescued all the same.

         So, I shrugged my backpack up higher on my shoulders and marched down the sand to the quay. “Hey Basil!”

         He whipped around and stared at me, his eyes big and white in the middle of his dirty, weatherbeaten face. Wild brown hair corkscrewed down to his shoulders. He squinted and pointed a finger at me, then, like he was fishing it out of his memories, he said, “You’re Kate. The sheriff’s daughter.”

         “That’s right.” I nodded. “You mind if I paint over here? Will it bother you?”

         I wonder what he thought. He looked kind of surprised – I figure everybody always thought of him as the bother, which was part of the reason why I mentioned it. But after a moment, he shook his head and turned back to face the breakers, hands clasped behind his back.

         The gulls screamed, fighting over a fish, as I set up my easel and canvas. As I worked, I shot glances at Basil now and then, because even if I was friendly, I wasn’t stupid and wanted to be on my guard.

         He paid me no mind, muttering things about ‘too far gone’ and ‘corrupted through and through.’

         I wondered if he was sick. Briefly, I contemplated asking him what was too far gone, but I figured that might end up making him angry. Seemed to me he just wanted a quiet place to mutter, and so I let him be.

         An hour wasn’t time for much, but luckily, I was doing a series at the moment. Every day, I taped off the canvas into small blocks and painted part of the same view off the old quay. Hopefully the effect would be pretty. I’d done one in the early morning, and a section in the middle while the sun was going down and streaking the sky with fire. A stormy afternoon like today would complete it.

         I started working, and before long, I forgot all about Crazy Basil. Immersed in blurry strokes of gray and flecks of white, it didn’t even occur to me again that I wasn’t alone until I suddenly felt a warm breath rustle my hair.

         Jumping, I twisted around to see Basil standing right behind me, peering at the painting. Maybe I should have made tracks for the house right then and there, but I suddenly realized I’d never seen Basil up close before, and the artist in me was captured by his eyes. I’d never seen such a vivid shade of blue. They were like two sapphires in the midst of a lot of gray-brown, and they looked a lot older than they should have.

         Basil grunted, looked at the painting, the sea, and then the painting again. “Not bad.”   

       “Thanks.”

         “You’ve captured the wildness.” He gestured out at the waves, which were certainly coming in a bit foamier and faster now that the wind had picked up. A storm was rolling in for sure. “Water’s a powerful thing, you know. Never underestimate it.”

         I lifted an eyebrow. An odd statement, but then again, Basil was an odd bloke. “Yeah, I got you. I’m careful when I swim. Hey, do you like painting?”

         “Me? No. I don’t paint. I wish I could, but this world’s too damaged. Nothing I do comes out the way I envision it. I feel like I’m trying to build a house with broken tools.”

         “Huh.” I stuck out my lower lip and studied my canvas. “I get that. I never feel like I’ve finished any of my paintings.”

         Basil nodded, shrugged, and meandered out to the edge, twining his hands together and gesturing at the air.

         Figuring he was just being Basil, I dabbed some more green onto my brush and was streaking it along the waves, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ocean do something crazy.

         I started and nearly dropped my palette. Water spiraled up in front of Basil, twisting and spraying and stretching out gleaming arms that froze in midair. Basil stared at it, his hands lifted at his sides.

         Was he doing it? My jaw just about hit the ground.

         “Are you…? Is that…?”

         Basil cocked his head, staring at his bizarre kinetic sculpture. Two seagulls flapped about above the surface of the water, screeching at each other. Basil flicked his hand and the water rushed away from him to smack down atop the two bickering birds, drenching – and silencing—them. A look of satisfaction settled over his expression.

         “That was crazy!” I stammered, setting down my supplies with shaking hands and walking over. “Was that magic?”

         He grunted, and his shoulders moved indolently up and down. “Some call it that.”

         “That’s amazing!” I could hardly believe this was really happening, and I probably wouldn’t have believed that Crazy Basil could do things like that if not for the evidence of my own eyes. There was more to that funny ol’ tramp than anyone knew.

         One side of his mouth curled upwards. “That’s nothing.” He swept his arms out like a maestro conducting a symphony. The waves swelled and surged up, towering above us on the end of the quay. Thunder grumbled from the far-off clouds bunched on the horizon.

         “Wow,” I whispered. So that was what he meant by power. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I shot him a side-eye. Sure, he was Basil, but he was Crazy Basil. Was I safe here?

         “The world’s filthy, Kate,” he murmured. “But I can clean it.”

         Before I fully knew what was happening, the wave tipped over and rushed toward us. I shrieked and scrambled back out of the way, though not in time to fully avoid a drenching. Basil let the wave hit him head-on, and when it receded and rolled off the sides of the quay, he still stood there, dripping dirty water.

         “Geez!” I yelled. “A little warning would be nice the next time you decide to take a bath!” I ran to check on my painting, hoping nothing had splashed that far. Luckily, it was alright, but I blew on the paint and put my things away regardless.

         When I finally walked back to him, my mind had started processing what he’d said. “What do you mean, clean it? Like, literally? Are you talking about trash in the ocean or something? Or do you mean –”

         “The people,” he growled. “Grimy, rotten souls. Death and destruction, abuse of every faculty the Creator gave them and their mockery of everything that’s too great for them to understand.”

         “Oh.” I stared at his hands, clenched at his sides. “Yeah, I get what you mean. Life’s not fair and people aren’t nice. Believe me, I know that. Why do you think I paint?”

         He turned and frowned at me. “I… I don’t know,” he said at last. “Why do you paint?”

         I smiled and folded my arms, staring at the texture of the purple-gray clouds, a texture I longed to capture on canvas. “Because there is still beauty in the world, and I want to catch it. I want to hold it and show it to other people.”

         “Beauty.” He snorted. “All is corrupted.”

         “Well,” I said, a bit annoyed. “Then I paint to make beauty and bring it back into the world.”

         “Impossible. Humans cannot make anything of worth. They taint all they touch.”

         I scowled at him. “I thought you liked my painting.”

         His posture relaxed a little bit. “I did,” he murmured, sounding almost confused.

         “Then maybe you’re wrong. Maybe there can be beauty.” I felt my throat tighten. “There has to be. A world without beauty… well… if there’s nothing good to stop the evil, then what’s the point?” I felt tears stinging my eyes and angrily blinked them away. Now was not the time.

         Basil frowned. “What’s wrong?”

         “Nothing,” I muttered.

         It was a lie. And Basil could read that clear as crystal as my treacherous emotions betrayed me, turning my face red and my eyes wet.

         He faced me, awkwardly lifting a hand like he was going to pat my head, then grimaced and pulled back. I don’t think that he quite knew what to do. Ordinarily, it might have made me chuckle, but seeing him foiled in a small effort at comforting me just stung more. I crossed my arms tight and clenched my jaw, trying to hold it all down. Basil didn’t need to hear my sob story – both of us had just come out here to be alone.

         Basil sighed, glanced at me again, and then stuffed his hands in the pockets of the thrift-store suit jacket he was wearing for some reason. “What happened? What did this disgusting world do to you?”

         “It… it took my brother.” Why was I telling him this? “He got hit by an idiot drunk kid.” I sniffed hard, swallowing down hot anger.

         “Ah, yes, I remember hearing about that. I’m sorry.”

         Sorry. Everyone said sorry. So what if they felt bad? It didn’t change anything. Nothing could change the past. I didn’t want to think about this anymore. “What did it do to you?”

         Basil took his left hand out of his pocket, with something in it. Resolutely staring at the ocean like he didn’t want me to see his face and the feelings written on it, he dropped a battered, ancient pocket watch onto my palm.

         I turned it over and then opened the lid. Ah. A faded sepia photo was pressed in opposite the watch face. A pretty woman with an old-fashioned hairdo smiled wistfully out at me.

         “Your wife?” I looked up.

         He nodded.

         “Sorry.” It came out automatically, even though it felt utterly hollow.

         “She was beautiful. Innocent. Perfect.” Fury seeped into his gravelly voice. “And they didn’t just settle for taking her away from me. They had to destroy her.”

         “This is a pretty old photo,” I murmured. I had nothing better to say – I couldn’t address somebody else’s pain like that. I couldn’t even deal with my own.

         “I’m a pretty old person.”

         I lifted an eyebrow. I’d peg him as in his fifties or sixties, maybe, but he was Crazy Basil, after all. “So… when you say clean this world, what do you mean? I mean, what can you do now that will fix anything about the past?”

         “I can’t fix the past. But I could start things over. Change the future.”

         Goosebumps lifted on my skin. He sounded dead serious.

         “How?” I whispered.

         He made a motion over the water at our feet, and it danced up, twisting into a tight spout. “Start it anew. Wash it clean.”

         I clenched my hands instinctively, and the watch shut with a sharp snap. “You mean… destroy it?” Sunday-school pictures of a flood and an ark danced before my eyes.

         “Restart it. This world has lost its chance for goodness.”

         “But…” I stared at him in horror. “What about me? I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to make beauty. And you said I succeeded! You said you liked my painting.” I squeezed the watch. “There has to be beauty. There has to be!”

         He rounded on me, vivid eyes flashing. “Where?” he barked. “Where is there beauty? If ever a rare flower sprouts, the weeds choke it and it withers.”

         I took a step back.

         “That’s what I am,” he muttered. “Withered. Maybe water will bring the withered things back to life again, and drown the weeds.”

         “Or maybe it will just flood the entire garden.” I folded my arms. “That’s not how vengeance works, Basil.”

         “Vengeance?” he spat.

         “Yes, vengeance.” The water foaming around the rocks at our feet was getting unusually agitated, and I suspected that Basil had something to do with it. “After Carter died, I wanted nothing more than to meet the guy who hit him, to somehow make him pay. He gets to live and my brother doesn’t – how is that fair? But what good would it do? The only way I could fight back was by bringing in beauty as they made evil. The only way I could stop my own heart from shriveling up…”

What was I doing? Why had I brought my own problems into this? I forced myself back on track. “Basil, even if you use your power to get back at the world for hurting you, it’s not going to change how you feel. In fact, you’ll realize you’ve become like them – you’ll have destroyed lives and dreams and hopes.”

         He would destroy mine, for sure. I glanced up at him hopefully, praying that he’d listen. Otherwise I might have to run and get my dad before Basil took drastic measures.

         “There’s only one Person that can wash people’s souls without wrecking the world in the process,” I murmured, pressing the watch back into his hand.

         “You’re talking about God.” Basil’s posture was still tense and angry.

I nodded. Sheets of rain streaked down on the dark horizon. I probably needed to start packing up and make my way home, but not just yet. I had to say what was on my mind, for Basil’s sake, and – if I was being honest – my own. “One day, God’s gonna clean us for good. Complete restoration, no more brokenness. It’s only a matter of time.” I put on a smile and reached up, patting his shoulder. Flakes of dirt broke off and fluttered to the ground. “You should come to church. Pastor will explain it better than I can.”

         Basil said nothing, but I didn’t expect him to.

My back pocket vibrated – probably Mom. “Hey, I’ve got to go. It was nice talking with you. Think about what I said, okay? See you Sunday?”

         “Mm. Maybe.” Basil twisted his finger around like he was stirring something, and a little spiral of water came up out of the waves.

My heart still heavy with sorrow and worry, I walked back over to my stuff.

Basil watched while I worked. Finally, as I slung my pack over my shoulder, he smiled wanly. “Goodbye, Kate.”

“Bye, Basil.” I picked up my canvas and hesitated. Then I stepped forward and held it out. “Here.”

He stared at me, looking almost as shocked as I’d been when he’d started doing freaky things with the ocean.

“Take it,” I pressed. “It’s not very good, but… I hope it will remind you that there is and can be beauty in this world, so long as you know the Artist.”

Then he smiled – really smiled, and I swear I saw tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled back.

Some urge pushed me forward and I gave him a quick hug, holding my breath, because he seriously needed a shower. Then, leaving him stunned, I pulled back – now damp and streaked with mud – turned, and started the walk back to the house.

At the top of the first dune, I glanced over my shoulder. Basil still stood at the edge of the old quay, my painting in his hands, his eyes on me. He wore a baffled expression.

I grinned and waved. Maybe he’d come to church, maybe not. My mind was awhirl with thoughts, and bittersweet emotion still churned in my gut.

Who knew, maybe the town madman thought I was crazy.

But then again, any flower could survive the weeds if it was well-tended. There was always hope.

Editor's note: One of the reasons I loved this story was because of the strength of the characters. The dialogue and beliefs of the characters were what drove the story.

Some people are born for the theater.

Arthur Rondstorm was one of them.

Still in his costume, he posed for the camera and journalists hollered in the rows.

“Mr. Rondstorm, Mr. Rondstorm, when did you get your start in acting?” a reporter waved her arm like she was swatting giant flies, trying to attract his attention.

“My dad’s a director, so I got in that way. But it’s just natural talent that took me to  the top. If you have skill like me, nothing can stop you.” He glanced up to the spotlight, ensuring it still focused directly on him, then flashed a grin to the rows of press bouncing up and down in front of him. 

“Did you ever have doubts about your acting skills?” someone else called out.

“Why would I?”

“What are your plans for the future?”

“I’m aiming big. One word: Broadway.”

“Do you think–”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all the time we have for today,” The stage manager appeared on the stage. “Thank you for coming,” Then she hissed to Arthur: “Arthur, we’re having a cast meeting backstage. Now.”

Arthur nodded to Emily, unleashed a cocky grin on the press, and gave his signature flamboyant bow before jogging offstage.

Act curious, he thought, like you would if you didn’t know what’s going on. “What’s up, Em?” he asked.

“Emily. Someone broke into the ticket booth safe last night.”

“How much did they take?”

“Five hundred.”

He snorted. “Not much to crack a safe for.”

“They knew the combination.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “An inside job?” 

She nodded. “Morton’s mad. And blaming you.”

“Of course,” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”

“You can’t charm everyone,” Emily said, shaking her head.

Arthur threw back his head and laughed. “Some just take more time than others.” 

They reached the break room. Morton, the director, paced up and down in the front of the room. Emily sat stark upright in a chair by Morton facing the cast, while Arthur skulked to a table in the back of the room where he regularly spent staff meetings.

He surveyed the crowd. Morton and Emily, of course--man, was Emily cute–plus Lisa, Arthur’s older sister; Karl (a lousy German actor and Arthur’s rival);  Mark, the old ticket seller; and the rest of the cast and crew. Arthur snickered. They were dumb enough to actually listen to Morton’s lectures. He’d stopped paying attention to them at age six.

Besides, he knew what had happened

Tyler had called Arthur up the other night, begging for cash. Arthur was broke (he had just spent a few hundred on shoes and a thousand on other things) After a moment’s deliberation, he gave his best friend the combination to the theater safe. “Just don’t take more than a hundred bucks,” he had cautioned, “or someone will notice.” 

So Tyler stunk at taking advice. Lesson learned. Arthur was innocent, of course. His only crime consisted of being a good friend.

He leaned back and propped his heels up on the table, watching Morton rage. Nice performance. Arthur smirked as he grabbed a bag of leftover popcorn from the shelf behind him.

“Arthur, pay attention!” Morton bellowed.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.”Yes, sir!” he drawled. 

Morton’s face tightened. Arthur’s ‘sir’ always contrived to be both stiflingly polite and sarcastic at the same time. And Arthur knew it. 

“One of you knows what happened,” Morton concluded. “And I strongly encourage you to confess before I find out myself.”

“That was fun. Nice dose of fire and brimstone,” Arthur commented to Emily as they left the break room.

“You weren’t even listening.”

“You weren’t either.”

“I was.”

“Nope.”

Emily glared at him. “We’re not all delinquents.”

“No, that’s just me. I’m a pretty good-looking one, though.”

“Give me a break.” Shaking her head, Emily walked into her office and shut the door.

Arthur stepped out into the street and grabbed a taxi. Em didn’t suspect anything. Lisa would be the real test. His sister knew him better than anyone.

But then again, he was Arthur Rondstorm, the brilliant actor, the up-and-coming star, the party king. Like he couldn’t could pull this off.

###

“Arthur?” Lisa was home. 

“Yeah?” He stretched and gave the chandelier a “This is it” look before he rolled off the Mardones sofa and stepped into the lobby. Play it cool. You’re innocent.

“Shocking, isn’t it?” her eyes searched his face. “The robbery, I mean.”

She was on to him. Ugh. Arthur tried for a cocky grin and began edging out of the entryway. “Not really. Actors are the crookedest people in the world. Except for politicians.”

“They think it was an inside job.” Lisa dropped her Tiffany purse and walked into the kitchen.

“An inside job would’ve used the keys.”

She stopped rummaging in the fridge and looked at Arthur. “How would they know the combo to the safe?”

“Mark’s ancient. Probably writes it down so he don’t forget.” He was doing pretty good. She didn’t suspect a thing.

Lisa gave up the farce. “Arthur. Who did it?”

“Not me, officer,” Arthur put up his hands in mock fear. “I had no part in it, ma’am.”

“You got friends. Which one of ‘em did it? Ethan? Weston? Tyler?”

So she knew the whole thing. Arthur swallowed, scrabbled for an answer, and stood silent.

“It was Tyler, wasn’t it?” Lisa diced an avocado and put it in the blender.

And then:

“Cum’on, Arthur. Why’d you do it?”

Time to fess up. Maybe she’ll cover for me. “He needed cash. I wanted to help him out.”

“Do you know why he needed cash?”

No, but a thousand possibilities presented themselves, some of them bad, most of them worse. “I’m sure he had a very good reason.”

“This is Tyler Scott we’re talking about, Arthur.”

“Well–he’s had a rough life. He doesn’t need more trouble.”

“You can pay it back for him.”

Didn’t see that coming. 

“Lisa, I’m broke.”

“That sucks, doesn’t it?” said Lisa, drawing herself up and preparing to sail out of the room, smoothie in hand.

“Aww, Lisa, this sort of thing happens all the time.”

“Not in my house.”

“Look, sis. It was what, a couple hundred bucks? We’re in a multi-million dollar business. My character shoes cost more than that.”

“New producer’s more strict. High standards for some reason. Mark’s gonna lose his job.”

“It’s about time he retired.”

“Arthur. If,” Lisa punctuated each word like a sand bag dropped from the rafters. “If you do not fess up and get back or pay back that money–all that money–you’re moving out.” She straightened up.

“I always wanted a bachelor pad.”

Lisa tried to choke back a smile and failed. But she didn’t budge. “You have two days.”

“Sure, sis. And when I’m living with the swells and you’re still in this second-rate apartment, I’ll remember you.” He saluted, his mocking, two-finger salute, and departed to his room to pack.

###

Arthur grabbed a taxi and headed over to Carlson’s. He found Tyler in his usual booth, engrossed in a NHL game with Ethan.

“Arthur, my man, come on over,” called Tyler. “Canada’s whippin’ us tonight.”

“We’ll win in the end,” Arthur replied.

“We always do.”

Arthur smiled inwardly. Tyler had a brick-solid faith in the old US of A’s ability to beat everyone at everything. “Ty, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s up?”

“What did you do with the money?”

“What money?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV. “You wanna order us a pizza? Pepperoni and sausage.”

“You know what money, Tyler Sanchez!” He lowered his voice as waiter walked by.

“Eah? Oh, that job,” Tyler swivelled his head to look at Arthur. “I lost those spoils hours ago. I’m awful at rummy.”

“Well, I need it back.”

“What for? You weren’t involved.”

“Mark is going to lose his job.”

“The ticket guy? He’s a million years old. It’s about time he retired.”

“Ty, the man’s broke because his kid’s draining all the money. He needs this job.”

“Wish my dad would fish out cash when I need it. But really, who cares?” Tyler shook his head. “Arthur Rondstorm, You’re such a softy.”

“Well, he’s pretty much a dad to me.”

“You have a dad. A rich dad. A kingpin or something, right?”

“Yeah, well he doesn’t talk to me. He just pays the bills.”

“Sounds like a decent gig. Money and freedom. Man, what more do you need?”

“I need the money back.”

“Too late for that, buddy.”

“Well what am I gonna do?”

“Not tell people the combination to the money safe.” Tyler smirked. “Now shut up. I wanna watch this game.”

“Come on, Ty,” Arthur begged. “Lisa kicked me out until I pay back the money.”

“Why the heck does your girlfriend care?” asked Ethan.

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my sister. My annoying, controlling sister.” Arthur imagined all the wonderful things he would do to her when he was rich. She’d be the one kicked out of her apartment.

“Ask your rich daddy for cash.”

“He doesn’t talk to me. I told you that.”

“How much do you have?”

“I kinda drained my bank account. The one he fills monthly. At the end of the month.”

“Bruh!” Ethan exclaimed as he checked the date. “It’s October third!”

“Exactly. What am I gonna do?”

“Your daddy’s Rockefeller the second, and his kid’s on the streets.” Ethan smirked. “You gotta admit, it’s kinda funny.”

“Whatever. Will you give me a loan?”

“I’m broke as you are. How do you blow through ten thousand bucks in three days?”

“Clothes. And food and stuff. I had a party.”

“It was a good party,” Ty admitted as a commercial break stopped the game. “Twenty-four solid hours.”

“Yeah, but what am I gonna do?”

“At risk of sounding like my mom,” Ethan sighed at Tyler’s snickers. “Get a job.”

“I have a job.”

“Then you’re not broke!”

Arthur bit his lip. “I, uh, used that money too. And the advance.”

“What kind of parties do you throw, bro? You need to invite me!” Ethan drained his Coke.

“You guys aren’t helpful.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “Come on, Einstein. We are the last people you should’ve asked for advice.”

“Well who am I supposed to ask? Emily?”

“Oh, yeah, Arthur,” asked Ty. “How’s it going with the girl?”

“She won’t talk to me unless she has to.”

“Why?” Ty rolled his eyes. “Won’t talk to you, of all people.”

“No idea. She says I’m immature. It’s ridiculous.”

“Why didn’t you invite her to the party?”

“I did. She wouldn’t come.”

“Here,” Ethan broke in. “Move in with me, get a job working second shift as a waiter or something, and you can pay back the money and then go home.”

“Huh?” Arthur blinked, preoccupied with Emily. “That works, man. Thanks.”

“Okay. You gonna move in tonight?”

“Sure. My stuff’s in a cab outside.”

“Great,” Tyler broke in. “Crisis averted. Go for launch. Now shut up so we can watch the game.”

###

Arthur Rondstorm had a strong imagination, but he hadn’t expected a bachelor pad to look like this. 

Peeling paint. 

Dirty socks.

Dirty other articles of clothing

Soggy cereal rotting in chipped bowls with mismatched spoons scattered beside them.

A small greenish poodle rooting through the mess.

And the entire room hadn’t been remodeled since the Mayflower arrived.

Not exactly the swells, Arthur thought.

“Whatcha think?” Ethan asked, banging the last of Arthur’s suitcases through the door.

Arthur winced at the fresh dents in the suitcase leather, and pointed to the green poodle. “What is that?”

“That’s Baby, my poodle. She needs a bath.”

“I see.”

“Well, your room’s that-away, at the end of the hall.”

Arthur straightened and strode in that direction.

“You gonna take your bags? All ten of them?”

Arthur turned on his heel and lifted two of them. With great effort. 

“I shall return for the rest.”

His room just had a bedstead and rickety dresser, but dust and dirt abounded. And Arthur didn’t have the money to hire a cleaning service. How much more would he have to suffer?

Picking his way through dog droppings and dirt, he put his suitcases on the sheetless bed, and brought in more from the hall. As he gingerly placed the last one on the bed, Crack! A six-foot piece of sheetrock fell out of the ceiling. 

Covered in white dust, Arthur Rondstorm groaned at how far down he had come in the world.

###

Emily drove through the rain, windshield wipers on full blast and eyes squinted for stop lights and cars. 

She stopped at a red light and a dark-haired pedestrian jogged across the crosswalk. She wondered if it was Arthur, then shook herself. Why did she care? She wasn’t interested in him, not like that anyway. It was that mom thing. Being the oldest meant she felt like a mother to every forlorn, motherless kid in New York state. She couldn’t help it, either. And that Arthur boy, for all his riches and “rizz”, as the ensemble girls called it, wanted a mom so bad.

She turned left and drove down to the parking garage. A van swung out of a side street and almost clipped her.

She swerved to the wrong side of the road, then looked up in horror as a blue camaro came at her.

No way to stop.

No road to turn.

She closed her eyes.

This was it.

There was a crunch, a jolt that made her bite her tongue, and, from the camaro, a scream.

Then everything was still.

Emily opened her eyes. White dust floated around her. Maybe this is what Heaven is like, she thought.

She coughed explosively. Nope. Not yet. 

Gingerly, she eased herself out of the car, wincing at the cuts and bruises, and looked around. The Camaro, reduced to shards, showed a leg thrown limp over the remains of the dashboard. Her lips parted in horror.

The Camaro.

The Blue Camaro.

Lisa!

Emily started running towards the car, punching her cell phone and miraculously calling the right number.

“911? Operator, I’m Emily Wetzel, where? 7th Street. Just crashed with a Camaro. The driver isn’t moving. Send someone. Quick!” Her common sense gave out as the operator tried to reassure her. 

Emily took a deep breath and listened to instructions. Don’t touch Lisa. You have to wait. Wait.

Wait.

As Lisa is quite possibly dying.

Wait.

She was about to go mad.

An ambulance rattled up. The doctors jumped out

Minutes passed.

“Dead,” said the doctor.

###

Arthur went to her funeral and cut a fine dramatic figure standing by her coffin. Morton attended, skulking in the back.

He gave up on the theater. On his dreams. Arthur Rondstorm’s show was over.

He quit the show–no warning, he just didn’t show up to rehearsal. He moved back into the apartment, not to defy her but to be closer to her. He just sat around and cried. The media put out dozens of articles accounting for his withdrawal from the world. The reputable magazines suggested he had sank into depression. The tabloids thought he had been abducted by aliens. Arthur’s agent, elated by the publicity, called the penthouse over and over again, but Arthur never picked up. 

After a month or so, though, he became old news, and people left him alone.

Then one morning  the doorbell rang.

“What?” Arthur asked as he let the director in.

“You moved back in,” Morton noted, looking around the untidy penthouse.

“You think I was gonna stay in that trashy apartment? Besides, you don’t care.”

“Your heart’s broken, kid.”

Arthur stiffened. “True.”

“It’s been a month.”

“Right again. Keep this up and they’ll promote you.”

“Look, boy, I know you’re hurt. So am I.”

“Yeah. you lost a lead actor. I lost family.”

“It’s hard, but you have to get over it. The media–the world–expects more. They want their show. They want their Arthur.”

“They’re not getting him.”

“Arthur, Arthur,” Morton coaxed. We’re actors, you and I. We live off playing the part. You’ve got to buck up, kid.”

“Why?”

“They count on you.”

“For amusement.” Arthur shrugged. Morton couldn’t afford to lose both Rondstorms. That was all.

Morton sighed and shrugged. 

“Listen, Morton. I don’t care what the world wants. I’m done.”

“The show must go on. I’m not asking for another one. After this, you never have to look at a theater again.  I’m just asking you to finish out this job.”

“You don’t even care about Lisa.”

Morton’s eyes went bright for a moment, then hardened again. Only for an instant, but Arthur saw it.

Morton couldn’t fake cry.

Arthur bit his lip and looked the director in the eye.

“Fine. The show will go on.”

###

That show passed.

A new one opened: 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. 

Arthur wasn’t auditioning for it.

But once again, he was broke. And he didn’t have Lisa to save him now.

“I need cash, Morton,” he complained. “And I need it quick.”

Morton shrugged. “Audition. If you make it, you get cash.”

“Then I have to wait until the show.”

“If you get the part.”

“Oh, I’ll get the part, sir.”

“Of course you will.” Morton smiled but shook his head. “Watch your step, boy.”

###

Arthur lounged on the couch backstage after his audition.

Morton walked by. “You’re confident.”

“Of course I am,” Arthur smirked. “I was made for this role.”

“There’s more to acting than skill.”

“Like looks?” he ran his hand through his hair.

Morton rolled his eyes. “Like character. Kindness. Responsibility. Honesty.”

“This is the theater, Morton.” Arthur smirked. “Since when were we honest?”

True enough. Twenty-seven years of experience had taught Morton that, at least. “The new producer wants to change that. He’s religious. Won’t take ‘actors without morals’.”

Arthur rolled his own eyes. “He’s gonna be real short of actors.”

“When come tomorrow you don’t have a job, you’re going to be real short of cash.”

“I’ll get this role. I haven’t caused any scandals. As far as actors go,” Arthur glanced up at Morton. “I’m a saint.”

“You won’t get the role acting like this. You better figure out what else you’re going to do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Cum’on, Arthur. You’ve pulled these tricks before. Play the good kid. If the producer’s impressed with your ‘morals’,” Morton rolled his eyes. “You’ll have a shot at the role. Keep acting like this and you won’t have anything.”

“I’m done acting stupid to get stuff. Of course I’ll get the role. I’m the best there is, thank you very much.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me,” Morton straightened. “When you’re on the streets, remember what I said.”

“Will do, sir.” Arthur gave a mocking salute and smirked. 

###

Evicted.

An unfortunate word.

“Look, I’m out of cash. And–my sister died,” Arthur tried for a sniffle and a few tears. “But as soon as I can get another role at the theater I’ll be good.”

Brad Johnson, the landlord, had heard it all before. The whole sister thing was true, but he knew this kid. Had known him all his life. The boy had inheritance. And a trust fund the size of Texas. Course he probably blew through it all in a week.

“Come on, Brad. Just one month?”

Brad looked him over. Decent clothes. He was undeniably handsome, in the way that directors looked for in title roles. Brad had spent summers as a teen painting sets for his uncle's theater, and he knew a lead actor when he saw one. Arthur was it. How was he, of all people, about to be on the streets?

Arthur clenched his teeth and brought every foot of acting experience around to his aid. He was just an unfortunate innocent.

“Please, sir?”

Brad shook his head. That boy could wheedle the hind leg off a horse. Even Lisa couldn’t see through her brother 24/7. He kinda wanted to give Arthur an extension, for old times sake, but you know how those things go–word gets around, the whole bum and vagabond population of New York begging at your doorstep. You had to stay on top, these days.

“Sorry, kid. Can’t help you there.”

“But Brad, please…”

Brad shook his head and got back in the car.

Arthur clenched his teeth in frustration and called Ethan. “Hey, Ethan?”

“What?”

Arthur stiffened at the hard tone. “Can I move back into your apartment? I’m broke again and–”

“Yeah, yeah, your sister. I heard. Too bad. She was a decent girl. You can’t stay with me.”

“What?”

“I kinda got evicted. I’m living with my parents.”

Arthur threw his phone to the ground in frustration and went upstairs to grab his suitcases.

And then retrieved his phone because he didn’t have money for a new one.

###

Imagine a tiny park built half a century ago on a strip of land between two apartment buildings in the worst part of town. Imagine a thousand pounds of sleet and dirty rain and warped sunshine forced onto this park. Imagine it when no one had been appointed for its upkeep but the neighborhood teens who periodically volunteered to refurbish the equipment with spray paint. 

Imagine a tall, skinny dark-haired boy lugging four suitcases (he had abandoned the rest along the road at intervals) entering this park, dropping the suitcases, and collapsing under the slide.

The sky filled with clouds, but the air burned like acid, and no rain seemed forthcoming. The streets, watching trash scrape over their surfaces from a sudden hot breeze, showed no signs of life. Arthur tried to smile. For once in his life, the audience was gone. The curtain had dropped. He was truly alone.

And he hated it.

He sat down, put his head in knees, and sobbed. Gasping tears ran down his face, so different from the fake cries he had made in the shows. These were honest, broken tears, hotter than the air outside.

Maybe we call him a wimp. But then again, Arthur grew up spoiled and rich. To be alone and penniless was a new, and unpleasant, experience.

He cried until he dried up and had nothing but a sick feeling in his stomach, and he sat, in the shade of the broken slide, despairing as the sun baked him rough and the cold moon froze him, until a bird started him out of his misery by flying full force into him.

Arthur glared at the bird, affronted. Humanity may no longer respect me, but a bird could, I guess. He thought, standing and brushing himself off. Plans began to form.

 He had cash. Five hundred bucks he had found in the back of Lisa’s desk. Why did he throw that stupid party?

Five hundred bucks. He could, in theory, pay back the lost money. It’d make Lisa happy. Of course she was already happy in Heaven, so why would she care? It’d be dramatic, though.

But why did that theater deserve anything from him? They kick him out–give Karl the lead, send him to the streets. He didn’t even get a part in the chorus, for Pete’s sake! Who cared about morals, anyway?

“I told you,” Lisa’s voice echoed in his head. “Character comes out in the end. It was only a matter of time.”

“This is the theater. I’ve been a million characters. Villains. Heros. The best of everything.”

“Arthur. Even here, onstage, we care, some of us.”

“Sometimes,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ve made it pretty far like this.”

“I’ve kept you out of trouble.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Go back to the theater. ‘Fess up. Pay back the money. They might still give you a job.”

Either Lisa was very convincing or it really was a good idea.

“Fine. Just to make you be quiet.”

Arthur turned on his heel and began to march toward the theater.

“Arthur.”

He spun around. “What?!”

“Clean yourself up. You look like a hobo.”

“You’re so bossy. Even when you’re dead.”

“Go. The YMCA has free showers.”

“Ok, ok!”

Arthur took a shower, dressed in a suit, put his mother’s pocket watch in his vest pocket, and walked the three blocks to the theater.

###

The set crew had been in and out today, and the twenty-foot ocean backdrop was painted beautifully. Waves with lace crowns circled and curved under a flat sky that seemed to glow with the morning sun. He glanced at the artist’s caddies of brushes and knives in the wings. They had worked hard on this.

Pity he would have to ruin it.

Arthur pulled out a small knife and approached the canvas. He smiled. This was justice. Fine work being destroyed, treated like trash. Like his skill. His life. Maybe he’d rob the safe, too. For good measure.

He smirked and put the knife to the fabric.

And Morton walked by. 

Arthur shove the knife back into his pocket and pulled out his watch.

“Arthur.”

“Sir?”

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting to speak with you, sir.”

“About what?”

“About the ticket money,” Arthur whispered. This was it. He was dead. R. I. P. Arthur Rondstorm.

“Project your voice, son.”

“The ticket money–I know who stole it.”

Morton quick-stepped to face Arthur. “Who?”

“M–me. I did.” his voice grew stronger. “I needed it. I was broke.”

“How could you possibly be broke? I put extra in your account this month.”

“I’m not in the least responsible, sir.” Arthur couldn’t keep the mocking tone out of his voice. “You know that.”

“Regrettably.”

“I really tried, Dad.”

“Never mind. You’ve confessed.” Morton scowled. “Best I can expect, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I should have before.”

“You’ll pay back the money. And I’ll get my lawyers to write something up for you to sign. No scandals in the Rondstorm family.”

The game was up. There was nothing to say. So Arthur said nothing.

“And you’ll leave New York until this all blows over.”

“I have to. I don’t have the money to stay. I’ll sell my watch,” Arthur swallowed. “To pay you back.”

“That’s all then. I’ll give you the agreement tomorrow morning. You have fifteen minutes to clear your stuff out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

There wasn’t anything to clear out. He checked his watch–it wouldn’t be his in a few hours. Five more minutes.

It was funny, years and years of memories in this playhouse, and five minutes to say good-bye. But it was dramatic. And Arthur Rondstorm was, at heart, whatever his shortcomings, an actor. His eyes traced the lacy foam patterns of the ocean backdrop. The pianist began warming up for today’s auditions. Two minutes.

A woman started singing scales in a beautiful soprano. It could almost be Lisa.

Emily walked through, arguing with Morton on the changes to the overture. Morton glanced at him, his expression flickering between anger and regret. Emily didn’t notice him at all.

One minute. The pawnshop would be open. Author turned to the audience and gave a last flamboyant bow. A final cocky grin. Then he leaped lightly down the steps, and strode down the aisle, out of the theater.

Recently I had the enjoyment of watching Christopher Nolan's action film The Prestige for the first time. The story follows that of two rival magicians in the early 20th century and the chaos they create in their lives and the lives of those around them. This movie wasn't like any other film I'd ever seen before, and it wasn't just because of the brilliance of the script, story, the sets, and characters, but because of the powerful and complex themes.

The uninformed viewer (like me) goes into this film expecting a hero, a protagonist to love and root for, perhaps a young and talented magician who will climb the magical ladder to fame and notoriety. But anyone who's familiar with Christopher Nolan knows that it can't possibly be that simple. There is no outright hero in The Prestige; instead there are two twisted pawns being used to illustrate a powerful point.

Our story follows two talented magicians who both work as colleagues in the same magic show. One is an aristocrat, Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) happy with life and married to one of the stars of the show. One is a poor and lonely working-class man, Alfred Borden (Christian Bale), struggling to get by. Both are brilliant thinkers, dedicated to the practice of wowing an audience with a quick slight of hand and a dramatic bow. Despite their contrasting personalities and situations in life, this is the single thing that binds their friendship together.

But when a horrible accident occurs in a show one night, leaving Angier a widower and the show closed, the once-happy aristocrat's life turns upside down. His wife is gone forever, the company he loves has closed, and the man most likely responsible is the cold and cynical Borden, who, despite all the warning signs, claims he doesn't know how the accident went down.

The kind-hearted Angier is suddenly faced with the greatest pain of his life and an enormous choice: to forgive Borden despite it all, or to hold on to his anger as they both begin to set out on their solo careers as magicians. Blinded by his pain, Angier decides that the only thing that can heal him is revenge.

What follows is a fiery rivalry. What was once a "simple" plan of revenge on Angier's part becomes infinitely more complicated as Borden decides to respond by foiling Angier's debut show as a performer. More blows of violence follow, concocted by the tricky minds of magicians. Each trick is less subtle and more threatening than the last. Secrets, bitterness, and revenge become the recipe for disaster as both men build their entire lives and careers on outsmarting and stealing the illusionary tricks of the other. The feelings in Angier's heart that began as understandable anger fueled by genuine pain slowly becomes two men's obsession.

When Angier approaches the genius inventor Nikola Tesla to ask for help in defeating Borden, Tesla tells him,

"Go home. Forget this thing. I can recognize an obsession. No good will come of it."

Angier responds with, "If you understand an obsession, then you know you won't change my mind."

The movie is fascinating and horrifying all at the same time because the viewer knows that if Angier and Borden could only forgive one another and walk away, they could find freedom. Instead of spending their intellect on destroying one another, they could become the two most incredible magicians in the western world. Instead of ripping their families and loved ones apart, they could finally find the relationships and love they claim to be fighting one another for.

It's their obsession---their toxic and bitter obsession---that keeps them from the things they once desired above all.

Hugh Jackman (Le Miserables, The Greatest Showman, Kate & Leopold, Wolverine) plays a heartbroken Angier to perfection.

When people hurt you, it isn't easy to deal with. When they laugh at you, gossip behind your back, make that passive aggressive suggestion or come outright and say the hurtful thing to your face, trying to forgive is so much harder than it sounds. Old words echo in your memory and old feelings of pain and rejection linger. Oftentimes they even threaten to poison new opportunities and relationships because we just can't forget what we went through before.

But if we don't let go and surrender the pain to the Great Judge, our Heavenly Father, unforgiveness indubitably becomes an obsession.

A great illustration of what true forgiveness looks like is in Andy Andrew's real life story The Island of the Saints (newly renamed from the original title The Heartmender). We're introduced to a woman named Helen during the second World War who lost her husband to the Nazis while he was training British pilots overseas. As she's grieving, a German soldier named Josef from an enemy U-boat washes up on the Alabama shore by her house, wounded and cast away by his own commander. Most importantly, he was recently made a widower due to his wife and daughter being murdered by British pilots.

Josef's people had killed the Helen's husband. The people Helen's husband trained to fight killed Josef's family. They had every reason to despise one another.

Up until now Helen openly admitted that she had obsessed over the Germans. Her hatred and anger towards them defiled every area of her life; her friendships, her job, her mental health; everything but her pain was thrown to the curb as she stewed over the injustice done to her. But through the pain and horror of death Helen instead decided to nurture Josef back to health. As the months passed and he recovered, they both talked through the confusion of grief. Together they fought past the bitterness they had held on to for so long. Although their pain was connected to one another's in shocking ways, they forgave, and even fell in love. Not soon after, Josef asked Helen to be his wife. She accepted.

This is a true story.

In his book, Andy Andrew writes,

The greatest takeaway from Andrew's book was that in the end, unforgiveness isn't hurting anyone but you and the people closest to you.

To paraphrase one of Andrews' other points, do you think the people who have wronged you lie awake in bed at night bothered by the fact that they hurt you? Probably not. Then why are you wasting nights in bed thinking about them? They don't deserve such thought, such time, such attention, such wastes of emotion and feeling.

Choose to forgive. Get over it already. Put the past in the past and move into the future. Be free from your anger. The person you are hurting is you.

Hebrews 12:15 states,

Don't be the reason you and the people you love become defiled. Christ has opened the gates to Eternity and runs to meet you with love and laughter. Will you soil the perfect joy and purpose He offers you with something as wasteful as unforgiveness? Will you turn from the Father's embrace with a whiny "but he said" "but she did" "but they thought"? Will you toss aside the meaning of Christ's identity for you because of your past?

All of us must closely watch our hearts to guard against this dark poison of bitterness.

The end of the Christopher Nolan film The Prestige isn't a happy one. Yet it is such an important one. I'm grateful to directors like Christopher Nolan for portraying true and honest depictions of the consequences of unforgiveness. The Prestige is full of meaning within the faithful depiction of two lives of meaninglessness. It's an ending full of more loss. More pain. More regret. More bitterness.

When Borden illustrates one of his most simple magic tricks for a little boy, he asks him an important question that went on to become The Prestige's iconic line:

Today I want to ask you the same question. Are you looking into your heart for unforgiveness or are you harboring it deep inside? Is your past what controls your future?

Are you watching closely?

The Prestige is worth the watch. You'll be hard put to find a better film.

Recently I had the enjoyment of watching Christopher Nolan's action film The Prestige for the first time. The story follows that of two rival magicians in the early 20th century and the chaos they create in their lives and the lives of those around them. It wasn't like any other film I'd ever seen before, and it wasn't just because of the brilliance of the script, story, the sets, and the characters, but because of the powerful and complex themes.

The uninformed viewer (like me) goes into this film expecting a hero, a protagonist to love and root for, perhaps a young and talented magician who will climb the magical ladder to fame and notoriety. But anyone who's familiar with Christopher Nolan knows that it can't possibly be that simple. There is no outright hero in The Prestige; instead there are two twisted pawns being used to illustrate a powerful point.

Our story follows two talented magicians who both work as colleagues in the same magic show. One is an aristocrat, Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) happy with life and married to one of the stars of the show. One is a poor and lonely working-class man, Alfred Borden (Christian Bale), struggling to get by. Both are brilliant thinkers, dedicated to the practice of wowing an audience with a quick slight of hand and a dramatic bow. Despite their contrasting personalities and situations in life, this is the single thing that binds their friendship together.

But when a horrible accident occurs in a show one night, leaving Angier a widower and the show closed, the once-happy aristocrat's life turns upside down. His wife is gone forever, the company he loves has closed, and the man most likely responsible is the cold and cynical Borden, who, despite all the warning signs, claims he doesn't know how the accident went down.

The kind-hearted Angier is suddenly faced with the greatest pain of his life and an enormous choice: to forgive Borden despite it all, or to hold on to his anger as they both begin to set out on their solo careers as magicians. Blinded by his pain, Angier decides that the only thing that can heal him is revenge.

What follows is a fiery rivalry. What was once a "simple" plan of revenge on Angier's part becomes infinitely more complicated as Borden decides to respond by foiling Angier's debut show as a performer. More blows of violence follow, concocted by the tricky minds of magicians. Each trick is less subtle and more threatening than the last. Secrets, bitterness, and revenge become the recipe for disaster as both men build their entire lives and careers on outsmarting and stealing the illusionary tricks of the other. The feelings in Angier's heart that began as understandable anger fueled by genuine pain slowly becomes two men's obsession.

When Angier approaches the genius inventor Nikola Tesla to ask for help in defeating Borden, Tesla tells him,

"Go home. Forget this thing. I can recognize an obsession. No good will come of it."

Angier responds with, "If you understand an obsession, then you know you won't change my mind."

The movie is fascinating and horrifying all at the same time because the viewer knows that if Angier and Borden could only forgive one another and walk away, they could find freedom. Instead of spending their intellect on destroying one another, they could become the two most incredible musicians in the western world. Instead of ripping their families and loved ones apart, they could finally find the relationships and love they claim to be fighting one another for.

It's their obsession---their toxic and bitter obsession---that keeps them from the things they once desired above all.

Hugh Jackman (Le Miserables, The Greatest Showman, Kate & Leopold, Wolverine) plays a heartbroken Angier to perfection.

When people hurt you, it isn't easy to deal with. When they laugh at you, gossip behind your back, make that passive aggressive suggestion or come outright and say the hurtful thing to your face, trying to forgive is so much harder than it sounds. Old words echo in your memory and old feelings of pain and rejection linger. Oftentimes they even threaten to poison new opportunities and relationships because we just can't forget what we went through before.

But if we don't let go and surrender the pain to the Great Judge, our Heavenly Father, unforgiveness indubitably becomes an obsession.

A great illustration of what true forgiveness looks like is in Andy Andrew's real life story The Island of the Saints (newly renamed from the original title The Heartmender). We're introduced to a woman named Helen during the second World War who lost her husband to the Nazis while he was training British pilots overseas. As she's grieving a German soldier named Josef from an enemy U-boat washes up on the Alabama shore by her house, wounded and cast away by his own commander. Most importantly, he was recently made a widower due to his wife and daughter being murdered by British pilots.

Josef's people had killed the Helen's husband. The people Helen's husband trained to fight killed Josef's family. They had every reason to despise one another.

Up until now Helen openly admitted that she had obsessed over the Germans. Her hatred and anger towards them defiled every area of her life; her friendships, her job, her mental health; everything but her pain was thrown to the curb as she stewed over the injustice done to her. But through the pain and horror of death Helen instead decided to nurture Josef back to health. As the months passed and he recovered, they both talked through the confusion of grief. Together they fought past the bitterness they had held on to for so long. Although their pain was connected to one another's in shocking ways, they forgave, and even fell in love. Not soon after, Josef asked Helen to be his wife. She accepted.

This is a true story.

In his book, Andy Andrew writes,

The greatest takeaway from Andrew's book was that in the end, unforgiveness isn't hurting anyone but you and the people closest to you.

To paraphrase one of Andrews' other points, do you think the people who have wronged you lie awake in bed at night bothered by the fact that they hurt you? Probably not. Then why are you wasting nights in bed thinking about them? They don't deserve such thought, such time, such attention, such wastes of emotion and feeling.

Choose to forgive. Get over it already. Put the past in the past and move into the future. Be free from your anger. The person you are hurting is you.

Hebrews 12:15 states,

Don't be the reason you and the people you love become defiled. Christ has opened the gates to Eternity and runs to meet you with love and laughter. Will you soil the perfect joy and purpose He offers you with something as wasteful as unforgiveness? Will you turn from the Father's embrace with a whiny "but he said" "but she did" "but they thought"? Will you toss aside the meaning of Christ's identity for you because of your past?

All of us must closely watch our hearts to guard against this dark poison of bitterness.

The end of the Christopher Nolan film The Prestige isn't a happy one. Yet it is such an important one. I'm grateful to directors like Christopher Nolan for portraying true and honest depictions of the consequences of unforgiveness. The Prestige is full of meaning within faithful depiction of two lives of meaninglessness. It's an ending full of more loss. More pain. More regret. More bitterness.

When Borden illustrates one of his most simple magic tricks for a little boy, he asks him an important question that went on to become The Prestige's iconic line:

Today I want to ask you the same question. Are you looking into your heart for unforgiveness or are you harboring it deep inside? Is your past what controls your future?

Are you watching closely?

The Prestige is worth the watch. You'll be hard put to find a better film.

They whirl and sparkle around us like butterflies just out of reach of the net.

When I was around four or five my Mom bought us a real net to try to catch butterflies with. It wasn’t anything fancy. I think she’d grabbed it from the Dollar Tree, and before we’d had it a single day one of us ripped a hole in the thin mesh. But for a few short, sweet hours, it was wholly (pun intended) ours. And our goal was to catch ourselves one butterfly and stick it in a mason jar.

There was more than one butterfly flying around that morning. We chased them around the grass swinging our net, but somehow the butterflies kept flitting away. I remember feeling angry and frustrated. I really wasn’t sure if I would ever catch a butterfly. Would I ever have the glowing pride of watching it fly around in the jar?

Dreams are beautiful, and dreams are hard. They’re even harder when they have faces. All of us are familiar with that “Someday” or “Someone” but finally the day comes when Someday and Someone seem to fall into your life. Instead of a vague aspiration, you have a goal. Instead of a blurred Prince Charming in your head, you have a guy in front of your very eyes smiling at you. Suddenly your dreams are like that butterfly, beautiful, breathtaking, flying away just out of reach.

This evening I was swinging in my hammock listening to music and watching an August summer sunset. I was dreaming. I was hoping. And dang, was I discontented.

I’m not good enough. No one will ever want me. What can I do to get what I want?

And suddenly, that butterfly was a mosquito. It bit me. I had several swollen bumps on my arms and legs. The sunset wasn’t inspiring anymore and the evening wasn’t enjoyable. I had gone from having a good, solid evening to disliking myself and being disappointed with the people around me.

I couldn’t catch the butterfly that day all those years ago. My legs were too short to chase it. I didn’t know how to sneak up on it just right, and I didn’t have the fine-tuned motor skills to swing the net in time. 

That’s why Mom caught the butterfly for me. And what a beautiful butterfly it was. A golden, buttery yellow. She carefully took it inside and let us watch as she gently dropped it in a mason jar. We watched that butterfly fly around, sunny and bright. It was ours. Mom had got it for us.

When that dream with a face walks through your door, what do you do to get it?

To secure it for yourself?

To make it yours?

Nothing.

Let God catch the butterfly. Let Him hold your dreams. Watch them flutter just out of your reach and enjoy how beautiful they are. You don’t need to claim them for your own, because the Father has already dreamed up a plan for you. Perhaps it's what you've been hoping for all this time; perhaps not.

Whatever His dream for you is, it's going to be better.

Don’t let the beautiful butterfly drifting across the lawn become the mosquito buzzing in your ear.

After Mom caught the butterfly for us, we watched it fly around in the jar. But after a while, the time came to let the butterfly go. We had to watch it fly away.

I remember feeling sad as the butterfly soared away to freedom. I was going to miss it.

One day your dreams will have to fly away as they came.

And you should never be the one to hold them.

Will you let Jesus Christ catch the butterfly for you?

Yesterday marked what would have been my Grandpa’s 70th birthday.

On May 4th of this year my Grandpa, Jeffery Lee Powell, was very suddenly hospitalized when my Grandma found him unresponsive in their living room. He was diagnosed with a severe brain bleed, the reason for which we still don’t know the exact details. Five days later on May 9th, lying in a coma in an ICU bed, surrounded by his nine godly children, he went home to the Jesus he loved and followed his entire earthly life.

There are a couple different things that stand out about the last sentence…first of all, nine children? Dang, that’s crazy. What’s crazier? That they’re all godly. They all love Jesus. How often do you meet families with that many adult children who have all grown up in a continuation of love and a faithful walk with their Savior? In today’s world, that’s a one-in-a-million. 

And that’s exactly what Grandpa was; a one-in-a-million. Probably a one-in-a-billion.

Yesterday was harder than I thought it would be. The said nine children, eight of which are married and seven of which have several rambunctious kids add up to quite a crowd. Over forty people, to be exact. Last night many of us all sat around in the living room where he fell asleep for the last time and wept as we watched the full 50 minute video of unedited memories we had recorded for his funeral several weeks earlier. 

The final memory video shown at my Grandpa's funeral, put together by each of his nine kids. Fun fact...the second shown lady in this video is my mom!

It’s strange to have something so necessary to your life suddenly not there any more. There’s always been a lurking fear in your heart that tragedy will strike you out of the blue, but somehow it always seems to happen to other people. It seems like a distant, unthreatening possibility…until one day it actually happens. 

It’s strange for me to have something I can cry about spontaneously. Whenever I think about Grandpa, really think about him,  I start crying. That’s weird for me. I’m not a cryer. I don’t cry about things because I try to resign myself to and get over them as quickly as possible. The thing is, I’m never going to “get over” Grandpa. The pain may dim, but it’s never going to go away, and it’s wrong of me to try to push it away, to forget about it, to stop caring. I've cried more than I can ever remember crying in the past weeks since May 4th. That's okay. That's good.

It’s confusing when you try to decide where you’re going to fuel your grief. Do you turn it into anger and bitterness? Do you run away from it, avoid it at all costs? Or do you let it flow freely, powerfully through you, even though in doing so, you're worried it might break you?

The last twelve weeks I’ve watched my favorite people on earth go through the most difficult and painful experience of their lives. I’ve seen them rise above the searing pain of goodbye, and hang on to Christ without letting go. It’s been miserable. It's been beautiful. 

This song by JVKE, one of my favorite music artists, has really helped me process and grieve the loss of my Grandpa. This song is about him losing his Grandma a year or so ago.

Powell family, I'm so awed by your strength and love. So encouraged by your examples. Only through Christ could we have born this goodbye, this loss. As we talk about Grandpa and cry in his absence, we’re also laughing at his jokes and funny stories. We’re grieving and celebrating. The veil is that much thinner, eternity that much more exciting. We have a precious person waiting there for us.

Grandma, Josh, Emily, Halliegh, Hayden, Hunter, Jamie, Casey, Clara, Jack, Miriam, Mom, Dad, Thomas, Luke, Simon, Judah, Joy, Billy, Liam, Colton, Marshall, Sawyer, Grayson, Jeriel, Keith, Charley, Paisley, Wesley, Joanna, Joshua, Ellie Jo, Ivy, Gideon, Abby, Mike, Milo, Faith, Dawson, Caleb, I love you guys. I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful family. The fact that the nine Powell children span the course of 20 years doesn’t matter; we all know and love each other dearly, and that is such a gift. Even though the man who was our husband, Dad, and Grandpa isn’t here physically anymore, we all have the hope of seeing him again. And the thing that brought him the greatest joy in this life was knowing that in life and death, he was going to see us again.

I am blessed beyond measure to be a part of this family.

My Grandpa had faith in Jesus Christ, who came to earth and died to take the punishment you deserve so that through repentance and faith in his sacrifice, you could live in paradise for eternity. No matter what you’re being told in your daily life, this isn’t accomplished by any work you can do yourself. There’s no open space in the salvation equation for your works or abilities. The only door to heaven and a life of purpose is through the Sovereignty and Sacrifice of the Son of God. Do you believe? I hope you do. I pray you do. 

Death is real now. I’ve met him face to face for the first time. But I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful it was going to be and how much peace and joy I would find there amidst the sorrow and pain. 

With Christ as our companion, death isn’t the end, but only the beginning.

How excited I am for that beginning. It will make a great story.

I…don’t like Christian music.

Or at least...I don't like most of it.

And if you’ve hung around my blog for any amount of time you’ve probably noticed that I love music. Film soundtracks are always highlighted in my film reviews, and I regularly recommend songs or music artists in my blog emails (if you want to receive those for yourself, subscribe here!). I even highlighted the link to my Spotify account in my social links so anyone can see what I’ve been listening to. 

I listen to basically everything, the exception being that it isn’t super dark or dirty, because just like with reading or entertainment, as a Christian, I believe I’m called to fill my mind with things that are lovely and of good report.

So yes, music is a big deal for me. This means I have high expectations for Christian music. And thus far in my musical listening career...I have often been sorely disappointed. I regularly find that I’m resonating with artists like The Script or The Beatles instead of many of the biggest Christian artists today.

I don't try to judge Christian music by the musical quality, because as a smaller industry it's incredibly difficult for the Christian industry to produce as high quality work musically as the secular industry. The Christian industry just doesn't have the same backing or funds.

Instead I'm trying to hone in on the meaning of the lyrics, and the messages of the songs we're getting from most mainstream Christian artists.

The issue I find with a lot of Christian mainstream is that they're trying to highlight the wrong message. Many have overarching themes of “feel better” “it’ll all be okay” “I’m a Christian, so I'm strong”.

Meanwhile, artists like JVKE and Five For Fighting aren't shying away from singing about the serious stuff, the hard stuff, the things we struggle with. Because to be honest, some days you don't feel better Some days, nothing's okay. And like Paul says, we're only strong when we become weak.

There's definitely an important line here; dwelling continually on the sad things in life isn't healthy, and it isn't what Christ wants for us. The best music will also be able to have a redemptive message even while acknowledging the hard things.

When my friend Molly McTernan sent me the comedic Worship Song Song poking fun at modern Christian music, it was saddeningly accurate. The refrain, “It’s repetitive, it’s repetitive, all my problems are gone” doesn’t hit far from the reality that is modern Christian music.

So today I’d love to recommend eleven underappreciated Christian artists that are singing (or have sung) their hearts out for Jesus. They create music celebrating the joy we have in Christ while also noting the struggles and difficulties we face as pilgrims travelling the road of our Savior.

These artists aren’t listed in any particular order, but I hope that one or two of them can provide some good, solid listening for you, music that causes you to worship our Mighty God.

Sarah Sparks has been writing music since she was in college. When asked why she writes songs, she says,

Eustace Scrubb

I'm Fine

The Artist

Some of us prefer upbeat Christian to the folksy solemn stuff. Forrest Frank provides exactly that. Besides being a member of the Christian band Surfaces (Sunday Best, anyone?) Forrest is an independent producer and songwriter. He recently released  a new album, CHILD OF GOD.

GOOD DAY

NEVER GET USED TO THIS (feat. JVKE)

Jesus Paid It All

Widely known as the author of the popular MG fantasy series The Wingfeather Saga, before he was writing books Andrew was writing songs. Andrew Peterson is one of my personal favorites, and he’s acclaimed for his deep, thoughtful lyrics heavily steeped in direct Scripture.

Be Kind To Yourself

Is He Worthy?

You'll Find Your Way

Even though he died tragically at a young age in a car accident, Rich Mullens left a rich legacy through his music. Andrew Peterson cites him as one of his heroes, and listening to Rich's music it’s not difficult to see why. Famous artists like Adam Young have gone so far as to produce their own covers of some of his well-known songs.

Sometimes By Step

If I Stand

My Deliverer

Switchfoot is a classic, and if you haven’t heard of them before now go listen to them right now. Although some Christians considered them “edgy” because of being a rock band when they came onto the music scene in the ‘90s, Switchfoot’s lyrics are solidly biblical. I highly recommend them to whoever you are, but especially if you enjoy rock. 

Twenty-Four

Redemption

Dare You To Move

Adam Young has had an incredible career as a world famous music artist, but that has only served to deepen his faith. Not only is he the lone artist behind the world acclaimed band Owl City, but he composed nine instrumental soundtracks under his real name while also running quieter side projects like Sky Sailing and Port Blue. No matter what he’s doing in the music industry, his faith shines bright through it all. His cover of In Christ Alone is gorgeous, and the songs he's written about his faith are even more so. I recommend everything and anything from Adam Young; he's my all-time favorite music artist in just about every category.

Can't Live Without You

Sons of Thunder

Wolf Bite

The CityAlight band takes its roots from St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Australia. Similar to Keith and Kristyn Getty, they write beautiful modern hymns.

Yet Not I But Through Christ In Me

Only a Holy God

Jesus, Strong and Kind

When I was little (before the age of bluetooth) we had a CD player in our bedroom that played an old Fernando Ortega CD for me and my siblings to fall asleep to every night. Fernando’s voice is beautiful, and his rendition of Give Me Jesus is by far the best you can find anywhere.

Give Me Jesus

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

Just As I Am

Chris Rice writes his own songs, but he also places heavy importance on classical hymns. His Peace Like a River: The Hymns Project brings to life some of the oldest and dearest of Christian songs. Instead of rewriting and changing them like many modern Christian artists, he mostly sticks to the original melodies. 

Untitled Hymn (Come To Jesus)

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go

Rock Of Ages

Matthew West is a popular Christian music artist and he speaks (or rather, sings) deep, meaningful songs about what it means to be a Christian and a follower of Christ. I highly, highly recommend his music!

Beautiful Things We Miss

Grace Wins

Truth Be Told

Ellie Holcomb is a wife, a mother, and a music artist. Her unique voice and special lyrics really speak to the heart; I love how biblical and spot-on her songs are.

Wonderfully Made

Red Sea Road

You Are Loved

All of these artists have impacted my faith journey and continue to inspire me to get in the Word and worship the Lord. I hope that they can do the same for you!

This week I went to the theaters with a group of friends to watch Pixar Animation’s latest film, Inside Out 2.

Unfortunately I had yet to see Inside Out 1…which meant that on the way to the theater I was looking up the synopsis and reading Wikipedia's quick sum-up of the first movie. I needn’t have worried, however. Inside Out 2 was easy to follow and I quickly picked up on what was going on.

Our story follows Riley, now thirteen years old and entering teenage-dom. Her old emotions, Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust are living their best lives inside Riley’s head, making sure their girl is happy by throwing all her dark thoughts far away, deep down in her head where Riley won’t think about them. Like Joy says: “We save the best, and toss the rest!”

Everything’s going smoothly…until suddenly Riley hits puberty, and new emotions suddenly show up prepared to run the show. These emotions are Anxiety, Embarrassment, Envy, Ennui (boredom/nonchalance) and occasionally even Nostalgia. 

To Joy and the other old emotion's horror, Anxiety and her team have a whole different idea of how Riley’s emotions should be run…and when Joy and her friends don’t agree, Anxiety has them locked away, telling Joy, “Riley doesn’t need you anymore.”

Anxiety proceeds to take Riley’s sense of self—her beliefs about herself and the world around her—and throw it away into the depths of Riley’s mind alongside all her bad thoughts and memories, convinced that Riley needs a new definition of self, one that will prepare her for all the different scenarios that life might throw at her. Riley’s old sense of self, the one built from her childhood, had embraced simple, positive ideas like “I’m a good friend”, “I’m brave”, and the main, overarching theme that:

Riley's old sense of self; the one that tells her positive things about herself

But suddenly Riley’s sense of self is gone…and with Anxiety in complete control, Riley begins to ostracize her old friends, convinced that she needs to begin to make new friends with the cool girls at hockey camp and take advantage of her opportunities…instead of using camp time to enjoy her old friends before they transfer to another high school in the fall.

I found this part of the film especially relatable. Almost every teen knows how it feels to want to fit in with who they believe are the cool kids, and we’ve probably all been the chameleon of the group at times, going with the flow just to be liked and to fit in. I laughed when Riley started worrying about how much her arms were swinging when she walked; clearly remembering the time someone told me that I swung my arms a lot when I walked, something I became self-conscious about for months afterward.

While Joy and her friends fight to escape Anxiety’s prison and recover Riley’s old sense of self, Anxiety begins to build a new sense of self for Riley, one that echoes lies like “if I’m good at hockey, then I’ll have friends”. As Anxiety keeps planting these ideas in Riley’s head, Riley’s new sense of self takes on a new theme: instead of “I’m a good person” it’s now “I’m not good enough.”

Anxiety, realizing that this isn’t good for Riley, goes into overdrive, taking total control of Riley and doing everything she can to make her better. Riley starts making more bad decisions, going as far as sneaking a look into the hockey coaches’ notebook to find out whether she’s made the cut for the team. She discovers to her disappointment that the coach has her labeled as “Not ready yet”, and with the help of Anxiety panics and decides that she has to do everything she can to make the last day of hockey camp count…which means doing absolutely anything to impress the coach.

While Riley is making these poor choices, Joy is struggling with what Anxiety told her: that Riley doesn't need her anymore.

It's then that she delivers what I think is the most powerful line of the movie:

Man, does that resonate! Growing up is so often marked by losing more and more of your joy. We so easily forget the simple, whole-hearted love we had when we were young and allow ourselves to become caught up in the problems of our world.

But lucky for Riley, Joy decides to press on anyway, realizing that Riley does need to have Joy.

Even when she's grown up.

What a great reminder. This side theme was definitely my favorite part of the whole movie.

Joy and Sadness in the belief system, where Riley's sense of self grows.

As Riley’s last day at hockey camp arrives, Joy and her friends return, finally having recovered Riley’s old sense of self; though in the process, they’ve also released all of Riley’s bad thoughts and memories back into Riley’s mind, filling her with uncertainty as she suddenly starts to remember all of her mistakes and failings.

All the emotions but Anxiety have realized by now that Riley’s not doing well, and together they destroy Riley’s new sense of self and replace it with her old one. By then it’s too late. Riley already knows the truth that she’s not good enough, and the reinforced idea that she’s “a good person” just confuses her more, sending her into an all-out panic attack. Joy is the first to realize this, and taking away Riley’s old sense of self, she and the other emotions step back to let Riley grow a new sense of self all on her own. 

Riley’s newly created sense of self is a combination of the other two. It echoes the ideas “I’m not good enough” “I’m a good person” “I’m brave” “But I get scared sometimes” “I’m a good friend” and “I make mistakes”. It’s the paradox of emotions we all know so well, especially we teenagers.

Overall, Inside Out 2 was a great movie. I give it a solid 7/10. The animation was of course gorgeous and the soundtrack just as much so. I was really impressed by the story and the premise and found the whole movie very relatable. I can clearly remember the years of 12 and 13 which were a whirlwind of spiking new emotions, and I thought Pixar portrayed these in an honest way without skipping over the messy bits.

However, I couldn’t help but feel that a big piece was missing from the theme: and it had to do with Riley’s sense of self. 

As I was sitting in the theater, about halfway through the movie I realized with a jolt what I wanted Riley’s sense of self to be by the end of the story.

I was wrong thinking that would be the final message. Pixar instead introduced the conflicting ideas of "I'm a good person" and "I'm not good enough" that finally become Riley’s sense of self. It works to some degree because these feelings are true for everyone.

But at the same time…this theme is not true. 

Riley, just like all of us, isn’t a “good person”, but she is, just like all of us, not good enough.

What would have been a true message and a healing sense of self for Riley is the truth that she wasn’t good enough. And that’s okay.

The problem with this being the movie’s theme, and the reason that it wasn’t even on the table for Pixar, is that apart from the gospel this can’t be a redemptive message.

 “I’m not good enough and that’s okay” isn’t satisfactory for us. Why is it okay to not be good enough? Who says that it is? And why should we believe them?

The gospel is necessary to complete this picture of failure and lostness. 

“As it is written:

None is righteous, no, not one;

no one understands;

no one seeks for God.

All have turned aside; together they have become worthless;

no one does good,

not even one.”

-Romans 3:10-12

"I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

my soul knows it very well."

-Psalm 139: 14

"God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him."

-1st John 4:16

And that’s why a progressive animation company like Pixar can’t —won’t— provide that for us.

Every good Christian storyteller knows that a gospel story doesn’t need to have Jesus’ name written everywhere and the bullet points of the gospel listed out all neat and orderly to be understood.

All it needs is an Aslan, an Edmund, and a White Witch. 

Inside Out 2 is the first movie Pixar has released in years that hasn’t been chock-full of in-your-face propaganda; lgbtq+ promotion, feminist agendas, and themes of self-obsession.

Inside Out 2 is also the highest grossing debut film in Pixar’s history.

I hope Pixar takes the hint.

Don’t you?