Jenny and Abigail, having formulated very beautiful lists of their own, inspire and compel. And I... resist? Never! Besides, I promised Jenny.

 "The man's cub is mine, Lungri - mine to me!"

battered half-blank notebooks :: swishy thrift-store skirts :: the sensation of triumph at the first sight of blood flashing down an IV catheter :: kitty kisses :: Yorkshire Gold tea, properly brewed :: scarves :: trying to squeeze one more book onto my shelves :: ink-quills and old typewriters and parchmenty papers :: my mustard-yellow teapot :: the silky-soft teal hat Mama knitted for my birthday :: the shared grins between my sisters and I when Colin Morgan (Merlin) does something that's just so Greg :: steady banter with friends that consists entirely of quotes :: the cherry-wood-rimmed maps on my wall :: running against an Oklahoma gale :: singing the Psalms :: the steady, syncopated thub-thub of a strong pulse :: a heavy book on my knees :: polka-dots and sailor stripes :: used book-stores :: Sundays :: midnight conversations that sharpen :: people I have never met nor discoursed with but know: Gabriel Syme, Audrey Assad, Elwin Ransom, Rhodri, Andrew Peterson... :: red hair (literal and that which is only found in the soul-matter) :: the tears that twinkle in Papa's eyes when something beautiful jumps at him from Scripture :: lilacs mixed with letters on Mutti's porch in June :: rich, damp earth between my fingers and toes :: the centennial Illinois farmhouse where I learned to do most things except ride a bike :: irony :: climbing Kansas hills :: finding beauty in brokenness :: watching Dani's fingers weaving melodies on the piano :: heavenly feasts with the people of God :: windows in the world :: those indomitable twins separated by five years and :: faith,

a little burning ember in my weary soul.

darjeeling falcon 

(see: pretentious rhubarb)

 1. If your character could be played by any actor, who would it be? Stephen Campbell Moore, of Amazing Grace (2006) unfame. Either that or Jamie Bell, only he would have to lighten his hair a bit.

2. Does your character have a specific theme song? If you mean something like 'dunnadunnadunnadunnaFALCON!' - no, not as such. I seem to remember ascribing Coldplay's How You See The World to him at one point in time, though, and that still works.

3. What’s their worst childhood memory? I don't know. One doesn't wish to simply invent these things for the sake of questionnaires. I'm not sure Falcon ever had a proper childhood - or perhaps he did, but forgot it. It would be like him.

4. If your character had a superpower, what would it be? Mind-reading. He would sit and bore people through with his stare. Either that or the ability to set anyone's pocket-watch awry at a whim; he does have a mildly vicious sense of humour.

5. If your character crashed on an island with a bunch of other people, how would your character help the group survive? If Falcon were stranded with a random group of people (and, I assume, no kettle), he would probably be surreptitiously left behind, by everyone's design and no one's intention more so than his own. But all would be better and probably survive because of it; he's in no fit state for company without his tea. Things Happen.

6. Are they married? If not, do they someday wish to be? No. I think he intends to be, but he's not really the fervently-wishing sort. Pining wouldn't suit him; he prefers oak or cedar.

7. What is a cause they would die for? Falcon does not die for causes. For people, perhaps - but not causes.

8. Would they rather die fighting valiantly, or quietly at home? Well, it has to be home. Why else would he fight valiantly?

9. If someone walked up to them and told them they were the child of the prophecy, would they believe them? Seeing as Chelsea is a fairly Christian nation with no standing, unfulfilled prophecies, probably not. Genuine seers are neither necessary nor regular; drunks and liars are the more frequent happenstance.

10. Do they prefer the country or the city? He prefers to be left alone, wherever he is, which happens more readily in the country.

Had the sun burst suddenly from its hiding place, it would have revealed a lanky frame in a long flapping coat, more the comic than the villain. No hat covered his head, only a limp pile of pale brown that failed to strike even the most fervent female heart as anything more romantic than mere hair. Just below the hair, a slight expanse of forehead slid lazily toward a nose that was decidedly not grotesque. His mouth had too much modesty to give him any distinction (except when he smiled, and then it seemed so frail and broad at once that it made people uncomfortable), and his ears hid beneath the unimaginative hair. In short, there was nothing interesting about his appearance except his eyes; those peered from his boyishly bland face with an air of more years than the rest of him could possibly claim, giving him the look of a walking anachronism.  

-Beginnings, A.F.

whose weapons of Defence 

are long, sharp, curling Horns, 

and Common-sense. 

To these he adds a Name

so short and strong, 

that even Hardy Boers pronounce it wrong. 

The Pious people of Pretoria say, 

"Come, let us hunt the - " 

Then no more is heard 

but sounds of Strong Men struggling with a word. 

Meanwhile, the distant Gnu with grateful eyes 

observes his opportunity, and flies.

MORAL: 

Child, if you have a rummy kind of name, 

Remember to be thankful for the same. 

-from Hilaire Belloc's "Cautionary Verses for children and mature adults"

because shampooing carpets is almost as rewarding

as trying to say "gnu." 

I do love my little life. 

"Do you find much has changed in a year?" 

An unspoken question, plainly put by the pair of frank green eyes that met mine, hung in the sleepily talkative air of a back-town diner far too early in the morning: What do you make of the changes?

I put down the coffee cup, cream-white and little bigger than a thimble, and suddenly made up my mind. I answered the spoken question. 

"No."

Her hands fumbled for the spoon, pretending to stir her coffee in a poorly concealed cover of surprise. "Oh," she said at last.

"There isn't any doubt in your mind that things have changed?" 

The spoon splashed back into the cup in frustration. "No. Should there be?"

"What sort of question is that?" I shoved the half-eaten plate away with a sudden energy. "Is that your new question?" 

"Yes. No. Wait," she grabbed a napkin and mopped up the puddle of spilled coffee. I had unnerved her today. I was not sorry for it. "Do I only get one?" 

"That might be one too many at this hour." It was a gripe, but a good-natured gripe, and the twist at the corners of her mouth showed that it was well-received.

"I just... I wish I could go back. I wish I could be younger, and more sheltered, and less... less. Carrying less. Responsible for less." 

"Back where? A year ago?" I could not help the caustic edge to my tone. "A year ago you were looking back a year before that. It always happens about this time of year. Weather it and get on with your life, I say."

"Oh, I don't know." She backed out of the train of thought suddenly, the way she only did when she half-knew her own meaning and was afraid of the sum. "But I do - I wish I could go back, a little. Somewhere. Where things were less precarious." 

"And where was that?" I was suddenly angry - angry enough to crumple a napkin and throw it at her face, which I did. "Where was your heart ever less precarious? Dearheart, you have ever been loved. Love is not security; to love is to be vulnerable, as Lewis would say. To have your heart wrung and possibly broken and all that. And you know that's not just romantic love, so you can't play that 'I've never been in love' card. It's across the board. You have family; you have fellowship; you have love; you have precariousness, or what I think you mean by precariousness, long before a year past. These are your words I am using."

"They cannot be my words." Her hands sheltered her face. It was not an effort to protect herself against further napkin-assaults. I wanted to shake her; I could not with my hands, so I glared until it came: "They cannot be mine, when I am so afraid..."

"Oh, you fool..." A chuckle broke from my lips and finished like a sob. "You stupid, stupid girl. Have you forgotten? You wrote that blessed blog entry a year ago. That blog really comes back to bite you, doesn't it?" 

"I don't remember..." 

"Ho ho! But you must. You are so accountable for everything you write, all your fine philosophies, and none the less so for your fine words about Jesus making all relationships beautiful and meaningful, however painful and difficult - and slogging through the realness of what's really real. All those times you have exclaimed over songs and poems extolling the beauty of little broken things over cards and flowers - and will you recant because you are a fool, because you are afraid? I should have expected better things; you wrote such nice articles!" I gave the words a gentle lilt of mockery before sending them home. "One expects more stamina and resolution from writers. Then again, one never knows - with blogs."

"It wasn't such a very strongly-worded post," She made a dreadful face from behind the poor shelter of hastily interwoven fingers: "...was it?" 

"Oh, I'm only vaguely referencing the end parts," I burst merrily, chortling at her unconscious squirm. "There's loads more fodder for a bit of perspective. But the end is the best; you'll love the end. That goes something like: May I never confuse the shadows of love for the real thing - Almighty God, who is Love unending and overflowing, Love bending and breaking and twisting and shaping and making All Things New. May I never see my life as empty or barren, when it is brimming over with the life and presence of this God who fills the hungry up with good things."

Her silence was palpable.

"Now let me ask you the same silly question you tried to ask me, only mine won't be as silly," I continued. "Do you find much has changed in a year?" 

"No," It was just a whisper, but it was enough. At last, her hands descended, fingers spiriting away a few renegade tears. "Unless - I think I am just as hungry, if not hungrier." 

"I think He must be just as good - if not better, simply because you are hungrier."

"But what am I to do?" Sorrow stripped her tone of volume. "What am I to do with all this? I have too much heart, and such a foolish, froward one at that! I shall always be hungry - always hungry, and eating the wrong things, and never eating enough - oh, too hungry and never hungry enough! Shall I run in circles for the rest of my days?"

"Not in circles," I quipped. "In a spiral, which - "

" - which is the best way to run," she finished, and humour broke in her eyes like a sunset after a storm.

"Anna!" I burst, suddenly desperate to take hold of whatever was brewing in her heart and dispel it. "Anna, don't you see? It's only when you try your own love that you find it precarious. That sort of self-love will be broken; He won't have it, and it is a fearful place to stand - but even such fear holds hope, because you are not forgotten. Your loves will never fill you for a second, yet you are filled - and both because you are loved. He fills the hungry up with good things. Oh, soul, soul, Anna-soul, don't lie to yourself, not when there is such truth to be had. Love your God."

She did not answer, but as she finished her coffee there played a mirth about her eyes graver than tears, and the dawn sang amidst the damp salt on her face.