Category Archives: Creative Writing

The Shadow House {part 2}

by

The Shadow House {part 2} a parable by @natashametzlerread {part 1} here.

“I have many names,” he said, “I will give you one of mine.”

“What…” she paused as if unsure, then collected her courage and continued, “What are your names?”

“You already know them,” the Deliverer answered, “I wrote them upon your heart long ago, before you chose to come to the Shadow House.”

“I don’t remember any names,” she whispered, sadness filling her. How could she have forgotten all of his names?

“I will tell you one. The one I am giving to you.” He held the girl-woman’s face in his hands and smiling into her eyes said, “My name is Beautiful One and your name shall be Beautiful One.“

The girl-woman’s gaze fell to the ground and great shaking sobs rose within her. “I…” her shoulders heaved, “I cannot accept that name,” she finished. The tears ran in torrents down her scarred cheeks, every one caught in the light-man’s hand.

“Why not?” the Deliverer questioned.

“Because I am not beautiful,” she told him, trying to look anywhere but at the wonderful man before her. “Can’t you see the scars?”

The light-man smiled. A bright blinding smile. “Yes, I see the scars,” he answered her. “You are not beautiful now, but you will be. Just as Outcast will truly become Chosen and Angry will become Joyfulness and each one of the other children will become what I am making them as well.”

“How is this possible?” No-Name questioned, the tears slowing as her hope began to grow.

“I made you,” the light-man explained, “I can change you into what you long to be,” he paused to make sure her eyes met his, “if you let me.”

The girl-woman bit her lip for a moment then said slowly, as if explaining a great hidden secret that she barely dared to speak out loud, “I do so wish to be beautiful.”

“Then I will take your scars upon myself,” he told her.

“No!” No-Name cried out. “You cannot take the scars! You are too perfect.”

“It is because I am perfect that I can take them,” the Deliverer explained to her. “Trust me.” He gripped both of her hands in his. “Will you take my name?”

She looked beyond him for a moment, at the group of children who were watching them, their eyes bright and their bodies washed clean. “I will,” she whispered.

As she spoke a scar appeared on his cheek. She watched in wonder as it marred his perfect skin. She grimaced as he winced from the pain. A name rose within her heart. She didn’t know where it had come from but it found it’s way to her lips and in a quiet steady voice she proclaimed, “Redeemer.” The scar suddenly vanished.

Another scar came. “Mighty God.” she said, her voice growing stronger. That scar also disappeared.

Another came. “Wonderful Counselor.” It vanished.

One scar after another came and vanished as No-Name spoke the names, her voice growing louder and more lovely with each passing moment.

“Everlasting Father.”
“Prince of Peace.”
“Author of Life.”
“Savior.”
“Jehovah.”
“I AM.”
“El-Elyon.”
“Jehovah.”
“Healer.”
“My Rock.”
“My Fortress.”

Name after name, scar after scar.

When the scars finally stopped, No-Name stood trembling before the Deliverer and he spoke, “You shall no longer live without a name for I have claimed you. I have taken your scars and now I give you my name,” he paused and smiled as the girl-woman’s eyes began to shimmer and sparkle, the murky gray fading into a brilliant blue, “Beautiful One.”

The children stepped back as a bright light burst from the gray skies and surrounded the two. A melody began and drifted out from within the swirling light. The golden laughter came again, only this time it was more brilliant, more lovely than it had ever been before. The light seemed to continue forever and soon the laughter faded as a whispered conversation took its place. Time stood still as they danced within the light cloud, oblivious of anything but each other.

After some time the light cloud began to fade and the heavens closed. The children gasped when Beautiful One came into view. Her worn tattered dress had been replaced by a gown of pure white. Her hair was washed clean and her blue eyes sparkled, sending rays of light onto every place her gaze landed. Her perfect skin was accented by the glow of warmth that swam around her.

Now there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was no longer a child. She was a woman. A beautiful, light-filled woman who was gazing at the man she loved. The man whose name she had taken.

The light-man stepped back from her, smiling. “I have changed you,” he explained, “but it is your choice to stay this way.” He looked at the children who were gathering around Beautiful One, “The children will forget that they have been transformed. You must remind them.”

“Why me?” Beautiful One questioned.

“Because, my Beautiful One, they are a part of you,” the Deliverer explained.

Beautiful One looked around at the children who were gathered close to her, smiling and laughing. Her eyes widened as she realized that they each had brown curls and dancing blue eyes, exact replica’s of her own.

“And you are now a part of me,” the light-man told her. His hand lifted to brush her smooth cheek. “I am going away for a time. I am preparing a new house. A light house. Then I will return for you.”

“Don’t leave me,” Beautiful One whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the children who were now racing around the yard, laughing and shouting to each other.

“I will always be close to you. I am your light,” the Deliverer smiled then stepped back.

Beautiful One watched as the light-man disappeared back into the Shadow Woods, but the shadows didn’t close in behind him. In fact, everywhere she looked, the shadows ran away.

The children suddenly realized that he had gone away and ran to Beautiful One, reaching for her and asking where the light-man had gone. Beautiful One smiled as she gathered her girls close to her. “He’ll be back,” she told them, her voice ringing with confidence. He would be back.

That night, when the darkness came there was no whimpering or crying. Instead, a soft glowing light surrounded the children within the house and as they gathered together Beautiful One began to sing the promise that had been sung into her before the beginning of time,

The Children's Song from "The Shadow House" @natashametzler

I wish that I could tell you that never again did the children fear, never again was Beautiful One scarred; but I can’t. I can tell you, however, that despite the scars, the days when Angry, Spiteful, Prideful and the others found their way back in, the light never dimmed.

And although it felt like a very long time, the Deliverer did return for his bride. Once again he caught her tears and once again he took her scars and this time… this time he promised that never again would a tear fall and never again would a scar touch her beautiful face. This time, he took her and the children with him and they traveled over time and space to the light house that he had faithful built, just as he promised.

The End

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The Shadow House {part 1}

by

The Shadow House by @natashametzler

The shadows danced across the room as the gray light faded quickly into oblivion. A whimper was heard in the closing darkness and the sound of shuffling feet. After a moment a match was lit and in the glowing light a face could be seen.

The girl holding the match was dirty and unkempt. Her brown curls hung about her face, oily and matted. Her face was covered with a multitude of tiny scars that crossed and covered each other giving her an unearthly look. She seemed to be somewhere between childhood and womanhood but it was hard to tell under the thick layer of dirt and grime. Her eyes might have been blue at one time but some kind of incredible sadness had overtaken them and the murky depths now gave out only a muted gray color.

A howling noise echoed through the house as the wind picked up speed. The slender hand holding the match shook slightly at the sound and the match dropped to the floor. Darkness consumed the room again and the whimpering returned.

“I’m scared,” a voice whispered.

“Me, too,” another sounded in the dark room.

The girl-woman’s voice wavered, “I have no more matches.”

“Stupid!” a new voice growled, “You let the only light we have go out!”

The whimpering grew louder as the angry voices debated and the darkness closed tighter.

After several minutes of anger, the fear began to set in again. The girl-woman sat down heavily in the midst of the frightened children. The smallest one whose whimpers could still be heard climbed onto her lap.

“I’m s-s-scared,” a voice repeated from the corner of the room.

The girl-woman reached out a hand in the pitch black room and felt around until she touched the girl. “Come, Frightened,” she said as she drew the child over. Within a few minutes all the children in the room were pressed close together, all reaching to the touch the girl-woman.

Frightened curled up next to her side. Hurting, who was still whimpering softly against her chest, was snuggled in her lap. The other children all tried to grab onto her hands, her hair, her skirt, whatever they could reach.

The fear was so thick that one could feel it in the air. After a moment of silence Spiteful whispered in her venomous way, “Why won’t you hum that song that makes us feel better? Huh, No-Name? Do you like it when we’re afraid?”

Hurting whimpered louder and her grip on the girl-woman tightened.

Angry reached out a hand and let her fingers scratch across No-Name’s face. “You’re causing the darkness aren’t you?!” She cried, then jerked her hand back, frightened at the feel of the girl-woman’s blood under her fingers.

No-Name reached up a hand to wipe the blood away that trickled down her cheek. Instead of responding she began to softly hum a song that was etched forever upon her heart. She had heard it once, long ago. The children knew of nothing except the Shadow House but No-Name had a memory, a distant drifting memory of a voice that sounded like water rushing over rocks singing the tune that she was now humming. Although she could hum the song, the words had forever escaped her.

The soft humming caused the children to relax around her. Spiteful and Angry both quieted and snuggled in close. Hurting’s whimpers subsided and Frightened slumped next to her as sleep overcame them all.

When they awoke, morning had come, though it wasn’t a sunlight or moonlight that shown in the morning at the Shadow House. Instead it was a gray-light that kept the darkness from overpowering but did nothing to stop the shadows from dancing upon on the walls.

“I hate you!” Spiteful growled from her corner of the room. The words were directed at Outcast who was slumped in the opposite corner. “I wish you’d leave. We don’t need you here.”

No-Name sighed as Angry joined the dispute. Hurting clung to what was left of the girl-woman’s tattered skirt and Wounded sat in another corner with her head in her hands rocking back and forth muttering under her breath, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

No-name sent Frightened and Lonely out to find matches. Usually she sent Angry and Spiteful, just to get them out of the house but today she didn’t have the energy to force them to go.

The girl-woman wiped a hand across her face then winced. The new scratch marks on her cheek were sure to leave scars. It didn’t matter though, for they only covered old scars from other children who had lashed out at her.

The morning dragged on and the children became restless. No-name went to the door many times to call for Frightened and Lonely to hurry with the matches, but they didn’t come. It was nearing noontime before she heard the pattering of their bare feet on the path. She hurried out to meet them and give them a good scolding for taking so long but stopped short when her gaze fell upon the two girls coming toward her.

In their hands were buckets full of matches, but more than that, they were hardly recognizable. Lonely was smiling, a huge smile that showed forth white teeth and sparking blue eyes. Her usual downcast expression was gone and replaced by one of pure joy. Never had No-name seen anything like it.

And Frightened, she looked nothing like she usually did. She was walking with such assurance there seemed to be no fear in her.

No-Name’s gaze swung from one smiling child to the other. “Lonely? Frightened?” Perhaps it simply wasn’t them…perhaps it was some other children who had lost their way.

“That’s not my name anymore,” the one who used to be Frightened proclaimed. It was most certainly her voice, but never once had the girl-woman heard her say anything except, “I’m scared.” The child continued to smile as she went on, “I have a new name! It’s Confidence! And Lonely isn’t lonely anymore, she’s Beloved!”

No-Name’s face betrayed her bewilderment. “What…where….how did you get new names?”

“He gave them to us.”

“He? He, who?” No-Name questioned.

“The Deliverer,” Confidence told her. The child’s voice displayed such awe that No-Name began to feel an ache within her heart.

“The Deliverer?” She asked, “Where is this man?”

“He’s coming!” Beloved exclaimed. “He’s coming here, for you! He said he has new names for all of you too!”

No-Name spun around to look at the group of children standing at the doorway of the Shadow House. “New names…” she whispered. If only it would really happen. The dirty unkempt children crept toward her and reached their hands out to touch her as they stared at Confidence and Beloved.

Just then a sound echoed through the yard. It was a strange sound that No-Name recognized from years before. It caused her skin to tingle and the ache in her heart to throb harder. The golden laughter grew louder as the being approached.

“It’s him!” Confidence said as she started jumping up and down in excitement.

A man stepped out of the Shadow woods that bordered the yard. He was different that anyone the children had ever seen. His whole body seemed to glow with a light that didn’t just lessen the shadows but caused them to run far from him.

He walked up until he was standing before No-Name and the little girls that were hidden behind her, their eyes hurting from the light that shone from him. Even the clean girls took a step closer to the girl-woman, their scrubbed skin not looking nearly as brilliant compared to the Deliverer.

The man’s eyes blazed as he searched until his gaze fell upon the smallest child. Little Hurting was whimpering and clinging to the girl-woman’s skirt afraid to look at the man who was glowing with light.

He lifted a hand and motioned for her to come. Hurting glanced at him but instead of going, hid further behind the girl-woman’s skirt. No-Name could see the longing in her eyes so she reached down and gave the child a slight push toward the man. As soon as Hurting took one step in his direction the man reached for her and gathered her into his arms. He rocked her back and forth whispering words of love softly in her ear.

As the light-man held the child the light began seeping from his hands that were wrapped around her. It traveled into her body and slowly her skin began to change. Patches of light began to show through the dirt then suddenly a glow of light burst out and swirled around them, hiding the two from view. In the midst of the swirling light a voice spoke. It echoed around the Shadow House, loud and commanding yet gentle and loving at the same time. “You shall no longer be called ‘Hurting’, for through me you have overcome your pain and heartache. Therefore, your name shall be ‘Overcoming One‘.”

The other children watched in wonder as the light began to settle and the outline of Hurting came into view. To their amazement the little girl, now glowing in light, threw her head back and laughed. It was the same golden laughter than had come from the light-man; a sound that caused their hearts to beat faster with longing.

The light-man turned again toward No-Name and the children and motioned for Outcast to come. The girl looked toward No-Name and at her nod, took a faltering step toward the man, afraid that he would turn her away. Instead he rushed to her and lifted her high in his arms. “My child,” He said in a voice loud enough that all could hear. The transformation began again and the voice in the glow of light proclaimed, “You shall no longer be called, ‘Outcast’ , for I have accepted you. Instead you will be known as ‘Chosen’, for I have chosen you as my own.”

One by one the children slipped from No-Name’s arms and clung to the Deliverer as he transformed them into new children. Angry became Joyfulness. Spiteful turned into Caring. Wounded became Healer.

The last child to come from her hiding place behind the girl-woman was Prideful. She hung back, her eyes longing to run to him, but her stubbornness keeping her there. She refused to move until No-name took her by the arm and marched her over to the Light-Man. He smiled at the child and embracing her in the swirls of light, he transformed her into Loving.

As the two of them stepped apart, both glittering with sparkles of light, the Deliverer turned his gaze to No-Name’s face. At that moment she felt a greater fear than she ever had before. She realized that while the other children had names that were being changed, she had no name at all.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She knew that she could not be transformed because she was no-one and it made her heart break within her. As the tears slid down her scarred cheeks, a hand reached out and caught them.

The Deliverer, who had waited for each of the children to come to him, did not wait for No-Name. He reached out and pulled her into his arms.

“What is the matter?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear. The sound had dropped to a musical tone that struck a chord within No-Name’s heart. It reminded her of something…someone from long ago.

She kept her head buried deep in his chest and whispered in complete shame, “I have no name.”

She stepped back from him and looked up at his beautiful face. In that moment she remembered her own scars. Horror filled her as the man lifted his hand and gently rubbed his finger across her scarred cheek.

“I have many names,” he said, “I will give you one of mine.”

read part 2 here.

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Smile Lost: a story-poem

by

Smile Lost: a story-poem

 

He snuggles close on my lap,
dear boy with tears dripping,
heart as broken as the toy that fell apart.

“Can you smile?” I ask, brushing droplets away.

An emphatic shake of the head.
No. No smiles.

So I wink and draw in a shocked breath,
“You lost your smile?” I clutch him tight,
“What shall we do? What shall we do?
No smile? Oh, dear.”

And at the strange expressions and exaggerated tone,
what once was lost is found.

 

Smile Lost: a story-poem

The Great Pirate Escapade

by

Disclaimer: No actual pirates were harmed in the taking of these photographs.

“Mooooom!!” I clumped over toward the house, frustration steaming out of every pour.

“Tasha, stop whining,” Mom said as she turned toward me. It was her standard reply so I didn’t worry too much about it.

I was dragging Lilly with me. My goal in life, at that point, was to drag my best friend everywhere I went. It helped fix the numbers a bit. Three boys and two girls. With the superior talents of women, we were dead even.

She was my best friend ever; even though she was younger (almost a whole year!) and quite a lot shorter. She put up with me rather well. Even my bossiness.

I wanted her to come visit every single Sunday. Even when there wasn’t evening church. And it wasn’t just because her big brother was cute. I mean, I liked him, but really, I had enough boys around.

“Mom,” I said more un-whine like, “The boys won’t play with us. They say we’re just girls.”

I wasn’t always crazy about playing boy games. I really liked my dolls and frilly dresses. But I really disliked being told I wasn’t allowed to play. Especially when it was suggested that I was somehow the scum beneath their feet. It was like declaring war.

Mom got her that ain’t gonna fly look and I knew this was one battle I had won. Hands down. “Boys!” her voice carried and they came slouching around the side of the building casting Lilly and I evil looks. “You can all play together.”

It sounded like a statement but everyone knew it was a command.

“But Moooomm,” they whined, “she thinks she can tell us what to do!”

Which, of course, was completely untrue. I knew I could tell them what to do.  Besides, didn’t they know that Mom hated whining?

With a stern look Mom went back to her work.

The boys formed a huddle and whispered among themselves. After a bit of laughter they turned to us. “Let’s play pirates,” they said, “We’re the pirates and you’re the prisoners.”

They wanted to start right in (boys know nothing about playing make-believe) but I instructed them on the proper art of preparation. Where was the ship? Where were the cannons? Did they have anything to use as an eye-patch? Who was going to have the wooden leg?

They stared at me, dumbfounded at my brilliance, no doubt. Probably shocked to their toes at how much they would have been missing if they had decided to play alone.

The Great Pirate Ship was the side yard with the tree in the middle as the pole for the mast. The big red fuel tank by the house was the ship header and I could almost imagine the miles of white material unfurling and snapping to attention against the sky.

From somewhere one of the boys produced rope. “We should make you walk the plank but instead we’re just going to tie you to the tree.” They laughed and smirked. I sighed. It was a pole. And what Pirate smirks? I thought about giving them a lesson on pirating but they seemed dead set on tying us up right then.

Lilly was looking a bit unsure but I wasn’t frightened, even one tiny bit. Those silly little boys. Didn’t they know that I read Nancy Drew books all the time?!

Getting kidnapped is an art. One that I was pretty sure I could handle. The key to getting kidnapped by Pirates is keeping your cool. I smiled a bit and carefully turned my wrists, holding them slightly apart as they tied us to the tree.

Once they had us secured they all looked at each other and took off.

“Hey!” We called.

“Have fun girls!” one of them laughed, “We’re done playing pirates.”

It was a pretty good trick, for amateurs. But truly, if I wasn’t around to help them out, they would fail at almost everything they did. Lilly was casting me wide-eyed looks but I just shrugged my shoulders. “They’ll be back,” I said, eyes rolling, “But when they come there will be a great surprise for them!”

I started to tug at my wrists and the rope tightened. I almost panicked. Almost, because for a moment I forgot that I was a master at solving mysteries and saving myself from near death.

Of course, Nancy Drew never faced abandonment by pirates but I was certain I had learned my lessons well. Besides, the boys were so helpless at pirating; the only things they knew were the things I had told them. It really was a surprise that they had left my presence at all.

Despite my (often) wild daydreams about being rescued by a great Hero, I knew this was time to put my “save-yourself” abilities into action. (Besides, if a Hero did show up he’d probably pick the adorable straight-haired Lilly over the tall, gangly, frizzy-haired me.)

I went to work on my wrists, turning and twisting. To my great surprise, um, relief, um, satisfaction, the rope loosened and slipped off. I quickly freed Lilly. “Let’s hide and scare them when they come back!” I whispered, in case my voice carried the great distance they had put between us. We snuck behind the big fuel tank and waited. When our legs began cramping I said, “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go spy on them!”

Just like Nancy Drew, we were going to track down the bad guys and gather information to deport them to prison forever. We snuck through underbrush and braved the pushki forests. The dread pirates were on their last war-party.

They weren’t hard to find, at all. I needed to teach them a lesson about sneaking. Obviously, it would have to wait for another day. Maybe when they were on my team instead of the opposing team. We spied on them for hours, or at least ten minutes. They were putting on a great act, pretending to play a different game besides pirates. But spying on pirates pretending not to be pirates is actually quite boring.

We snuck back and disappeared into the bedroom to play with my dolls, Annabelle and Sally. Just before supper Mom stuck her head in. “I thought you were playing with the boys,” she said.

“Shhhh!” I admonished, “we’re playing a trick on them!”

“Yeah,” Lilly offered, “they think we’re still tied to the tree but we escaped.”

Mother’s eyebrows rose, probably in shock that her sons were such terrible pirates.

“Yeah, Mom,” I said, “they really are pretty much the worst pirates ever, even for pretend ones.”

She had a funny look on her face. I’m sure feeling a bit proud that at least her daughter had some common sense.

When the dinner bell rang, Lilly and I were sitting at the table with smirks on our faces. (It’s a well known fact that prisoners who escape are prone to smirk.) It took them awhile to show up so I know they were probably out searching for us.

They were terrible pirates but I have to admit they did quite well at hiding their shock and dismay that we had freed ourselves. “Tricked you, didn’t we?” I couldn’t help but comment when the sat down.

That brother of mine, he’s such a good actor; all he did was roll his eyes and say, “Don’t be dumb, we tricked you.”

But everybody knows that pirates never trick the prisoners. It doesn’t even make good story-book sense. (And I’m positive that Nancy Drew would have escaped too, maybe almost as skillfully as we did, if she had been kidnapped by roaming pirates.)

Disclaimer: despite the events of this story being almost entirely true, my oldest brother claims he has “no memory” of such an incident. This is understandable as it is a well-known fact that childhood trauma can cause memory loss. I can’t imagine the state of his poor mind when he came back for us and found all traces gone. We’ll try to get therapy for him at some point.

Read part one of the childhood adventures here.

why you should read your Bible {even when you’re mad at God}

by

Bible

It was spring. The snow was melting and forming puddles in the driveway, curling little trails toward the dip on the edge where it disappeared into the brown grass. Sunlight filtered off the muddied piles of leftover ice and warmed the skin on my face. But I couldn’t feel it.

Icy hardness still reigned in my heart, even after all this time. I was filled up tight with anger and frustration. Mornings would come and I would wake up crying. Afternoons passed and I would curl into a ball on the couch. Evenings would be soft and painful until I could escape to bed, where I lay quiet and fearful, muffling my sobs and letting my tears soak the pillow under my head. Spring held no joy that year.

Days came when I stood alone in the kitchen and spoke loud at the heavens. “God, where are you? I follow, I serve, I give. Yet, still, I hurt and hurt and hurt.”

Silence spun anger into my heart.

She wrote words to me that summer, while the grass grew tall and deep. Purple paper and a calligraphy pen, one torn and the other dipped in black, black ink. She said I was blessed and highly favored.

I laughed at the absurdity.

I knew the words of Scripture. Knew them well. Over and over I had read through the Bible, as a teenager, as a young adult. I had memorized and studied. Greek and Hebrew words were scrawled into the margins of my Bible.

I thought I knew His words so well, thought it high time He listened to a few of mine.

I left my Bible to gather dust on the corner of the desk and spoke my words into the blackness.

Summer slipped away and fall began. Orange and red leaves covered forest floors and I toughened and bit back my tears. But then as winter once more lifted her icy fingers, I knew I could not survive another season.

I peeled back the pages and began reading again.

The stories danced, the Word deepened. What I thought I knew so well seemed to change shape before my eyes. The book of Genesis, the story of creation and the foundation of Israel, turned into a narrative of heartbreak. Jeremiah, the tale of a weeping prophet, became the journal of a crying God.  Job, that book full of depression and confusion, the one that went on and on and on… It became a window into my heart and God’s words from the heavens shook me to my core.

The Word of God never changes. Ever.
But I do.

My circumstances and experiences draw lines under words. They highlight thoughts and translate ideas.

To think that I could live today on what I knew from yesterday was a foolish and empty thought. Like manna, the Word is new every morning. We can only eat enough for today, this moment. Tomorrow we must return and dig deep again.

Isaiah 55:3 @natashametzler

By the time I watched spring again, I had tasted spring in my heart. I felt the morning sun, bathed in rays of delight. She was right, you know, the one who penned those words on torn paper. Blessed and highly-favored. Me.

I laugh at the beautiful absurdity of it all.

If all my writings put together could do but one thing, I pray that it be this: You will open your Bible and start reading. Even if you’re confused. Even if you’re angry. Even if you don’t understand it. Because the Word builds up and builds up and builds up. And what makes no sense today, will painted pictures of redemption tomorrow. 

Have you experienced this? How has your understanding of Scripture changed with your growth and experiences?

To read about what God spoke to me as I journeyed through Scripture that first time after struggling with depression and infertility, just sign up for my newsletter and receive a free copy of the my ebook, Dying of Thirst at the Side of a Well. {tomorrow the March edition releases, so hurry!}

The Blue Barn

by

@natashametzler

The barn is blue. Half a dozen bright tarps strung from rafters and held firm to the floor with bales of hay. All the animals are in one corner, held in place by blue walls.

The numbers are so few, they are being watered by hand. They do not produce enough body heat to keep the pipes thawed. So morning and night we haul in five gallon buckets of warm water and let them drink their fill.

Donkey will come drink, but he’s still offended that we sold his friends and that I stopped coming to the barn for hours each day. He walks over, slurps down the pale of water, then neatly turns and marches away. Sometimes I sit right down on the bucket, hold out a hand and sing a song about donkeys. Eventually, he’ll turn right around and come back, nuzzling my hand then my arm then my neck. He acts so tough, but he really does like me.

@natashametzler

McCully, the pup, is a bundle of energy. The moment you step through the door he is jumping, straight up and down, up and down, straining at his chain. We leave him loose sometimes but his favorite pastime is pulling bolts from the bolt bin. This isn’t the best since cattle aren’t very smart and will eat the bolts and kill themselves. So McCully gets chained up and he shivers in excitement when we arrive. He runs up and down the steps to the hay mow and we send him on laps around the barn, burning off excess energy. Sometimes my husband will invite him along in the truck and I’m pretty sure, by the way he tilts his head, that he’s smiling.

@natashametzler

The blue walls can’t contain MamaKat. She slips under the edge by the gutter cleaner shed and then darts over a pile of bales to disappear upstairs. She’s the only female cat left, all black and white, blending in with the cows. Two days ago I went to get hay and she stood and meowed at me, all defiant and hissy. I smiled because I know her secret. Somewhere in the pile of hay there are new kittens.

The three little piggies live in a house made of wood, in a pen filled with straw, without any bricks in sight. When you walk up to them they wiggle their noses and grunt. They grunt a bit extra if there is a bowl full of scraps from the kitchen. They like variety but greatly dislike banana peels.

Moo-Moo, the bred heifer, stands in the end stall. She’s a small heifer and we watch her carefully, knowing she may have a hard time freshening in. So far she is happy and content to eat her hay and chew her cud and take nibbles of my hair when I walk by. If her calf in born without problems, I have plans to milk her for a few months. I miss my raw milk and homemade ricotta cheese.

The littlest heifer is just three months old. She is round as round can be. She smacks her lips and pulls her baler-twine collar when I bring her a handful of calf grain. She needs the vitamins and minerals it contains to grow healthy and strong  so I don’t tell her that her grain days will be coming to an end.

@natashametzler

The bulls are penned together. The white-headed bull from another herd, brought in to change the blood lines a bit, and Flash, the ten-month-old, red-headed, we-should-have-sold-him-but-I-thought-he-was-so-cute bull. He is cute. And he holds his own against the big white brute.

The rest of the heifers are growing well. Getting taller and rounder on big bales of first-cutting hay.

And while the barn is quieter and bluer, I still love it.

 

Baptism of Grace {tales of a hometown missionary}

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I was tired. Burned right out. The mountains had moved and my skin was feeling the itch of dirt and I just wanted a nice long hot bath.

But I couldn’t escape. I lived right there in the middle of my mission. Every day they came, knocked at my door. These unruly children who left dirt and grime smeared through the house. Who begged for attention and attention and attention.

I worked all morning, came home and worked all evening.

The two year old hung on my arm but wouldn’t obey a simple command. My heart nearly stopped several times an evening as she darted in and out of the street. I finally caught her tight and whispered as calmly as possible, “If you don’t obey the street rules, you won’t be able to visit.” She ran screaming to her mom. I sighed and raised eyes heavenward.

Then there was the evening my brother came to visit. I stood by his vehicle and said my last goodbyes. He put the car in gear and began to move backward. To this day I do not know what triggered my reaction, but I panicked and banged my fist onto the hood of his car. It left a dent and bruised my hand but he stopped in surprise and we scooped the little girl up, unharmed from her spot behind the back tire.

God, I’m tired. 

I sat and rocked back and forth as Becky and Helen told me unspeakable things. I caught them in the middle of so many lies, I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I watched social workers come and go from their house and prayed they were asking the right questions and moving to protect the girls. But I accepted that I could do little.

My heart was tired. 

The lawn was neglected. My lack of time was catching up. The mower sat in the tool shed, almost forgotten. One day I decided that enough was enough. I would mow the lawn, no matter how many children came. I would take some time for myself.

I slipped out the back door and pulled the mower from the shed. I left the front yard and went to the back were the grass brushed my calves. The mower roared to life when I pull started it. I reveled in the white noise. It was almost quiet. Two rounds and I looked up to see Becky and Cara. They were holding a paper and jumping up and down to catch my eye.

No, God. This is my time, remember? My recharge time? 

I pushed the mower, closing the gap between us. “Sorry, girls,” I said, huffing slightly, “it’ll have to wait until after I’m done. I need to get this lawn mowed.”

Their faces fell. Then Cara worked up a smile that didn’t quite meet her chocolate eyes, “We’ll wait at the house,” she said, a bit of hope still coloring her words.

“Okay,” I answered, feeling a prickling of conscious. I shrugged it off. I needed some time. They could wait for twenty minutes. They trudged up the hill and I shook my head in frustration.

I just need a little break, God. They’ll be around when I’m done. I don’t need to feel guilty for taking time to mow my lawn! It’s not like I’m doing anything extravagant. I’m not spending money or running away from the things you’ve given me. I’m. just. taking. a. few. minutes. 

It was a great argument. Nothing morally wrong with it.  I was being wise, thinking about my abilities and my needs so I could continue to serve. I was… well, I was making “good” decisions without checking with my heavenly Father who knew, better than I, what was needed. 

 Two steps later the mower ran out of gas. The one I carefully checked each time I mowed the lawn, to make sure there was plenty for the next time. Apparently, I forgot once.

I stood there in the quiet, the girls voices drifting down from the porch, and couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Okay, God,” I whispered, “I’ll go talk to the girls.”

I walked up the hill and they squealed in delight. They made me sit on the porch, my feet propped up. “We have a song for you, Tasha, a song!” Then they stood in formation and with motions and a chanting song-like quality to their voices they spouted off the words to “God is Everything”.

The lyrics were ridiculous. The message left my knees weak with awe.

“We wrote it, Tasha,” they told me when they finished, “we wrote it for you. You told us that God is everything. And you love music. So we wrote it for you.”

“It’s wonderful,” I whispered, my voice hushed in the beauty of it.

Before I could grasp everything, before I could return to normal breathing, they hugged me and said goodbye. “We have to go,” they explained, “we only had a few minutes because we’re going to the fair this evening.”

And they left.

And I stood from my spot on the porch, took two steps inside and fell on my knees.

God, you knew. You knew the thing that would revive me. You knew the best way to bathe me in grace. Forgive me, Father, for thinking that I knew so well what I needed. Forgive me for not trusting that you would redeem my energy and fill me with your strength. 

As it turned out, the evening was quiet. Everyone on the street went to the fair and I sat in my living room with worship music playing and enjoyed quiet moments of peace.

Turns out God does a better job at reviving than I do. Turns out that He delights in baptizing me, again, with His grace.

Part One: {In Jars of Clay}
Part Two: {Wind and Waves}
Part Three: {Miracles and Mustard Seeds}
Part Four: {Labels and Trust}
Part Five: {To Flourish}
Part Six: {Seeing True}
Part Seven: {Songs to Believe In}
Part Eight: {Apple Pie and Eye Shadow}

 

Apple Pie and Eye Shadow {tales of a hometown missionary}

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Spiritual battles are often hard to identify in the moment. It is later, after time has deepened your vision, that they become clear.

In all the coming and going on our street, I often forgot that more was at stake that what first met the eye. And I willingly exchanged the heights of mountains for momentary gains. 

But God was not done.

Young Adult’s group was to meet at our house that evening. I had every desire to clean, bake, shower, apply make-up and a cute outfit, then pretend like that was how I lived every day.  I bake apple pies and wear eye shadow. 

But God had different plans.

Jonathan’s grandmother practically camped out on my porch that afternoon. She swung a bony arm, the one with the burning cigarette, around the corner post and began to ask questions. Half a pack of cigarette’s later, I began to get antsy.

The questions ranged from, How do you get all the kids to obey you? to What are you having for dinner? to Why are you here?

My wandering heart almost missed the opportunity. I wanted her gone. I wanted to have time to shower and scrape the ashes off my porch railing and what about the apple pie? But before I could blow her off, the question echoed.

I blinked. Hard.

Why are you here?

Something inside me snapped. I looked up at her and spoke slowly, feeling for words as I went along, “Honestly, I’m here because God told me to come,” I explained. I told her it was because she was loved and important. Because God pours out grace, even to those as deaf and blind as me. 

My eyes sparked open and the Spiritual battle at stake settled into forms. Apple pie and eye shadow? Being noticed by a boy? Distractions of a prideful heart. 

I looked at my neighbor and watched her smile. She told me her story then. Stopped dropping questions, perhaps because she finally had the answer she longed for, and began to share the tale of her life. When she ran out of cigarettes, she still kept talking.

I met the members of my Bible study at the door that night with frizzy hair that smelled of cigarettes and sweatpants.

It was true that the guys gravitated toward the others. The ones who smelled pretty and wore cute jeans and curled their hair. But some battles are worth the casualties. 

Part One: {In Jars of Clay}
Part Two: {Wind and Waves}
Part Three: {Miracles and Mustard Seeds}
Part Four: {Labels and Trust}
Part Five: {To Flourish}
Part Six: {Seeing True}
Part Seven: {Songs to Believe In}

where are the miracles? {a broken wondering}

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I woke up early that morning because the donkey that Willem tied outside our bedroom window started braying. It was still mostly dark but the tiniest splinters of light were peaking over the mountain surrounding us. I rolled out of bed, slipped bare feet into flip-flops and wandered down to the bathroom. Using a flashlight, I searched for tarantulas, scorpions or any other strange looking insects before washing my face and preparing for the day.

By the time I finished, my husband was hard at work on my morning cup of coffee.  If a Starbucks coffee is worth $4 then a mug of Haitian coffee should be worth about $10.  My taste buds were already dancing at the thought. I waited impatiently for him to slowly strain the boiling water through the folded paper towel filled with coffee grounds. There was a coffee maker in the other mission house but we were almost always up before the generator started.

I tipped a spoonful of dried whole milk into the mug, stirred and then grabbed my Bible and a sweatshirt and slipped out to the front porch while my husband went to get dressed for the day.

Mornings in Haiti are glorious. The air still cool from the night, and you can feel the world around you waking up. Some mornings I read Psalms filled with praise and some mornings I wept for the return of Christ and the healing of the nations, but either way, mornings never grew mundane or tiresome.

It was Willem, coming to get his donkey, who told us the news. A man grew angry at a woman and hired a voodoo priest to cast a spell on her. She couldn’t walk and was so weak the doctor’s thought she would die. Her baby would die with her.

I searched out a layette and went to see the mother and baby. The smooth cement of the hospital floor allowed me to slide along almost silently. I stood outside the woman’s door and watched the nurses work at preparing her for the doctor’s visit. After a moment a movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. There, in a bassinet lay an infant. I stepped closer and bit my lip hard.

His eyes were staring but not focusing. A makeshift diaper was wrapped around him and all the visible parts of his body were covered with tiny sores. Some oozed liquid and some were scabbed over. Instinctively, I reached out a hand but a nurses began to lecture me in Creole. I understood enough to know that they didn’t know what disease he had and I shouldn’t touch him.

I left the blanket and clothes for him and asked the nurses if they needed anything. They informed me that the woman had no family and would need food. That I could handle. I went in search of Millen and gave her rice, beans and a few cans of MCC meat.

I don’t remember at what point something in me snapped. Perhaps it was later that afternoon when I saw the nurses feeding the child without touching him, or the next morning when I found out that everyone was scared of what had happened to her. What if the curse affected them as well?

All I know is that I went from praying in a chair beside the baby to holding his tiny hand and whispering words of healing over him. After that day I boldly touched his delicate skin and asked God for a miracle. There was no doubt that his affliction was some type of STD but I also had no doubt that God created babies to be touched. Something happens when skin touches skin. And it happened again. His floundering, hooded eyes began to meet mine. His hands began to reach for my voice.  His lips stretched into a smile.

I wrapped him in warm flannel blankets and rocked him on the edge of the hospital bed several times a day. I brushed my finger down his brown cheeks and sang Scripture over him.

Every day when I went to leave, when I stopped to press a treat of some kind into the mother’s hand, she would blink away tears and whisper, “merci”. And I would whisper back, “Jezi remen ou.” Because He does.

The other day at church we were discussing why we don’t see miracles like they did during the early church. Here and there, yes, but not with the boldness of those days. My husband said, in broken wondering, “There was this woman in Haiti…” and he told about the curse and said that he prayed, believing so strongly that God would heal her, but when she left the hospital, she still couldn’t walk.

I don’t have answers. I don’t know why.

But all I can picture is that baby, the one that no one would touch, and the way he smiled when I walked into the room. I can picture the woman coming in her wheelchair to the house to say goodbye, holding him nestled in her arms. I can picture the clear skin on his face. And I still remember the smile that turned a poor cripple into beauty.

I believe that God does miracles. I have watched Him pull people back from the brink of death. I’ve heard first-hand accounts of blind eyes seeing and crippled legs dancing and cancer disappearing.

But I have to wonder if, before we see the obvious miracles, God is asking us to recognize and label the hidden ones.